In the highest level of a business complex on the Second Tier of Iram, behind armed guards and three inches of steel, a Tech-Priest in orange robes trimmed with red moved about a small chamber, containing arcane machinery that fed into a central cylinder. He monitored a dozen different screens and dials, interpreting the arcane information they displayed and sampling the noospheric codes generated by the Machine Spirit. With a bust of code that passed imperceptible to any who had not been inducted into the priesthood, Narthex of Ryza Forge moved over to a command console. To an outside observer, the cluster of buttons, levers and dials would have been imperceptible, but to Narthex each was simply one strand of a grand tapestry, and he wove them together until the tapestry was changed, and the machine began the lengthy process of disgorging its occupant.

Amelia floated in inky blackness, surrounded by water and held in place by a complex array machinery that emerged from her psychic hood, like a tree sprouting from a single seed. She reached down with her feet, moving her limbs away from her chest, and felt the grated floor of the small cylinder. Though she was surrounded on all sides by steel walls, the tank felt like the open void and the psycho-amniotic fluid served both to create that sensation of emptiness and bolster her psychic abilities. With this device, she had range enough to cover the whole city, and much of the surrounding desert, and strength enough to pass through the tumultuous warp-currents created by the competing temples.

The fluid began to drain out, passing through the grating beneath her feet and through pipes that ran along the chamber’s floor into storage tanks, so that it could be reused when she next needed it. As the waters passed her head, she felt the machinery press down on her head and neck. The discomfort was nothing she couldn’t deal with, but exiting the tank was always an unpleasant affair. It was also unpleasant because it meant she lost the incredible sense of liberty she felt when her soul was unshackled from her body. It was a tempting trap, and the Scholastia Psykana had been keen to instil into their charge’s tales of psykers who had lost connection with their body, their humanity, and had devolved into malevolent and selfish spirits.

As the last of the fluid was drained out, Amelia was struck once more by the jet of water that hosed the remaining fluid off her skin. This was no charitable act of cleanliness, the psy-reactive material was simply too valuable for even a drop to be wasted. The water was icy cold, and served to snap Amelia out of the fugue that she would otherwise have suffered from, as her soul grew used to her body again. She heard the pneumatic hiss of the doors releasing and, trained by extensive experience, raised her hand to her eyes to shield them from the light that shone through the opening door. The light was far from bright, and nothing compared to the desert sun, but compared to the pitch black of the tank, paired with the unsteadiness of her fresh sight, it was painful.

The discomfort soon passed, and Amelia stepped out of the tank. She accepted the towel proffered by her steward, Ophelia, and began to dry herself off as Tech-Priest Narthex moved behind her and began the arduous process of removing the psychic hood, which had extended as she walked out of the shower. She was indifferent to her nakedness; Ophelia and her had been through this ritual enough for it to become normal and Narthex was as sexless as the machines he tended. Still, she was grateful when her steward handed her a pair of black breeches and a plain white shirt and, once she was decently clad, opened the door to her office.

She was greeted by her most trusted Throne Agents, Helena Brazier and Qaboos Al’Said who stood as she entered. When she sat behind her mahogany desk they remained standing, and she had to wave them down before they sat. She had hoped that time would make their relationship easier, but her rise had only served to make them more conscious of her station. It was possible, on occasion, to use them as a means of unburdening herself but both very much believed in the sanctity of command. They were easy enough in private, but they maintained a respectable distance during official business.

‘We have another confirmation,’ she broke the silence, ‘the College of the Penitent Priest. It has all the hallmarks of a pleasure cult.’

‘The first one we’ve found, they’re usually the most common.’ Al’Said spoke first, stroking his short beard in contemplation.

‘That makes three minor colleges and two major.’ Brazier spoke, bringing up the datapad she kept belted to her hip. She was Amelia’s memory, able to absorb and sort a seemingly unlimited amount of information. ‘None of which are ideologically close, or even physically close.’

‘Five so far,’ Amelia began, ever the pessimist, ‘but it still seems too few.’

‘That five of Iram’s thirty-eight colleges should be corrupt is a tragedy; they would carry their heresy wherever they go. Forgive me, Interrogator, but are you sure you aren’t chasing a ghost?’ Al’Said was her sense of reason; he kept her head on the ground, and she valued his efforts.

Amelia leaned back in her chair, and spent a few moments staring at the ceiling before casting her eyes back towards her followers.

‘We’ve been at this for thirteen years now, we’ve purged dozens of cults on dozens of worlds, and every scrap of intelligence we’ve gathered has mentioned Iram by name, or by “The City of the Pillars.” This isn’t as large as the cult on Sapienter, nor as important to their military as the mining operations in the Ataran asteroid belts, but whoever runs the show here has been instructed to contact Legion command the moment they encounter the Inquisition. There’s something more here than a few corrupt students.’

‘So,’ Helena began, ‘knowing what we do, what are our orders?’

‘Luka is managing to ingratiate herself with the Purifying Blade, and should have no difficulty gaining enough notoriety to get access to their inner circle.’

