“The whole pce went dead silent.” Darius’s voice grew distant as he reted the moment. “The chatter, the ughter, the music—everything stopped. It was like someone had hit a giant pause button. People froze in their seats, too scared to even look at each other. Then, slowly, everyone just... left. Dispersed like ghosts. I remember sitting there, heart pounding, terrified someone had overheard. I prayed that no oed him. I hoped he’d be okay.”

  He paused, staring at the floor. “But he wasn’t. Three days ter, he vanished. Just like that. N, no expnation. One day he was there, and the , he was gone. No one dared to ask what happened. It was like he’d never existed. Even his closest friends acted like he was a figment of imagination, like mentioning his name might bring trouble.”

  Kayvaan said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line. He could see the paiched on Darius’s face, the kind of pain that came from betrayal and loss.

  Darius tinued, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and despair. “Someone snitched. Someone in our circle—a persorusted—betrayed him. But who? I don’t know. It could’ve been anyone. Hell, it could’ve been all of them. Maybe they thought it wasn’t betrayal. Maybe they believed they were being loyal to the Empire. But I know the truth. It was betrayal. Pin and simple.”

  He ched his fists, his knuckles turning white. “And the worst part? There’s no trial, no rules, n. They don’t tell you what’s forbidden. It’s like living in a world where invisible walls surround you. You don’t see them, but the moment you cross a line, yone. Just like that.”

  Darius took a shaky breath, his hands trembling slightly as he spoke. “That fear? It’s everywhere. It’s in the air we breathe, in the sileween versations, in every forced smile and nervous ugh. It seeps into your soul until it’s all you know.”

  Kayvaan exhaled deeply, still unsure how to respond. He had no words for this kind of invisible terror. But Darius wasn’t done. His voice cracked, full of suppressed emotion. “You know, I’ve been dreaming about my friend tely. He was more than just some rich guy. He was smart, thoughtful—a brilliant historian. Everything he said, even when he was drunk, was deliberate. He never spoke without thinking first. And now, looking back, I realize how brave he was to say what he did, even if it cost him everything. He wasn’t just talking nonsense. He was telling the truth. And we all k. We just didn’t have the ce to admit it.”

  Kayvaan sat there, silent, letting Darius’s words sink in. There was nothing he could say that would make any of this easier. So he listened, the only fort he could in a gaxy that seemed to have none.__________________Meanwhile somewhere else in the gaxy, a inquisitor is fused. ‘305 If there’s no meaning, why do they keep whispering that string of numbers?’

  He had to let it go. If he couldn’t decipher any significe, then maybe there truly wasn’t any. He had fiden this clusion because he wasn’t just anyone—he was an Inquisitor. His training had honed a sharp, instinctive sense for numbers and intelligence. Even among the elite ranks of the Inquisition, few could rival his skill in analyzing information. ’So why? What was this all about?’

  It had started out as a mission like any other—methodical, structured. But things spiraled out of trol. He had been forced to flee, barely surviving. Now, standing at the gates of the town, he allowed himself a moment to breathe. The town was a “sanctuary,” at least for now. That gave him some fort, though not much. He had a premonition that whatever this was, it would end here.

  Stopping at the gate, he pulled out a lho-stick, lit it, and took a long, deliberate drag. The familiar burn in his lungs helped calm his rag thoughts. Slowly, he exhaled the smoke, letting it drift away in the cold night air. He o rex, to think clearly.

  This wasn’t just a mission gone wrong; it was the Inquisition’s greatest failure in living memory. Thirteen Inquisitors operating on the Eastern Fringe had been sughtered—systematically, brutally. Some were hacked into pieces, others had their skulls bloart by high-energy pulse fire. One had his throat slit, another burned alive. They died in their offices, in busy city streets, in filthy ditches, and in bzing fires. One even dropped dead in a crowded square for no disible reason.

  Something was very wrong. He had been tasked with finding out what. He’d scoured every murder site, examined every corpse, pieced together every clue. But his search painted a terrifying picture. Somehow, he’d bee the arget.

  How the enemy found him was a mystery, just as it was with the others. Inquisitors didn’t walk around with badges or wear identifying marks. They were masters of cealment—needles in haystacks, drops of water in the o. Yet the enemy had plucked them out one by ohirteen times. Fourteen, if we included him. There was no doubt in his mind now—there was a traitor in the Inquisition. Someone high up. Someoh access to personnel lists cssified beyond clearance.

  Knowing this, he had moved cautiously between star systems in the Eastern Fringe, iigating each crime se. He had gathered critical intelligence, hoping to uhe truth. But the enemy had caught on to him before he could report back.

  Along the way, his team—twelve loyal agents—had been picked off one by o first, when the enemy made their move, he’d felt a flicker of triumph. They’d set traps, id ambushes, ready to capture or kill their assaints. But the tables turhe hunters became the huhe enemy was too powerful, too ruthless to be human.

  From the evidence—deep bde wounds, bodies scorched by ons of unknown make, and the lingering sting of psychiterference—he kheir attackers were no ordinary criminals. They were Eldar. Xenos wanderers, beings of terrifying psychic might, capable of atrocities that defied prehension. The Imperium had no she of foes, but only the most dangerous of mankind could operate at such a scale. Those few were already branded as heretid closely watched by the Inquisition. No sane rogue would dare provoke the wrath of the Inquisition. It was suicide.

  But the Eldar weren’t human, and they didn’t think like humans. The number haunted him. 305. It was a whisper, low and insistent, gnawing at the edges of his mind. He didn’t know where it came from or who was saying it, but the sound was as clear as a bell. It sychiterference—he was certain of that. He had dealt with psykers before and uood their power. They could do things that defied reason: summon fire or ice, trol lightning, even glimpse the strands of fate. Sending whispers into someone’s mind? That was child’s py for them.

  So why? What did they want? What it meant—sin victims, unholy rituals, or something far worse—he could not yet say.