"The Emperor asks little of His soldiers. You will stand. Advance. Die if duty requires it. I am simply here to ensure you remember that."
Few Commissars survive long enough to earn reputations. Fewer still survive long enough for soldiers to request their presence.
Alden Valyx is one of those rare exceptions.
Born upon the thriving Imperial World of Pavane, a planet whose Schola Progenium was administered jointly by the Officio Prefectus and the Ecclesiarchy, Valyx's childhood knew neither kindness nor comfort. Like every Progena child, he inherited little beyond the memory of parents who had died in service to the Imperium.
Like every future Commissar, he learned that mercy misplaced could doom worlds.
Yet he learned something else.
He watched instructors who ruled through fear alone produce soldiers who obeyed because they had no choice. He watched others inspire genuine loyalty, and noted well that the latter survived longer.
His instructors eventually noted two traits that set him apart.
The first was courage.
The second was restraint.
Where many future Commissars learned only how to intimidate, Valyx studied carefully how men thought. He discovered that fear was inevitable, but panic was optional. Soldiers did not require impossible heroes — they required someone willing to stand beside them while demanding they accomplish impossible things.
This philosophy nearly earned him expulsion more than once.
His instructors repeatedly criticized him for "excessive investment in troop welfare." Valyx answered that dead soldiers inspired no victories, and broken soldiers won no wars.
He graduated with honors regardless.
Like countless Commissars before him, Valyx spent decades wandering the Imperium, becoming a veteran of more deployments, campaigns, and crusades than any man might reasonably be asked to remember.
Hive wars.
Ork incursions.
Pirate suppressions.
Mutant cleansings.
Civil wars.
The names blurred together. Only the dead remained constant.
He became known among Guard regiments as an unusual sight: unlike many Commissars, he rarely remained safely behind the line. He advanced with the first wave. If an assault crossed no-man's land, Valyx crossed it first. If artillery fell, he remained standing. If a bunker had to be taken, he was often the first man through the breach.
His courage became infectious. His executions became comparatively rare: not because he refused to perform them, but because soldiers under Valyx seldom forced him to.
But soon enough, there came the hellscape of Armageddon.
It was there his reputation was forged forever.
Armageddon was the sort of war that stripped away pretensions. There were no glorious parades. No immaculate uniforms.
Only ash.
Smoke.
Ceaseless artillery.
And Orks.
Endless Orks.
It was during Armageddon that Valyx repeatedly crossed paths with Sergeant Vince Morrow. The two served in neighboring sectors often enough to become familiar faces amidst the nightmare. The two belonged to different commands. Different chains of command. Different operational sectors. Yet Armageddon was the sort of war where neighboring fronts quickly became everyone's concern.
Morrow's platoon repeatedly found itself reinforcing sectors that Valyx's regiments held. Likewise, Valyx's forces several times marched to relieve Morrow's embattled companies.
At first there was mutual suspicion. Morrow expected another trigger-happy political officer.Valyx expected another sergeant who would resent outside authority.
Instead, both found something unexpected.
Morrow was competent. His men trusted him. His squad accomplished impossible objectives with alarming regularity. Valyx noticed that Morrow inspired loyalty naturally.
Morrow noticed that Valyx spent far more time leading charges than executing soldiers, as well as something almost unheard of in an Imperial Commissar: Valyx actually cared whether his men lived.
Perhaps not sentimentally, but certainly professionally.
After all, especially on Armageddon, every soldier who lived through today represented experience that could be put to use tomorrow. Every veteran preserved was another squad that did not need retraining.
Every unnecessary execution weakened the Imperium perhaps just as much as it strengthened discipline.
Respect came first. Friendship followed slowly.
The two developed an unspoken understanding. Morrow would ensure his men never gave Valyx reason to draw his bolt pistol. Valyx would ensure Morrow's men always knew someone shared their burdens.
Years later, neither could quite remember where professional courtesy had ended and camaraderie had begun.
During the latter years of the campaign, Valyx came into possession of a battered Death Korps of Krieg respirator.
He has never offered the same explanation twice.
He claims he
Won it in a regimental card game.
Took it from an Ork Warboss.
Was gifted it by a dying Kriegsman.
Borrowed it and forgot to return it.
Found it beneath a collapsed bunker.
Earned it after surviving seventeen hours inside a chemical bombardment.
Every story contains enough believable details that no one can confidently dismiss it.
No one has ever discovered the truth.
Valyx himself seems intent on keeping it that way.
When deployed into hazardous environments, he frequently wears the mask, lending him an eerie, faceless presence that unnerves enemies and allies alike.
Unlike many Commissars who rotate adjutants constantly, Valyx retained four attendants who refused reassignment despite repeated opportunities.
Sevus Lucyen, veteran marksman and unwavering disciplinarian.
Jaraelle Coraia, master of logistics and battlefield coordination.
Kasen Seven, swordsman, bodyguard, and perhaps the most feared of the four.
Collectively they became infamous throughout several crusades.
Where Valyx stood at the front encouraging men forward, his attendants waited behind. Few soldiers ever saw them act. Those who did rarely forgot.
Deserters.
Looters.
Mutineers.
Those who abandoned their comrades found that the Emperor's judgment arrived swiftly and certainly. Stories spread through entire regiments that one could survive an Ork assault, a Tyranid swarm, or a Chaos artillery barrage.
