Chapter 17: Eyes in the Shadows
The smoke of scorched promethium still lingered in the trenches of Outpost Tharos as Lucien Artor Vale stood motionless, staring into the distant fog. The sky was iron-gray, a familiar ceiling of oppression above a world that had known only war for as long as memory served. Mud clung to his boots, soaked in blood, oil, and something darker—something unspoken.
The last battle hadn't made sense. The enemy had outnumbered them ten to one. Their supply lines were cut. Communications were jammed. It should have been the end. And yet...
Somehow, again, they had won.
Not just survived—won. And with minimal losses. Their ambushers had fumbled grenades. Snipers misfired. A sudden landslide buried a flanking force. His own lasgun, miscalibrated, had fired a perfect shot straight through a T'au battlesuit's weakest joint.
His men called it the Emperor's blessing. His commanding officer, Lieutenant Marrec, wrote it off as battlefield luck. But Lucien felt it inside his bones. It pulsed under his skin. The ring, fused with his soul since that fateful day on Terra, was no trinket. It was power. Real power.
And now, it was beginning to attract attention.
---
High above Tharos, aboard the Vigil-class Inquisitorial ship Mortis Veritas, Inquisitor Almareth Thren sat in a chamber lined with parchment and data-slates. Her eyes, rimmed with augmetic lenses, scanned the fifth report in silence. She tapped one pale finger against a worn file:
Subject: Vale, Lucien Artor
Classification: Watchlist Status: Alpha-Crimson
"He survives another battle he had no business walking away from. Again," she murmured. "Third time this month. Fifth time this campaign."
Her Interrogator, Syven Kole, stood silently beside her. "The data suggests more than luck."
"Indeed. And he has no sanctioned psychic training, no records of gene-hancing... nothing. Just this odd spike pattern in causality metrics. As if fate itself bends around him."
"You believe he's an unsanctioned warp-touched?"
"Perhaps. Or something rarer."
She brought up the next page. A blurred auspex-capture of Lucien during battle. His expression was grim, but calm. Eyes alert, scanning. At his feet, a detonation had miraculously misfired, burying Ork bombers in rubble.
"Have we ever seen readings like this?"
"One file, milady. Classified. Cain, Ciaphas. Attached to Valhallan 597th. Similar anomaly."
Thren's lips curved into a cold smile. "Then let us see if this 'Vale' is another Cain... or something worse."
---
Lucien didn't know any of this yet. He only knew that since the last mission, the stares had increased. Fellow soldiers whispered behind his back. Some were in awe. Others... feared him. Even his squadmates treaded more carefully now.
Corporal Branek nudged him that morning. "You know, sir, a few lads are starting to call you 'The Ghost's Dice.'"
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "The hell does that mean?"
"You roll into hell and always come out clean. Like someone rigged the odds."
He gave a short laugh, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. "No one's that lucky."
"Aye," Branek said, more serious now. "That's what scares 'em."
Lucien walked away, thoughts heavy. That night, his dreams were strange. He stood in the ruins of a cathedral, vast and silent. The stained-glass above depicted the Emperor, sword raised, but his face was missing—a blur of light. From behind the altar, shadows moved. One stepped forward.
An old man. Hooded. Eyes glowing like twin stars. The figure spoke, voice like wind on broken glass.
"You walk the path between chance and fate, Lucien. A blade balanced on eternity."
"What are you?" Lucien asked.
"A watcher. As others now watch you."
He awoke with a jolt. Cold sweat drenched his back. The ring burned faintly against his chest, hidden beneath his fatigues. Something was changing. He could feel it.
---
Back aboard Mortis Veritas, Thren issued her next command.
"Deploy Operative Fex to Outpost Tharos. As a field medicae. He is to observe Lucien Vale up close. No interference. Not yet."
"Understood."
"And Interrogator Kole..."
"Yes, Inquisitor?"
She turned to him, face unreadable. "If Vale is what I think he is, we may have found the Emperor's next weapon. Or His greatest threat."
---
Three days later, Operative Fex arrived. A wiry man with too-smooth manners and a medicae kit far too advanced for front-line work. Lucien met him in passing during injury checkups.
"Sergeant Vale," Fex said smoothly, scanning his vitals. "You have a remarkably stable biopattern. Very rare, given your record."
Lucien narrowed his eyes. "And you are...?"
"Just a healer. Here to keep the Emperor's chosen safe."
That night, Lucien took longer glances over his shoulder. And in the shadowed corners of the barracks, Fex took notes on his data-slate, eyes never blinking.
---
In time, the name Lucien Artor Vale would cross a dozen Inquisitorial desks. Some would argue for ascension. Others for elimination. But at this moment, he was just a soldier—a man blessed with impossible luck, standing on the edge of something vast.
His next mission would decide whether he became a legend... or a liability.