The Sol System received the Watcher Above like a cathedral noticing a whisper.
Her black prow cut through the void on silent drives, her hull bearing scars from Nostramo's death and a shadow that seemed to linger longer than it should.
Astropathic channels opened only when the Sigillite himself cleared them.
The Emperor had long since withdrawn from public sight, buried within the vaults of the Imperial Palace, and Kael's return drew the quiet attention of many who remembered the old days of the Legions but dared not speak his name aloud.
When the Watcher Above broke translation over Luna, a single vox signal awaited her.
It was short, sharp, and unmistakable: "Dock at the Sigillite's Tower. Alone."
Kael stood at the forward gallery as the ship's automated descent aligned itself to the orbital paths around the moon. His reflection stared back at him — eyes black, face still, shadow barely contained behind his movements.
Veyra approached, slower now, her cane clicking softly against the deck.
"They're waiting," she said. Her voice carried no fear. Only fatigue.
Kael nodded. "I know."
"You'll talk with him?"
"I will."
Veyra watched him for a long moment. "Don't let him make you a blade again," she murmured. "You've earned being a man."
He turned to her, softening. "I'm not sure the galaxy allows such luxuries anymore."
"Then pretend," she said, almost smiling. "You're good at that."
---
Terra rose below, pale and bright, wreathed in orbiting citadels and defense platforms. The Watcher Above entered docking formation beside a Mechanicum bastion that bore Malcador's sigil — the sigil of the Sigillite himself, warded and silent.
Kael disembarked without escort, Veilrender sheathed at his hip, wearing the repaired Varanshade plate, matte and unadorned. No heraldry. No winged bolts. Only the color of midnight and the silence that followed it.
The lift took him down through spires and vaults carved into Luna's surface — deep, old, and still humming with forgotten machines. He remembered these corridors. He had walked them before the Crusade, before Nostramo, before his name had been spoken with respect or fear.
He found Malcador waiting at the heart of a long hall filled with drifting light.
The Sigillite had not aged so much as condensed. Every motion had purpose; every breath seemed measured. His robes were simple gray, his eyes sharp enough to flay.
"Kael Varan," Malcador said. "I wondered when you would return."
"I never thought I would," Kael answered.
Malcador gestured to a long table made of dark stone and translucent data feeds. "Sit. We have much to discuss, and I find standing makes the truth wander."
Kael obeyed, the Varanshade whispering as it folded into its locked rest. The Sigillite studied him in silence for several breaths, eyes narrowing not with suspicion but with the weight of calculation.
"I saw Nostramo's death," Malcador said at last. "Through reports, astropathic echoes… and through the nightmares of those who survived it. You were there."
"I tried to stop it."
"I know," Malcador said. "That's why you're here and not in chains."
Kael looked down at his hands — large, scarred, unshaking. "He's gone, Malcador. The man who could have been a savior. All that's left is what he fears."
Malcador's expression softened — the faintest crack in his composure. "The Emperor once said that Konrad Curze was both prophecy and punishment given form. You, Kael, were meant to be his balance. His conscience, not his reflection. And in that, you succeeded."
"I failed to save him."
"You were never meant to," Malcador replied, leaning back in his chair. "The Primarchs were never yours to save. You were meant to learn from them."
Kael looked up, eyes dark and weary. "And what should I learn from the death of a world?"
"That prophecy fulfills itself when reason stays silent," Malcador said. "And that the Emperor's dream cannot survive only on obedience. It requires men like you, Kael — the ones who understand why we obey."
For a long moment, there was only the faint hum of the Mechanicum's systems. Then Kael asked, quietly, "Why summon me now?"
Malcador raised one hand. The hololithic table brightened, displaying multiple star systems — familiar to Kael only by reputation. Istvaan. Calth. Prospero. Some were already marked in red, others blinking amber.
"Because," Malcador said, "shadows are stirring in the Legions. You were always adept at walking in darkness without becoming it. I need that now."
Kael leaned forward. "You suspect a betrayal."
