Cain stirred beneath a blanket of flab, salt, and fish breath.
The seals had pressed tighter in the cold. One of them—Fatsquatch, probably—had rolled over in its sleep and partially smothered him, its bulk pinning Cain's arm against his side like a blubbery sandbag with a heartbeat.
He didn't move.
There was warmth here.
And, Emperor help him, comfort.
But he wasn't asleep.
Not really.
He was thinking.
Plotting.
Surviving.
His eyes, still crusted with seawater and sleep, slowly roamed the stony beach and the pile of fishy offerings the seals had regurgitated. Bones. Guts. Scales. A few intact corpses of smaller fish. Pebbles scattered between it all—rounded, fractured, flat. The aftermath of nature doing what the Guard always taught: make do with what you have, or die cold and irrelevant.
"No gear. No vox. No armor. No ammo. No one but me and the walking meat pillows. Not great odds."
He shifted, quietly freeing his arm from under the seal's flipper, and sat upright.
The stone he'd dropped earlier still sat nearby—rough, oval, a few quartz veins running through it like the memory of a lightning bolt. He reached for it absently, rolling it between his baby fingers. It was cool to the touch, but not hostile.
The seals made soft, sleepy grunts beside him.
Cain stared at the fishbones.
Some were long. Some splintered. Some were almost sharp.
Nearby, a scatter of scales gleamed faintly in the dim Arctic twilight—iridescent, like pressed glass or cut coin. One looked vaguely like the reflection of a melted purity seal.
"Could sharpen the bone. Use scales for water resistance. Stone for impact… maybe a club. Or a knife. Stitch fishgut. Make some kind of sling."
His eyes drifted upward, to the unfamiliar stars.
No sign of satellites. No orbiting ships. Not even the faint, distant hum of void engines.
He was alone.
Utterly alone.
And then—
He felt it.
Not a sound.
Not a thought.
A pulse.
Somewhere beneath his breastbone, low and quiet—like a second heartbeat not his own.
He froze.
His grip on the stone tightened.
The seals didn't move. But one of them gave a low, satisfied chuff, like it sensed something soothing and ancient in the air.
Cain looked down.
His hand shimmered—only slightly, as if light was bleeding through the edges of his skin.
"What in the Warp...?"
Then the stone pulsed.
Just once.
A warmth, faint and inquisitive, surged through it. Not hot, not dangerous—just… curious. Like a dog nosing at a palm. Like a child reaching out to touch something new.
Cain stared at it, and for reasons he couldn't explain—didn't want to explain—he instinctively pushed his will toward it.
His vision dimmed.
Then shifted.
The world didn't change. It clarified.
The seal beside him glowed faintly—pale gray over strong white bones. The fish bones shone dim red, the broken ones dull orange. The beach was a smear of decay and light, but the stone?
The stone was gray, but it shimmered at the edges—not alive, but not empty either.
It had a soul.
A quiet one.
Dormant.
Waiting.
Cain blinked. The sensation pulsed again in his chest, stronger now. His breath caught.
He pushed into it—this White Core, whatever it was—guided not by knowledge but instinct. It answered with a surge of warmth through his veins, into his palm, into the stone.
The moment stretched.
The seals fell silent.
The world held its breath.
And then—light.
The stone shivered in his hand.
Then glowed.
White and soft and gentle. Not blinding. Not fierce.
Healing.
A tendril of light unspooled from his hand like silk thread, wrapping around the stone, sinking into it like dough kneading itself into the cracks. The quartz veins blazed with brightness. A heartbeat—not Cain's—throbbed from within.
One pulse.
Two.
Three.
Then the light receded, not extinguished, but drawn inward, swallowed whole by the now-transformed crystal.
What remained was a Light Stone—smooth, translucent, the size of Cain's tiny fist. At its core: a slow, steady pulse of white light, like a sleeping heart.
Warmth radiated from it—not heat, but comfort. Like holding hands with a friend you thought you'd never see again.
The seals stirred.
One leaned in and nudged the stone gently with its snout. Another pressed closer to Cain and let out a soft groan of satisfaction.
The warmth spread. The cold of the Arctic, the pain in Cain's joints, the hollow ache in his stomach—it all receded, not cured, but... softened.
He had made something.
He didn't know what.
But it was his.
And then—he slumped.
The energy left him like the breath of a dying storm.
His vision blurred. Limbs turned heavy. His head lolled sideways and landed against warm seal blubber.
He barely managed to mumble:
"Worth it."
The stone pulsed once more in his hand, quiet and proud.
And Cain—Commissar, Hero of the Imperium, infant angel with abs—slept, curled between seals, the first Light Stone cradled to his chest like the first ember of a new age. Then the dream began, like his dreams often do, in a haze of memory that didn't quite line up.
Warm candlelight. The clink of silver and porcelain. Wine — real wine, not recycled ethanol rationed by the quartermaster. And laughter — hers. Smooth, dangerous, and familiar.
Amberley Vail sat across the table, elegant as always, her dark hair tied back in an artful twist, a slender glass of crimson held delicately between gloved fingers. Her inquisitorial rosette winked from her collar like it had better places to be.
"You know," Cain said, leaning forward with his most roguish grin, "if I had a throne for every time I nearly died thinking about you, I'd have my own sector by now."
She arched a brow, clearly unimpressed.
Cain didn't miss a beat. He poured on the charm like syrup on corpse-starch pancakes.
"Amberley," he murmured, his voice a practiced purr, "we've fought Tyranids, heretics, and the High Lords' budget committee side by side. I think we've earned a little… recreation."
Amberley tilted her head, swirling her wine.
"Recreation, is it?"
"Call it a morale initiative."
Her lips curled into a slow smile — then into a laugh. Not cruel. Not cold.
Just… amused.
Too amused.
And then she pointed at him.
Still laughing.
Still smiling.
"No offence, Cain," she said, eyes twinkling, "but I think you're just a bit too young for me."
Cain blinked.
Frowned.
"What are you—?"
He looked down.
And froze.
The chair was massive.
The wineglass in his hand was the size of a rations tin.
His limbs were short, stubby, absurdly muscular, and utterly hairless. His belly button looked recently used. His arms were sculpted like a demigod's, but his hands were pudgy, and—
No.
No no no.
He was shirtless. And pantsless. And tiny. And glowing faintly.
The muscle baby body.
The wings.
The golden curls.
"Oh throne-damned hell," he whispered.
Amberley raised her glass.
"To immortality," she toasted, giggling like she'd just read his field reports.
Cain pushed back from the table.
Tried to stand.
Failed.
Wobbled on sausage legs.
"NO! This isn't—this isn't canon! I'm not—Emperor's saggy codpiece, I'M A BABY!"
His voice cracked.
Amberley winked.
"Sleep well, my little cherub."
He screamed.
"NO GOD—NOOOO!"
He awoke with a violent start, buried in seal fat, clutching a glowing white crystal to his naked chest.
Fatsquatch belched next to him.
Cain groaned.
"Of course it was a dream," he muttered, burying his face in blubber. "Of course she rejected me. Of course I was naked and glowing and two feet tall. Why wouldn't I be?"
The Light Stone pulsed softly in sympathy.
Cain sighed.
"This is hell. I died. And this is hell."
Then, quietly:
"Still warmer than Valhalla."
And with that, he drifted back to sleep.
Miserable.
Mortified.
And still glowing faintly with divine baby energy.