Chapter 33: Echoes in the Dark
The hold was silent.
Not the calm silence of serenity, but the oppressive, airless stillness of something vast and terrible crouching just beyond perception. Deep within the bowels of the Gladius-class escort ship Righteous Ember, Lucien Artor Vale sat alone in a steel bench alcove beside the sealed bulkhead to the forward reconnaissance deck. The faint red glow of low-light lumen strips bathed the corridor in haunting hues. He exhaled slowly, fogging the air for a second before it was whipped away by the whispering vents.
His fingers traced the edge of his combat knife—not for need, but habit. A thousand times he had cleaned, sharpened, and oiled the blade. Tonight, it was a tether. Something real.
They were in transit through the edge of the Maelstrom's reach—chartless space where logic bent and the Warp gnawed at reality. A routine scouting mission, they were told. Lucien knew better. Missions that began with words like "routine" usually ended in blood.
He'd sensed it long before the tech-adepts began detecting anomalies: a tightening in his chest, the way static crawled under his skin, how his shadow sometimes flickered a half-second out of sync. Subtle signs, overlooked by most. Not him.
Luck stirred.
Not the innocent stroke of good fortune or random chance. Lucien's gift was a paradoxical curse—one that drew prosperity toward him like a storm gathering lightning, yet exacted misfortune from everything around it. The more danger he faced, the more improbable the victory, the greater the boon.
And the greater the cost.
When the first Geller field disruption triggered alarms, no one panicked. When the second hit, screams echoed through vox-links. By the third, the command deck was half-mad and vox-silence cloaked the ship like a funeral shroud.
Now, Lucien waited.
Captain Servantes had ordered recon units to sweep the upper decks. Of the six men Lucien sent forward, only two voices had returned—one hysterical, the other abruptly silenced. Whatever stalked these corridors was not daemonic in the traditional sense. It left no Warp-taint, no possession, only absence.
Something that shouldn't be.
Sergeant Krann emerged from the gloom, his auspex blinking red.
"Sir. Section Gamma is empty. No signs of engagement, no bodies. Just… gear. Helmets, rifles. Piled like they were dropped by ghosts."
Lucien nodded. "Sound. Movement?"
"Just echoes."
Krann hesitated.
"Permission to speak freely?"
Lucien turned his gaze on the man, and Krann faltered under those bright gray eyes that seemed to reflect torchlight oddly. "Granted."
"I think the ship is… haunted. Not warp-haunted. Something else. And I think it's watching us."
Lucien sheathed his blade.
"Then we watch back."
---
They moved as a pack, silent and disciplined, down the disused maintenance spine. The walls wept condensation; cables sagged like hanging entrails. Krann took point, Lucien behind him, flanked by three riflemen and a heavy weapon servitor.
They passed dozens of sealed doors—each locked from the inside.
"Life signs?" Lucien asked over vox.
Krann checked. "Scattered pings. Faint. Intermittent. Like half-hearted heartbeats."
A cold voice over the vox-link interrupted: "Team Theta, status?" It was Lieutenant Hellen. Stationed aft.
Krann answered. "Moving toward anomaly. Nothing yet."
"Be advised. Secondary bridge just lost power. Emergency core lighting active. No contact with engineering." Static hissed. Then silence.
Lucien felt it before he saw it.
A shadow that moved without form. A presence, ancient and curious. Not malevolent. Not yet.
Krann froze.
Ahead, a side door creaked open of its own accord.
The hallway beyond was pristine.
Too pristine.
White walls. Polished ceramite floor. No dust. No signs of ship wear. No scent of oil.
Like a room frozen out of time.
Lucien stepped forward.
"Sir," Krann whispered, "this wasn't on the schematics."
Lucien smiled grimly. "Nothing about this mission is."
---
Inside, the air felt thicker. Like breathing water. Lights shimmered too brightly, like a dream recalled imperfectly. There were voices now, faint and layered. Not speech. Murmurs. Laughter. Weeping. Old memories etched into metal and sound.
A control console blinked on.
Lucien approached. The screen lit up with lines of binary, then Gothic.
HELLO, LUCK-THIEF.
The men tensed. Weapons raised.
Lucien stared.
"What are you?"
A MIRROR. A POSSIBILITY. A TEST.
Krann moved to disconnect the power feed. The moment his hand touched the cable, the console burst into fireless light and vanished.
In its place stood a figure.
Lucien.
But not quite.
The armor was newer, golden-etched. The eyes colder. The aura darker.
"Who—?"
The double smiled.
"I am who you become. If you choose the path paved in blood. If you wield your gift without restraint."
The others stepped back.
"This is a trick," Krann said, leveling his rifle.
The double ignored him. "You are not a soldier, Lucien. Not yet. But you are becoming more. In time, they will name you Saint, or Monster. But always, Lucky."
Lucien clenched his fists. "Why show me this?"
"Because the Righteous Ember has already been swallowed by what lurks between stars. Time frays here. Fate bleeds. You'll either become what you fear—or defy it."
The image began to shimmer.
"Decide soon. The enemy wakes."
With a shudder, the pristine chamber dissolved. Walls rusted. Lights flickered. The air grew foul. And from behind the walls, something began to pound.
Rhythmic. Hungry.
Krann cursed. "We're not alone."
Lucien drew his blade. "We never were."
---
They fell back to the bulkhead, barricading themselves just as shrieking echoes erupted from the far end of the corridor. Warp-spawned shapes, half-seen and terrible, burst from the gloom—limbs too long, eyes glowing like hot coals, teeth set in impossible patterns.
And then—luck twisted.
Bullets ricocheted at impossible angles, striking between armored gaps. Krann slipped and should've broken his neck—but instead landed perfectly and fired point-blank into a xeno's throat. The servitor, overloaded and doomed to explode, vented its plasma core just in time to immolate a pack of approaching shadows.
Lucien moved like a ghost. Bullets never found him. Blades turned aside. Grenades landed at the feet of enemies, never his own.
By the end, the corridor was silent again.
And five soldiers stood where twenty had begun.
Krann limped to Lucien's side. "What the hell was that?"
Lucien stared into the dark.
"A warning."
He turned, eyes distant.
"And a promise."
---
They never found the pristine chamber again. The ship eventually re-entered realspace, damaged but intact. Of the original crew, fewer than a hundred survived. Official reports listed a "warp breach and minor daemonic incursion."
Lucien said nothing.
But in his quarters, he opened his journal and scribbled a new entry:
*"Sometimes, the enemy is not flesh or fang. Sometimes, it is the version of you that wins too easily."
Lucien Artor Vale, Captain, 109th Verdant Flame."
And outside the porthole, the stars seemed to shimmer in strange, lucky patterns.