The sky bled.
Thick, churning clouds painted in crimson and black swirled above the hive, twisting in unnatural patterns. It had started slowly—just a faint red hue on the horizon, a trick of the light, people had said. Now there was no denying it. The world itself was changing, warping under the weight of something unseen.
Cassian barely paid it any mind.
The streets felt wrong. The ferrocrete under his boots had a slight give to it, as if it were no longer solid but something soft, pulsing. In the distance, a structure collapsed, sending dust and debris rolling through the hive like a slow-moving tide. The people left outside had long stopped screaming. Now, they only whispered prayers under their breath.
He passed a group of civilians huddled against a wall, their hands clasped together in silent worship. A few wore the robes of the Ecclesiarchy, their voices hoarse from hours of chanting. Pleading.
"The Emperor protects," they murmured.
Cassian didn't stop.
He had learned the truth long ago—faith alone wouldn't save anyone.
His destination loomed ahead: the Arbites Archives.
Massive, reinforced, untouched by the decay outside. The Arbites did not yield. Their bastions did not crumble. Even as the hive rotted, even as reality twisted, the iron grip of Imperial law remained unbroken.
For now.
Cassian reached into his belt and pulled out his credentials.
The Arbites seal gleamed under the cold lumen lights, stamped with his authorization sigil. The guard on the left scanned it, verifying the data. A brief nod. No words exchanged.
The iron gates groaned as they swung open.
Inside, the air was colder.
Massive shelves stretched into the gloom, stacked with tomes, ancient parchment, and glowing dataslates containing centuries of law, history, and evidence. The scent of old books mixed with the sharp tang of machine oil.
Cassian adjusted the grip on his belt.
He had come searching for clues.
Not on criminals, not on cults, not on lawbreakers.
On psyker abilities.
He didn't expect to find anything outright. The Imperium was notoriously secretive about such knowledge. If psykers were the most dangerous threat to humanity, then keeping information about them under strict control was a necessity.
But there had to be something.
Some trace, some record—perhaps hidden in old Arbites case files, buried in underworld dealings, confiscated materials, ancient parchments from forgotten trials. Anything that hinted at how psykers functioned, how they were controlled.
Even rumors.
He moved through the archives, scanning the cataloging system. Criminal records. Seized contraband. Underworld deals, black-market evidence, smuggling operations. He skimmed past those.
Then something caught his eye.
A section marked "Imperial Sanctioned Assets."
His brow furrowed. That was unusual.
He moved closer, running his fingers over the engraved lettering. The title alone was vague. It could mean anything—special operatives, classified materials, Arbites-controlled informants.
But when he pulled the first tome from the shelf and opened it, his breath caught.
Psykers.
Cassian flipped the pages, his eyes scanning the dense script. Not just any psykers. Sanctioned psykers. Records of their existence, their classifications, their training, even how they were deployed.
He pulled another book free. Then another.
Why was this here?
The Arbites were not the Scholastica Psykana. They did not train psykers. They did not regulate them beyond handing them over to the Black Ships for processing. So why would their archives contain this?
Cassian exhaled, flipping through the records. The answer came quickly.
Psykers were criminals.
Or at least, that was how the Imperium treated them.
Unregistered psykers were some of the most dangerous individuals in existence. Their very presence risked Warp corruption, daemonic possession, or worse. For that reason, the Arbites had long been on the front lines of hunting them down.
The archives contained interrogation records, trial notes, execution reports. Detailed accounts of how the Arbites had found, detained, and judged psykers throughout Imperial history.
But it didn't stop there.
Some psykers were not executed. Some were kept.
Requisitioned. Used.
That was why these records existed. The Imperium did not waste resources—not even its most dangerous ones. While the Black Ships took most psykers for the Golden Throne, others were deemed useful to certain branches of Imperial law enforcement.
Cassian turned the page, scanning the list.
Some were trained for warfare. Battle psykers, sanctioned for use by the Astra Militarum. Others were assigned to the Inquisition, becoming interrogators, sanctioned mind-readers, or tools of coercion.
And then there were the lesser-known ones.
The psykers used for investigation.
A slow chill crept up Cassian's spine.
It made sense. The Arbites dealt with the worst of humanity—murderers, heretics, cultists, corruption at the highest levels. Psykers, if trained properly, were perfect tools for detecting lies, uncovering hidden truths, and rooting out treachery before it could spread.
That meant the Imperium had methods.
Methods for training psykers to resist corruption, to use their abilities without succumbing to the Warp's influence.
Cassian flipped another page.
Techniques. Mental disciplines. Anchors.
The text described strict training regimens—brutal, uncompromising. Methods to ensure a psyker's will was strong enough to withstand the horrors of the Immaterium.
He read through them carefully.
Psykers did not generate their own power. They drew it from the Warp, channeling it through their minds and bodies. The danger was always there—if they lost focus, if they held onto power for too long, the Warp would see them.
And that was death. Or worse.
The training methods were meant to counter that.
