In the medicae chamber, the Night Lords Chief Apothecary was looking at the instrument readings. Brain activity had spiked immensely and his scars had disappeared, his skin becoming of even unblemished snow. He turned to check on his lord, on his gene-father, and as if Curze was frozen in time. His dark inky nostraman eyes suddenly opened in a single motion.
Orrin Valzen took a step back. His father's presence washing over him like a blanket of fear, his twin hearts beating harder, almost in response. He had been in the presence of his gene-father before, but this was different, this, this… His body felt something he had never felt before, his body screaming for him to run, to flee, that danger, instinctively his breath deepend. He knew he was close to being overwhelmed, and started overwhelmed by this emotion. He had forgotten its feeling, he had forgotten what fear was, but now he felt it. He felt it more keenly than ever before.
"It's so quiet," the voice of his gene-father, even no larger than a whisper in the wind, was close to being overwhelming. So touching, caressing, comforting. Valzen´s body froze. He had been an apothecary for many years, yet in all those years he had never heard an Astartes being so overwhelmed by his Primarch their body simply froze, in the eighth or another Legion.
"So, so quiet." Curze moved slowly as if he was seeing everything for the first time. His face was not in the perpetual frown he appeared as before most of his sons. It was almost relaxed, as if a massive burden had been lifted from the Nighthaunter´s shoulders.
He breathed deeply, his hand slowly passed over the smooth medicae table, almost as if he was seeing everything for the first time… But he was not seeing everything for the first time, or was he?
His face turned, his eyes locked with Valzen´s. There was something coursing through the legionnaire's inky black eyes, something so instinctive, something so close as to be overwhelming.
Curze saw this, and seemingly the blanket of fear that had settled over the chief apothecary evaporated. He took a step forward, seemingly out of nowhere, almost as if there had been a force, a pressure impeding from moving at all.
Valzen fell to one knee. His body moving on his own under Curze´s watchful and peaceful gaze.
"Why am I here, apothecary?" His words were eerily calm,yet possessing the soft hiss of his pure Nostraman.
Still kneeling, Valzen answered, almost too eager to speak with his father. "Lord Magnus, brought you here unconscious. He had us monitoring you, my lord."
Valzen did not see how his genefather reacted. He did not see if his eyes moved, he did not see if his face twisted. He saw nothing.
"My cloak," Curze softly spoke. "Get me my cloak, Varzen." It was not spoken as an order but it almost felt like one. His body just as quickly as he had kneeled, got up, left the chamber and sought his lord´s sanctum.
"Shang." He opened the vox com in the hopes of reaching the equerry.
"Anything, Valzen?" Shang´s nostraman was accented in a way few in the legion had. He was not like most in the legion after all.
"He has woken up," something fell to the floor with a loud clang on Shang´s side. "Something happened. I think lord Magnus may be onto something."
"You think the mortal changed our father?" the Equerry sneered. There was no way that was the case. A Primarch being swayed by some words given by a mortal.
"I do Shang. Whatever happened to him was far too sudden to have been our father alone."
"I'm going to the Medicae now, Valzen. Are you there?"
"No. Father told me to get his feathered cloak. I'm moving to the sanctum." He could hear Shang holding back laughter.
"You're playing fetch now?"
"You don't understand Shang. He is different. Something fundamental changed about him." He reached the Sanctum´s ornate adamantium door with a biometric scanner. He banged his unarmoured head on the scanner, it slid open with a quick silent motion.
"It's so quiet." The Nighthaunter repeated again. Quietly, softly, surprised.
"It's so peaceful." For the first time in his life it was simply quiet. He had forgotten this, he had forgotten if he had ever known. His eyes ached no more, his ears captured simple pure silence. It was almost as if, before, there had been a perpetual buzz, or a sibling sound, so quiet and there for so long his mind had learned to ignore it. Now though, now there was nothing. There was simple peaceful silence. His muscles were relaxed, completely relaxed, something he had forgotten the last time they had been. It was so different, soo…
Curze figured he quite liked feeling this way.
