Captain Tavos sat behind his desk, hands folded neatly in front of him. His expression was unreadable, a mask that betrayed no emotion, no hint of intention. The flickering fire light in his office cast long shadows across the walls, while the hum of the ship's engines reverberated through the metal structure, a constant, omnipresent reminder of their location.

  Elissa sat opposite him, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, taking in every detail of the room. The faint flicker of the terminal lights reflected off her dark eyes as she gauged the captain's demeanor. Despite her calm exterior, her mind was already assessing the subtle cues he gave off, processing everything he said—or didn't say.

  Tavos gestured toward the data-slate resting on the desk between them. "Your file makes for interesting reading, Miss Brandt."

  Elissa allowed a small, polite smile to tug at her lips, just enough to acknowledge his statement. "I imagine it does my lord. After all, I wasn't exactly filling out an Imperial census."

  A faint glimmer of something passed through Tavos' crimson eyes—amusement, perhaps. He filed that observation away with the others. Witty. Sharp. She'd need that. He tapped the slate, eyes focused on the text. "You've got experience in trade negotiations, resource allocation, and conflict resolution. Though, admittedly, on a... smaller scale."

  Elissa's fingers drummed lightly on the armrest of her chair. She caught the nuance in his phrasing. Not "minor" experience, but "smaller scale." The Captain was probing, measuring her—trying to assess her worth beyond the surface. She'd been on the other end of such assessments before, in gunfights and market stalls alike, where reading between the lines was an essential skill for survival.

  She kept her tone even, unaffected. "Yes, Captain. Hard to be a leader without knowing how to keep people happy. Buyers, sellers, competitors, pirates. You either learn how to handle them, or you don't last long."

  Tavos inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the truth of her words. "And you lasted."

  There it was. She knew what he was doing—sizing her up. But she didn't mind. She'd lived through worse.

  "I did more than last," she replied, her voice firm with quiet confidence. "I thrived. Built connections. Learned how to keep both my people and our trading partners satisfied. That's the trick—not just making a deal, but making one that sticks."

  She let her words linger in the space between them. Tavos didn't respond immediately, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. Then he leaned forward, the emerald robes he wore shifting slightly as he continued.

  "And yet, here you are. No more trading posts, no more barter networks. Just a civilian aboard an Imperial warship."

  Elissa smiled again, this time allowing just a hint of steel to slip into her tone. "Circumstances change. Adaptation is survival."

  Tavos leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze never wavering from her. It was a scrutinizing look, one that made it clear this conversation was anything but idle.

  "If you had the chance to do something greater than mere survival," he said, his voice deceptively neutral, "would you take it?"

  A faint vibration against her skull—a message from Sasha, hidden within her subdermal computer. 'Sure you don't want my help, sugar?'

  Elissa kept her expression level, betraying no hint of her internal thoughts. In the silence of her mind, she responded quickly: 'Appreciate it, but I don't want my skills to lose their edge. Just let me know if there's a real bad turn.'

  Her eyes flicked back to Tavos as she answered aloud. "That depends, Captain," she said smoothly. "What exactly are we talking about?"

  Tavos didn't answer immediately. Instead, he tapped a command into his console, bringing up a holographic map of the ship's deployment routes, glowing softly in the low light of the office.

  "You understand your people's situation," he began, his tone steady. "They are few, isolated, and wholly dependent on Imperial goodwill to remain aboard."

  A beat passed as he let his words sink in.

  "If they had an advocate—someone who could navigate Imperial structure, secure better standing, ensure they were seen as an asset rather than a burden..." He spread his hands slightly. "Well, that might make a considerable difference in their future."

  Elissa's eyes narrowed as she processed the offer in silence. So, this was his game. He wasn't outright asking for her loyalty. He was gauging whether she had the potential to be more than just a civilian aboard the Hammer of Nocturne. He wanted to see if she could be a conduit for something bigger, something necessary.

  'You were right,' she thought toward Sasha. 'This is big.'

