Kayvaan was sharp—almost ulingly so. He met their verbal assaults with a ess that seemed to sap the aggression from the air. When the questions turned harsh and even ht insulting, his anger surfaced but never overtook him. Instead, he directed it into firm, steady responses, her provoking nor bag down. Elizabeth found herself questioning her assumptions. Could this truly be a Space Marine? His steady temperament and sharp wit felt more like those of a iator than a battle-hardened warrior.

  Frustrated, Elizabeth discarded her pnned approad strode into the interrogation chamber. She tried intimidation, but it failed utterly. Kayvaan didn’t even blink at the mention of the Ordo Malleus—a hat would leave even the most devious heretics trembling. His bnk expression, as though she had mentioned something trivial, only deepened her frustration. No daemon, no matter how skilled at deception, could maintain suposure.

  And then there were the tests—tests that should have uhed any sign of corruption but instead returned results that were infuriatingly clear. There was no taint, no psychic resonance, and no mutation. His physical dition was remarkably pure. The results painted a picture of someoirely untouched by Chaos.

  The only unusual aspect of Kayvaan was his appearance. His skin, smooth and untouched by age or wear, stood in stark trast to his long stasis. Yet even this bore no signs of corruption. In any other situation, this would have been enough to clear him. A simple ruling by the Inquisition would have ehe matter. But Kayvaan was no ordinary case.

  Soon after his awakening, messages began flooding in from various Space Marine Chapters. Even the Blood Angels, who bore the heavy burden of the Bck Rage, sent inquiries. The messages were brief, often little more thaions about Kayvaan's status, but their meaning was clear. To these Chapters, he was more than a relic; he was a symbol—a hero from the Imperium’s early days, alive once more.

  Even more telling was the response from the High Lords of Terra, who sent a formal note aowledging their i in Kayvaan's case. And then, there was the Emperor Himself. His physical form had been ied by the Emperor’s meisms—an act that pced him beyond the reach of ordinary judgment.

  Despite all this, Elizabeth couldn’t dismiss the feeling that something was amiss. It wasn’t logical, nor was it based on evide was her instinct—a sehat had guided her through tless battles against heresy and Chaos. To Elizabeth, this wasn’t just a vague feeling; it was a force she trusted as much as her owime and again, her instincts had led her to truth, and now they focused on one person: Kayvaan. Something about him felt off, hiddeh the surface.

  The interrogatied on, grinding and monotonous. Most of the questions were routihe kind used to establish text. But Kayvaan’s answers—or ck of uanding—made the process far more difficult. He wasn’t dodging the questions; it was clear he genuinely didn’t uand many of the topics being discussed. His fusion stemmed from one undeniable truth: Kayvaan had been asleep for housand years.

  Nine millennia. That span of time exceeded the lifespan of entire civilizations. To Kayvaan, the gaxy he awoke to was alien. Every questio like opening a door to yet arange and unfamiliar cept.

  “Who’s Kayvaan?” he asked at one point, his expression ear.

  Elizabeth pressed her fio her temple, suppressing a sigh. It wasn’t defiance; his ignorance was geill, the endless bad-forth tested her patience. Every question seemed to lead to yet another round of expnations. By the third day, Elizabeth had reached her limit.

  The clusion was filed in a single word: Pure. Yet, the matter wasn’t settled. Passing the initial review was only the beginning. Kayvaan was sent for a thh medical evaluation and assigned a six-month period of observation within an Imperial chapel on Terra. The practice was rgely ceremonial, meant to show that even heroes of legend were subject to the Imperium’s ws.

  In truth, the Imperium’s rulers had little desire for these legendary figures to awaken. Heroes of the past were far easier to manage as silent symbols, lying motionless in their sarcophagi. Revered but harmless. A living hero was uable—a potential disruptor to the established order. More often than not, they caused more problems than they solved.

  _______________Darius stood outside the old wooden door, his nerves frayed. His heart raced, and for the eighth time that m, he adjusted his suit. Today was moal, and he felt the weight of it pressing down on him.

  The suit was -tailored, crafted specifically for this occasion. Its dark blue and bck fabric carried an air of sophistication beyond his years. At sixteen, Darius knew his youth was against him. Every detail had to be perfemand respect despite his boyish features.

  Taking a deep breath, he ted silently. Owo, three. Then, with all the determination he could muster, he pushed the door open. Before he could enter, a calm voice halted him. “Don’t you know how to knock?”

  Darius froze, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. Hastily, he shut the door and knocked properly. Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “e in,” the voice said again, now less sharp.

  He stepped ihe room was small and bare, much like the rest of the chapel. No grand adors or extravagant furniture—just quiet simplicity.

  Sitting on a worn wooden chair was a young man with jet-bck hair. The sunlight from an open window framed him, casting a golden glow that seemed almost otherworldly. His eyes were closed, and his expression eaceful, as though he were soaking in the light.

  It was a sight that pletely shattered Darius’s expectations. In his mind, Kayvaan Shrike was supposed to be t, scarred, and fearsome, with a presehat radiated danger. He had imagined a giant dark armor, standing atop a mountain of skulls, a being who exuded raw power. But this… this was nothing like that.

  Summoning his ce, Darius asked tentatively, “Excuse me, are you Mr. Kayvaan Shrike?”

  The man opened his eyes, and Darius felt an immediate sense of calm. Kayvaan’s gaze was steady, g any malice or intimidation. His face was striking—not weathered or battle-worn, but serene, carrying a quiet grace that was almost ethereal. “Yes,” Kayvaan replied, his tone soft but clear. “You’ve found the right person. I am Kayvaan Shrike. But just Kayvaan will do. And you are?”

  Darius bowed respectfully. “My name is Darius Alen Shadowglin. I’m the only desdant of Alen.”

  “Alen?” Kayvaan's expression softened further. “Ah, little Alen. I see the resembnce. You’ve ied his fad that same determined look. Tell me, is he still alive?”