Chapter 15: Inquisitors and Shadows
Whispers traveled faster than las-rounds in the grimdark corners of the Imperium. Whispers about a soldier. A noble-born. A man touched by chance—or perhaps, by something far darker.
Lucien Artor Vale had become a name known beyond his regiment. For his uncanny ability to survive. For the eerie misfortune that befell his enemies. For the fact that wherever he went, the improbable became the inevitable.
It was only a matter of time before the Inquisition took notice.
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The fortress-world of Barroch's Fall lay broken, yet not dead. Once a minor industrial hub, its hive cities had been overrun by the mutant offshoots of a failed Genestealer cult uprising. The 17th Arcadian Infantry, Lucien's unit, had helped purge it in fire and steel—and in luck.
Their campaign was supposed to be a hopeless delaying action. Yet somehow, through sabotage, storm, and seeming providence, the tide had turned. Entire tunnels collapsed moments before enemy ambushes. Fuel lines caught fire just as hybrids surged forward. Vox-malfunctions isolated command squads—but always just long enough for Lucien's improvised plans to work.
Lucien had been awarded a Medal of Tactical Valor. He was embarrassed by it. Others muttered prayers of thanks when he passed. That embarrassed him more.
He knew something was wrong. This wasn't normal. This wasn't just talent or instinct.
This was the ring.
Ever since his childhood, he'd felt it slumbering, but now—especially under pressure—it burned. It didn't speak, but it thrummed with awareness. Sometimes it felt like it nudged reality. Sometimes, it shoved.
And now, it had nudged the wrong people's interest.
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"He is an anomaly," the woman in gray power armor said, voice flat. Her rosette glinted dimly. Inquisitor Verena Halix of the Ordo Hereticus studied the dataslate with an expression that could strip paint from a shrine wall.
"Multiple engagements. Untrained tactical insight. Statistical improbabilities repeated across six campaigns. Entire enemy plans unraveling without explanation. And yet no psychic signatures. No taint detected."
Across from her, Commissar Brant cleared his throat. "He's popular, ma'am. Among the men. Dangerous to move openly."
Verena raised a brow. "I do not care about popularity. I care about threats to the Imperium."
She studied Lucien's portrait: young, sharp-eyed, almost too serious. A nobleman's son who seemed to hate attention. Who never requested command but always ended up in charge. Who did not pray loudly or often, yet somehow miracles followed him.
And there was something else.
She flicked to the next report. The campaign on Cynax's Reach. One line caught her eye:
Enemy warboss slipped on own entrails before cleaving Vale in half.
She read it twice.
Then again.
---
Lucien knew he was being watched.
It wasn't paranoia. In the barracks, the halls, even during briefings—someone was always nearby. Eyes lingered too long. Questions came too often.
He tried not to let it show. But years in this hell had taught him one thing: when something smells off in the Imperium, it's probably heresy… or the Inquisition.
He sat alone one evening, fiddling with a broken medallion one of his fallen squadmates had worn. His thoughts drifted back to Terra, or rather, the distant dream of it. To the life he barely remembered—the one with traffic and songs and glowing screens.
He missed it.
But here he was, a player in a game he didn't fully understand, armed with a weapon no one could see. The ring didn't whisper, but its warmth pulsed like a heartbeat now. Always stronger when danger loomed.
"You are not a soldier," he murmured to himself. "You just want to live."
The ring pulsed.
And yet… he had survived more than men ten times tougher. His hands bore the calluses of both fear and fury. He had become a soldier.
Whether he wanted to or not.
---
The summons came at midnight.
An honor guard. Full regalia. No words.
Lucien stood tall as they approached. He recognized the sigils immediately.
Inquisition.
His stomach turned, but he showed nothing.
In the chamber beyond, flanked by purity seals and torches that cast cold shadows, stood Inquisitor Halix.
She said nothing at first.
Just looked.
He held her gaze.
Then, finally, she spoke. "What are you, Lucien Artor Vale?"
He blinked. "A lieutenant of the 17th Arcadian Infantry. Fourth son of House Vale. Loyal to the Throne."
She didn't smile. "Don't play coy. I've seen the reports. The luck. The accidents. The impossible victories. Are you a rogue psyker? A xenos agent? A heretic?"
Lucien took a breath. "None of those."
"Then what are you?"
He hesitated.
Then, with quiet finality: "Someone who refuses to die."
Verena stared for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, she chuckled. Not warmly. But as if something amused her despite herself.
"We will be watching you," she said, turning. "More closely than ever. Do not give us reason to act."
Lucien nodded once.
As she left, he looked down.
The medallion in his hand, once cracked, was now whole.
The ring pulsed.
---
That night, the stars felt farther than ever. And yet, Lucien knew this was just the beginning. Luck, after all, had a price.
And someone—something—was keeping the balance.
He whispered to himself, "I didn't ask for this."
But in the grim darkness of the far future…
Fate didn't care.
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