There was only one way that the Imperium could survive this calamity. Mankind would break free at last from the shackles that bound its mind and faith. The words he was to write would be the seed from which a new Imperium would grow.

The enormity of this endeavour chilled him. It made his hand tremble with fear and exhilaration. The responsibility was like a hab-block pressing down upon his shoulders. He was an unworthy vessel for the Emperor’s love.

But he had been given the sign. The Emperor had come to him. From disaster, a new dawn might arise.

With tear-filled eyes, Father Bellona drew up a sheet of parchment and began to write.

He was inspired. He was honest. He was well-intentioned.

His ideas would cost the lives of billions.

II

The Astra Militarum headquarters on Malouri were located on the island fortress of Crannog Mons. That morning, black carrion birds squabbled over the rotting cadavers that hung in ranks of gibbets thousands strong. The stink of death hung in the air, and in the vast square before the towering Cathedral to Saint Helena Richstar, the Elnaur Chasseurs stood in their polished breastplates, plumed helmets and ceremonial cloaks, waiting for the morning’s execution.

It was a matter of great pride to their commander, Lord-Marshal Holzhauer, that none of his Chasseurs had been gathered up in the purges of wrong-think. The Chasseurs were a proud regiment drawn from their home world’s nobility. They lived by their own rigid code of honour and he had turned any heretic-catchers away from their camp. If there was any crime in their midst, they dealt with it themselves, as they were doing so this morning.

The convicted trooper had been found guilty of theft – a minor misdemeanour for other regiments, but to the Chasseurs it spoke of dishonour. The only way to deal with such a crime was execution. The condemned man no longer had a name. He had eschewed that when he committed his crime. But even now, as a non-person, he stood to attention, conscious that the manner of his death would affect the future of his brothers and nephews back on their home world of Elnaur.

As the executioner pulled the knotted thongs of the wire scourge through his gloved hand to loosen them, the thief’s silver-braided uniform was cut in strips from his body, to symbolise how the whip would flay the skin from his back.

‘In the name of the Holy Emperor,’ the executioner called out, looking to the commander, Lord-Marshal Holzhauer, for permission to begin the ritual flaying.

‘Commence,’ Holzhauer declared.