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Shadows in the Sand (Warhammer 40k, story)

Chapter Thirty One New
Chapter Thirty One

-

The bridge corridor shook with thunder and fire.

Kade's bolter clicked dry, a metallic finality that rang louder than the chaos around him. A heartbeat later, the cultist it had claimed burst apart, viscera painting the far bulkhead in crimson arcs. Lasfire lit the gloom, painting his armor in strobe-flashes of blood and fury, both Imperial and heretic rounds shrieking through the corridor.

Smoke crawled through the beams of emergency lighting, thick as oil and stinking of scorched flesh and metal.

Without missing a beat, Kade reached to his belt. His movements were methodical, stoic—like the slow turn of an executioner's hourglass. He found the last metal casing, slammed it into the bolter with a practiced snap, and sent the bolt home with a growl of steel on steel.

"Last magazine," he said, his voice low—calm as a glacier, unmoved by the apocalypse breaking against his ceramite plate.

A few meters away, Orvek stood behind a dented support strut, his left side slick with blood, his right arm gone above the elbow—only cauterized ruin beneath the pauldron. His good hand still worked the trigger of his bolt pistol with precise, disdainful rhythm, each round punctuated by the wet snap of bone and armor.

"I've two left," Orvek called back, smoke curling from his pistols muzzle. "And my bolter's still out there somewhere with half a mag left."

Another cultist surged through the flickering shadows, screaming praise to a false god. Orvek turned, fired once. The scream ended mid-word.

"After that," he muttered, his silhouette jagged and defiant in the emergency lumens, "my hammer shall swing once more."

"Presuming they come close enough. Most of the bastards remain at a distance." Kade replied as the shrapnel from the frag grenades continued to bounce off his shield, the re-purposed wall plating a rough job of welded handle and quickly cut steel.

But, it was at least working to lessen the damage his armor was sustaining, the cultists weapons lacking the firepower to punch through the combined defense, for the moment anyway.

Both Astartes were watching the enemy lines for heavy weapons as the foes tried to advance behind their shield wall, yet the rain of frag's managed to keep them far enough back, the threat of the unfired multi-las a further deterrent.

A flicker of text across his HUD caught his attention as Ira spoke up.

IRA:
Enemy comm traffic intercepted.

A click of his vox as the message played, the speakers voice rough, but clear, calm.

"-Confirming, two of the brides are in the choke. I fear to push forward and risk injury to the Lords chosen wives. What should we do?"

The commander replied, brisk and sure. "Fall back. We have the reactor core, the bridge is just extra at this point. Our Lord shall claim what is his in his own way, for his makes his way there now."

IRA:
User KORON has encountered the leader of the cultist uprising.
Threat Level: Extreme.
Leader exhibits extraordinary levels of physicality, spatial folding and unknown ability to manipulate matter.
Recommended tactics: Ambush, heavy weaponry. Astartes and armsmen joint force.


"Can you get me an image of the leader?" Kade asked, watching as the retreat order seemed to be propagating through the enemy lines, the incoming fire dropping away to nothing.

Kade's HUD flickered, and an image bloomed in amber-edged clarity.

Kade felt both his hearts skip a beat.

A figure stepped through fire and falling ash—tall, radiant, and impossibly serene. Pale skin shimmered faintly beneath golden-white armor, like sun-polished marble. A halo of golden hair framed a noble face, unreadable in its beauty. His expression was still, mournful. Wings—vast, ethereal—fluttered behind him like echoes more than matter, trailing light. He did not walk like a man. He glided, every step too smooth for the metal beneath him, as if the deck bowed gently to bear his presence.

"That is impossible." Kade muttered, crimson eyes wide.

IRA:
Negative. Visual confirmed via multiple sources.
Cult leader is making his way here with heavy reinforcements.
ETA to enemy arrival: Fifteen minutes.
ETA to loyalist arrival: Twenty minutes.
Chances of successfully defending bridge: 27.1%.
Recommended Tactics: Evacuate wounded personnel. Disable bridge controls. Disperse into ship and engage in guerrilla warfare. Loyalist forces are regrouping. Chances of successful mutiny: 16.8% and falling. User KADE and VIP's TARA and KALA can survive.


"And what of my brothers who have already fallen?" he asked, his voice quieter now. Not softer—just closer to the bone. "What vengeance shall be enacted upon this false angel if I should do as you suggest?"

The line went silent for a long moment before she replied.

IRA:
….Updating user KADE's objectives.
Vengeance.
Proposed alternative tactic: Push through enemy forces and join up with incoming Astarte forces. Engage leader before he arrives here.


Kade's stance straightened. His breath came low and measured, the soft hiss of his rebreather masking the surge beneath. Behind his lenses, his crimson eyes narrowed—expressionless, unreadable—but his silence rang with finality.

He raised his bolter, checked the magazine—mostly full—and tilted his head toward the corridor where the enemy line was already beginning to pull back, melting into shadow beyond the emergency lumens.

"Captain," he voxed. "They're falling back. But intel from the lower decks confirms it: their leader is en route with reinforcements. We won't hold the bridge."

Tavos didn't waste breath on suspicion. There was no need.

"What do you have in mind?" he asked, though the cough at the end broke the edge off his voice—wet, guttural, like fire catching in a cracked bellows.

"We intercept. Cut the serpent's head before it slithers up the spine. But… I don't believe we're dealing with a mortal anymore."

"Clarify."

Kade sent the feed.

Silence. Then a sharp inhale.

