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◇ In Faith, Until Death ◇

Art by @/klyukvav | Collaboration work between me and @vossprime

◇ Chapter I - New Horizon ◇

⚜ 𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Volenta van Halvek(Noct's OC)/Viktor Alexandar Riemenschneider(Voss' OC)

⚜ 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖘: Overall story rating - E. Overall tags - E, canon-typical violence, smut, dark romance, age gap, older man/younger woman. This chapter - strangers to haters, 40k HR violations.

⚜ 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖞 𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: Far away from everything they know on an Emperor-forsaken planet, Explicator von Halvek meets Inquisitor Riemenschneider. Bound by the mission and their duties, they are forced to work together. Yet their cooperation becomes increasingly more complicated. Not only do they have to find a way to uproot the heresy they've come to eradicate, but also how to navigate their increasingly tense interactions. Like prometheum to the fire - they cannot stop irritating one another, and that just might compromise everything.

⚜ 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 6,170 | AO3 | Chapter navigation

Dawn rises above one of the many worlds of the Imperium too small to be remembered. Guiding rays reach over the clouds, dyeing their rises and falls an airy white, thrown through the windows of a cockpit and amidst a scattering flight crew.

Someone shields their eyes, someone barks an order.

The Imperial shuttle, proudly wearing the sign of the Inquisition emblazoned on its side, dips its head down like that of a swan reaching for water and begins its descent. Slow and smooth it falls through the stratosphere, describing a wide arc razing the air as more of the planet’s surface reveals itself to their view.

Inside the holding bay, the noise becomes deafening. No amount of finesse in a guidebook maneuver can stop the thrusters and turbines from roaring as they’re pushed to capability, and when the arc rounds into a turning point, the people inside get thrown against the metal interior and fall heavier into the belts holding them against the walls. Most members of the retinue take to keeping their heads low and their concentration aimed at the space between their feet.

His acolyte casts his eyes down at the intersection where their gazes meet. Hair hangs into his face, the orderly presentation the Inquisitor demands he keeps destroyed by where it comes loose and falls over his eyes in long strands. The sweat on his brow binds them together in forms that remind his master of the product of the failed silk spinning of his homeworld.

The shuttle lurches, hitting some invisible pocket of air, and catches itself again. Slender hands clench around the fastenings securing the young man to the shuttle wall and bench, fingers white. What makes the pupil so unsteady within himself is not the journey and not the descent, but the neverending thunder of the turbines.

The Inquisitor pays it no more mind than it deserves. The best thing you can do with a frightened dog is to ignore it. The pair of glasses on the acolyte’s nose slides down by the minute, in the other’s unspoken annoyed anticipation of the moment it will fall and shatter against the shuttle floor. In another life, this one might just have been a librarian or scholar, has the looks of a sun-shy erudite and the disposition of one, too, but it is useless to speculate over that which is not his lot. Granted the Emperor’s blessing – curse, if you’re inclined to subscribe to a different view – this life is no longer his own.

Before the bullseye windows, a new planet stretches. The eventless fall paints an eerily monotone picture of the world outside, a grey, flavorless hull that awaits them there. When the low-hanging cloud cover rips open, a few jagged peaks over a flat landscape do not offer more for the eye except air and ground tinged a dismal yellow.

On the dataslate in the Inquisitor’s hands, the mission data flickers in bursts of low light. A model of the planet spins lazily around its own axis, offering cursory information. Low tithe grade, even lower level of advancement. He’s seen a few Frontier worlds, their jungles and valleys functioning as sowing grounds for the seeds of heresy between the sparseness of its people, and yet this one presents itself as a particularly less-than-noteworthy example.

Viktor Alexandar Riemenschneider reclines against his seat and prepares for landing.

The building that has been taken over by the agents of the Inquisition didn’t look much upon arrival, nor has that changed since that initial planetfall. The walls are still grey, the cogitators are still spewing sparkles and the banners of the current Governor look as ragged as before.

The man himself has been missing ever since the first inquisitorial shuttles started landing and no matter how many people have been questioned – nobody knows where he ran off to. The Governor, one Thelius Filchmaul, has left his office in order, all files in place, but it has been sealed for the Inquisitor’s arrival and thus been made inaccessible.

