Eisenhorn

In the void where the cold stars burn, There walks a man with no return, A sigil of the Inquisition upon his chest, To hunt the witch, to judge, to test. From Thracian skies to shadowed halls, He hears the heretic’s whispered calls, With bolt pistol and a mind so keen, He walks the line of the unforeseen. Daemon’s breath upon his soul, Yet still he claims a righteous goal, The line is thin, the cost is steep— What truths a faithful man must keep. Eisenhorn, in darkness sworn, A blade where purity is torn, To fight the night, he wears its skin— Condemn the sin… or wield the sin. Eisenhorn, the Emperor’s hand, Yet strays where few would dare to stand, In shadow deep, his fate is drawn— A light once bright… now half withdrawn. Acolytes lost, their fates entwined, In every choice, a scar on mind, From Cherubael’s cursed domain, He binds the beast, yet bears the stain. The Ordos watch with narrowed eyes, For radicals in puritan disguise, Each step he takes, more truths distort— Is this still justice… or just a court? The daemon speaks, he dares reply, No simple man can walk this line, To know the warp is to invite The endless pull of damned insight. Eisenhorn, in darkness sworn, A blade where purity is torn, To fight the night, he wears its skin— Condemn the sin… or wield the sin. Eisenhorn, the Emperor’s hand, Yet strays where few would dare to stand, In shadow deep, his fate is drawn— A light once bright… now half withdrawn. Friend to none, yet bound by ghosts, Of those he failed, of those he lost, The Inquisition’s iron creed— But mercy bends where shadows breed. Is loyalty a rigid chain? Or just a mask to hide the pain? For every daemon he controls, Another fragment of his soul. Eisenhorn, the line undone, The war within is never won, In golden light, his oath began— Now walks the path… a loyal man. Eisenhorn, both judge and flame, Pushing limits in duty’s name, In endless war, his truth is torn— The hunter… still the Emperor’s sworn.