One moment, I was inspecting the damage to the tunnel, cracked ferrocrete, exposed cables, the stench of promethium, and the next, the Machine Spirit of my Auspex growled a warning. I freeze. The Hulk is far from fully purged. I know there are still foes lurking in its depths. But this felt… different. Something else is stalking me. The hairs on my neck standing up. At first, just shadows and an outline clinging to the ceiling, upside-down along a rusted pipe. Silent. Unmoving. Gone the instant I blink. Then a smear of motion above. A figure hunched where the light didn't reach. Gone when I turn my head. Another made no sound. No breath. Only the weight of a gaze - a presence pressing in. A flicker of form where none should exist. Then he was simply there. Not walking in. Not teleporting. He did not arrive. He manifested. As if reality had been tricked into forgetting he wasn't always standing in that spot. A lean figure in motley robes, patterned in ways that hurt to stare at, stands in the center of the sanctum. On his face was a mask that was of an unkind, laughing sneer - a Solitaire of the Masque of the Sudden Exclamation, if I am not mistaken. "Oh, good," the Solitaire drawls, his voice smooth as wet obsidian. "You're still alive. I was betting against it." The air turns leaden, and my guards go to raise their weapons. They don't have time to fire before something snaps into place. I look around and recognize that everyone behind me has been slowed to a crawl by some sort of temporal effect or a weak stasis field. My guards aren't fully frozen, not really. Silverwalker's hand is inching towards his sidearm at a glacial pace. "I am Stillness in Motion," he bows low, theatrically and with an insulting flair. "You must be the Princeps! You are smaller than I expected." His voice drips with exasperation. "Do you have any idea how long I've been searching for you?" I don't reply, instead, I try to calculate firing vectors, but it's like trying to target smoke. My hand strays towards the pistol at my hip. "Ten millennia," he says, his voice flat. "Thousands of years, chasing a name and a sliver of a prophecy - all because you took a nap." He begins pacing around me with a surprisingly brisk pace, with each step echoing far more than they should. "I went through thirteen lost craftworlds, danced through three Tzeentchian warbands, spent two centuries stuck inside a Crone World, and, oh yes, got dismembered once by a confused custodian who thought I was a hallucination. I got better." He stops, glares at me with theatrical fury. "And where were you?" He leans in. "Lost. In. Stasis. and for the last few millenia all I had to do was wait." He throws his arms wide theatrically. "Floating through the Immaterium like a bad joke in a locked vault! For seven thousand years! I tracked your echo into the past! I hunted your name across Ork glyphs and Drukhari slave-lists! So many fragmented digital logs hidden away by red-robed adepts and Administratum paper trails. And all the while you were napping!" I give up trying to calculate targeting solutions and instead simply snap-draw my hellpistol and aim it at his face. "Yes, yes, point the lasgun at the messenger, it makes it all more dramatic - the monologue more tense," I pull the trigger, but he dodges, the movement so slight it looks completely natural as the shot flies past his mask, the bolt illuminating it briefly. "You are a feisty and interesting little creature," he waves his hand dismissively like he's clearing smoke from a stage. "But this part of the play is already written, you see." He wags a gloved finger at me, a single, scolding gesture. Mockery in motion. I fire again. This time, the bolt punches straight through his forehead but instead of dying his form ripples like the surface of a still pond disturbed. The only reaction he gives me is a slow, theatrical, and weary sigh, as if I'd merely spoiled a dress rehearsal. I shoot a third time. This time the bolt hits a flickering shimmer midair, absorbed by a refractor field I hadn't seen activate. Light fractures around him like glass catching the final act's spotlight. "Please," he says, brushing imaginary dust from his chest, "refrain from further audience participation." He walks toward me, slowly and deliberately. Each step echoes like applause from an unseen audience. Not thunderous, but polite. I feel it more than I hear it, rattling behind my teeth. Then he stops and tilts his head. There's something ancient in his movements, something tired beneath the painted mask. "Ten millennia," he says softly. "Ten thousand years for a single punchline. And I still don't know how it lands." He shakes his head. The gesture is almost human. "Do you have any idea how many dead ends I've tripped over to find you? How many incorrect mon-keighs I've had to endure?" He spits the word mon-keigh out with venom. "You all look the same in the dark." "A flawed script, a missing page… but the moment has arrived. Your moment. Your cue," he sweeps his cloak aside with a gesture that is not quite real, fluid, and rehearsed. From the folds, something flickers into existence. "Take your prop." He tosses it with a theatrical flourish. I