Light from thousands of glittering spires illuminated the gunship, the sun reflecting off innumerable windows silhouetting the ships gunner as he scanned the city with his heavy bolter. Amelia was engrossed by the view, Hive Castle was truly a monument to Imperial architecture, stretching twelve miles into the sky and sprawling across a distance of hundreds of miles it was easily the largest city on the planet, five spires breaking the horizon with irregular slums and polluted industry filling the space in between. The city was bordered on one side by a mountain range that were as rolling hills compared to the spires, gradually sloping down through great ferrocrete landing platforms, surrounded by maze-like bunkers at which the kilometres long Administratum merchantmen collected the planet’s tithe, to a jungle of docks, jetties and warehouses and the hundreds of waterborne cargo ships which rotated through every day, bringing in Chromium for export off world and leaving laden with the products of Castle’s industry.

Despite the vast sprawl, space was at a premium, and so the sides of the spires, with their commanding views, were the realm of the elite of the world’s social classes; the land above the haze of pollution, over which Amelia was currently soaring, was the domain of the noble houses and public buildings. The cathedrals of the Ecclesiarchical complex jutted outwards, images of the Emperor and his Primarchs on innumerable stained-glass windows made radiant through the sun’s light. Noble houses maintained sweeping vistas and rooftop gardens, kept safe from pollutants behind intricate panes of glass, or barely noticeable void shields. Architectural marvels of reinforced sandstone lay behind them, their roofs imitating the red terracotta tiles of the world’s pre-imperial architecture.

The Valkyrie circled the Hive’s primary spire, the domain of the central government of the entire system, gradually drawing closer to the buildings. It was part of a formation eighteen other Valkyries, all surrounding an ornate Thunderhawk containing the Inquisitor himself. Fighter aircraft periodically roared past the formation, their air-to-ground munitions keeping the spire’s defences lowered in a gesture of supplication. Soon they arrived at a section of the hive that would have been prime real estate, overlooking the great landing fields and the ocean beyond. This segment of the hive was dominated by vast blockhouses and fortresses whose many weapon emplacements held a commanding view of all possible angles of approach. The ominous structures were entirely windowless, indeed the only changes from its featureless grey walls were its cavernous hangers, their doors now open to the environment, and the scales within a stylised I that marked this as the Precinct-Fortress for the world’s detachment of the Adeptus Arbites.

The hanger had an expectant atmosphere; a parade of uniformed but unarmed Arbites Officers stood at attention led by a cluster of visibly nervous Judges and Arbitrators. By the time Amelia’s vessel landed these figures were already gathered around the Inquisitor, who was engaged in a low conversation with a junior officer who seemed out of place amongst these senior figures until Amelia noticed the Inquisitorial sigil pinned to his collar, and the anger and suspicion radiating off the other officers. Despite the ceremonial greeting, the Inquisitor’s Stormtroopers had formed a defensive perimeter, and were openly aiming their weapons at their welcoming party. Eventually the Inquisitors conversation ceased, and an announcement was broadcast across the precinct’s tannoy in a stilted and artificial voice.

‘Attention. This facility is now under the control of Inquisitor Heydrax. All non-essential personnel are confined to barracks, and no Officer is to go armed unless ordered to do so by agents of the Throne. Dismissed.’

This was the que for the Inquisition to act, hauling cogitators, medical equipment and even furniture off their aircraft, before disappearing down the station’s corridors. Amelia’s group was no exception, the Chiurgeon handing one of his heavy cases to Amelia, who took one last look at the vista beyond the hanger doors before heading into the dark corridors of the precinct. She saw a trio of interceptors passing low over the grounds of some noble house. The aircraft were flying in a tight formation, seeming more avian than mechanical at this distance. Flashes of light emanated from their nose and rockets detached from their wingtips, striking the base of an ornate tower which shattered under the barrage and collapsed into a heap. Distance rendered the tableau eerily silent for a few seconds before the sounds of explosions, intermingled with crackling volleys of lasfire and the sharp retort of autoguns, reached her ears.

Winding corridors filled the precinct, each as spartan as the exterior, designed to confuse escapees or attackers. Camera’s were seemingly omnipresent and a strip of red wiring stretched along every wall, an alarm that would summon aid to that specific location in the event of an emergency. Each person in the team was laden with equipment, save for the interrogator who strode ahead, wholly indifferent to the struggles of his teammates. He issued a constant stream of instructions on the kind of setup he needed, as well as the nine levels of interrogation employed by the Inquisition, and the duties of the group in each of the levels.

Amelia was silently grateful that she would not be needed until the fifth level; though she had been trained in interrogation technique she was thoroughly horrified by the process. Judging by the concerned impression on the Chirugeon’s face he was similarly uneasy about the prospect, but in the end both of them were bound by duty. Eventually they reached their destination, a repurposed cell block that, judging by the headache she got from the walls, Amelia assumed usually held Psykers awaiting collection by the Black Ships. Arbites staff had already set up some camp cots in one wing for the acolytes, leaving another wing unfurnished for any guests. Amelia’s horror at the cells, so similar to the one she had spent four months in before being taken aboard the Black Ship, was only kept in check by her neural inhibitors.

