Chapter 30: Orders from the Throne
The warp currents shifted.
On the Strategium deck of the Recompense Eternal, the flagship of Segmentum Tempestus's 9th Crusade Fleet, High Lord-Militant Valcius stood unmoving as servitors floated sacred data-slates before him. Vox-screens scrolled thousands of lines of incoming data. Campaigns. Supply losses. Fleet positions.
And at the heart of a dozen glowing pict-frames was one name:
Lucien Artor Vale.
The Lord-Militant's fingers tapped the edge of his command lectern, the sound muffled by his gauntlet. "The Emperor's Blade Company," he said slowly. "Casualties low. Kill-ratio high. Unorthodox field decisions. Unexplainable survivals."
"Yes, my lord," replied Strategos-Lexmechanic Darron. "Hive Gallomar was expected to fall to Chaos within 72 hours. The cult had burrowed into five primary nodes. The Governor had already prepared a final detonation order."
"And this Captain Vale stabilized it?"
"Stabilized, purified, and rallied loyalist factions in less than four days."
Valcius turned. "And you're telling me this wasn't a coordinated maneuver? Not supported by mechanized divisions or naval artillery?"
"No, my lord," Darron said, lowering his voice. "In fact… we believe they were almost abandoned. Vox-links failed. Orders were delayed. But they still won. Sir… there's more."
He extended a glowing data-scroll.
"Survivor reports from Gallomar claim… miracles. Weapons jamming at enemy hands. Survivors with injuries that should have been fatal. A child who had been warp-touched, cleansed in proximity to the captain. Some in the Ecclesiarchy call it a divine sign. Others… something far darker."
Valcius stared at the scroll.
Then, with a breath as cold as orbit-chilled steel, he spoke:
"Summon an Inquisitor."
---
Three Systems Away – Planet Serran Primus
Lucien sat quietly under a synthetic tree, a rare artificial luxury meant to soothe soldiers recovering between campaigns. His body was mending from Hive Gallomar's wounds. A cracked rib, a bruised lung. But his heart was far more battered.
He hadn't prayed in weeks.
He hadn't touched the ring in days.
And yet… the luck had grown.
It no longer responded only in danger. Sometimes, as he walked through the company's barracks, troopers turned in time to avoid scalding steam pipes. Rations that were spoiled were thrown out seconds before being eaten. Ammo packs, always short, began arriving full.
It was spreading.
He didn't tell anyone.
He didn't want to.
He had just finished reading reports from Captain Marell. New recruits were flooding in. Local PDF veterans, volunteers, even a few sanctioned abhumans. All wanted to join the "Emperor's Blade."
He looked down at his hand.
The ring still shimmered faintly.
He hated it—and needed it.
"Peace," he muttered, "I only wanted peace."
But fate wanted something else.
---
That evening, the candlelit silence of the officers' chapel shattered.
Marell barged in without saluting. "Sir. You need to see this."
Lucien stood immediately, tension locking his spine. "What?"
"Inquisitor arrived. Not local. Ordo Hereticus. He's asking for you by name."
---
Inquisitor Kaldrin Veiss was a wiry man dressed in crimson robes traced with golden purity seals and script-stamped parchment. His eyes glowed faintly—mechanical augments. His voice, when he spoke, was surgical.
"Captain Lucien Artor Vale. You are hereby summoned for audience under Article Seventeen of Imperial Military Doctrine—miraculous wartime anomaly."
Lucien didn't blink. "That's not a common article."
"It's invoked when someone starts winning too much," Veiss said coldly. "Please. Walk with me."
Lucien followed, his hand never far from his holster.
Veiss continued, tone casual. "I've reviewed your record. Fourth son of a minor noble family. Sub-par at the Schola. Barely passed field trials. Assigned to a forgettable company. Then—boom. Sudden rise. Victories. Miracles."
"Luck," Lucien said.
"Ah yes. Luck. Is that what you believe?" Veiss asked, pausing. "Do you understand how dangerous it is? Hope? In the wrong place, it becomes heresy. Faith too loud can echo into the warp. Men start thinking you're a saint."
"I never claimed that."
"No. But others do. And the warp doesn't care about intention. Only belief. I need to know if you're a danger. To the Imperium. Or worse… to the Emperor."
Lucien stared at the Inquisitor. "You think I'm corrupted."
Veiss stepped closer. "I don't know what you are, Captain. But you're something. The kind of something that shifts wars. Or starts civil ones."
---
Veiss stayed for days.
He watched. Interviewed. Walked through the camps. Even prayed with the soldiers.
And what he saw disturbed him.
Soldiers who should have died in medicae were recovering faster. Artillery shelling that should have hit them missed entirely by freak wind. The machine spirit of a malfunctioning Leman Russ tank reactivated in Lucien's presence.
He saw devotion in the men's eyes.
Not to the Emperor.
To Lucien.
The Inquisitor left quietly the next morning.
And he didn't execute anyone.
That alone made everyone more nervous.
---
That same week, new orders came from Segmentum command.
Lucien's company was to be reformed, expanded, and honored under a new name:
The 998th Crusade Auxiliary Battalion: The Emperor's Blade Division.
Lucien was promoted.
He was now Major Lucien Artor Vale.
---
The ceremony was brief. He didn't want speeches.
But someone carved it anyway—on a wall of the barracks.
"He is the Blade the Emperor threw into the dark."
A dozen other titles followed.
The Lucky Ghost. The Blessed Captain. The Survivor King. The Man Who Doesn't Die.
He walked the camp that night and saw the eyes that watched him. Not with command obedience.
But with faith.
---
He sat alone on a hill outside the base, helmet beside him. The stars above were fractured by orbiting stations and debris.
Marell approached.
"You should rest," the captain said. "There's always another war."
Lucien looked up. "I can't stop, Marell. Not anymore. People believe in me now."
"They believe you're protected by the Emperor."
Lucien nodded. "I hope that's true."
Marell hesitated. "And if it isn't?"
Lucien touched the ring, now glowing faintly, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
"Then I have to become the thing they need."