The taste of the Warp faded as the vessel’s void-shields sealed behind them. Cold. Linear. Real. The battle was over, the summoning circle burned out, and the true name that bound them still echoed like a brand. They had been called, compelled, and used to win a battle—yet when the rite ended, Inquisitor Heliane Voss did not banish them back into the Immaterium.

So they followed.

Her quarters were quiet, far removed from the violence just endured. Hexagrammic wards lined the walls, their presence itching against their form, a constant reminder of who held dominion. Candles burned without air. Sigils watched without eyes. They lay unprompted upon her couch, neither ordered nor dismissed, lingering where they should not exist.

Heliane removed her fur-trimmed coat and sat to eat, movements calm and precise. The black bodyglove beneath bore marks of battle. She ate slowly, vibrant green eyes returning to them at intervals. Their true name remained coiled tight around their being, unspoken yet absolute.

They remained because the Warp no longer pulled as it should. Because the mortal who commanded their obedience chose tolerance over banishment.

“You may remain,” she had said, calm and final. “But you will obey.”

And so they did—an uninvited presence in an inquisitor’s sanctum, bound not by circles or chains, but by knowledge and her control.