The clang of metal rang out sharp and sudden, echoing in the hollow-bellied vault.
Cassian ducked under the steel limb, pivoted with his instincts bordering precognition, and drove his elbow into the sensor cluster of the construct. A hiss of pneumatics followed. The servitor reeled. He stepped through its retreat and swept low, foot hooking behind its base. The crash that followed was a bit funny.
It had lasted twelve seconds.
Magos Faren's voice crackled from above, distorted through a loudspeaker system he never bothered recalibrating. "Acceptable."
Cassian wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of a wrapped forearm. "That's your version of a compliment?"
"You are improving. Marginally. Perhaps you will achieve basic competence in the next few decades."
Cassian grunted, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He rolled his shoulder once, listening to the hum of the synth-muscle reknit beneath the dermis. The pain was dull, deep-seated, but clean.
Some time before, that motion would have ended with a torn ligament.
He walked toward the edge of the vault, where Faren stood beside a bank of twitching diagnostic relays, his mechanical limbs at ease, cloak half-raised by ambient static. The Magos looked older, though in that subtly frozen way Mechanicus adepts aged. Like a machine slowly losing patience with its shell.
"I programmed the AI's response loop last week," Cassian said, grabbing a flask off the railing and drinking. "It still hesitates on the sixth parry."
"You overestimate your contribution. It hesitates because you are unpredictable. Like a drunk Astartes."
"That almost sounds like admiration."
"It is dismay."
Cassian snorted and set the flask down. He didn't feel tired. Not in the way he used to. There was always a reserve now—something behind his ribs that moved when he needed it to. The nanites. The muscle-thread upgrades. Or maybe just habit.
His eyes drifted toward the wall behind the Magos, where gouges from his earliest training days still marred the plasteel. Deep, messy. Angry.
He remembered hitting that wall, over and over, fists bruised and mind boiling, after he'd failed to defend himself from a Wraithbone-automata simulation.
He hadn't bled from his hands in years.
"Your reaction time's improved," Faren muttered, watching him now. "Even for your augment profile."
"It's not reaction." Cassian tapped his temple. "It's prediction."
Faren nodded slowly. "So. The instincts are beginning to feed forward?"
"Been like that for the last few years," Cassian said, then paused. "It's not instinct anymore. I don't think before I move. My body knows before my mind does."
"Disturbing," Faren said, then added: "Useful."
There was no pride in Cassian's voice when he spoke again. "You warned me, back then. About changing."
"I did. You didn't listen."
"I did listen. I just didn't stop."
The Magos inclined his head. A human gesture. One of the few he retained.
"You would've died, otherwise."
Cassian turned from the vault and moved into the corridor—metal grates beneath his feet, the soft pulses of powerlines overhead whispering like arteries. The sanctuary wasn't much to look at, but it was safe. More than safe. It was theirs.
He passed the corner where he'd installed the gravitational modulation system—an ugly, blocky thing salvaged from six broken constructs and a dead Eldar antigrav unit. Past the training pit where Magos still tested his physical limits. Past the racks of weapons, each hand-modified by himself. The plasma carbines. The power-blade prototypes. The las-needle rifle with recoil dampeners etched into the frame. Every piece a milestone.
Every one of them had been made, adjusted, rebuilt.
At the far end, the sealed door hissed open at his approach. He stepped through into the chamber bathed in ambient blue light, where Faeveleth stood before the hovering wraithmap. She didn't look at him. Not immediately.
He spoke first.
"You adjusted the psi-filter again."
"It was leaking. Too much static in the sublayer." Her voice was. Clean. And sharp as always.
"You didn't ask for help."
"You were busy throwing yourself at training servitors."
Cassian smiled faintly. "I'm learning to multitask."
She turned. Her armor shimmered with faint light, loose robes flowing over the composite plating. Eyes old and careful, watching him the way one watches a dangerous artifact—intrigued, cautious, and something more.
He didn't blame her.
"You've changed," she said, after a moment.
"Someone said that same thing to me in the hive once"
Faeveleth scoffed "I bet" she muttered softly as she turned towards her work. The map pulsed softly between them, showing the shifting strata of the fractured Webway beyond.
Finally, he spoke. "It's been twenty years."
Faeveleth nodded. "To us. Two centuries, if we stepped outside now."
Cassian smiled ruefully but he didn't look away. "That still doesn't stop being insane."
He didn't reply. Not at first.
Then: "So we wait another ten? Twenty?"
"Not long. The corridor I've been reinforcing—it's nearly ready."
He nodded once, then turned his attention back to the map. Wraithbone lines. Flickering arcs. Pulses of pale psychic light bleeding into the stone.
"You've made this place a sanctuary," he said.
She arched a brow. "We made it. You, Faren, and I."
He allowed himself a breath. "Then let's keep it that way. At least until the gate opens."
She said nothing, but her eyes lingered on him longer than they once did.
He left her there, the map's light tracing ghost-lines across her pale face.
**
He sat alone in his quarters that night. Not because he had to. Because he still preferred solitude when the weight of memory settled on him.
Twenty years.
