That face again. Suspended in mid-air before you. No, not suspended. Just poor lighting, masking the rest of her in shadow. A voice, her voice, but different. The sound ringing painfully in your head with every word. “Welcome back dear. Did you sleep well? I am Xerza. Of the Inquisition. You are my prisoner, awaiting transfer to the Black Ships. Do you understand?” Her lips are not moving, but the voice is in my head. “Your life would normally just be forfeit; for you have been found guilty of heresy by association. But you are also a witch, which obliges me to send you forthwith to Holy Terra, where you will dine one final time – at the Emperor's own table no less.”

A witch? I'm not a witch! ”Oh but you are a witch Haxtes Guilliman. Just because you don't know it doesn't make your a non-psychic. Much as with your association with the the blood-cult festering within the Veiled Hand; you didn't know it for what it was, but that does not make you innocent – heresy by association is still heresy.” Of course there is a blood-cult! The Veiled Hand is a death cult, like many others like it within the Imperium. ”Yes, but those death cults operate within the bounds laid down by the Imperium, whereas your cult saw fit to not only deal with xenos, but actually adopt their bloody-handed god as its patron. I know that you are not an initiate, but you would have been made one soon enough, that much is plain from your own memories – flashes of your kills pass through your mind, lingering on the woman – and the pathetic confessions of your former masters, many voices howling in your mind, screaming out their self-incriminating confessions, all the while begging to be put to death – and heresy about to happen is still heresy.”

Xerza rocks back on her very high heels, laughing out loud; her first sound so far. The laughter is contagious and you find yourself laughing hard, enough so that your bonds bite into your naked flesh. Before the self-constricting bonds can do you any serious harm they relax at some unseen signal, sending you slumping forward onto the cold metal floor. You can feel the hum of distant machinery. “You're a fine one Haxtes. That you are. You would have made a fine xenophile heretic; I see you need a bit of blood and pain to become properly aroused.” The laughter is gone now, and you find yourself hauled back to your feet by strong and supple hands. She whispers into your, her breath hot on your skin. “I've a proposition for you Haxtes. You can go to the Black Ships and die screaming as the Master of Mankind devours your heretical soul. For the Holy Ordos. For Inquisitor Tancred. For me. Would you like that? To kill for the Emperor rather than for yourself or some lesser cause? Or is blood all you crave? Tell me now – it's a one-time offer only.”