Broccoli and the Oracle
Judging by appearances alone, Eileen now looked every inch the refined noble lady of Macragge.
She sat in a high-backed chair carved from rare hardwood, dressed in a deep blue velvet gown tailored by the finest artisans of Ultramar. The hem was embroidered in gold thread with the inverted Ω of the Ultramarines and the double-headed aquila of the Emperor. Laurel motifs adorned her collar and cuffs.
After days of proper nourishment—and the strengthening effect of the relic of Saint Parmenion—her once dull, malnourished hair now shone like spun silk. It had been braided neatly by her attendant and tied with a ribbon to match her dress. Her cheeks were rounder, touched with healthy color.
She looked like a child raised in privilege.
Until one looked closer.
One foot was tucked up on the chair rather than resting properly on the floor—a habit from the hive, where keeping one's feet off the ground meant fewer rat bites and faster escape.
She gripped her silver dining knife not with noble elegance, but like a street dagger—blade angled for a quick, vicious thrust.
And the enemy before her—
Sat quietly on a porcelain plate.
A heap of green, overcooked, faintly steaming—
Broccoli.
"Eat it."
The voice across the table was magnetic, firm, and utterly unquestionable.
Cato Sicarius, Captain of the Honor Guard, stood rigid beside the dining table in immaculate power armor, purity seals fluttering from his pauldrons. Helmet removed, his sharp features were set with battlefield-level seriousness.
"I, Cato Sicarius, am executing the Primarch's direct order," he declared, voice carrying as though addressing a parade ground. "While your bone density has improved, trace elements remain insufficient. Vegetables are a strategic necessity. Eliminate them, Lady Eileen."
Eileen stared at the broccoli as though it had murdered her entire bloodline.
"It looks like Ogryn snot," she muttered. "And it smells like sewer moss."
She glanced around conspiratorially. "Robert isn't here. Can't we just pretend I ate it? I can dump it in the flowerpot. Good fertilizer."
"To deceive the Primarch?" Sicarius's eyes widened in scandalized outrage. "Ultramarines do not lie!"
He crossed his arms.
"Furthermore, I, Cato Sicarius, possess the finest dynamic vision in the Chapter. Concealment attempts involving sleeves, boots, or tablecloths are futile."
As if to demonstrate, he plucked a small hidden piece of broccoli from her sleeve without even looking.
Eileen deflated.
"But it tastes terrible…" she grumbled, scraping it with her knife. "I'm a Saint! Do Saints have to eat swamp weeds?"
"Even Primarchs consume high-fiber sustenance when required."
Sicarius shifted seamlessly into lecture mode.
"During the Damocles Gulf campaign, I, Cato Sicarius, endured three days in a toxic swamp. To survive, I consumed fungus resembling tree bark. Did I complain? No. A warrior masters the flesh."
Eileen rolled her eyes so hard they nearly achieved orbit.
This walking blue statue was handsome, yes.
But impossibly annoying.
Every sentence began with "I, Cato Sicarius."
[Eileen, irritating though he is, that broccoli is premium organic produce from an agricultural world. In the hive, you'd sell a kidney for that.]
Old Huang's lazy voice echoed in her mind.
"Whose side are you on?!" she snapped inwardly. "You don't have to eat it! It tastes like wet paper and sadness!"
"Time is limited," Sicarius said, glancing at a chronometer. "I still command patrol duties. Do not force me to resort to personal feeding procedures."
That did it.
Force?
These past days at Hera Fortress had been suffocating. Endless tests. Suspicion. Etiquette drills. Being treated like a fragile artifact or a potential demon.
She had once been poor—but free.
Now she was gilded—and monitored.
And this armored giant was threatening to force-feed her vegetables?
A hot surge of grievance and anger erupted from her stomach and surged through her veins.
"I—don't—want!"
She slammed her hands onto the table.
It was not the sound of wood and flesh.
It was—
BZZZZZ—
A low, subspace vibration rippled outward, like reality itself flinching.
Sicarius froze.
He knew that feeling.
He had felt it before Greater Daemons. Before alien warlords. Before Primarchs.
No—
This was worse.
The light dimmed.
Not extinguished—
Subdued.
As though light itself lowered its head.
Eileen's feet lifted from the ground.
Her ribbon snapped. Her flaxen hair burst free, transforming strand by strand into molten gold, flowing in invisible wind.
Her brown pupils vanished—replaced by twin golden flames.
Behind her head, the jagged halo of steel reappeared, slowly rotating with a sacred hum.
[System Prompt: Severe emotional fluctuation detected. Intimidation Module activated. Output: 0.05%. Reminder: This is a scare tactic. Do not demolish the fortress.]
I sighed internally, carefully limiting the psionic output to visual and mental pressure only.
But to Sicarius—
This was undeniable divine manifestation.
"L…Lady Eileen?" For the first time, his voice faltered.
His power armor felt impossibly heavy. Servos strained. The floor beneath him began to fracture.
Floating above the table, Eileen gazed down—not as a sulking child—
But as judgment embodied.
She slowly raised her hand and pointed at the broccoli.
When she spoke, it was no longer a child's voice.
It was a layered, thunderous chorus of countless echoes—
"I said—!!"