Rae van Daleon – The Roots of the Storm

by Lea von Löwenstein

Chapter 68: Duty Calls

The morning bells of the Scola rang out across the grounds, their familiar tones a stark contrast to the night’s desperate vigil. Sister Maren completed her morning checks on Alric, noting with satisfaction the strengthening vital signs on the monitors.

“His readings are stabilising,” she announced to the exhausted team gathered around the bed. “The sacred oils have done their work, and his own strength is returning.”

Return to Routine

“First bell has rung,” Celestine said quietly, though she made no move to leave.

Sister Maren looked at the gathered novices, her expression firm but not unkind. “You have duties to attend to. The Scola doesn’t stop, even for this.”

“But—” Marcus began, his massive frame still positioned protectively near Alric’s bed.

“No buts, young warrior,” Sister Maren cut him off. “Alric is stable. The best thing you can do for him now is to continue your training. To grow stronger. The enemies who did this are still out there.”

The Transition

Rae stood slowly, her bruised ribs protesting the movement. “Sister Maren is right,” she said, though the words clearly pained her. “We honour Alric by getting stronger, by being ready when he wakes up.”

“I’ve synced his monitoring data to my cogitator,” Tyren added, adjusting his devices. “Any change, any fluctuation, we’ll know immediately.”

Soren lowered his crossbow for the first time since the night’s emergency. “We’ll take shifts. Between classes, during meal times. He won’t be alone.”

Back to Training

The team gathered their equipment, each taking a final look at their sleeping friend. The morning sun streamed through the high windows, casting warm light across Alric’s peaceful face—so different from the pale terror of the night before.

“First period is combat training with Sister Verena,” Celestine noted, checking her chronometer. “She’ll be expecting us.”

“Good,” Marcus growled, his hands flexing. “I need to hit something.”

As they moved toward the door, Sister Maren’s voice stopped them. “Remember,” she said, her tone serious, “what happened here last night wasn’t just medical. The Warp’s corruption still lingers in his wounds. Be vigilant.”

The Day Begins

The corridors of the Scola were already filling with novices moving to their morning duties. The familiar sounds of boots on stone, the murmur of voices, the distant clang of training weapons—it all seemed surreal after the night’s events.

Rae led her team toward the training halls, each step a reminder of their purpose. They were novices of the Scola Progenium, warriors in training. The enemy had struck hard, but they remained unbowed.

“For Alric,” she whispered.

“For Alric,” they echoed, their voices carrying the weight of both promise and threat.

The day’s training awaited, and with it, the chance to grow stronger. The Prescriptor’s shadows still lurked within the Scola’s walls, but they would find this team ready.

The Emperor protects, but through His servants, He trains. And in the training halls of the Scola Progenium, vengeance would learn new ways to strike.

The training hall echoed with the sound of clashing practice weapons and controlled breathing. Sister Verena stood at the centre, her keen eyes taking in every detail of her students’ movements. When Rae’s team entered, slightly late and obviously exhausted, her expression remained neutral.

“Positions,” was all she said, but her gaze lingered on the empty space where Alric should have been.

Combat Begins

“Today we train in uneven combat scenarios,” Sister Verena announced, pacing before the assembled novices. “The enemy rarely gives you the courtesy of fair numbers or equal strength.”

The words hit close to home for Rae’s team. The memory of the forest ambush was still fresh, the image of Alric falling still burning in their minds.

“Van Daleon,” Sister Verena called out. “Front and centre. Bring your team.”

Adapting to Loss

The team moved forward, automatically adjusting their formation to account for Alric’s absence. The gap in their usual pattern felt like an open wound.

“Your unit is compromised,” Sister Verena stated flatly. “Show me how you compensate.”

She gestured, and six older novices stepped forward, practice weapons ready. Rae’s team shifted instinctively—Marcus widening his stance to cover more ground, Celestine and Soren moving to flank positions, Tyren adjusting his position to maintain optimal support range.

The Warning Signs

As the training combat began, something felt off. Three of the opposing novices moved with unusual aggression, their practice strikes carrying more force than necessary. Their eyes held a strange intensity when they looked at Rae’s team.

“Watch the left flank,” Rae called out, noticing one opponent’s subtle hand signal to another. It was too familiar—too similar to the forest ambush patterns.

The combat intensified. What should have been practice strikes became increasingly vicious. Sister Verena watched closely, her hand resting near her own weapon.

Celestine spun away from a strike that would have done real damage, her eyes narrowing. “They’re not training,” she whispered to Rae. “They’re testing us.”

Marcus intercepted a blow meant for Tyren, his massive frame absorbing the impact. “Like the forest,” he growled. “They’re looking for weaknesses.”

Sister Verena’s voice cut through the combat. “Enough!”