The rest of the acolytes and agents have picked rooms that belonged to Filchmaul’s inner court and spoiled nobles with their childish heirs, who now have been gently relocated. To either the palace’s prisons, or to a perpetually burning pit just outside. Only the servants, knowing how to keep their heads low and obey their masters, have survived the purging after the more notable inhibitors of the residence decided to show what could be called a resistance if it weren’t so disorganized and shamefully weak.

“Explicator Van Halvek? The Inquisitor is landing.” A thin voice makes Volenta look up from the data-slate resting in her hands.

Since her own arrival mere two days ago, she has taken chambers befitting the currently present highest ranking agent, and that of the Ordo Xenos. Decently luxurious, located not far from the Governor’s office from which most already assume the Inquisitor himself to lead the operation.

His impending presence makes her second in command, at least technically, since they don’t fight under the same Ordos banner, even if united under that of the Inquisition. Volenta’s orders have been more than clear – investigate and help the Inquisitor. But she isn’t too keen to sit on her hands while everyone waits for the big-shot to finally arrive, either.

Which, it appears, is happening right now.

“Which one?” She asks and clicks the data-slate off, dimming the screen until the highly confidential information becomes unavailable to all eyes including her own.

As she rises to her feet, she looks at the woman who came to inform her. One of the palace’s serfs, an unremarkable girl of equally unremarkable appearance. Annoyed that her own people didn’t bother to apprise her personally, Van Halvek tosses the data-slate onto the desk she was sitting by until now. It lands on documents and maps, showing more of a planet that would likely have escaped notice if not for the rot at its core.

“I’m not sure, my Lady.” The serf bows and Volenta sighs, then rubs the bridge of her nose.

It better not be that asshole Lorendau. She’s had the misfortune of dealing with him before and doesn’t like the man one bit. But she also heard that he’s somewhere in the system. If the God-Emperor is kind, then it won’t be that small-dicked prick.

“Time estimate?” She knows that questioning the woman for specifics is useless, but habits die hard or so they say, and when Volenta is met with a silent shake of the head, she sighs again. “You may go.”

The serf immediately and wordlessly disappears behind the open door and Volenta looks back at the data-slate sitting askew upon a neat stack of papers. All of them are reports on the planet's inhabitants, flora and fauna, or sects and monuments of importance. They, however, will have to wait.

Volenta turns on her heel, the cloak billowing behind her for a brief moment with the sharpness of the movement and then she’s out of the door, heading outside and towards the landing pad. Upon arrival she finds it with only one spot unoccupied, specifically left vacant for the Inquisitor. The guards of the palace hail when the Explicator passes them, but Volenta’s gaze rises only into the grey skies, searching for the shuttle that should bear the familiar and beloved insignia on it. One of red and gold.

Its likeness dangles from around her neck, smaller in scale, but no less powerful.

The Emperor’s justice has reached this world at last. And it comes in the form of the awaited shuttle breaking through the clouds. First emerges the unmarked bottom, metallic hull the same shade as the sky, then the wings, adorned with the unmistakable regalia. Minutes later it touches ground with a heavy thud and thrusters overtaking any other sound in the vicinity in just a matter of moments, led by the pilot’s clearly practiced hand.

Shuttle doors unseal with their characteristic hiss and the dull sounds of a couple of bolts sliding into place. The overcast outside is still bright enough to startle the occupants’ eyes out of their accommodation to the ship’s interior, light flooding through a square opening growing wider and wider.

At a swipe of the Inquisitor’s fingers, the slate in his hands goes dark with as much of it committed to memory as possible. Another, almost absent wave of his hand, and the candles decorating the shoulders of his uniform flare alight. Viktor takes the time to roll his shoulders under the heavy coat, trading glances with his retinue. Like him they are focused on chasing the downwards spiral from their bodies and preparing to shake hands, be briefed, and to take on the task of a first impression.

No one looks in the direction of the acolyte.

If anything, the daylight drives home how pallid his features have become. If he serves the Inquisitor the embarrassment of emptying his stomach’s contents onto the landing bay – Riemenschneider will think twice on whether to continue to regard him worthy of his life as a potential asset, and rather dispose of him as a social liability.

The shuttle shudders for the last time. A uniformed man near the shuttle entrance gives them a signal that suggests they are cleared to step out.