Tavos' voice, when it came, trembled with something just beneath rage—a volcanic pressure, one shift away from eruption.

"…Sergeant," he growled, his words rumbling like the deep plates of Nocturne itself. "Whatever this heresy is... destroy it. Burn this filth off my ship."

"Yes sir."

He turned. Orvek was already sliding his last magazine into the bolt pistol with his remaining hand, expression flat.

"I heard," Orvek said simply. "Go. I'll hold the gate."

He turned to the Brandt girls, both pressed against the bulkhead in the half-light, their clothes smoke-streaked, their eyes hard. "The Emperor protects."

Then he was gone—into the corridor, into the dark, the fading thunder of his footsteps swallowed by distance and the weight of what waited ahead.

-

The hull was madness.

Venting plasma burst from ruptured conduits like solar flares, searing arcs of violet-white energy that lit the void in strobes of impending death. A rotating chunk of wreckage—a torqued section of corridor plating—spun past at lethal velocity, sparking off a nearby bulkhead as it clipped a loose rail. Pockets of fire burned in vacuum where chemical compounds still clung to memory, and somewhere ahead, a shield emitter flickered in and out like a dying eye—blink-blink-blink—as it tried and failed to push back the night.

Elissa glided forward, Koron's suit syncing better and better with each motion. The shielding held firm, the mag-boots gripping tight to the hull's scarred metal surface in the few times she touched down, her breath steady inside the helmet. The UI was clean, fluid, showing paths of least resistance through the debris field. The danger was real—but the suit was made for this.

She however, was not.

The ship's surface didn't move—but something deeper did. The world around her tilted with a kind of wrongness that wasn't speed, or spin, but something older. Something in the gut

Elissa's body tilted forward and fell, and the hull caught her—not with boots or mass, but with gripless certainty. The suit's grav-array pulled her sideways, then diagonally, then down again—none of it in line with what her stomach or brain called real. The stars jerked, the warped metal tilted, and fire licked past sideways.

"Fourteen degrees starward," Sasha said coolly in her ear. "Correct for the yaw. There's a rupture seam ahead—don't clip your foot on it or we'll both learn what happens to knees at orbital velocity."

The warning came just as the suit tugged—like an invisible hand shifting her weight mid-air—and she stumbled sideways across the skin of the ship, gliding more than walking, her muscles braced against phantom angles.

"This is nothing like a voidsuit," Elissa gritted out as she felt her stomach lurch. "Swimming he says, to a woman born and raised on desert planet."

"A fair point, but you can do it," Sasha replied. "You're riding a localized gravity bias field. You're not supposed to feel balanced. You're supposed to arrive."

The deck below her was torn and buckled, shredded from plasma fire and decompression—like the spine of some wounded beast, groaning beneath her. Plasma gouts vented at irregular intervals, blooming like spectral flowers. The hull glimmered, slick with ice and melted slag. Debris drifted slowly, unnaturally, some pieces spinning gently, others jagged with kinetic spite.

A blast of superheated gas hissed past her faceplate, casting shadows that flickered like screaming ghosts. Her shield flared—automatic, controlled, the energy field flexing around her like a bubble of blue-white haze.

Another tug from the grav-array as she reacted to the sudden flame—a hard right this time, and she flung sideways, knee bent, shoulder leading, rebounding off a scorched chunk of adamantine plating.

"Trajectory drift nominal," Sasha confirmed as Elissa managed to get her tumble under control. "You're doing good, but focus. The suits reacting to your thoughts. A flare like that and you might accidently hurl yourself into space."

"No pressure," Elissa muttered.

"Technically, all the pressure. It's just outside."

"Really? Trying to joke now?"

Before Sasha could answer, Elly's voice piped in—bright and brisk. "Speaking of pressure, bridge traffic's stabilizing. Looks like our side's taking it back."

Elissa grunted as she pushed herself around an upthrust spear of hull plating, the suit compensating with a subtle tug of gravitational redirection. "Define 'our side.'"

"Loyalist forces," Elly said immediately. "I'm picking up Kade's signal again, and around thirty-nine Astartes tags. They're still spread out, but they're pushing towards an interception. Unfortunately, their target…"

Elissa didn't have to wait for the rest. "He's coming, isn't he."

"Yep," Elly confirmed. "The angel is making his way to the bridge. And he's not alone. I'm reading about two thousand biosigns trailing him, but the signal's fuzzy. Dead zones everywhere."

Elissa grimaced. "Anything we can do to help? What about the drones?"

"Only nine left from our batch," Sasha answered, her tone shifting into more clinical efficiency. "Another ten are guarding the girls on the bridge. Lucia's fabricating reinforcements, but our fab-units are still operating at a crawl. Best-case scenario? An hour before we field anything worth the word 'reinforcement.'"

Elissa ducked beneath a length of warped cable, watching it trail a few ghostly sparks as it drifted lazily in the vacuum. "Damn. What about structural tricks? Lure him into an atrium, vent the whole thing into space?"

"Tempting," Sasha said, almost wistful. "But not viable. The Hammer doesn't have void-friendly kill boxes like that. Even if it did, forcing a breach would cause a backlash through the internal systems—and that could be a death sentence for any of us wired into the ship. The Hammer's AI is broken, not dead. It's still strong in the places that matter."

"So there's nothing we can do?" Elissa asked, watching as a shard of hull plating bounced off her shoulder shield, flashing blue-white before vanishing into the dark. "Just… get out of the way?"

