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Whimpering noises reached him in his sleep, and still dizzy, he instinctively reached out, softly touching the body beside him.
“It's fine… go back to sleep, Elsbeth”, he whispered, with words faintly blurred by sleep and sluggish tongue; letting his youngest sister know he was there, that it was just another nightmare, and nothing bad could happen to her with him at her side. Usually, that was all it took for her to sink back into slumber again.
But the harsh response - his hand suddenly yanked away and an unexpected voice barking at him - pulled him out of his half-asleep state.
“Don't touch me!”
Immediately, he recoiled, pulling back his hand, and with drowsy eyes, he stared into the dirty, angry face at his side - almost hidden beneath greasy strands of fair hair and barely visible in the dim light. The facial features of an adolescent a few years older than him, not yet a man, but also no longer a child.
“Thank you for waking me, you piece of Grink-shit!”
Heinrix instantly winced, his face twisting into a brief grimace as Aldrin's words struck him with a cruel, intentional reminder of the day he had lost everything.
Not that it ever left his mind - the knowledge that he was a murderer.
Accursed.
A monster.
That he deserved what was coming to him, just like everyone had said.
Aldrin rolled over, turning his back to him. Then, after a frustrated snort, he changed his mind, sat up and leaned against the wall, burying his face deep into his folded arms.
It wasn't the first time Heinrix regretted having told Aldrin about his past. After such a long time alone in his former cell, he had been eager, excited even, to finally speak with others. To hear human voices again. To connect with someone.
But Aldrin barely tolerated anyone around him, hurling verbal attacks at everyone. The others of Heinrix's kind, cursed like him, either kept to themselves, remaining passive and unresponsive, or grew aggressive and sought control over the rest.
The closest he felt was to a young girl, maybe around the age of his middle sister. But there was no spirited gleam left in her brown eyes, and her gaze often drifted into the distance. Whenever he spoke to her, she rarely responded, but at least she accepted the food he was sharing with her. It felt like weeks before she finally traded a few words with him, but even then, she had never told him her name or anything about her past, so he had called her Miri after the stray cat he and his sisters had once adopted, much to the chagrin of their parents.
Now that he was awake, the stench from the waste collectors beneath the hole in the corner nearly made him choke, stealing his breath away. It was stronger near the ground, creeping up from a container that was rarely emptied and even less often cleaned. As quickly as his chained hands and feet and his weakened body allowed, he pushed himself up from the metal cot to escape the nauseating smell, and was glad he remembered to keep his head low, avoiding hitting the frame of the bed above.
He glanced back, searching for any signs of life in the other cots. Miri was already awake in the bunk above his, while the two inmates further up still seemed to be asleep. Around him, in the three other cells that made up their block, there was no sign of movement yet.
A yawn escaped him - uneven and crooked, one side of his mouth stretching wide while the other lagged behind. Ever since his imprisonment, fatigue had been a constant companion. The feeling of waking up rested, refreshed, eager to begin the day was now only a distant memory. Somehow, he couldn't think clearly again; he was caught in a constant mental fog, as though a heavy, invisible veil pressed down, slowly draining the energy out of him.
It worried him greatly - the thought that the procedure he had been forced to undergo might have taken more from him than he had realised. He remembered being yanked onto a table, a tech priest and chirurgeon at his side - and his parents. The former warmth and pride in their eyes had vanished, replaced by contempt and disgust. When he awoke again in his new “home” - a prison cell - he was still wearing his clothes, soaked with the blood of his own, his aunt and her pet. Terrible headaches pulsated inside his skull, and his once dominant arm hung useless at his side, heavy and numb like dead weight.
Heinrix's left hand drifted slowly from his forehead across his scalp, coming to rest at his neck. His hair had grown back, at least, where his skull was intact, but it was still shorter than before the surgery. A crude metal plate, sealing a hand-sized area on the right side of his skull, stretching from the hairline above his brow back toward the crown and down along the temple, concealed the void where his Knight Pilot implant had once been. At least he no longer felt the screws itching and burning from the inflammation.
