A young man, gaunt as a winter branch, hunched on a bench of pitted ceramite. Dark rings bruised the skin beneath his eyes, a stark contrast to his ashen complexion. His hands, knuckles raw, cradled a small, frosted vial. Not the usual synthetic nutrient paste, but a genuine Vitae Cordial, a potent alchemical concoction typically reserved for the gilded throats of the Ascendant Houses. This single vial had gnawed a hole through his meager coin-pouch, but today, Caius allowed himself the extravagance.
His life, after all, was drawing to a close.
Warmth bloomed against his palms, a faint heat emanating from the glass. He lifted the vial, inhaling the sharp, metallic tang mixed with something vaguely floral. Ancient texts claimed it tasted of pure vitality. Tentatively, Caius unstopped the vial and took a cautious sip. A jolt of bitter fire scorched his tongue, a metallic brine that clawed at his throat.
Grimacing, he glared at the vial. “What a waste,” he rasped, forcing another swallow. “Should’ve bought actual nutrient paste. Or a ration cube. This just tastes like rust.” Still, he kept drinking, each drop a defiant act against the looming end. Money spent was money spent. His taste buds could suffer.
Emptying the vial, Caius stared past the gleaming Imperial towers that clawed at the smog-choked sky. Tall, well-fed citizens flowed past the perimeter of the Praetorian Outpost, their tunics clean, their strides purposeful. They barely registered the skeletal figure on the bench, a shadow in the morning light. Caius felt small, insignificant. His cheap, patched synth-weave clothes marked him an outsider here.
“Must be nice,” he muttered, “to eat three square meals a day.”
He tossed the empty vial towards a recycling grate. It clinked against the outer lip, tumbling to the grimy ground. Caius rolled his eyes, a flicker of irritation cutting through his exhaustion. He rose, legs stiff, and retrieved the vial, carefully depositing it into the chute. Then, with a weary sigh, he crossed the street and entered the Praetorian Outpost.
Inside, the air hung heavy with the smell of ozone and disinfectant. A Praetorian Guard, his face etched with boredom and disdain, glanced up from his terminal. His eyes, cold and assessing, swept over Caius’s threadbare attire.
Caius surveyed the room. Walls of reinforced plasteel, scarred with old energy burns. Crude, heavy repeater turrets nestled in ceiling alcoves, partially obscured by dangling wires. The Guard himself looked mean, his uniform rumpled. Some things, it seemed, remained constant across the Imperium.
“You! State your business, outsider.” The Guard’s voice was a gravelly bark.
Caius cleared his throat, the sound dry and faint. He ran a hand through his matted hair. “As demanded by Imperial Edict Seven,” he stated, his voice barely a whisper, “I am here to report manifestation of the Aetheric Scourge.”
Instantly, the Guard’s bored expression dissolved into a mask of stark alarm. He scrutinized Caius again, this time with a piercing, terrified intensity. His fingers fumbled for a button on his console.
“Are you certain? Symptoms… when did they begin?” His voice, though still gruff, held a tremor of fear.
Face paling to the color of ash, the Guard slammed his palm onto the terminal. A shrill alarm wailed through the outpost. “Code Crimson! Praetorian Outpost One! Manifestation inbound!”
The Aetheric Scourge first clawed its way into the Imperium decades ago. Ancient legends spoke of it as a cosmic imbalance, a reawakening of forces long dormant. In the beginning, few paid heed to the rising tide of chronic fatigue, the sudden, inexplicable collapses into deep slumber. But when the sleepers failed to awaken, even after days, weeks, the Imperium finally moved. By then, it was already too late.
When the inert bodies began to stir, contorting into grotesque Void-Spawn, no one was prepared. These horrors, born of corrupted Aether, ripped through Imperial garrisons, plunging vast sectors into chaos. Commanders, trained in conventional warfare, found their tactics useless against foes that defied physical law.
No one understood the Scourge, its arcane principles, or how to fight it. Then, the Aether-Bound emerged – those few who survived the First Ordeals within the Aether-Plane and returned. Wielding nascent control over raw Aether, they halted the rampage, forging a semblance of a new, precarious order.
Yet, for Caius, who’d scraped by in the Undercroft, who’d learned to pick pockets before he’d learned to read, the Scourge offered no opportunity. To him, it was a death sentence. The whispers of the Aether had begun to steal his waking hours only a few days prior, a creeping drowsiness that no amount of stolen Vitae Cordial could forestall.