Rain fell from the darkened sky when Sevatar and two other companies reached Nostramo. When they reached their home. The sun, veiled by clouds of industrial pollution waste was like a small dot in the sky, a dot imperceptible to the human eye and even for an Astartes it seemed smaller than a standard bolter round.
The Night Lords Tenth company had deployed according to the wishes of the first captain, into the depths of the hive. Not quite the underhive, but the lower. Their mission was to observe, to observe from the shadows, and so the First Claw watched.
Talos was silently observing one of Quintos´ streets, they were outside of City´s Edge. Xarl and Mercurian were in other Hab blocs. Their objective had been to seek any suspicious activity, anything that may indicate that the gangs, once broken, were now surging slowly in power.
Sevetar had brought two companies back home, and he would only use two companies for this, for that what his lord had commanded. He would not use the mortal enforcers, he would not use the Astartes in garrison duties, whether on world in the Hives, or off world in the moon of Tenebor. He would use only those he brought. This after all had to be kept under wraps. All in Nostramo were under suspicion, from the old gang families that were infamous amongst the older generations whose childhoods were crafted through a healthy mixture of the Nighthaunter´s fearful tales or the old power of those families, whose simple whisper could sentence an entire hab bloc to the eternal sleep, in those times.
Talos was not from those times, but he knew some who were.
The Vox casters had been silenced a few minutes ago, a signal the day was about to end. The people did not mind, they had learned to live like this. Above the hab bloc´s roof in the shadows of the Hive´s walls Talos hid himself, he had been observing for an entire day now, silently moving from shadow to shadow as the day went on to make sure he covered all angles he was supposed to.
Using a full fledged Astartes for something as simple as this was perhaps a waste of resources, a scout servitor could most likely accomplish the task as well, but secrecy was paramount, and they were not there to cast the shadow of suspicion and fear over the populace, not this time at least.
Multiple wheeled cargo vehicles passed in the street below, their metallic frames and holds lite up by the mandatory lights they possessed contrasting with the metallic floor. Something was up, a cargo shipment like this was more than unusual for the lower hive, especially as the day was ending.
Talos knew many businesses had warehouses or parts of warehouses in this section of the hive, it was cheap and items could be transported to where they were needed in relatively quick times, but such transport happened almost always at the start of the day, a few hours before the barely visible sun would be visible for the trans-human sons of the Nighthaunter, not now.
The vehicles left the warehouse about half an hour after they arrived, noticeably heavier according to the visor in the Night Lord's helmet. He moved to follow the convoy.
Jumping from roof to roof, silent as a power armored Astartes could be, Talos shadowed the ten or so vehicles. Holstered to his armored leg was his bolt pistol, and in his right hand was a combat knife, something more subtle for this mission compared to the chainswords or powerblades he often used when deployed in active combat zones. He may be an apothecary but for a Night Lord that only meant knowing how to inflict the most pain, especially on trans-humans.
He hardly sprinted as he followed the trucks, his helmet visor indicating his movement stood at around 60 km/h. Hardly anything impossible for an astartes in full power armor. They turned right, he followed behind them, jumping from one side of the street to another and landing with a thumb on the metallic roof.
As his helmet flared in bright red the Nostraman rune for time, he could hear in the vox frequency of his Claw Xarl and the others reporting their status.
"Hab bloc 33-4, nothing. Cyrion out." Cyrion reported. The hab blocks were organized in rough arcs around the hive between industrial sectors and the richer inner or higher sections. Cyrion was in the one west of his and a level higher.
"Xarl out." Xarl´s voice remained with his characteristic annoyance. He was one more to kill rather than wait.
"Hab bloc 34-3. Suspicious cargo convoy encountered, moving east, tailing him. Valcoran out." Talos said, relatively detached. He hardly cared about reporting it. He didn't particularly care about Vandred. He was his sergeant, not exactly popular amongst the company, his only redeeming quality being his unusual gift for void warfare. Sometimes First Claw bets if he could give their father a challenge, the result of those bets would never be found.