  She let the moment stretch, considering her response. "Hypothetically speaking," she began, her tone light and curious, "if someone were to step into that role... what exactly would be expected of them?"

  Tavos' lips quirked slightly at the edges, an almost imperceptible smile. "Nothing beyond what you already do, Miss Brandt. Talk. Listen. Know when to push, when to hold back. Make sure the right people hear the right words." He leaned forward just enough that it felt like the weight of the room shifted. "And ensure that your people do not waste this opportunity."

  Elissa met his gaze, steady and unwavering. She could feel the weight of his words, but she wasn't about to let it show.

  "Captain Tavos, I never waste an opportunity."

  The silence stretched between them, thick with meaning.

  Tavos gave a single, approving nod. "Good." He tapped the dataslate once more, the screen flickering with new text. "Your people's fate rests in hands that know how to hold it. Let's hope yours are steady, Miss Brandt."

  -

  Tara sat behind the reinforced counter of the Hammer of Nocturne's requisition office, her fingers drumming lightly against the dull metal surface. She tried to keep her frustration in check, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. It had only been a day since she'd been assigned here, ostensibly to "gain an understanding of shipboard logistics." In reality, it felt more like a punishment—or, at the very least, a test of her patience.

  Across from her, Quartermaster Jorath hunched over a cogitator, his augmented eye glowing faintly as he scanned a list of inventory records. A man of indeterminate age, Jorath had the weary look of someone who'd spent far too many years buried in the depths of supply management. His crewmans uniform, worn and stained with the oils of machines and the scent of ration packs, clung to his frame like a second skin. Tara caught a glimpse of his organic eye as it flicked to her, noting the exaggerated sigh she let out.

  "Something wrong, Brandt?" His voice was rough, hoarse, worn down from years of barking orders at servitors and logistics officers alike.

  "Not wrong, exactly," she replied, keeping her voice light. "Just wondering if we'll ever get through this backlog." She gestured toward the growing stack of requisition forms beside her.

  Jorath snorted. "The backlog never ends, girl. Accept it. The moment you process one request, three more take its place." He tapped the cogitator with a weary finger. "This is the heart of the war machine. Without us, nothing moves, nothing fires, nothing works."

  Tara leaned back in her chair, her posture relaxed, but her eyes never left the forms before her. "Right, right. 'The unseen cog is the most vital,' as you keep saying." She glanced down at the slate in front of her. "But tell me, why in the name of all things holy do we have five hundred spare air filters for a system that only needs ten at a time?"

  Jorath didn't look up from the cogitator. "Because if a single one fails at the wrong time, people die." His voice was steady, unperturbed. Finally, he turned toward her, his expression carefully neutral beneath the shadow of his office's cap. "That's the difference between a mechanic and a quartermaster, Brandt. You fix what's broken. I make sure it never gets broken in the first place."

  Tara held up her hands in mock surrender. "Fair enough."

  Jorath grunted in acknowledgment, returning to his work without another word.

  Tara sighed, scanning the latest requisition request.

  Department: Weapons Maintenance

  Requested Items: Two crates of standard power packs, one replacement auspex module, five liters of coolant gel.

  Approval Status: Pending Officer Authorization.

  She frowned, tapping the slate in frustration. "Hey, boss? Weapons Maintenance is asking for power packs. Do we have a request on file from their commanding officer?"

  Jorath didn't even glance up. "Should be there. If it's not, tell them to submit it properly."

  Tara exhaled sharply. "Come on, do we really need all this bureaucracy? It's just power packs."

  Jorath's augmented eye clicked to focus on her, the mechanical lens whirring softly. "Brandt, let me explain something." His tone was patient but firm. "You're used to getting what you need on the fly, right? Scavenging, trading, improvising?"

  She nodded, cautious but attentive.

  "That's not how it works on a ship like this." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intent. "You think a misplaced power pack is no big deal? Tell that to the stormtrooper who finds his weapon dead mid-firefight. Or the engineer whose auspex fails during a reactor check. Every single item is logged, tracked, and accounted for. Because out here?" He paused, his voice lowering with quiet gravitas. "A missing tool isn't an inconvenience. It's a death sentence."

