The shuttle touched down on the ashen plains of Vandros IV, its engines hissing like beasts in pain. Dust swept across the landing pad as Inquisitor Lyssandra Vale descended the ramp, a dark silhouette framed by the glare of dying sunlight. Her coat trailed behind her, its crimson lining the only color in the grey world.

A lone Guardsman stood waiting, helmet tucked under his arm, trying not to fidget beneath her gaze.

“Ma’am— Inquisitor, ma’am. I was ordered to brief you on the situation in Sector—”

Lyssandra didn’t slow her stride. She walked past him, the echo of her boots sharp against the ferrocrete.

“You’re requisitioned,” she said, her tone even, detached. “By my authority and in the Emperor’s name. You will answer to me now, not your regiment. Consider it an honor.”

The Guardsman blinked, caught between confusion and fear.

“I— I wasn’t informed—”

She stopped just long enough to turn her head, the faint light catching in her mismatched eyes.

“You are now. Do not question me again, or else I will consider it a offense to the emperor's will. Did I make myself clear?”