"In the Grim Darkness of the Far Future, There Is Only War."
The emptiness of space has existed for eons, long before the first breath of life filled the air, long before the terrifying enemies that lurk in this galaxy were born. Between the stars, between countless worlds, and under the harsh light of a thousand suns, an ancient fortress drifts in the void. Its cold steel exterior gleams faintly under the dim light of the Milky Way. It reflects the light of distant stars, shimmering like a silent sentinel in the vast darkness.
Countless cannons line the fortress's walls, their barrels aimed at the black void of space. Angelic statues, guardians and warriors, stand watch, placed between weapons and war machines. Their swords pierce the darkness, always directed at an unseen and distant enemy.
Beneath towering Gothic spires, under large stained-glass windows depicting the Emperor of Mankind and His Angels of Death, an old man stands alone at the end of the grand hall. His tired, weathered eyes stare into the abyss of space. The stars glimmer in his gaze, like pinpricks of light in a never-ending night. The silence in the hall is so thick, it feels like the emptiness outside, filled with meaning and the weight of time.
The old man's black robe hangs like a shadow, dark and silent—almost merging with the night itself. Only the silver pendant hanging from his neck catches the light. It bears a single letter: I.
The silence is broken by footsteps—a steady echo of boots on cold stone. The sound grows louder, shifting from soft steps to the sharp clacking of combat boots. Click-click-click. A figure emerges from the shadows. The man's left eye glows with a faint red light, his expression cold but resolute. His silver breastplate glints softly as he steps forward, his bolter hanging at his side. The weapon—once a symbol of the Adeptus Astartes, the Emperor's Angels of Death—now belongs to the Adeptus Mechanicus.
The man approaches the old man and stands beside him, both staring into the silent void. His thick, metallic right arm, blessed by the Omnissiah, catches the faint light of the distant stars. The hum of technology echoes softly beneath its surface. "Lord Inquisitor Highgate," the man says, his voice firm despite the heavy air between them.
Highgate turns his gaze to the Inquisitor, his old eyes sharp despite the years. "Inquisitor Rhaelon," he replies, his voice soft yet firm. "What news do you bring?"
"A transmission," Rhaelon responds. "A star-language signal from across the galaxy. From the far side of the Victoria System. The message is unclear, but... it seems there are ominous signs, my lord."
"What signs?" Highgate asks, his voice now sharp, sensing the weight behind those words.
"We are not sure, my lord. The signal is weak, fluctuating. But a legal officer from Lavialia Prime is requesting our help. He believes something dangerous is growing there, something beyond the capabilities of the local forces to handle. He asks for Inquisition intervention," Rhaelon explains calmly, though there is clear tension in his voice.
Highgate listens intently, his gaze unwavering. Slowly, he walks to the side of the grand hall, his steps echoing in the silence. His eyes lift to the great shrine of the Emperor, illuminated by the flickering lights of hundreds of candles. The Emperor's stern face gazes down at them, as if still present, still watching over them all.
Rhaelon steps toward the shrine as well, but stops before the altar, awaiting her superior's command. Highgate gazes at the image of the Emperor for a moment, then turns his eyes back to Rhaelon. "Tell me, Inquisitor," he says softly, "Is there not a faithful servant of ours who could be sent?"
Rhaelon hesitates for a moment, then responds with certainty. "John Constantine, my lord."
A faint smile forms at the corner of Highgate's lips, though it doesn't reach his tired eyes. "Ah, Constantine," he murmurs. "Tell me, how is he now?"
"Inquisitor Constantine," Rhaelon answers, "recently helped the Iron Legion defeat an Ork invasion in the Armageddon Sector. Political Commissar Yaric praised his conduct, and I hear the local military wishes to award him a medal."
"Medals," Highgate says with a cynical smile. "Knowing John, he would rather be anywhere else—away from the smell of engine oil and the babble of bureaucrats. I imagine he would prefer discussing philosophy with a beautiful woman—or perhaps a pirate—than listening to military nonsense."
Rhaelon nods with a slight smile of agreement. "Indeed, my lord. That does seem to be his way."
Highgate chuckles softly, his laugh echoing through the hall like an ancient hymn. "Yes, that's our John. Always full of life, even when surrounded by the darkest shadows."
His smile fades, and the room returns to silence. Highgate reaches for a candle from the altar, its small flame flickering in the air. With slow, deliberate motion, he holds it in his gnarled hands, the light illuminating his face.
He turns and hands the candle to Rhaelon, who accepts it without hesitation. "Take this," Highgate says in a low, steady voice. "Tell John Constantine to bring the Emperor's Light of Truth to the Victoria System. If the Emperor wills it, he may find something of great importance there."
Rhaelon nods, accepting the task. "As you command, my lord." Without another word, he turns and steps back into the shadows, the soft glow of the candle the only sign of her departure as she disappears into the darkness.
Highgate watches the flame slowly flicker as the Inquisitor leaves, his thoughts turning to the unknown. The icon of the Emperor remains watchful above him, silent and steadfast. The old man stands alone, the only light in the cold, dark hall the flickering flame of a single candle. His mind sharpens once more, aware of the growing shadows on the horizon.
Beneath a cold, distant sun at the edge of the Orion Cantilever, the massive ship glided through the void, its passage marked by the solemn date: Imperial Calendar, 997.M41. Within its vast hull, the heart of the vessel pulsed—a labyrinth of gears, mechanical spirits, and disciplined navy crew working in unyielding harmony. A masterpiece of ancient engineering, the ship moved with purpose, its every function sustained by technology from a bygone era and consecrated blessings of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
On the bridge of the ship, Captain Bryan Quick stands with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes focused on the endless expanse of stars before him. His dark uniform nearly blends with the cosmos, different from the ceremonial attire of most Imperial officers. There is no gleaming sword at his side—only the heavy burden of a chainsword and the cold promise of a laser pistol.
For most Imperial captains, to be seen with such weapons would be shameful. But for Bryan, it is a reminder of his roots—a soldier from the Astra Militarum, one who has earned his place among the stars. He surveys the bridge, the rhythm of the crew's movements, and nods with satisfaction. "Report," he says, his voice steady and purposeful. "How is the ship? Are we ready for what lies ahead?"
A young officer steps forward, quickly scanning the data before responding. "Cobalt element is fully stocked, sir. Fusion fuel has been injected into the engines. The mechanical sages report that the armor repairs are nearly finished, though they recommend full docking for maintenance. They wish to appease the machine spirits in port."