They toiled for an hour, unpacking the medical equipment, sweeping the area for bugs and checking the security of the bindings before Interrogator Dray received word through his earpiece that their first guest would soon be arriving. He gathered the team in the interrogation room, and gave them their briefing.

Duque Antone Benvente was the patriarch of the influential House Benevente, an ancient line whose sons had filled the ranks of the world’s elite military forces since the planet’s settlement, and whose holdings included a thousand square kilometres of arable land, as well as industrial and mining operations. It was a Benevente soldier in the Guard who had been found with a heretical talisman and so sparked the entire investigation, Benevente’s house guards had then earned another black mark by firing on the Inquisition when they arrived, necessitating the use of air-strikes to bring them into compliance.

The house also had close ties to the world’s Death Cults, though that was true of the entire nobility, ostensibly pro-Imperial groups comprised of the daughters of nobility who were barred from military service and so sought to venerate the Emperor by killing underhive gangers in a form of blood sacrifice. Antone’s own daughter was believed to be one of the Cult’s elite, and was currently missing. Their objectives were to determine the location of Maria Benevente, as well as investigate the House for any heretical connections. Dismissing the team, the interrogator went to ensure that the final preparations had been made.

Within the hour, a man dressed in scorched finery was manhandled into the interrogation room. He was slightly overweight, and above average height. The burlap sack over his head would have made it difficult for Blunts to judge his mood, but Amelia could feel waves of fear radiating off of him, buried under a veneer of confidence. Normally he would have been left to stew in those fears for days, but time was of the essence so the interrogator began immediately.

Inquisitorial interrogation was moulded by ten thousand years of evolution to a kind of art form. The first two levels of interrogation were largely conversational, first the Interrogator would identify his status as a member of the Inquisition, but would employ no other form of coercion. Then, the threat of violence would be employed, including a verbal description of the higher levels of interrogation. At the third level the prisoner was made to feel uncomfortable through light physical torture, such as a conventional beating or waterboarding. Antone was resilient, and the interrogator moved up to the fourth level, employing greater physical violence and the use of threats to close family members. Unfortunately, there had been few of these on his estate and Antone was unimpressed by the use of level three interrogation on his nephew, declaring that the boy had always been ‘as weak as his damned mother’.

By this point, twenty-four hours had passed and the Interrogator was being placed under increasing pressure to deliver a result. As he worked himself up into a rage over his failures, Amelia took the time for a welcome reprieve, managing to worm her way into the card games the Stormtroopers were playing, or conversing with the Chirugeon to pass the time. The man was a treasure trove of stories, but, just as he was getting to how a lower hive Medicae ended up torturing for the Inquisition, the Interrogator, the rage that radiated off him hidden behind a carefully crafted mask of cruel indifference, beckoned Amelia over.

‘This noble prick is tougher than he has any right to be. I’m moving on to the Fifth Tier, which means you can finally be of use. You’re disgustingly new, but I’m trusting you learned more in witch school than how to lift teacups. You need to find his daughter, Maria. The bitch is in the elite team of one of the largest Death Cults on this Emperor-forsaken world. Deactivate your inhibitors and do not fail me.’

He turned to the soldiers, who had hastily put their cards away, and pointed at one, seemingly at random.

‘You! You’re on containment, watch both her and him for any sign of psychic trickery, psychic blocks are popular amongst the idle rich, and there may be demonic interference. Worst case, you get to use that shiny gun of yours.’

Amelia’s upper neck contained cybernetics that limited the scale of her powers, and the accompanying risk; they also suppressed strong emotions, and so the first sensation Amelia felt upon deactivating them was an all-encompassing panic. She was suddenly acutely aware of just how fragile her mind was, a teacup filled with a storm of psychic energy that could spill over at any moment. Worse still was the constant gnawing sensation she could feel at the edge of her mind, the chittering scratches of her own fears and doubts working away at her mind. Long practice had been unable to erase this fear, but she had learned to bring her emotion in check, and focus her mind outwards instead of in.

Her colleagues became open books, the Chiurgeon’s psyche at war with the man he used to be before the purges, the Stormtrooper assigned as her watcher was superstitious and fearful, but also feeling sorry for the waif of a girl young enough to be his daughter, the tech-adept, who until now had been almost unnoticeable, glowed with hidden ambitions of advancing his station, envisioning himself atop a great machine with faceless followers toiling like ants to his design. The Interrogator’s mind was a closed book to her, wires implanted directly into his brain keeping her at bay. Similarly guarded was the mind she felt inside the cell, though he lacked any kind of mechanical aid. Instead, the long practice of a career in cutthroat politics kept his thoughts hidden.

