Elizabeth flipped through the last few pages, her frown deepening as she read. The document detailed a sprawling business conglomerate, one with deep roots in Reach but an influence that extended across multiple star systems.
It had all the markings of an official Reach enterprise, but its name was unmistakably personal. The Shrike Family. A cross-galactic megacorporation with semi-official backing, masquerading as a noble house.
At the end of the report was an extensive dossier on its leader, Countess Mordaine. The document painted a picture of a woman with a shrewd business mind, ruthless in her dealings, yet captivating in her appearance. And then came the personal rumors. "It is said," Elizabeth read aloud, her voice laced with irritation, "that this coquettish woman is engaged in an affair with one of Reach's highest-ranking officials.
Our intelligence analysts have carefully examined this claim and found it highly credible." She snapped the paper shut and glared at the bartender. "Your analysts are really scraping the bottom of the barrel, aren't they? Is this what passes for serious intelligence these days? Gossip?"
Bartender smirked, unbothered. "You underestimate the value of connections, Sister. Who someone sleeps with is often just as important as who they do business with." He took a sip from his glass, then added, "Besides, you should be more interested in Reach for other reasons."
Elizabeth's gaze sharpened. "Why?"
Bartender sighed theatrically, then reached under the bar, operating a hidden mechanism. With a mechanical clunk, a small compartment opened, revealing two more iron boxes. He lifted them onto the counter, setting them down with deliberate care. "You coming to me," he said as he worked, "is always a pattern. First, you check on those country bumpkins. Then, you review Inquisition activity. Finally, you ask about military movements." He gave her a knowing look. "That's why I've been paying extra attention to those reports." He slid the boxes toward her. "And what I found? Unexpected."
Elizabeth unlatched the first box and pulled out its contents. It was an intelligence report marked with the sigil of the Inquisition, a highly restricted document. It contained only the activity logs of those Elizabeth had flagged as suspects. The second report was something different, five years' worth of Ork incursion data.
Elizabeth flipped through them both, cross-referencing timelines, locations, and incidents. With every page she turned, her expression darkened. Then, suddenly, she slammed her fist onto the bar with enough force to rattle the bottles. "These bastards," she growled. "They're committing outright treason."
Bartender merely exhaled, swirling his drink. "I thought you'd say that."
Elizabeth glared at him. "Is this confirmed?"
He held up a hand. "Sister, you know me. I don't peddle half-truths. I went over this data again and again. The numbers match. The timing aligns. But here's the problem." He tapped the papers. "This isn't evidence. It's just a pattern. And patterns don't count as proof."
She ground her teeth. "So Reach is their next target," she muttered.
Bartender nodded. "Seems that way. We need only one more observation to be sure."
Elizabeth exhaled sharply. "Then we'll watch." She reached for her drink and downed it in one go. The alcohol burned down her throat, but it wasn't enough to drown out the rage building inside her. Her fingers tightened around the glass. She had seen this coming. Years ago.
Thirteen years had passed. Thirteen years since she had first been warned. Anjie had been only five years old when Elizabeth's former superior, Randall, had pulled her aside with a hushed voice and whispered: "Be careful of the ones sent by Istvaania."
Elizabeth still remembered the exact moment. The dim office. The flickering lumen strips. The way Randall had seemed so certain, so completely convinced of his own paranoia. At the time, she had dismissed him. She had been so focused on other threats, so convinced that the real danger lay elsewhere. But Randall had insisted. He had looked at her, his fleshy face lined with worry, and warned her again. 'Not Daemon. Not Kayvann. The real enemy is already inside.'
Elizabeth had laughed at him. Randall had been a politician, a bureaucrat obsessed with conspiracies and power plays. He didn't understand real threats. She had spent years watching other dangers, monsters in the dark, enemies at the gates. And yet, in the end… Randall had been right.
Elizabeth clenched her jaw, forcing herself to push back the memories. She turned her attention back to the report. The Istvaanians.
A faction within the Inquisition. Not just thinkers, but believers, cold, ruthless individuals who practiced their philosophy as much as they preached it. Their ideology was simple, Pain and hardship create progress.
Suffering tempers the Imperium's steel. War keeps humanity strong. They saw strife as necessary, not an evil, but a tool. To them, peace was the enemy.
They had the gall to point at history and say, 'See? The Horus Heresy forced the Imperium to unify under faith. The Age of Apostasy birthed Sebastian Thor's great reforms. Every crisis, every cataclysm, every war has made us stronger.'
They believed it was their duty to ensure such trials never stopped. They wanted conflict. And if the galaxy wasn't burning fast enough… …they would light the match themselves. Elizabeth's fingers curled into a fist. She had seen hints of their work before. Accidents that weren't accidents. Uprisings that shouldn't have started. Wars that had no reason to escalate. But this, this was the worst of it.
If the Istvaanians were behind Reach's instability… if they were orchestrating an entire sector-wide escalation… Then it wasn't just corruption. It was warfare by design. Elizabeth inhaled sharply through her nose, steadying herself. She turned back to the bartender. "Who else knows about this?"
He shook his head. "Only us. But not for long. This kind of thing doesn't stay secret." He leaned in. "And if Reach is the target, you have a decision to make."
Elizabeth's gaze turned sharp. "Do I stop it," she said, "or do I use it?"
Bartender nodded. "That's the question, isn't it?" Silence hung between them. Then, slowly, Elizabeth exhaled, setting the report down. She already knew the answer. She reached for her glass again, but it was empty. "…Another," she muttered. Bartender smirked, already pouring.
***
The universe is cold and merciless. Mankind's enemies are vast, relentless, and unimaginably powerful. If we allow ourselves to be blinded by the illusion of peace, if we become complacent in the comfort of stability, then we will be consumed the moment true hardship arrives. Kayvaan's voice cut through the tense silence like a blade. "Are the greenskins here?"
No answer. His gaze swept across the assembled officials, the so-called leaders and administrators of Reach. They had never been shy before. These were the same men and women who strutted through the halls of power with arrogant confidence, who looked down on everyone else, who dared to make his life difficult with bureaucratic nonsense. And now? Now that their world was teetering on the brink of war?