They turned right, seemingly into the middle hive. He looked up, searching for a crevice to climb. He found one, a few meters out of sight from the ramp the truck was using. He would have them out of sight for a few seconds, but that wasn't such a bad thing. He knew where they would come out. He climbed to it, the left pauldron scraping silently the flesh wings he had hung on it on the metal crevice, tearing them away. He climbed only to find that the way going forward was the entrance to part of the ventilation system of Quintos.
He sprinted through the vents, they were just big enough for him to stand upright in full legionnaire plate, like a labyrinth he weaved through each path. He knew the layout. How many times had he ran through ventilation vents when he was a child? He had lost count, but Quintos´ were always the same, and so even after almost 4 decades off world, he ran through them as if he was a child, but this time with an objective. A pure objective.
He came out of the vent. He was above the road. The trucks came into view a few seconds after he climbed out. They passed through a level checkpoint. He saw the mortals, the drivers showed them something, and the guards looked over the truck, hardly checking what their cargo was before giving permission to proceed.
They continued and he shadowed them.
As he ran he heard the scream of a female, he turned to it for a second. In an alley, a few kilometers away, there was a girl clearly trying to run away but she was against a wall. Above her were a few mortals, males. From the distance Talos clearly could see bruises on the girl's skin, her clothes ripped apart.
Almost by instinct, he picked the bolt pistol, in a split second, still moving, he aimed and pressed the trigger, with a concussive force the rocket propelled bolt round pierced the body of the man, it exploded soon after, the round´s fragmentation disfiguring the mortals terrorizing the girl. Guts flew into her face, blood spattered on her pale nostraman skin. She stood motionless confused sobbing at her misfortune. Talos cared not about that. He holstered his pistol, all he had needed was a beautiful single shot.
Justice had been delivered. Even in Nostramo things were cracking, even with the legion´s garrison present. Things were bad.
He turned back to his prey and continued his pursuit.
The convoy turned many times, it moved to the center section of the lower hive. They stopped at a warehouse. It had armed guards. They were clad in shoddy flak vests and holding stub guns.
They formed a perimeter around the installation. It did not matter.
He jumped onto the roof, searched for a way in. Another ventilation vent, these things could take you anywhere in Quintos it was almost amazing. To the spires or into the underhive, the ventilation network in Nostramo could take you anywhere.
He went in, traversed it for a few minutes and came out inside the warehouse. The building was gloomy, lit by dim blue light. That meant someone rich was behind it.
He stuck to the shadows. His mind wished he could go and slaughter these men, accomplices in the corruption that seeped his world. His home. His hand caressed his bolt pistol. He wanted so hard to bring it up and stop them.
"You think this will not be found?" Malithos asked, taking the lho-stick, putting it in his mouth and lighting the tip with his lighter. He breathed deeply, stress seemed to evaporate.
"No." his boss answered. "They never come this deep into the hive."
Unlike Malithos, who had been wired two weeks ago to serve as protection to this cargo, his boss had organized hundreds of these for the Kaviratha. The Hateful Sons, one of the old rising industrial syndicates whose power had been waxing slowly since the Nighthaunter had left, and unlike Malithos, his boss knew full well about this.
"Are you sure, Lord Nighthaunter´s sons won't come here?"
He waved Malithos´s concerns aside. He had been hired to do security, not to complain. He breathed in the tobacco stick, breathed out, the puff of smoke leaving his mouth. He threw the stick to the ground, extinguished it with his foot. He turned to the pillar, picked his stub gun and turned to move around the perimeter as the cargo was being unloaded from the trucks.
They were unloading the trucks one by one, and so it was taking its sweet time. From the corner of his eyes, sometimes, Malithos could swear he saw a shadow move, yet when he looked to where it would be, there was nothing, no one there.
"How long?" He asked. Questioning how much longer would they take to unload everything and leave the warehouse.
"Half an hour." One of the men replied. Malithos did not know the man. He did not need to know. He was there because he needed the money. He had recently lost his job, and desperately needed something to pay rent.
He stopped for a minute, laid his back on the metallic pillar. The dim blue light of the incandescent lamp at the center of the warehouse illuminated his red shirt ever slightly.