But other inmates from his cell block confirmed that they felt the same weakening effect, and more - that they had also lost the powers of their curse. Some of them even lamented the loss and the possibilities it had once given them. That their curse could be helpful, desired even, was unthinkable to Heinrix. His own powers were violent, uncontrolled, dangerous and the very source of his misery. For that reason, he had never tried to invoke them deliberately and wanted nothing to do with them.
Two small steps forward, and Heinrix came to a halt in the middle of the cell. It was barely large enough to hold two sets of bunk beds, arranged at a right angle to each other, and to allow all the prisoners in the cell to stand tightly together. As long as everyone remained in their cot, it gave him just the amount of space he needed. Slowly, he moved his limbs as far as the chains connecting his wrists and feet allowed; with his healthy hand, he grasped the wrist of his paralysed arm, dragging it along. He progressed from simple warm-up and stretching exercises and footwork drills to imitating slashes, parries and blocking techniques.
Though it was doubtful if he would ever hold a sword in his hand again, Heinrix was not willing to give up everything he had learned or to sit all day doing nothing; he refused to wither away like the inmate he had once shared a cell with, who had died soon after he had arrived. It wasn't the only casualty - people died around him. Sometimes by force, more often just silently, without anyone really noticing until the stench made them aware.
From early in his imprisonment on, he had kept training both body and mind, with routines he had practised ever since he could walk, a choreography meant to ingrain muscle memory, to make him react without thought, to sharpen instincts and reflexes. He could no longer move as fluidly as before, especially with his motionless arm and the restriction of his chains, but it still helped against the decline.
He also recited the maintenance rites for weapons and equipment he no longer possessed - and likely never would again. His left hand mimicked the movements he remembered, visualised in his mind, even if his right could not join in.
Though it wasn't much, only a fraction of what he had done before, he exercised every early morning. It gave his days structure, a purpose, something to look forward to.
“Practising for the royal tournament, are we?” Aldrin paused theatrically, and Heinrix already knew what would come: “Squire?”
Not only did Aldrin refuse to use his name, but he also repeatedly mocked the idea that Heinrix had once been a noble destined to become the pilot of the awe-inspiring sight that was an Imperial Knight. Not that it meant anything anymore - they were all the same now. Heinrix simply didn't answer, though he could feel a flicker of anger rising within him. From the other times Aldrin had thrown insults, he knew he was mostly seeking a reaction to his provocations - likely out of being bored, frustrated, and a need to feel some power over others to cope with his surroundings. Aldrin was just like the bullies he had faced on the training ground, at least, before he had put them in their place. He might have been only a scion from a minor house, but he was determined to prove himself, and his hard training and perseverance had usually paid off.
“You will get your chance to prove you are useful - by being obedient and keeping yourself in check.”
One of the very few words his former prison warden had ever shared with him - along with the warning that they would not hesitate to drop the tower holding his cell into the ocean below if that proved not to be the case.
Heinrix had barely completed his exercise when the blinding brightness of strobing lumens flared to life, biting into his eyes through closed eyelids. His tongue had already glued to the roof of his mouth, making speaking even more difficult than before, and his throat felt dry - but he would have to wait to ease his thirst. They never had constant access to water, only at mealtime. At least in his former prison, he had received enough to wash himself and his clothes in a rudimentary way, though no matter how hard he had scrubbed, the bloodstains had remained.
Like Aldrin and Miri, Heinrix returned to his metal bed, leaning with his back against the wall to seek a touch of coolness. Even though their cell wasn't as cramped as the others, the air was still hot and sticky inside. Sweat and dirt covered their clothes and were caked in their hair.
