WH 40k: Transcendence

---

The St. Heliosa Lament broke through the clouds with a groan that rattled the people staying in the ship. The warp was behind them finally. The Geller Field dropped away, leaving them exposed to cold, empty space. Real space. No illusions, no shifting nightmares. Just black and the distant fires of stars.

Below, Savavarn spread out like a scarred, holy battlefield. You didn't have to look long to see what this place was: a world built on pain, sweat, and endless suffering. Giant pilgrimage routes cut across the land trails carved deep by millions crawling on knees that had long stopped bleeding but never stopped praying. Enormous cathedrals rose out of the dust, cracked and chipped but still standing like they meant something. Like they were defying the void.

The air at least what Cassian could feel through the thick ship's hull was thick with smoke and incense. Not the gentle scent of a temple back on a civilized or even a hive world. This was choking, burning, like the breath of a god who was angry and never forgiving. The sky wasn't blue. It was dull orange, heavy with the glow of a million fires burning in endless tribute. They called it the glow of tithe pyres. Flames that never went out.

Pilgrims packed the viewing ports, faces pressed to the glass like it was the first time any of them had seen something real. Some were crying. Old women and young men alike. Some laughed, broken and ragged, because after centuries trapped in the warp, even laughter was a kind of relief.

Faevelith stood beside Cassian, arms crossed. She didn't say much, but her eyes were melancholy as she saw the world. "They don't love this world," she said quietly. "Not truly."

Cassian didn't argue. He felt it too the weight. The quiet desperation of people who'd forgotten what normal even looked like. People clinging to faith like it was the last lifeline in a sea of chaos.

The ship docked at Orbital Basilica Threxia, a massive orbital station that looked more like a fortress than a place of worship. Its corridors hummed with the low, endless chant of adepts. The air smelled of burnt oil and sanctified incense. Even the walls seemed soaked in centuries of prayer and pain.

Stepping off the ship was like stepping into a different world entirely. Pilgrims swarmed the station in waves some fresh from cryo-sleep, wide-eyed and raw, others worn down by warp travel, faces hollow and skin like parchment.

Choirs filled the halls with hymns. Thick clouds of sanctified mist sprayed from brass censers, coating everyone in a wet, holy chill. Priests moved through the crowd, smearing oil on foreheads, marking signs of the Aquila, whispering prayers for forgiveness or strength. Some pilgrims sobbed openly, others simply stared, eyes glazed but burning with some fierce, unspoken hope.

Cassian watched a priest kneel beside a barefoot child, no older than five, her feet cracked and bleeding. The priest pressed a wafer into her hands, kissed her forehead, and moved on without a word. The girl smiled up at him, unbroken. That moment stuck with Cassian longer than anything else.

Announcements rang out in harsh, clipped tones. Pilgrims were assigned to their routes, a different kind of penance, trial, or blessing. No one came here by chance. Their origin, their sins, their worth all measured and weighed by the Ecclesiarchy's cold, relentless system.

Cassian glanced at Faevelith and Farron. None of them had a path assigned. They weren't pilgrims here, not really. Just observers in a world that could swallow a soul whole and spit out ash.

But still... even standing there, watching the endless procession of broken bodies and burning hearts, Cassian felt it, something fierce and real. The kind of faith that doesn't ask questions. The kind of faith that'll carry you through hell, even when you don't believe it anymore.

The shuttles waited, humming low and steady. The time to step onto Savavarn's scorched ground was close.

The fires were waiting.

---

 Cassian's boots hit the grated floor of the orbital station with a hollow clang. He glanced at Faevelith and Farron both silent, shoulders tight with weariness from the long journey through the warp. They moved forward, stepping out of the sterile hum of the ship's corridors into the thick, stifling air of the station.

The scent hit them first smoke, sweat, incense, and something sour, like rot left too long in the heat. The station was packed, a crush of pilgrims, their faces pale or sunburned, eyes wide or hollow. Some stumbled, clutching twisted rosaries or small icons of the Emperor, others sat slumped against walls, hands trembling as they whispered prayers or muttered litanies. A mother rocked a screaming child, her cracked lips moving in frantic devotion.

Cassian just observed. They had crossed the warp's nightmare to get here. The station was meant to be a haven, a place of cleansing before the pilgrimage to the surface. But it was chaos noisy, raw, filled with desperate souls clinging to hope and faith like lifelines.

A woman near the exit wiped tears with the back of her hand, her face streaked with dirt and sweat. Her eyes caught Cassian's briefly so much exhaustion, yet she kept moving.

They edged forward with the tide, letting the crowd push them toward the landing elevators. Cassian didn't speak. Faevelith kept her gaze low, and Farron's fingers twitched at his side.

At the elevator, they squeezed in with a dozen others. The lift's groan echoed down the shaft as it began its slow descent. The air grew hotter, heavier, smelling of burnt oil and old prayers.

When the doors slid open, the noise hit them full force, chants, footsteps, shouts, the sharp crack of whips. The pilgrims poured onto a wide, open platform, spilling toward the shuttle bays below.

Cassian looked out at the city sprawling beneath them, the sprawling pilgrimage routes winding like rivers through the haze. Towering cathedrals clawed at the sky, their spires shattered and patched but still standing. Everywhere, tithe fires burned small, bright points of light that flickered in the thick air.

They moved slowly, following the flow but not yet part of it.

A man knelt by the side, clutching a leather whip in one hand. He raised it above his head and brought it down hard, his back already marked with red welts. A few steps away, another smeared black ash over her face, smearing the dust thick across cheeks and brow. A ritual, maybe, or a confession.