He sighed. Took another stick and lit it up. The calming nicotine entered his system. It was the fourth since the trucks had arrived. He was anxious and he knew it. Deep down he feared something would go wrong. You do not go against the Nighthaunter´s order, that was something his generation and the one of his father knew very well, and here he was breaking his law. Just thinking about it sent shivers to his back.
He took another stick, before resuming his patrol. When he reached the big garage door, made of blue plasteel sheets they had just about finished unloading everything. The crates, made of metal, just like everything on this sunless world, were filled with some whitish powder. Malithos didn't look at them, but he noticed them in a side glance as they were closing the final crate.
"Everything is done. Get the trucks started and leave." His boss ordered. The driver closed the trunks, turned to get on the wheel.
Malithos, laying against the metallic pillar, smoking another lho-stick, could swear a shadow was moving behind the boxes on the other side of the warehouse. He turned to it, nothing. Besides that, he thought he could hear small beeping sounds. He turned around. It was so silent he wasn't sure it was there, but he really thought.
He threw the stick into the ground, he was about to ask the others about it, when something pushed him to the ground with a loud boom.
His head impacted it with a thump, disorienting him. When he got his bearings back, his entire body ached, his vision was blurred, yet still, when he looked around him he saw that the roof had collapsed, falling on the trucks. The other guards, seemingly hired in the same situation as him, torn to shreds, their bodies turned to a blood filled paste. "He was lucky." He thought as metallic footsteps approached.
He tried to get up, to reach his gun, to not be defenseless. It was useless. A metallic hand grabbed him from behind, lifting him from the ground.
"You survived." The voice, disturbed by a robotic tone almost surely made by vox casters, said to him. If there was emotion in it he couldn't identify it.
His body screamed for him to run. Whatever had grabbed him kicked every sense into overdrive, as if he was but a small insignificant prey being helpless against a beast many times his size. His breath became faster, his heart beat so hard he could feel it trying to run from his chest.
He wanted to run. He wanted to flee. He put his feet on his holder, and tried to push himself out of his grasp. It was a pathetic attempt. His captor didn't even budge a single finger.
There was a puff behind him, something releasing stale hair he thought. A knife caressed his skin. "Shuuush," the voice said with a hiss just behind his ear. It was unnervingly quiet. Nostraman was described as a murderer´s caress, but this. This tone was truly a murderer´s quiet caress.
When the thing holding his neck turned him face to face. He could only weep in regret as he stood before one of the Nighthaunter´s sons. His face was of pure nostraman white, pupils so dilated that there was no witness to be seen. And he was tall. So tall in fact that when he looked at him he felt like the proportions were wrong.
It was uncannily human, and that sent a shiver through him. He wanted to beg for mercy, to be spared, but he knew he would not be spared. He had stepped out of line.
"Do you know who owns this operation?" It asked him eerily calmly.
"The Hated Sons syndicate, lord." Malithos answered without missing a beat. He was terrified.
The trans-human eyed Malithos for a good minute before releasing him from his grip. His breath was ragged, shallow. Adrenaline coursed through his body just like adamantium coursed through Nostramo.
"Do you know how to drive?" The Astartes asked, as he looked at the contents of the crates. He used his knife to cut a small opening through the sack, put his hand in it, brought the powder to his mouth and tasted it, swallowing it.
"Ye-Yes, Lord." Malithos was too terrified to say anything else. To be in the presence of one of the Night Haunter´s sons was both a great honor and a terrible thing. He seemed to nod at Malithos´ answer. He ordered him to take the wheel of the truck and wait for his instructions.
He complied. From the driver's seat he could hear the space marine grabbing the metal containers and putting them back onto the truck.
A few minutes later. A group of men arrived at their location. They didn't bat an eye to him or the Astartes. Malithos presumed they served him. They started restocking the trucks with the metal containers, just like the Astartes had done to him, yet they had brought machinery. They were quick in fact. Far quicker than his previous employers had been at unloading the cart.
"Follow behind these men and deliver this cargo to where they stop." The Astartes said. He jumped back from his seat and instinctively hit his head on the roof and sat back down. He hadn't heard the demi-god coming closer and his voice scared him immensely. He nodded to him and proceeded to do as instructed.
