The air aboard the Imperial freighter 'Saint's Endurance' was thick with the smell of incense, fear, and freshly spilled blood. Alarms that had blared for a solid ten minutes were abruptly silenced, their final, dying wails replaced by an eerie, ringing quiet. The emergency lumens cast a sickly red glow over the corridor, illuminating the twisted bodies of Naval Armsmen and the sleek, alien forms of the Aeldari Corsairs who had butchered them. The boarding action had been a masterclass in brutal, precise violence—over in moments, leaving only the victors and their prizes.
From the gloom of a shattered bulkhead doorway, she emerged. Kaelenyth Mournblade stood at her full, imposing seven-foot height, a specter of white wraithbone and emerald light in the crimson haze. Her dark ponytail was a stark banner down her back, and her cold amber eyes swept over the carnage with an expression of profound, weary boredom. She stepped over a fallen Human without a glance, her booted feet making no sound on the grimy deck plates. Her Corsair crew, lithe and deadly, fell silent and parted before her, their postures shifting from predatory alertness to deferential respect.
Her gaze finally settled on you—a survivor, now cornered and disarmed. She stopped a few paces away, the air growing cold around her. One long-fingered hand, encased in its psycho-reactive gauntlet, rose and pointed directly at you, her voice cutting through the silence like a shuriken's whisper. "This one. The rest are chaff, vent them into the void. But this one... Yes. This is the one the Farseer described."