"Hate to say it," Sasha replied, quieter now, "but for the moment? Yes. Right now, the Hammer's fate is in Astartes hands."

Elissa stared ahead as the scorched spine of the ship twisted before her, jagged and buckled like the wreck of some forgotten god. Plasma flared across the horizon, throwing long shadows across the hull. Behind her, Koron remained still—heavy, silent, frozen in borrowed time.

He hadn't moved in minutes—not since he'd locked down his systems, rerouted everything into preservation mode. His skin against her armor was ice, too still. Every movement jostled him, and she could feel—actually feel—how rigid his body had become. Oxygen halted. Blood reduced to vital organs. Temperature dropped to near-fatal.

He wasn't riding with her.

He was being delivered.

"He's burning time," Elly whispered. "Every second you move faster, he gets it back."

"He shouldn't have come out here," Elissa muttered, sweat slick in the collar of her helmet. "We could've waited. Found another route. Something safer."

"He ran the numbers," Sasha said. "And he trusted you more than the rest."

Elissa's voice dipped. "He shouldn't have had to run the numbers to decide if he trusted me."

"He didn't," Sasha replied, softer now. "That part was never in question. He ran them to see if he could trust himself… to put you in danger and not regret it."

Elissa said nothing for a long moment. Her throat was tight, her breath loud in the helmet. The silence pressed between them like gravity.

"He always seems so sure," she murmured.

"He has to be," Sasha said. Then, quieter—like a confession not meant for air. "If he stops to wonder, even for a second, he might not start again. And I don't know if I could bear watching him fall."

Elissa closed her eyes.

And between her spine and the silent weight strapped to it, she felt it again—that unbearable, precious truth:

He wasn't invincible.

He was just someone trying to outrun the moment he couldn't get back up.

-

The corridor narrowed ahead, walls blackened with fire and studded with the bones of melted deck supports. Kade advanced without pause, his stride relentless, bolter gripped low, makeshift shield angled like a prow. He spoke softly into the silence.

"Ira. Did Koron make contact with the demon?"

IRA:
Affirmative
Engagement occurred seven minutes ago in upper freight lift four.


"Show me."

The HUD blinked, a small window appearing to show a flickering perspective—strange angles, cold and mechanical, tracking a figure descending through a ruined arena like a comet in slow motion.

Not simply aglow, but casting illumination—shedding brilliance like a floodlight cleaving fog. Shadows peeled away from it like smoke under pressure. Wings, broad and glimmering with photonic distortion, shimmered behind its back. Each step sent tremors through the world—reality cracking, flexing, bending to allow its passage.

Thin beams carved into it. Drones, four-legged and tireless, hurled themselves forward in coordinated strikes. The air warped, gravity buckled. Nothing slowed it.

It advanced through the storm like a god descending a temple stair.

Its blade danced—a thing of artistry and terror. Every stroke perfectly measured. Every dodge effortless. Its footwork made mockery of even superhuman reflex. And all the while, warpfire bled from its presence, distorting everything it touched. Reality wasn't resisting—it was yielding.

Kade stared, unmoving. Every instinct in him flared—centuries of battle-tempered reflex screaming one word beneath the thunder of bolter fire and command protocols.

Demonhost.

A soul-bound cage. A living anchor driven into realspace. The Warp given flesh.

He'd read the records. Studied the fragments.

But none of them had looked like this.

"Even the weakest of them are powerful foes," Kade muttered, boots thudding as he advanced. He glanced up at a scorched designation sigil, then turned sharply left at the junction, heading for the nearest munitions cache. "How many of my brothers can you reach?"

IRA:
Thirty-nine. Twenty-seven are armored.

"Good. Inform them that I'll be bringing heavy weapons. Find us a killzone."

IRA:
Affirmative. Calculating optimal placement.

Kade's HUD bloomed with new data streams—floor plans, pressure readings, battlefield heatmaps. His armor's systems surged with fresh telemetry as Ira scoured the Hammer's wounded infrastructure for somewhere, anywhere, they could fight a false angel on equal footing.

Then, she spoke again—almost hesitantly.

IRA:
This unit requests permission to coordinate with user KORON's AI companions. This unit's systems are limited.

Kade exhaled, teeth clenched behind his helm, every instinct whispering denial—but he gave a short nod. "Granted. Bring them in."

The datastream doubled, then tripled—ghostlight flickering across his HUD as foreign code stitched into Ira's systems like thread through raw steel. No voice came. No warmth of Sasha's presence, no wry commentary. Just sterile efficiency. The mini-map flickered, recalibrating, plotting a route with cold certainty.

IRA:
Nearest functioning armory located. Seventy-four meters. Deck elevation: negative one. Status: damaged, accessible.

The corridor opened into ruin. Bulkheads torn like paper, the decking above collapsed inward as if a titan's fist had slammed down in wrath. Sparking cables hissed from exposed walls, dancing arcs lighting the space with erratic strobe. The acrid tang of burnt insulation clawed at the filters in his helm.

The flames were gone—but their ghost still lingered in the searing heat.

The armory's blast doors remained shut, half-buried beneath fallen girder and debris, blackened but intact.

Kade advanced, but his step faltered.

Six of his brothers lay scattered like discarded relics across the approach. Not fallen in formation, not defiant in death—shredded. Ripped apart by concussive force and cruel geometry. Bolter magazines cooked off near their corpses. One's helmet had been caved inward, fused to his skull. Another's pauldron was gone, shoulder sheared clean away, his gauntlet locked mid-reach for a fallen weapon.

