Chapter 265: At Any Cost (Patreon)

“I thought our entire Chapter was gone… those damned lapdogs of the High Lords…”

The voice that rumbled from within the sarcophagus of the Dreadnought was harsh and resonant, its tone like thunder dragged through metal, distorted by pain and time.

The ancient warrior’s consciousness flickered like a dying flame, fractured by centuries of half-sleep and agony. The cold hum of the sarcophagus’ life-sustaining systems filled the silence between his words, the steady heartbeat of a tomb that still dreamed of war. Those entombed within such war machines were rarely lucid, and the surge of emotion from reuniting with long-lost brothers only made the words emerge in broken, metallic bursts.

Yet even through the broken speech, Phoros still understood what Chyron meant, he was cursing the Minotaurs Chapter, the executioners of their kin.

During the Badab War, it was the Minotaurs who had struck down the Lamenters under orders of the High Lords. That was when Chyron was separated from his Chapter, left behind as they were broken and scattered.

But the thought of the Badab War made Phoros’s expression tighten. Memories of burning worlds and shattered fleets clawed at him. Even now, he could not bring himself to lay all the blame upon the Minotaurs alone, not when so many hands had been stained in that political bloodletting.

And with Lord Inquisitor Bellona standing in the chamber beside them, alongside Commander Dante himself, some truths were best left unspoken.

Chyron, however, had earned the right to speak freely. He was an ancient, a warrior who had endured millennia of unending torment and battle, his will unbroken in service to the Emperor. His every word carried the weight of ages and the sound of distant wars long turned to dust.

“I brought him here,” said Inquisitor Bellona, stepping forward after finishing her formal exchange with Dante. Her gaze shifted to the massive Dreadnought. “During several joint operations with the Deathwatch, I fought beside Chyron. At the time, he was believed to be the sole surviving Lamenter, so he was seconded to the Deathwatch.”

The Deathwatch, an elite brotherhood drawn from all Space Marine Chapters, was the Inquisition’s blade in the darkness, its members sworn to combat the alien threat wherever it stirred. For a Lamenter like Chyron, whose Chapter’s honor had been tarnished and questioned by political misfortune, service within that order had been both exile and redemption.

“She speaks the truth,” Chyron’s vox growled, a hint of warmth breaking through the static. “I thought I was the last… By Sanguinius’s grace, we are reunited once more.”

Phoros and his captains bowed respectfully to the Inquisitor. The weight of their gestures was heavy, not only with respect but with the silent gratitude of a Chapter long scorned.

As he straightened, Phoros recalled the starship that had appeared briefly in orbit earlier, and then vanished into the Dimensional rift. That had to have been Bellona’s vessel.

“You actually use a Dimensional Engine?” Phoros asked, half in disbelief.

“I’m not as conservative as some would think,” Bellona replied coolly. “If one seeks results in this galaxy, Chapter Master, one must be willing to employ any means necessary, and pay any price required.”

She repeated the words, as though testing their weight.

Any means necessary. Any cost.

For an Inquisitor, such words often meant condemning millions, or even billions to die for the sake of the Imperium’s survival.

Phoros did not agree with such methods, but he could not deny a grudging respect for the woman who had recovered one of his Chapter’s honored lost brother.

“Let us speak privately,” Bellona said, glancing toward Chyron.

The ancient Dreadnought nodded once, his heavy footfalls echoing as he lumbered away with Phoros’s lieutenants.

Now, only three remained in the war council chamber: Commander Dante, Chapter Master Phoros, and Inquisitor Bellona.

“I came to aid Baal,” Bellona began, her voice calm but carrying through the empty hall. “My purpose is simple, to help you drive back the Tyranid swarm.”

Dante raised an eyebrow, surprised by her audacity. Every Son of Sanguinius, from the Blood Angels to their scattered successor Chapters, nearly thirty thousand Astartes, now fought and died on Baal’s scorched surface, and still the swarm seemed endless. Yet this Inquisitor spoke of driving them back as though it were achievable.

