Silvana’s empty eye sockets gaped up at Hireonomoys. The sweet smell of cordite and the corrupt effluvia of the Warp made her nostrils flare and her lips part. Ice crusted her body but the hoarfrost was already beginning to melt under her body heat. Shouts of alarm were beginning to sound in the main house, servants panicking at the sound of gunfire.

“The paintings…” she whispered, her voice cracking as though she hadn’t drank since the Emperor Ascended. Behind Blademar she could see a very handsome painting of an Imperial Lord Militant. The figure bore a strong resemblance to Leopold and his father, some distant ancestor she presumed. As she watched the painted figure seized the edges of its frame and stepped out, as real and three dimensional as she was. Green witch light flickered and sparked on his skin as he pulled a sword that was probably meant to be ceremonial from a gold chased scabbard. Behind him more paintings were pulling themselves free, their eyes dead and glowing with witch light. A stern looking Soritatus pulled a confessional chain tight. An Imperial Saint hefted a war mallet that crackled with power.

Silvana pulled a Transvassuer autopistol from a concealed pocket. The matte black weapon with its worn rubberized grip was even more out of place with the conservative dress she wore than her empty eyes. She leveled the pistol and fired. Paint splashed on the wall as the shot struck the Lord Militant in the chest at an upward angle, exiting just below his shoulder. The phantasm or daemon or whatever it was looked down at the wound with contempt. The edges of it flapped like punctured canvas, leaking a greenish substance that seemed to evaporate moments after it appeared. She put the remaining eleven rounds into the advancing thing spraying the back wall with paint but not slowing the thing a step.

An alarm claxon was sounding now and the heavy clatter of booted feet rang on the stone floors as the house went into security lockdown. Doors began to slam shut, sealing various portions of the house behind their armored bulkheads. With Hieronymus help she scrambled to her feet, stroking the release stud to drop the empty magazine to the ground with a clatter. Anther clip appeared out of her robes and she slotted it home with a metallic click. The Lord Militant snarled with hate and swung his sabre in a vicious arc. Sparks exploded as the weapon rebounded of empty air that marked the outer edge of her circle, the only reason she was still alive. With a contemptuous sneer the painting made life snatched the blanket from the bed and whipped it along the floor, brushing aside the chalk in a cloud of purplish dust. She fired as it stepped across the ruin of the protective circle, a close range shot that struck the thing between the eyes. The blessed round had no more effect than a snowball in a blast furnace. A half dozen of the paint things were free now, advancing on the pair of Throne Agents, eyes glowing with baleful hunger.