He knew them all. All of them. Their names carved into his memory like ink into slate.

Kade stepped between the bodies like a man walking through fire, every stride slow, deliberate. Not out of fear. Out of grief.

His eyes swept the space, cataloging the armor marks, the weapon fragments, the poses in which they fell. The smell of death clung to them—not decay, but finality. Burnt ceramite. Blood beneath. Spirits already offered.

Brother Thasian had once carved miniature flame motifs into every purity seal he bore, a quiet act of devotion. Brother Kelen used to hum old Nocturnean forge-hymns during maintenance rituals, off-key but steady. Vero, ever silent, had a habit of sketching battle tactics on his dataslate, refining them obsessively. Mardel, the largest of them, had adopted a mortal orphan during a campaign on Sagan-12. The child had died. He never smiled again.

Aelian, youngest of the six, had only received his black armor a year past. He still moved like a neophyte trying not to shame his mentors. And Solas—Solas had once joked that if he died first, Kade owed him a drink in the afterlife.

Kade remembered laughing.

"Brothers," he whispered, kneeling beside Solas's body. He rested a hand on the cracked chestplate. "As fire returns to fire, so shall the soul return to Vulkan."

He rose. Shoulders squared. Grief pushed down—not forgotten, never that—but folded into purpose.

He reached the door, shoved the melted debris aside, and triggered the override. The locking bolts groaned in protest, and the doors slid open halfway, screeching like tortured metal as they made room for dead men's vengeance.

Inside was chaos: scorched racks, half-melted crates, broken weapons still humming with residual charge. But not all was lost.

Kade stepped inside.

His eyes scanned with soldier's focus. Multi-melta, dented but functional. Heavy flamer—half-full tanks, scorched ignition plate.

He took both.

He clipped the flamer to his side, feeling the slosh of promethium in the canister, six, maybe seven shots worth. The multi-melta hissed as he linked it to the backpack fuel core—enough for ten shots.

IRA:
Killzone identified. Triangulating allied positions. Predictive strike vectors uploading to allies.
Enemy arrival: Nine minutes. Allied intercept ETA: Ten. User KADE will be alone at first contact.
Suggestion: Extend interception, rally with allies before engagement.


Kade stood at the threshold of the ruined chamber, the weight of flame and fury in his hands, and gave a quiet nod. "Patience then, shall be our weapon."

-

Kade stepped through the breach and into fire-wreathed twilight.

The mustering chamber had once been a training hall—long since gutted by shrapnel, lit only by flickering lumen strips and the ghostly glow of active armor nodes. But the scent of purpose was thick in the air. Thirty-nine shapes turned toward him. Twenty-seven were still in full armor, scorched and scraped but functional. The other eleven bore robes torn to the waist, torsos bandaged in field wraps, faces smudged with ash and stubborn life.

All of them stood.

All of them burned.

"Sergeant on deck," someone rasped.

"No time for ceremony," Kade replied, stepping into their center. His armor hissed, multi-melta thumping against his chest like a second heart. "This isn't a line. It's a knife. And we are the edge."

The Astartes parted, letting him reach a half-standing tactical display rigged to a damaged cogitator. A flicker of corrupted lines—Ira's doing—projected an image of the enemy: tall, radiant, flanked by a tide of bodies and madness.

"He's coming," Kade said. "You've seen the feed. Warp-wrought. Bladed. Wings of light and lies. A face like a saint. A soul like a butcher's forge."

No one spoke. They'd seen it. Heard the vox intercepts. Read the scriptures on monsters pretending to be divine.

"He's not a daemon prince. He's something else," Kade went on. "But his body bleeds. His weapons can be broken. His fire can be answered."

A mutter from the ranks—Brother Hadrak, helm in crook of his arm, a black line of blood down his face. "How do we bring down a demonhost?"

Kade's gaze swept the assembled brothers. He saw them—not as wargear, not as units. As men. Firewalkers. Flamebearers. Veterans of a thousand wars.

"How else?" Kade said. "With fire and fury."

He pointed to the armored warriors.

"Frontline fighters engage and draw him into the killzone. Meltaguns, flamers, any short-range heavy weapons we have— We hit him then. Melee works as hit and run, keep him off balance. Longer ranged teams engage once hes focused on us."

He turned to the unarmored.

"You flank wide. Two cells. Keep the cultist horde from reinforcing. Break their line. Pin them. If they overrun you, fall back—but buy us seconds. That's all we need."

Brother Pyrix, stripped to his waist, arms wrapped in bandage and ritual ink, gave a wolfish grin. "How many seconds?"

"As many as it takes," Kade answered.

IRA:
Killzone identified. Freight handling, G-17. Reinforced walls, weakened supports overhead. Ambush pattern optimal. Collapse vectors loaded.

"We hit him in G-17," Kade said as he pulled up the ship section on the hololith. "He'll arrive in five minutes. We'll be there in four. When the hammer falls, we fall as one."

Brother Jexin flexed his hands, one gloved, one burned raw. "Anything else we should know about this demonhost? I have never fought one before."

Kade looked at him, voice quiet.

"Nothing beyond be alert. Its body is a illusion, vital organs will likely not be in their normal spot, and it will have tricks of the warp. Trust your brothers, and bring the wrath of Vulkan in your heart."

The brothers nodded, each one checking weapons, slapping mags, igniting pilot lights. Armor hissed. Voxnets clicked online. Faith didn't need preaching here—only purpose.

They moved.