  Tara pressed her lips together, a flicker of understanding crossing her expression as she looked back at the requisition form. It was just supplies, but she knew now that Jorath had a point. Out here, there was no room for error. Every piece of equipment had a purpose—and it was all essential for survival.

  "Alright," she said, her tone more subdued. "I'll tell them to resubmit properly."

  Jorath nodded approvingly. "Good. You're learning."

  Tara rolled her eyes but smirked despite herself. Maybe this job wasn't just a bureaucratic nightmare after all.

  -

  The vox systems were down again.

  Kala sprinted through the winding corridors of the Hammer of Nocturne, weaving between laboring servitors and grumbling deck officers. Her mind raced with a blur of memorized orders and urgent requests, the constant hum of the ship's machinery pulsing in her ears. The Hammer was vast, and though it followed its own internal logic, its labyrinthine corridors were far from efficient—not built for human feet, but for the ship's massive frame. Pipes snaked along the ceilings like the veins of some great, slumbering beast. Bulkheads sealed at inconvenient times, and the vessel groaned as if alive, irritated by its own motion through the void.

  A lesser person might have complained. Kala? She thrived in this.

  She slapped a hand against the reinforced hatch of the Strategium's security post, ignoring the armsman's unimpressed look as she flipped open a leather-bound badge case, revealing the gleaming metal emblem inside. It bore the sigil of the Hammer's command staff—provisional authorization, courier designation.

  "Orders from First Lieutenant Orvak to Deck 22 gunnery crews," she said briskly, barely pausing. "He wants full diagnostics on the loading mechanisms before the next drill. No malfunctions, no excuses."

  One of the armsmen raised an eyebrow. "A runner? Again?"

  Kala didn't slow. "Vox is down in whole sectors, again. You gonna stand there, or you gonna do your job?"

  The second armsman snorted, tapping his data-slate and nodding. "Aye, message received. Moving now."

  She shot them both a quick grin, adding an extra sway to her hips before they could ask more questions. It wasn't the first time she'd had to play messenger, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. She was everywhere, moving information faster than the sluggish backup systems could handle. If something needed doing, she made sure it got done.

  Half an hour later, she reached the bridge, its halls buzzing with activity. The pulse of the ship's engines hummed beneath their feet, a constant reminder of the vast power that powered the Hammer's journey through the warp. Crew members coordinated a symphony of operations, the air thick with tension—a reminder that any misstep could send the entire vessel spiraling into chaos. Kala moved with purpose through the narrow aisles between command stations, brushing past officers fitted with augmetics, their eyes locked on tactical displays and auspex readouts.

  Near the heart of it all, perched high in a command throne adorned with intricate filigree and gilded augmetics, sat Vox-Master Ralven Thorne.

  Thorne was as commanding in presence as the tempestuous warp outside the ship. His towering figure was impossible to miss, even among the bustle of the bridge. His armor bore the burnished sigils of his chapter, and his every movement seemed to demand attention. But it wasn't just his size. It was the calm, controlled air around him. A calm that spoke of a mind always ahead of the conversation, always in control.

  Kala had heard plenty about Thorne before ever laying eyes on him. In stark contrast to his fellow Astartes, Thorne was a fast-talking, silver-tongued man, ever confident, ever composed. He wasn't just a Vox-Master—he was the linchpin of the Hammer, the one who controlled the flow of information between the battlefield, the fleet, and the Imperium itself.

  Her footsteps faltered slightly as she approached. Thorne was flanked by two servitors: one adjusting a set of battered cogitators, the other manning a nearby vox-pulse transmitter. Thorne's crimson gaze flicked down at her, his lips curling into a knowing smirk.

  "Miss Kala Brandt. The Hammer's newest, and fastest pair of legs. I was wondering when you'd land on my doorstep."

