The heavy boots of power armor struck the metal deck, producing a dull, rhythmic thud that echoed unnaturally in the silent corridor.
No lights illuminated this place. In the darkness, distant, agonized wails reverberated from several containment cells, mingling with the faint hum of machinery, creating an oppressive, unsettling atmosphere.
The only source of light was a single candle mounted on the wall. Its flickering glow cast eerie shadows on the floor, where dried streaks of blood and discarded alien limbs bore witness to recent violence.
The air was thick with the acrid stench of blood, decay, and burnt flesh.
"Norris, stop playing around. We have guests—turn on the lights." Entering the interrogation chamber, Nathaniel rapped his knuckles against the bulkhead and called into the darkness.
"Nathaniel, you just missed a good show."
A massive figure emerged from the shadows, reeking of blood, as if he had just stepped out of a slaughterhouse. The scent was a sickening blend of interrogation serums and alien flesh.
Through the dim candlelight and his Mjolnir armor's night vision, the Master Chief observed the scene. The man before him wasn't wearing a helmet. Long, jet-black hair hung loosely over his shoulders, his pitch-dark eyes glinting with an unnatural sheen. His pale, elegant face bore a slight crimson stain.
Sizzle.
As Norris spoke, the room was suddenly flooded with light.
"Grrr..."
The abrupt brightness elicited a guttural growl from the depths of the cell.
"Gurulu! Gurulu!"
Now able to see clearly, the Master Chief took in the scene. The outermost cells housed a shivering mass of Grunts, their faces hidden behind breathing masks as they huddled in the corners.
Beyond them, even more prisoners were visible, including several insectoid creatures with membranous wings.
"Yanme'e..." the Master Chief muttered.
The Yanme'e, referred to as "Drones" by the United Nations Space Command, were among the Covenant's aerial combat specialists.
Why had they captured so many Covenant soldiers?
Under the dim torchlight, Norris stood clad in deep blue power armor. Twin, ornately crafted pistols hung at his waist, while his gauntleted hands gripped a pair of bloodied pliers and a surgical scalpel.
The Master Chief cast a glance at Nathaniel before shifting his gaze toward Norris. As their eyes met, the Spartan instantly recognized the cruelty and cold indifference within them. The fresh droplets of blood dripping from Norris's fingers only reinforced his unsettling aura.
"What about the Sangheili?"
Nathaniel narrowed his eyes. "Norris, don't get too creative with them. We can always capture more, but it's a hassle. Our next stop is Reach, and we won't be running into more Covenant filth for a while."
"Relax. I know my limits—I haven't touched them yet."
Norris reached up and plucked the candle from the wall, speaking almost absently. "It's just a shame. The light's too bright—it reduces the effect of the Wakefire Candle."
The Wakefire Candle, as its name suggested, was designed to heighten awareness, sharpen the senses, and keep subjects mentally alert. It was one of the many unique "toys" employed by the Night Lords.
But using it here, in the interrogation chamber? That was no mere stimulant.
And saying they needed more light? A Night Lord struggling to see in the dark? Laughable.
"There will be plenty of opportunities—what exactly is there to regret?"
Nathaniel stepped forward, taking the bloodied pliers from Norris's hands. He inspected the fresh strands of gore clinging to the metal before heading toward the dissection chamber.
"So, did the Brutes and Sangheili insult each other the moment they met? Any fights break out yet?"
Thud. Thud.
The sound of armored boots echoed through the corridors. With every step deeper inside, the number of Kig-Yar and Yanme'e prisoners increased. Many of them recoiled at the sight of the Master Chief, their wide eyes filled with terror as they muttered the word "Demon."
"Oh? Seems like our dear..." Norris turned, glancing at the stark white "117" on the Chief's chest plate, a smirk forming. "Mr. 117 is quite the celebrity."
"Nothing worth mentioning. Just duty." The Master Chief replied in his usual neutral tone.
Because of the Jiralhanae's history of cannibalism, the Night Lords had deliberately placed them near the dissection tables. To further inflame tensions, they had caged Sangheili prisoners directly across from their Jiralhanae counterparts, knowing full well the animosity between them.
The Night Lords had pried deep into the Covenant's secrets. After dissecting, interrogating, and probing countless xenos, they fully understood the festering resentment between the Sangheili and Jiralhanae—resentment so profound that even low-ranking Unggoy had caught wind of it.