There was nothing to do all day, nothing to distract him from his thoughts. With the tiredness still clinging to him, he found himself often slipping into drowsing. And he no longer knew how long he had been locked inside. At first, he had thought he could keep track of the day-night cycles, as he had done in his prison on Guisorn III, carving marks with the golden Aquila decoration on one of his boots to count the passing days. After four hundred seventy-five cycles, the door had finally opened again - not just a narrow slit through which food and water were pushed. But on the black ship, the same method was useless; the walls resisted every scratch. And in the few cases a new prisoner was brought into their cell block, they barely knew the local planetary date, let alone the Terran standard. He had been nearly thirteen when he was first imprisoned. How old was he now?
The bright light soon brought back the relentless wailing, laced with the screams of anger and frustration from the newly captured, mingling with desperate pleas, delirious babble and doomsayers foretelling suffering and horrific death - and all gnawing at his sanity. It very much escalated at mealtime, when people started to fight over the food and water provided; some of them willing to let others starve to death just to get more for themselves.
While quieter than the day, cries and moans haunted the night. The dimmed light could have offered a temporary reprieve, if it weren't also the time he was often afflicted with burning pulses of pain searing through his otherwise numb limb.
He never thought he would miss the calmness of his former prison, the silence, the only sounds being the crashing of the waves against the cliffs, gently soothing him into sleep when his thoughts would spiral into desperation. He had always wondered where they had brought him. There was no ocean near his home… his former home. There was a lake, where he and his sisters had learned to swim, surrounded by lush green forests and golden fields, colours he hadn't seen for a long time. Confined to a windowless cell, he yearned to see the ocean he had only ever heard, the blue of the water and sky again, to feel the warmth of the sun during the day, and to admire the soft light of the two pale moons at night.
Pain tightened in his chest as his thoughts turned back to his family. He knew of certain ancestors - the unmentionables - disgraced and exiled for failing their duties to the house. Branded as traitors and betrayers, they were erased from memory, struck from the daily ritual of remembrance. Removed from the annals of the dynasty, they were recalled only to warn others about the fate for those who failed.
And now he had joined their ranks; still bound to his house by blood, but it didn't matter anymore.
He would never be an Imperial Knight pilot - once his dream, and his family's expectation.
He would never bring his house glory and honour to secure its future.
And above all, he would never see his family again.
No longer a noble, nor a son, nor a brother.
He was trying to envision his sisters' appearances - Elsbeth's large eyes, deep blue as their mother's, dreamy and lost in thought, and Adeline's warm grey ones, mirroring his own, sparkling with fervour and curiosity. Into their long, soft hair, which he had so often brushed with more patience and gentleness than the chambermaids, he would braid ribbons with their favourite colours - pink and green - so that they could wear them instead of the yellow and white of their house and before any servant had a chance to change it before family breakfast.
Their brown hair had always been lighter than his, although he had been told that his own had darkened as he grew older. Would theirs change as well? He would never know, would never see them again. He tried so desperately to remember the details of their faces, but the harder he tried, the more they blurred, like fleeting images he could not catch, could not hold.
With closed eyes, he recalled their soft melodic voices, especially the jovial laughter he loved to hear so much, his reward whenever he turned their boring, stern day full of lectures and training into a moment of joy. Few things mattered more to him than easing their worries - from distracting them from the first execution they had to witness, to jokingly diffusing their concerns about his health when he was wounded during training, and calming and comforting them when events of the day would come back to haunt them in the night.
Heinrix glanced back at Aldrin. The adolescent had revealed very little about himself - surely to prevent Heinrix or anyone else from using it against him. For a long time, he had been ranting after they had been forced into their cell, once the tormenting influence of the women in black had subsided. Letting everyone know that he was of noble birth, demanding release or at least better conditions for himself, only to be ignored by the wardens and being laughed at by the inmates, and finally realising that it would not help him here.
Heinrix felt for him. Even after more than a Guisorn year had passed, it was still difficult for Heinrix to fathom what had happened. His whole life had turned upside down. He could understand Aldrin's anger - Heinrix had been angry too - at himself, at his powers, unwanted and dangerous, and at that stupid Grink that had bitten him. And in those darker times, when he lay curled up on his mattress, before the anger had dissolved into desperation and sorrow had broken through in tears, he had turned his fury on his aunt and especially his parents. There was no word of explanation, only spit and scorn, as if he were a monster from the old tales. They took all he had and sent him away with a wounded body and a broken heart.
