A thundering bow wave in the Warp jerks Astropath Secundus Calchas awake. He rattles in his choir-cradle fearfully. A missive is coming. His withered arms press gently against restraints as his mind reaches out. The message is fragile, from far away. But it is all sharp edges and spikes. It throbs a hateful red.
Code Vermillion.
Calchas’ weak heart thuds. The highest level of encryption. Above him. Many ranks above him. 

It’s Risater’s night cycle. There are no other astropaths in the chancel. Calchas hesitates. He considers sounding the alarm, summoning his fellows. But the missive is already fading. Will they reach him in time?

Code Vermillion. A world may hang in the balance. A system. A sector.

For a moment, he baulks. He thinks of pain. Of death. Then he recalls Master Willem, who shepherded him through awakening with lessons in discipline and duty. His body shakes in its cradle as he flings his consciousness into the light and-
plunges into dark, freezing water. His skin burns with cold. He cannot breathe. Calchas thinks of Risater’s ocean depths. He is painfully alone. There is a distant glint. A golden scrap of parchment, floating aimlessly. Mustering his strength, Calchas dives.
Distant songs of sea-beasts reach him. The wails sound like alarms. He grabs the golden letter. His descent continues until-

He is in the air, hurtling towards land. A murder of crows surrounds him, cawing, clawing, pecking. Dirty feathers choke his mouth. Calchas catches a glimpse of gold in the swarm.
‘Vermillion!’ crows cackle.
‘He cannot!’ one shrieks. 

‘Medicae!’ another screams as it plunges its beak into flesh.

The roiling mass overwhelms his senses. His focus slips, and panic surges through him. 

Calchas desperately forces order on his mind. He was made for this. He will not succumb to mental anarchy. These scenes are encryption levels, the impressive craft of another choir. They will not deter him.
As he reasserts his will, the psychic pressure in his skull makes teeth explode. In agony, Calchas reaches through the winged maelstrom and snatches the glowing scrap. The ground rushes towards him as–

He runs through a twisted thicket of long, blackened thorns. They rip excruciating gouges across his body that weep acidic pus. 

Baalite Daggerfield. He has read about them. The Blood Angels use these to test- He pushes the irrelevant thought away. Only the golden glow ahead matters.

His heart pounds painfully. There are beasts hunting him. He does not wish to encounter monsters that traverse this flora. Pushing heedlessly onward, Calchas hears their cries.
‘He’s haemorrhaging!’ hunters howl.

‘Hold him down!’ another roars.
Despite his efforts, the thicket restrains him. He is too weak to carry on. Too frail. His pace slows.
With supreme effort, he crafts his thoughtform into his greatest dream. Gone is Calchas, a feeble astropath. Now he is Librarian Calchas, Blood Angel. Ignoring the bursting hurt inside his brain, he strides ahead. Thorns snap against his armour. He reaches out a gauntlet and grasps the glowing page, then-

Wakes up in a soft bed. Warm dawn light dapples the room. 

He can see. Really see.

‘Husband.’ There is a woman beside him. She is as beautiful as the day they met. Calchas sits up. Everything hurts. His wife amorously caresses his arm.

‘A bad dream. Lay back down.’ 

A vox unit plays sultry music.
‘Stabilising him,’ the singer croons.
‘Losing the message,’ the chorus moans.

Strange song, Calchas muses. 

Realisation crashes over him like a wave. The pain is worse now. This tableau tears a wound in his soul.
‘This is not my life,’ Calchas says, staggering to his feet. His not-wife gasps.
‘Husband.’
Calchas stumbles towards the door. Each step weighs him down. He is murdering a paradise. 

For a moment, he pauses. He could stay here. Gore weeps from the lacerations that cover his body, dripping slowly onto the tiled floor.
‘Calchas,’ the woman sobs, ‘do you not love me?’ He closes his eyes. Blind again, he reaches out a shaking hand and twists the doorhandle, only to-

Step into a scholam room. He recognises the figure seated here. Wearily, he sinks into a chair across from the old astropath. 

‘Young Calchas,’ the elder’s voice is kind.
‘Master Willem,’ Calchas drools crimson spittle. ‘I am dying.’
‘I know, dear boy.’
‘Is it you? Or more encryption?’
‘Neither,’ Willem replies, ‘I think I am your subconscious. Your mind’s trying to save itself. This is your last chance to stop, child.’
‘I cannot, Master. You did not teach me to stop,’ Calchas wipes his bloody mouth. The old man nods.

‘You were never my brightest pupil. A sweet boy, a dreamer. But never great.’ Calchas sighs. It is the truth.
‘That said, I think I would be proud of you.’ Master Willem smiles. Calchas feels his heart swelling amidst the pain. There is a vermillion door behind the old man.
His spirit gives him strength. Muscles burning, he surges towards the door. Without looking back, he opens it and-
Is standing in a red-walled drawing room. Golden light filters through luxurious windows. A sealed letter sits on a desk. He is cold. With numb fingers, Calchas picks up the envelope. It is not glowing, but he recognises it.

The light through the windows gets brighter. 

With a pained grunt, he breaks the vermillion wax seal and reads the missive. He knows if he can read it, others can too. He grins with his remaining teeth. 

It’s not so cold now.
The light through the windows is overwhelming. It drowns out the room. Its golden touch caresses him like the wife he never had. He feels his soul burning away. With the last vestiges of his mind, Calchas weaves a dream and-

is lying on a simple cot. He is not Astropath Calchas or Librarian Calchas. He is just a man. 

Someone is holding his wizened hand.
‘Thank you,’ she says to him quietly, ‘go in peace, Calchas.’ He smiles, closes his sightless eyes, and all is golden.