This week's goal is 700 stones. Bonus Chapter on that. Enjoy.
Cassian sat against the cold metal wall of the ship, eyes half-closed, listening to the quiet hum of the machine spirit. The silence pressed on him, heavy after the madness outside. No twisted whispers. No distant howls. Just silence. It wasn't peace but after days in this hellhole, it was close enough.
His body ached. His thoughts drifted. Faevelith's words echoed in his mind, sharp and cutting as ever. A fortress of thought.
Arrogant as she was, he couldn't deny the truth in her lessons. Her voice was like a splinter lodged in his brain, impossible to ignore.
Cassian straightened, rolling his neck. He shut his eyes, focusing inward.
The Warp lurked at the edges of his mind, faint but persistent. It felt like standing on the shore of a vast, dark ocean — endless and cold, waves lapping at the edges of his thoughts. It was always there now, a constant pressure against his mind. A lesser man would break under it. Hell, he might break under it. But not tonight.
He steadied his breathing. Each breath felt heavier, like he was pulling something unseen into his lungs. Slowly, carefully, he pushed his mind outward, feeling along the edges of his own consciousness. There were cracks. Small ones. Thin fractures where the Warp could slip through if he wasn't careful. He pressed against them, not to close them, but to understand them.
Find the cracks. Seal the walls.
The mental fortress Faevelith spoke of wasn't something you built overnight. It wasn't stone and mortar — it was instinct. Awareness. The ability to sense when something alien brushed against the edges of your mind and slam the door shut before it could slip inside. He could feel them, the shadows at the edge of his perception. Whispering. Watching.
He focused. In his mind, the cracks became physical things — fractures in dark stone. He reached out, imagining his will as molten iron, pouring into the gaps. Each breath drove the metal deeper, hardening into unyielding walls. The whispers grew fainter, distant, until there was only silence.
The pressure lessened. Just a little.
Cassian exhaled slowly, opening his eyes. The dim interior of the ship swam back into focus. Sweat ran down his neck, his body trembling from the effort. His head throbbed, but the pressure against his mind had lessened. Not gone, but quieter. Manageable.
The ship was the perfect place for this. Out there, in the madness, there was no room to breathe. No chance to focus. But here… Here was quiet. Stillness.
He wiped his face, staring at the ceiling. He regulated his breathing calming down his body. Before starting the exercise once more.
Closing his eyes once more, he reached inward again, searching for the cracks. The whispers returned, soft and insidious. He let them come. Let them press against his mind. And slowly, carefully, he pushed them back.
---
Cassian stood outside the ship's small command deck, rolling the stiffness from his neck. The mental exercises had drained him more than expected, leaving his limbs heavy and his thoughts slow. Still, the silence was comforting — no whispers, no claws at the edges of his mind.
The comm-panel beside the door crackled to life. "Initiate Cassian," came Farron's distorted voice. "Your presence is required."
Cassian sighed and pressed the panel. The door hissed open, revealing the dim interior leading to mechanicus room. Magos Farron hunched over the central console, mechadendrites writhing as they interfaced with the flickering hololith. His bionic eye pulsed red, casting jagged shadows against the walls.
Cassian crossed his arms. "You called?"
Farron didn't look up. "An anomaly has been detected. Buried data in the noospheric archives." His voice was clipped, irritated. "It was hidden. Deliberately."
Cassian frowned. "Hidden by who?"
"The previous crew, perhaps." Farron gestured to the display. The flickering screen revealed a distorted transmission, choppy and broken with age. Static whispered in the background. "It was encoded with Mechanicus cipher-keys. Whoever encrypted it did not wish it found."
Cassian stepped closer, eyes narrowing. The feed showed the inside of a dark corridor — metal walls corroded with age, conduits running along the ceiling. Shapes moved through the shadows, barely visible. A harsh, mechanical voice echoed faintly through the vox.
"Artifact designated STC. Coordinates logged. Proceeding with retrieval."
Cassian's breath caught in his throat. "Wait. STC? As in a Standard Template Construct?"
Farron turned, his mechanical eye narrowing. "You are surprisingly well-informed."
Cassian forced his expression into neutrality, cursing his slip. "I've heard stories. Rumors. They're… important, right?"
Farron's fingers twitched, a gesture that might have been amusement. "Important is an insufficient descriptor." He turned back to the screen, data streaming past in binaric cant. "An intact STC is a holy grail. A cache of forgotten knowledge. Technology from the Dark Age of Technology. The Omnissiah's own scripture, encoded in machine logic."
The screen shifted again, focusing on a hunched figure moving through the darkness. Its form was obscured, but Cassian could make out the faint glimmer of augmetics beneath tattered robes. The figure reached a sealed bulkhead, its trembling hand outstretched toward a rune-carved panel.
"Coordinates logged," the voice repeated. "STC confirmed. Preparing extraction."
Cassian leaned in, eyes narrowing as the data scrolled past. The coordinates flickered briefly before vanishing, but it was enough. His heart skipped a beat. He knew that location. The ruins beneath the city.
Three decades ago, during the Hive Uprising, entire districts had been bombarded into rubble. After the fighting, rumors spread of strange discoveries beneath the wreckage. Cassian had pieced together whispers, old reports, and now… this. The transmission confirmed it. The STC was in the ruins.
"How old is this transmission?" he asked.
Farron's eye flickered. "Three decades. Around the time of the uprising." The Magos turned toward him, mechanical limbs curling tight. "If it is still there, it has remained hidden for a reason."
