A Rare and Terrible Mistake (Warhammer 50k Governor fanfic)

[Wing404]

Chapter 1: The Luxury of survival​

"It is a rare and terrible privilege to live well in the Imperium."
—Inscription over the private study of Lord-Governor Alaric Deymn, Halveris System

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There are few blessings more dangerous than comfort beneath the gaze of the God-Emperor. To prosper in His realm is to draw the envy of the damned and the attention of those who claim to speak for His will. In a galaxy where a single misplaced word can damn a world, and a prayer said too late can summon something unspeakable, luxury itself is a sin one must wear like armor.

The Halveris System gleams dimly in the void—a cluster of iron worlds and starving skies, five planets bound by faith, fear, and the slow machinery of Imperial governance. Three hives rise like tomb-cities from oceans of smog, their spires crowned with statues of saints whose names no one remembers. An agriworld labors beneath chemical rain to feed their endless hunger, while a mining world gnaws at its own crust in pursuit of ore for the tithe. The people work, the priests chant, and the Administratum counts the bodies as both measure and offering.

Over it all presides Lord-Governor Alaric Deymn, a man reborn by rejuvenat and burdened by inheritance. Soldier, scholar, and reluctant patriarch of a dynasty thinned by accident and quiet conspiracy, he rules by decree and dread in equal measure. His word carries the weight of a thousand deaths, his silence the promise of more.

In the Imperium of Man, life endures only through obedience. But on Halveris, it endures well.

And that, as all men know, is the most dangerous fate of all.

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The sky above Halveris Prime burned a deep, corroded red—the kind of color that suggested the Emperor Himself was bleeding somewhere far beyond the clouds. It was the proper shade for mourning, though the Mechanicus swore it was just atmospheric refraction from the hive furnaces. Either way, it suited the day perfectly.

I stood before the three obsidian coffins of House Deymn beneath the great dome of the Cathedral of Saint Ydrass, the air thick with incense and ozone. The choir's vox-throats wailed a lamentation written before Old Night, their harmonics engineered to make the faithful weep and the guilty twitch. I did neither.

My mourning robes itched, my boots pinched, and my patience was bleeding out faster than a Guardsman in a trench.

The Ecclesiarch's representative droned at the altar, surrounded by censor-bearers and servo-cherubs that shed perfumed ash in slow, spiraling trails. His words echoed through the chamber like vox-distortion: "In the name of Him on Terra, may these souls find eternal service in the light of the Master of Mankind…"

I half-listened. My mind was elsewhere, wandering down darker corridors.

So. This is it, then. The grand inheritance. A system of five worlds, four gas giants, and more headaches than the Adeptus Administratum has quills.

The coffins gleamed beneath the cathedral light. My sister, my brother, my father. My brother had been the heir—the golden son, the perfect scion of House Deymn. My sister, poised and pious, groomed for ecclesiarchal diplomacy. And my father… well. My father was a legend.

Lord-Governor Halbrecht Deymn had ruled Halveris for nearly seven centuries. He'd seen thirteen Imperial crusades sweep through neighboring sectors, brokered trade with three Rogue Trader dynasties, and somehow survived six assassination attempts and two inquisitorial audits. He'd been born during the closing years of M41 and lived into the tale end of M42 through sheer arrogance and rejuvenat therapy.

He had outlasted dynasties, rivals, and even most of his own children. Legitimate ones, anyway. There were, by the last census, seventeen confirmed bastards scattered across the system, each well cared-for and neatly kept out of succession. I, on the other hand, had been the youngest legitimate son—the one destined for a ceremonial post, a quiet military career, and a dignified irrelevance.

Until the Emperor, in His infinite sense of humor, decided otherwise.

The choir rose in pitch. I stifled a sigh.

I was supposed to be retired. Castellan of the household guard, comfortably exiled to a coastal estate, sipping amasec and watching the tides rot the old shipyards. Not standing here pretending I know how to run a system that eats a million souls a day just to keep its lights on.

"Lord Deymn," the priest rasped suddenly, his vox-grill catching my name with oily reverence. "You will now speak the words of benediction."

A thousand eyes turned toward me. The nobility watched with polite hunger, the sort that measured worth in posture and phrasing. The Administratum scribes adjusted their data-slates. The servitors focused their lenses.

I stepped forward, placing one gloved hand on the coffin of my father. The surface was cold, flawless. Like him.

All right, I thought. Let's make this sound appropriately devout.