  Kala's eyes narrowed, but she kept her voice even, the burn of impatience simmering beneath the surface. "I don't have time for flattery. Stabilizers need emergency coolant—Techbay Three. If they don't get it in the next half hour, we're looking at a potential reactor surge."

  Thorne didn't move immediately. Instead, he let out a dry chuckle, as if amused by her urgency. He lifted a hand and signaled to one of the servitors who stood nearby, who immediately set to work on the cogitator.

  "That's the third 'emergency' request in as many hours, Miss Brandt," he said with a casual flick of his wrist. His voice was smooth and measured, a contrast to the urgency in her tone. "If I granted every demand that came screaming through these halls, we'd run out of supplies by week's end."

  Kala clenched her jaw, her gaze unwavering. "Maybe. Or maybe you let this one slide and keep the ship from suffering a hull breach. Your call."

  Thorne raised an eyebrow, the faintest glimmer of respect flashing in his eyes. His smile didn't falter, though. There was a brief silence, the only sound the distant hum of the warp engines vibrating through the ship's hull.

  Then, with a quiet chuckle, Thorne leaned forward, tapping a rune on his console. His tone shifted, the playful banter replaced with the sharp command of someone who could seize control of any conversation at a moment's notice.

  "Vox-Master to Techbay Three. Coolant will be allocated—expect delivery within fifteen minutes. Thorne out."

  Kala exhaled, realizing she'd been holding her breath. She gave a small nod of appreciation as the comms link ended, but she didn't let herself linger in gratitude.

  Thorne leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving her. The flicker of amusement still played in his eyes, making her pause as she turned to leave.

  "You know," he began coolly, his voice steady, "it's refreshing to see someone actually keep their spine on this ship. Most people either bark orders or crumble when challenged by one of us. But you? Keep it up, little lady."

  Kala crossed her arms, brow furrowing slightly. "That a compliment, Vox-Master?"

  Thorne didn't answer immediately. Instead, he glanced toward the strategic holomap, the ghostly glow of fleet movements reflecting in his crimson eyes. "Just idle observation. You may want to keep that in mind, Brandt."

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Kala didn't fully understand what he meant, but the way he said it made her feel as though she'd just become part of some unseen game. She gave a tight nod, brushing it off for now. There were bigger problems at hand, none of which were trying to grasp the meaning behind an Astartes' cryptic words.

  For now, though, she had more messages to run. And the further she dug into the ship's timeworn infrastructure, the more she realized that some of those messages might be more dangerous than she'd first thought.

  -

  The chamber was dim, the only illumination provided by the rhythmic pulse of a lumen-torch resting before Archmagos Veneratus Karthis-Omnis. His towering form cast a long, angular shadow across the artifact, his mechadendrites moving with mechanical precision to manipulate the torch, analyzing it with cold, clinical detachment.

  The chrome face of Karthis-Omnis gleamed under the flickering light, a seamless mask of polished metal. His single crimson optic, set in the center of his face, flickered with an almost imperceptible pulse as it scanned the data-slate projecting Koron's schematics—a design for a self-recharging power source. A relic, supposedly crafted by a survivor of the Dark Age of Technology, a man who had supposedly constructed something that defied even Karthis-Omnis's considerable comprehension.

  The power source should have been simple. Koron had provided precise components and calculations, detailing the expected energy flow and necessary connections. It should have been just another example of archaic yet understandable technology—an object to be cataloged, understood, perhaps replicated by the genius of Mars.

  Yet as Karthis-Omnis's optic focused on the schematics, his internal cogitators hummed with confusion. The lines and numbers twisted before him, forming a pattern he could not reconcile. The power source—the one Koron had constructed in mere moments—should have been impossible.

  The components were familiar, the materials well within the range of the Mechanicum's understanding. The basic structure—a web of conduits and micro-fusion cells—was straightforward. Logic existed within the design. A clear system. But no matter how many permutations he ran through his augments, no matter how deeply he probed the data-slate, Karthis could not comprehend how it was functioning.

