The world they were stranded on was a wound. Not a vibrant, living planet, but a scarred, pockmarked desolation under a bruised, perpetually twilight sky. It might have had a name once, scribbled on some forgotten star chart, but to Aang and Sanguinius, it was simply the Place Where They Waited.
Days bled into weeks. Time passed not by sunrises—the dim, constant light never shifted—but by the slow ebb of wind and the thinning of supplies. Silence reigned, broken only by the soft susurrus of dust storms and the occasional distant skitter of unseen, alien life.
Aang spent his days in meditation. Cross-legged on the cold grey earth, he breathed slow and deep, surrounded by a faint shimmer of elemental balance that resonated faintly in the stale air. He was not only searching within; he was reaching outward. Feeling. Listening. His hope wasn't desperate—it was a quiet, patient certainty that connection was always possible, even here, in the belly of a forsaken system.
Sanguinius was a statue of vigilance. He stood upon a jagged ridge of rock and shattered alloy, the only structure tall enough to glimpse even the hint of distant curvature. Gilded armor dulled by dust, wings furled like a dormant storm, he stared skyward with the gaze of a being who had once scanned starfields for threats far greater than death. His hope was not born of lightness but forged in war—unyielding, armored, a duty as much as a belief.
Their words were few. They rationed supplies, rotated watch, reinforced their shelter—an energy-dome patched together from fragments of shipwreck and the lingering genius of the Primarch. The quiet was heavy, not hostile but oppressive, pressing like the void outside a sealed hull.
Sometimes, Aang would emerge from stillness and whisper, "Still nothing. But the echoes here... they remember."
And Sanguinius would nod, eyes still fixed to the heavens. "Memory does not rescue."
But he never doubted Aang's instincts—not truly. He had fought beside psykers, prophets, and madmen, but never someone quite like the boy. Aang saw what others missed. That mattered.
Then, on a day no different from the others, something changed.
Sanguinius, descending from his perch, paused mid-stride. His wings rustled. His head snapped skyward.
It was a light.
Faint at first, then growing. Not a sun, not a star—too focused, too sharp. A moving flame knifing through the haze of the planet's thick, melancholic sky. It moved with purpose.
Aang stirred, sensing the shift in Sanguinius's tension. He followed the Primarch's gaze—and smiled, just slightly.
Then came the hum. Low. Mechanical. Building in pitch. Not a natural sound. It vibrated the rocks beneath their shelter dome.
And then—
Crackle.
Pop.
Static.
The battered vox-caster—silent for weeks—sputtered and screamed. Energy pulsed through its frame like a corpse twitching back to life.
Sanguinius moved first. His armored fingers, practiced and steady, gripped the device. Aang came up beside him, his hand light on the panel, lending a current of bending to stabilize the fraying circuits.
The static parted—just long enough.
"Unidentified signal origin — confirm your status. This is the Free Vessel Aurora's Folly. You are heard."
Silence again.
Sanguinius stared at the vox unit, then at the sky.
He did not smile. He did not move. But the molten gold of his eyes softened with something older than duty. Older than war.
Hope.
"I told you," Aang said quietly, standing by his side, his voice carrying a peace forged through waiting. "Someone would hear."
A final burst of signal cracked through.
"Brace yourselves, strangers," the voice said again, this time with amused confidence.
"We're coming in hot."
The air aboard The Aurora's Folly was thick and claustrophobic — a pungent blend of recycled oxygen, machine oil, human sweat, and something faintly acrid, like scorched ozone or old blood. It clung to the ship's gold-trimmed archways and scuffed deck plates, a grim perfume that marked this vessel as one of function, violence, and questionable legality, no matter its garish regalia.
Aang moved silently between two towering guards clad in stained carapace armour. Their bolters were held low but ready, wary fingers near triggers. His bare feet padded over metal flooring with effortless calm. His earth-toned robes — so plain, so alien — whispered with each step, as if nature itself was hesitant to exist in such a place. Beside him walked Sanguinius, serene yet radiant, his presence bending the space around him with something far deeper than mass. His alabaster armour bore the patina of centuries, its once-brilliant gleam now subdued, but his folded wings still shimmered with ethereal light in the dim corridors.
The ship's innards were a tapestry of contradiction — sanctified icons etched into bulkheads beside exposed wiring and graffiti. Panels of gold leaf decorated cracked consoles. Candles flickered in devotional clusters on altars between supply crates and emergency bulkheads scarred by plasma burns. This was a place of faith and function, neither of which quite trusted the other.
As the strange procession passed, the crew watched in frozen silence. Navigators with augmetic eyes peered through veiled doorways. Servitors paused mid-task. Ratings whispered superstitious invocations, and some even dropped to their knees when they saw Sanguinius. Others recoiled, terrified by the sheer psychic weight of him.
Aang drew stares too — not of reverence, but of confusion. He was young, calm, untouched by the fear that soaked every soul aboard. No psyker marks branded his flesh, no sanctioning tattoos, no Emperor's seal. They couldn't place him. And in this galaxy, what cannot be understood is often condemned.