No, likely Aldrin had not yet processed what had happened, to let his anger turn into something else.
Although the teenager and Miri were both from Guisorn III, Heinrix had only met them when the prison warden had led them out to be presented to their new handlers - fearsome women clad in imposing black armour, whose very presence made him writhe in agony. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before, as if his very essence was about to be torn apart. He had wondered whether their new prison - the black ship, as the warden had called it, the vessel that had come to collect them - was named after them.
It seemed that Aldrin had only been picked up recently; when Heinrix first met him, his clothing had still been in excellent condition - and even now, though dirty and torn, it was in better shape than his own. Or had he had his relatives come to look after him?
Heinrix had wished for so long that his family would come to visit him, hoping each day anew that the door would open, allowing him to see at least his sisters one last time. Many nights, he had dreamed of his parents coming to take him back, explaining that everything was resolved now, that he was forgiven, that it could never happen again. And every time he awoke, he had to face once more the reality of being abandoned and alone, until he had finally let go of hope.
As much as it hurt, he couldn't blame them for being afraid of him - afraid of what he could and perhaps would do to them against his will. He had watched pict-recordings of wars, seen men and women getting killed in duels and executions, even his uncle casually killing a servant over a spilt glass of wine. But those had been intentional, while he had only been angry and in pain - from the bite of the Grink and his aunt's slap - killing her with nothing more than a thought. The image of her lifeless, bleeding body beside the remains of her pet, both covered by a strange coat of frost that had appeared out of nowhere, never left his mind.
Beyond the crushing weight of dread, fear and shame that dulled everything else, he remembered the sharp blade at his throat and how his gaze had travelled from the hand gripping the hilt up to the cold grey eyes of his father.
They had called him a witch; the very thing he had only known from legend, from the frightening tales told to children when they misbehaved - be better, do not mingle with the servs, or the witches will come and eat you alive. And now that he himself had become the monster in the dark, his parents had to protect the family - from him.
What had they told his sisters about him? Did they even know he was still alive?
What if they too carried this curse? Condemned to endure the full disdain of their house, their parents…
“You should have died instead…”
The memory of the look in their eyes still haunted him. He had to survive, to find his sisters again, to make sure they were alright. But deep down, a fear had taken hold of him - what if he would meet them again and they would hate him?
Or worse. Heinrix suppressed the thought that kept lingering in his mind - what if his powers had not turned against his aunt and her pet; what if it had been his sisters? No… it couldn't be. Not them. He would never hurt his sisters, whom he loved so dearly.
There were so many questions in his mind, but the most pressing one - the one that his thoughts spiralled around all day - remained unanswered.
Why him? What had he done to deserve this curse?
Some had called it the Emperor's blessing; others, his punishment for straying from his light. And there were those who whispered it was the taint of corruption.
It was true - he had not taken the liturgies seriously. The same long, dull sermons, day after day. Surely it couldn't be a blessing, not with the misery it had brought upon him and his family. If it were a punishment, then why would the Emperor grant him powers that endangered others? His aunt had been cruel at times - had he been made a tool to punish her, too?
Judging by the deepening growl and rumble in his stomach, it was around the time food and water were usually delivered, when a sudden uproar echoed from beyond the concrete walls, drawing Heinrix's eyes towards the heavy door that separated his block from the rest of the ship.
Soon, the noise from beyond grew louder - shouting was followed by sounds of violent struggle and gunfire, accompanied by dreadful screams of agony and maniacal laughter.
As the alarms blared, everyone looked around in bewilderment, and anxious chatter intensified.
“Someone must have escaped!”
“We are getting freed!”