Talos had honestly been surprised that this mortal had survived the melta bombs. He was shabby, straining on the malnourished. Yet out of all of them, he had survived. He shouldn't have, considering the angle of explosion and the strength of the pillars the shrapnel should have killed him, and when the roof buckled downwards and some of its metallic plates fell besides the truck, at least should have decapitated him or crashed into his skin. They had not. The force of the explosion threw him to the ground, the shrapnel missed his vitals and when the plates fell. They landed beside him.
It was strange. He was sure he had planted them in such a way to kill, and yet he survived.
"Why did you spare the mortal?" His captain asked, Malcharion asked. They were now on orbit, aboard the first company´s battle barge. The lead vessel of a three ship fleet that had come to Nostramo on the orders of the Nighthaunter, to confirm something he hoped would not be true. Talos thought his father hoped it would not be true.
Talos shrugged. "There was no point in making him an example. He had no idea he was committing a crime, thought he was anxious it was the case. There by desperation. The syndicates always paid good money for security. Besides, he fully cooperated. We have the guilty and a witness."
"We also have a mortal that we cannot send back to Nostramo." His captain seemed annoyed at that fact.
"Send him to the lower decks, another menial." Malchorion looked him straight to the eye.
"No. You brought him, you will handle him."
"Captain but-" Malcharion gave him the eye.
"This is my order, Prophet." He rarely used his title. Malcharion cared not for titles most of the time. He cared for procedure, but not for titles.
Talos nodded.
"Good, get out of here." Talos turned away and left. The mortal was a few meters out of the door, clearly waiting for his fate to be.
Talos turned to him. "Primus," he called. He did not know his name, but he was the claw´s first servant. Sure they already had servants who maintained their gear, nobodies. He would not be a nobody whether Talos cared or not. He couldn't get rid of him through a simple execution, that would bring the ire of the Nighthaunter upon him. His father´s censure and most likely he would have to paint his gauntlets red for such punishment now given undeserved. He sighed. "Let's go."
"My Lord, my name is-"
"Do I have to repeat myself, Primus?" The mortal didn't answer. He simply followed Talos slightly behind him.
When Equerry Shang reached the Medicae chamber, the first thing that he felt was a blanket wash over his shoulder. Like a soft embrace, comforting yet dark. Like the void between stars had put its shoulder on Shang´s pauldron and caressed him.
His lord was clothed with the dark feathered cloak he loved to wear. Valzen had returned a few minutes before him from the Nighthaunter´s Sanctum. Curze was looking at the ceiling and slowly walking around the chamber, softly touching its walls. His face was peaceful, perhaps there was a smile there. Shang did not know, he had never seen the Nighthaunter smile. He had seen him grin, sometimes he did smile, but those were forced smiles, or something more akin to a grin than a smile, his fanged teeth being clearly observable, as if it was intentional. It had never been a calm smile.
Even serene as he was Shang couldn't help but fear something tingling at the back of his neck. Like the sensation he felt when his lord had called to speak about the mortal. His twin hearts pound fast, even if he was looking away from him. It made his breath instinctively quicken. It made his skin crawl with uncertainty. Shang did not know what he was feeling, but he did not like it.
"You were right, Valzen." He whispered to the apothecary. "Father is different, he feels different. "
Curze seemed oblivious to their presence, though in truth both knew their Primarch was fully aware that they were in the same chamber as him.
"He seems more peaceful," Valzen stated, as his lord continued to caress the walls of the Nightfall. His voice showed uncertainty if that was something good or not.
"And that is good?" Shang voiced the same uncertainty as the chief apothecary. Both were anxious on what this would mean for them and the legion. Especially Shang.
He knew Curze, as well as anyone that worked closely with a Primarch knew them. He knew his facial expressions, what to look for. How to interpret a silent brooding or a simple hiss or purr. He also knew what not to say to have his Primarch enraged. Now it was clear he would hardly know anything.
