Chapter 27: The Emperor's Gaze
The thunderous cheers echoed through the forward bastion of Veltrax Sigma. The battered ruins, once a manufactorum district, now bore the banners of Lucien Artor Vale's company. Crimson cloth with the stylized sigil of House Vale fluttered beside the aquila—unofficial, yet tolerated. The men had begun calling it the "Lucky Eagle."
Lucien stood at the apex of the rubble-ridden causeway, his greatcoat tattered, stained with soot and blood. Yet his eyes burned like twin stars—calm, sharp, and oddly… magnetic. The once-reluctant soldier had grown into something more. He wasn't merely obeying fate now—he was shaping it. And others followed.
Even those who hadn't believed at first had come around. How could they not?
They'd seen artillery shells misfire in midair, crashing down on Ork lines with surgical precision. They'd watched snipers slip in puddles at the moment their crosshairs locked on Lucien's heart. And during a recent ambush, when a Ravener erupted from beneath the trench line, jaws aimed straight at his command squad—something went wrong with the beast's leg. It stumbled, tangled in a barbed wire tangle no one remembered placing, and Lucien's laspistol shot it between the eyes like a marksman born.
But Lucien knew better.
It wasn't skill. Not all of it. It was the ring—still unseen, still unfelt except in the strange warmth around his soul. It pulsed like a second heartbeat whenever danger lurked. His enemies fell to bad luck. His allies, even when wounded grievously, survived with miraculous timing. Soldiers who should have died screaming made it home with missing limbs or burns—but alive.
He had begun to wonder. Was this even just luck anymore? Or was it warping fate itself around him like a cloak?
The whispers had started.
"He's touched by the Emperor."
"He sees things before they happen."
"No enemy can kill him. They try—then die in stupid ways."
"Maybe… he's a Saint?"
Lucien hated that word. Not because of pride, but because of fear. Saints didn't live long.
Yet something within him stirred when he walked past the wounded, when he lifted morale, when men rose behind him with fire in their eyes. His voice had grown firmer. His presence steadier. His fear… quieter. In a galaxy so dark, someone like him—a glowing spark, a rallying charm—was exactly what the Astra Militarum needed.
And the Inquisition had noticed.
---
A black-robed figure stepped from the Valkyrie as Lucien approached the command platform. Even amidst the cheers and salutes, silence followed the stranger's wake like a ghostly echo.
"Inquisitor Virella," announced the Lord-Regimental Commissar at Lucien's side, bowing his head slightly.
She was tall, pale, with cybernetic eyes that glowed with faint gold. The rosette at her breast was carved from obsidian, shaped like a thorned aquila. She studied Lucien for a long time.
"I've read the reports," she said. "You're either the luckiest man in the Segmentum… or a heretic in the making."
Lucien stood tall. "Then I suppose I'll have to keep being lucky."
A faint smile touched her lips. "Spoken like Cain himself."
That name again—Ciaphas Cain. The so-called 'hero' who had survived more death worlds, hive rebellions, and xenos invasions than most regiments combined. Lucien had read the fragmentary books available. He knew Cain wasn't truly fearless. He was clever, selfish, and knew how to survive—but always ended up doing the right thing. Somehow. Always at the right time.
Am I becoming that? Lucien wondered. Or something more dangerous?
---
That night, Lucien stood in his temporary command bunker, staring at the war map. Red glyphs blinked where enemy concentrations remained. Ork warbands surged in the east. There were rumors of Dark Eldar slavers to the north. And in orbit, an Inquisitorial black ship hovered like a silent promise.
He heard the footsteps before they arrived. The door opened. It was Lieutenant Marell, his second-in-command.
"They say you could be captain-general soon," she said, folding her arms. "Officially, I mean. Not just what the men call you."
Lucien arched a brow. "I thought the brass preferred their heroes humble and dead."
"They prefer victories." She smiled, but there was a tiredness behind it. "And you've given them plenty."
He looked back to the map. "Is it bad… that I don't feel proud? That I just feel like I've stepped into someone else's path?"
Marell approached, voice softer. "Then maybe make it your own. The Emperor guides us… but sometimes, He uses strange tools. Even flawed ones."
Lucien chuckled. "Flawed? I'm a walking improbability."
"You're a leader, Lucien." She looked at him steadily. "And you give people hope."
---
The next campaign would test that hope.
---
The Orks had regrouped. A massive WAAAGH! surged from the poisoned hills of Throk. Tens of thousands of them, led by a warboss known as Kraggshak da Ironjaw. A crude, brutal force—but cunning in ways Lucien hadn't expected.
They struck at night. They ignored the fortified bastions and instead focused on logistics—convoys, vox-relays, food stores. Lucien's company found itself at the heart of a siege with holes forming all around them.
And yet… not a single direct hit landed on their bunkers.
Not a single sniper bullet found Lucien. One even ricocheted off a stray servo skull that drifted into the path by mistake.
When a nearby allied regiment was caught in the open, Lucien ordered his troops forward—against orders. His commanders raged. But he knew something would go wrong if he didn't act.
And he was right.
Kraggshak had set a trap—a ring of explosive-laden meks. When Lucien's forces arrived, one of his grenadiers tripped over a buried wire. But instead of detonating, the entire system shorted out—soaked by an unexplained chemical leak from a busted Ork tank that had broken hours earlier, no one knew why.
Lucien's charge broke the Orks. The allied regiment survived. The commanders who scolded him before saluted him after. One even muttered, "Emperor sent that boy…"
---
After the battle, the wounded cheered when Lucien walked past.
"Vale's with us—we're safe."
"He's the Emperor's shadow…"
"No, he's His light!"
Lucien said nothing. He simply nodded, saluted, and moved on. But deep down, something twisted in him. Not fear. Not guilt.
Responsibility.
---
That night, Inquisitor Virella returned.
"You fascinate me," she said, standing alone with him on the parapet, watching the burning horizon.
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "I'll take that as a compliment."
She nodded. "You are more than lucky. Your presence… changes outcomes. Fate ripples around you."
"I've noticed."
"But I've seen those like you before." Her voice darkened. "Saints. Pariahs. Psykers touched by something… other. Not all of them stay human."
Lucien didn't flinch. "Then I'll hold on to my humanity. And my men."
She studied him, long and silent. Then, at last: "For now… I believe you are an asset. A weapon. But weapons must be watched."
And then she left.
---
Lucien stared at the stars that night.
He wasn't a saint. He wasn't the Emperor reborn. He was still that boy who'd died with headphones in his ears, hit by a truck while crossing a road in another world. A boy who'd been given a second chance… and a ring.
But maybe, just maybe, that chance wasn't just about survival anymore.
Maybe it was about hope.
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