He began to hear whispers in his mind, words that did not originate from the people around him. Voices spoke of gifts, promises, freedom, of a shared brotherhood. But what Heinrix felt was the opposite, as a crushing fear of imminent death seized his heart.
One of the older men from the cell across raised his voice.
“Holy Emperor. This is bad, really bad. Don't listen to the whispers! It is a trap from the archenemy. We need to stay silent, hoping they will not come to us.”
Heinrix didn't even know his name; the man had always kept to himself, but he was one of those who usually joined the prayers broadcast over the vox-speakers, which urged them to call upon the God-Emperor for salvation.
“No, this is an opportunity.” Aldrin moved towards the cell bars closest to the door and began shouting and smashing his chains against them, trying to draw attention with as much noise as possible. “Here! Come here! I want to join you!”
“Boy, don't! Stay silent! It is our only chance!”
Heinrix drew near to Aldrin.
“We'd better wait for the wardens to resolve this.” But Aldrin didn't even look at him when he responded.
“Get lost, peasant.”
“Boy, be reasonable! You are dooming yourself and all of us! There is only one escape, and that is through death!”
“We are already dead! How much of an imbecile are you? Do you truly think that once we arrive our treatment will improve? We are already grox led to the slaughter!”
His voice had wavered towards the end; it wasn't only anger that was driving him, there was fear.
“Aldrin, no… if they wanted us dead they could have already killed us. We are going to Terra, to the God Emperor!”
Aldrin paused to look at him with an undisguised sneer.
“Oh, and I suppose you also still believe Sanguinus rises again to bring you gifts at Sanguinalia?”
While Aldrin's snark angered him, it also made Heinrix thoughtful. “…you deserve what is coming to you…” Surely his parents had meant the prison. But did they know about the black ship? What lay ahead of him?
“A prophet has appeared, seeking his apostles, offering gifts and punishing the false believers.” The words gave them pause as they stared in bewilderment at Miri. Though it was her voice, it sounded strangely monotone.
At last, her distant gaze shifted, and with curious eyes she looked at Heinrix.
“What are gifts?”
He could only stare at Miri in disbelief, and even Aldrin fell silent for a moment.
“She is a seer! She still has her powers!” someone shouted, snapping Heinrix out of his trance.
The familiar rumble of the fortified door opening drew all eyes towards it. Of the two figures who entered, Heinrix recognised only one - the warden by his uniform and pistol in hand. The other, ragged and dirty, looked very much like another inmate. But there was more. It wasn't just the surprisingly strong and determined way he moved, the confidence he projected, or the fact that the warden's pistol was not aimed at him at all - this person radiated power in a way Heinrix could… feel. A tide of dread emanated from him, so overwhelming and merciless that Heinrix trembled, his instincts urging him to hide from the horror that closed in on him.
“Behold, you are free. Join me or perish!” the newcomer declared with grand, almost theatrical gestures.
“This is madness,” the man from across the cells kept saying, barely audible over the surrounding noise while his trembling hands formed the Sign of the Aquila.
The escaping prisoner burst out in shrill laughter, so loud it was almost painful to hear - and also familiar. It was the same Heinrix had heard before.
When he fell silent, his gaze fixed on Heinrix's cell neighbour who, without any visible sign, spoken word or gesture that might have triggered it, suddenly hurled himself against the iron bars. Heinrix flinched, surprised and aghast at the sudden violence, and then stood frozen in horror as, again and again, the man smashed his skull against the cold metal, the impacts and his screams tearing through the hold.
Heinrix began to shiver, as icy fingers seemed to claw along his spine, and on his tongue he tasted iron - the metallic tang of blood.
No one dared to interfere - they all watched in shocked panic until the poor man collapsed, lying motionless on the ground.
“Anyone else?”
A sadistic grin spread across the madman's face. He looked intoxicated by his own power, his gaze still fixed on his victim, savouring the bloody sight.
