Chapter 253: I Do Not Believe (Patreon)

A harsh laugh echoed through the dungeon.

“Ha… hahahaha!”

Inquisitor Greyfax was smiling, openly amused.

Yet her laughter did nothing to soften the atmosphere. If anything, the shadows deepened, and the weight pressing on the chamber grew heavier.

Lord Castellan Creed sat stiffly, a cigar clenched between his teeth. Across from him, Jarran Kell shifted awkwardly, guilt written plain across his face. Creed’s eyes snapped to him with a glare sharp enough to cut ceramite.

Kell froze. In all his years, he had never once seen Creed direct such a look at him. Though older, though a veteran of countless campaigns, Kell knew he would never match Creed’s brilliance, his command, or his iron sense of judgment.

On the battlefield, passion and reckless courage had their place. But in the presence of the Inquisition, in a dungeon where truth and lies alike could mean death, hot blood would not win glory, it would damn them both.

“Do not resist this conversation so fiercely,” Greyfax said, raising one elegant hand, tapping the floating servo-skull at her side. The machine’s ocular lenses dimmed, shifting away from Creed to stare blankly at the wall.

Creed knew exactly what that meant. The Servo-skull, ever-present, ever-watching, was no mere ornament. It was the Inquisition’s memory, an unflinching witness to every word and gesture. To see it go dark was like watching a confessor lay aside his quill. The recording function had been disabled. There was only one reason Greyfax would do that: she didn’t want what came next to be on record.

“Let us speak… privately,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Ask whatever you wish. If my answers can remove your poisonous hostility from between us, then so be it.”

Creed didn’t hesitate. “Why has the Inquisition fixated on the Talon Sector?”

That was the heart of the matter. Everything Greyfax had asked before, every insinuation, every carefully crafted line of inquiry, always circling back to Talon.

Why did they hound His people? If they rejected the use of dimension engines, so be it. But why brand them as heretics?

“Because,” Greyfax said smoothly, “we have reason enough to believe the Talons are tainted.”

“You’re lying.” Creed shook his head, smoke curling from his cigar.

“Patience. Hear me out.” Greyfax began.

She spoke of the investigations of her predecessors, Inquisitors dispatched to Talon who had returned with troubling reports. She shared her own observations, strange phenomena aboard the so-called Celestial Engine, an impossible construct that dwarfed even the greatest Ark Mechanicus.

Most damning, she spoke of one she had personally seen: a man who had shed his flesh, leaving only a gleaming iron skeleton. His name was Grey, and others like him were said to walk openly in Talon space.

Greyfax suspected they were Men of Iron.

It was no idle accusation. She had seen their kind before.

Her words carried the weight of Imperial history itself. The Men of Iron were not mere rumors but the shadows of an ancient cataclysm. They had once nearly destroyed Mankind, sparking the Age of Strife. Their memory lingered like a scar, burned into the Mechanicus and Inquisition alike. To name any living thing a Man of Iron was to demand its destruction without hesitation.

She relayed further whispers from her peers across the Segmentum. Talon warships, it was claimed, required only skeleton crews, dozens where Imperial voidships needed tens of thousands, even with cogitator arrays and servitor complements.

How? How, unless they employed the forbidden Abominable Intelligence? Greyfax’s voice dripped with conviction, the way a confessor would when damning a cultist.

On and on she spoke, laying bare the evidence and suspicions of the Ordo Hereticus. When at last she paused, she studied Creed intently, as if daring him to deny the logic. Her words carried weight, demanding Creed consider whether their hostility truly came without cause.

The Castellan drew on his cigar, exhaling a long stream of smoke. “But… the Talons stood with us. They helped hold the line at Cadia. My men fought beside them. If they were truly traitors, why wait? Why not strike then, when Cadia’s walls shook and the galaxy itself seemed to split? You think Cadia would still stand if her allies had turned their blades upon us?”

Greyfax sighed heavily, then rapped the table with her heel. “Out.”

Kell flinched. He glanced worried at Creed, reluctant to leave his commander alone with the Inquisitor. But Creed gave a single curt nod. Orders were orders. Kell saluted, then stepped out of the cell.

Now only two remained in the gloom.

Greyfax’s voice lowered. “Tell me, Castellan, have you heard of the Thousand Sons?”

Creed frowned. “Traitors. Astartes once loyal to the Throne, before corruption claimed them.”