The first thing he notices is the smell of smoke. Not the clean, pale kind that rises from taking a flame to temple incense, fragrant leaves, the cigars he saves for when he has an iota of time. Black smoke. One that rises from burning what’s unclean, from pyres, from bodies. With decades in the Inquisition under his belt, the aroma has become nostalgic.

The view is as above so below now that they’re facing the clouds from the opposite side. The system’s sun is nothing more than a vaguely lighter part of the sky, tinted a different shade of grey than the rest.

Dark silhouettes stand out against the landing pad of the inner court of the planetary Governor's manse in their varying affiliations. Militarum, Ordo Hereticus, Ordos Xenos. Assigned from the latter is a Volenta van Halvek under Xavier Calcazar, a man he hasn’t had the opportunity to meet in person but heard one or the other story of, though he cannot say the same for his acolyte.

He assumes it must be her, then, who stands at the front of the landing field. The woman has donned a cloak over black attire, hair the color of ivory draping in a long braid across her shoulder. The combination paints her almost monochrome. Attractive, scarless features betray both the determination her profession demands of her, as well as the lacking experience of youth. Grey eyes, so light they are almost white, resting on him suggest the act of forming a provisional opinion is entirely mutual.

Boots ring out on metal as the Inquisitor steps down to meet her. The rest follow behind.

Volenta observes the Inquisitor, giving his appearance the shortest of inspecting looks. Just before the shuttle opened, the vox bead in her ear finally informed her of who the man is. She notes the dark hair streaked with grey, the expression of bemused seriousness etched into his strong, handsome features and the uniform in traditional colors of the organization they both belong to: black, gold and blood red. Blood that the Inquisition sheds, its own and that of others, wherever they go.

Volenta does not bow when Riemenschneider steps off the ramp, with his retinue trailing behind him like a row of disciplined ducklings. There’s a young man among them, pale in the face. He looks unsure, scared, yet his presence is immediately forgotten as if he never appeared to begin with, his facial features fading from Van Halvek’s mind like last remnants of a hangover. Instead of bowing, Volenta makes the sign of Aquila, meeting the Inquisitor’s eyes head on.

“Welcome to the Segmentum Obscuoros, Inquisitor Riemenschneider.” She greets, trying to ignore the soft crackle of the candles which are trickling holy wax down the pauldrons he’s wearing.

A muscle on her face, which she is unable to suppress twitches, betraying her judgement at his choice of a fashion statement. Riemenschneider notes both the foregone bow as well as the twitch in her jaw. The list of impressions he’s forming about her finds itself expanded by several points, few positive.

“Chambers for you and your people have been arranged, but we have more pressing matters to discuss than the temperature of bathtub waters.” Volenta gestures to the entrance of the mansion. “If you follow me, I will show the way.”

“Pleased to meet you, Explicator Van Halvek.” His intonation is no indicator of honesty, betraying neither friendliness nor the opposite. “By all means, lead ahead.”

The sign of the Aquila gets reciprocated as is custom, and he finds the woman clearly isn’t waiting for his words as she turns away, towards the building, before he’s even finished.

There’s only one reason why he ignores her behavior that he deems mostly unpolished, but it rules above them all: duty. There’s a reason he's here, and it's not to trade blows with an overeager juvenile.

The inside of the mansion has clearly seen better days. As Van Halvek walks ahead, cape billowing behind her with each step like the fins of an exotic fish, he finds himself distracted by the environmental evidence of the time before his arrival. The stains have been scrubbed off the walls and the furniture rightened, but the signs of unrest are still there for those with an eye for detail. A few wood splinters swept into a corner, an edge knocked off a vase.

The hallways are patterned in drab, marble-esque stone and the light coming through the windows overhead falls diffused without ever touching the agents walking most of the way in shadow. Servants pass, and know better than to announce their presence.

A carpeted flight of stairs is followed by a gallery and a set of double doors, fashioned in wood so dark it appears almost black in the gloom. A chain has been wrapped around the two handles and barred with an ornamented lock, declaring the room sealed by the authority of their organization to discourage any attempts to enter. Viktor looks at Van Halvek, only slightly extending his hand towards the door in an expectant motion.