As the Master Chief stepped through a sliding door, the unmistakable sound of heated argument reached his ears.
"Hngh-hngh!" The guttural snarls of Jiralhanae warriors echoed in the chamber. A quick glance revealed eighteen Brute captives—and thirteen Sangheili prisoners. They had encountered these warriors before at Harvest.
"Catch." Nathaniel tossed a comm earpiece toward the Chief.
"Thanks."
Slipping it onto his helmet, the translation came through clearly:
"Hah! Look who's here! The proud, noble, 'mighty' Sangheili! Tell us, how did you get yourselves captured by these human heretics?"
"Know your place, Jiralhanae! You have neither the need nor the right to know."
"Rrraaah! You're prisoners! Cowards! Still acting so self-important! You disgust me! Your stench alone makes me want to retch!"
"Silence, you lowly Jiralhanae beast! You have no right to speak to us!"
"No right?! Cowards! You won't even admit it! Answer me, Sangheili! Have you forsaken the Great Journey?! Have you turned your backs on the Prophets?! Have you betrayed the Covenant?!"
"Lies! Twisting the truth! You primitive, meat-eating savages have no right to judge us! The Covenant was built by the Sangheili and the San'Shyuum! How ridiculous that latecomers such as you accuse its founders of treachery! The true traitors are you!"
"You dare call us traitors?! You pathetic lizards only ever boast of your ancestors' glory! You just got lucky—you were there first! If you haven't betrayed the Covenant, then explain this! Why do these damnable humans treat you differently? Why are they healing your wounds? Why are they feeding you, instead of torturing you for information?! Answer me! If this isn't betrayal, then what is it?!"
The Brutes' outrage wasn't entirely unfounded. The disparity in their treatment was glaring.
The Jiralhanae had been beaten, strapped to torture devices, experimented on, and given nothing but the most meager, degrading sustenance. Meanwhile, the Sangheili—though still prisoners—had suffered no such brutality. They were fed well and even received medical treatment from human doctors.
Already resentful of the Sangheili's arrogance, the Jiralhanae erupted with fury.
"I'll say it again. We don't know why. But we have not betrayed the Covenant."
Despite everything, the Sangheili still viewed humanity with a measure of respect—acknowledging their resilience and defiance in a war that had lasted more than two decades.
The argument between the two species only grew more intense.
"Hah! You still claim loyalty? Who would believe such nonsense?"
The chamber erupted with furious roars.
"Oh? Quite lively, aren't they?" Norris's voice rang out, instantly silencing the captives. Even the normally belligerent Jiralhanae warriors seemed to shrink back.
It was clear that whatever Norris had done to them was brutal beyond measure.
Several Jiralhanae captives sat huddled together, their bodies wrapped in crude bandages, their flesh raw and bleeding as they groaned in pain.
"Nathaniel, sir." Two Night Lords operatives, previously engrossed in their "work," straightened up upon noticing Nathaniel's arrival. They quickly disengaged the gas valves, ceasing their gruesome pastime.
Behind them, a Kig-Yar lay on the surgical table, its flesh melting from exposure to corrosive chemicals. Its twisted expression, vacant eye sockets, and grotesquely protruding tongue—covered in a mix of mucus, tears, and saliva—formed a nightmarish spectacle.
"You!"
"Ah, you're awake." Nathaniel stepped forward, addressing the captured Sangheili commander. "You're recovering well, I see."
BANG!
A Jiralhanae fist slammed against the thick metal bars, rattling them violently. Several of them reached out, clawing at the air, their enraged eyes fixed on the Sangheili across from them.
"Cowards! You still deny your betrayal?!"
Seeing the human officer ignore them completely and instead focus on the Sangheili, the Jiralhanae's fury surged. Their already dark faces twisted in pure hatred, veins bulging across their foreheads.
"Silence."
Crack!
"RROOOAAAHH!"
A sudden jolt of agony wracked the Jiralhanae prisoners. The special collars around their necks activated, sending currents of excruciating pain through their bodies. They writhed and struggled, trying desperately to claw at the devices constricting their throats.
"Still full of energy, I see. Norris, pull these ones out—give them the 'process.'"
"Understood." Norris grinned, flashing a hand signal. His pitch-black eyes gleamed with sadistic delight.
"Out! Now!"
