Warhammer 40k: Shattered Steel Soul

It only took Iskandar Khayon approximately ten minutes to locate the auxiliary army of the Night Ghost King's Court on the surface of Olympia.

In a higher level of etheric state of mind, he could feel those cold and fanatical souls, like black flames, using religious fervor to fill the hunger and thirst of the broken openings deep in the soul.

That kind of dark fire burned in the secluded place on the outskirts of Lokos, as if it was about to swallow up the current dusk into a dark eternal midnight.

Well, it became a little obvious that this army of mortals didn't look like pure human beings.

However, Kayon believed in the judgment of Perturabo, the master of the Iron Warriors. Perturabo did not never make mistakes, but at least he would not ignore such an obvious hidden danger.

Had the Fourth Primarch agreed to invite the team to his cherished homeworld, such anomalies would have been tolerable.

He said goodbye to Telemanon, told the Iron Warrior captain who led his team where he was going, wore a crimson cotton robe for daily life rather than wartime, put the battle ax Velid on his waist as usual, and walked there. The location of the supporting auxiliary army.

He didn't have time to appreciate the construction level of Lokos, the capital kingdom of Olympia, which was different from Tizca but still far exceeded the galactic average. He just wanted to know what the potion was about.

He stopped a few hundred meters away from the temporary barracks set up by the Night Ghost King's Court. He stared up at the purple-orange horizon at sunset, the dark Gothic-style spire that seemed to rise overnight. He hesitated for a moment. , stop moving forward temporarily.

What was he going to say later?

In this way, he made a draft for himself in his mind, are you the gatekeeper? Hello, the army of the Eighth Legion, I would like to ask which of you watched the equestrian competition between the Astartes this morning? Okay, can you invite him to come and talk to me?

"What are you doing here, Lord Space Marine?" A familiar yet unfamiliar female voice sounded in his ears. He had only heard this voice once before, but he had already remembered it deeply.

He turned calmly and lowered his head, content with the calmness expected of an Astartes warrior.

"Nefertari," Khayon said, noting that Nefertari still had her wings clinging to her back, "Hello. I wanted to ask if any of you were watching the Astartes this morning. That equestrian competition?”

A dozen sons of the Muses, wearing hoods, with dark skin and snow-white hair, looked at each other. They should be on the same road as Khayon, preparing to return to their camp.

Kayon suddenly realized that he had not heard the approaching sounds of these creatures at all. They were too quiet - living up to their reputation as night ghosts.

"We are all here." The female warrior's thin blue-gray lips opened and closed, touching each other lightly while speaking in a closed accent. "What questions do you want to know?"

"How did you recognize that potion? Did you really rely on your sense of smell?"

"The fearless mood and forgetful pride are the representative symptoms of drug abuse." Nefertari said.

"That sounds like a normal state for the Emperor's Children."

The female warrior smiled and said, "No, the world became colorful and restless in front of his eyes. He was more dizzy and desperate than ever before, but he had no consciousness in his heart and thought everything was as usual. Even the most proud warrior, We won’t fall into this state for no reason. We can distinguish the details of these emotions at a glance.”

"Are you familiar with it?"

"You don't belong in our night," Nefertari hinted tactfully, reminding Khayon that he was asking too many questions. It seems that just like the Iron Warriors, each Legion has its own secrets.

Sometimes, a scholar's thirst for knowledge will drive Khayon to do something outrageous, an instinct that even their Primarch cannot completely restrain and can only try to adjust. And this is one of the reasons why Magnus makes some ridiculous mistakes from time to time.

"Did you make it?" Khayon asked.

Nefertari looked at him. "No," she said.

"Then do you know who has the ability to create this alchemical potion?" He paused. "Is it possible that it is someone from the Eighth Legion? Or an apothecary of the Emperor's Children?"

"Under unknown conditions, anything can happen."

The son of the Muses gave an ambiguous answer, but Khayon would not ignore the flash of contempt on the female warrior's thin face when he mentioned the latter possibility.

"We are natural disasters and nightmares, but we are not masters of flesh and blood," she said.

Interesting metaphor. Khayon thought. But he still didn't get a definite answer.

"I would like to visit your camp," he continued, "for the sake of my battle brother. There is no way he could take that potion on his own, not even for the sake of honor."