She turns to face partially the Inquisitor and partially the door, then pulls the lapel of her longcoat and digs inside of it, trying to find the inner pocket where the key resides among other bits that she prefers to keep close to her and not easily lost. Riemenschneider glances at her, then – in a lapse of impulse – down to where her hand disappears over her chest. Its size is far beyond decent, despite it being covered by a black shirt, but within the second he regains his senses and politely looks away. In turn, Volenta’s eyes briefly flick to him, noticing movement even if it’s just a glance, but she ignores it and finally finds the key.

Stepping up to the lock, she removes the Inquisitorial seal and unlocks the heavy mechanism, holding it in her gloved palm after leaving the key in. With her free hand, she pulls aside the chains, releasing the handles from their confines. “It’s all yours, Viktor, we touched nothing before your arrival.”

He graces her with a glance that has lost all of the polite detachment of the moments before. “I do not think that this is a level of familiarity we have reached, Acolyte Van Halvek.” He doesn’t withhold the unmistakable underlining on where she went wrong, and neither the expression suggesting that this is a familiarity they now will not form at all.

Wordlessly, Volenta steps aside with something that may appear as respect, but is rather self-preservation and lets the chains, together with the lock, drop onto the floor by the wall. They will be picked up later.

She hasn’t been inside the Governor’s office. Lower rank acolytes have sealed the room before her own arrival, but there’s always a possibility that traps could’ve been set, ready to spring upon any intruders. The rebellion, however weak it had been, was stilla resistance against the Imperium’s forces. Volenta fixes her eyes on the Inquisitor, watching him, analyzing him, waiting for him to open the door.

Finally, he puts a gloved hand to the handle. The mechanism clicks, the door swings open. For a moment, the entire building seems to breathe in relief, as if a great phlegm has finally been hacked out from its lungs. Then, silence.

No exhale, no retaliation for having breached the heart of it. Merely stale air escaping confinement and rushing past them. Inside, the wood-furnished interior of an office becomes visible. Once lit by generously tall windows, the curtains are now drawn and the room sits in deserted half-dark.

The Inquisitor moves to the side of the door, appearing to hold it open out of a pretended sense of civility. He bends his body forwards in a light mock-bow, the edges of his coat caressing the carpet. “If you please,” he nods towards the office with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. "After you.”

A raised eyebrow and then the smallest of smirks appears on Volenta’s face in turn. The earlier comment, before the door opened, didn’t get forgotten and for a moment she thinks of not responding to it, yet the pull to address it is far too strong. “Seeing how a man of the Imperium does not dare to brave an empty room, familiarity between us is the least of my concerns. I will note that in my report, Viktor.”

Without a delay she passes the threshold and looks around, but besides the surprisingly dusty smell of parchment and old burned wax, there is nothing out of order or of note. No traps, no last resort security measures, just pompous luxury of those who relish such baubles to decorate their gilded prisons. There have been rumors that the Governor fled out of fear, not out perceived heretical leanings, and that may be the truth.

Volenta decides enough time has been wasted trying to play games of politics and ethics. Unperturbed, she strolls into the room that is basked in partial light, seeping in through the unevenly closed curtains over the tall, colorful windows. Her hands immediately begin opening the drawers, from one to the next.

The young woman does not hesitate to throw the contents of them onto the floor while knowing perfectly well that Inquisitor Riemenschneider will be using this room as a station of his command. She’s sure someone will come to clean it for him. There are always those who serve people in power, ready to lick soles of their boots.

Several turns of the chron later, the day outside has faded and given way to a foggy shade of slate that never seems to fully dive into pitch black. Inside the office gas lamps have come on, burning in even intervals along the walls, bathing the room in their warm hue.

Papers lie strewn around the room where Volenta has conducted her most throughout search, and sit neatly stacked to the sides of the desk where Viktor has reigned. The information nets a grand total of zero: several stacks consist solely of bills and correspondence without relevance to the mission, the drawers having housed documents that contained nothing more than the confirmation of what they already know, and, behind a false bottom, picts of the Governor’s lady wife in various compromising positions. Not exactly a fruitful endeavor to have wasted an afternoon on.

“From what we’ve gathered, the reports seem to be consistently coming from three major settlements along this line,” Viktor begins, pushing a few papers aside to permit a better view to a map of the area that’s spread over the desk. He leans forwards in the leather seat Filchmaul has left behind and traces an inked contour with his finger. “So the goal of operations should be clear-cut. Did you manage to establish any sort of contact in the meantime?”

