Many years later, when standing before the golden-clad "Corn-heads" of the Custodes and the legendary Primarchs themselves, Rogue Trader Octavia von Valancius would look back on her twenty-fourth year—specifically, this unremarkable yet utterly bizarre day.
It was the glorious starting point of her legend.
As a newly appointed Rogue Trader who had just erged victorious from a bloody succession war—and hadn't even had ti to hold a proper inauguration—she was currently curled up aboard the Golden Dawn. The ship was a Chalice-class Battlecruiser inherited from her predecessor, and Octavia was pushing its engines to their limit, racing toward "The Maw" so she could finalize her succession on Dagonus.
For the past four days, Idira had been acting "eccentric," muttering about revelations, fate, and threads of destiny. Had Octavia not personally talked Sister Argenta out of an imdiate execution, the unsanctioned psyker wouldn't have even had the chance to perform this tarot reading.
Seventy-eight liquid-crystal cards blurred through the psyker's fingers. A million whispers echoed in Idira's soul; her eyes were vacant, her fingers moving by instinct alone—an expression of a will far greater than her own.
Octavia sipped her drink with bored indifference. As the complex, subtle notes of Laer-can wine saturated her palate, her thoughts began to drift.
As an "unsanctioned" but reliable psyker, Idira had divined for her many tis. Sotis Octavia requested it; other tis, Idira felt a "pull." Every ti, the results were pivotal. The most significant reading had predicted a betrayal, allowing Octavia to dodge the most lethal assassination attempt of her life.
This ti seed more severe. Idira had been shuffling for an hour without drawing a single card. Octavia was beginning to wonder if sothing truly world-shaking was on the horizon.
Finally, the diviner let out a piercing shriek. Blood trickled from her eyes and ears as the cards leaped from her fingertips, scattering across the deck.
"Damnation."
Octavia cursed, helping Idira onto a sofa before carefully gathering the scattered Emperor's Tarot.
Five cards had landed face-up: The Emperor (Upright), The Revelation (Upright), The Harlequin (Upright), The Moon (Reversed), and finally, The Astartes.
With her chief diviner incapacitated by psychic backlash, Octavia had to rely on her own limited knowledge to interpret the spread.
The Emperor and Revelation were both upright. An upright Emperor was an excellent on, but Revelation... she scratched her head. She couldn't rember its specific aning, but coupled with the first card, it likely ant The Emperor's Guidance.
When she saw the third card, The Harlequin, she clicked her tongue. Since taking the warrant, she seed to have a bizarre magnetic attraction to the Aeldari. First there was Yrliet and her "kin," and now this... more pointy-ears?
The fourth was The Moon. It signified fear and unknown danger, but its reversed position suggested the threat was mitigated or avoidable.
The fifth card... Octavia paused. When she picked it up, had it been upright or reversed? No matter. Since no "Death" or "Ruin" cards appeared, it ant danger was present, but survival was likely.
"Abelard, Idira is injured. I need dical—"
She tapped her vox-bead to summon her loyal seneschal, but the entire ship lurched. The muffled roar of explosions and the high-pitched shriek of weapons fire echoed through the hull.
"Abelard! Status report!"
Only static answered her.
Sothing's wrong.
Octavia surged to her feet. After ensuring Idira was secure, she snatched up her weapons and t Sister Argenta, who had just burst into the room. It was common for a ship to face "complications" during transit—usually a lower-deck mutiny, occasionally a military coup (like the one that killed her predecessor, Theodora), or thirdly... pirates.
After gunning down several crazed ratings, Octavia finally reached the bridge. The sight on the monitors exceeded her worst expectations.
Terror was spreading like a virus through the Golden Dawn. Swarms of pale-skinned xenos sat atop spiked raiders, laughing like maniacs as they tore through the crew, firing splinter-weapons into the crowds. Officers attempted to return fire from behind cover, but they were no match for the Drukhari's blurring speed. They could only watch as the xenos danced through the hail of lead before returning a lethal volley.
Fury bubbled up in Octavia's chest. She scanned the bridge, noting the chaos, but noticed one specific xenos was missing.
"Where is Yrliet?"
the officers exchanged confused glances; none had seen the Ranger.
"Pointy-eared xenos scum... I knew she was a liability!"
Octavia finally let out a string of curses. She decided that if they survived this, she'd hand that wayward girl over to the Inquisition personally.
But there was no ti for a reckoning. She had to command.
"Pasqal, status report on the void shields, propulsion, and armor plating."
"Request acknowledged. Void shields are functional. Propulsion is at seventy-two percent. Armor integrity at eighty-four percent. Priority warning: Main plasma conduits are compromised; fire suppression is active."
"If the shields are up, how did they get inside?"
Octavia asked in disbelief. Then it hit her—the xenos must have used specialized mitic shrouds to bypass the shields at low velocity, effectively "sneaking" through the defensive grid to sabotage the ship from within.
"Low-velocity units," Magos Pasqal responded in his chanical drone, his hydraulic chadendrites pulling a weapon from a nearby rack. "And Drukhari mitic technology is advanced."
"Fine."
Octavia sighed, climbing onto the Command Throne with a heavy heart. She began broadcasting a flurry of orders. After a brief period of disruption, the vox-network was restored through the Magos's efforts. The scattered crew began to coalesce, organizing a disciplined defense under their respective officers.
The Drukhari offensive stalled.
Click.
The neural interface probes detached from the sockets in Octavia's neck. She rubbed her aching muscles and looked at her gathered companions.
The current stability was an illusion. Beyond the raiders inside her ship, she had no idea how many more were waiting in the void—was it a minor slaving party or a full Kabalite raid? Were reinforcents on the way? The only way to break the deadlock was to find the enemy leader and kill them.
Or, failing that, stall until the "Astartes" predicted by the tarot arrived.
She checked her plasma pistol—her constant companion—and strode toward the exit.
"May the Emperor protect."
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