catch it on instinct. It's a plain container made of simple wood, unadorned save for a silver bow tied neatly atop the lid. I frown. My senses detect nothing. No malice. No psychic taint. No machine spirit stirs within. It is a void, silent and inert. Cautiously, I pry open the lid. Inside lies a small, alien object. An octahedron of twisted materials. Noctilith. Wraithbone. And something else... something that resists classification. Two four-sided pyramids, base to base, joined by a band of strange alloy. The design is unmistakable: it echoes the ancient forms found on Blackstone Fortresses. Green runes flicker across its surface, vanishing and reappearing in rhythm with a slow pulse. It feels colder than any metal should be. And lighter than it appears. Unnaturally so. "It's called the 'Dreaming puzzle box of Vaul', or maybe it isn't. Maybe I made that up," he cocks his head in what looks like amusement. "Either way, it sounds good, doesn't it?" I look at it, really look, and frown. "What does it do?" I ask. The Solitaire pauses, tilts his head and chuckles genuinely. "Oh, I haven't the faintest idea," he leans in close. "Cegorach told me to give it to you. You, specifically. Said it would be 'poetically catastrophic,'" he giggles as he says it, "So I didn't ask questions." "There's something inside? What's inside?" I ask. "I. Don't. Know," he huffs out. "It could be anything; a memory, a trap, a god-shard, a riddle that eats the mind. maybe it's nothing at all - but know this," he leans in uncomfortably close, "Whatever it is, it's now yours and when you open it… the fun begins." He twirls away from me and stops with his arms wide and facing me with mocking theatrical flair. "Solve it. Don't. Hide it. Worship it. Throw it into a sun, but only if you're very, very fast. I am just the delivery boy." He takes a long, slow breath, one that might have been a sigh. "Ten thousand years. All to deliver you a fancy box." He gave a half-mad laugh. "Cegorach has a twisted sense of humor." He gives me a deep, almost mocking bow, with one foot extended behind like a court performer bowing to a drunk noble. "Either way," he says, "My part is over. Whatever comes next, it's all you. Good luck - or not; it's all up to you in the end. You're in the script now." He stares at me expectantly. "Well? Aren't you going to open it?" "It's a puzzle, am I supposed to know how to do that?" I shoot back, fiddling with the puzzle, I realize the various layers that make up the top and bottom pyramid can twist and rotate. It's like a fancy fidget toy or maybe a Rubik's cube, but the symbols on the various faces that flash change whenever I twist a layer. He stands there frozen for several seconds, and even with the full face mask, I can see his muscles twitching violently. "No… No! Noooo!" All five iterations dramatically fold over backwards and flop bonelessly on the floor, disappointment radiating from his entire being. He slowly gets up and slinks off into the shadows. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go scream into the Webway for six weeks and set a fire in a Black Library reading room." And just like that, he vanishes just as quickly as he arrives, folding into shadow like a curtain being drawn shut. The moment after he is gone, the restrictive field vanishes. All of my guards rush forward and surround me, weapons drawn. "Princeps! Your current status?" Brother Silverwalker asks as he scans the surroundings. Baldos lumbers to stand in front of me. "I. Hate. Clowns." "I am inclined to agree with you, Baldos, that encounter was unpleasant," I mutter before sighing, "I'm alright. I am not sure how much of that exchange you caught from within the field. That Solitaire, Stillness in Motion, was here to deliver an item to me." I say, holding up the puzzle. "I think he's gone? For now, at least." As everyone turns to stare at me, their expressions are a mix of incredulous and horrified as I start to fiddle with the puzzle again. "What?" I ask without looking up. Delta-A3 turns to Lael and Brother Silverwalker, "I have transmitted my recording of the encounter adjusted for temporal distortion to our superiors. They are two hours away at our previous pace, they reside at the site of the Galleon." "We can halve the time if we go at double time. Though it means less scouting," Lael says as they crowd around a digital representation of the surroundings that Delta-A3 projects. "There looks to be an old central mining corridor here that we can use. If Venerable Baldos takes point, we shall have little need for scouting. Speed is paramount." Silverwalker declares. "I agree. My scouts and I can cover the flanks instead of taking point." Felixis says as everyone stands up. "Hey." I say as everyone ignores me. Without warning, Silverwalker scoops me up under one arm. I splutter in protest, but he's already speaking into the Vox, his tone serious. "This is Brother Silverwalker of the Star Dragons, Team Cavalerio. We are declaring an emergency condition. Xenos Level Crimson. Eldar Solitaire confirmed on the Hulk. I repeat: a Harlequin Solitaire walks these decks." He pauses, just long enough for the weight to settle, then continues. "The