Lord of the Night

She knew she ought to destroy him, this atavistic relic of the Great Heresy. He was, after all, vulnerable before her. Naked, defenceless. Here, in this realm of psychic material, trapped within his own brain as if sealed inside-out, here she could crush him like a worm. In her mind's eye she imagined a weapon forming within her hand, and sure enough a cold weight sagged into existence, gathering solidity.

But his eyes...

So lonely. So wounded.

'Who are you?' he said, derailing her thoughts. 'Who do you serve?'

She swallowed and hid the gun behind her back, diverting her dangerous thoughts towards his question, relieved at the distraction. 'I am Mita Ashyn. Interrogator of the Divine Emperor's Holy Inquisition.'

'You serve this... this Kaustus? The one who has stolen my inheritance?'

'Yes. No... I did. Once. Not any more.'

'He rejected you, yes? Cast you aside.'

'It's not that simple, I—'

'It's always that simple.' He looked away. 'For the likes of us, at least.'

'What do you mean?'

'You know what I mean, little witch. Little mutant. Little abomination.'

She shook her head, forcing herself to calm, clearing her mind. 'You won't anger me, traitor,' she said.

The Night Lord tried to shrug, chains tightening across shoulders and arms, and returned his eyes to her face. 'I don't seek your anger,' he said, voice calm. 'Only your understanding. I ask you again: who do you serve?'

'I told you. I serve the Imperium.'

'But they hate you.'

'The Emperor does not! Ave Imperator! The Emperor loves all who give him praise!'

'Ha. You believe that, do you?'

The words formed in her head as if automatic: of course she believed it! Of course the Emperor loved her! And yet even in the confines of her mind, unspoken aloud, such dogma sounded empty, thoughtless, the recitals of a simpleton who knew no better.

Frustrated, angered by her inner turmoil, she raised the gun and aimed at the Night Lord's heart.

'I don't have to listen to you, traitor,' she said.

The quaver in her voice was impossible to conceal.

And oh, oh warpspit and piss, she did need to listen to it. She did need to hear what the beast had to say.

Why? Why did she feel so obliged?

A self-appointed test of her faith, perhaps?

Or perhaps just the comfort of knowing she was not alone in feeling such doubts...

The crucified beast gave no sign of fear at the gun's wavering attention.

'So,' he nodded, brows arching, 'you have the love of one being, out of countless billions? And that is enough?'