Volenta, for her part, while the Inquisitor was getting comfortable and sorting his documents, got herself distracted by the explicit imagery of the Governor’s wife. She quickly looks at Riemenschneider, not even bothering to hide what she was examining just a second ago. “What was that?”

Viktor clears his throat. “As I was saying.” His motions urge her to focus back towards the map, “These three, Talvald and the two towns close to it, have been getting the brunt of the rumors we are chasing. I am asking what you have accomplished on the ground thus far.”

Tossing the picts on the desk where they slide askew and nearly fall off the desk, Volenta approaches, taking the side of the Inquisitor’s chair and seating herself on the armrest of it. Leaning over the map, she points north.

“Here the agents have been sent, none returned. Three.” Then she draws his attention to another location, closer to the mansion. “Here we found some bodies. Not exactly human looking, you know what I mean.” This time she scoffs, accompanied by an unpleasant smirk. “And here.” A gloved finger indicating the farthest mark on the map. “Our augurs cannot penetrate. No idea what’s there, but most likely nothing good considering our technology can’t pierce through it.”

Viktor, listening, takes the picts and taps them twice against the table, where they form an even stack once more, and slides them back to the corner he had placed them on. Discarded to later be destroyed along with everything else that has been determined useless – not only because he doubts Filchmaul will return to them any time soon, if at all.

“Thank you, Van Halvek.” He marks the spots she has indicated, keeps notes in the margin, but remains aware of how much in his personal space she has truly put herself in. “Please do specify on the nature of the bodies and their states. I am going to assume they were consistent with the rumors that we are most likely dealing with Aeldari?”

“What do you think?” Raising an eyebrow, Volenta looks at Viktor. She pauses as her eyes go to the orderly stack of images next. “Keeping those? Trash taste, I have better ones if you need some viewing material.” As if she said nothing inappropriate at all, she points at another point of interest on the map. “Your people have looked there, but came back empty handed. Some sort of forest growth. So, not every step of this planet is chockfull of heresy. Yet.”

“I prefer to have things stated plainly. Prevents miscommunication down the line.” He does not look up from the map. “Those picts will be destroyed as they bear no relevance to the ongoing investigation. But feel free to add them to your collection, if you so desire.” The sarcasm barely overshadows that he not only begins to earnestly question her as an agent, but her motives. “Not every inch of this planet is tainted, and we should act as soon as possible before that becomes the case.”

“First of all-” Volenta frowns and leans slightly back just to get a better look at his face. “First of all-” Sounding offended she repeats to make a point. “I don’t need them for my collection. I don’t collect picts of strange naked women.” A pause, a scoff and she rolls her eyes at him. “I meant my own. And they are much better than these, I may add.”

Viktor holds her gaze.

“As you say – you do not collect picts of strange naked women, and neither do I.” He leans to the side just enough to not recline against her. “Van Halvek, what exactly is it that you are trying to do here?”

“I suppose trying not to be a strange woman. Naked or not. But I guess they don’t teach anything at Ordo Hereticus besides having a stick up one’s ass.” She rolls her eyes again.

“I would say that you are far from succeeding, seeing as I find your behavior very much strange.” He exhales, half bothered by her conduct and half by the fact that the mission is no longer the primary subject, and hasn’t been for several minutes. “Not only that, but you are stepping out of line.”

The Inquisitor faces her, and though she sits several centimeters above him, he has no intention of giving her ground. It is a closeness he utilized for the moment to give his words their needed gravity.

“I will be lenient enough, once and purely for the sake of advancing this mission, to forget that this conversation has ever taken place. But I will not tolerate this type of behavior again. Are we understood?”

Defiant and frankly insulted, Volenta doesn’t lean back, but instead just looks him straight in the eyes, her expression becoming more than just a display of disgruntlement. There’s arrogance there, the type that stems from being absolutely and unflinchingly sure of oneself.

“Or what? You will throw me over your knee and spank me into obedience? Please. I’m not under your command. I am here to assist you, how I do that is up to my discretion, so keep your reprimands to yourself. Is that understood?”

Were she his own acolyte, he’d long have fallen back to an array of creative measures, but the fact that she is the property of some unseen presence is what makes him hesitate. Perhaps it is more appropriate to curse the man that calls himself her master – Volenta clearly shows none of the respect Viktor demands of his own people.