“They consorted with… spirits,” Greyfax sneered. “Warp-spawned abominations they called ‘servants.’ Misshapen things, disgusting things, that scrubbed their weapons and cooked their meals. They thought them harmless slaves. And in their fall, those creatures played a crucial role. Only later did we understand what they truly were, daemons, infiltrators that lured an entire Legion into damnation.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Now imagine, for a moment, that Cadia is the Legion… and the Talons are the daemons.”

She did not need to finish. Creed understood her meaning well enough.

The Talons, if they were heretics, would never bare their teeth openly. They would not scream their allegiance to the Dark Gods from the battlements. No, they would wait, mask themselves in cooperation, in friendship, in seeming loyalty, until the knife could be driven when it mattered most.

The Volscani Rebellion had begun much the same way.

“Now do you see the gravity of this, Lord Castellan?” Greyfax pressed. "You're not a fool. Do you truly believe that some backwater cluster of savages could develop such advanced teleportation technology and forge entire iron planets in only a few short decades? Think!”

Creed said nothing. He drew deeply from his cigar, the ember glowing in the shadows.

She watched him closely, believing she had cracked his defenses. “So? Have I shaken your faith in them? Will you turn back from this folly path?”

Minutes passed. Finally Creed shook his head. “I do not believe.”

Greyfax rose sharply, the legs of her chair screeching against the stone floor. She stormed to the dungeon door and without a word she kicked the iron door shut behind her with a thunderous clang.

A moment later, the door banged open again. She stormed back in, tore Creed’s belt of cigars from his waist, and stalked out once more, slamming the door so hard dust rained from the ceiling.

....

Greyfax crossed into the adjoining chamber, a dimly lit lounge where her peers awaited. Inquisitors of every Ordo in the sector sat in silence, the weight of their collective authority filling the air. Icons of the Inquisition were etched into every wall, glaring aquilas and stylized Is that seemed to judge even their masters. The air was thick with the incense of sanctified oils, meant to cleanse corruption, yet the scent only added to the oppressive solemnity.

“You cannot throw the Castellan of Cadia into a dungeon!” one barked, rising to his feet. “This is madness.”

Others stood as well, echoing their disapproval.

Even Greyfax herself, in the cold privacy of her mind, admitted they were right. She knew this treatment of Creed was excessive. But politics was war by other means. To her, Creed was not a prisoner but a lever. If he bent, the Cadian military might follow, and the Talon Sector would find itself isolated, friendless. If he resisted, then his silence would at least prevent their whispers from spreading further. He had to be isolated, cut off from their influence.

“You realize what happens if word of this spreads?” the first Inquisitor snapped. “Every Cadian will want your head on a pike.”

Creed was not just another general, he was Legend itself. The man who had guided his world through the 13th Black Crusade, who had defied Abaddon when worlds burned and the Immaterium vomited forth daemons unnumbered. The people of Cadia revered him almost as a saint. Even the Inquisition dared not touch him openly, for to do so was to risk rebellion not just of soldiers, but of faith. No decree from Terra could silence the fury that would followed.

“Then ensure it does not spread.” Greyfax taking a seat, sipped calmly from a glass of amasec.

“Emperor save us, you’re insane.” The man stormed out, joined by the Inquisitors who also opposed Greyfax’s idea.

Most of them left, but only one remained.

He appeared young, almost too young for the rosette on his chest. But Greyfax did not trust easily, so she ignored him, until he spoke.

“I know what you are doing,” he said evenly. “The Talon Sector is tainted. Our task is not to fight them yet, but to gather proof, enough to sway the Conclave itself, to secure an Exterminatus order when the time is right.”

Greyfax raised her eyes, intrigued.

The younger man continued, “Targeting Creed is the right approach. We must avoid open conflict for as long as possible. If the Talons gain cause to claim Imperial aggression, The High Lords will recoil, and the investigation will be buried. Only patience will see the Talon Sector purged.”

For the first time, Greyfax looked upon him directly and allowed herself a smile. “I authorize you to join me in this work.”

He bowed deeply, extending a parchment dossier with both hands. “My thanks. Here is my file, for your review.”

It was a gesture of trust, the kind of thing Greyfax valued. She skimmed it quickly: not so young after all, but a man in his middle years. His father had once been a Tech-Priest of the Adeptus Mechanicus, though ties had been severed decades ago. No immediate cause for suspicion, the Tech-Priests did not value blood kinship.

“I am honored,” the man said gravely. “My name is Chak.”