Malak stared at the little brat who had appeared in front of him, wearing every shade of exasperation possible.
“Uncle Malak, finest warrior among the Adeptus Custodes, mighty fighter — please teach me martial arts.”
As a member of the Adeptus Custodes, Malak had spent the past three years doing nothing but losing face.
When Bonar had first come looking, Malak had refused outright.
The Emperor of Mankind had personally issued the order:
“When danger arises, even if you bleed yourselves dry, you must ensure his safety.”
And now this venerable ancestor not only refused to stay put, but wanted combat training.
Malak refused without a second word.
Then Bonar simply refused to leave.
The pestering was relentless, gifts, questions about Malak’s hobbies, showing up the moment there was a free moment.
Bonar materialized wherever Malak happened to be standing.
Eventually Malak had enough.
Malak tracked down a fellow Custodes and swapped to a patrol post.
Then the unbelievable happened.
At first, Malak could shake Bonar off without breaking a sweat.
Then Bonar started keeping up.
Then Bonar started finding Malak.
No matter where Malak went, Bonar showed up with uncanny precision.
Bonar’s explanation:
“I just had a feeling Uncle Malak might be here.”
So Malak’s reputation within the Adeptus Custodes quietly shifted, from “warrior of formidable martial skill” to “the one His Highness can always find.”
Malak was Adeptus Custodes.
Hunted down by a child of mortal flesh.
Even the normally composed Malak finally cracked.
“Put down the gift.
I’ll teach you once.”
“You’re finally willing to teach me?”
“Only if you pass the trial.”
Bonar set down Malak’s favorite wooden flute, eyes lighting up like stars.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Great!”
Bonar picked up a wooden staff.
Malak picked up nothing at all.
Per their agreement, Bonar would win if the staff landed a single hit.
“Ready?” Malak asked, impatient.
“Ready.”
The next second, Bonar was looking at the sky.
So was the wooden staff, spinning somewhere above him.
Bonar sat up in a daze and saw only Malak’s back, walking slowly away.
What just happened?
Why was he suddenly on the ground?
Why did his backside hurt?
The Adeptus Custodes standing nearby watched Malak discipline Bonar and said nothing.
Malak knew how to calibrate force, enough to sting, not enough to injure.
This spirited young Highness needed exactly this lesson.
Bonar got up and stared at how far the staff had landed.
Uncle Malak is incredible.
One hit and it was over.
After that, true to the agreement, Bonar stopped harassing Malak around the clock.
The visits became something closer to a daily ritual, showing up like clockwork, every single day.
Finish lessons with Grandfather Malcador.
Change clothes.
Pick up the wooden staff.
Find Uncle Malak at the gate.
The scene had practically fossilized into routine.
Bonar would walk to about 10 meters in front of Malak, bow slightly, then charge.
Then Bonar would go flying.
Three times per session, every session.
Bonar would scramble up disheveled, bow, say “Thank you for the lesson, Uncle Malak,” and leave.
But today was different.
On the third charge, Malak moved to send Bonar flying with a punch as usual.
Bonar dodged.
A sharp crack rang out.
The wooden staff jabbed squarely against the knee-guard of Malak’s armour.
Malak’s mind went blank.
Then Malak looked down at Bonar’s grinning face, and the full weight of what had just happened landed.
“Ha — Uncle Malak, per our agreement, you have to teach me martial arts now.”
The undisguised contempt from every Adeptus Custodes in the vicinity was immediate and total.
A person.
Literally numb.
Malak had just lost face in front of the entire guard.
That much couldn’t be undone.
But there could be no more losing face in front of His Highness on top of it.
Looking at Bonar’s expectant gaze, Malak hadn’t been this slow to respond even when cutting down that modified-human emperor.
Not even then.
The word came out like something squeezed through a closed fist.
“Fine.”
“YES!.”
Bonar threw down the staff and sprinted off cheering.
And Malak, naturally, suffered greatly for it.
Captain-General Valdor made a special trip back from the front overnight, just to unleash a thorough dressing-down on Malak.
The first Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes.
Valdor.
“Malak.
To think I trusted you this much.
That His Majesty trusted you this much.”
“And this is how you repay His Majesty?”
“Bonar is a mortal body and still managed to land a hit on you.
If what Bonar was holding wasn’t a wooden staff but a weapon of real destructive power, you would already be dead.
Do you understand that?”
“Even Astartes fresh off their first battlefield wouldn’t make an error this basic.
And you did.”
“It doesn’t matter if you die.
It doesn’t matter if I die.
But if His Highness were to die — how do we answer to His Majesty?
With our heads?!”
Even Valdor, not generally given to berating people, couldn’t hold back.
Malak’s face burned red.
“Please send me to the front lines to atone before His Sacred Majesty.”
“Atone?!
What are you thinking, do you want our Adeptus Custodes to lose even more face in front of His Highness?!
You still have to teach His Highness martial arts per the agreement!”
Valdor left.
Malak remained.
No fellow Custodes came to offer comfort.
For one of His Sacred Majesty’s outstanding creations to have been struck by Bonar, mortal flesh, a child, was simply too shameful for words.
So the following day, Bonar learned firsthand the truth of something written in the old texts.
The intent to cut someone down is impossible to hide in one’s eyes.
Malak stood at the post in complete silence, not moving a single muscle.
Nothing stirred on the entire figure except the helmet plume, swaying faintly in the breeze.
Bonar swallowed.
Uncle Malak’s mood today might not be great.
“You’re here.
Formal training begins today.
Have you made the necessary preparations?”
“Yes, Uncle Malak.”
“Very…
good.”
That day, Bonar had to be carried out.
The next morning, arriving at Grandfather Malcador’s for lessons, the discomfort was visible to the naked eye.
Bonar sat down gingerly, and the instant pain from the backside nearly sent him straight back up.
Malcador didn’t ask much about it.
“Today, we’ll talk about the story of the Aeldari.”
The lesson continued, but Malcador was quietly watching Bonar the entire time.
Bonar’s Psychic Power had been kept well suppressed by Malcador, but that terrifying talent was already beginning to show through.
Under normal circumstances, Bonar should have been completely unable to locate a member of the Adeptus Custodes, let alone land a touch on one in a fair contest.
But Bonar had done both.
So young, with Psychic Power actively suppressed, relying on pure instinct alone, and yet able to perceive space, to briefly alter the flow of time across a small area.
It would be more accurate to say Bonar wasn’t simply close to the Warp.
Bonar was more like a small-scale Warp entity that had learned to walk around in the mortal world.
Malcador very much wanted to probe the secret Bonar carried.
The urge was set aside.
This world was filled with crisis and malice at every moment, and most unfortunately, humanity had very little room left for error.
➤ Next: The Situation Turns Critical