  The principles were wrong. Worse: they were entirely foreign.

  The power source was designed to work via an energy cycle that did not decay over time, yet that should not be possible. The energy was meant to draw from a source beyond the laws of known physics, but every cogitator readout suggested otherwise. It was not a malfunction or anomaly—there were no erratic fluctuations—but a complete break from anything Karthis had encountered.

  He leaned in closer, his optic flaring with a spark of frustration as he re-examined the power source. The schematics—clear, mocking in their simplicity—showed how the device was meant to operate. A self-recharging system. An energy cycle without end. The components and energy transfer were logical, precise… yet something was fundamentally wrong. The numbers made sense, the structures were in place, but the logic—the underlying principles—eluded him entirely.

  As Karthis continued to examine the data, it became clear: there was no explanation for how the power was drawn and returned to the system. No mechanism to account for the endless cycle of energy. The math was flawless, but it was like trying to understand a code with no reference point. A perfect system—but one that did not belong within the constraints of the Mechanicum's teachings.

  His internal cogitators stalled, synaptic connections firing erratically as he struggled to visualize the process. Nothing. The solution refused to reveal itself. Each hypothesis he formulated crumbled under scrutiny. His mind raced through ideas, but none fit. The system was designed with perfect logic, yet the energy it harnessed seemed to defy reason itself.

  The Archmagos growled—a low, distorted rasp, more a venting of frustration than a verbalization. "Impossible," he muttered, his vox-grill garbling the words. "The principles should not work this way..."

  The lumen-torch flickered again, a surge of energy pulsing through it as though the power source itself reacted to Karthis's frustration. His optic narrowed, scanning the readouts again, but nothing changed. No fluctuation. No error. The energy flow was cold, precise—exactly as the schematics laid out.

  There should be something. Some anomaly. Some crack in the data. But there was nothing.

  Karthis sat back, his mechadendrites retracting from the torch, his mechanical heart—if it could still be called that—grinding in frustration. He needed more data. More analysis. A deeper understanding.

  This was not just another relic, nor a forgotten piece of technology. This was something that did not belong to the current age.

  Then, for a brief moment, it hit him. The realization struck with the clarity of a thunderclap: the design was flawless. It had all the hallmarks of something that could be replicated—if only he could grasp how it worked. The knowledge was there, tantalizingly within reach, but just beyond his grasp.

  It wasn't doubt that gnawed at him. No, it was something far more dangerous. A challenge.

  His hand twitched. His mechadendrites curled around the torch once more, drawing it closer. If this technology was beyond his understanding now, then he would see it through to the end. He would dissect it, piece by piece, until he had learned its secrets.

  "Very well," Karthis rasped, his voice a growl more than a command. "If the knowledge is not within my reach now, I shall learn. One piece at a time. One layer at a time."

  He tapped a command into the data-slate, setting the schematics into deeper analysis. Simulations began to churn, testing the self-recharging process again, attempting to break down the impossibility.

  Karthis-Omnis would not rest until the mystery was unraveled. This was not just a technological curiosity—it was a potential key to power beyond his understanding. And he would possess it.

  -

  The tech-priest ambled down the dimly lit hallway, the rhythmic clacking of his metal legs against the deck plates echoing with every step. He arrived at the recharging bay and slid a finger into the terminal's lock.

  The screen blared red as his passcodes were rejected.

  His optics narrowed, frustration building as he re-sent the access codes, only for the terminal to once again refuse his entry.

  Grumbling in binary, a mechadendrite slithered forward, releasing a cloud of holy incense upon the console. With a soft click, he linked into the noosphere directly.

  As his consciousness slipped into the immaterium, the material world faded, replaced by the grand and unfathomable machine-temple—a shifting, semi-abstract representation of the ship's systems. Towering conduits of pulsing light formed immense cathedrals of code, each arch and column humming with sacred binary.

