Elizabeth had spent two years preparing this report, agonizing over whether to submit it. Her hatred for Kayvaan had dulled over time, repced by a fusing mix of emotions.

  To Elizabeth, this report was a on—a decisive blow that could all but guarantee Kayvaan’s downfall. In the cve’s methods, once such a report was submitted, survival was almost impossible for the target. Ironically, it was the daemon within Kayvaan that ensured she lived to deliver the report. The daemon wahe cve to know Kayvaan’s secret, to provoke them into hunting him openly. If Kayvaan were killed, the daemon within him would be set free.

  Elizabeth often wondered: if not for the daemon, would the real Kayvaan have let her live? Over the past five years, she’d asked herself that question tless times. She didn’t have an answer, but the thought was grimly amusing. The daemon spared her life, while the true Kayvaan might have taken it.

  Absurd. What felt even more absurd was Randall’s attitude toward her report. His hesitation was maddening. “Yes, we’ll deal with this matter ter,” Randall said casually. “Chapter Master Kayvaan has been stable for five years. He’s not going to drop dead tomorrow. And as an Astartes, he won’t succumb to old age or disease anytime soon. Even if he is a time bomb, the tdown is long. Right now, we have more pressing matters to address.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “What’s happening that’s sent?”

  Randall sighed, leaning ba his chair. “It’s an internal cve issue, plicated and hard to expi me put it this way—do you know why you’ve struggled to advance? By all rights, your performan your st mission should’ve earned you signifit rewards. True, your five-year disappearanplicated things, and you should’ve faced severe punishment for it. But eveing that aside, you should have mnition by now. Yet your career has stagnated.”

  Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m a woman?”

  Randall grimaced. “No. Well, irely. Yender might factor into it in subtle ways, but the Inquisition isn’t so shallow as to let sexism alone dictate your path. No, the real reason lies deeper.”

  “If not my gehen what?” she pressed.

  Randall studied her for a moment, then sighed. “You’ve ged, Elizabeth. I see it. Maybe now you’re ready to hear the truth.” He rose from his desk, walked to the door, and checked to e was securely shut. Satisfied, he turned back to her, his expression serious. “This is fidential. When that door opens again, this versation never happened. Uood?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “You don’t have to remind me. I know the rules.”

  Randall took a deep breath. “The truth is, you ck a fa. That’s why you’ve faced so much resistance.”

  Elizabeth blinked, fused. “Fa?”

  “Yes,” Randall said. “You came from the Sisters—a pure and militant order, untouched by the political games of the Inquisition. As a Sister of Battle, you were taught that the greatest honor is to die for the Emperor, that sacrifi the battlefield is the ultimate reward. Innod faith were your core virtues. Even the Inquisition’s training couldn’t ge that. You’ve learo see through heresy, to dis truth from lies, and you’ve bee a sharp and effective tool against the enemies of the Imperium. But you’re blind to the dangers around you—within your own ranks.”

  Elizabeth frowned, uled by his words. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  Randall shook his head. “You’ve been a soldier, Elizabeth. You’re used to trusting your rades, leaving your back to your sisters ira Militarum. But the cve isn’t a battlefield. It’s a political byrinth. Here, you’re not just an Inquisitor; you’re a pyer in a game of influence. And without a fa, you’re vulnerable.”

  Elizabeth sat back, her mind rag. She wasn’t sure whether to feel insulted or enlightened. “So, you’re saying I’m being excluded because I don’t py the political game?”

  Randall nodded. “Precisely. The cve is far from united. It’s divided into fas, each with its own agenda and interpretation of the Emperor’s will. These fas influence how justice is served, what methods are employed, and who rises to power. You’re an outsider—loyal only to the Emperor, not to any group. That makes you a threat to the established order.” He hesitated before tinuing, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “You’ve likely felt the subtle exclusion already. No direct arguments, no overt flicts—just an absence of cooperation, a ck of trust. You’re the first to face bme and the st to receive reition. It’s not just your past; it’s your independehe fas see it as a liability.”

  Elizabeth frowned deeply. “And what are these fas?”

  Randall shook his head. “I ’t give you details. That knowledge is something you’ll have to uncover on your own. But there’s one fa you o be especially wary of—the Istvanians.”

  “Istvanian fa?” Elizabeth repeated, her brow furrowing in fusion. “I suddenly feel like I’ve never been part of the cve. you expin it iail? I’m pletely lost.”

  Randall sighed, leaning forward. “The Istvanians are the most dangerous among the radicals. They’re a group within the Imperium who believe that disasters are necessary for the Imperium to grow strohey hold to the a adage that hardship breeds resilience, and they’ve taken this philosophy to its extreme. History, unfortunately, lends some credibility to their beliefs.

  “They argue that it was the Horus Heresy—a catastrophic betrayal—that purged disloyal Astartes from the Emperor’s side. They point to the Age of Apostasy and how it gave rise to Sebastian Thor and his sweeping reforms of the Ecclesiarchy. Even during periods of chaos aru, the Imperium made leaps in teology, faith, and gactitrol. To them, only through the crucible of suffering humanity’s hidden strength be revealed. More war, more adversity—these, they cim, are the keys to the Imperium’s glory.”

  Randall paused, his expression darkening. “And from this twisted logic, they draw horrifying clusions. If there’s no war, create one. If the Imperium cks hardship, manufacture disaster.” He fixed Elizabeth with a sharp gaze. “What do you think of their philosophy?”

  Elizabeth felt a chill run down her spine. “It’s grotesque,” she said firmly. “I uand ordinary citizens thinking that way, but if inquisitors—those tasked with safeguarding the Imperium—believe it, it’s terrifying. Their as would risk causing irreparable harm. The God-Emperor is above; it’s hard to see how such chaos could strehe Imperium rather than weaken it.”

  Randall nodded grimly. “Exactly. Their existence borders on heresy. By iionally f disaster, they endanger humanity’s foundation. The Istvanians are enemies, not just to the Imperium, but to the very purpose of the Inquisition.” He leaned back, his tone softening. “I’m gd to see you’ve kept a clear head. Perhaps being away from the cve these past five years was a blessing. You’re untainted by their falcies. Remember, the cve exists to protect the Imperium and the God-Emperor. We’re here to root out threats, not create them.”

  Elizabeth’s expression grew serious. “I uand. But what does this have to do with our current situation?”

  Randall nodded approvingly. “Do you recall why we came to the Eastern Fringe in the first pce?”