On the dead world of Mnemos-7, the wind blew a fine, abrasive dust, sculpting the carcasses of rusted metal that littered the landscape. Inside a makeshift shelter, pieced together from sheets torn from the wreck of an Imperial collector ship, Lor'ala awaited the end.
She had been a Sister of Silence, a Witch-Seeker of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. Her mission, ordained by the Emperor Himself through the chain of command, had been to locate wild psykers for Imperial service. But a Warp storm had seized their ship, crushing it against reality before vomiting it onto this barren rock. She was the sole survivor.
Years. She had survived for years, alone with the silence that had always inhabited her, a silence now amplified by the total absence of life. Her black armor was dulled, her needle rifle, empty. She was aged, her once-precise movements had become slow, and hunger had hollowed her face.
As she prepared to close her eyes, perhaps for the last time, a thought, clear and distinct, formed in her mind. It was not a word, for she never used them, but a pure intention, a deep desire she had not felt in decades.
I would like to see the Emperor's light one more time.
A single tear traced a path through the dust on her cheek, a silent farewell to the cause she had served all her life.
It was then that a new light pierced the perpetual gray sky of Mnemos-7.
It was not the chaotic glow of the Warp, nor the fire of a dying ship. It was a clean, directional light, emanating from a vessel descending towards her with intimidating grace and power. It was gigantic, of a design she had never seen, its hull of deep midnight blue seeming to absorb the weak light of the dying star. And on its flank, painted in brilliant white, was a logo she did not know: an eagle with wings spread, colored blue, with two intertwined laurel leaves behind it.
This was not the Imperial Aquila. This was something else.
The ship landed smoothly a few hundred meters from her shelter, without a sound. A ramp lowered, and a single figure descended. He was tall, clad in midnight blue and gold armor that radiated a calm authority. He was not a psyker, she would have sensed it, but he exuded a presence... different. Powerful. Sovereign.
Julius Braveheart approached, stopping at a respectful distance. He saw the aged woman, the stigmata of her survival, but also the straight-backed pride in her posture, even weakened.
He spoke, his clear voice carrying in the desert silence.
"Lor'ala of the Silence," he began, not using her Imperial title, but acknowledging her order. "I am Julius Braveheart."
She did not reply, of course. Her piercing gaze, faded by age but still intense, watched him, analyzing every detail.
"You served a master who sent you to die in the dark," he continued, his words falling like verdicts. "The Imperium you serve has forgotten you. The Emperor, in His great work, does not even know you still exist."
He took another step closer.
"I have not come to speak to you of the Imperium. I have not come to speak to you of a distant god on a Golden Throne. I have come to speak of you. Of your worth."
He gestured to the ship behind him.
"I know your silence. I know it is a weapon. A weapon against the things that scream in the void, against the nightmare gods that feed on the soul of our species. They killed my men. They drove them to self-destruct rather than fall into their claws."
His voice grew harder, charged with a cold anger.
"I need you. Not to serve an ungrateful empire. But to wage a war. The true war. Not for a man who will never see you, but for people fighting and dying right now, defending worlds against horrors your former master cannot even imagine."
He extended his hand, not to touch her, but in a gesture of offering.
"Come with me. I do not promise you the glory of the Imperium. I promise you a purpose. An army of warriors forged in your image, bearing your silence as a banner. I promise you will see the light not of a distant god, but of a blue sun burning at the very heart of hell, on a world we wrested from Chaos. I promise to restore your honor, not by dying alone on a rock, but by leading the most important hunt of your entire existence."
He looked her straight in the eyes, his own blue gaze radiating absolute conviction.
"Rise, Lor'ala. Become more than a survivor. Become the foundation of my legion of daemon slayers."
The silence that followed was deeper than anything the dead planet had ever known. Then, slowly, with an effort that cost her all her remaining strength, Lor'ala stood. She did not take his hand, but she inclined her head. A single, brief nod.
It was all Julius needed. She was his. The first stone of his ultimate weapon had been laid.