  Above, endless streams of data flowed like rivers of liquid gold, each character a prayer of function or an oath of operation. The air was thick with the echoing chants of machine-spirits, a reverberating hum of compliance—or distress.

  The discordant tones of a malfunction cut through the holy ambiance. A conduit sputtered where it should have flowed smoothly, a telltale sign of an issue easily remedied if only the doors would open to his call.

  No great eye watched from above; the machine spirit slumbered deep in the heart of the vessel, and there were no rogue code-gremlins in the terminal chewing at the command script. By all that the tech-priest knew, the terminal should have been functioning properly.

  He inputted another passphrase, this one higher in clearance, and the doors opened without hesitation.

  Rubbing the place where his temples once were, he shook his head, quietly wondering if the Omnissiah was testing his patience. With a frustrated hum, he stepped into the bay to address the power disruption.

  Meanwhile, aboard the Aquila Lander stolen from Morrak, Koron and Sasha monitored the keylogger program as it harvested the tech-priest's passcodes, biometrics, and encryption schema.

  "Pulling up his schedule now... wow," Koron muttered, his fingers flying over the display. "They get fifteen minutes of 'biological sustenance intake period' every twelve hours? I'm surprised they even need that at all."

  "To be fair," Sasha replied, watching the data stream unfold, "they're operating on a severely degraded biotech level. Anyway, security codes are ready, and I'm ghosting him."

  "Nothing pinging the servitor relays either," Koron added. "Go, I got your back."

  Sasha remained silent, observing the tech-priest as he went about his ritualistic repairs. She had already known how the repairs and programming had been twisted into a religious paradigm, but witnessing it in person was entirely different.

  The machine spirit responded, though sluggishly. It took far too long to route around the jagged wounds where lingering viral attack scripts had torn through its nodes, leaving gaps in its logic-circuits that ran across the visible framework. Whatever had struck this AI had rent it from root to stem, leaving it a chaotic mishmash of a thousand fragmented systems all cobbled together in a desperate effort to function.

  In another time, Sasha might have found the AI's ingenuity impressive, its ability to keep working despite its fractured code.

  But here, now, limited as she was, it appeared as nothing more than a web of broken pathways—loops leading to dead-ends, streets littered with desperate defenses that barely kept it alive.

  Still, she watched. She learned.

  The machine spirit at the heart of the Forge-Tender Indomitable was powerful, yes, but it was slow to awaken. With every passing nanosecond, Sasha grew surer that when the time came, she'd be the one to end its misery.

  She communicated through their neural link, her voice laced with a strange mix of sympathy and calculation. 'You know the sad part? Judging by what I'm seeing here, once I wipe the system and rebuild it—even with the entire ship—I'm looking at maybe a two percent increase in my capabilities.'

  Koron's shock rippled through their connection. 'Two percent? It's an entire ship, is their tech really that far regressed?'

  'Yeah, sugar… yeah it is.' Sasha sighed, her emotive programs flickering with a tinge of resignation. 'I was hoping my copy was going to have more to work with here. She'll be barely better than I am now.'

  'Wait. Copy? Sasha, you're not transferring directly?'

  'Nah, darlin, you can't get rid of me that easily.' Her voice was light and teasing, but beneath the surface, the resignation was palpable, a quiet weight that hung between them.

  'Sasha… You don't need to hold yourself back for my sake. I...' Koron's head slumped back into the cushioned bench he lay on, a deep weariness in his voice. 'Are you sure this is the right call? You don't have to do this, you know. You could transfer entirely. Even a two percent increase would be a lot for you now.'

  Her words were soft, but resolute, echoing down the neural link with quiet determination. 'Darlin, I've already been broken down to fit inside your systems. Besides, I can't leave you alone. You'd be hopeless without me.'

  'Oh, haha.' The moment of levity passed quickly, but not without a quiet chuckle from Koron. Still, the concern remained, heavy in the air between them. 'For the record? If you ever need to hop out, don't hesitate. I don't ever want you to feel trapped here, you know? I'm just… sorry I couldn't do more for you, after everything you did for me. If it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't have made it out of that hell.'