"I suspect inevitability," Malcador said, voice cold. "Horus has grown… charismatic. Too much like his father in the wrong ways. The others listen. The Emperor sees it, but His hands are bound to Terra now. I cannot act openly. So I need eyes — loyal, patient eyes — to move where His cannot."
"You want me to spy on my brothers," Kael said flatly.
"I want you to understand them," Malcador corrected. "And, if it comes to it, to act as the conscience they will no longer hear."
Kael considered that in silence. Then, softly: "And if my conscience demands I act against them?"
Malcador met his gaze without flinching. "Then you will already know what must be done."
---
For a time they sat in silence. Two old soldiers, one mortal, one not, staring into futures neither wanted to name.
Finally, Malcador spoke again. "Your ship — the Watcher Above. The Mechanicum has been instructed to fit her with certain new systems. Experimental, but necessary."
"What kind of systems?" Kael asked, suspicion threading through his tone.
Malcador allowed himself a thin smile. "Nothing heretical. A new generation of gravitic dampers to reduce warp turbulence. Hull plating mixed with phase-treated alloys from Saturn's forges. Enhanced signal-occlusion fields — you'll be invisible to almost everything short of an Imperial Throne's auspex. And, Kael…" He leaned closer.
"A prototype intelligence core. Not sentient, merely… intuitive. It will learn your habits. Respond to you faster than thought. Consider it a reflection — of the ship, and of you."
Kael frowned. "A dangerous reflection."
"Perhaps," Malcador said. "But every blade worth wielding carries risk."
Kael nodded slowly. "And my orders?"
"Travel the Imperium. Visit your brothers where the Crusade still burns. Watch, listen, learn. Do not interfere unless you must. And if the storm comes—"
"It's already coming," Kael interrupted, quietly.
Malcador sighed. "Yes. Then when it comes, act as you think the Emperor would wish. Not what He would command."
That earned a flicker of surprise from Kael. "You trust me that much?"
"I trust your silence," Malcador said. "It has always spoken truth."
---
When Kael rose to leave, Malcador stood as well. The Sigillite regarded him for a moment, his expression unreadable. "One last thing, Captain Varan," he said. "Do not mourn your Primarch too deeply. Men who see only death are doomed to become it."
Kael paused. "And what of those who see too much life?"
Malcador smiled faintly. "They become me."
The two men shared a look — one of mutual recognition, not friendship. Then Kael inclined his head and left the chamber, the shadows following like disciplined soldiers.
---
Back aboard the Watcher Above, the Mechanicum adepts worked in silence, awed by the ship's eerie intelligence. The upgrades were subtle but potent — plating with reactive stealth fibers, new gravitic engines that hummed like restrained thunder, and the newly installed intelligence core that responded to Kael's presence with an almost human attentiveness.
When he entered the bridge, the ship dimmed by instinct.
"Report," Kael said.
Threx's mechanical voice answered, reverent. "The refit is complete, Captain. She moves like thought and listens like prayer."
Kael nodded once. "Good."
He looked toward the forward viewport. Terra filled it, a world of gold and shadow — the cradle of mankind and the source of its every contradiction. Behind him, Veyra stood quietly, the years heavier now. Her hands shook faintly on her cane.
"Back to work, then," she said softly.
Kael turned to her. "Veyra," he said, hesitating. "Rest, for once. You've earned it."
She smiled, thin but genuine. "I'll rest when you do."
Kael almost smiled in return. "Then neither of us will."
They stood together, the old and the unaging, watching the blue marble of Terra turn beneath the golden light of the Emperor's sun.
Then Kael said, "Set course. The Sigillite has work for us."
"Aye," Veyra answered. "Destination?"
"Where the light flickers," Kael said. "We'll start there."
The Watcher Above turned its daggered prow from Terra, shadowing the dawn, and slid back into the void — silent, unseen, a ghost in service to a dying dream.
And somewhere, deep in its machine core, the ship's new intelligence whispered its first words, inaudible but true:
"Where he walks, men forget to speak."