The crater was still cooling when the Drop-Ship landed.
It was sleek, black, and silent. The ramp lowered, and High Inquisitor Malakor stepped onto the glassed earth.
He was tall, draped in robes of crimson silk. He wore no mask. His face was pale, almost translucent. His eyes were stitched shut with gold thread.
He didn't need eyes.
"Report," Malakor whispered. His voice was like dry leaves skittering on stone.
"Total loss, High Inquisitor," a Commander reported, kneeling. "Sabotage. They bypassed the Ward-Gates. No forced entry detected."
"No forced entry," Malakor repeated.
He walked to the center of the ruin. He knelt and touched the ground where the Captain had died.
He could feel it. A cold, oily residue that clung to the magical fabric of the world.
Hunger.
Malakor smiled. It was a thin, cruel expression.
"He is here," Malakor whispered.
"Sir?"
"The Carrier," Malakor said. "The one they call Kael. He didn't die in the fall. He brought something back with him."
He stood up. He spread his arms, inhaling the scent of burnt ozone and void-rot.
"This is not a rebellion, Commander. This is an infection."
"What are your orders?"
"Burn it out," Malakor said. "Mobilize the Purifier Battalions. I want every village, every mine, every hole in this wasteland searched. If they harbor him, burn them. If they speak his name, burn them."
He turned back to the ship.
"And bring me his arm. I wish to study it before I flay his mind."
"Yes, High Inquisitor."
Malakor boarded the ship. As the engines whined to life, he touched the scars over his stitched eyes.
The Crusade had begun.