The elevator shuddered slightly as it descended, the vibrations humming through the reinforced ceramite floor. It was a deep, resonant tremor, a steady beat like a giant mechanical heart buried within the ship's spine.
The walls were smooth and sterile, bathed in a faint blue glow from lumen strips embedded in the ceiling. Silent runes flickered along control panels, glowing faintly like the dying embers of a machine spirit at rest.
A sudden hiss of compressed air echoed through the shaft.
A moment later, the elevator ground to a halt with a heavy, final thud. With a series of mechanical clanks and the wheezing sigh of airtight seals releasing, the armored doors began to part, their motion slow and deliberate, like the opening jaws of some ancient, slumbering beast.
Beyond the threshold was darkness—cold, cavernous, and reverent.
Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines and Lord Commander of the Imperium, ended his silent communing with the auxiliary data-spirits embedded in his gorget. The faint flickering of data hololiths faded from his eyes as he stepped forward into the darkened corridor of the Glory of Macragge, his flagship and symbol of Imperial rebirth.
His footsteps echoed heavily on the adamantium plating, every stride filled with purpose.
A presence awaited him in the gloom.
From the shadows emerged a robed figure, moving like a wraith across the polished deck. The flickering lights revealed a man tall and thin, his face pale and drawn, as if he had not seen daylight in years. His eyes glowed faintly with psychic energy, and his breath steamed in the cold, recycled air of the ship's depths.
In his hand was a long force staff, its head crowned with a twin-headed aquila and inlaid with protective wards of gold and silver.
"My lord," the psyker said, bowing deeply with the traditional Aquila salute, one gauntleted fist across his chest. "We are honored by your presence."
Guilliman studied the man briefly. The air around the psyker shimmered ever so slightly, a sure sign of the invisible, disciplined warp field he projected. The scent of incense clung to his robes, masking the sharper, unnatural tang of warp residue.
"Rise, Adept," Guilliman said, his voice a sonorous echo in the chamber. "Lead me to the sanctum."
The psyker straightened. "As you command, Lord of Ultramar."
They walked together through the dimly lit hallways, the light from their path activating lumen panels one by one, as if the ship itself acknowledged its master's presence. The corridors here, deep within the ship's inner sanctum, were rarely traversed. Only those entrusted with Guilliman's most private counsel were allowed into these levels—sealed off from the bustle of the command decks, the cathedral-like strategium, or the roaring hangar bays.
Here was quiet. Here was purpose.
"My lord," the psyker began cautiously as they passed a corridor carved with Imperial scripture, "I must warn you. The entity you seek communion with is not entirely stable. The strain of the last campaign—especially Sara—has left echoes. Fragments of will… interference from the Immaterium. Even the Machine Priests are wary of the containment systems."
Guilliman did not slow his stride. "I am aware of the risks. But I need insight only it can provide."
"Of course, my lord," the psyker said with a respectful nod. "But even so, the warp echoes linger. One must be wary when listening to what stares back."
Guilliman gave him a side glance, not unkind. "You think I have not looked into the abyss before?"
The psyker bowed his head, chastened. "No, my lord. Forgive my presumption."
After several more turns, the corridor widened into a chamber of high vaulted ceilings and flickering null-field generators. Gold and blue banners hung from the rafters, their edges fluttering ever so slightly despite the still air—a sign that the veil between realities here was thin.
At the heart of the room stood a sealed stasis-capsule, suspended between four pylons. Glyphs of warding and sigils of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica pulsed slowly across its surface. Inside floated a figure—clad in fragments of ancient armor, eyes closed in fitful slumber, though bound by more than just sleep.
A living soul-link, an artificial warp-echo, extracted from a captured daemonhost months ago.
The creature was once human. Now, it was a vessel of tormented prophecy, bound and barely stable. It served not as a prisoner, but as a dark oracle—something twisted from its original flesh, yet useful in Guilliman's grand design.
"Activate the chamber," Guilliman commanded.
The psyker hesitated for a heartbeat, then raised his staff and began chanting litanies of control. The pylons hummed to life, and arcs of blue lightning danced between them.
The stasis field cracked open.
A sudden gust of air burst forth, thick with the stench of the warp—ozone, blood, and something darker still. The lights flickered. Voices whispered at the edge of hearing.
The figure's eyes snapped open—glowing orbs that burned like suns.
"Primarch," it rasped, its voice a thousand voices, overlapping and layered in maddening chorus. "You return."
"I seek knowledge," Guilliman said calmly. "Speak."
"Then you accept the cost," the entity replied. "To see what lies beyond, to hear the future, to know the sins of the past—you must be willing to bleed."
"I have bled for this Imperium for ten thousand years," Guilliman said, stepping closer. "Let the stars weep before I falter now."
The warp-flame within the oracle flared.
Visions surged into Guilliman's mind.
He saw Terra burning, the Golden Throne cracking, the Emperor's light flickering. He saw Cadia fall again, and again. He saw shadows consuming entire sectors, Chaos cults blooming like rot under the Imperium's skin. But he also saw hope—faint, flickering lights: new alliances, faithful hearts, sacrifice, and strength born from adversity.
He staggered slightly as the vision ended.
"Your path is fire," the oracle whispered. "Your enemies wear the faces of allies. Your blood is both shield and curse."
Guilliman stepped back, face unreadable.
"Seal it again."
The psyker moved quickly, reactivating the stasis field. The oracle howled as it was forced back into silence, the warp-lights around it dying with a shuddering wail.
The chamber fell silent once more.
"Thank you," Guilliman said to the psyker. "The Imperium's survival may hinge on what I saw today."
"Then the risk was worth it," the psyker replied, though his hand trembled as he leaned on his staff.
As Guilliman turned and walked back toward the lift, the weight of fate hung heavy upon his shoulders. The future was no brighter—but at least he now walked with eyes open.
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