Three Night Lords enforcers wasted no time. They seized the loudest Jiralhanae by their fur, dragging them kicking and roaring from their cells.
The dissection chamber's doors slammed shut behind them. Moments later, wet, visceral sounds filled the air.
Blood sprayed against the observation windows.
The remaining Jiralhanae prisoners turned their glare toward the Sangheili, their hatred burning fiercer than before.
The Sangheili commander sighed bitterly. "Human, what is it you want? This petty deception won't work."
Nathaniel smirked. "Oh? You think so? Do you really believe the Covenant is united? That those ostrich-faced freaks trust you?"
"What are you implying?"
"Are you truly that blind, or just in denial? Look at them—" Nathaniel gestured toward the Jiralhanae captives. "What do you think they're here for? They were meant to replace you. The Covenant has already discarded you, Sangheili."
"Impossible! No matter what deceit you spew, the High Council and the Prophets would never abandon us! The Covenant will never fall to you humans!"
"Hmph. If you refuse to surrender, then war it is. I'm merely a messenger. Personally, I hope all you alien scum fight back—it only means more specimens for my collection."
"Until the last resister is dead, this war will never end."
Nathaniel let out a quiet chuckle as he retrieved the carefully polished 'persuasion script' sent from high command. After adding a few Night Lord-style intimidation flourishes, he activated the interrogation chamber's projection system.
"Someone will explain it to you."
Bzzzzt.
The moment the projection flickered to life, chaos erupted.
"What in the Empress' name—?! Is that the Custodes?!"
Even the Sangheili prisoners, battle-hardened warriors, visibly tensed. But it wasn't just them—the Night Lords standing beside Nathaniel also froze.
Displayed on the holo-screen, standing behind the usual bureaucrats and scribes, was a formation of towering golden giants.
The unmistakable gold-and-red armor pattern—distinct from even the yellow-clad Imperial Fists—left no room for doubt. No other Astartes Legion bore such livery. The Custodes were here.
The realization hit them like a hammer.
Only one reason could explain the presence of the Imperial Palace's golden guardians at the front lines.
They exchanged nervous glances, their pupils dilating. A shiver of anticipation ran down their spines.
"There's only one explanation—Her Majesty… is here."
As part of the initial reconnaissance detachment assigned to the 2nd Legion, the Punishers, in Universe-117, they had been deployed before Selene's arrival. Naturally, they hadn't received word of her presence at the front.
Unlike the 17th Legion, the Imperial Heralds, the Night Lords were not known for religious fervor. Yet even they—grizzled Astartes veterans—felt a wave of reverence and excitement at the possibility of standing in their sovereign's presence.
In the modern Imperium, as the Legions continued to expand at an exponential rate, the original Custodes veterans, the first-generation Astartes who had once fought beside Selene herself, had ascended to high command positions. Most now held the rank of senior officers or lords, leaving the newer generations of Astartes with few opportunities to see their Divine Empress in person.
"Her Majesty?"
The Master Chief observed Nathaniel's expression with interest. The usually pale-faced Night Lord now bore a faint flush—something the Spartan had thought impossible.
It was… surprising.
In his own experiences, even when dealing with Dr. Halsey—the woman who had effectively created him—his emotions remained clinical, practical. At most, he felt a degree of gratitude and distant respect, akin to how one might regard a wise mentor or parent.
Even when standing before UNSC generals, UEG council members, or the President of Earth himself, protocol was simple: a salute, an exchange of orders. With decades of war and psychological conditioning, there was no room for unnecessary sentiment.
Yet here was Nathaniel—a warrior arguably more enhanced than even the Spartans—displaying something else entirely.
A fervent, almost reverent admiration.
"The Custodes… Her Majesty…" The Master Chief murmured.
These titles had long since vanished from 26th-century Earth. Such words belonged to history books, relics of pre-21st-century monarchies.
He analyzed the possibilities.
"Feudal monarchy? Constitutional monarchy? Or just a symbolic title?"
His voice remained calm as ever, helmeted gaze fixed on Nathaniel. "Nathaniel, who are they?"
...
Meanwhile, Reach – Near-Planetary Defense Platform.
Radar Control Room.
As the instruments detected violent spatial fluctuations indicative of a slipstream rupture, alarms blared across the station.
"Report! Detecting a slipspace emergence—unregistered vessel signatures, unable to identify!"
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