The training hall fell silent. The three aggressive novices stepped back, their faces carefully blank, but their eyes still holding that strange intensity.

“An interesting demonstration,” Sister Verena said, her tone neutral but her gaze sharp. “Some of you seem to have forgotten the difference between training and true combat. Report to the Commissar’s office. Immediately.”

As the three novices left, Rae caught a glimpse of something on one’s wrist—a small mark, quickly covered, but unmistakable. The same symbol they’d seen in the forest.

“The Prescriptor’s reach is long,” Tyren murmured, his cogitator quietly recording everything. “Even here, in plain sight.”

Sister Verena approached Rae’s team, her voice low. “Well handled. You maintained discipline despite provocation. But be warned—not all enemies wear obvious colours.”

The morning continued, but now every training exercise carried new weight. Every partner might be a potential threat, every practice strike might hide real intent.

The war hadn’t stayed in the forest. It had followed them home, walking the halls of the Scola in plain sight, wearing familiar faces.

Training Intensifies

Sister Verena paired them against different opponents for the remainder of the session, but now Rae’s team saw everything through new eyes. They noticed the subtle differences—which novices moved with genuine training focus and which seemed to watch them too intently.

“Defensive formations,” Sister Verena called out. “Show me how you protect a wounded unit member.”

The exercise hit close to home. The team moved with fierce determination, their formation tight and precise. Marcus became their anchor, while Celestine and Soren created a moving perimeter. Tyren coordinated their movements from the centre, his cogitator tracking approach vectors.

“Better,” Sister Verena nodded. “The Emperor protects through unity.”

Private Councils

As the session ended, the team gathered in their usual corner of the training hall, voices low.

“Three more,” Tyren reported, checking his cogitator. “Same wrist marking as the forest attackers. I’ve logged their movement patterns.”

Celestine wiped sweat from her brow, her expression grim. “They’re everywhere. Watching. Waiting.”

“But for what?” Marcus growled, his massive hands still clenched from the training.

Rae’s cogitator chimed softly—a message from the medical wing’s monitoring systems. “Alric’s readings are improving,” she reported. “Sister Maren says he’s responding well to the sacred oils.”

Signs and Shadows

As they moved through the Scola’s corridors toward their next class, they noticed more. Small things that might have seemed innocent before now carried weight:

– A group of older novices falling silent as they passed

– Strange symbols scratched into desk corners

– Whispered conversations that stopped too quickly

– Eyes that followed them too long

“They’re not even trying to hide anymore,” Soren muttered, his hand never far from his crossbow.

Medical Updates

During the midday meal break, they visited the medical wing. Sister Maren met them with cautiously good news.

“His strength returns,” she reported, checking Alric’s monitors. “The Warp taint in his wounds is receding. But…” she paused, her expression troubled, “he’s dreaming. And not peacefully.”

Alric lay still, but his eyes moved rapidly under closed lids. His fingers twitched occasionally, and the monitors showed spikes in his brain activity.

“Fighting,” Marcus said quietly, watching his friend. “Even now.”

“Or seeing something,” Tyren added, his cogitator interfacing with the medical equipment. “Something they don’t want him to remember.”

Growing Threats

As they left the medical wing, Rae’s team moved closer together, their formation unconsciously protective. The Scola’s familiar halls felt different now—every shadow might hide a threat, every fellow novice might be an enemy.

“We need to be ready,” Rae said, her voice low but firm. “They’re planning something. Something bigger than forest ambushes and training ‘accidents’.”

“For Alric,” Celestine whispered, her hand brushing her knives.

“For Talia,” Soren added, checking his crossbow’s mechanism.

“For the Emperor,” Marcus rumbled, his massive frame seeming to grow even larger.

“For the truth,” Tyren finished, his cogitator humming softly.

The day continued, but now every moment carried the weight of vigilance. In classes, in corridors, in training halls—the war for the Scola’s soul raged on, fought not with blades and bolters, but with watching eyes and waiting hearts.

And somewhere in the medical wing, Alric dreamed his troubled dreams, perhaps seeing truths the enemy would kill to keep hidden.

The Emperor protects, but through His servants, He watches. And in the halls of the Scola Progenium, shadows were learning to fear the light.

Dreams of Shadow

In the quiet of the medical wing, Alric’s mind wandered through landscapes of memory and nightmare. The monitors tracked his increasing brain activity as images flashed behind his closed eyes:

A corridor he’d never seen, yet somehow knew.

Hooded figures performing rituals in forgotten chambers.

The symbol from the forest, carved into ancient stone.

And something else—a presence that watched it all through eyes that burned with unnatural fire.