Princeps is secure. Extraction protocols are now in effect. We are en route to rendezvous with teams Drakios and Doll. Estimated time to contact: forty minutes. All units: prepare for possible escalation." The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. As the team rushes into the corridor, one of the scouts yells out, "Sir, possible transport!" pointing towards a derelict vehicle. "That's a Goliath Rockgrinder," I say from my awkward position under Silverwalker's arm. "Mechanicus team, check it. You have five minutes. If it's operational, we can utilize the transport," Silverwalker orders. "You could just put me down and let me look at it. Its machine spirit is asleep but looks to be operable. Though some of the blades are nearly worn out, and its mining laser and stubber are missing." I say with a huff after scanning the Goliath. "Negative, Princeps." Silverwalker denies my request. L3-3T manages to coax the machine awake while Rayke dumps the ore out of the back and hops into the driver's seat and jacks a connector cable for her MIU into one of the available ports. There is a soft beep as the vehicle acknowledges the connection, and the robust old engine growls to life. "Lord Astartes! Transport is good!" "Everyone, load up! Follow Venerable Baldos!" Silverwalker says as he deposits me inside the main cabin between Rayke and Delta-A3. Just ahead, Baldos lumbers forward and transitions into a run. The moment everyone is loaded up, Rayke slaps the truck into drive and moves to follow. Seeing such a large machine sprinting is still weird, everyone expects them to be slow and cumbersome but that isn't the case at all. They can run and fully utilize their advanced transhuman reflexes. "I don't know if this is necessary…" I say, but just as I am about to complain further, I catch a glimpse of a familiar masked figure standing with his hands behind his back, watching us drive by from a shadowy alcove. "Never mind. Drive faster." —--------------------------------------------------------- POV: Star Dragon's Captain Bolaar Bolaar stood in the aftermath, the hallways of the Star Galleon between the hangar and the cargo hold were saturated with so much gore that it was covering his boots despite the efforts of the purification teams. It had taken a few hours and an ungodly amount of ammunition, but they had dealt with the tens of thousands of chaos zombies. He was making his way back to the Hangar when the transmission from Silverwalker came in. "Astrovas get your ass down here now! Bring the remaining scales!" He growled into the vox. "Yes, sir, on my way. All of them?" Astrovas asked. Bolaar didn't hesitate. "Solitaire," The word was spoken low, almost a snarl. Then a frustrated sigh crackled over the vox. "Acknowledged," Astrovas groaned, already moving. Bolaar still held out some hope that they might unearth some useful equipment for the Star Dragons to procure. Given that the enemy had been fielding traitor Astartes, it remained a distinct possibility. This new variable was going to be a massive headache, he just knew it. —------------------------------------------------------------- POV: Lord Inquisitor Agatha Striker Agatha thought the initial exploration of the Hulk was going better than expected. Her three teams had managed to uncover a number of interesting sites, and most of them had the good graces to avoid wasting Inquisitorial resources with their untimely deaths. Yes, she had to dispatch rescue teams, but she had anticipated that outcome well in advance. When the latest report was brought to her by a sprinting aide. She started reading, and her frown turned into a frustrated scowl. "A Solitaire?! Someone find me that insufferable elf Anvial! I want answers for this!" She stood and slapped her hands down on the table angrily, and made all the adepts nearby jump. "Recall all teams! Lock down the ship!" Her mind raced as she tried to hypothesize what manner of reason the blasted clowns might be interested enough in the Princeps to send a Solitaire. None of the ideas she arrived at were good. "Put the Eversor pod on standby." —--------------------------------------------------------------- POV: Rogue Trader Arken Drakios Arken lounged at the center of the defensive position, surrounded by the gleaming armor and poised menace of his personal retinue. A crystal glass of aged amasec caught the light of a nearby lamp, the amber liquid within swirling lazily as he mulled over their recent encounter. The operation had been far more perilous than anticipated. Containing and purging the massive horde of corrupted undead had teetered on the edge of catastrophe. Were it not for the timely intervention of reinforcements from the Star Dragons, they might well have been torn apart and buried beneath waves of rot and madness. He took a slow sip, savoring the familiar burn down his throat. There was nothing quite like a brush with death to sell the legend of an adventure. But the momentary reprieve was short-lived. Now, reports of a Solitaire presence had swept through the camp like a spark on dry parchment, quiet but undeniable. Vox traffic spiked. Augurs stuttered. Officers whispered in corners like gossiping