Mental anchors. A phrase, a belief, a core truth to hold onto. Something that grounded the mind in reality.
Breathing techniques. Rhythmic, controlled—preventing panic, preventing fear.
Discipline. The absolute certainty that failure meant oblivion.
Cassian let the book rest in his hands.
These techniques weren't just theoretical. They were being used. Right now. Somewhere in the Imperium, sanctioned psykers were learning these very same methods.
He had expected rumors. Fragments. Whispers.
Instead, he had found a blueprint.
His fingers tightened around the book.
This was more than he had hoped for. This was a path forward.
Cassian closed his eyes.
That meant there was more here.
Not just information on sanctioned psykers, but on rogue psykers. Heretics. Witches. How they were caught. How they were broken.
His fingers curled against the pages.
The Imperium had turned their fear of psykers into law. But they still needed them. Even as they executed thousands, they still used the ones they could control.
They needed power.
Cassian exhaled slowly, flipping back to where he left off.
Discipline.
If he wanted to survive, he needed to master control. The Imperium had methods. Mental anchors. Breathing techniques. Mantras.
A mantra.
Something personal. Something to hold onto.
Not just empty words. Not some childish declaration.
He closed his eyes, fingers tapping against the table.
What did he believe in?
Not the Emperor. Not faith. Not the Imperium.
He believed in himself.
His breath steadied.
His voice was barely a whisper.
"My mind is my own."
No one else gets to use it.
Not the Imperium.
Not the Warp.
Not anything.
He opened his eyes.
The words still lingered in the air, like a promise. A warning. A truth.
Cassian exhaled one last time.
There was still much to learn.
---
Cassian exhaled slowly, the air in the archive chamber cool against his skin. He ran a hand through his hair, staring down at the old tome resting on the lectern.
He tapped his fingers against the lectern, scanning the aged script. It was nothing complex—just basic exercises meant to keep a sanctioned psyker from losing their mind or spontaneously combusting from Warp exposure. Nothing fancy. Probably meant for psykers attached to Imperial forces, the kind barely trusted enough to breathe the same air as normal people.
He hesitated for a second, then rolled his shoulders and straightened his stance. He could waste time doubting or he could test it.
Cassian closed his eyes.
"My mind is my own."
The words settled in his head like a weight—not dramatic, not some grand declaration of defiance against the Warp or fate or whatever nonsense the Ecclesiarchy preached. Just a reminder. His mind belonged to him. No one else. Not the Imperium. Not the Warp. Not some unseen force dictating his life.
His breathing slowed. The book had described a technique—something simple, something even the most feeble-brained sanctioned psyker could handle. Breathe in, hold, exhale. Count. Feel the rhythm of it, let it stabilize. The Warp didn't respond to panic, to mindless thrashing. It responded to control.
A strange sensation tingled at the edges of his perception, like standing at the shore of an unseen ocean. He could feel it—not in a way he could properly describe, but it was there. A pressure, a presence, something vast and shifting.
Warp energy.
He reached for it. Carefully. Not like before, when instinct and adrenaline had taken over, when power had surged through him in moments of desperation. This was deliberate. A slow, controlled pull.
It was like trying to cup water in his hands. The energy slipped, wavered, resisted. He adjusted his focus, picturing it flowing into him, not as a flood but as a thin, steady stream. His body tensed, muscles locking up for a brief second as the connection solidified.
His skin prickled. His pulse hammered in his ears.
And then, he felt it.
Minds. Dozens of them. The presence of other people within the precinct fortress, the flickering pulses of thought and emotion spread across the archives and beyond. It wasn't clear, not yet—more like hearing muffled voices through thick walls.
He inhaled, grounding himself, testing his reach.
A mind flickered at the edge of his senses—one of the Arbites officers, stationed near the entrance. Cassian latched onto the presence, trying to push deeper. Thoughts slipped past him like grains of sand, too quick to grasp. He focused harder, forcing himself to listen.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
His jaw clenched. He could feel the mind. It was right there. Why couldn't he—
Then, just for a moment, something clicked. A thought surfaced. Brief, fleeting. A surge of worry, buried beneath a layer of cold discipline. Not fear of Chaos, not quite. Something smaller, more human—anxiety about the unrest brewing outside, about what might come next.
Cassian exhaled sharply, the connection breaking. His head ached, a dull throb settling behind his temples. He rolled his shoulders, stretching out the stiffness creeping into his muscles.
That had been... difficult. More than difficult. The amount of effort for just a glimpse, a single surface thought—it was frustrating.
But he had done it.
His fingers curled slightly. He glanced back at the book, the yellowed pages holding nothing but simple instructions. These techniques were supposed to be basic, meant for barely competent psykers under heavy scrutiny. And even that had taken everything he had.
He leaned back against the lectern, letting out a slow breath.
It wasn't enough.
He needed more control. More refinement. If this was what it took to skim a thought from an unaware officer, then what hope did he have of doing anything meaningful with these abilities?
Cassian rubbed his temple, then straightened. He wasn't done. Not yet.
But it was a start.
----
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