An uncomfortable silence settled between Hyppolita and Malachai.
The only sound within the sterile white room was the faint hum of machinery and the quiet peel of citrus as she carefully separated another segment of the orange. She placed it into her mouth with the same caution one might handle an unknown toxin.
Sweetness burst across her tongue.
It startled her.
Not because it was unpleasant.
But because it wasn't.
She chewed slowly, almost suspiciously, as the refreshing taste lingered far longer than she expected. There was no metallic tang of blood. No bitterness. No pain following it.
Peace.
She felt… at peace.
If not for the rather strange phenomenon unfolding before her.
The pale man had not once looked away from her.
His expression remained unchanged — calm, unreadable, almost carved from marble — yet around his face faint stars shimmered and drifted, blinking softly in and out of existence as though the cosmos itself had taken residence near his temples.
It unsettled her more than any snarl could have.
"…Who are yo—"
"I am certain you have many questions," he interrupted gently, clapping his notebook shut as he rose to his feet. "It would be best if you saved them for the Sovereign of this world."
His tone was polite, yet absolute.
Hyppolita studied him for a long moment before swallowing the rest of the orange segment.
"…Alright."
"Are you well enough to stand?" Malachai asked, tilting his head slightly before extending a hand toward her.
"You dare under—"
The words flared on instinct.
She caught herself.
Her gaze dropped to his outstretched hand.
After a brief pause, she took it and rose — though she ensured she did so with enough force to prove she required no assistance.
"…I am fine. Lead the way."
"As you wish."
He smiled faintly and turned on his heel.
They exited into a pristine white corridor lined with identical doors stretching endlessly in both directions. The floors reflected their figures in polished clarity, and their footsteps echoed in measured rhythm.
Hyppolita's eyes wandered.
Were her sons behind one of these doors?
Awake?
Confused?
Free?
Her jaw tightened.
She opened her mouth to ask, but something about the man walking ahead of her told her the answer would come only when it was meant to. A door slid open with a whisper.
Darkness greeted them.
An expansive hall devoid of light — the complete opposite of the sterile corridor behind them.
"…Apologies. Wrong button," Malachai muttered casually before pressing another panel beside the frame.
The darkness vanished.
In its place stood a silver corridor bathed in soft luminance that was unnaturally serene. Flowers lined the walls in narrow crystalline planters, their petals shimmering faintly beneath soft ceiling lights. Paintings hung at even intervals — waterfalls cascading over jagged cliffs, a field beneath twin suns, a quiet shoreline untouched by war.
At the end of the corridor stood a pair of tall doors wrought in brushed steel. They parted without sound as Malachai approached.
Warm light spilled outward.
The dining chamber beyond was… simple.
No towering statues.
No golden excess.
No long war banners declaring victories.
Just a long obsidian table polished to a mirror sheen. Four chairs. Soft amber lighting suspended above. A wide window beyond the far wall revealing the endless stretch of space and the silver glow of the world below.
And at the head of the table—
Was a man who had a presence that reminded her of the first time she met her mother.
He looked up as they entered.
"We've been waiting for you," he said evenly.
Before him were dishes unlike anything she had seen in years — vibrant vegetables glazed in delicate sauces, cuts of meat seared to perfection, fresh bread still steaming faintly, and a clear broth that carried the subtle scent of herbs.
The aroma alone made her hesitate.
Malachai moved to his seat without a word.
Kyrion was already there, leaning back comfortably, golden eyes flicking toward her with open amusement.
Cassian gestured lightly to the empty seat beside him.
"Please."
Hyppolita stood rigid for a moment.
This felt wrong.
More wrong than chains would have.
Yet she moved forward, each step measured, and lowered herself into the offered seat.
Cassian gave a small nod.
"Then we shall eat."
He reached for his utensils first, Kyrion following soon after as Malachai lifted his glass delicately.
Hyppolita did not move.
Her eyes drifted between the dishes, then to the man seated at the head of the table. He ate without hurry, without fear. As though she were not capable of snapping his spine before the next breath.
The room remained quiet save for the faint clink of cutlery.
Her brows slowly knit together.
"…What," she finally began, her voice low and uncertain, "am I doing here?"
Cassian paused mid-motion and looked at her.
A brief crease formed between his brows.
"…Is the food not to your liking?" he asked calmly. "I can have something else prepared."
Her jaw tightened.
A faint heat crept up her neck.
"That is not—" she stopped herself, exhaling sharply through her nose. A snarl escaped despite herself, though it lacked true anger. "I am an invader."
Her hand hovered above the table, fingers curling slightly.
"I descended upon your world with the intent to conquer it. My legion tore through your forests." Her eyes flicked to him sharply. "Why would you invite me to sit where you share meals?"
The room felt still at her words.
Kyrion's grin widened, slow and wolfish. Malachai's stars dimmed, dissolving into thin streams of falling sand that drifted lazily around his shoulders. Cassian simply stared at her for a long moment before setting his utensil down with deliberate care.
"You are a guest," he replied, silver eyes glowing a subtle blue. "Whether you remain an invader… will be addressed after the meal."
His words echoed without resistance.
"But for now," he continued evenly, "you are at my table. It would please me if you ate."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips as he picked up his fork and spoon once more. Kyrion followed suit immediately, already halfway through his portion as though this were the most natural gathering in the galaxy. Malachai did not move. He merely watched her from across the table, head tilted ever so slightly.
Hyppolita lowered her gaze to the meal before her.
It was… colorful.
Not the charred ration slabs she and her sons consumed between campaigns. Not nutrient paste. Not the metallic tang of recycled protein.
Steam rose gently from the dish. The scent alone stirred something unfamiliar in her chest.