Amelia noted the wave of relief that flowed through Helena’s mind. Amelia knew she hadn’t approved of sending the mutant in as an infiltrator, the two women had developed an almost adorable friendship, but ultimately that wasn’t her call to make.

‘I will continue to search for other cults where I can. If the word bearers have a station chief here, then the cults must be in communication somehow. That should be the focus of our Mechanicus assets. Agent Brazier, continue to keep up the façade. With the Emperor’s grace this shipment to the Purifying Blade should see us gain a reputation for being a provider of unusual goods, which may open a few doors. Ultimately, for the moment at least, there’s nothing we can do but wait.’

‘Yes, Interrogator.’

The two agents spoke in unison before rising to leave. Amelia was left alone with her thoughts, and all she could see was the confessor putting his arms around his student, both kneeling amidst a puddle of gore.

They were dragged out at the crack of dawn, forced through the passageways beneath the amphitheatre at the tip of electro-staves. Luka had been roused from her sleep by force, and she stumbled along the stone corridors with the same staggering walk as the Iberian mutants. She had watched them throughout the night, looking with disgust at how they replayed the same intertribal fights that had been the hallmark of her homeworld. Here they were, further from home than any underhiver had ever been, herself excluded, and they were still bound by the petty warlords. She had joined in the fighting, she had a reputation to build after all, but mostly as a way of taking out her disgust at these reminders of her past.

A heavy metal collar chafed against her neck. Their captors had told them in no uncertain terms that this collar contained a bomb, a battery and a small electrical charge. The aim was not to prevent escape, Luka presumed, but rather to stop the matches getting out of hand. It wouldn’t do to have one of their students die, after all. They were led through a humiliating series of medical examinations, and Luka noted that the examining officer was not a member of the city’s medicae, but wore instead the symbol of the college. She had been instructed to look out for any potential detail, and was unwilling to disappoint her mistress.

From the medicae’s office, they were brought through yet more corridors, and Luka noticed a particular stain on the floor that they had passed earlier. They were being guided along a route that looped back in on itself so as to disorientate them. No doubt it was working on her baser kin, but years spent learning mnemonic rituals from the Inquisition’s savants meant that all their efforts achieved was to familiarise her with the layout of the slave pens. There were no windows, not that she expected any, save for the small gratings that ran around the cages looking out over the surface of the arena above. The Colosseum was a great circular tower, and the Arena only occupied the top four stories. The remainder were either occupied by the slaves and animals, or the monastic quarters of the college’s students.

Their chain gang was passed by a group of mutants heading the other direction, herded by yet more attendants. Luka recognised each as one of the Iberian mutants, and their bruised skin and battered flesh gave an unnerving indication of what lay ahead. They were led into a small room, mostly rectangular but with a slight curve to one of the walls that was likely the exterior wall of the colosseum. There were yet more guards in this room, this time toting autoguns, and a grizzled looking man stood in the centre of the room, atop a collection of mats and rugs. They were lined up before this man, whose grizzled look and discrete musculature reminded Luka of the Stormtroopers aboard the Silent Observer, and he looked them up and down as he passed along the line.

Luka realised with disgust that most of the others were terrified, cringing away under the warrior’s gaze, and, when he passed her, she fixed him with a piercing stare meant to convey rage, and an unspoken challenge. She had once heard it said that mutants were man’s baser instincts reflected back at them, and her gaze reflected the primal nature of mankind; since the first tribe of humanity, no one has let so blatant a challenge to authority go unanswered. The warrior returned to the centre of the room, and stood with his arms behind his back. He looked the line over one last time, his eyes lingering on Luka just a moment longer than the others, before speaking.

‘Your life is over.’ His accent was incongruous with his appearance, an eloquent and noble diction that clashed with his fierce appearance. ‘Whatever meagre existence you eked out in the Underhive has ended. You belong to us now. You sleep when we tell you to, you fight when and who we want and when your death comes it will be because we desire it. This is the Colosseum of Iram, and our concern is sacred battle. I am Vladimir Benevente, master to you, and I am told that you can fight. In, truth I do not see it. I look at you and I see cringing cowards. Are these the feared mutants of Hive Castle? Who so vexed my dear sisters? Are there any warriors among you?’

‘I saw your sister,’ Luka snarled, baring her teeth like the fangs of a predatory lizard, ‘crucified on the streets of Waterfall. I saw her again, impaled on the Wall, or being flayed alive by Mad Mazzozk. Haven’t seen her since.’

The young noble laughed aloud. That was not what Luka had been expecting.

‘Well, Spikes,’ he said as he eyed up the viscous spines of bone that jutted out of Luka’s body at irregular points, ‘at least one of you has a spine, or several in your case. That’s good. We worship through battle, and when you fight you must give your all. Those who don’t, will be the first to fall.’

He gestured to one of the guards, who walked over to Luka, unclasped the chains that bound her hands, and handed her an electro-stave. She took it with a bemused look, and considered shoving it through the guard’s eye socket, until she saw the four autoguns that were now trained on her. The Benevente took up his own electro-stave and gestured for her to join him on the mat.