children. A Harlequin, here, in this forsaken ruin? Arken had never had the distinct pleasure, or rather the misfortune, of encountering one. Their motives were as unfathomable as the stars, their allegiance dancing always on the knife's edge between salvation and annihilation. And yet… he found the prospect tantalizing. He leaned back, expression unreadable, and murmured to no one in particular, "I suppose we'll just have to see what kind of dance they want to lead us in." Given that Nicole had encountered a Solitaire and lived to speak of it, intact and, by all reports, fascinated with her new toy, Arken could reasonably assume its intentions were not immediately hostile. However, one could never be certain when it came to the Eldar, especially the Clowns. Even Doll, for all his computational brilliance, had been just as perplexed. A Solitaire, emerging from the shadows of a dead world, only to present Nicole with… a puzzle toy? That blessed child was an uncanny magnet for the strange and unusual. She also kept managing to generate noticeable bumps in his Dynasty's net worth and had allowed him to make connections and political capital that he would have deemed absurd mere months ago, the Astartes, the Inquisition, a solid connection to a planet with a terraforming relic that was poised to make it the pride and jewel of the subsector in a couple of years, and this was just their first port of call after defrosting her. Arken was content to wait. Nicole was en route to his position, escorted by a mix of guards, servitors, and the Venerable himself. He would get his answers when she arrived. In the meantime, he idly hoped the deluge of viscera left behind by the undead would be cleared from the forward path, so they could resume proper exploration of the Galleon. He'd boarded, toured, and purchased more voidships than most men had ever seen, and his instincts told him something about this vessel was off. Subtly, persistently off. Like a pattern just out of alignment, a note out of tune. He just didn't have the data to identify it. Not yet. Arken was finishing the last of his drink when one of the outer scouts raised an alert. One of the ancient walls was glowing faintly red and orange, just before Venerable Baldos smashed through it. The old warrior's multi-melta steamed as he burst through a weak seam in the rockcrete bulkhead, followed moments later by a battered Goliath Rockgrinder chewing its way into the encampment with a snarl of spinning drills and shrieking steel. Sparks rained as the vehicle skidded to a halt on the polished metal floor beneath, tires screeching and fishtailing before coming to rest mere feet from a stunned emplacement team. Arken set down his empty glass and rose smoothly to his feet. The Rockgrinder's side hatch popped open with a hiss, and out scampered a familiar figure, petite, silver-haired, and far too energetic given the circumstances. "Alright, Doll," Arken said, brushing dust from his coat. "Let's go see what our little trouble-finder has gotten herself into this time." "That little trouble-finder has proven to be quite profitable, has she not?" Doll replied, his voice rich with artificial amusement as he skittered forward in his usual gait. "Oh, without question. I was merely expressing my continued amazement." Arken said, stroking his beard thoughtfully as he watched Nicole approach. "She does have a knack for collecting the unusual. People, artifacts, machines, cryptic xenos emissaries…" "Care for a friendly wager?" Doll asked, his tone shifting into a calculating pitch. "We could bet on whether the Harlequin intends to stick around, or if it seeks to entangle her in some grand narrative." "Hah. That is quite tempting, you know I love a good wager," Arken mused. "How about half a percentage stake in the Ur-Haven final haul?" Doll's red eyes narrowed into precise slits. "No. I cannot accept those terms. The data is insufficient, the odds statistically meaningless." Arken smiled wryly. "Yeah. I'd say it's a bad bet too, my friend." —--------------------------------------------------------------- As I exit the truck, I immediately spot Master Doll and Lord Drakios walking towards me and before they can say anything, I announce, "I think the clown is following me. I don't know if he's hostile. I tried shooting him a few times… it didn't work. I think he's just nosey and wants to know what's inside the box he delivered to me." Lord Drakios raises a finger, opens his mouth to speak, before he blinks slowly and simply elects to stare down at me with one eyebrow quirked upwards. Master Doll lets out a sigh as one of his dendrites scans the puzzle in my hand. "I cannot discern what is inside. The device does not appear outwardly dangerous." I nod, "Yeah, I don't recognize the sigils it uses, and they seem to change each time I move one of the layers. It resembles the Necron lexicon, but something is amiss about it." "Let's move back inside the defensive perimeter," Lord Drakios says as the rest of my team disembarks. I relay the full encounter with the Solitaire to Master Doll and Lord Drakios, informing them of the discoveries we made along the way. Fresh chapters posted on novel⁂fire.net