Out loud, I said, "May the Emperor receive these loyal servants into His eternal purpose. May their labors continue beyond death, as their faith did in life. And may their deeds endure in the light of His divine will."

The crowd bowed their heads. The priest nodded. Someone began the Rite of Sealing.

Internally, I wondered whether the Emperor was laughing.

After the liturgy, the mourners filed into the Hall of Remembrance, a chamber of marble and gold that could have housed an entire hab-district. Servitors offered chalices of spiced wine and delicate wafers embossed with the Aquila. I accepted one of each, because pretending to grieve is thirsty work.

"Lord Deymn," came the smooth, serpentine voice of High Chancellor Varn Talass. "A grievous day, yet glorious in its affirmation of Imperial succession."

He bowed with all the sincerity of a snake shedding its skin. His robes shimmered with embedded circuitry, his eyes soft and calculating.

"Indeed," I replied evenly. "Nothing says 'continuity of governance' quite like three funerals in a single week."

He offered a thin smile. "The Administratum will, of course, require your genetic confirmation for the inheritance codices. The tithe schedules must not lapse. Your father's record was… exemplary."

"I'm sure it was," I said, taking a deliberate sip of wine. And now it's my problem, you sanctimonious parasite.

Varn continued, oblivious—or pretending to be. "The Ecclesiarchy also expects reaffirmation of faith dues. The Mechanicus requests review of the plasma taxation agreements. And the Navy will want confirmation of their docking priority at the Halveris shipyards—"

I cut him off with a weary smile. "Yes, Chancellor. I'll see to it. Eventually."

He bowed again, murmuring something about divine duty, and retreated into the crowd.

I turned toward the viewing platform. Beyond the cathedral's stained glass, the hive stretched into eternity—towers of iron and filth, spires like teeth clawing at a blood-red sky. Somewhere far below, the workers prayed between shifts, the manufactoria roared, and the faithful died nameless in the Emperor's service.

My father had called it the heartbeat of humanity. I called it noise.

An aide approached, nervous and pale, holding a data-slate. "My lord, the Council requests your presence for the official succession oath."

I nodded absently. "Tell them I'll be along shortly."

He hesitated. "If I may, my lord—how do you fare?"

How did I fare? Let's see. My siblings were dead, my father's chair was still warm, and I had inherited a system perpetually three misfiled requisitions away from rebellion.

"I fare as the Emperor wills," I said aloud.

The aide bowed and fled, clearly relieved that I hadn't had him executed for speaking.

I looked back at the coffins. The incense burned low, sending up thin, twisting tendrils that looked disturbingly like grasping hands. The thought made me smirk.

"Rest well, Father," I murmured. "You've left me quite the empire of paperwork."

A passing scribe heard me and mistook the tone for reverence. He bowed deeply. "Truly, my lord, your devotion honors his memory."

"Quite," I replied.

He scurried off, no doubt to tell everyone how pious the new Governor was.

The choir began a new dirge, this one older, harsher. It was said to have been composed during the Reign of Blood—a hymn to endurance in a time of madness. Fitting, I supposed.

Because this was the Imperium: a civilization older than memory, built on sacrifice, sustained by fear, and ruled by men who smiled through the madness. My father had played his part for eight centuries. Now it was my turn.

I drained my cup and let the bitterness linger on my tongue.

Ave Imperator, I thought. You've got a cruel sense of humor. I survived the Guard, the Orks, the endless bureaucracy… and now You've promoted me.

The servitors began to seal the coffins, their mechanical limbs clanking in rhythm with the organ's thunder. I watched, stone-faced, until the final lock hissed shut.

Then I turned and walked away, the crowd parting before me like supplicants before a saint.

In the distance, through the stained glass, lightning arced across the polluted heavens. For a moment, the reflection of my face flashed in the glass—young, rejuvenated, and very much alive.

It looked like triumph.

It felt like a sentence.

And as I descended the steps of Saint Ydrass, cloak trailing like the wings of a fallen angel, I couldn't help but think that, in the Imperium of Man, there are worse things than death…..

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AN: hope you guys enjoy this fic it be relatively politic heavy with the many different faction trying to influence or kill our dear govenor. Standard imperial politic.

Edit 1: fix lore contradiction lesser the age to 760 years.

Edit: yes I am the same person as I am on spacebattle

 

[Dovahkiin]

Good so far. Only complaint I have is the text color is somewhat hard to read when using dark mode.