Minutes later, Caius stifled a yawn as two burly Praetorians cinched heavy restraints around his wrists and ankles. They secured him to a bulky chair, a chilling blend of medical cot and ritualistic iron. The room, deep in the outpost’s sub-levels, was cold, its walls thick with aether-resistant plating, faint runes glowing in the dim light. Armed Praetorians stood vigil, rifles held ready, their faces grim.
Caius barely noticed them. His eyelids felt like lead weights. He wanted to sleep. More than anything, he wanted to sleep.
Finally, a heavy vault door hissed open. A Centurion, his face a web of old scars, his grey hair cropped short, stepped inside. His eyes, the color of storm clouds, held the weary knowledge of countless horrors. He checked Caius’s restraints with a practiced hand, then glanced at his chronometer.
“Name, boy?” the Centurion grunted, his voice raspy.
Caius blinked, struggling to focus. His head lolled against the cold chair-back. “Caius,” he murmured.
Centurion raised an eyebrow. “Caius. Meaning ‘rejoice.’ Cruel irony, for your lot.”
Caius tried to shrug, but the restraints held him fast. “My mother… she had a strange sense of humor. Or maybe she just hoped for better.” A heavy sigh escaped him. “Didn’t work.”
His voice faded with another yawn, profound and uncontrollable. “She named my sister Nova. Said it meant ‘new star.’ She’s gone, too.”
The Centurion’s face darkened for a fleeting second, a shadow passing over his stern features. Then, his expression hardened. “Alright, Caius. How long can you fight it?”
“Not long,” Caius mumbled, his eyes fluttering shut then forcing open again.
Centurion swore under his breath. “No time for full protocol. Listen close. Resist for as long as you can. Understand?”
Without waiting for a response, he leaned in. “What do you know of the Aetheric Scourge?”
Caius managed a questioning look. “What everyone knows, I suppose? The propaganda vids? Fight a monster, get powers?”
“Not the sanitized fables they feed the populace. What do *you* truly know?”
That was a harder question. “Go into the Aether-Plane, fight a Void-Spawn, survive the First Ordeal, become Aether-Bound?”
Centurion shook his head, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Listen carefully. Once you fall asleep, your essence will transport to the Aether-Plane. The Ordeals are trials, yes. You will encounter creatures. But you will also encounter figures. People. Remember this: they are not real. They are projections. Illusions conjured by the Aether-Plane itself to test your resolve.”
Caius stared. “How do you know that? No one understands the Scourge, right?”
“You may have to kill them, boy. Do yourself a favor and think of them as echoes, nothing more.” Centurion paused, letting his words sink in. Then he nodded grimly. “Much of the First Ordeal is luck. Generally, it shouldn’t be insurmountable. The scenario, the tools, the creatures – they should be within the range of your nascent ability. The Scourge sets trials, not outright executions. Your circumstances, boy, put you at a severe disadvantage. But Undercroft rats are tough. Don’t give up on yourself yet.”
The Centurion’s voice seemed to recede, muffled by a growing fog in Caius’s mind. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy.
“These ‘powers’ you mentioned… you will indeed manifest an Aetheric Aptitude if you survive. What form it takes depends on your core essence, and what you do during the trial. But a spark of it will be with you from the very start…”
The room blurred, colors bleeding into one another.
“First thing, once inside: check your Aether-Signature and Soul-Schema. If you get a combat-oriented Soul-Schema – a Blade-Singer, a Spear-Dancer – things will be simpler. If reinforced by a strong physical Attribute, even better. Combat schemas are common. Odds are in your favor there.”
The Centurion’s form seemed to stretch and distort, his words barely reaching Caius now.
“If you’re unlucky, if your Soul-Schema has nothing to do with combat, do not despair. Aether-Seers, Rune-Binders, they are potent in their own ways. You must be cunning. There are no useless Soul-Schemas… well, almost none. Just survive. Do anything.”
“If you survive, you’re halfway to becoming Aether-Bound. But if you die, your remains in the Aether-Plane will birth a Void-Spawn in *this* world. Meaning my Praetorians and I will have to deal with it. So… try not to die, Caius.”
Half-asleep, Caius felt a strange, detached warmth at the Centurion’s final plea.
“Or, at least, try not to die right away. The nearest Aether-Bound contingent won’t be here for a few cycles. So we’d really appreciate it if you didn’t make us fight that thing ourselves…”
With that last, fading thought, Caius finally slipped into the welcoming darkness.
Blackness consumed him.
Then, from the void, a voice, resonant and ancient, echoed:
[Aspirant! Welcome to the Aetheric Scourge. Prepare for your First Ordeal.]