Cassian exhaled slowly, mind racing. An STC. Even half a template could be enough to buy safety. Wealth. Power. Or just a bargaining chip if things went south. But there was a catch — there was always a catch.
"You're just… sitting on this?"
Farron's head snapped toward him, the bionic eye flaring crimson. "I am calculating. You would rush into darkness for the promise of power. I weigh risk against reward." He gestured toward the screen. "That feed ended abruptly. Whatever sought the STC did not return."
Cassian stared at the flickering display. His mind wandered to the endless horrors lurking on this world — daemons, cultists, things far worse. But this… this was a chance. Not just for survival. But for something more.
"You're right," he said quietly. "It's dangerous."
Farron's mechadendrites flexed, surprised. "Then you see reason."
Cassian turned, voice low. "But it's worth it."
Farron stiffened. "You are a fool."
"Maybe." Cassian gestured at the screen. "But you think we're getting off this rock without every advantage we can scrounge up? That STC could be our shot. I'm not passing it up."
Farron watched him for a long moment, gears whirring softly. Then, with a hiss of steam, the Magos turned back to the console. "As you wish. But do not expect me to dig your corpse from the ruins."
Cassian almost smiled. "Wouldn't dream of it."
As the transmission ended, the ship fell into silence once more. Cassian leaned against the bulkhead, mind racing. Opportunities and dangers coexist don't they.
---
Cassian paced the ship's dim command deck. Across the room, Magos Farron worked in silence, mechadendrites skittering across the console. The only sounds were the soft hum of the ship's life-support systems and the faint clicking of the Magos's augmetics.
"You're sure about the location?" Cassian asked, breaking the silence.
Farron's bionic eye glimmered. "As sure as the data permits." He shifted, his metallic limbs hissing softly. "The transmission placed the coordinates beneath the ruins of a once-thriving city. During the uprising, the heart of the settlement was bombarded into ruin. The STC is somewhere within."
Cassian folded his arms, brow furrowed. "Alright. Can you pull up the city's layout?"
The Magos tilted his head, mechadendrites writhing. "Accessing." The hololith flickered, shifting to a ghostly projection of the city. Rows of broken structures sprawled outward, the remnants of streets and plazas now little more than jagged scars in the earth. Farron manipulated the display, peeling back layers until only the ancient infrastructure remained.
"There," Farron said, a mechanical finger tapping the map. "This district held the city's administrative center — data-vaults, archives, communications hubs. The transmission aligns with this area." He zoomed in, highlighting a collapsed section of roadway. "Three decades ago, during the uprising, orbital bombardment reduced the central district to rubble. Any functional paths will be… unreliable."
Cassian leaned closer, studying the projection. The ruins sprawled like a corpse picked clean, jagged walls and collapsed corridors weaving together like a labyrinth.
"Are there alternative routes?" he asked.
Farron twitched, displeased. "Most thoroughfares are blocked or degraded beyond safe traversal. However…" He highlighted a narrow passage running parallel to the collapsed road. "This maintenance tunnel may provide access."
Cassian frowned. "A maintenance tunnel?"
"Primitive, but serviceable," Farron said. "These tunnels run beneath the city. Collapsed sections are less likely, and the tunnel bypasses the more unstable regions." He turned to Cassian. "The primary danger lies in structural integrity. The ruins have settled poorly. Movement may trigger further collapse."
Cassian ran a hand through his hair. "And hostiles?"
Farron's mechanical eye dimmed. "Uncertain. The uprising left more than just wreckage. Cult activity was… prevalent."
Cassian sighed. "Of course it was."
Farron gestured to the hololith. "The ruins have likely become a breeding ground for scavengers — human or otherwise. Any survivors who ventured too deep would have been claimed by worse."
Cassian exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. "Alright. How do we avoid attention?"
Farron tapped the display, zooming in on a narrow service road. "Stealth is preferable. This route skirts the city's outer districts. Movement will need to be silent and precise."
Cassian studied the map. "And once we reach the STC?"
Farron hesitated, mechadendrites curling. "If the artifact is intact, extraction will be… difficult." He glanced at Cassian. "Do you possess knowledge of Mechanicus rites?"
Cassian shook his head and said shamelessly. "No. Just get us there. You'll figure out the rest."
Farron's eye flickered, unimpressed. "Typical."
Cassian ignored him, leaning closer to the hololith. "How long to reach the ruins?"
Farron calculated. "Six hours. Perhaps less." He gestured to a corridor leading from the city's outer shell. "These pathways are less exposed. With luck, we may avoid detection."
Cassian considered the map, fingers tapping against his arm. The plan was crude, risky — but it was a plan. He turned to Farron. "Supplies?"
The Magos frowned. "Minimal." He glanced at Cassian's holstered sidearm. "Your weapon is suboptimal."
Cassian smirked. "Story of my life."
Farron ignored him. "We move swiftly. Stealth takes priority." He hesitated. "Should conflict arise, I will prioritize the mission."
Cassian raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"
Farron's mechanical eye glimmered. "Expendability."
Cassian chuckled dryly. "Good to know." He turned back to the hololith. "Alright. We move at dawn."
Farron tilted his head. "Why wait?"
Cassian shrugged. "Superstition." He glanced at Farron. "And I need sleep."
The Magos stared at him for a long moment, then turned back to the console. "I will prepare."
Cassian left the command deck, mind racing. The plan was thin, but it was something. He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.
The hunt for the STC had begun.
---
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