Still, courtesy demanded respect. She had come to offer help, and Dante inclined his head slightly. “Your aid is welcome, Inquisitor.”

“I am not jesting,” she said, turning toward Phoros. “When I left earlier, it was not merely to return your lost Dreadnought brother. I went to retrieve… cargo.”

Phoros frowned. “What sort of cargo?”

“Psykers,” Bellona said. “Two hundred of them.”

The temperature in the chamber seemed to drop. From the shadows stepped Chief Librarian Mephiston, his crimson armor gleaming darkly under the cold light.

“Two hundred psykers?” Mephiston’s voice was sharp as a blade. “You dare bring such a thing here? Do you understand what could happen if they are exploited, what horrors could be unleashed upon Baal?”

He did not need to say the word. Daemons.

Bellona met his glare without flinching. “You may as well speak the word aloud, Lord of Death. After Cadia, after the Rift tore open reality itself, is there anyone left who doesn’t know of the warp’s corruption?”

Mephiston’s jaw clenched. “Whether the galaxy knows or not, the risk remains. You’re playing with a weapon that could annihilate this system.”

Bellona seemed ready to argue, then stopped. She inhaled deeply, mastering her tone. Without another word, she reached into her cloak and withdrew a small glass vial filled with shimmering golden liquid.

“What is that?” Dante asked.

“It has no name,” Bellona said, turning it gently so the light danced within. “A distillation. A drug. Its composition is… complicated. In essence, it allows a psyker to burn their soul brighter for a short time, to unleash every ounce of their power before the body fails.”

Mephiston’s eyes narrowed. He understood at once what such a substance must be made from.

Other psykers.

He could see it in his mind, hundreds of withered, mind-broken psykers floating in amniotic fluid, harvested for their essence to create this forbidden brew.

“I intend,” Bellona continued, “to administer this serum to my two hundred psykers, then deploy them throughout the System like living bombs. Their combined psychic outcry will create a storm in the warp, one vast enough to disrupt the Hive Mind itself.”

She paused, then added softly, “Properly focused, that energy could even seal part of the Cicatrix Maledictum itself.”

“The Great Rift?” Dante breathed, disbelief creeping into his tone.

“The Eye of Terror is half its former size now, but the plan still holds potential,” she said. “Tell me, Chief Librarian, what do you think would happen if I succeed?”

All eyes turned to Mephiston.

After a long silence, he spoke: “Best case? You kill every psyker in the region… and destabilize the warp currents enough to drive the Tyranids into disarray. Worst case?” His tone darkened. “You tear open another Eye of Terror, and damn this entire sector.”

Bellona smiled faintly. “A biased assessment… but not entirely wrong.”

Dante’s expression hardened. “Then I choose Baal’s destruction over risking a new Eye of Terror.”

“The Eye was birthed by power on the scale of the God-Emperor,” Bellona countered smoothly. “Two hundred mortal psykers will not replicate that. With respect, Chief Librarian, perhaps you overestimate your kind’s potency.”

Dante turned to Mephiston again. The latter hesitated, then inclined his head, conceding that she might, in fact, be correct.

Now the decision lay with Dante.

He was not an impulsive man. He weighed the risk for a long time before finally speaking.

“…We may test your method, on a limited scale.”

A small, victorious smile crossed Bellona’s lips. “Then I will require Capter Master Phoros’s assistance. With his forces, I can ensure control, and demonstration of the plan’s merit.”

Dante gave no order, only met Phoros’s eyes.

“I will assist her,” Phoros said gravely. “And I will watch her closely.”

“Good,” Bellona said, bowing her head. “Give me time to prepare. When it begins… you will understand how right this choice was.”

With that, she turned and strode from the chamber, her young apprentice waiting obediently in the corridor outside.

Mephiston watched the acolyte with growing unease. The boy’s aura shimmered, far too bright, too unstable. He was no mere novice.

"There is something deeply wrong here," Mephiston thought.

And for the first time since the war, the Lord of Death felt a flicker of unease, that perhaps Baal’s greatest threat was not the Hive Fleet above, but the weapons the Imperium now turned upon itself.