Warhammer 40k : Space Marine Kayvaan

"The whole place went dead silent." Darius's voice grew distant as he recounted the moment. "The chatter, the laughter, the music—everything stopped. It was like someone had hit a giant pause button. People froze in their seats, too scared to even look at each other. Then, slowly, everyone just... left. Dispersed like ghosts. I remember sitting there, heart pounding, terrified someone had overheard. I prayed that no one reported him. I hoped he'd be okay."

He paused, staring at the floor. "But he wasn't. Three days later, he vanished. Just like that. No warning, no explanation. One day he was there, and the next, he was gone. No one dared to ask what happened. It was like he'd never existed. Even his closest friends acted like he was a figment of imagination, like mentioning his name might bring trouble."

Kayvaan said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line. He could see the pain etched on Darius's face, the kind of pain that came from betrayal and loss.

Darius continued, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and despair. "Someone snitched. Someone in our circle—a person he trusted—betrayed him. But who? I don't know. It could've been anyone. Hell, it could've been all of them. Maybe they thought it wasn't betrayal. Maybe they believed they were being loyal to the Empire. But I know the truth. It was betrayal. Plain and simple."

He clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. "And the worst part? There's no trial, no rules, no warning. They don't tell you what's forbidden. It's like living in a world where invisible walls surround you. You don't see them, but the moment you cross a line, you're gone. Just like that."

Darius took a shaky breath, his hands trembling slightly as he spoke. "That fear? It's everywhere. It's in the air we breathe, in the silence between conversations, in every forced smile and nervous laugh. It seeps into your soul until it's all you know."

Kayvaan exhaled deeply, still unsure how to respond. He had no words for this kind of invisible terror. But Darius wasn't done. His voice cracked, full of suppressed emotion. "You know, I've been dreaming about my friend lately. He was more than just some rich guy. He was smart, thoughtful—a brilliant historian. Everything he said, even when he was drunk, was deliberate. He never spoke without thinking first. And now, looking back, I realize how brave he was to say what he did, even if it cost him everything. He wasn't just talking nonsense. He was telling the truth. And we all knew it. We just didn't have the courage to admit it."

Kayvaan sat there, silent, letting Darius's words sink in. There was nothing he could say that would make any of this easier. So he listened, offering the only comfort he could in a galaxy that seemed to have none.

__________________

Meanwhile somewhere else in the galaxy, a inquisitor is confused. '305 If there's no meaning, why do they keep whispering that string of numbers?'

He had to let it go. If he couldn't decipher any significance, then maybe there truly wasn't any. He had confidence in this conclusion because he wasn't just anyone—he was an Inquisitor. His training had honed a sharp, instinctive sense for numbers and intelligence. Even among the elite ranks of the Inquisition, few could rival his skill in analyzing information. 'So why? What was this all about?'

It had started out as a mission like any other—methodical, structured. But things spiraled out of control. He had been forced to flee, barely surviving. Now, standing at the gates of the town, he allowed himself a moment to breathe. The town was a "sanctuary," at least for now. That gave him some comfort, though not much. He had a premonition that whatever this was, it would end here.

Stopping at the gate, he pulled out a lho-stick, lit it, and took a long, deliberate drag. The familiar burn in his lungs helped calm his racing thoughts. Slowly, he exhaled the smoke, letting it drift away in the cold night air. He needed to relax, to think clearly.

This wasn't just a mission gone wrong; it was the Inquisition's greatest failure in living memory. Thirteen Inquisitors operating on the Eastern Fringe had been slaughtered—systematically, brutally. Some were hacked into pieces, others had their skulls blown apart by high-energy pulse fire. One had his throat slit, another burned alive. They died in their offices, in busy city streets, in filthy ditches, and in blazing fires. One even dropped dead in a crowded square for no discernible reason.

Something was very wrong. He had been tasked with finding out what. He'd scoured every murder site, examined every corpse, pieced together every clue. But his search painted a terrifying picture. Somehow, he'd become the next target.

How the enemy found him was a mystery, just as it was with the others. Inquisitors didn't walk around with badges or wear identifying marks. They were masters of concealment—needles in haystacks, drops of water in the ocean. Yet the enemy had plucked them out one by one. Thirteen times. Fourteen, if we included him. There was no doubt in his mind now—there was a traitor in the Inquisition. Someone high up. Someone with access to personnel lists classified beyond clearance.

Knowing this, he had moved cautiously between star systems in the Eastern Fringe, investigating each crime scene. He had gathered critical intelligence, hoping to unravel the truth. But the enemy had caught on to him before he could report back.

Along the way, his team—twelve loyal agents—had been picked off one by one. At first, when the enemy made their move, he'd felt a flicker of triumph. They'd set traps, laid ambushes, ready to capture or kill their assailants. But the tables turned. The hunters became the hunted. The enemy was too powerful, too ruthless to be human.

From the evidence—deep blade wounds, bodies scorched by weapons of unknown make, and the lingering sting of psychic interference—he knew their attackers were no ordinary criminals. They were Eldar. Xenos wanderers, beings of terrifying psychic might, capable of atrocities that defied comprehension. The Imperium had no shortage of foes, but only the most dangerous of mankind could operate at such a scale. Those few were already branded as heretics and closely watched by the Inquisition. No sane rogue would dare provoke the wrath of the Inquisition. It was suicide.

But the Eldar weren't human, and they didn't think like humans. The number haunted him. 305. It was a whisper, low and insistent, gnawing at the edges of his mind. He didn't know where it came from or who was saying it, but the sound was as clear as a bell. It was psychic interference—he was certain of that. He had dealt with psykers before and understood their power. They could do things that defied reason: summon fire or ice, control lightning, even glimpse the strands of fate. Sending whispers into someone's mind? That was child's play for them.

So why? What did they want? What it meant—slain victims, unholy rituals, or something far worse—he could not yet say.