He had memorized the way silence sounded after a day of nothing but machine-song and psychic noise. He had counted breaths. Measured sleep in cycles. Watched his body shift—muscle reshaping, nerves fusing, skin regrowing faster than wounds could scar.
He hadn't seen another human face in two decades. Only Faren's mechanical grimace. Only Faeveleth's alien eyes.
And he wasn't broken.
He felt that mattered.
He hadn't gone mad. Hadn't lost the ability to speak, or joke, or train. He still remembered his previous life thanks to his augments. Still remembered the hiss of a las-round, the wet crunch of hive-meat underfoot, the chill of the warp wind when that daemonic sun had howled at him across the abyss.
Those memories hadn't faded. They'd crystallized.
He flexed his fingers, watching the little sparks dance across his nerves—remnants of a day spent channeling psychic fire in one of Faren's mad experiments. His body could take more now. Burn hotter. Run longer. React faster. Move better.
And time had sharpened him well.
**
The gate pulsed once—low, deep, like the breath of something vast and half-awake.
Cassian stood still.
The last time he'd felt this sense of shifting gravity, he'd been looking down at the broken daemon world bleeding into realspace.
But this wasn't the warp. This wasn't chaos.
This was the Webway opening.
And that was different.
The corridor of Wraithbone around them vibrated in silence. No sound. Just pressure in the skull, behind the eyes, across the surface of the teeth. Like thought moving faster than voice. Cassian reached out once, letting his fingers brush the side of the archway. It was warm. Not heat—warmth. A sense of life.
Faeveleth stood a step ahead of him, still as a painting. The light from the gate rimmed her silhouette in white and violet.
She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
The gate unfurled.
It didn't explode, didn't tear space open in shrieking madness. It bent—graceful, deliberate—like a curtain of light peeling backward. What lay beyond wasn't fire or shadow or the endless, stinking meatgrind of the Imperium.
It was beauty.
Not the human kind. Not stone towers or banners or the weight of history.
This was a living world. Architecture that sang. Spires that moved with the wind. Trees that glowed like starlight etched in crystal. Structures that curved in impossible geometries, not built but grown. Everything shimmered with psychically reactive energy. Light flowed like water. Paths formed under their feet as they stepped.
Cassian blinked. No words came.
"You are staring," Faeveleth said, stepping forward, her tone dry.
"Not used to seeing things that weren't designed to kill me."
She turned, faintest edge of a smirk touching her lips. "That will change. Eventually."
He followed her into the light.
Faren stepped through after them, cloak hissing as the gate whispered shut behind his frame. "This place is… offensive."
Faeveleth ignored him. Cassian didn't. "Because it's beautiful?"
"Because it's inefficient," Faren snapped. "No straight lines. No clear function hierarchy. Nothing but arrogant design masquerading as harmony."
Cassian let the silence stretch as they walked forward—no need to argue. The path moved beneath them as if it sensed their intention. Around them, the towering arcs of the Craftworld gleamed, alive with color, alien motion, and subtle music humming low beneath everything.
Then came the Eldar.
Silent. Graceful. Tall. Armored in flowing wraithbone and woven mesh. Their faces were carved marble, masks of disdainful nobility. They emerged from the edges of vision, drifting closer, not surrounding, but observing. The air changed. He felt it behind his ears—psionic pressure, light, polite, a taste of ice across the skin.
Faeveleth raised one hand to show her face. The crowd stopped. No words. Just recognition of their own species.
Cassian met their gazes without fear. Just calm. The weight of a human who had seen far worse than the judgment of aliens.
Faeveleth led them onward, up a broad stair of living stone that shimmered underfoot. Her voice came low, for him alone. "They don't like you."
"The feeling is mutual."
"They're trying to decide if you're a curiosity or a contamination."
Cassian smirked. "I get that a lot."
She didn't laugh—but something in her posture eased.
They entered a vaulted hall, air cool and crystalline. High above, stained plasteel windows bent the light into veils of shimmering energy. Eldar seated in carved thrones observed from above. High-ranking. Probably seers. One of them whispered a name into the air and Cassian felt it skim the surface of his mind like a stone skipping over water.
He didn't react. He knew better.
Faeveleth walked with him to a raised platform. She stood slightly ahead. Not shielding him. Presenting him.
"I have offered him the rite of crystalline accord" she said, calmly, in their tongue. "He spent twenty years with me. He is trustworthy."
The seers said nothing. One simply inclined her head—barely—and the others followed.
Cassian leaned slightly toward her as they turned to leave.
"What is this rite of crystalline accord?"
"Among the Asuryani, hospitality is marked by the Rite of Crystalline Accord. Upon accepting a guest into their dome or shrine, a host offers two items—a shard of spirit-glass and a drop of rejuvenation nectar. The spirit-glass symbolizes clarity of mind and intent; the nectar, the preservation of life. Once consumed or accepted, no psychic harm, betrayal, or ill-will may be cast by either party without grave dishonor and the calling of ancestral judgment. Breaking the Accord doesn't just dishonor the host—it severs their connection to the Craftworld's infinity circuit until atonement is complete". she said, "otherwise, you will not be left free. You are my responsibility here."
