The following morning, the third day dawned, marking the final hours of the Tzeentchian invasion on Artine.
A bruised and weary sun climbed above the horizon, casting its pale light across a battlefield that was slowly, yet relentlessly, being cleared.
The very fabric of reality seemed to sigh in relief as the warp gate, a gaping wound in the ground that had spewed forth horrors, was slowly shrinking by itself, its edges flickering and dissolving like a dying flame.
The raw, alien energies that had permeated the air began to recede, replaced by the acrid scent of ozone and cooling ash.
The sounds of battle, once a cacophony of screams and explosions, had dwindled to sporadic, distant gunfire and the creak of settling wind.
The last two nights of terror was giving way to a grim, exhausted morning.
Every personnel had been moved to the Church, now serving as an impromptu field hospital and command center, and examined for any side effects from the pervasive Warp energies.
In a more crowded corner of the church,
where the wounded were being triaged, Ulysses, Aurora, Philos, and Renoir were being examined. Medics moved efficiently around them, checking for Warp-taint, assessing their injuries, and administering stimulants.
Ulysses, the Seneschal, his robes and light armor singed and torn, only had some broken ribs from the fall, and minor scratches on his exposed skin. He stood patiently as a servo-skull ran a diagnostic scanner over his injuries.
Aurora, the Sister Medicae, also sustained minor injuries, her usually vibrant hair dulled with dust as she accepted a pain-suppressing draught with a grimace.
Renoir, the Commissar, bore a fresh bandage on his temple and constantly rubbed his ear, a clear sign of the minor concussion and persistent tinnitus from the Thousand Son's attack.
Philos, the Enginseer, was in a more unusual state; previously a flowing head within a cranium preservation unit, he was now being meticulously reassembled, his optic sensors whirring as servitor's parts were carefully integrated to create a new, albeit temporary, body for him.
"How is your new body, Enginseer?" Renoir asked.
Philos's optic sensors focused on Renoir, a faint whirring sound accompanying the movement. His voice, synthesized and flat, resonated from a newly integrated vox-grille.
"Sub-optimal, Commissar. The servitor components are functional, if somewhat... unrefined. A temporary solution, but sufficient for the current operational parameters."
Renoir then said, "Remind me to bring earplugs the next time I have to rescue you."
Philos answered, "I highly doubt that earplugs would work against Psychic attack, Commissar. Although, my logic saw this remarks as a sarcasm."
Renoir then answered, excitedly.
"Holy Terra, Maybe we should separate your head from body a few more times eh?, maybe then you will regain your humanity."
Philos let out a mechanical sigh.
"Enough, Commissar. Let's get back to the matters at hand." Ulysses then stopped Renoir from making further jokes.
He then placed a dataslate on the table between them.
"The gate is destroyed, that damn daemon is also gone, although it is a shame we couldn't get rid of it for good," Aurora muttered while sipping on a cup of recaf.
"This is better than most of the other outcomes I calculated," Philos answered, his optic sensors whirring softly.
"I agree with Enginseer," Ulysses affirmed with slight satisfaction, his gaze firm on the dataslate.
"All that is left now is to kill all the stragglers and burn down the house," Ulysses stated, his voice returning to its usual grim, authoritative tone.
After Ulysses' words, they all looked in the direction of Cilicia, a silent, collective acknowledgement of the heavy price she had paid in this invasion. Her guardian, the Ogryn-'Bob', was dead.
Her child had narrowly escaped becoming a daemon host, and now, the home she had so built many bonds was slated for destruction.
Her exhaustion was a visible wound, a testament to the sheer weight of her losses. The grim silence that followed hung heavy in the air, broken only by the distant sounds of cleanup and the low murmurs of the wounded.
Just then, Father Grigori walked over to them, his shoulders stooped with fatigue.
"How was your mission?" he asked, his voice rough.
"I heard you went over to the conduit and merely escaped death." His gaze was fixed on Renoir, seeking a full accounting.
Renoir grimaced, touching his temple where the bandage was.
"Well, my head was about to paint Aurora's armor, but thank to you guys binding the daemon, the sorcerer suddenly turned away." He paused, a flicker of something close to grudging respect in his eyes.
"Your ritual, Father, imperfect as it was, drew his attention. He prioritized the daemon's fate over our destruction."
"The outcome was either what we achieved or the daemon fully gone and all of you dead," Father Grigori declared, his voice firm despite his exhaustion.
"I do not regret it." His gaze held a resolute conviction, the grim practicality of faith in a brutal galaxy.
"I'd prefer to die if it meant the child would never be haunted again," Renoir sighed, exhaustion and relief woven through his words.
"Besides—we still have an Exterminatus to worry about in seven years."
The Commissar's words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the Rogue Trader's ultimate, brutal solution for worlds irrevocably tainted. It was a bleak prognosis for Artine, a final, unarguable sentence.
