Vigilus, Siluria Hive City.
Deep within the cavernous depths of Mining Complex No. 3, the Necron Dynasty slumbering there had awakened far earlier than Emrys had anticipated.
Nemesor Trazak, the Lord of the Tomb, was fully aware of the carnage unfolding on the surface. He had watched the data-streams of the Imperium of Man, the flickering shadows of the Aeldari, the mindless hunger of the Tyranids, and the crude violence of the Orks.
He knew the galaxy was no longer the orderly dominion they had left behind when the Great Sleep began; it was a screaming purgatory of lesser races.
Unlike many of his kin who had succumbed to the madness of the long hibernation, Trazak was cursed with an excess of caution. For three years, he had kept his Dynasty in a state of "feigned dormancy."
If one were to ask why a Lord of the Necrontyr would play dead, Trazak's logic was simple: when a high-level Alpha Psyker is standing directly on your doorstep, it is better to be a ghost than a target.
He had no desire to test if his necrodermis could withstand a mind capable of obliterating a starship. Instead, he had used subtle mental inductions to guide that "master" toward the Blackstone deposits, hoping the human would look elsewhere.
Trazak was an anomaly among his kind. He held little interest in the reclamation of territory or the glory of conquest. In his near-infinite existence, the only thing that stimulated his engrammatic mind was the study of souls.
He would have happily remained in his tomb for another ten millennia, dissecting the metaphysics of the spirit, if not for a single, high-priority communication.
"Esteemed Ruler of Solemnace, Keeper of the Prismatic Galleries, the Endless One—Lord Trazyn. I have monitored the human as you commanded. Do you have further instructions?"
Trazak bowed low, his metallic joints clicking as he performed the deep obeisance of the ancient Dynasties. In the Necron hierarchy, Trazak was a mere Lord of a single tomb. Trazyn, however, was an Overlord, and due to his role as the galaxy's premier archivist, his influence often rivaled that of a Phaeron.
"Trazak," Trazyn's holographic projection flickered. The background was a shimmering, distorted landscape—likely one of his many hidden galleries. "Circumstances prevent me from traveling to the Vigilus system personally."
Trazyn paused, his ocular sensors glowing with a sudden, unsettling intensity that made Trazak's logic-engines stutter with a premonition of disaster.
"Therefore... I have a special 'acquisition task' for you."
Trazak hesitated, but one did not simply refuse the Infinite. To offend a Phaeron was to risk a war; to offend Trazyn was to risk being turned into a static exhibit in a glass case for the next million years.
"I am honored to serve, Lord Trazyn."
"I am told you have a profound understanding of the Flayer Curse," Trazyn said, bypassing formalities.
Trazak felt a surge of dread. "I have... studied the biological impulses of the Valgûl, yes. If you require my research data, I shall transmit it immediately."
"It is not the data I want, but the application," Trazyn replied. "Tell me, can you emulate the Flayed Ones? Can you weave a skin-mantle and disguise your metallic signature to pass as another creature?"
"I... suppose it is possible," Trazak stammered, his thought-arrays spinning.
Trazyn leaned closer to the projection, his metallic visage twisted into what could only be described as a predatory grin. "Excellent. Simply excellent. You are the only one suited for this infiltration."
"My Lord, what exactly am I to do?"
"It is simple, Trazak," Trazyn said. "I want you to take up the mantle of a 'Flayer.' Disguise yourself as a human and infiltrate the retinue of Merlin Emrys. You will be my eyes and ears on his vessel until I give the command to strike."
Trazak's ocular flares flickered wildly. He was a Lord of the Necrons, a master of a tomb world, and he was being asked to wear the skin of a primitive and hide in their stinking metal ships?
"Trazyn, this is... highly irregular."
"This is for the Great Awakening, Trazak! It is our best chance to understand the reclamation of the soul!" Trazyn's voice dropped to a command frequency that brooked no argument. "Furthermore... this is the will of the Silent King."
Trazak went still. To invoke the Silent King—the Master of the Triarch, the Shatterer of the C'tan—was the ultimate trump card. Whether Trazyn was bluffing or not was irrelevant; Trazak dared not gamble on the chance that Szareth himself had taken an interest in this Rogue Trader.
In less than a microsecond, Trazak's processors concluded that he was trapped.
"I obey, esteemed Lord Trazyn."
Trazak felt the equivalent of a heavy sigh in his core. He just wanted to study souls in peace. First, he was bullied by Alphas, and now he was being sent to play dress-up among the cattle. His dream of a quiet retirement was officially over.