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Between the benches, countless supplicants have worn the metal thin with their worried pacing. How many have crossed the same ten steps up and down the aisle before him? Heinrix doesn’t know. Searchlights flicker through stained-glass windows to douse the chapel in a kaleidoscope of colour. The rainbow illuminates the candles crowded at the plinth of the statue of the Emperor – the Eternal Protector watching over Mankind. It is nighttime, although there’s never absolute darkness on Holy Terra, not with the light of the faithful brightening the avenues and their chanting of the glory of the Imperium filling the air.
Inside the chapel, his footsteps alone echo. It is the night before his sanctioning ritual, the night before the culmination of years of effort. His teachers refused to elaborate further on the steps he must take tomorrow, refused to lift the veil of uncertainty, refused to offer guidance. Still, everything hinges on his success. If Heinrix fails, he will forsake his soul. For him, not even in death does duty end – the soul of a Psyker is condemned to eternal suffering. He must succeed in continuing to repay an unrepayable debt to the Imperium, to the institutions that have placed their faith in him, that he will overcome the limitations of his curse.
In this painful night, Heinrix dares not raise his eyes to the stern face of the Emperor. He dares not rail against his fate. He dares not beg the eternal Father to allow the cup of suffering to pass him by. He dares not contemplate failure. He dares not doubt.
His belief will see him through.
It must.
In his duty serving the Imperium as best as he can for as long as he’s able to, he will find absolution. It is more than he deserves, yet all he can offer – his undying, unshakable commitment to service. His belief in the Emperor’s righteousness will see him triumph.
A faint tremor curls his left hand. He opens and closes his fist; it obeys reluctantly as if he must coax each nerve and muscle fibre to work in tandem, as if he employs them for the first time. His arm is a testament to his great shame, a constant reminder of his failure. And his triumph?
No! No, his abominable powers are nothing to be proud of!
Heinrix turns away from the light of the altar. The incense lingering in the chapel clogs his nostrils, and myrrh coats his mouth in a sharp, bitter mucus. He coughs. Each exhale echoes hollow in this hallow space. He is alone. His classmates doze on the back benches, not even his coughing rouses them from their slumber. On Holy Terra, on sacred ground, he is an island unto himself, a boy lost in a snowstorm seeking a hearth. The warmth of camaraderie has eluded him since he was forced to leave Guisorn III. He no longer calls the planet of his birth home. Nothing ties him to it but his first name, and nobody has spoken that in years. He is a number: 031/0012/2929077.
At the threshold, Heinrix pauses. He came to pray, to ask for strength, for forgiveness, for a sign that he is not cursed. He leaves faith shattered if he leaves now. And so he stays. Passes by his sleeping classmates, heads lolling on chests and shoulders, on his return to the dais and kneels. He works through the techniques the instructors at the Scholastica Psykana have taught him. One by one.
Then he opens himself to the light of the Emperor.
On Holy Terra, it exists all around him.
The might of the Emperor is the might of the Imperium is his might.
Night ceased to matter on Terra millennia ago.
Whispers tug at his mind, coaxing and wheedling. The voices promise an end to his pain, an end to his suffering, an end to his service before it even begins. In the stories they tell, Heinrix isn’t cursed; he is a Knight Pilot lending his might to the defence of his home, of his birthright, and with it the survival of the Imperium. He mows down his enemies—one at a time. No uncertainties plague him. He triumphs. And hoisting his banner, he only hungers for more war, more destruction, more bloodshed. And it feels right. It feels so good. It is the one sensation rippling over his skin – rage. Wrath courses red-hot through his bloodstream until he sinks under a roiling sea of fury.
Heinrix sputters and splutters as ice floods his lungs. He drowns and drowns and drowns. Instinct kicks in, and he drives forward, dives upwards and breaks free. He inhales. The air reminds him of the air on a winter morning. Crisp and sharp. The rot of wildflowers mingles with the incense. Alluring. Tempting. He takes another breath. Steady and calm. His mother’s hand brushes over his sweat-slick brow. Murmuring a lullaby, she lulls him back to sleep. Sleep… How wonderful to rest unbothered by sorrow and pain. He is a child and his parents love him, and tomorrow, the cook will bake an ackenberry pie for him, and he will eat a huge slice, his mouth stained red and his hands sticky from the sweet juice. His mother will laugh as she cleans his face. His father will query him about his lessons, and he will repeat his teacher’s words to make him proud. His life resembled that idyll once. Simple. Was he not allowed a simple life? A life before his curse manifested is his if he lies down now. His struggles will cease to exist. Sleep as the others in this garden of decay, the voice promises. If he tastes the rotten fruit and drains the spoiled cup, his suffering will pass him by.
He will fail tomorrow. And vultures will feast on his soul. Forever.
A putrid hand cradles his cheek. Waking, sweat-drenched as if waking from a fever dream, he slaps it away. This is not him, and it was never his life to live. If Heinrix is cursed, his dedicated duty to the Imperium alone will cleanse him from the taint of birth. Feathered fingers brush over his soul before the book of life unveils another page. Yes, his service will give his life purpose, but what if a more meaningful way to live his life existed? Following orders is noble until these orders lead to the ruin of an army. A city? A planet? A star system? When does blind obedience become a liability, not a sacred duty? Heinrix flinches. The thought alone is heresy! He is not here to question but to obey his betters, fulfil his duty, serve until death releases him from his service. This is the oath he has sworn, this is the oath he will renew tomorrow, this is the only way to repay the debt incurred at birth. He is a failure. An accident of creation. A freak. He shouldn’t exist. If he must live, he will. Deny his nature, deny his instincts, deny himself until nothing is left except an empty vessel in which the Emperor can pour his might.
Heinrix rises. For the first time, he looks the statue in the eyes. Shrouded in candlelight, its gaze inscrutable, the searchlights paint two jewelled coloured dots on its face. Fire and flame. In his mind, the Emperor’s light burns brighter than ever; it scorches the last vestiges of doubt, of uncertainty, of disbelief. HE will triumph. And Heinrix will become the instrument of His will, and thus Heinrix will triumph over the enemies of the Imperium. This belief echoes in every fibre of his being. The flame of righteousness smouldering in his chest, he makes the sign of the Aquila and leaves, passing his classmates on the way, slowly waking up. He nods at them, and they nod back. The painful watch of night has ended.
A life in service to the Imperium awaits Heinrix, and he is prepared to serve—mind, body and soul.
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