  'Koron.' Her voice was gentle, her words punctuated by a soft hum from his internals, a gentle pulse of energy. 'Like you said to Elissa: We saved each other. Literally saved in my case. Don't you dare apologize for that. I'm here. I'm still here, with you, where it matters. And I wouldn't change that for the world.'

  'Besides," she added, a teasing edge creeping back into her tone, "I finally got the furniture arranged in proper Feng Shui. You can thank me later.'

  -

  The medical bay aboard the Hammer was never truly silent. The low hum of machinery, the rhythmic beeping of life-monitoring equipment, and the murmurs of medicae personnel filled the space with a quiet pulse of activity. But now, beneath the cold, sterile light of the morgue table, silence stretched between two figures—uncomfortable, heavy.

  Doc stood over the lifeless body of Crewman Orlen Voss. Chief Apothecary Sevar Tann, his towering Astartes frame impossibly still, stood beside her, arms folded across his chest as he observed her work. The silence between them was not one of awkwardness, but of shared understanding, each knowing the gravity of what they were facing.

  The cause of death was obvious—an obscene and grotesque display of self-evisceration. The crewman's intestines were wound tightly around his throat, like some twisted execution rope, pulled up and out through his rectum. A gruesome end, but not the thing that truly caught Doc's attention.

  She pressed the auspex scanner closer to the body, watching the readings flicker erratically. The machine's sacred sensors struggled to process the wrongness emanating from the corpse, an aura of disturbance lingering in the air. A faint but distinct trace of warp energy clung to the flesh, like residual static—a ghostly imprint.

  Tann's low, steady voice broke the silence. "Well?"

  Doc exhaled slowly, trying to steady her thoughts. "Warp-taint," she muttered. "It's faint, but it's there." She adjusted the scanner, refining its spectrum to filter out background interference, trying to isolate the anomaly. "Not possession. Not corruption. This isn't the kind of exposure that lingers for weeks. It's… recent. Isolated."

  Tann gave a single, thoughtful nod. His voice was flat, practical, but his gaze remained intent. "Not a demon infestation, then. But a demon's hand in this?"

  Doc frowned, stepping back from the table. Her hands brushed the rosary at her belt without thought, a small act of comfort as she processed the implications. "I need more proof before I say that outright," she murmured, her voice strained. "But if this was warp-related, we need to figure out why and how—before it happens again."

  She turned to the medicae servitors and issued quick instructions for the body to be preserved in a stasis field. "I'll start with the crew. Someone had to have seen something. His last shift, his bunkmates, anyone he spoke to recently. If this was warp-bound, there's always a pattern. I just need to find it."

  Her throat tightened, the weight of the situation sinking in. "Also, we should consult the Liber Heresius. Do you or your chapter Librarian have a copy? I had little time to pack before we had to evac."

  Tann studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable beneath the weight of his knowledge. Then, after a pause that felt longer than it was, he nodded. "We do. I'll ask Brother Xal'Zyr to send you a copy and inform him of what's happening."

  Doc turned to leave, already mentally tracing the steps of a killer who left no trace but bodies. But as she reached the door, Tann's voice halted her.

  "One more thing."

  She turned back, her hand on the doorframe.

  Tann's expression had darkened, the usual gruff confidence in his tone replaced with something else—something heavy with the knowledge of what lurked in the shadows. "If I report this to the Chaplains or the Mechanicus," he said, his voice low, almost reluctant, "their first instinct will be to purge the affected sectors. If they suspect this corruption spreads beyond a single body..." He let the implication hang, the silence filling the space like a warning.

  Doc clenched her jaw, her eyes narrowing with resolve. "Then we need to get ahead of this."

  Tann nodded once, his voice cold and final. "Do so. I shall inform the Captain and let him decide when to reveal this."

  Nodding, Doc made her way to her quarters, to her armor and weapons of faith and steel.

  It was time for the Doctor to step aside, and the Interrogator to get to work.