[i]Our blades rang, the sound of steel striking steel echoing off the walls as I pressed my advantage. My opponent was older, perhaps a bit slower, but had centuries of experience beyond my own. His defenses were refined, orderly, but growing weaker as I advanced. My pallasch drove into his abdomen, or I thought it had until he gave a parry so late I almost could not believe it, but that was his last trick. I grimaced in annoyance, our blades crossing like an X as I began to hammer down on him, attempting to make a pull cut. He redirected the sword, but only to put me in line with a downward cut that banged against his hilt. I sensed victory, tasted it. With a cry I hacked again at his exposed collarbone, knowing he had no way of defending. I laughed at my victory. 

Inquisitor Kronus stepped into my cut and nearly sundered my chest cavity with a pommel strike. My blade had no strength left in it as spittle flew from my lips, vision blurring. I felt more than saw him disarm me, and with a shove I hit the padded ground. The sameter training vest broke the brunt of my fall, but I felt my pride plummeting as I saw Kronus standing over me, watching with his dual gaze. His left eye was stern, but very human, and even a bit of sympathy was laden in its depths. His augmented right eye, placed in by Lazarus himself, watched me with a cold, bleak judgement that only the emptiness of the void of space could match. 

"How did I beat you?" He asked simply, speaking to me as if he were asking a dog why they wet the carpet or why a child lied to their parent when they knew full well the consequences of choosing the incorrectly. I collected myself as best I could, getting up quickly, doing my best not to sway. 

"You pretended to tire," I surmised, wiping the sweat from my brow. "Drew me in and let me defeat myself." 

"You are not a blunt instrument," Kronus said, turning and walking to the sword rack. Wiping the blunted blade with a cloth, he placed it on the rack and flexed his neck with a small twist of his head. I was thirsty, but Kronus had never brought water to our bouts. He rarely ate in front of anyone, and only recently had he allowed me the privilege of knowing just how he took his tea. His right hand flexed, the artificial neurons pumping hydrocarbon through his system instantaneously to grant his augmented limb function that could even surpass his flesh and blood arm. I should have known that arm would not have weakened. Why had I not seen that? 

"No, sir." I said, standing erect now and at attention. I could show my disappointment or disdain openly, but I still arrayed myself well in his presence. I was merely seventeen, but I was treated as an adult as soon as I was granted the privilege of the mantle of interrogator. I was glad to be given the responsibilities, or at least the expectations, of a senior operative. 

"Why do we do what we do, Drakos?" He asked me, turning to the mat again, though he did not deign to look at me. 

"We, sir?" 

"The Inquisition," he clarified. 

"To protect the Imperium." I said at once.

"Vague answers do not give you partial credit." He reminded me, something of which I had been told often the last four years. He continued, stalking back and forth, a terrible gleam appearing in his remaining organic eye. "The Imperial Guard protects the Imperium. The Adeptus Astartes protects the Imperium. The Artbites, the Adeptus Sororitas, the Custodes themselves. The Imperium is not in need of another shield or warfront. We are not here to protect the Imperium. We are here to hunt."

"Hunt." I said, absorbing the word. 

"The Daemon, the Xenos, the Heretic. Ours is not the battlefield. Ours is the shadows. The library. The Underhive. The corruption within the Governor's household. The Daemon summoning within the forests of the feral worlds. We are not blunt instruments. We are Inquisitors, Hadrian. And you cannot succeed as an Inquisitor unless you use your head."[/i] 
[hr] 

"She was merely suffering under psychotomimetic-induced hallucinations from involuntary consumption of drugs," I said, reclining back in my chair in the offices sequestered within the crux between the lower and upper hives. Ortega looked at my without betraying any emotion, expression unreadable. 

"And if they say that is insufficient?" Ortega asked. "Or if they wish for me to elaborate on that point?" 

"Then you can tell them that is a tergiversation and the Inquisition is not in the position to allow such questioning in our endeavors."

"Somehow, I don't think the Grand Provost Marshall will appreciate that. But I suppose you would say he should get used to it." 

"You must be psychic, you read my mind." I said. My eyes met Emmaline's. She wore her bodyglove, albeit after having it cleaned, her hair still in a bun. The following hours after the death of the Priest, a man who's prints we matched with a Cardinal Simon Philovong of the Ecclesiarchy. A rogue bishop who had taken his evangalism into the Segmentum Obscurus, evidently in a bid to seek out dissidents on Hydra Cordatus. That was all I could surmise from the autoseance and the prints Ortega was allowed to collect. Emmaline smiled, but kept quiet as Ortega sighed. 

In the other room, Elektra was under armed guard, her hands shackled. After the death of her supposed master, she had been unresponsive save our directives to lead her out of the room and into custody. Emmaline insisted on Elektra being granted a second chance, and knowing she had seen the woman's experiences that led her down that path, I had acquiesced and told Ortega we were taking her, which was a difficult sell as the Grand Provost Marshall likely needed to pin the blame on someone living so there could be an execution and a trial, in that order of importance. Ortega wished for a strip of the scrolls as well, but I had denied that without prejudice and burned them all with promethium, utilizing an incinerator and Lazarus' keen eye to make certain every last scrap of it was decimated. 

"Is there anything else, Arbites Ortega?" I asked patiently. 

"Where are you going, then?" He asked, giving up with the whole situation. He turned on his vox and told his men to prepare the prisoner for extraction and release. 

"Savaven," I said. "In the Quinrox Sound Sub-sector."

Ortega blinked. "I am surprised you would tell me, Inquisitor." He said. 

I smiled. "I have no fear of the adeptus arbites, and even if there were traitors in your ranks, the planet is home to fourteen billion people. Good luck finding us." 

Ortega grinned, and gave a salute. "Thank you, Inquisitor. And even you, Mamzel. Good luck and good hunting," He said, and turned to step out of the office. Once he was out, Emmaline closed the door. Lazarus whirred in binary, and his eyes shined red as he paced to a small desk and pulled out a small piece of cloth, from the robes of the deceased Simon Philovong. 

"I retain my conclusion. There is a 98.7% this cloth was granted by the Ecclesiarchy on Avignor. But perhaps you should have remained silent rather than having lied to the arbites. He could be accused of lying for us, if the word gets out." 

"I trust him to remain silent, and if he's not, or is made to speak, then our enemies will look for us elsewhere. Misdirection is the first step to any victory." I said. "Now, get your affairs in order. The Caledonia will depart in two days." 

"Maybe then you can keep from falling apart," Emmaline quipped, and I shot her a look. She stuck her tongue out at me, but she winked and I softened. Somehow, despite the corruption of this Nagripp and Simon going into the upper echelons of the Ecclesiarchy, I felt it would turn out alright. 

I was not correct, I would later find out.