Capítulo 19: Alen
Kayvaan was sharp—almost unsettlingly so. He met their verbal assaults with a calmness that seemed to sap the aggression from the air. When the questions turned harsh and even outright insulting, his anger surfaced but never overtook him. Instead, he directed it into firm, steady responses, neither provoking nor backing down. Elizabeth found herself questioning her assumptions. Could this truly be a Space Marine? His steady temperament and sharp wit felt more like those of a negotiator than a battle-hardened warrior.
Frustrated, Elizabeth discarded her planned approach and strode into the interrogation chamber. She tried intimidation, but it failed utterly. Kayvaan didn't even blink at the mention of the Ordo Malleus—a name that would leave even the most devious heretics trembling. His blank expression, as though she had mentioned something trivial, only deepened her frustration. No daemon, no matter how skilled at deception, could maintain such composure.
And then there were the tests—tests that should have unearthed any sign of corruption but instead returned results that were infuriatingly clear. There was no warp taint, no psychic resonance, and no mutation. His physical condition was remarkably pure. The results painted a picture of someone entirely untouched by Chaos.
The only unusual aspect of Kayvaan was his appearance. His skin, smooth and untouched by age or wear, stood in stark contrast to his long stasis. Yet even this bore no signs of corruption. In any other situation, this would have been enough to clear him. A simple ruling by the Inquisition would have ended the matter. But Kayvaan was no ordinary case.
Soon after his awakening, messages began flooding in from various Space Marine Chapters. Even the Blood Angels, who bore the heavy burden of the Black Rage, sent inquiries. The messages were brief, often little more than questions about Kayvaan's status, but their meaning was clear. To these Chapters, he was more than a relic; he was a symbol—a hero from the Imperium's early days, alive once more.
Even more telling was the response from the High Lords of Terra, who sent a formal note acknowledging their interest in Kayvaan's case. And then, there was the Emperor Himself. His physical form had been inspected by the Emperor's mechanisms—an act that placed him beyond the reach of ordinary judgment.
Despite all this, Elizabeth couldn't dismiss the feeling that something was amiss. It wasn't logical, nor was it based on evidence. It was her instinct—a sense that had guided her through countless battles against heresy and Chaos. To Elizabeth, this wasn't just a vague feeling; it was a force she trusted as much as her own eyes. Time and again, her instincts had led her to truth, and now they focused on one person: Kayvaan. Something about him felt off, hidden beneath the surface.
The interrogation dragged on, grinding and monotonous. Most of the questions were routine, the kind used to establish context. But Kayvaan's answers—or lack of understanding—made the process far more difficult. He wasn't dodging the questions; it was clear he genuinely didn't understand many of the topics being discussed. His confusion stemmed from one undeniable truth: Kayvaan had been asleep for nine thousand years.
Nine millennia. That span of time exceeded the lifespan of entire civilizations. To Kayvaan, the galaxy he awoke to was alien. Every question felt like opening a door to yet another strange and unfamiliar concept.
"Who's Kayvaan?" he asked at one point, his expression earnest.
Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her temple, suppressing a sigh. It wasn't defiance; his ignorance was genuine. Still, the endless back-and-forth tested her patience. Every question seemed to lead to yet another round of explanations. By the third day, Elizabeth had reached her limit.
The conclusion was filed in a single word: Pure. Yet, the matter wasn't settled. Passing the initial review was only the beginning. Kayvaan was sent for a thorough medical evaluation and assigned a six-month period of observation within an Imperial chapel on Terra. The practice was largely ceremonial, meant to show that even heroes of legend were subject to the Imperium's laws.
In truth, the Imperium's rulers had little desire for these legendary figures to awaken. Heroes of the past were far easier to manage as silent symbols, lying motionless in their sarcophagi. Revered but harmless. A living hero was unpredictable—a potential disruptor to the established order. More often than not, they caused more problems than they solved.
_______________
Darius stood outside the old wooden door, his nerves frayed. His heart raced, and for the eighth time that morning, he adjusted his suit. Today was monumental, and he felt the weight of it pressing down on him.
The suit was custom-tailored, crafted specifically for this occasion. Its dark blue and black fabric carried an air of sophistication beyond his years. At sixteen, Darius knew his youth was against him. Every detail had to be perfect to command respect despite his boyish features.
Taking a deep breath, he counted silently. One, two, three. Then, with all the determination he could muster, he pushed the door open. Before he could enter, a calm voice halted him. "Don't you know how to knock?"
Darius froze, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. Hastily, he shut the door and knocked properly. Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Come in," the voice said again, now less sharp.
He stepped inside. The room was small and bare, much like the rest of the chapel. No grand adornments or extravagant furniture—just quiet simplicity.
Sitting on a worn wooden chair was a young man with jet-black hair. The sunlight from an open window framed him, casting a golden glow that seemed almost otherworldly. His eyes were closed, and his expression was peaceful, as though he were soaking in the light.
It was a sight that completely shattered Darius's expectations. In his mind, Kayvaan Shrike was supposed to be towering, scarred, and fearsome, with a presence that radiated danger. He had imagined a giant clad in dark armor, standing atop a mountain of skulls, a being who exuded raw power. But this… this was nothing like that.
Summoning his courage, Darius asked tentatively, "Excuse me, are you Mr. Kayvaan Shrike?"
The man opened his eyes, and Darius felt an immediate sense of calm. Kayvaan's gaze was steady, lacking any malice or intimidation. His face was striking—not weathered or battle-worn, but serene, carrying a quiet grace that was almost ethereal. "Yes," Kayvaan replied, his tone soft but clear. "You've found the right person. I am Kayvaan Shrike. But just Kayvaan will do. And you are?"
Darius bowed respectfully. "My name is Darius Alen Shadowglin. I'm the only descendant of Alen."
"Alen?" Kayvaan's expression softened further. "Ah, little Alen. I see the resemblance. You've inherited his face and that same determined look. Tell me, is he still alive?"
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