The Palace had learned to scream.
Not in sound — that would have been mercy — but in vibration, a tremor that crawled through the stone itself and found bone. Even the light quivered, pale and untrustworthy, as though the sun had started bleeding behind the horizon and the walls tried to remember what color it used to be.
Kael Varan moved through the lower sanctums of the Imperial Palace with his remaining brothers — seventy-three, by the last count that hadn't needed correction. The rest were scattered through the catacombs, fighting phantoms, or folded into the walls forever.
His armor was scarred black, polished only by the friction of bodies and debris. Each dent was a signature, each seal an old promise to keep walking.
"Third junction clear," Malchion voxed, his voice rough from recycled air and smoke.
"Visual," Kael replied.
The feed on his helm displayed the corridor ahead: a cathedral aisle turned charnel house, lit by flickering lumen strips that buzzed like insects.
The walls were inscribed with devotional scripture — The Emperor Protects, No Fear, No Pity, No Remorse — but the letters writhed now, faintly, as if inked by a hand that regretted the message.
Joras moved beside Kael, one-handed but tireless. He carried a flamer that he'd renamed Confession. The pilot light jittered nervously.
"Smells wrong again," he muttered. "Metal shouldn't sweat."
"It's not sweat," Kael said.
"What then?"
"Memory," Kael replied, eyes black and flat.
A sound came down the corridor then — soft, wet, indecent. Flesh against stone. A whimper that wasn't human.
Kael raised a hand. The Company froze. The shadows at his feet stirred restlessly, like dogs scenting a stranger at the door. He switched to vox-whisper.
"Movement. Two o'clock. Ten meters."
The next sound came from the ceiling.
A shape detached from the arch — something that had once been a man, or many men. Its limbs were too long, its mouth too wide. Its eyes were pits full of dust and whispers. It wore scraps of armor fused with skin, and it dragged a chain of fused skulls that clinked like rosary beads.
It fell, shrieking a wordless sermon.
Kael's bolt pistol barked twice, each shot timed to his precognition's whisper. The creature's chest imploded. Joras' Confession spat a line of white flame that filled the corridor with light so pure it felt holy. The abomination convulsed, screaming, then collapsed into a mass of ash that hissed like meat on a skillet.
The echo died.
Malchion's voice came again, steady despite the tension. "That's the third one this hour. They're pushing through the cracks."
"They're not just pushing," Kael said. "They're learning the walls."
"What does that mean?"
"It means we're running out of things that remember what they're supposed to be."
They moved on.
The corridors narrowed the deeper they went. Heat radiated through the stone. Warp interference made Kael's vision twitch — ghosts of shapes that weren't there, footsteps that didn't belong to his men, reflections of himself that lagged behind when he turned.
They reached the next junction — a wide hexagonal hall lined with aquilae and statues of Imperial saints. Every statue had been defaced. Some wept tar. Others smiled too wide.
Malchion lifted his auspex. "Reading life forms ahead. Multiple. Unclear signatures."
Kael tilted his head, listening to the hum of the air. The darkness whispered against his armor. "They're breathing wrong," he said.
"Breathing?" Joras asked. "Things like that need air?"
"No," Kael murmured. "They need attention."
He stepped forward into the hall.
The figures ahead were kneeling. Dozens of them — mortals in tattered uniforms, their faces uplifted toward a cracked fresco of the Emperor. At first glance they seemed alive, praying.
But as Kael drew closer, he saw that their skin was carved with scripture — words cut into flesh, the grooves filled with molten gold. Their lips moved in unison, repeating a phrase too quietly to hear.
"Hold," Kael ordered.
He advanced alone. The others covered him, bolters aimed, discipline tight as a tourniquet.
When Kael was ten steps away, the nearest pilgrim turned its head. Its mouth split from ear to ear. The voice that came out was dozens layered over dozens, a choir of flies singing through dead throats.
The Light loves you, Kael Varan. Come closer.
His finger twitched toward the trigger.
Then the fresco moved.
The Emperor's painted face twisted, eyes opening, mouth tearing into a rictus grin. Gold dripped from the cracks, forming tendrils that reached down toward the worshipers. The bodies beneath convulsed, their flesh liquefying into something radiant and foul.