“The Prescriptor sees,” he mumbled in his fevered sleep. “The Prescriptor knows…”

Sister Maren leaned closer, recording his words in her medical log. The sacred oils on his forehead gleamed in the afternoon light, forming patterns that seemed to shift with his dreams.

Hidden Patterns

Meanwhile, Tyren’s cogitator had been correlating data from throughout the Scola. His findings, shared quietly with the team during their afternoon break, painted a disturbing picture.

“Look at this,” he whispered, showing them his display. “Class reassignments over the past three months. Certain novices being moved, positioned…”

The pattern emerged clearly: those who wore the hidden mark were being systematically placed in key positions throughout the Scola’s hierarchy.

“Here,” Celestine pointed to one name. “She was moved to archives duty last week.”

“And him,” Soren added, indicating another. “Now guards the night shift in the eastern wing.”

“They’re not just infiltrating,” Rae realized, her voice tight. “They’re taking control. Slowly. Carefully.”

Back in the medical wing, Alric’s dreams grew more intense. His fingers twitched as if trying to point at something only he could see.

“The chamber beneath… the old stones… where shadows speak…”

Sister Maren’s quill scratched rapidly across parchment, recording every fevered word. But as she wrote, a shadow passed briefly across the high windows—too large to be a bird, too deliberate to be chance.

The enemy was watching, even here. Waiting to see what secrets Alric’s dreams might reveal.

Visions of Shadow and Light

In the depths of his healing sleep, Alric’s mind wandered through corridors of memory and nightmare. The sacred oils on his forehead shimmered as his eyes moved rapidly beneath closed lids, seeing things hidden from waking eyes.

First Vision: The Ancient Chamber

He stood in a vast circular chamber, far beneath the Scola’s known levels. Ancient stones pulsed with a sickly light, and carved into the floor was an immense version of the symbol they’d seen in the forest. But here, in his dream-sight, he could see how the lines continued beyond what was visible, forming patterns that hurt to look upon.

“The old ways,” voices whispered from shadows that moved wrong. “The true teaching begins in darkness…”

Second Vision: The Gathering

Hooded figures moved in precise patterns around the chamber’s edge. Their robes bore no markings, but their hands… their hands were stained with symbols that crawled across their skin like living things. In the centre stood a figure taller than the rest, their face hidden by a hood that seemed to swallow light.

“The Prescriptor guides,” the figures chanted. “The Prescriptor shows the path through shadow to true knowledge…”

Third Vision: The Ritual

He watched as novices were led into the chamber, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and desperate hope. The hooded figures surrounded them, their chants growing stronger. The symbols on their hands began to glow, and the novices’ screams turned to something else—something hungry.

“Through pain comes understanding,” the tall figure spoke, their voice resonating with unnatural harmonics. “Through sacrifice comes power…”

Fourth Vision: The Network

The scene shifted, and Alric saw the Scola from above, but not as it appeared to normal eyes. Lines of dark energy pulsed through its walls like corrupt veins, all leading back to that hidden chamber. And along these lines moved shadows wearing familiar faces—novices, staff, guards, all marked with the crawling symbols.

“The old stones remember,” whispered voices that weren’t voices. “The true Scola lies beneath…”

Fifth Vision: The Warning

The tall figure turned, seeming to look directly at Alric’s dream-self. Their hood fell back slightly, revealing not a face but a swirling vortex of shadow and fire.

“The little light sees too much,” it said, its words burning in Alric’s mind. “Tell them, little watcher. Tell them how deep the shadows run. Tell them how many have already turned. Tell them…”

In the medical wing, Alric’s body tensed, his monitors showing spikes of activity. Sister Maren leaned closer, recording every whispered word as he continued to dream:

“The Prescriptor’s mark spreads like night across the stars… in every Scola… in every heart that hungers for forbidden truth… the old ways return… the true teaching… the price in blood and soul…”

His voice trailed off into troubled murmurs, but his fingers kept moving, tracing patterns in the air—patterns that Sister Maren carefully sketched in her notebook, her hand shaking slightly as she drew.

The shadows in the medical wing seemed to deepen as afternoon light faded, and somewhere, watching eyes waited to see what secrets Alric’s dreams might betray.

Deeper Visions

Alric’s dreams spiraled deeper, revealing more horrifying details:

The Chamber’s Truth

The circular chamber’s walls weren’t just stone—they were lined with ancient texts written in scripts that shifted and changed as he watched. Between the texts were embedded crystals that pulsed with dark energy, each beat synchronised with the chants of the hooded figures.

“The knowledge flows,” the voices whispered. “Through crystal, through flesh, through soul…”

The Marking Ritual

He saw now how they created their hidden signs. The tall figure—the Prescriptor’s Voice, they called it—would touch each initiate’s wrist with a crystal shard. The mark would appear to burn itself into flesh, but it wasn’t just a surface mark. The corruption spread through veins, changing something fundamental in each bearer.