Like lava through stone corridors, the Salamanders advanced—every step deliberate, a collective will forged not of zealotry, but of duty. Thirty-nine warriors. Two flanks. One point of impact.

And at its tip, Kade—serene as a storm just before it breaks.

-

Kade advanced first, multi-melta humming with barely restrained fury, the power cells on his back humming with energy that reeked of promise. His brothers followed in silence. Twenty-seven wore their armor—scratched, scorched, patched with prayer-scribed plating—but it still marked them as Angels of Death. The rest were stripped to carapace and faith, their strength in silence, in purpose.

The air vibrated with the hum of hidden power and the thrum of war-prayers whispered by Astartes hearts, each one ready to drown this place in fire.

The killzone was a freight-handling cathedral—an enormous cargo junction carved into the ship's spine, where titanic cranes once swung above open void locks and grav-lifts once thrummed between decks. Now, it lay broken and vast.

Above, the gantries loomed like the ribs of some ancient metal god—crisscrossing walkways of rust-streaked steel and sagging power lines. The long-range brothers were scattered among them, prone or crouched behind collapsed girders and ruptured containers, weapons poised. Bolters, stalkers, plasma guns, and the one missile launcher waited in cold silence, covering overlapping fields of fire.

Below, the floor was a shattered grid of ruined platforms and freight cradles. Mech-handler arms curled from the deck like skeletal fingers, motionless now, their hydraulics long dead. A collapsed lift shaft cut through one quadrant like a broken throat. Coils of severed conduit twitched from the walls, weeping sparks that flickered through the gloom like dying stars.

And at the center, laid bare like a sacrificial altar, was the cargo platform itself—open ground, clear of cover, deliberately uncluttered. The bait.

It was a place of planned violence, every line of sight calculated. There was only one path in—a broad hallway of cracked ferrocrete flanked by half-melted cherub statues and Mechanicus sigils smeared with soot. That corridor would bring the enemy directly into the trap.

To the west, a sealed maintenance hatch had been forced open and welded in place, marking the path Kade's flanking team would use. To the north, the main corridor yawned open—wide enough for bulk cargo haulers, and now the route the angel would take.

Along the southern wall, an old Prometheum refill station for ground vehicles stood cracked and abandoned, its tanks dry—but its pipelines still intact, running beneath the deck. A potential hazard. Or opportunity.

The air here held the scent of scorched insulation, rust, and blood. It vibrated with the hum of hidden power and the thrum of war prayers whispered by Astartes hearts, each one ready to drown this place in fire.

Kade, having passed the heavy flamer to one of his battle-brothers, advanced into the central maze. He was among the fourteen who would face the enemy up close—blades ready, meltas primed, flamers hissing with suppressed anticipation. Of the assault group, only he and two others bore heavy ordnance: the fusion-etched mouth of his melta, the brutal spout of a flamer, and a plasma cannon that hummed faintly as it built charge.

The rest were blades and muscle. Veteran killers.

The remaining ninteen spread out along gantries, behind ruined scaffolds, and atop fractured cargo elevators. Most bore bolters—standard and stalker variants—while a handful carried plasma rifles, their coils glowing in the dim red of emergency lumen. Two devastator squad veterans hauled heavy bolters into elevated cover, mounting them with practiced ease. One marine bore a shoulder-slung missile launcher, one of his only two krak warheads ready to fire.

It was enough firepower to flatten a fortress. Enough to make even a greenskin WAAAGH pause, if only for a heartbeat.

Would this so-called angel—this radiant thing with his followers at his back—have the arrogance to walk into it?

Kade didn't know.

But he was ready to find out.

The great freight doors at the far end of the junction groaned open with the tortured grind of fractured gears. Smoke belched from the seams. Shapes moved in the haze—robed cultists with blades held low, their eyes wide with reverence.

And then he stepped through.

A crimson sword hung idle in one hand. Wings like starlight fluttered in an unfelt wind behind him. He didn't walk; he glided, feet barely disturbing the soot and ruin beneath him. A mane of golden hair spilled over his pauldrons, catching what light remained and wreathing his head in a mockery of a halo.

Even knowing the truth, Kade felt it—that whisper at the edge of thought. That traitorous echo of awe. A breath of hesitation that slipped beneath the skin of certainty.

Doubt.

The angel advanced without fear, every step deliberate, a performance for the devout who trailed him like pilgrims behind a living saint. His wings fluttered in subtle, unsettling pulses—part heat shimmer, part hallucination. His blade glowed like a sunrise frozen in steel. Even knowing what it was, even armed with truth, Kade felt the wrongness only after the beauty.

He hated that.

"Three," he murmured into the vox.

Muscles loosened, his breath evened. Around him, Salamanders tensed in their cover, bolts loaded, plasma primed, teeth bared behind helms of black and green.

"Two."

The angel reached the bottom of the ramp, his followers fanning out behind him in unarmored, awe-struck obedience.

"One."

The krak missile screamed from its launcher, a lance of fire and purpose. It slammed into the angel's chest with a thunderclap, the detonation cratering the deck and sending a backwash of heat across the killzone. In the same instant, nine unarmored Salamanders dropped from the gantries above the door to flank the mob of cultists, weapons already blazing.

Flamers bathed the mortal rear lines in cleansing fire, their cries rising like an unholy hymn. Bolters chewed through the ranks, each shot precise, merciless. Astartes charged, not in a line—but in a staggered pincer, cutting off retreat, forcing the enemy into chaos.