Kael didn't think — he acted.
"Burn it!"
Confession roared. White fire washed through the hall, devouring everything. The golden tendrils writhed, recoiled, then caught flame, flaring like banners. The smell was unbearable — incense and rot, sanctity and sin. The fresco screamed in color before it peeled away, revealing raw stone beneath.
When the smoke cleared, only blackened remains remained. The whispering stopped.
Malchion's voice came low. "You all right?"
Kael stared at the soot where the Emperor's face had been. "Define all right."
He turned, motioning for them to move on.
The vox crackled suddenly — Imperial frequency, weak and frantic.
"This is Sergeant Nevar, Blood Angels— sector three sublevel collapsed— daemonic entities in the—" Static drowned the rest.
Azkaellon's men.
Kael snapped to his squad. "Coordinates. Now!"
Malchion's gauntlet tapped into the vox-trace. "South by the tertiary artery. Two klicks."
"Move," Kael ordered.
They broke into a run.
The lower corridors shuddered as they advanced. Distant artillery made the walls shake dust loose in steady rhythm. Bolter-fire echoed in the depths. The smell of burning ozone grew stronger — mixed with something sweeter, like perfume curdled with blood.
They reached the Blood Angels' position minutes later. It wasn't a defense — it was a massacre.
The entire corridor had been transformed into a shrine of decay. Marble had turned to pulsing flesh, shot through with veins that dripped black ichor. The red-armored corpses of the Blood Angels lay scattered, their beautiful faces twisted in rapture and agony alike. Their wings were tattered. Their blood steamed on the floor.
And standing among them was something that wore a man's shape, once.
It was tall, lean, armored in gold that bled light from every seam. Its face was perfect — too perfect, a parody of Sanguinius' grace. It smiled as it turned toward Kael, voice like silk dragged over glass.
"Do you like my choir, Night's Child?"
Kael leveled his bolt pistol. "I've seen better."
The creature's smile widened. "I was made from them. From the angels. Their dreams… their flesh. Their faith."
It extended a hand — fingers long and graceful, tipped with talons like glass. "Kneel, and I will show you what beauty means."
Kael fired.
The bolt struck its chest. The explosion staggered it but didn't fell it. Its laughter filled the hall, echoing off the walls, wrapping around Kael's mind like silk and knives.
Malchion shouted orders, opening fire. Bolter rounds tore chunks from the creature's armor — light spilled from the wounds like molten gold, and the thing moaned in pleasure.
Joras moved to flank, triggering a promethium burst that engulfed the monster. For a heartbeat it vanished in fire. Then the flames turned white, screamed, and flowed back into its body.
Kael's foresight flickered — five seconds of impossible futures, each worse than the last. He saw himself burning, his men screaming, the creature devouring their memories.
He moved.
Shadow boiled from his feet, surging forward like liquid night. It struck the daemon full-force, smothering its radiance. The light dimmed, warped, cracked. The thing shrieked, its voice now a discordant mess of stolen tones.
Kael charged. Veilrender sang, its black edge drinking light. He struck at the thing's neck. The daemon caught the blade with its hand. Flesh hissed and sizzled — it grinned through pain.
"Even your darkness craves the sun."
"Then let it starve," Kael hissed.
He twisted, kicked, and slammed the daemon into the wall. Malchion's chainblade whined, biting deep into its flank. Joras lobbed a melta-charge. The explosion filled the hall with molten gore and light so bright it erased color.
When the glare faded, the daemon was gone. Only ash and glass remained.
Kael stood still, chest heaving, armor cracked and smoking. His shadows slithered back to him, slow and shivering.
Malchion spat blackened blood. "That wasn't one of the usual bastards."
"No," Kael said quietly. "That was made here. From them."
He looked down at the ruined Blood Angels — warriors who had once sung to the stars and now lay silent.
Joras broke the silence. "What now, Captain?"
Kael stared into the distance, at the faint tremor in the walls, the soft, omnipresent pulse that made the air itself vibrate.
"Now," he said, "we find out what's beating."