Chapter 255: Reunion (Patreon)

Time was near impossible to measure in the oppressive, airless darkness of the dungeon, where silence pressed against the walls like a living thing. The damp stones bled cold into the marrow, and every drip of unseen water stretched the hours into eternities.

Lord Castellan Ursarkar E. Creed had no idea how long he had been kept in the Inquisition’s dungeon. All he knew was that his beard had grown noticeably longer.

The Inquisitorial Tempestus Scions standing guard at the cell door treated him with a measure of respect. Unlike the rabid zealots he expected, they were soldiers first and inquisitorial hounds second. Their discipline was sharp, their eyes cold, yet some spark of admiration for the Castellan endured beneath the surface. They would occasionally tell him scraps of news from the outside world and sometimes, with feigned discretion, slip him a contraband cigar.

From them, Creed learned that Inquisitor Greyfax had imprisoned him without formal sanction and without public announcement. No edict had been proclaimed, no trial convened. To the populace of Cadia, their Lord Castellan was merely “exhausted and in need of rest,” a rumor carefully seeded by Greyfax’s agents.

Among the Inquisition itself, nearly all agreed that imprisoning the Lord Castellan of Cadia was madness. Some even drew bolters on Greyfax in heated disputes, yet she remained unyielding in her judgment.

The Tempestus Scions Troopers hinted that she would soon be forced to release Creed, for orders were en route from Terra demanding Greyfax’s withdrawal from Cadia. The Inquisition desired the Castellan questioned, yes, but never thrown into a dungeon like a heretic.

Creed listened, but trusted little. For all he knew, the Tempestus Scions Troopers were simply mouthpieces for the Inquisitors, every word rehearsed, every kindness calculated, feeding him a carefully scripted narrative.

He lost track of time again, until the heavy dungeon door creaked open.

A towering figure of metal stood beyond the threshold: Qin Mo. The Tempestus Scions Troopers opened the door and, without a word, departed.

“You’ve been here five days,” Qin Mo said, stepping into the chamber. The dungeon ceiling should not have allowed his frame to stand upright, yet he did. Space bent subtly around him, as though reality itself made room for his presence.

“Five days?” Creed gave a dry chuckle. “I’d have sworn it was fifty years.”

Qin Mo drifted closer and handed him a belt. Wrought from alloy unfamiliar to Creed’s eyes, its surface shimmered with shifting sigils that were not quite mechanical and not quite sorcerous. The moment Creed’s fingers brushed it, a cigar materialized in his palm, warm and freshly lit as though summoned from a memory.

“So you weren’t jesting,” Creed muttered, quickly fastening the belt.

“What did the Lady Inquisitor ask of you?” Qin Mo inquired, his voice flat yet edged with curiosity.

“You already know the questions,” Creed sighed, shaking his head.

Qin Mo had already suspected the truth. If this was merely routine questioning, Creed would never have been thrown into a cell to rot. This was about more than the man, it was about Inquisition and Terra’s distrust of the Talon Sector.

This was not interrogation. This was containment. A warning not only to him, but to Cadia, and perhaps to Talon itself.

“Come. Let’s walk out of here,” Qin Mo said.

Creed was not certain he had permission to leave, but he trusted Qin Mo and followed him from the cell.

Outside, an Inquisitor was pressing a quill into Jarran Kell’s hand, demanding he sign secrecy documents concerning Creed’s confinement. Kell resisted until Creed gave him the faintest nod. Only then did he add his name to the parchment.

Creed himself was made to sign such a document as well. One of the Inquisitors approached him directly, offering an apology and draped a Cadian assault coat across his shoulders, the weight of it restoring not merely warmth but a measure of dignity. Dust was brushed from his uniform with the same ceremony as a coronation, as if a symbolic gesture might erase the insult of his imprisonment.

When they finally reached a quiet corridor, Creed turned to Qin Mo.

“You must find a way to ease relations with the Inquisition. If they brand you heretic, it will be your end.”

“I am already a heretic,” Qin Mo answered plainly.

Creed froze, silent for two long seconds. Even in his long career, few men had dared admit such blasphemy so directly.

“If this galaxy were not so perilous,” Qin Mo continued, “if it were not wolves and ruin circling at every shadow… I would stand against the Imperium itself. Everything that binds mankind in ignorance and suffering. I would see destroyed. I fight beside Cadia not for the Emperor, but because I despise the filth of Chaos even more.”

Creed’s expression hardened, though his heart wavered. He understood. Qin Mo had said as much back in the hive-city of Talon I: he fought for humanity, not for the Throne.

As Lord Castellan of Cadia, Creed should have condemned such words. Yet he could not bring himself to.

“Lord of Talon,” an Inquisitor’s voice cut between them. The robed figure approached, hands clasped behind his back, a smile thin and sharp. “Now that the Castellan is freed, perhaps your fleet might lower its weapons from our ships?”

Qin Mo inclined his head in silent acknowledgment.

Only then did Creed realize the gravity of what had transpired during his confinement. The Talon fleet had been on a war-footing, its weapons trained upon Inquisitorial vessels, ready to unleash fire should Qin Mo will it. In the span of days, diplomacy had teetered on the brink of civil war. The Inquisition’s stance was unmistakable: hostility toward Talon, but not yet a willingness to ignite an open conflict. An uneasy, precarious balance held between them.