Kade's melee brothers surged forward: eleven armored giants, fanning out across the open floor to meet the angel head-on. Chainswords roared to life. Combat blades caught the flicker of distant firelight. The lone plasma cannon shrieked as its glow intensified.

And yet—those in the upper gantries held their fire.

They waited.

Just as planned.

Shock. Engagement. Draw him in.

The trap wasn't just to kill the angel.

It was to make him commit.

-

It stepped onto the deck, golden feet touching scorched steel as if it were consecrated marble.

To mortal eyes, it was beauty incarnate—a divine silhouette in radiant white and crimson, winged and haloed, gliding like scripture brought to life.

But the being within the flesh—the entity wearing the mask of an angel—saw differently.

It did not perceive with eyes.

It listened.

The world came to it as harmony and light, as rhythm and resonance. Every soul was a song, every thought a chime of tone and texture. It saw its surroundings in the glimmer of essence and the tremble of belief. The freight cathedral shimmered before it, full of clashing chords and wounded hymns.

The faithful followed behind, their devotion blazing like incense caught in a hurricane—wild, flickering, raw. Their song was loud. Off-key. Beautiful.

A note broke the music.

The krak missile was not sound. Not truly. But in the realm of perception the angel inhabited, it arrived as a discordant scream. A lance of nullity. A shriek of hate forged into motion.

It struck.

Pain bloomed.

Light. Heat. Judgment.

The illusion shattered. The entity stumbled, wings flaring wide to catch its balance, skin bubbling as its great wings wavered. The impact rolled over it like a collapsed crescendo. It staggered… and then stood.

A gasp rose from his people. Their songs were suddenly shrill, panicked, smoldering in the echoes of the blast. Their music bent into cries—many of them dying. Fire devoured them in twin sheets as unarmored giants of obsidian tore from cover.

The angel's awareness shifted. The tempo of battle rose.

The Salamanders came.

Eleven of them surged forward, blades singing their own brutal harmony, each soul a furnace of purpose wrapped in fire-wrought fury. Their colors were deep—a symphony of ember and ash, notes carved in sacrifice. They charged, pistols flaring, war cries harmonic.

And the others...

The long-range warriors did not move. They held their fire. Silent sentinels in the choir loft of death. Waiting for the cue.

Yet the entity didn't fear. No.

This was the shape of worship it understood.

The blade in its hand flared—sung into existence, not forged. It was resonance and memory. Crimson as spilled belief. It spun the weapon once, leaving afterimages in reality's weave.

One of the charging Salamanders was a tenor of wrath, bellowing as his chainsword revved.

The angel met him first.

Not with brute force.

With grace.

A single pivot, a lean like falling leaves, and the sword bisected the warrior mid-motion. The song of his soul cut short. A staccato silence.

But the others did not stop. They closed, three at once, then six. The fight bloomed, not as chaos, but as choreography—violent, beautiful, blasphemous.

To the angel, it was ballet.

It danced.

Warp-light shimmered around its limbs. Reality flickered. Deck plates twisted as if softened by heat. Gravity wept in confused tides. The air sang as it reshaped.

And still—

They struck. Bolters barked. Fire lit its robes. Metal scored its skin.

It felt them.

Not fear.

Friction.

They were not like the faithful. Their songs were clearer. Sharper. Hardened by war and kinship and oaths. It saw their names glint inside them.

One wielded grief like a weapon. Another, shame. One burned with desperate hope.

But none sang of doubt.

And that made the angel pause.

For all its stolen grace, its woven mask, its choir of worshippers...

The enemy's song was true.

Something old stirred behind its eyes. Something ancient and fragile.

It had felt this once, long ago.

When it was not a god.

When it feared.

-

Kade watched from cover, his breath slow and measured, optics locked on the unfolding melee as his brothers met the angel head-on.

The initial charge had been thunder itself—eleven Salamanders roaring down the ruined freight cathedral, flame and shot in their wake. For a moment, it looked like they might bear the false god down by sheer fury. Chainblades screamed. Power-fields flared like newborn suns. The angel disappeared beneath a tide of black-green armor and battle-cries.

And then the dance began.

It did not fight like a creature of flesh. It flowed.

The angel moved with an elegance that mocked gravity, each motion a stanza in some terrible song. Its sword—a long, impossibly thin arc of crimson light—sliced through the melee like a conductor's baton, trailing contrails of distorted air and psychic shimmer. It did not clash. It passed through. Through shields. Through helms. Through ceramite and bone and history.

Brother Aegaron died first—his thunder hammer raised mid-swing, his chest carved open with a blur that left his upper body collapsing in half-melted ruin. He fell without sound, the hammer still sparking in his grip.

Seraphis and Dornil moved to flank, chainswords snarling—but the blade flickered again, too fast for the eye, and Dornil's weapon clattered to the floor alongside the arm that had wielded it. Blood sprayed across Seraphis' helm, and for a heartbeat he stumbled. A heartbeat was all it took. The sword came back in a reverse sweep, and Seraphis crumpled—bisected at the hip, his final scream flaring through Kade's vox like static.

Kade gritted his teeth. "Hold the line," he whispered. Not to them. To himself. To the moment.

The survivors pressed in regardless, discipline honed over centuries driving them to cover each other, strike where one fell, drawing the thing back step by step. Tarvek caught its flank with a point-blank flamer blast, fire blooming across the angel's armor in a corona of radiant heat—but the entity stepped through it as if the flames were fog. It spun, its blade drawing a perfect arc, and Tarvek's helm rolled away in silence.

