B A R G H E S T
NIRAUAN
The air in the Inquisitorius chambers on Nirauan was recycled and cold, tasting of sterile metal and the low hum of high-security containment fields. It was an environment that mirrored the architecture of the Fourth Brother's own mind; hollowed out, efficient, and devoid of the clutter of his previous life.
He stood before a flickering hololith, his yellowish-red eyes fixed on the data streams. A ship had just exited hyperspace, tripping the high-sensitivity sensors of the Inquisitorius. It wasn't a scavenger or a merchant; the signature was distinct, a relic of a splintered past. An asset from Barran’s splinter cell. A week late for a Conclave that had already decided the future. In the Inquisitorius, tardiness was not a mistake; it was a threat.
The walk from the HQ to the spaceport was short and quiet. Aymeric preferred the transit through the fortress's shadow-drenched corridors, his boots making no sound against the polished floor. Every time he passed a window and felt the biting wind of Nirauan through the structural seals, the scars at the base of his skull gave a familiar, rhythmic throb.
Daedalus Tarkin
was watching. Not physically, perhaps, but the ghost of his labs was always present, a silent overseer ensuring the tool remained sharp.By the time he reached the landing bay, the ship was already beginning its final approach. The roar of the sublight engines echoed off the high durasteel walls, a defiant sound in the oppressive silence of the Initiative's stronghold.
Aymeric stepped out onto the gantry as the landing struts hissed against the pad. He didn't ignite his blade. He didn't call for the purge troopers. He simply stood at the base of the ramp, a silhouette of sharp angles and black synth-weave against the swirling Nirauan mist.
He reached out, not with the warmth of the Force he once knew, but with the cold, grasping senses of an Inquisitor. He felt the presence inside the ship; a light-leaning resonance that felt like an itch against his sensitized nerves. It was a familiar flavor of righteousness, the kind that usually broke so beautifully under pressure.
Like he did, under the brutal palm of Tarkin.
As the ramp began to descend, Aymeric tilted his head. He allowed his yellow gaze to lock onto the opening, his presence expanding to fill the hangar with a suffocating, clinical weight. He wasn't there to welcome a guest or to parley with an ally. He was there to intercept a threat that had arrived too late to matter and too early to escape.