“The mark is merely the beginning,” the Voice intoned. “The change goes deeper… to the very soul…”

Sister Maren’s Growing Horror

As she recorded Alric’s fevered words, Sister Maren’s professional composure began to crack. Her hands trembled slightly as she drew the symbols he described, each one seeming to mock the sacred medical texts on her desk.

“Emperor protect us,” she whispered, making the sign of the aquila after particularly disturbing revelations. Her medical dataslate beeped warnings about Alric’s elevated brain activity, but she dared not administer sedatives—these visions might be too important.

Immediate Consequences

The afternoon light suddenly dimmed as clouds gathered outside. The medical wing’s shadows seemed to move with purpose, and Sister Maren noticed something disturbing—the sacred oils on Alric’s forehead were reacting to his visions, forming counter-symbols that glowed faintly.

A servitor entering with routine supplies stopped abruptly, its augmetic eyes focusing on Alric with unusual intensity. Sister Maren’s hand moved to the blessed bolt pistol hidden in her medical robes.

“Routine maintenance protocol interrupted,” the servitor announced in a voice that didn’t sound quite right. “New directive: assess and…”

Sister Maren’s bolt pistol was out before the servitor could finish. “In the Emperor’s name, stand down.”

The servitor’s eyes flickered with an unnatural light. Something was trying to act through it, to reach Alric while he was vulnerable.

The Servitor’s Attack

The servitor’s movements became jerky, unnatural, as though something else was wrestling for control of its mechanised form. Its augmetic eyes flickered with corrupt energy, and its voice modulator emitted sounds that no machine should make.

“Priority override,” it ground out, vocabulator distorting. “Silence the dreamer. Silence the…”

Sister Maren stood her ground between the corrupted servitor and Alric’s bed, her blessed bolt pistol unwavering. Her other hand clutched her Hospitalier’s rosarius, its soft light creating a barrier of faith around her patient.

“You shall not touch him,” she declared, her medical oaths and warrior’s training merging into steel resolve. “The Emperor’s healing light protects this chamber.”

The Corruption Manifests

The servitor’s form began to change. Cables writhed like serpents, and its metallic surfaces rippled as though something was trying to push through from within. Dark energy crackled around its augmetics, and the medical equipment nearby began to spark and malfunction.

“The Prescriptor’s will cannot be denied,” the thing that had been a servitor said in a voice that was now completely inhuman. “The dreams must not be remembered.”

It lurched forward, its servant’s arms transformed into writhing mechanical tentacles crackling with corrupt energy. Medical trays crashed to the floor as it advanced, its every movement a mockery of the sacred machine spirits it had once housed.

Sister Maren’s response was immediate and decisive. Her bolt pistol barked twice, each round blessed and consecrated for exactly such a horror. The first shot struck the servitor’s chest, blowing apart corrupt mechanisms. The second found its head, detonating in a spray of tainted metal and dark energy.

“The Emperor protects,” Sister Maren intoned, not lowering her weapon as the servitor’s remains twitched and sparked on the floor. “And through His servants, He cleanses.”

Alric’s Response

Even in his dream-state, Alric sensed the violence near him. His body tensed, and the monitors showed sudden spikes in brain activity. His fevered whispers became more urgent, more frightened:

“They see me… they know I see… the shadows have eyes… the machines have teeth…”

His hands clutched at the sheets, and the sacred oils on his forehead began to glow brighter, forming protective patterns against whatever was trying to reach into his dreams.

“No… not just machines… vessels… they use them like puppets… like they use the marked ones…”

Sister Maren’s Swift Action

Sister Maren moved with practiced efficiency, never taking her eyes off the twitching remains of the corrupted servitor. Her actions were precise, each step backed by years of dealing with Warp-tainted threats:

First, she activated the ward-blessed emergency beacon at her belt, summoning both medical and security reinforcements.

Next, she drew forth a small vial of blessed chrism from her medical robes, quickly reinforcing the protective oils on Alric’s forehead while murmuring prayers of preservation.

“Sanctify this space,” she intoned, sprinkling blessed water in a circle around Alric’s bed. “Let no corruption pass, let no shadow touch.”

She then activated the medical wing’s ancient defence protocols—systems installed centuries ago for exactly such incursions. Blessed incense began to flow from hidden vents, and subtle lines of protective script lit up in the floor and walls.

“Rest easy, young warrior,” she whispered to Alric, whose dreams still showed signs of disturbance. “Your visions are protected now. Show us what they need us to see.”

The remains of the servitor sparked one final time before going still, but Sister Maren knew better than to assume the threat was over. Whatever had tried to silence Alric’s dreams would try again.