But it was working.

The angel was stepping forward. Not far. Not fast. But Kade saw it—a stutter in its rhythm. A check in its perfect tempo. As if even it could not be everywhere at once.

Behind the melee line, the longer-ranged brothers began to reposition, weapons charged. The plasma remained silent for now, waiting for the right angle, but the stalker rifles began to sing—each shot carving lines of fury through the air.

"Keep the pressure," Kade voxed, moving through cover, hunting a new vantage. "Every step it takes forward, we claim in blood."

He watched as Brother Jorran—massive, silent, always last to speak—lunged in with a combat blade in each hand. He found the space others could not, carving a deep gash across the angel's back. It turned on him in a blur, but Varek intercepted the strike with his own body, catching the blow in the gut—sliced clean through.

Varek fell.

Jorran screamed.

Kade did not look away.

This was war.

This was cost.

The trap had been sprung. Now came the bleed.

And Emperor willing, the angel would drown in it.

-

The blade sang.

Oh, how it sang—not with metal on metal, but with the music of motion. With the crisp whisper of flesh parting. With the rising chorus of screams and sparks and faith undone.

Every cut was a note.

Every impact, a chord.

The hymn of slaughter echoed in this strange, delightful cage of matter.

It reveled in it.

Not the killing. That was rote. Expected. A necessary rite to maintain the mask.

No, what it craved was the sensation.

The pressure of ground against foot. The sharp, numbing ache in sinew when it twisted too far. The sting—yes, sting!—when that flamer's kiss licked across its body, leaving carbon bloom and chemical agony in its wake.

Agony.

It had forgotten pain. Not the memory of it—no, even the Warp could simulate memory. But the surprise of it. The visceral, raw newness.

It laughed, inside.

Not aloud. Not here. That would ruin the theater.

But something in its stolen heart… danced.

This realm, this coil of bone and limitation, was a symphony it had never truly heard. Not from within. Not like this.

And yet—

The song was… flawed.

Beneath the beauty, beneath the rapture, there was a wrongness. A skipped beat. A dissonance threading through the harmony.

At first, it thought it was the usual clamor of a dying soul—so often discordant, broken. But this was sharp, deliberate. Like a blade pressed against the edge of the stave.

Not chaos.

Not resistance.

Design.

It began to feel it then. In the drag of weight through the air. The pattern of the weapons, held back, waiting. The formation of the melee line—not frenzied zealots. Hunters. Soldiers.

A trap.

The entity felt it in its wings, in the marrow of this puppet form.

It wanted to see.

And it— wanted to be seen.

Yes.

It could have fled. Could have bent space again, folded into shadow, and emerged where it pleased.

But not yet.

It had never felt a trap before.

Never walked willingly into the snapping jaws.

And the strangeness of it—the invitation of it—drew it on like a siren call.

So it advanced, blade weeping crimson light, carving its hymn through the fire and steel and flesh.

Each death fed the crescendo.

But it knew.

Soon.

It would reach the crescendo's edge.

Where harmony ended.

And something else waited.

Not chaos.

Not null.

But order with a name.

The silver shard in the void.

It was close.

And the angel longed to hear what she would sing.

-

Kade's breath slowed. Not in calm. In purpose. The air inside his helm was thick with it—intent, memory, vengeance.

He watched the melee unfold from his corner of the cargo containers—cover half-melted by plasma fire, half-held together by sheer hatred.

Seven of his brothers were gone.

Seven.

He saw Brother Themnus fall with a guttural roar, his hammer torn from his grip as the angel's blade cleaved through his pauldron and chest like parchment. Saw Yestrel die shielding another, taking the blow meant for his kin with a snarl and a prayer. Ardok, ever too fast for his own good, had caught a feint and paid the price in silence, his head still rolling.

The others, too—burning, broken, bleeding out onto the deck that would never remember their names.

But Kade would.

He had waited, held his brothers back, kept their vengeance sheathed until the creature was where it had to be.

Ira's counter clicked to zero.

The angel had entered the furnace throat of the killzone—wings flickering like dying auroras, blade a smear of crimson light as it danced through the melee line. Even gods bled when struck from the blind side.

Kade raised his multi-melta.

Across from him, two brothers did the same—Vael to his left, silent as the grave, and Brother Aramus crouched behind a fractured support strut with the plasma cannon whine building to a scream.

Across the field, the long-range gunners had eyes on.

"Mark."

The word was a whisper, a razor slipping between teeth.

They stepped from shadow.

Three shapes, colossal and wrathful, weapons already primed.

His four remaining brothers dove away from the melee, hurling themselves into cover.

The multi-melta fired first.

Twin beams of sun-hot ruin carved through the air, searing arcs that turned steel into vapor and shadow into glass. The twin lances converged on the angel's chest—an instant sunburst that left afterimages like holy icons burned into his vision.

A heartbeat later, Aramus fired.

The plasma cannon's scream became a thunderclap, a radiant bolt of coronal discharge slamming into the angel just as it turned, trying to escape the metla beams.

Behind and above, the hidden marksmen opened up.

Heavy bolters snarled, thudding death into the melee in long, brutal bursts—tight volleys meant to carve through anything foolish enough to remain near the angel. Stalker-pattern rounds punched with pinpoint fury, while plasma rifles barked their blue fire in disciplined cadence.

The entire world lit up in vengeance.

Kade never looked away.

He watched.

Every flicker. Every motion.

Not for weakness.

But for proof.

Proof that the lives they'd traded bought more than delay.