Before this moment, Heinrix had thought that with better conditions for the prisoners, deaths would have been avoided. But after witnessing this, he understood that there were not only those who could not control their powers but also those who revelled in their misuse, delighting in the pain of others.
The warden hurried forward, opening one cell after another. Heinrix paid little attention to him, his eyes locked on his insane master.
“Then rejoice and take up the battle - we take over the ship! Pay them back - in blood.”
Some prisoners had already rushed out of their cells, joining the madmen as he turned to leave the hold.
Heinrix saw Aldrin moving towards the cell door and quickly stepped in his way, raising his hand to urge him to stay.
“There's no way we can take over the ship. You must feel it, too, hear it…” Heinrix pointed towards their former inmate, now lying lifeless on the ground, his eyes still wide in pain and shock. “Does this look like salvation to you?”
“The strong take, the weak perish, and the God-Emperor helps those who help themselves. That is what I have learned. And I have a rare chance to get out of this pit - now GET.OUT.OF.MY.WAY!”
Aldrin shoved him to the side, but before he could move further, Heinrix reached out and laid his hand on his shoulder.
“No, wait!”
With a face twisted in anger, Aldrin spun around. “I told you to stop touching me!”
He drew back to punch Heinrix, but although he was still in better condition, Aldrin was not an experienced fighter, especially with his hands chained, allowing only restricted movement. His strike was imprecise, driven more by fear and rage than skill. Even in such poor shape and disadvantaged by his paralysed arm, it was not difficult for Heinrix to evade.
When the strobing lights died away, the hold plunged into darkness. Moments later, emergency lumens bathed the hold in a threatening red glow. He felt the change at once; the dreaded sensation like claws tearing through his very being as the ship left the warp into realspace. The sudden transition let the vessel bump violently; several lumens burst, showering sparks over them. Heinrix lost his footing and, trying to hold on to something, seized Aldrin, dragging him down as they crashed to the floor. He landed hard on his shoulder, and a sharp pain shot through it.
“I have had enough of you!”
Fuelled by fear, panic and anger, Aldrin lunged at Heinrix, pinning him down with his weight. With Heinrix's hands trapped against his chest, he was powerless to defend himself as Aldrin's fingers closed around his throat, pressing tightly. Heinrix thrashed and fought to break free, but he lacked the strength to push Aldrin off. His mouth opened to cry out, but only a quiet gurgle escaped. Shouts and commotion erupted around them, but no one came to help - no one intervened.
With a crashing sound, a heavy bulkhead door, like a massive wall, dropped across the full width of the chamber, sealing off their block. The impact startled Aldrin and loosened his grip on Heinrix's throat. In an instant, all noise was cut off, as if everyone were holding their breath - broken only by the monotone voice of Miri.
“Until the void cleanses the gifted.”
“They are going to depressurise the hold!”
“We are all going to die!”
Some inmates rushed to the door, pounding their fists against it in panic and rage, shouting for release. Others collapsed to their knees, crying, begging and praying.
“This is all your fault!” he heard Aldrin shouting angrily before his head snapped to the side, his cheek burning from the slap. In shock, he looked up and saw the tears swelling in Aldrin's eyes, until he rose from Heinrix's chest and retreated to his cot.
Left behind on the ground, Heinrix took deep breaths.
Even amid the panic, the fear, the dread of looming death and his burning throat, Heinrix felt relieved that his powers hadn't triggered, that he hadn't reduced Aldrin to a pile of flesh at his feet. They might die anyway, but at least he didn't have the blood of a third on his hands.
Heinrix turned around, looking at the opposite side of the cell block. He had always thought it to be a simple, immovable wall, but now on closer inspection, he noticed the faint vertical seams running along its edges, allowing it to slide upwards - a hidden gate to the void.
The cacophony of noises suddenly harmonised as one inmate after another joined in a prayer until they spoke in unison.
“Emperor, grant me salvation.”
“Be our light in the darkest hour.”
“Guard us against corruption, the taint from beyond, and guide us to eternal victory.”