Eventually, they reached the command bridge — a massive vaulted space pulsing with holo-screens, cogitators, and the hypnotic hum of plasma reactors. A panoramic viewport stared out into the swirl of stars like the eye of a sleeping god.
At the bridge's center, atop a dais half-throne, half-altar, sat Captain Elara Vane.
He was exactly what legend promised. His uniform, tailored and ostentatious, seemed crafted more for theatre than war — deep navy with gold-trimmed epaulettes, and scarlet sashes that draped from his shoulder like a war-banner. His face bore the cold refinement of nobility, but cybernetics traced elegant arcs across her cheek and into one eye socket — augmentations that glowed faintly as they scanned her strange visitors.
At his side hung a plasma pistol that had seen use, and on hsiy fingers, jeweled rings glittered like trophies. His posture was relaxed, but there was coiled readiness in the set of her jaw — the look of a man who had faced xenos horrors and Imperial audits with equal aplomb.
He didn't rise. But his voice, when it came, sliced through the silence like a vibro-blade.
"Dismissed."
The guards obeyed instantly. A moment later, Aang and Sanguinius stood alone on the bridge, under the scrutiny of half a dozen watchful crew.
Viktor regarded them for several long seconds. His gaze lingered first on Sanguinius — on the impossible wings, the radiant presence, the sheer myth that seemed to walk before her. His mouth parted slightly, then closed again, his surprise quickly veiled beneath a calculating smile.
Then his eyes shifted to Aang — smaller, stranger, softer. Yet something about him caught her attention. He didn't flinch. Didn't posture. He simply… stood.
"Well now," he said at last, with the amused curiosity of a predator encountering a new species. "My crew's reports were... colourful. But the truth, as always, is stranger."
He tilted her head at Sanguinius. "An blood angel? A lost saint? Or just a very expensive hallucination?"
Sanguinius's voice was calm, low, and resonant — a sound that made cogitators stutter for a moment. "We are travelers. Stranded. In need of passage."
Viktor arched a brow. "Travellers." The word dripped with disbelief. "In an ancient wreck, in a dead sector, with no registration, no identity, and wings like a living myth? That's an... ambitious cover story."
Sanguinius offered no correction, no justification — only silence, and the subtle shift of his weight as his wings rustled once.
Aang stepped forward. "We don't mean harm," he said. "We were lost. Hoping someone might help us find our way."
Viktor 's eyes narrowed slightly. "You expect me to believe you just happened to drift through the void until I found you?" he leaned forward. "You're either lying, or you don't understand where you are. Possibly both."
He studied them a moment longer. Then, almost gently: "Tell me the truth. Who are you? Where did you come from? And what is he?" his finger pointed at Aang. "He feels... wrong. Like a warp-ghost wearing a smile."
Sanguinius's voice grew firmer. "Captain Viktor, you do not want the answers you think you do."
"Try me."
There was a pause.
Aang looked up. "We're not from here. Not this galaxy. We came through... something like a tear." He struggled for the right words. "A rift between worlds. We're trying to understand this one."
Viktor's expression shifted — part incredulity, part fascination. "Another galaxy," he repeated, deadpan. "You're telling me you're interdimensional castaways. You, with wings. And him... what? A xenos prophet?"
Sanguinius stepped forward at that. Slowly. Deliberately.
In an instant, the temperature of the bridge seemed to plummet.
His wings unfurled just slightly. Not threatening. But enough. Enough for the bulkheads to creak. Enough for every living being on the bridge to feel the truth: this was no lie. No trick. No play at theatrics. This was power. Ancient. Unfathomable. Holy.
Several of the crew stumbled backward. One fell to their knees.
Viktor did not flinch — but a thin sheen of sweat began to gather at his brow.
"You threaten me?" he asked quietly.
"No," Sanguinius said. "I am reminding you that some truths are heavier than the void."
Before the tension could snap, Aang moved again — sliding in front of his companion, both hands raised.
"Please," he said gently. "We just need help. Not your weapons. Not your fear. We can offer something in return. We're... not without use."
Elara stared at him.
And, for the first time, something shifted behind his eyes — not weakness, but calculation. The Inquisition would pay well for anomalies like these. But it would also watch. Closely. Permanently. A boy who radiated like a null-field dream. A warrior who could make saints weep. Such things brought trouble. Or opportunity.
Finally, he exhaled and leaned back.
"Useful," he said. "That's a word I understand."
He looked from Sanguinius to Aang.
"My ship's hospitality isn't free. And it isn't safe. You step out of line, you answer to me. You lie again, I send a signal to the Black Ships. Or worse. Do we understand each other?"
"We do," Sanguinius said quietly.
Aang simply nodded.
The danger was not gone — only deferred. But as they stood aboard The Aurora's Folly, two strangers in a dark galaxy ruled by madness and cruelty, they had taken their first step onto a path that might reshape it.
And behind Viktor Volvov's sharp eyes, curiosity burned. Something ancient had awoken. Something impossible had returned. And he, for now, would ride the edge of the storm.