Warhammer 40k : Space Marine Kayvaan

Elizabeth had spent two years preparing this report, agonizing over whether to submit it. Her hatred for Kayvaan had dulled over time, replaced by a confusing mix of emotions. 

To Elizabeth, this report was a weapon—a decisive blow that could all but guarantee Kayvaan's downfall. In the Conclave's methods, once such a report was submitted, survival was almost impossible for the target. Ironically, it was the daemon within Kayvaan that ensured she lived to deliver the report. The daemon wanted the Conclave to know Kayvaan's secret, to provoke them into hunting him openly. If Kayvaan were killed, the daemon within him would be set free.

Elizabeth often wondered: if not for the daemon, would the real Kayvaan have let her live? Over the past five years, she'd asked herself that question countless times. She didn't have an answer, but the thought was grimly amusing. The daemon spared her life, while the true Kayvaan might have taken it.

Absurd. What felt even more absurd was Randall's attitude toward her report. His hesitation was maddening. "Yes, we'll deal with this matter later," Randall said casually. "Chapter Master Kayvaan has been stable for five years. He's not going to drop dead tomorrow. And as an Astartes, he won't succumb to old age or disease anytime soon. Even if he is a time bomb, the countdown is long. Right now, we have more pressing matters to address."

Elizabeth frowned. "What's happening that's so urgent?"

Randall sighed, leaning back in his chair. "It's an internal Conclave issue, complicated and hard to explain. Let me put it this way—do you know why you've struggled to advance? By all rights, your performance on your last mission should've earned you significant rewards. True, your five-year disappearance complicated things, and you should've faced severe punishment for it. But even setting that aside, you should have more recognition by now. Yet your career has stagnated."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "Because I'm a woman?"

Randall grimaced. "No. Well, not entirely. Your gender might factor into it in subtle ways, but the Inquisition isn't so shallow as to let sexism alone dictate your path. No, the real reason lies deeper."

"If not my gender, then what?" she pressed.

Randall studied her for a moment, then sighed. "You've changed, Elizabeth. I can see it. Maybe now you're ready to hear the truth." He rose from his desk, walked to the door, and checked to ensure it was securely shut. Satisfied, he turned back to her, his expression serious. "This is confidential. When that door opens again, this conversation never happened. Understood?"

Elizabeth nodded. "You don't have to remind me. I know the rules."

Randall took a deep breath. "The truth is, you lack a faction. That's why you've faced so much resistance."

Elizabeth blinked, confused. "Faction?"

"Yes," Randall said. "You came from the Sisters—a pure and militant order, untouched by the political games of the Inquisition. As a Sister of Battle, you were taught that the greatest honor is to die for the Emperor, that sacrifice on the battlefield is the ultimate reward. Innocence and faith were your core virtues. Even the Inquisition's training couldn't change that. You've learned to see through heresy, to discern truth from lies, and you've become a sharp and effective tool against the enemies of the Imperium. But you're blind to the dangers around you—within your own ranks."

Elizabeth frowned, unsettled by his words. "I'm not sure I follow."

Randall shook his head. "You've been a soldier, Elizabeth. You're used to trusting your comrades, leaving your back to your sisters in the Astra Militarum. But the Conclave isn't a battlefield. It's a political labyrinth. Here, you're not just an Inquisitor; you're a player in a game of influence. And without a faction, you're vulnerable."

Elizabeth sat back, her mind racing. She wasn't sure whether to feel insulted or enlightened. "So, you're saying I'm being excluded because I don't play the political game?"

Randall nodded. "Precisely. The Conclave is far from united. It's divided into factions, each with its own agenda and interpretation of the Emperor's will. These factions influence how justice is served, what methods are employed, and who rises to power. You're an outsider—loyal only to the Emperor, not to any group. That makes you a threat to the established order." He hesitated before continuing, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "You've likely felt the subtle exclusion already. No direct arguments, no overt conflicts—just an absence of cooperation, a lack of trust. You're the first to face blame and the last to receive recognition. It's not just your past; it's your independence. The factions see it as a liability."

Elizabeth frowned deeply. "And what are these factions?"

Randall shook his head. "I can't give you details. That knowledge is something you'll have to uncover on your own. But there's one faction you need to be especially wary of—the Istvanians."

"Istvanian faction?" Elizabeth repeated, her brow furrowing in confusion. "I suddenly feel like I've never been part of the Conclave. Can you explain it in detail? I'm completely lost."

Randall sighed, leaning forward. "The Istvanians are the most dangerous among the radicals. They're a group within the Imperium who believe that disasters are necessary for the Imperium to grow stronger. They hold to the ancient adage that hardship breeds resilience, and they've taken this philosophy to its extreme. History, unfortunately, lends some credibility to their beliefs.

"They argue that it was the Horus Heresy—a catastrophic betrayal—that purged disloyal Astartes from the Emperor's side. They point to the Age of Apostasy and how it gave rise to Sebastian Thor and his sweeping reforms of the Ecclesiarchy. Even during periods of chaos and destruction, the Imperium made leaps in technology, faith, and galactic control. To them, only through the crucible of suffering can humanity's hidden strength be revealed. More war, more adversity—these, they claim, are the keys to the Imperium's glory."

Randall paused, his expression darkening. "And from this twisted logic, they draw horrifying conclusions. If there's no war, create one. If the Imperium lacks hardship, manufacture disaster." He fixed Elizabeth with a sharp gaze. "What do you think of their philosophy?"

Elizabeth felt a chill run down her spine. "It's grotesque," she said firmly. "I can understand ordinary citizens thinking that way, but if inquisitors—those tasked with safeguarding the Imperium—believe it, it's terrifying. Their actions would risk causing irreparable harm. The God-Emperor is above; it's hard to see how such chaos could strengthen the Imperium rather than weaken it."

Randall nodded grimly. "Exactly. Their existence borders on heresy. By intentionally fostering disaster, they endanger humanity's foundation. The Istvanians are enemies, not just to the Imperium, but to the very purpose of the Inquisition." He leaned back, his tone softening. "I'm glad to see you've kept a clear head. Perhaps being away from the Conclave these past five years was a blessing. You're untainted by their fallacies. Remember, the Conclave exists to protect the Imperium and the God-Emperor. We're here to root out threats, not create them."

Elizabeth's expression grew serious. "I understand. But what does this have to do with our current situation?"

Randall nodded approvingly. "Do you recall why we came to the Eastern Fringe in the first place?"