It differed from the High Gothic ones he knew from Guisorn III, and unlike the liturgies he had once been forced to attend, this time his hope and fear clung to every syllable, as he repeated each word.
But as one thought grew stronger in his mind, his voice faltered, giving way to a personal invocation.
I don't want to die.
God-Emperor… please allow me to prove myself to you; let me be your servant.
A chance, all I need is a chance…
Panicked screams followed rumbling noises as a sudden wave of fear and agony crashed down on Heinrix's soul, threatening to drag him along.
I don't want to die; I don't want to die; I don't want to die…
He continued his mantra, anchoring himself in the here and now as the pressure washed over him.
Another rumble shook the hold, and soon afterwards, there was only silence. The blaring alarms ceased, the screams faded, and the crushing presence on Heinrix's soul was gone - leaving behind only a void where before he had felt… something, others?
Suddenly, the strobing light blinded him, and with the grinding sound of the heavy bulkhead lifting, the tension lifted with relieved sighs and nervous laughter. They had survived for the moment, gained another miserable day on a journey full of unknowns.
Heinrix remained silent, simply breathing, still overwhelmed by the aftermath of believing he was about to die. He shared in the relief, felt as if he had been granted a miracle, but happiness eluded him. He returned to his cell and curled up on his cot, escaping into sleep.
He barely noticed when the cells were locked once more or that they had to wait until the next day for food and water to arrive. The inmate's body was removed then as well, without questions asked. They never did. They never cared.
His nightmares worsened at night, and during the day, he would flinch at every loud noise - shutting doors, manic laughter - fearing that someone was about to lose their mind, to seek solace in insanity and that it would all happen again.
One day, they took Miri away without any explanation. The last thing she told Heinrix was, “I saw us both go down the same dark road… but I'll never find you there.”
Eventually, they moved him and other prisoners to another compartment, separating him from Aldrin. Although the teenager had stopped insulting him, they had never grown closer.
Days slipped away until what might have been the fifth or sixth emergence from the warp since he had been taken aboard. This time, when the door opened, no new poor souls were driven inside, their horror plainly visible as their sight fell on their new accommodation - this time, the wardens came in alone. Block by block, the cells were unlocked, the prisoners one by one chained together and then ordered to follow. Those who were too weak to go had to be dragged or carried along by the other inmates. Even for Heinrix, each small step, hindered by the chains, was tedious.
They were led into the vast hangar and prepared to be divided among the large, hulking transports used to carry human cargo. When Heinrix had first arrived on the black ship with one of those, there had only been him, Aldrin and Miri. While he looked out for them, he didn't see their faces among the masses. They were herded together, pressed so tightly inside that even when the vessel jolted violently through turbulence, they could not fall; instead, bodies around him slammed into Heinrix, forcing the breath from his lungs and leaving him gasping and close to fainting in the stifling heat. At last, when the vessel came to a halt and the engines fell silent, the ramp lowered, and cold air rushed in. Although he shivered, Heinrix welcomed it - excited but also concerned about what the future would bring. Slowly, step by step, they descended the ramp, taking in more and more of their surroundings. Among the seemingly endless buildings, colossal towers and spires rose from the earth, climbing so far into the heavens that their peaks vanished from view.
It was monumental, grandiose. Nothing in his life had ever matched such a scale. He lifted his gaze to the sky, but couldn't see the stars through the choking veil of brown smog that clawed at his throat, forcing coughs that left his chest burning and his body shaking. It wasn't what he had imagined; he had hoped to be greeted by a place of beauty, with fresh and clean air, the warm embrace of sunlight, or a beautiful night sparkling with unfamiliar constellations.
He must have stopped and simply stared at the sky as he was suddenly shoved forward.
“Welcome to Holy Terra. Now move and meet your destiny.”
Terra.
The God-Emperor.
Whatever would happen, he would keep his promise - proving himself worthy of the chance he had been granted; surviving for His service, for himself, and for Elsbeth and Adeline.