Warhammer: Hail to the Void Lords!.

Chapter 1027 09.1026: 'Shadows of the Past'

Young and innocent Jadvig, his fingertips still unconsciously rubbing the hem of his clothes, thought his mother's promise was a fun treasure hunt—like searching for hidden candies in the manor.

[Yes, that's the painting! Mom kept it in a velvet box! But where's that burgundy box now?!]
As his memories returned, Yadviga immediately began searching the room.

She raised her hand and held the flashlight high. The beam of light pierced through the thick layer of dust on the bookshelf, and tiny dust particles danced wildly in the light. Some of the faint light shone through the yellowed lace curtains, casting flickering spots of light outside the tower, like dying fireflies.

[A velvet box...the square one, the one with gold thread embroidery on the edges...]
Her fingertips swept across the shelves one by one, and the dust that was brushed up made her instinctively hold her breath, but her fingertips never touched the soft velvet she remembered.

The mother knew that if the father saw it, he would take the box away... and inside were precious memories and important information.

So, if I were her, I would put it in…
As his thoughts raced, Jadwiga's fingertips unconsciously tapped his palm, reversing his mother's cautiousness.

Finally, her gaze fell on the carved walnut jewelry cabinet.

Although my father was serious and rigid, he was a man who valued his reputation highly. He would never allow anyone to touch his deceased wife's jewelry, and the servants dared not touch the jeweled ornaments. If even one piece were broken, several lives would not be enough to compensate for it.

Yadwiga gently pulled open the top drawer, and a dazzling array of jewels instantly came into view: the facets of a ruby ​​necklace reflected the light of a flashlight, the Lana family crest on a gold bracelet was mostly obscured by dust, and the pearl earrings lay on a velvet cushion, still gleaming with a warm glow—exactly the same as when his mother wore them to a banquet more than a decade ago.

She quickly rummaged through the drawers, first gently weighing each one in her hand, then tapping the bottom with her knuckles. Amidst the dull "thump-thump" sounds, only the bottom drawer emitted a hollow, crisp sound.

Sure enough, in the corner of the drawer, the burgundy velvet box lay quietly, its gold-embroidered edges already somewhat faded.

Yadvig quickly picked it up, the flashlight beam shining through the crack in the box. She took a deep breath and lifted the lid—a musty smell, a mixture of camphor and old paper, wafted out, like a time machine suddenly bursting open from over a decade ago. Inside lay a sketchbook and several leather-bound diaries, their pages curled at the edges, like keys to unlocking the past.

She knew this sketchbook all too well: the whimsical drawings she and her brother had made as children—space warriors riding chainsaw swords, fire-breathing mechanical horses—were all carefully kept in it by their mother, each page adorned with photos documenting their growth. Her fingertips traced the rough pages as she quickly flipped through them:

"Yadwiga, 11 years old."

“Jean, 13 years old.”

In the photo, she has her hair in pigtails, with bits of grass still stuck to the tips of her pigtails. She is leaning on her brother's shoulder, struggling to stand on tiptoe to barely catch up to Rang's height, while Rang's hand is secretly tugging at the end of her hair, with a smile hidden in his eyes.

As you flip through the photos, she gradually matures, her figure possessing both the robust lines characteristic of Polaberians and the tall stature inherited from the Lana family. Her military uniform shoulder insignia gradually changes from private to lieutenant.

Then a yellowed page with a silver bookmark caught her eye—the jagged outline of a sword blade on the exposed corner immediately drew her attention. Yadviga carefully pulled out the drawing, her fingertips gripping the edge as she turned it over: the chaotic crayon lines transformed in her mind into tangible landscapes, coalescing into a treasure map only she could decipher—the circles with vertical lines below represented the manor's fruit trees, and the zigzag lines the stream behind the mountain.

Yadvig frowned. This didn't seem to be the final treasure location, but rather a transit point leading her to a clue. It was unlikely that the manor in the picture could hold such a large knight mech.

She spent too little time in her hometown, only briefly resupplying on that planet during her military career. The only thing she remembered vividly was the old manor left by her mother.

During her stay there, she taught the gardeners' children to read and encouraged them to join the military reform movement, including the boy who was later beaten to death by Sintila's flintlock pistols.

[Do I really have to go back? How can I face the villagers who have lost their children...?]
Her fingertips gripped the edge of the velvet box so tightly that her nails almost dug into the fabric.

Although the perpetrator has been executed by guillotine, she still hasn't figured out how to explain that tragedy.

Just then, a series of chaotic footsteps came from the stone steps of the tower, clearly striking her straight ears—like countless boots treading on her heart.

Yadwiga pressed himself against the window and looked down: the headlights of several Taurus assault vehicles pierced the night fog, the beams of light illuminating the stone walls of the tower in a stark white, revealing even the moss in the cracks.

Squads of family guards, armed with laser guns, surrounded the tower, while in the center of the light, an old man stood with a cigar in his mouth. The red glow of the cigar tip flickered in the darkness, and his sparse silver hair was almost transparent under the strong light.

