Chapter 6: Birds of a Feather Flock Together
Dinner filled the wooden room with a charming aroma. The warm stove toasted wet clothes drying nearby, and Taylor savored the pungent, fermented Tanner tea steaming on the table.
Rain tapped steadily against the window as he removed his heavy Imperial Guard jacket and carapace, setting them beside the fire to dry.
Ceiling beams, charcoal embers, and fresh meat stew—likely common Grox meat from the Empire's wild herds—a manic, large, and flavorful Catachan specialty.
The meat stewed creamy and tender until it almost melted in the mouth. It was flawless in taste, though Taylor thought it a waste of time.
The farmer's daughter hovered nearby, asking carefully if the meal suited an alien like him, and she managed the rooms offered to his comrades.
Servants moved about, and many rooms sat empty. It seemed this young woman single-handedly ran the entire farm. Taylor hadn't glimpsed her father since their arrival.
Though the meal needed no complaints, something about the girl unsettled him.
There was a contrived, cultish vibe about her.
Taylor caught the scent—a faint, elusive citrus note.
Citrus fruits, native to Terra, were long extinct by the 40th millennium—more precious now than pandas, though pandas too had vanished.
Taylor recalled last smelling that scent in a cultist stronghold, where hallucinogenic herbs used similarly unlocked visions and communion with twisted gods.
He shook the thought away.
He wasn't a biologist but knew the cheapest inspiration in this star region flowed from such plants.
It was ironic—the woman who obeyed him unquestioningly was a cultist.
The last girl who demanded his bed was the warmongering Freeblade.
What next? A thirsty Groxmon? Or a drunken Ogryn?
He dared not dwell on it, feeling like trapped in a spider's web—but he pushed the spider spirit away without hesitation.
Not willpower, but clarity saved him—else dying in such a beautiful delusion might have been a merciful end.
As the femme fatale moved away from his side, Taylor watched the cult lady wiggle her waist.
No one would guess such a peasant girl was an Imperial traitor who killed without remorse and delighted in sacrifice.
Yet in this strange world, reality bent sharply.
Taylor sensed many hidden in the dark woods near this rainy land—but still feasted heartlessly on stew and thick soup.
Though he knew the woman's nature, hunger overtook caution. To keep her trust, he played along, as always.
After three rounds of food, Taylor full and chewing thoughtfully, rain drummed its relentless beat outside.
The girl approached, voice honeyed smooth.
"Warriors of the Empire, I've heard my noble father, this farm's lord, tell many stories—most with Astartes heroes."
"But I know the Astra Militarum plays a crucial part, sir. I'd like to hear something different—something beyond Knight Mechs and Astartes."
Taylor frowned. "Is your father a Lord Knight piloting a Knight Mech? Or a Freeblade?"
The cult girl smiled wistfully. "Once, he died fighting Orks. This raid began long before your arrival—sixteen years ago. I am only twenty."
Taylor calculated the accelerated years—she was barely seventeen, soon to be eighteen.
Was she hinting at him? He wondered, but dismissed the thought.
A cult cheating souls with promises and buy-one-get-one deals? Her words stirred his soft heart, but how much was truth?
Feigning sadness, Taylor said, "Tragedies fill the Empire. I've served a year; my comrades changed thrice. I'm lucky—most aren't."
"They call me hero, miracle, brave—but I know it's luck, ridiculous luck."
The femme fatale smiled warmly. "No, my lord, you are remarkable."
She cupped his cheeks and kissed him, fingers tangling in surprise.
Taylor tasted citrus on her breath—his head protested, but inwardly, he surrendered.
This wasn't buy-one-get-one-free—it was just free.
Pushing her gently away, surprised, he marveled that she'd stolen his first kiss—and with her tongue.
He knew not the curses possibly woven into that kiss—if she were a witch...
Forget it. His heart was almost captured.
She wiped her mouth's corner, eyes meeting his with a softer, less vicious gaze.
Now, her blunt truth and genuine emotion struck deeply.
Whispering near his ear, "Sergeant, my room is top floor, second floor innermost—and soundproof."
Taylor swallowed. As a man, he should go—and as a soldier, his reason warned that this was a trap.
Yet he said, "As you wish." Captivated, submissive, though knowing how many men had kissed those lips.
He breathed deeply and watched her retreat.
Taylor leaned by the fire, marveling at the Emperor's cursed gifts.
None of this was well-intentioned.
No wonder the cults thrived.
He grasped his laspistol—small, conspicuous on his belt—ready.
He'd strike when the femme fatale was weakest.
Tucking a hidden spear into his pants, he prepared for the inevitable confrontation.
The strange bulge was uncomfortable—but sensible.
Taylor played the pervert to survive.
Better that than be betrayed by cultists.
He steeled himself and climbed the stairs, ready to face the dark lady head-on.