"So, that's what it was." Cassian muttered.
"What was that?" She tilted her head towards him.
"Nothing"
They walked in silence after that, across a bridge of woven energy spanning two titanic spires. The sky here wasn't sky at all. Just an endless, glittering expanse—stars and nebulae so close they looked painted onto a void-silk ceiling.
Cassian looked at her. The way she moved. The way she stayed just far enough from him not to touch, but not enough to deny closeness.
"What now?" he asked.
She tilted her head, amused. "Now you're their problem."
"I was under the impression I was your problem."
"You were. Now you're a little of both." She stopped, turning to face him. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a spark in it.
Cassian looked at her then, long and careful. "You said I am a contamination."
"I meant it."
"But why vouch for me then."
Faeveleth stepped in, close enough that he could smell the strange, cold-clean scent of her armor, the faint heat of her breath.
"You're still a contamination," she murmured. "But one I've gotten used to."
Cassian didn't flinch. "That your version of a compliment?"
"I don't do compliments."
"Could've fooled me."
She laughed. Quiet. Dry. Almost human.
Then she stepped away.
"We have work to do," she said, cool again. "You'll be assigned quarters. Don't wander."
Cassian watched her go, then looked out across the impossible span of the Craftworld. His reflection shimmered in the glass-like bridge beneath him.
Something had changed between them. Cassian sighed as he put away those thoughts from his mind
He turned, and walked forward into the heart of the alien city.
Ready. Waiting.
Alive.
—-
Cassian Vail — Status Page
Age: 35
Race: Human (Imperium)
Occupation: Survivor of Hive Desoleum
Stats:
Physique: D (34/40)
Dexterity: D (32/40)
Intelligence: D (19/40)
Wisdom: D (15/40)
Affinity: D (12/40)
Perks:
Danger Sense → Kinesthetic Awareness
Your danger sense has evolved beyond conscious reaction and instinct. Kinesthetic Awareness allows your body to respond to external stimuli with near-preternatural precision. Subtle shifts in air pressure, muscle tension, and ambient motion are subconsciously processed, allowing you to react to immediate threats faster than thought. You move before your mind can register the need—dodging bullets, sidestepping strikes, and countering blows with fluid, almost unnatural grace. It's not precognition. It's your body refusing to die.
Precision Refinement → Vector Calibration
Your control has transcended mortal finesse. Vector Calibration enhances your neuromuscular control and fine motor systems—natural and synthetic alike—allowing you to execute movements with unerring exactness. Whether aligning a sniper's crosshair at ten kilometers, threading a blade between power armor joints, or disabling a bomb with a pulse-tremble, every motion is mathematically perfect. You no longer guess—you know. The difference between mastery and flaw is now measured in microns, and you stand on the razor's edge.
Insightful Awareness → Noetic Discernment
Your perception of others has deepened beyond expressions and body language. With Noetic Discernment, you instinctively parse micro-expressions, tonal inflections, subconscious gestures—even minute shifts in emotional resonance—rendering deceit, manipulation, and hidden intent transparent. You intuit motives within moments, feel the tremor of guilt, the flare of ambition, the dead calm of a killer. This talent borders on the psychic but remains wholly grounded in terrifyingly sharp social acuity. Among liars, you are silence. Among schemers, you are inevitability.
Favor of the Machine Spirits [MAX] → Communion Protocol
Your bond with machine spirits has transcended rote ritual and sacred cant. With Communion Protocol, you no longer invoke cooperation—you converse. Machine spirits, from the simplest servo-skull to the heart of a voidship's plasma drive, respond to your presence with subtle eagerness, whispers of diagnostics, echoes of dormant routines. You understand their moods, their pain, their pride. Repairs become harmonies, calibrations an intimate rite. While others plead to ancient systems, you ask—and are answered.
Adaptive Physiology [MAX] → Controlled Assimilation
Through repeated exposure to foreign enhancements—be they xeno-DNA, chemical cocktails, or Mechanicus implants—your body has developed a limited, conscious adaptability. You no longer reject most invasive augmentations outright. Instead, with time and medical support, you can stabilize and incorporate them at reduced risk of rejection or system shock. This process is slow, often painful, and never perfect—but it grants you resilience against foreign tech and biohazards, and lets you function in conditions that would cripple unaltered humans.
Skills:
Lexicon Proficiency — Level Max
Melee Weapon Proficiency — Level Max → Astartes combat doctrine Level 12
Physical Conditioning — Level Max
Hand-to-Hand Combat — Level Max→ Doctrine of flesh engine – Level 15
Firearms Proficiency — Level Max→ Marksman Creed – Level 16
Mental Discipline — Level 98
Telepathy — Level 96
Tech Maintenance — Level Max→ Arch Enginuity – Level 6
Warp Empowerment – Level 25
Electrokenisis – Level 14
Pryokinesis – Level 2
Technopathy- Level 5
Biokinesis- Level 3
—-
Word Count: 2668
For advanced chapters
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