Further on, a choir sang loud, rough voices rising in a haunting hymn. Some pilgrims clapped along, faces flushed and shining with sweat. A few danced in a trance-like rhythm, their movements jerky and wild. Cassian noticed one man stumbling, eyes glassy high on drugs or broken, or both.

They passed a procession threading through the streets a sea of chanting voices carrying massive relics, relics that looked old enough to have turned to stone. Every so often, the crowd fell to synchronized prostrations foreheads hitting stone in unison, bodies shaking with effort and devotion.

A robed priest stood near the edge of the procession, hands raised in blessing. Pilgrims pressed close, reaching out to touch his sleeves, their voices rising in fervent prayer.

Cassian swallowed hard. The scene was overwhelming, but he said nothing. Faevelith and Farron didn't speak either. It wasn't their place to judge.

They reached a small square near the edge of the city. Dust swirled around their boots, kicked up by hundreds of restless feet. Cassian looked around, searching for someone to ask.

A man in a simple brown robe stood by a stone pillar, quietly watching the crowd. Cassian stepped forward.

"Excuse me," he said, voice low but firm. "We seek lodging. Somewhere to rest, Can you point us in the direction."

The man's eyes flicked up, tired but sharp. "Lodging, yes. The House of Mercy is not far. But beds are scarce. Pilgrims come in droves these days."

Cassian nodded. "Any cost?"

The man shrugged. "Pilgrimage is costly, but charity holds strong here. The House offers shelter, but coin greases doors. Some pay, some pray for mercy."

Faevelith stepped up, voice soft. "We will offer what we can."

The man smiled faintly. "Good. The way is there, go straight then turn left you will see a statue of the patron saint, from there turn right, the old building is quite big, you will not miss it. May the Emperor bless you."

"Thank You" Cassian excused himself politely.

They weaved through narrow alleys, the hum of prayers and cries never far. The House of Mercy was a squat building, its walls worn and stained. Inside, the air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, incense, and desperation.

Pilgrims crowded the common room men and women with haunted eyes, children clinging to their mothers. Some huddled in corners, others whispered fervent prayers or broke bread in silence.

A grizzled woman at a rough wooden desk eyed Cassian's group. "Names?"

Cassian gave aliases of his, then Faevelith's and Farron's.

"Beds are limited. We do not turn away those with no coin, but be warned comfort is a luxury here."

Farron dug into a small pouch, counting a few worn coins. Faevelith's fingers twitched, uncertain.

The woman nodded at their offer. "Enough for a night's stay. Breakfast comes with the dawn. Pray you earn strength for what comes next."

Cassian exchanged a glance with Faevelith and Farron. No words were needed.

They were pilgrims here, like the rest wearied, hopeful, uncertain.

The House's wooden floor creaked underfoot as they climbed the narrow stairs to their rooms. Cassian paused by a small window, looking out at the burning fires, the endless stream of pilgrims, the impossible weight of faith pressing down on everything.

Behind him, Faevelith sighed, exhaustion lining her face.

Farron sat heavily on a rough cot, tinkering with some toy, heavily uncomfortable in this environment.

Te long, uncertain road ahead awaited them.

---

The House was quiet.

Cassian sat on the hard cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. The scent of incense still clung to his clothes, soaked into the rough-spun fabric they'd been issued. Somewhere, far off, someone was singing again another hymn, another voice cracking in the upper register. Always a hymn.

Faevelith hadn't spoken in over an hour. She'd taken a seat by the narrow window slit, her knees pulled up, chin resting on folded arms. She just watched. Farron had dismantled half his rebreather rig and was scrubbing it with a cloth that looked like it had once been used to clean floors. He was muttering in binaric, low and fast, like he was arguing with the cogitator in his head.

They hadn't slept.

The room was communal thirty, maybe forty other pilgrims packed in. Most lay on the ground. A few were kneeling. One old man hadn't moved in the last hour.

Then he started shaking.

It started small. Fingers twitching. A leg kicking. Cassian noticed it because the man had been utterly still for so long it was unnatural. But now, his back arched sharply, body seizing. A wet cough, a gargling sound. Foam spilled from the side of his mouth. One of the nearby women edged away, but she didn't scream. No one screamed.

Two Sisters entered. 

They didn't check for breath. Didn't try to help.

They laid a thin grey cloth over his body, whispered litanies of mercy, and dragged him away feet scraping across stone. The body made a noise when it hit the stairs. They didn't pause. No one said anything. Not even a prayer.

Faevelith exhaled, a small sound, just breath. She didn't look away from the window.

Cassian looked down again. He didn't say a word.

---

Later.

The sun had fallen. Torchlight cast long shadows across the cloister's walls, flickering like silent hands reaching.

Cassian had stepped out alone to walk. 

That's when the man appeared. From a narrow hallway, a hood up, face hidden. One hand in his sleeve, the other outstretched.

No name and no greeting.

A sigil. Sealed. Black wax, ringed in an old Terran dialect. Obsidian ink scrawled over the parchment folded inside.

"Go to the Sub-Vault beneath the Reliquary of Saint Meraveth," the man said, voice dry, quiet. "Ask for the Broken Psalm. Do not mention this to the Ecclesiarchy. Or to anyone loyal to it."

Cassian took the seal. Didn't answer.

Then he was gone. Into the smoke. Like he'd never been there.

Cassian stared down at the seal for a long moment. The seal of illuminati.

Cassian sighed, it seems like that organization found him. The plans he had need to be adjusted.

Then he turned and walked back toward the House of Mercy.

---

Word count: 2136

Hey, if you're enjoying the ride, do me a solid follow, review, and favourite this story. It keeps the fire burning on my end and makes sure it doesn't get buried under a mountain of other fics.

Thanks for reading and if you're hungry for more, check out my patreon

patreon.com/Kratos5627