Amelia sat in front of the noble, his finery now in tatters, his bones broken and reset dozens of times over, and his face still covered by the hood. Gradually, Amelia probed his mind, sending waves of comfort throughout him until she his upon the right combination of emotions to draw the man’s mind towards a place he felt safe and comforted. Seizing upon the memory and enhancing it, Amelia drew herself into his mind.

I am sitting in my solar in the Antevian mountains, the crisp mountain air is blowing through the open balcony, and I can see all the way down to the vast fields of wheat in the valley below, at which my subjects work in a pastoral ideal. There is a woman standing next to me, a strange figure in a long black coat whose hair has been shaved completely off the sides of her head and replaced with horrifying augmetics. She does not belong…

There is a woman standing next to me, she has the face of my dear Maria. This is a centre of business, no place for my little girl. She does not belong…

A servant stands next to me, a tray of drinks in her hand. I pay her no mind. This is my sanctuary, located in the centre of my holdings, surrounded by vast mountains and carefully concealed defences. My house guards, dressed in their glorious blue uniforms, will never let any harm come to me here. It is my refuge from domestic and external strife. I am safe here.

There are papers on my desk before me, they concern my daughter. She is to be married to the son of a powerful noble house, she will bear them strong sons, who will join our elite forces. It is the duty of the nobility to fight, since time immemorial our house has raised commandoes to fight for Nova Iberia. My daughter cannot be marrying, she has not yet proved herself. She told me as much, earlier today…

The servant standing by Duque Benevente grasped at this new memory, shifting their surroundings until they stood in the war room of House Benevente in Hive Castle. The Duke now stood atop a raised dais overlooking a great hololithic projection of the airspace over hive castle. Officers in red uniforms were engaged in hurried conversation on the floor below with another standing behind his left shoulder. Leaning over the railing was a lithe woman of around eighteen in a skin-tight black bodysuit plated with red lamellar scales. Two stiletto blades were belted to her waist, and a discrete needler pistol was strapped to her thigh. Her head was covered by a tight executioner’s skullcap that exposed only her red lips and piercing blue eyes. A blonde ponytail snaked its way out of a hole in her hood and down to her lower back. She was soon joined by another figure as the servant shifted her form into a similar assassin.

‘The Inquisition are coming.’ my daughter says to me, her voice trained by the finest tutors to display no hint of concern over the fact. I, however, know my daughter better.

‘They have come to destroy the noble houses,’ she tells me, ‘any power that predates the Imperium terrifies them, they don’t understand that it is only through our nobility that our home is prosperous.’

I am proud of my daughter; she understands better than any in my family the importance of keeping the nobility strong. We may provide tithes of lesser men to the Imperial Guard but a battalion of peasant soldiers is no match for a section of commandos from a noble house. Wars are not won by the big battalions, but the finest soldiers, and our houses have been breeding for excellence for millennia. Our sons train every day of their life to fight the covert wars, whilst our daughters bloody themselves on underhive vermin that they may add to the strength of their sons, rather than take from it.

‘My cult is close to being the strongest in the world, we only have one test left to pass before being embraced as warriors of the highest degree. I can’t let a decade’s worth of effort end in the cells of the Inquisition. Please, father, you must hold them off long enough for me to make my escape.’

It is like I have been stabbed, what my beloved daughter suggests will see the ruin of my house. I trust her because my blood runs in her veins but I must understand what she is saying.

‘Maria, you have worked harder than any of your siblings. I love you, but more than that I respect you for what you have turned yourself into. You are all our ideals as a people made manifest but you are asking me to weigh your life against that of the entire House.’

She turns from the balcony, and looks me in the eye.

‘A blade in the right place can do the work of an entire army. The Inquisition’s forces will destroy our house either way, it doesn’t matter if it’s under their guns or if we will die slowly in their cells. My cult has proven ourselves worthy of attending the Warrior’s Trials, our world’s greatest warriors, gathered in one place. We will strike from the shadows at the Inquisition, until their losses become so great, they are forced to recognise the nobility as the rulers of Iberia or risk seeing the planet fall into anarchy. Papa, please, this is my chance to truly ascend! To test myself against a foe worth fighting!’

My daughter speaks the truth, she has always been wise beyond her years. The nobility are the best of our world, but it must be the best of the nobility who face this threat. I embrace my daughter, whispering in her ear.

‘Goodbye, Maria. You carry with you a terrible burden, the legacy of House Benevente itself. Do not let this be in vain.’

I watch my daughter leave for the last time, to bothering to hide the tears that are streaming down my face. The captain of the House Guard stands by my side, loyal until the end. On the display, four gunships divert from the swarm descending on my beautiful world, heading for my home. In spite of everything that I now face I remain calm. I know I will never betray my Maria.

‘Deploy the garrison. Fire on those vessels. Do not let our sacrifice be in vain.’

Amelia withdrew carefully from the mind, taking time to adjust to using her own senses again. Before her sat Duque Benevente, his steely exterior broken, replaced by a broken man wracked by guilt at his betrayal. Amelia stood and left the room, followed by her minder, leaving the weeping man to face his sins alone.