"Where is Thessia, Father? We need her for this," Ulysses asked, cutting through the heavy atmosphere, his gaze shifted to Father Grigori.
"Repenting," Father Grigori explained, his gaze turning towards a shadowed alcove in the church.
"This weighed heavy on her. So she chose to repent." His tone implied that further discussion on the matter would be futile; when a Sister of Battle chose to atone, it was a profound, personal act.
"What nonsense," Ulysses muttered, his voice low and exasperated.
"Better to have her in this game with us than repenting over nothing." His frustration was evident, betraying the sheer pressure of their dwindling resources and the magnitude of the decisions that lay ahead.
"I don't think even your command can change her mind, Seneschal," Father Grigori answered, a touch of weary resignation in his voice.
He then turned and walked away, leaving the four to their grim council.
"How is Cilicia and the boy, Sister?" Ulysses asked Aurora, his voice dropping to a more concerned tone.
"Cilicia is... as you can see. For Kochav, he has lost all memories of the event, possibly because of the trauma."
"His psychic power had sealed it shut," Aurora answered, her face etched with a worried frown.
"But we still need to tell him about Bob."
Ulysses muttered. "We should leave that to Cilicia," a weary finality in his voice.
In the evening,
they all stood a few hundred meters before Cilicia's house. It loomed against the darkening horizon, a silhouette of shattered dreams, still radiating a faint, sickly glow that betrayed the pervasive taint within.
Beside the house, a bloodied sheet of rough canvas covered the silent, unmoving bulk of Bob's body, a stark memorial to the protector who had given his life.
The leaders, their faces etched with exhaustion and the grim resolve of their duty, oversaw the preparations.
But Thessia was nowhere to be found, perhaps her failed gamble sinned her from facing her friends.
Cilicia stepped forward a little, her bandaged hand holding Kochav's tiny one. Her eyes, usually so full of defiant fire, were utterly emotionless, hollowed by grief and exhaustion.
Kochav looked up at her, his small face innocent and confused.
"Where is Bob, Mommy?" he asked, his voice a soft, innocent chime in the heavy silence.
"And why are we burning the house?"
Cilicia looked over to the barn next to the house, where Bob's body lay beneath the bloodied sheet. He had given his life to save hers. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passed through her as she remembered.
Then,
with a profound effort, she looked down, meeting Kochav's questioning eyes, and managed a small, sad smile.
"He is gone now, Ko," she said, her voice soft but strained, a forced smile on her face as she gently patted Kochav's head.
"You will understand it in the future." She paused, her gaze sweeping back to the house, then returning to her son.
"As for the house, it will go with him. We don't want him to be away without a home, right?"
Her explanation, a tender lie woven with painful truth, sought to shield Kochav from the brutal reality of their losses and the Imperium's unforgiving ways.
Kochav smiled back at her, his innocent understanding touching a raw nerve in Cilicia's heart.
"Can I do it, Mommy?" he asked, his gaze fixed on the small, simple button she was holding.
Its wire stretched out, connected to a hulking servitor, heavily packed with promethium, which was slowly, inexorably, trundling towards the very center of the tainted area.
-
With the servitor finally in place, Cilicia nodded to Kochav and handed him the button.
Kochav's small fingers wrapped around the cold, hard plastic. With a child's pure, unburdened curiosity, he pressed it.
A dull thump echoed across the desolate field, followed almost immediately by a whoosh of air and a blinding flash.
The promethium-laden servitor erupted, blossoming into an inferno that devoured the air around it. Tendrils of superheated flame licked out, ravenous and swift.
The dry, warp-tainted wood of the house caught fire instantly, crackling and groaning as the blaze consumed it.
The sickly glow that had clung to the structure was overwhelmed by the purifying orange and red of the fire, twisting smoke spiraling into the twilight sky.
The heat was intense even at their distance, washing over them in scorching waves. Cilicia tightened her grip on Kochav's hand, pulling him closer, her gaze fixed on the pyre.
There, where the barn stood, the flames curled around the covered bulk of Bob's body, a final, fiery cremation. This was no gentle farewell, but an act of grim necessity, cleansing the very ground of the Warp's touch.
Ulysses, Renoir, Aurora, Philos, Grigori and Meredith stood beside her, their expressions grim and resolute. The destruction was total, efficient, and horrifyingly final.
The conduit of so much pain and death, was rapidly collapsing into a charred ruin. The scent of burning wood and chemicals replaced the acrid stench of the Warp, a grim improvement.
Their house slowly burned away along with the corruption, and Kochav's eyes were filled with the reflected flames. Although this was a profound tragedy, he was smiling.
As the last structural timbers gave way with a thunderous crash, sending a shower of sparks into the night, the three-day Tzeentchian invasion was, in its own terrible way, concluded.
-End of Act one.