"If you insist," the female warrior agreed nonchalantly. Her reaction was unexpected, and Kayon immediately understood that there was probably nothing special about this camp built above the ground. They did not bring their secrets to Olympia.

"Forget it," the scholar said sadly, quenching the curiosity that was surging in his heart. It seemed that he could extract no useful information from the Son of the Muses.

Some secrets are best left untouched. One of Magnus's mottos is that even if you think you know everything and are omnipotent, no matter how perfect a scholar is, you cannot master all the knowledge in his hands. The sand of Tizca will definitely leak out from the gaps in the palms.

"Is it possible for me to get in touch with you in the future?" He asked, feeling that something was wrong with his words, and added: "For the sake of Telemanon."

"Contact?" Nefertari repeated, looking at him strangely, "Unfortunately, you are a psyker, sir. The latest regulations in my hometown are restrictions on psionic powers."

"However, in Olympia, if you really need it, contact us via the datapad. The Sons of the Muses' communication key..."

The female warrior reached into her cloak and searched for what she needed in her belt pouch. Suddenly, her movements stopped, and this woman who had never been in awe of anything raised her snow-white eyebrows for the first time, and her dark night-like eyes radiated with anger.

"A thief touched something of mine," she said to another warrior of the same type beside her, her accent almost far removed from the realm of Gothic, "my hair rope."

"Lost?" asked her companion.

"No, just touching, but it cannot be limited to touching..." Nefertari gritted her teeth, "Not long ago."

hair, or skin debris. This occurred to her immediately. In Gemo, this is a common material used in divination, curses, cloning, and other conspiracies.

"Maybe I can help you." Kayon cleared his throat. This is a good entry point. "It's within my ability to follow some recent traces."

Nefertari stared at him, and Khayon nodded to her, waiting patiently for a response.

"Okay," she finally relented. She purchased these hair ropes in Olympia, and psykers cannot trace the secrets further back.

She came over, handed the hair rope to Kayon's outstretched palm, and then quickly withdrew her hand.

"Thank you, sir."

This time the honorific finally sounded sincere. Kayon thought. Little spells gathered in his hands.

Everything has memory. Memory exists in the aura of all objects. Memories are waiting to be discovered. Memories are waiting for an outpouring.

In the afternoon, it was in Nefertari's kit. Like the Primarchs of the Nightghost Court, all of them had the habit of carrying tool kits with them.

It waited in total darkness. The sons of the Muses spoke to each other vaguely and distantly, chatting in Gothic about unimportant trivia. It heard it.

It spent a noon filled with the aroma of food. Nefertari thought Olympia's cuisine was too bland. This is an irrelevant piece of information.

During the morning it was kept on a wooden rack outside the grounds along with the entire kit. It hung there for a long time. There were only Astartes around and no one came near.

Then, light shines in. Like a pale blade thrust into the dark silk. It was taken out, soaked in a quick-drying liquid, and something was extracted. It was put back.

Khayon focused his energy on this one bright moment. He watched intently and breathlessly. Then he saw it.

A servitor, undoubtedly belonging to the Astartes fleet. Armor on a white background, featureless gray cloth. Its presence here does not arouse any suspicion. It faithfully fulfills its master's orders. Who is its owner?

Khayon became more focused. Flashes of light mingled before his eyes. It made his eyes sting, and as the last rays of his psychic spell were leaving him quickly, his power began to fade.

The spell is about to reach its limit of use set by the Primarch. This is protection and limitation.

Khayon cleared away all distracting thoughts and tried his best to explore the truth wrapped around the servitor under the veil. Finally, he caught the last clue - a flash of purple light.

His eyes shot open.

"It seems Telemanon was right," he murmured, "I need to see Fabius Bile. Yes... a servitor belonging to the Emperor's Children has tampered with your belongings for unknown reasons. . I will go back and report this matter to the original body Perturabo, you..."

"Contact my king immediately." Nefertari said to her companions, and then she looked deeply at Khayon: "Thank you, Lord Space Marine."

"Iskandar Khayon," Khayon said, bidding farewell to the sons of the Muses.

His mind was filled with the newly discovered evidence. After he walked out for a long time, he suddenly remembered that the real pronunciation of his name was "Sekhandu Kain", but few people paid attention to this.

Until next time, he thought.