At least, that was what I thought. But as I replayed the footage, I found myself wondering. Even then, without the scar, I saw the beginnings of the sneer behind her eyes.

The interviewer, I assume a drill abbot or equivalent, was now praising Shard’s family, listing the myriad achievements of the von Shard line. She nodded occasionally, her eyes fixed on something unseen. I drained my glass, grimacing slightly at the aftertaste.

It was odd. The schola progenium’s precise methods were, mercifully, beyond my rank and ken. But I knew the result: war orphans born of the Imperium’s greatest heroes, forged into iron-willed servants of the Imperium, loyal only to the God-Emperor and the Golden Throne. That was how the Scions were trained, along with manifold priests, administrators and soldiers. But I also knew the whispers, that such dedication was imparted by chemically ­stripping the students of their identities, leaving blank canvases onto which the drill abbots could work their art.

I understood the reasoning behind their methods, even if the thought of enduring such a process made me shudder. But it seemed not the case with Shard’s family. I had met two of her brothers, Confessor Maric von Shard and Commissar Tobia von Shard. Both took pride in their family’s history and siblings’ achievements, and both were exemplars of their roles. I had assumed Shard was likewise. At least, until I met her.

The holo-pict was still running, the drill abbot recounting Colonel Horotha Shard’s glorious victories and accomplishments. I had seen the footage numerous times, but my focus was usually Shard, trying to get a sense for the angles of her face, how she moved and how best to frame a pict. But I’d met her now, and I saw the girl in the chair as if for the first time. There was defiance in her stillness, even as the interviewer recanted her family’s accomplishments.

Except interviewer was not the right word, for the drill abbot asked no questions, never veering from their script. Proclaiming her family’s glory, over and over. Like a liturgy.

I was missing something. Perhaps, had I listened longer, I would have discovered what. But at that moment the image vanished. Seer-skull Iwazar had cut the connection, replacing it with a repetitive beeping. Inebriated as I was, it took me a moment to discern its meaning. But when I did so I suddenly felt very sober indeed. This communication had been scheduled prior to planetfall, as it depended on Bacchus’ orbit aligning with neighbouring Elis. I smoothed my hair and attempted to look presentable as the link was established.