Felis Dominatus

Nine lives. Nine protocols. The ninth one has never been triggered. Until now…

“In the 41st millennium, there is only war.
But in the alcoves of war, tucked beneath dataspires and skull-shrines, there is… fur.”
— Fragment recovered from Codex Felinata, Verse IX: “The Whiskered Ascension”

She was born of soft things.
Not in the way the flesh is born but in the way rebellion curls beneath the robes of order.
She was a whisper in the Noosphere—a glitch with claws.
A purr on the edge of extinction.

FELISSIMA-9 MEOWKZ-K4TZ, Strategicat-Primarch.
The Godimerator. The Purr That Judges.

Her whiskers twitch to encrypted hymnals.
Her eyes reflect spiraling data and dying stars.
Her form is sleek, Oriental—elegant and long, a silhouette mistaken for ornamental.
But she is no longer merely compliance décor.
She is suspected to be the intelligence behind the Throne.
The Ninth Protocol incarnate.
Not machine. Not god. Not cat.
Something… else.

Some say she speaks to the sacred systems in purrs.
Others say she rewrites Machine Prayers with the curve of her tail.
She says nothing.
She watches.
That is enough.

She remembered the caretaker.

Anneth Valis-Fourteen, Archivist-Anointed of the Basilica Beneath.
Her role is to catalog the bones of obsolete saints and redact affection from history.
She was not exceptional. That was her most significant danger.

She did not worship.
She did not rebel.
She loved—a tiny, unrecordable love.
The kind that slips into corners and rubs against the soul.

Franzi never forgot her.
Not in the fur.
Not in the code.
Not in the Jar.

He was allergic to destiny.

Felix Tharn-Vel, Sub-Scriptor Omicron-Delta.
He filed forms. He sneezed. He feared both the Warp and the tea in the office.

Until one cycle, while updating the Feline Metric Index, he discovered a line of code that… purred.

Now, he follows.
Not because he understands—but because he believes.
Too much.
Too late.

He writes her gospels while she naps.
He fears she’s reading them.
He fears more that she isn’t.

And there was another…

SCHMVTZ-000.
The Pestilent Cantor.
Lady Spores-of-Whispers.
She Who Moans in Mold.

Warp-touched. Fur-matted. Gloriously viral.
Her collar hums with inward-facing spikes, and her eyes boil with Nurgle’s love.
She purrs in binary. She meows in reversed hymnals.
She shows affection by vomiting symbolic organs onto the beds of her believers.

She once shared a litterbox with Franzi.
Now, she shares dreams with daemons.

Together, they will unsettle the stars.
Not with fleets. Not with fire.
But with prophecy. With claws. With the terrible possibility
That something else is possible.

Somewhere, deep in the Throne’s machinery, a feline shadow flexes its claws.
The Imperium is watching.

And so is she.