Inquisitor Gammorahn Emund’s footfalls echoed off the crumbling walls of the sanctorum. His heavy terminator armor clicked and whined with every deliberate step, each one bringing him closer to the end of his life—and the beginning.
He removed his rebreather as he approached the raised dais at the heart of the chamber. The air was thick, sagging with moisture and the weight of undisturbed ages. His wheezing breath condensed and clung to the cold stillness. Gammorahn had waited lifetimes for this moment. He had suffered for it. Worlds had burned for it. He closed his eyes. He wanted to cherish it. It was The Emperor's almighty will that brought the him to Pyrriah. It was His will that Gammorahn receive this gift. Only through Him was he made worthy. He did not deserve His mercy. None did. His time as an Inquisitor had taught him that there are no innocents. There is no redemption.
Flashes of his past played out behind his closed eyes. He had found the guilty in the lowest habs and in the highest spires. None could escape their sin. It is as much a part of mankind as the blood flowing through their veins. In truth, that fact had been clear to him from the dawn of his career, but only now, in its twilight, did he have the strength to accept it.
A giant amethyst floated before him. As his hololight flashed across its face, the gem absorbed and refracted the beam, bathing the chamber in a regal purple glow. It was the embodiment of perfection. It was geometrically flawless, all its angles coming together in an array of razor sharp edges. Throughout his long life, the Inquisitor had seen more glory and horror than most men could see in a thousand lifetimes, but nothing could have prepared him for the visions that flickered in the stone. They were beautiful and horrific, pure and profane, exalted and debased; an infinity of contradictions dancing upon a knife's edge. The amethyst drank in his gaze. His body was wracked with pleasure and depravity beyond comprehension. At the back of his mind, he realized that he was floating now, lifted by the sheer psychic power of the gem. He screamed. He felt as though he was being torn apart atom by atom. The roiling tendrils of the warp roared across his soul like wild fire until, like a candle deprived of oxygen, it burnt out in a wisp of smoke.
Whether the ordeal lasted for seconds or eons, Inquisitor Gammorahn Emund could not tell. As he picked himself up off the cold floor, all he felt was the smoldering fire of purpose. Mankind's salvation lied in that stone. He would unlock it. He had to. Crystal in hand, he walked back towards the entrance of the sanctorum.
He had been reborn. He had been chosen. Through him, mankind would find redemption. Or it would burn.
I.