“Rest assured that if I were to design a punishment for you, it wouldn’t be of the kind that you keep playing at.” He doesn’t even permit the mental images connected to her words to enter his mind. If an attractive woman, she’s too much of an infuriating one for it not to take precedence. “You seem to forget that I outrank you, and as of right now, you are being an obstruction to the mission instead of an assistance. It would be a shame to have to resort to anything official or drastic, but nonetheless it is a road that can be taken. I don’t think you understand that what I am extending is a courtesy. In fact, I don’t think you understand much at all.”

While Viktor speaks, she listens carefully. Measures each and every word he says, not missing even a smallest change in his tone if there are any to be noticed. But at his last sentence Volenta smirks slightly, unable to suppress it, and even if – she would choose not to.

“Your little fantasies that you keep reading into my words do not impress me. In fact.” Gripping the backrest of the armchair she leans to Viktor’s ear, her chest pressing against him, unbeknownst to the Explicator. She pauses for a heavy second before continuing in a whisper. “Your dedication to keep focusing on my behavior and spoken words is rather concerning. Is it a misdirection? To shut me up and blind me to whatever possible heresies you might try to hide, Viktor?”

The way she speaks has an allure of a poisonous viper hiding in the grass. It’s not a taunt, but an invitation to react. A provocation upon which Volenta is ready to judge not only the Inquisitor and his mettle, but his loyalty as well.

“Wise to be wary, Van Halvek.” Viktor sounds entirely unimpressed. The knowledge of who he is, the strength of his conviction and how it is woven into the very foundation of his being, are as much core tenets of his faith as the rosette hanging around his neck. Who Volenta is, however, that has still to be decided. “Though I assure you as for directing you, you have proven resilient to that in all regards. Should you desire to probe the strength of my faith, I will be an open book to you. I will take this as an agreement that it is in our best interests to return to the mission.” The tone is deceptively friendly, though anger rolls underfoot.

“I might take you up on that offer then. Except not to test your faith but your methods, your principles and your mind itself.” She leans back, grey gaze sweeping over his face but with what reason it’s impossible to tell. “I’ve seen bigger men than you fall.” With that said, Volenta moves her eyes from Viktor to the desk but pauses, suddenly leaning in closer again, then immediately away. “At least you don’t stink of corruption. As for the mission.” She looks at the map this time with sharper focus. “I suggest that for today we leave things as is. I moved my troops to act as the first line of defense. If there are xenos here then we are better equipped to deal with them than your people. Especially considering that they didn’t appear to have endured the travel here well.” A direct point at his company, clearly, but she continues. “Inspect your troops for readiness, Viktor. When things are this calm that usually doesn’t bode well for what’s to come.”

Leaning back over the desk she falls into silence to study the map. Calculating, plotting, strategizing, and forgetting even the Inquisitor’s presence at her elbow. Her white braid slips over her shoulder to the front, following the line of a dangling silver rosette.

The Inquisitor looks at the woman who carries herself like only the God-Emperor could take her off the high horse she’s placed herself on. The carefully applied attention changes her features, relaxes them. It almost distracts from the fact that seconds ago Van Halvek had attempted to take the reins and give the orders. Audacious, yes, but also not entirely stupid. The plan is sound. There’ll be a time to reprimand her behavior, but it will come after the operation has moved further towards being successfully concluded.

Viktor grits his teeth and decides on a tentative ceasefire.

“Agreed. Something’s coming, you can feel it in the air.” He rises from the chair, trying to recall the floorplan of the palace and with it the location of the regiment and his retinue. “I’ll be leaving the xenos to your people. Should I be needed, I’ll be with the colonel. I would like to ensure everything is actually ready once we decide to start moving. I’m sure you’ll see yourself out.”

It takes a second for her to realize he has spoken and another to comprehend what exactly has been said. With a sigh and a hand running over her hair, Volenta stands to meet Viktor, raising an eyebrow. “Your candles are dripping onto the map, dear.”

Volenta looks around, locating the liquor cabinet that the Governor did, to her delight, leave stocked before fleeing. She makes her way there without waiting for an answer, thinking about what has been spoken, but barely of the altercation they had. Something not even worth memorizing, already halfway on the way to being forgotten like an unpleasant breeze.

