Even after receiving an explanation, Alrik von Helmlock still could not connect that gentle, ever-smiling gentleman with an Inquisitor.
Though he had never met one, according to rumor, those mysterious men and women in black ought to have been dangerous people with the words "I'm a serial killer" written all over their faces.
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He knew he should not treat such so-called common knowledge as gospel, but the rumors he had heard while wandering from world to world over the years made it impossible for him to believe that an Inquisitor could be so reasonable.
But now, whether he believed it or not, he had no choice.
The Astartes who had introduced himself as Skaradrik was standing before him, calmly watching him.
From Alrik's perspective, he saw a giant so powerfully built that he scarcely seemed alive. Pale skin complemented ash-white hair, devoid of any trace of blood, while his black eyes, tinged with a dim red, were as unsettling as a mad painter's palette.
But none of that compared to the right index finger resting upon his left arm, twitching. He himself did not move, so the chill crawling down Alrik's spine remained barely tolerable. But that finger—that long, sharp index finger—was another matter entirely.
It merely moved in a dull, monotonous rhythm. That was all, yet it made Alrik tense every muscle in his body and force himself to look away through sheer willpower.
If he kept looking, he would surely go mad. He did not know why, but staring at it filled him with terror, as though he were gazing upon death itself.
Alrik lowered his head and spoke dully. "My lord, what do you need me to do?"
"Nothing, Baron Alrik von Helmlock," Death answered in a hoarse voice. "In fact, command of this