She tentatively poked the food with her fork.
Soft.
Tender.
Her brows furrowed.
A strange thought brushed against the edges of her mind.
Eat.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the utensil.
Slowly, almost warily, she cut a small piece and brought it to her mouth.
The flavor bloomed instantly.
Rich.
Savory.
Balanced with something faintly sweet that lingered against her tongue before dissolving into warmth.
Her eyes widened.
She froze mid-chew.
Another bite followed before she realized what she was doing.
The warmth spread down her throat and settled in her stomach, not heavy — not fueling rage — but comforting.
Her shoulders loosened by a fraction.
"…This," she murmured before she could stop herself.
Kyrion glanced at her with open amusement.
Malachai's sand flickered back into starlight.
"This is…" she searched for the word, frowning slightly as though annoyed at her own reaction. "I have never tasted such… wonderful flavors before."
Silence followed her admission.
Then Malachai chuckled softly.
"You have excellent taste," he said smoothly. "It is good because the Sovereign prepared it himself."
Her head snapped toward Cassian.
"You cooked this?"
Cassian paused mid-bite.
A faint flush rose along the bridge of his nose.
"It is a simple meal," he said lightly. "Nothing worthy of particular praise."
Hyppolita stared at him, then back at her plate.
"You possess skills beyond the battlefield? " she said bluntly. "This is… impressive."
Kyrion barked out a short laugh.
Malachai covered his mouth, shoulders trembling slightly.
Cassian cleared his throat.
"…Just eat," he muttered, gaze returning firmly to his own plate.
The atmosphere shifted — subtly lighter.
Hyppolita found herself taking another bite. And another.
The tension in her spine eased incrementally with each mouthful, though she refused to acknowledge it openly. She ate slower than Kyrion but without hesitation now, sampling each dish with a quiet intensity that bordered on scrutiny.
For once, there was no war cry.
No roaring engines.
No pulsing agony behind her eyes.
Just the soft clink of utensils and the steady hum of the ship beyond the walls.
When the plates were eventually cleared, Cassian dabbed his mouth lightly with a cloth before turning his gaze toward her.
"Did you enjoy the meal?"
She hesitated.
Her first instinct was to guard herself.
But the answer rose without resistance.
"Yes."
The word came softer than she intended.
"…Thank you."
A small smile touched her lips — unguarded, unforced.
It startled her more than the absence of pain ever had.
She schooled her expression immediately, posture straightening as though caught in weakness.
Cassian smiled. For a fleeting second, the tension in the room softened into something almost ordinary.Then he glanced toward Malachai.
And paused.
The pale man's expression remained unchanged — as blank and distant as ever — yet the stars orbiting his head had brightened considerably, shimmering with sharp, delighted intensity as though he had just witnessed something profoundly entertaining.
Cassian cleared his throat softly and straightened in his seat.
"…Now that we've eaten," he began evenly, folding his hands atop the table, "I would like to ask you for the reason you came to this world of mine."
The warmth that had settled in Hyppolita's chest cooled.
She drew herself upright, shoulders squaring out of long-practiced instinct.
"I am a Primarch of the Imperium," she stated firmly. "My legion is known as the World Eaters. We were dispatched to this planet under direct orders."
Her jaw tightened slightly.
"By the Empress."
Cassian's silver eyes sharpened.
"She is our mother. Our creator. Our sovereign." There was pride in her tone — but it was threaded with something more brittle. "The Imperium expands under her will. This world was marked for compliance and integration into Imperial rule."
Silence followed.
Cassian frowned faintly.
Kyrion leaned forward instead, interest gleaming openly in his golden gaze.
"The Imperium, hm?" he mused. "Are there strong warriors within it?"
Hyppolita's eyes flicked toward him.
"Yes."
"How strong?" Kyrion pressed, grin widening. "And your Empress? How formidable is she?"
A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face.
"Our mother is…" she paused, searching. "Unmatched."
Malachai watched the exchange with quiet fascination, though his attention drifted repeatedly back to Cassian — not to Hyppolita.
He was not interested in her answer.
He was interested in the decision that his sovereign would make.
Cassian leaned back slightly in his chair, thoughtful.
"I see."
His gaze shifted toward the window for a brief moment — toward the silver moon and the world beneath it.
"…Then I would like to meet her."
The words landed gently.
Hyppolita stiffened.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I wish to negotiate," Cassian clarified calmly. "For the independence of our home. If your Imperium expands through conquest, then dialogue would be preferable to conflict."
His eyes returned to hers.
"Would you be willing to escort us to your Empress?"
The question hung between them.
Hyppolita did not answer.
The dining hall seemed colder suddenly.
In her mind, the throne room doors closed once more. The weight of her mother's gaze. The cold detachment behind divine authority. The meeting before her departure. The unspoken expectations.
The bitter taste of never being enough.
Her fingers curled against her palm.
"I—"
She stopped.
Her breathing grew uneven.
"I can't."
The words tore free louder than intended.
"I can't!" she repeated, voice quivering now — not with rage alone, but fear… anger… and something dangerously close to despair. "You do not understand what you are asking."
Her chest rose sharply.
"If I return having failed—"
She cut herself off, jaw clenching.
Cassian watched her carefully.
Then, slowly, he exhaled.
"I see."
He stood.
The movement was unhurried, devoid of accusation or frustration.
"I will not force you," he said simply.
Kyrion rose as well, though his expression had lost its earlier amusement.
"You and your legion are free to remain on this planet for as long as you wish," Cassian continued. "Rest. Recover. Leave when you decide."
He stepped away from the table.
"This world will not cage you."
Cassian inclined his head slightly before turning toward the exit, Kyrion falling into step beside him without protest.The doors slid shut behind them.