The void was a velvet, indifferent canvas outside the reinforced viewports of The Aurora's Folly. Inside, aboard the vast, echoing star-fortress of a Rogue Trader vessel, two figures moved through the labyrinthine decks like strange attractors, pulling the currents of rumour and unease around them.
They had been found adrift, their vessel a ruin, themselves miraculously intact. One radiated a palpable aura of calm, the other a silent, golden storm. Captain Viktor Volkov, a man whose eyes held the glint of distant stars and cold profit, had brought them aboard out of a mix of curiosity, potential value, and a deep-seated instinct that something about them transcended mere survival. He now watched the ripples they caused through his crew.
Downward, into the bowels of the ship, where the air grew thick with the scent of recycled oxygen, lubricant, and the honest sweat of labour, Aang walked. He wasn't confined, but he rarely frequented the gilded upper decks or the sterile, functional middle strata. He sought the places where real people lived and worked — the engine thrall dormitories, the cargo bay manifests, the hydroponics blisters.
He moved with impossible lightness, his bare feet a stark contrast to the heavy, magnetised boots of the crew. At first, they were wary. His attire was alien — simple cloth, unadorned. His eyes held an unnerving peace most on The Gilded Decree had never known. But his smile was genuine, disarming.
He found a group of deckhands huddled around a cracked auto-cooker, nursing nutrient paste. He sat amongst them, sharing a small, strange fruit from his pouch. Laughter had been scarce on these decks, but Aang's presence coaxed it out. He told simple stories, listened intently to their complaints about quotas and the Overseer's whip-hand.
Then the whispers turned to wonder. Old Jek, whose arm had been mangled by a faulty cargo lifter, winced in pain. Aang knelt, placed a gentle hand on the swollen limb. No chant, no prayer to the God-Emperor. Just a soft blue light from his touch. Jek cried out, not in pain, but astonishment. The swelling receded before their eyes. Aang smiled, a little tired. "Better?"
Some crew crossed themselves. Others edged away. But many, like Jek, looked at him with awe. He lifted crates with ease, a gentle push of air doing the work of ten men. He brought cool breezes to stifling compartments. To those who knew only toil, he was a miracle worker. Reverence mixed with fear.
High in the cathedral decks, Sanguinius walked. Vast, echoing halls of gold leaf and solemn incense stretched around him. Intricate carvings depicted the Emperor's wars. Servo-skulls drifted silently. The winged Primarch moved like a phantom. His armor, centuries old, bore the scars of forgotten battles. His wings folded behind him, his face beautiful and sorrowful.
He did not speak. He did not pray. He walked alone, haunted by memory. The grandeur mocked him. Icons of himself lined the walls, distorted by time and dogma. Visions pierced him: Signus Prime, the Warmaster's betrayal, the weight of foresight. He would halt, a shudder through his frame, hand grasping for a blade long lost. Servo-skulls stilled. Priests redoubled prayers, unaware of the true nature of the angel in their midst. He was not a saint. He was a relic, a ghost.
The whispers spread: "He healed Jek! With light!" "A saint of the Emperor!" "No saint. A mutant." "And the golden one! Have you seen his wings?" "Divine emissaries! Or abominations."
Fear twisted with hope. The Imperium's superstitions warped perception. Angels? Sorcerers? Saints? Mutants? The truth lay buried beneath ignorance and awe.
In the command sanctum, Captain Viktor Volkov felt the shift. Astropath Elara trembled, blood trailing from her nose.
"Captain," she rasped, "a message from Segmentum Obscurus... garbled... urgent."
"Report," Volkov said, calm.
"Warp anomalies. Not just storms. Tears. Rips where none should be. Unclassified entities crossing into realspace." Her voice faltered. "A phrase repeated... Something is hunting Primarch echoes."
Volkov froze. Primarch echoes. He had suspect one aboard. The golden giant who defied logic and drew both reverence and dread. But he didn't even know who and what Legion he is.
Elara screamed. A psychic spasm.
"A vision... stars falling... two burning stars... a serpent body, iridescent and foul... coiled around ruin..."
Volkov felt the cold of truth. Forbidden texts spoke of such forms. Daemon princes. Chaos made flesh.
"And... a mask. Black. No face. Cold, empty power... watching."
Volkov sat back. The pieces aligned in dreadful clarity. He had taken aboard more than survivors. He had taken in a storm. The crew's unrest was just the surface. Greater forces converged on The Aurora's Folly. Two impossible beings. A hunt. An enemy unseen.
He would not share this. Not yet. The crew would descend into madness. He needed answers.
And time.
The voyage had just become infinitely more perilous.
Suddenly A shrill, piercing klaxon blared through the ship, echoing off the metal walls, a sound that meant only one thing: imminent, ship-wide emergency. Red emergency lighting flashed on intermittently, casting flickering, lurid shadows across the faces in the room. A harsh, synthesized voice echoed from the ship's internal vox-casters.
"All Hands! All Hands! Unidentified energy signatures detected!"
The voice was clipped, panicked.
"Multiple contacts! Originating from astropathic projection point! Large mass signatures! Closing fast! No friendly identification codes! Evasive maneuvers initiated! Prepare for hostile boarding action! All hands to action stations!"
Captain Volkov was on his feet in an instant, the interrogation forgotten, the data-slate clattering to the table. His face, moments before etched with suspicion, was now a mask of grim resolve. "Blast it!" he snarled, already striding towards the door, his hand instinctively going to the sidearm holstered at his hip.
Aang and Sanguinius remained seated, silent, their eyes meeting. Aang looked concerned, but not surprised. Sanguinius, however, lowered his gaze, a fresh wave of profound sadness washing over his features. The shadow he man spoke of... it seemed it had found them after all.
Elara let out a small, strangled cry from the shadows. The 'attention' she had sensed was here. And the psychic energy signature she now felt, radiating from the incoming contacts, was vast, malevolent, and utterly, horrifyingly familiar to the broken light of the Angel seated before them.
The hum of the void drive suddenly felt less like a ship's engine and more like the frantic heartbeat of a dying beast, surrounded by predators drawn by an ancient, divine scent. Captain Volkov paused at the door, glancing back at his strange guests, his decision clear. Whatever they were, they had just brought Hell itself to his doorstep.