But no one escaped Valyx's attendants.
When Inquisitor Grendyl's war for Tertium demanded experienced battlefield leadership, Sergeant Vince Morrow immediately recommended one name.
Alden Valyx.
Few cared long term that Valyx technically possessed no formal position aboard the Mourningstar. After all, experience carried authority all its own, and it cannot be imitated. Soon enough, everyone deferred to him as surely as if he were a formal part of the command structure.
Officially he commands no one.
But unofficially...
...entire strike teams instinctively look toward him before breaching a door. Veterans listen. Rejects imitate.
Even officers occasionally seek his counsel.
Not because regulations require it, but because the Darktide does... at least for those who wish to survive it.
Valyx quickly found unexpected companionship among the warband.
Interrogator Orgustine Zola appreciated someone capable of decisive action without unnecessary cruelty.
Sister Hestia Prine found in him a man whose faith required no theatrics. The two often engage in theological debate after operations, usually ending with mutual agreement that heretics deserve less conversation than they had just received.
His opinion of others is... considerably less charitable.
He finds Sire Melk insufferable.
He barely conceals his contempt for Alice Hallowette, whose irreverence he considers emblematic of everything wrong with the Imperium's declining standards.
His dislike of Flight Lieutenant Masozi has become legendary. When questioned, Valyx once answered:
"My objection stems equally from her presumptuous attitude and her noxious odor."
Masozi reportedly laughed. Valyx did not.
Curiously, he appears genuinely fond of Technoarchaeologist Hadron Omega-7-7.
Whether Hadron reciprocates this regard remains impossible to determine beneath several metric tons of Mechanicus emotional suppression.
His relationship with Commissar Darinda Dukane remains one of polite rivalry. He privately finds her territorial attitude unbecoming. She privately finds him infuriatingly popular. Nevertheless, both acknowledge the other's effectiveness. And he stays polite because he is pragmatic enough to be grateful for the fresh meat her Moebian 53rd reinforcements provide.
Likewise, he and Enforcer-Marshal Kaltros Varn maintain what Valyx calls "a reliable professional understanding." Neither likes wasting words. Both know the necessity of maintaining order amidst chaos, finding common ground in the overlapping Venn diagram of Arbitrator law and Commissariat discipline. That is sufficient.
Among Grendyl's growing warband, Valyx serves less as a political overseer and more as a field officer. Where Sergeant Morrow commands from the Mourningstar, Valyx commands from the streets.
He deploys personally with strike teams, coordinates defensive actions, stabilizes collapsing operations, and in general executes battlefield authority where others cannot.
When deployed, the Krieg respirator hides every trace of humanity beneath impassive lenses.
When aboard ship, however, he appears immaculate.
His uniform is pressed to impossible standards. His boots gleam. His cap sits at the exact regulation angle.
Most infamous of all is his meticulously sculpted mustache, maintained with almost religious dedication.
One unlucky No-Hoper was once overheard muttering:
"More product goes into that bloody mustache every morning than we eat in a week."
Witnesses recall Commissar Valyx calmly turning toward the speaker and drawing his bolt pistol.
The resulting report echoed through the hangar.
Mess personnel later confirmed the day's rations had, in fact, increased slightly.
No one has repeated the joke since.
However, the staffing shortages of Inquisitor Grendyl's war in HIve Tertium against the Admonition Cult have forced even Valyx to adapt. The Rejects, No-Hopers, Penal Legionnaires, and condemned souls of Grendyl's warband die far too quickly to execute every disciplinary infraction.
So, Minor insolence is overlooked. Arguments are tolerated. Profanity is practically expected.
It is by Commissarial standards remarkably merciful.
But every operative understands one immutable fact.
Commissar Alden Valyx may help carry a wounded Reject back to extraction. He may personally stand beside a soldier paralyzed by fear until they find the courage to fight again. He may even offer words of comfort before what seems certain death.
Yet should someone abandon their comrades...
Should they break under cowardice...
Should they forsake their duty to the God-Emperor...
...they will not have to look over their shoulder, for Valyx's attendants already have.
Valyx rejects the notion that Commissars exist merely to terrify.
Those crimes receive no mercy.
Fear alone creates desperation. Faith creates endurance.
He counsels frightened soldiers.
Comforts the grieving.
Leads prayers before battle.
Walks hospital wards after victories.
Writes letters to fallen Guardsmen's surviving families whenever possible.
But there exists a line.
Disrespect. Cowardice. Willful dereliction.
His attendants remain behind advancing formations, waiting with bolter, blade, and flame — not because they delight in killing their fellow Imperials, but because they believe absolutely that discipline is the wall upon which Humanity survives.
He does not execute out of anger.
He executes because every coward who flees condemns another loyal soldier to die in his place.
He warns every new arrival with a measured calm:
"I shall help you bear your fear, o Sons of Perdition. I shall carry your courage when yours falters, you Thricedamned Rejects. I shall even forgive mistakes made in honest service. Fight dutifully, and you will be treated with dignity.
But if you abandon your duty or your comrades, understand this:
As far as you are concerned, in this glorious service to the God Emperor of Mankind to whom we devote our entire lives to, the Emperor's judgment does not come from the heavens. It comes from ME."