”One more thing, though.” Volenta opens the glass cabinet and takes two bottles in one hand. “I need you to give me exact numbers of the forces you have brought with you. My reports have been insufficient and considering we know little of what we’re dealing with here, I would prefer to have our losses as minimal as possible.”

The cabinet is closed and she turns back to Viktor but says nothing else, as if she has just changed her mind. She simply makes her way towards the exit. There, however, Volenta pauses with her hand on the handle, but doesn’t turn back.

“I would prefer to avoid bickering in front of the troops, so I am extending you a friendly hand, one agent to another. When you’re done, come to my chambers, share a drink. There is no need for animosity when we both serve the God-Emperor and His will. Think about it.” Volenta lets herself out of the office and departs, leaving the door open. The echo of her heels is all that remains in her wake, and becomes more distant with each step.

Viktor stands against the edge of the desk. A hand idly taps away the seconds it takes for the last sound of Volenta’s presence to die down while his mind considers both the numbers of his own forces and her offer. He’s not nearly hubristic enough to think there’s an ounce of genuine interest to it, and not naive enough to think the hand she extends is, indeed, friendly. Her motives are equal parts opaque and transparent, and the choices equally ill-advised. Decline, and be branded the instigator. Follow, and receive her mockery for it, and that is besides having to spend another hour on what he calls insubordination and she calls bickering.

Having come to no decision, Viktor steps down the raised edge that separates the office into halves and across wooden floorboards. The building seems to sigh under his footfall leading him into the hallway as if giving testament to its own age. The door clicks shut behind him, and the room falls into silence again.

For Volenta, it’s a longer way to get back to her chambers than she would like. What she would have preferred is a room that is closer to the office, not only to keep her eye on the Inquisitor, but to be nearby when the decisions are made. Yet the closest chambers, except for one held specifically for the man in charge, have been made unusable, to say the least. The nobles truly relished in their gluttony, all unsavory forms of it, and it fills Volenta with mild surprise that they haven’t found worse things in the Governor’s personal station of command.

Still, the conversation that she had with Viktor, or whatever that could be called, returns to the woman once more, and inside of her chambers she throws the bottles onto the bed and pulls off her gloves with irritation. Sure, it started as a friendly ribbing, but did he really attempt to speak over her? To command her? Just another man thinking he knows better than her simply because of his rank.

Gloves are joined in the bed by her angrily thrown longcoat and Volenta partially unzips her shirt, letting herself breathe easier. With eyes closed and hands resting on her hips, she slips into a moment of much needed meditation. In her mind, one of the many prayers to the Emperor repeats.

Inhale, exhale. Just like she has been taught for when her fury becomes scathingly hot.

Despite her best efforts, the calmness doesn’t come to her. Van Halvek strides to the bed, picks up a bottle and tears away the seal, the cap, and drinks straight from the neck. If she doesn’t – the fragile bottle will end up shattering against the wall. A victim of momentary fury that she’s trying to subdue like a wild animal.

Against Volenta’s will her mind returns to Inquisitor Riemenschneider. Not only he insulted her, tried to rule over her, but this man decided he could threaten her with reprimands.

After three deep swallows she tears the bottle away from her lips, glaring to the window and the outside of it with a frown that very possibly could wilt plants if there were any in sight. To her heart’s joy, however, she sees the funeral pyre, still smoldering. It soothes her rage at last. Volenta’s shoulders relax as if tension is being drawn out of her by the echoes of screaming heretics.

She can do this, she tells herself, and with a smile emerging on her face, the agent finally feels at peace. “Emperor’s Seat, are all men this insufferable.” Bursting into a chuckle, Volenta sets the bottle aside and starts going through the crates of her luggage. All of them bear an aquila and a symbol of the Inquisition upon them. All per regulations to the last detail.

She’s looking for a pack of lho, hidden in the depths. Her mentor does not approve of her partaking, but he is not here and that’s enough for her to make decisions that do not call for anyone’s approval but her own. With the pack in hand, Volenta stops for a second and rolls up her sleeves. Then, before lighting her smoke, she goes around the room to find herself a glass.

There’s no expectation that Viktor will take her up on the offer. No whimsy in that one. After taking the only armchair in the room, she settles with a data-slate in one hand and a drink in another, letting her eyes roam over the information accessible only to her.

Volenta barely notices the darkening sky outside, marking the end of the day upon this wretched, infested world.

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