"Shang." The voice was no louder than a whisper, but the Equerry heard it clear as the thunder in a storm. His focus immediately turned to his gene-father, he was not there, yet simply hearing his name being mentioned by his Primarch brought a sense of warmth to his chest. "Jasha viratha." He said in an eerily calm Nostraman, so unlike any other he had heard. "My faithful Equerry." Why he had switched to gothic he did not know, but the warmth there was unmistakable.
A hand rested upon his shoulder. He turned to his back, and a shadow was there. A shadow in the form of his father. It was strange. It made him feel like he wished to run. As if every single thing he feared was condensed in front of him.
The hand on his pauldron was of pure darkness, he looked at it. It slowly turned to the pale snow tone of his father´s skin. He looked to where the form had been and his father was there. Looking at him with his hand on his shoulder. His face was peaceful, there was no small strain in his cheek, not slight strain on his black inky eyes. It was peaceful, it was calm. It was strange.
A memory came to his mind, at that moment. A face came to his mind. His father in that moment looked so much like the Raven Lord. Their presence was different, and that was unmistakable, but his face, his physical appearance. Their similarities were unmistakable. There was a dissonance in his mind. His gene-father as he was now, could have passed as the Raven Lord, if only they switched battleplates. Such a thought was perhaps terrifying. That they and the ravens must be so alike in a sense.
The sight of his gene-father so close made his legs grow weak, his knees instinctively trying to make him kneel. It took every single fiber of his being to not fall into one knee. Not for lack of reverence, but rather it was because it never had been demanded of any legionnaire by their father. Not while he commanded the legion.
Curze then whispered two words to the Equerry´s ear. Two words that froze him in the spot. Shang´s eyes grew wide, and he finally kneeled. Those two words. They were so strange hearing them, so alien. Two words that seldom any Nostraman heard, much less a legionnaire hearing them from his Primarch.
Curze lifted his hand from Shang, slowly, carefully. He turned to Valzen.
"Tell me where Melkor is, for I much desire to speak with him."
Valzen gulped. "Your brother Magnus, father, he ordered us to imprison the mortal." Curze frowned. "He seemed to think he had been manipulating you, Lord."
Curze smiled for a few seconds. "He is not wrong about that." It was a terrifying smile.
Valzen turned to Shang seemingly worried.
"It matters not," Curze seemed to dismiss. "All will be as it must be." His voice was like a soft whisper on the dark summer nostraman breeze.
Valzen turned again to his father only to find out he was not there anymore. Seemingly having disappeared like a shadow as the sun sets. Only he and the Equerry remained in the Medicae chamber. He felt something crawl through his skin. He did not know what it was, but it was unnerving, even to the Night Lord´s chief apothecary.
Melkor, the mortal, the enigma. There were no records of him ever joining the legion, no recruitment process, nothing. He seemed to have appeared in the eighth like if he had been spontaneously thrown into the Nightfall. Spontaneously appearing to his brother, Konrad Curze. He had seen the security footage of that day. One moment he was not there, another he was, and his brother ordered his disposal yet he still remained. No legionnaire would ever go against the orders of his own Primarch yet Melkor hadn't just survived. He had thrived and gained the confidence of his brother.
Now Magnus the Red couldn't see the events that happened in the Nighthaunter´s personal sanctum, for the privacy of a Primarch was absolute in his own sanctum, but whatever had happened Melkor came in a powerless mortal, made himself useful to Curze and came out of his chamber as a man wielding more power than any mortal save the Sigillite, such is a Primarch´s favor. Any Primarch´s favor.
His knowledge of seemingly ancient events, if his words were to be believed, were fascinating. Like a living library born of memory that, surely, only the Emperor and the Regent of Terra could exceed it.
Melkor was fascinating, seemingly possessing knowledge few still remembered in the galaxy. Stories to be rediscovered by mankind filled his mind, and yet he was dangerous. As he had seen a shadow hovered his soul, like a shield guarding him, yet his soul should have shined brighter, just like any in the Imperium.
His genetic code was pure, his strain seemingly devoid of the damage that all Imperial citizens possessed. A genetic remnant from Old Night, and his soul was dim yet was not negative. It was not a blank.
He was old, dangerous, and most of all human. He was a curious paradoxical subject, and the Crimson King would relish in interrogating such a subject.