The ivory cane in his hand was carved with the family crest, and the sound of the cane striking the ground carried on the night wind, sounding more like the intimidation of a weapon than a tool to help him walk.

“Oh no…” Yadwig swallowed hard, quickly stuffing the diary and sketchbook back into the velvet box and clutching them tightly to his chest.

As the guards downstairs gripped their laser guns, preparing to storm the tower's doors, Yadwiga pushed open the heavy wooden door and stood directly at the top of the steps—the guards froze instantly, their laser guns hovering in mid-air, unsure where to point them, creating an awkward and suffocating scene.

She stared at the Duke from dozens of meters away, her horse ears slightly turned back, her eyes burning with anger. "What are you doing in that room?" The Duke's voice came through the night wind, carrying a strong sense of pressure.

"I miss my mother." Yadwiga clutched the velvet box to his chest, as if protecting the last bit of warmth. "I'm going on a long trip soon and want to take some memories with me. But Father, with all this fuss, are you afraid I'll steal something?"

“You’re not going anywhere!” The Duke took a deeper drag on his cigar, smoke curling around his face. “Let me see the box.”

Jadwiga stood still, showing no fear whatsoever—his expression was not like that of someone facing his own father, but rather like that of someone facing an enemy on the battlefield.

"Captain of the Guard, go and fetch the box." The Duke's cane thudded on the ground, his tone as cold as ice.

"Young Miss, please forgive me." A head guard in a blue sleeveless robe stepped forward, his red shirt and trousers underneath were pressed crisply, and the brim of Cintira's traditional tricorn hat was pulled low. His hand was on the hilt of the power sword at his waist, his posture respectful yet carrying an undeniable force.

Jadvig did not resist, but simply watched as the captain of the guard took the velvet box from her arms and turned to present it to the Duke.

The Duke slowly removed his suede gloves and handed them to the servant behind him.

A servant brought over a brass basin of gold water, the rim of which was engraved with the coat of arms of the Lanna family, and the water surface gleamed with a cold light; another servant held up a snow-white woolen cloth, the edges of which were embroidered with gold thread.

He carefully washed each finger and dried every drop of water with a soft cloth, not even missing the spaces between his fingers—this elaborate ritual was as if he were treating a sacred object, not his deceased wife's old belongings.

He gently lifted the lid of the velvet box only after the ceremony was over.

Photo albums, diaries...

The old duke's fingertips gripped the edge of the album as he slowly turned the pages.

In the first photograph, a middle-aged imperial general is dressed in a crisp military uniform, the skull insignia on his epaulets polished to a shine. He holds a cigar in his right hand and rests his left hand on the broadsword at his waist. On the grass in front of the general, a woman wearing a traditional Polaberia indigo silk dress, the hem stained with grass juice, is smiling as she holds two children in her arms—the girl's horse ears are sticking up high, and the boy is tugging at his mother's skirt.

The photos have long since yellowed and become brittle, but memories flood back like a tide, instantly restoring the faded images to vibrant colors.

The Duke's Adam's apple bobbed involuntarily, his nose stung with tears, and his knuckles clenched until they turned white.

He flipped through the pages quickly, more and more memories assaulting the elderly man, yet he kept his dry, purplish lips taut, the lines at the corners of his mouth as stiff as if carved by a knife, striving to maintain a cold expression.

There are no clues about the Knight Mech.

The Duke closed the booklet, squinted at his daughter on the steps, his gaze as cold as ice: "Head lady-in-waiting, have the maids search her."

"Yes, sir." A middle-aged maid waved her hand immediately, and several young maids wearing gray aprons rushed forward, their steps as hurried as if they were on the verge of falling.

锔——!
The crisp sound of the blade rubbing against the scabbard suddenly pierced the night sky, so sharp that it gave everyone goosebumps.

The maids stopped abruptly, and even the engine noise of the assault vehicle seemed to subside.

Yadvig's hand slammed onto the hilt of his sword with lightning speed, drawing it halfway from his waist.

The gleaming silver blade reflected the lights of the assault vehicle, radiating a cold light; the gold tassels on her shoulders, signifying her colonel rank, swayed gently with her movements, and the scabbard at her waist made a subtle friction sound with each step.

"Listen up, everyone." She slowly raised her chin, her horse ears standing straight up, her cold gaze sweeping over everyone present. Her voice was not loud, but it carried a penetrating authority. "Except for the Military Affairs Department's Military Supervisory Committee and the Military Police, no one has the right to search an appointed Star Guard colonel."

These words were like a bucket of cold water poured over the servants' heads.

They suddenly realized that the young lady in front of them was no longer the delicate girl who would hide in her mother's arms and cry, but an Imperial soldier who had crawled back from the battlefield, a colonel of the Star Guard with military power and a bloody sword.

Her epaulets were stained with the blood of traitors, and her sword blades had slashed through the claws of aliens; her majesty was incomparable to that of pampered nobles.

(End of this chapter)