Chapter 21: A Whisper from the Warp
Lucien Artor Vale sat alone in the barracks' chapel, its candles flickering dimly in the heavy incense-laden air. The stained-glass icons of saints and martyrs stared down with hollow eyes. He had been transferred again, this time to a war zone simmering with psychic unrest. The Orks had been routed, but strange sightings plagued the region. Men spoke of voices in their heads and shadows that moved against the light.
He wasn't supposed to be alone. The others had gone to the mess hall, but Lucien lingered. His mind had been restless since the last skirmish. He could feel something... wrong. The ring on his hand, ever a silent passenger, seemed warmer than usual, its crimson gem pulsing faintly.
As he kneeled, trying to center his thoughts, a faint whisper echoed through the chapel.
"Child of Fortune..."
His eyes snapped open.
"Twist of fate... Shadow of Luck..."
Lucien stood, hand on his laspistol, but the chapel remained still. The whisper was not external—it clawed its way inside his skull. He backed away from the altar, heart hammering. For the first time, he feared his own power.
Then, the candles flickered violently. One by one, they extinguished.
Darkness.
A presence coalesced behind him. Lucien spun around, raising his weapon. Standing where the altar had been was a humanoid figure, cloaked in shrouds of violet and gold, face hidden behind a mirrored mask.
"Do not fear," the figure spoke in perfect High Gothic. "You are seen."
"By who?" Lucien growled.
"By eyes far older than your Imperium. By forces that see what others cannot."
"You mean the Warp," Lucien spat. "Daemons."
"And more. Much more. You wield something... unnatural. Fortune woven into reality. It is no mere mutation. It is... foreign."
Lucien raised his pistol, finger trembling. "Back away."
"Your enemy's misfortune is your weapon. But what happens when misfortune becomes fate for all? When your presence alone curses the battlefield?"
The figure faded like smoke. The candles reignited.
He was alone again. But not untouched.
---
The next day, Inquisitorial agents arrived.
They wore the rosettes of the Ordo Hereticus, and their presence cast a long shadow. Lucien was summoned but not questioned. Not yet. They only watched him. Always watching. Recording his movements, reviewing battle reports.
He trained harder, forced himself into stricter discipline. But he felt it—eyes not just from the Inquisition, but from something deeper. Even his dreams began to rot. He'd see battles before they happened. Men dying before they fell. And every time his enemies tripped, misfired, or simply died from freak accidents, he no longer smiled.
He wondered: how much of this was his will? How much did the ring act alone?
In the weeks that followed, a campaign against Chaos cultists began. Lucien's squad was thrown into the center of it. His luck surged. Grenades misfired in enemy hands. Bolters jammed. Bridges collapsed right as cultists tried to retreat. His allies whispered, "blessed by the Emperor."
But the Inquisitor watching him did not smile.
After a decisive battle, Lucien returned to find a parchment on his bunk:
"Luck is no shield against truth. The eye turns ever inward."
It was unsigned.
He held the note, heart pounding. He knew then that his time of hiding in the crowd was ending. The legend of Lucien Vale was growing faster than he could control.
And something, somewhere, wanted to know why.