PT. 3 - A Changing of the Tides

  1Smoke curled through the hanging parchments, smearing them into gibberish. Voidron's helmet couldn't make out the sigils, the letters almost dancing as his eyes struggled to focus on them. With his breather grille left open, incense stung his lungs and burned his eyes as he followed close behind Ulfgar, the wide Prete’s pauldrons pushing effortlessly through.

  Voidron gritted his teeth and blinked away the wetness in his eyes, on edge as they forged further down the custrophobic passage. There was a greasy undertone to the air, beneath the incense’s thick herbal notes. Grimacing, he closed his helmet grille, the rancid air cloying in his armor’s interior.

  Sweat tracked down his back as Ulfgar thumbed open the hatch. The hatch slid upwards at a gcial pace, the hand-span thick psteel creaking as it rolled. Ulfgar shot a look at Voidron, regarding him, and then the servitors waiting patiently behind him. “Remember your courtesy, Shipmaster,” he grunted, eyes still on the hooded servitors.

  “Aye, lord Prete.” Voidron inclined his head, his brow knitted.

  “Seers have won wars before a single bolt-shell was fired. Their words cut to the bone, but the truth is hidden in the blood.” Ulfgar tapped his foot impatiently, staring down the creeping progress of the hatch as it continued to grind upward.

  “Milord, if I may? Why all the warding? Do daemons trouble her?”

  With a hearty guffaw, Ulfgar turned to face him. “No, Shipmaster. It's there to keep her influence contained. She's- well, you'll see.”

  The door ground to a halt with a cnk. “Come. We should not keep her waiting, and we should not linger here,” Ulfgar grunted. He ducked under the lip of the door, disappearing through the miasma of smoke and parchment.

  Voidron shook his head, a shiver bolting up his spine. Influence? Contained? Was this a seeress or a wild beast? Ducking low, he followed Ulfgar, servitors in tow.

  One—a squat, wide thing—let out a keening wail as it crossed the threshold. Voidron snapped around, hand instinctively falling to the butt of his pistol.

  “Pay it no mind, Shipmaster,” Ulfgar called from ahead. “The more work the Warpsmiths do to their brains, the more… susceptible they become.”

  “Susceptible? I don’t-”

  “She's waiting. Do not tarry.” The order was curt, cutting through the smoke and Voidron’s misgivings.

  “Aye, Prete.” Uneasy, he turned to continue down the passageway, catching up to Ulfgar as he thumbed open another hatch.

  Shipmaster. The title felt alien to him, and having a Prete call him that was incredibly unnerving. Just a few weeks ago, Ulfgar wouldn't have spared him a single gnce, but since Shipmaster- no, Cw Lord Romulus had been promoted to serve Lord Ember, the Prete became his shadow, hardly giving him a moment alone.

  He reached back, his fingers tracing the haft of the chain-give presented to him by none other than Lord Tyranius. His hands still shook every time he took the ancient weapon into his grasp, relishing the vibrations as the razor-sharp teeth spun and roared. He had tried it in the training pits, and marvelled how it felt alive in his grip.

  The door creaked open like the st, screeching to a halt. Without a word, Ulfgar ducked below it, stalking deep into the bck.

  Voidron followed, picking up his pace. He noticed the temperature had dropped, and the greasy air had a more metallic tang to it. He sniffed, trying to clear the pressure, but his sinuses remained tight. Reaching the final door, he spied twisted runes carved on every square inch of its gargantuan surface. Voidron’s gaze wavered as his eyes seemed to slide off of it, his skull aching. He turned away, squeezing his eyes shut against the feeling.

  “Hold, Shipmaster.” Ulfgar turned, hand raised.

  “You will address her as ‘honored seeress,’ or ‘midy.’ You cannot touch her, but even if you could–don't. You will bow at the waist, all the way down, and greet her as we discussed earlier. Do you understand?” Ulfgar’s eye-lenses bored into Voidron as he meekly nodded.

  “Good. We will remove our helmets before we enter. You will do the Ritual of Purification, then you will shed your blood in front of her. Then, if she deems you to be worthy, she might grant you her wisdom. Afterwards, you will thank her, bow, and we will leave immediately.” Ulfgar sighed as he reached for his gorget, untching his helmet.

  Voidron followed suit, air hissing as he popped the tch loose. He gagged quietly as he locked it to his thigh as Ulfgar hit the release on the final door. A kxon hooted, the warning light spinning to life. The Prete shot him one st look before the door screeched open, deafening as it ground inexorably upward.