The two warriors circled each other, sizing up their opponents. Vladimir’s gaze was appraising and professional, the product of decades of disciplined training, while Luka, in spite of her enhanced practice with the Inquisition, relied more on animal instinct. The Noble was nowhere near the mountain of muscle she had seen on the landing pad, but he was still an order of magnitude lager than her and his bare arms rippled with finely honed musculature.

In comparison, she was much lither. She was slightly taller than most women, still smaller than him, and her arms were more compact than bulky. Her main advantage lay in her mutation; her spines had been with her since shortly after her birth but over her teenage years many had lengthened. Her fingers now more closely resembled elongated claws and, with the right positioning, she could slice an opponent to ribbons with the spikes that ran along her arms and legs.

The trainer didn’t close, and Luka knew that her reputation here relied on her aggression. She darted in, low and fast, and drove her electro-stave forwards like a spear, hoping to catch her opponent on the leg. Rather than dodge, as she had been expecting, he swept her weapon aside with his own stave and, as the electrically charged tip passed him by, he moved his leg up, aiming a kick at her exposed face. She crumpled her right leg, wincing as her spines impacted with the floor, and rolled out of the way of the steel-capped boot that passed a mere inch from her head.

She rose into a catlike crouch, and her opponent simply smiled and beckoned towards her with his left hand. Luka was angry, and she rose from her crouch with a cry, her stave held before her to allow the electrically charged tip at either end to be used. When Vladimir brought his own blade up to parry her thrust with one end, she simply slid her staff along the length of his and caught his wrist with the other end. His arm spasmed as the electricity flowed through it, and his hand released his grip on the stave. Before Luka could capitalise on the victory, he clenched his fist in obvious pain and drove it into Luka’s face, sending her staggering back.

‘Everything is a weapon if you use it right.’ He spoke through gritted teeth as if he was imparting a lesson. ‘Your opponents in the arena will be trying to kill you, they will probably succeed. But if any of you want to survive your first match then you need to use whatever resources you have at your disposal.’

Luka took to his meaning well, charging even as the trainer prepared to speak another sentence. He was not taken aback by her surprise attack, but the slight delay of his reactions allowed Luka to duck, aiming her stave lower this time and preparing to drive it into his privates. Suddenly, and with a grace that was unsuited to his bulk, the Nobleman leapt, slamming his open palm into Luka’s back and using it as a lever to send himself over the top of her. Luka collapsed to the floor under his weight and was only barely able to roll herself to her feet, her spines tearing ragged gouges into the carpets, before his stave slammed into the ground where, mere moments ago, they would have cracked her ribs.

Rather than waiting, she rushed in again and aimed at thrust at his gut. When he sidestepped the blow, she caught his counterattack full on and grimaced as her right arm convulsed and dropped the staff. But she had been expecting this, and before her staff hit the ground her left fist was swinging towards his face. Luka was ambidextrous, a subtle edge that proved to be situationally useful, and her left arm moved with the same finesse as her right. Vladimir’s head moved back, expecting a punch, but Luka had never intended to hit him. The spines along her arm, some forward facing and almost fifteen centimetres long gashed into his check, cutting three long furrows into the skin before scraping along his teeth.

Luka watched Vladimir, blood pouring down his face, as he charged towards her before she was suddenly struck by a terrible pain. It felt as if her neck was being burned as an electrical current vastly stronger than the electro-staves flowed from the cursed collar into her neck. She abandoned her efforts to collect her stave, and her hands flew up to her neck as if she could pull the collar off. The pain overcame her and she fell, fist to one knee and then again until she lay sprawled on the mat. Distantly, she was aware of raised voices in the dojo, and she heard the impact of flesh on flesh.

‘What the fuck was that!?’ came the Nobleman’s voice, as she saw one of the guards fall to his feet, a datapad clattering out of his hands and onto the floor.

‘Sir, she almost killed you!’ the guard moaned by way of explanation.

‘That was the point, you fucking simpleton! That was the fucking lesson!’

The guard looked up at his senior with piteous eyes, before collapsing as a steel-capped boot impacted his chin. The Nobleman left him, wandering over to look at Luka as the electrical pain faded and she regained control of her limbs. He looked down at her, blood pooling down his face, with what she thought may have been the first glimmers of respect.

‘Get up, Spikes.’ Some distant part of Luka noted how his voice was distorted by the hole in his cheek and she began slowly hauling herself up.

‘Name’s Luka.’ She managed to speak through clattering teeth. Suddenly, she felt a tremendous force slam into her back and her face was driven into the mat yet again. She felt rather than saw Vladimir move his boot around, before rushing his left knee into the back of her neck, pinning her to the ground yet again. The blood dripping down from his chin fell into Luka’s hair, and ran down the side of her face.

‘Perhaps you haven’t been listening, Spikes. Your life is over. Who you were, what you did before this, none of that matters now. You are who we say you are, and I suggest you get used to it.’

‘What’s the point, master,’ Luka spat the word as she wheezed with her last reserves of rage and defiance, ‘when we’re just going to die here anyway?’

‘You will die when we need you to, but you needn’t die here.’ These words were spoken barely above a whisper, and Luka understood that they were for her and her alone. ‘There is only one way to escape this place, and it is only for the worthy. Fight well.’