How long such balance could last, no one could say.

“I depart Cadia in three days,” Qin Mo told Creed once the Inquisitor had withdrewn.

“Whatever comes, you aided Cadia,” Creed replied, grasping Qin Mo’s hand firmly. “When Talon faces its own trial, Cadia will answer your call.”

“Thank you,” Qin Mo nodded.

“And I will promote your Dimensional Engine,” Creed added. “At the very least, every Cadian transport should bear it. If one day they cease, you may know it is because I lost my post as Castellan over this cause.”

“Better not spread it too far,” Qin Mo warned. “Losing your position is one thing, being assassinated is another.”

Creed snorted. “What’s there to fear? That belt you gave me surely does more than conjure cigars. A shield generator, perhaps?”

“No shields,” Qin Mo smirked. “But in your darkest hour, a Cigar God will emerge from it to defend you.”

“…”

The two of them exchanged a few jokes, and Creed returned to his usual expressionless toughness.

He took a deep breath and said goodbye, "Farewell. Until we meet again.”

Though three days remained until Qin Mo’s fleet departed, both men knew this was their last meeting.

"Farewell. Until we meet again.” Qin Mo echoed.

....

Three days later.

The Talon Army boarded their transports. The fleet joined with naval warships and broke orbit, sailing into the void.

Celestial Engine disengaged from Cadia’s star and moved toward the system’s edge.

On Cadia’s surface and in the void docks above, crowds gathered to send off the allies who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with them in the war.

Civilians, Guardsmen, even scarred veterans too stubborn to die, all stood in reverent silence, their faces uplifted to the void. They had bled beside these strangers, and though whispers of heresy clung to Talon like a shadow, gratitude burned brighter than suspicion.

From the Talon warships hung vast banners, emblazoned with words of gratitude, crafted under the direction of the Ecclesiarchy itself. The Ministorum even fashioned a massive Imperial Aquila, a gift meant to honor the Talon Navy’s loyalty. Qin Mo refused it, instead ensuring it was bestowed upon Creed. It was not the Imperium Qin Mo bowed to, but the men and women of Cadia themselves.

From the observation deck of the Talon’s Wrath, Qin Mo gazed upon the departing ships. The viewing platform, set into the battleship’s prow, was built for the inspection of fleets.

Its reinforced glass stretched across a cathedral-like vault, engraved with shifting runes of protection that hummed in resonance with the void. Beyond it sprawled the procession of warships, a thousand points of light threading through the sea of stars, disciplined as a sword’s edge.

His mood was light. His mission was accomplished, the Blackstone Pylons of Cadia had been safeguarded. The Warp rift would not tear open here. Victory.

And yet, unease lingered.

Too many on Cadia had seen daemons with their own eyes. The Inquisition would struggle to silence the truth, but this time, suppression would fail. There were too many witnesses, Cadians and Talon alike.

Still, Qin Mo did not fear the Inquisition’s purge. He only wondered how much blame would fall upon Creed. But then he dismissed the thought, Creed was no child. As Castellan, he would endure.

“Gaius is still under Inquisitorial interrogation,” said Grey at his side.

“Gaius? Astartes of the Ultramarines?” Qin Mo turned his head.

“A Company Captain. A veteran from ten thousand years past. He and the Lord Inquisitor Greyfax were aboard the Celestial Engine. Their armor was… ancient, different from the other Astartes.”

Qin Mo chuckled softly, turning back toward the void. The sound was not cruel, but weighted with irony. “Then the Inquisition will give them a most jarring taste of the 41st millennium.”

The fleet pressed further into the void.

As Cadia dwindled behind them, Qin Mo scanned the system one last time. Nowhere did he see Archmagos Cawl or his flagship Zar-Quaesitor.

“Slow as ever,” Qin Mo muttered.

He had accelerated the timeline of the Thirteenth Black Crusade in ways even he couldn’t measure, yet Cawl had still not arrived.

Qin Mo’s concern was not idle. He knew the Archmagos bore a destiny: to wield the Armor of Fate and restore to life of the Thirteenth Primarch, Roboute Guilliman.

And Qin Mo truly hoped for Guilliman’s return. The Primarch was a man of vision, far beyond the petty squabbles of the High Lords Council of Terra. Where others clawed for power, Guilliman sought order. Where others whispered in cathedrals, Guilliman built empires. The Imperium might yet stand if guided by such a hand, though Qin Mo himself would never bend the knee to Terra.

How could mere Inquisitors and High Lords so mired in self-interest, hope to drive back the Warp’s encroaching shadow?

He sighed heavily.

“Why the sigh, my Lord?” Grey asked.

“The war is won,” Qin Mo replied, eyes narrowing, “but troubles remain. Not least of all…” His gaze drifted to Grey’s abdomen. “…the claw within your chest. When we return to Talon, I’ll find a way to remove it.”

Grey managed a weary smile, glancing down at the Talon of Horus still embedded in his metallic frame behind his bionic flesh, its claws clenched around his last surviving reactor core.