  Amber light spilled out from beneath the door as it rose, highlighting the moisture and particute gathering around the Astartes’ ankles. It climbed, illuminating the bloody handprints on each of their kneepads, the lightning that tracked across their azure armor, the skull faceptes of their helmets, the blood red gauntlets. The light stung Voidron’s eyes, and he squinted as he tried to make out its source: an enormous armorgss dome set into the ceiling of the chamber.

  The dome sagged low, its ‘apex’ inches from the deck. It loomed overhead, almost filling the circur chamber with its sheer presence. Hexagonal panes of gss distorted the light from within, making it almost ebb and flow like water, spilling into every square inch of space.

  Ulfgar led the way, striding purposefully forward as Voidron kept close behind. The servitors fanned out, one in each cardinal direction—port, stern, starboard, and aft—humming softly as they shuffled along.

  For a chamber with nothing in it, sound barely carried. The servitors, Ulfgar—Voidron could see them, but they may as well have been a thousand miles away. Even his own breathing, his twin heartbeats, were muffled. As if the chamber itself swallowed the noise.

  Then, the servitor lurched.

  A violent spasm wracked its form, twisting its limbs unnaturally. It squawked, binaric gurgling spilling from its lips in an almost singsong timbre, the sound ricocheting off the walls in an eerie, warped echo. The censer swung wildly, flinging sparks, thick smoke venting in ragged bursts.

  Voidron tensed, snapping his gaze to Ulfgar—expecting arm, a command, anything.

  Instead, he found stillness.

  The Prete’s lips were parted slightly, his face bathed in the dome’s glow. No concern. No hesitation. Just reverence… and anticipation.

  Voidron’s hands trembled as he stepped between the servitor and the dome, his skin cmmy with cold sweat. He forced himself to look up—past the floor, to the apex of the dome, to the source of the light within.

  And then he saw her.

  The seeress floated in the near-zero gee, her form shifting, drifting in the amber glow. She pressed against the dome’s surface, watching. The armorgss distorted her shape, blurring her features, but one detail shone through with terrible crity:

  The pinprick coronas of her eyes.

  They bored into him, twin embers burning with a knowing, unnatural light.

  The breath caught in Voidron’s throat.

  She had been watching this whole time. Observing.

  Waiting.

  His throat tightened, lips parting, but his words were not his own. They were hers.

  “Hail, Honored Seeress,” he gushed, spittle running down his lip.

  His spine bent, and the deck rushed up to meet him. The pressure on his brain– no, his mind, was immense, a titanic weight pressing in on all sides of his perception, drowning him in the full weight of the seeress’s attention. It was suffocating—he couldn't breathe–

  In an instant, it was gone.

  The pressure lifted, the weight peeling away as suddenly as it had come. The seeress drifted, moving like an aquatic creature in slow, weightless undutions, her form twisting through the amber light.

  Voidron swallowed hard, turning to the servitor. His hand shook as he reached for the censer, fingers brushing cold brass. He wiped at his nose, the smear of blood warm against his skin.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, drawing in a slow, shuddering breath.

  His vision narrowed, the chamber stretching into a tunnel. He passed the second servitor, its pale, withered face impassive—unblinking—even as the curling incense washed over it.

  He kept moving, legs stiff, muscles aching. The third servitor did nothing as it floated past him—no, as he passed it. The thought unsettled him, like something had shifted just out of his awareness. He shook his head, willing himself back to the moment.

  By the time he reached the first servitor, his breathing had steadied, but something felt off, like he’d left a part of himself behind in the light.

  The servitor raised its mechanical arm to take the censer, and Voidron gdly handed it over. He flexed his fingers, the weight still lingering in his palm. His nosebleed had stopped, though he resisted the urge to check.

  Blinking blearily, he removed his vambrace, unlocking it from the rest of his armor and pressing it into the servitor’s waiting grip. The metal felt colder than it should have.

  Voidron exhaled slowly, drawing the short knife from his belt. The steel gleamed, almost too bright in the amber light.

  Stepping forward, he raised both hands high, pressing the bde against his palm.

  “Honored Seeress, I give you the offering of my blood.” His voice wavered, but he pushed through, forcing the words out. “Take it, and know that I bleed for you, as I do for my brothers.”

  He pressed the bde down.

  And he bled.

  And all at once, the chamber imploded.