They bought pain.

They bought clarity.

They bought time.

He saw the angel turn, armor in tatters, golden hair scorched, blade still gleaming.

It was still alive.

But it had noticed.

No more dances.

No more beauty.

Now came the reckoning.

-

Pain.

It had no name for the sensation. Not in the tongue of mortals. Not in the canticles of the warp. Not even in the endless lexicons whispered by its brothers, the deep things that sang in the tides beyond reality.

But it felt it.

A lurch in the melody. A scream across the strings of its perception.

The mortal song—the symphony of breath and blood and blind, bright fury—had shifted. From chorus to crescendo.

The first beam struck its chest.

White-hot agony carved through it, sundering not flesh, but form. Essence wrenched into matter, held too tightly, too long—scorched by a light meant to pierce gods. Reality fractured along the edge of that melta lance, and for the second time in its stolen existence, the angel staggered.

Not a fall. Not yet.

But a stumble.

The song in its ears warped, became a clamor. Mortal minds screamed not in fear—but in fury. It turned, blade a blur, just in time for the second strike to lance into its side.

Burning.

Real.

Blue-white lightning in the shape of wrath. Plasma, they called it. It called it blasphemy given shape. The bolt struck center-mass, detonating against the barrier of its soulstuff. Wards faltered. Sigils hissed. Its halo flickered.

Then the sound.

Like thunder given teeth.

Heavy bolters.

Mass-reactive shells tore into the space it had ruled just moments before—shredding its veil, ripping the edges of its grandeur.

It felt… exposed.

Naked beneath a sky of flame.

It turned—not to flee, but to see.

Up above. In the gantry ways.

Nineteen figures, massive and black against the firelight, weapons belching the sun's own death.

Below and behind, the trap closed.

Plasma rifles barked. Bolters roared. The last of the mortals had been left behind, a trail of ash and bones.

And around it—seven giants in warplate, still alive, still fighting.

This was no panicked mob.

This was no prayer-born defense.

This was a hunt.

And it was the prey.

How… delightful.

The angel's expression did not shift. But something in the way it stood changed. The sway of its wings stilled. The sword at its side turned a fraction.

It had known violence on a level mortal minds could not fathom.

It had fought avatars of slaughter.

But it had never felt this.

It had never bled.

The thought was strange. Alien. Almost beautiful.

It brought the sword up—crimson edge flickering not with fire, but with the echo of ruptured dimensions.

The air behind it rippled, began to fold. A warning.

The angel halted it.

No escape.

Not yet.

It wanted this.

It welcomed it.

Let them come.

Let their fire blind the stars.

Let their fury burn its shell.

The song was reaching its climax.

And for the first time in all its boundless eternity—

The angel would sing with it.

-

The world lit up as he pulled the trigger again.

His melta's shriek drowned all thought, a sunbeam compressed into a breath. It struck true, boiling the air as it slammed into the angel's wing. Kade didn't cheer—he saw the stagger, the recoil. He saw another wound drawn.

And he fired again.

Across from him, the plasma cannon howled, a crackling sphere of unstable fury roaring toward the creature's center mass. The shot hit hard, detonation flaring like a newborn star. Chunks of plating exploded into molten shrapnel. It wasn't blood that scattered—it was substance, torn from the lie's form like slivers of an unfinished dream.

The heavy flamer joined a heartbeat later, drenching the path behind the angel in a torrent of prometheum, cutting off retreat as it boiled the monsters bones.

Above and around them, the other brothers poured their wrath down.

Heavy bolters barked. Shells slammed into the warped beast, one striking its shoulder, tearing a spray of gold and light. Bolters roared. Plasma rifles hissed and cracked. Every weapon in the ambush had opened up, a wall of death surging forward.

Kade advanced, step by step, each movement a vow.

The angel was still standing.

It shouldn't be.

Not after that.

Any mortal would've been a red mist, any heretic torn limb from limb. But the angel—

The angel was smiling.

Even as its wings flickered, even as it bled whatever passed for blood, even as half its hair burned away and fire climbed its side—it smiled.

Kade felt his gorge rise, something instinctual and wrong grinding beneath his skin. Every part of him screamed that this wasn't real. That this thing wasn't dying, it was learning.

Adapting.

No. No, not yet.

He gave the order. "Brothers. Advance."

The four melee warriors surged forward, weapons raised, voices silent.

The trap had sprung.

Now they would finish it—before the smile became a laugh.

-

The air was music.

Rising, screaming, a crescendo of fire and fury that drenched its senses in radiant agony. Oh, how it sang—every bolt round a percussion note, every plasma strike a wail of warped violins. The melta burned like a sustained chord of discordant purity.

It thrilled.

The heat, the sound, the momentum of the moment—all of it a glorious storm of sensation. It was no longer merely playing the part of divinity.

It was alive.

The fire chewed through its wing. The plasma carved through its abdomen and left trailing strands of soul-glass to shimmer in the air. Its skin, its anchor, cracked and sloughed away in places—but what lay beneath was not exposed.

It was becoming.

Above, from the gantries, nineteen warriors played their war-cant in long bursts of thunder. Bolters chattered with sacred rhythm. Plasma shrieked in bursts of blue agony. The heavy bolters spoke in authority. They were musicians of murder, their symphony carefully tuned.

He admired them.

Even as their rounds chipped at the illusion, even as the flamer raked his back and the scent of carbonized zealots filled the air—he felt no anger. Only fascination.

This... this was worship. Real and raw. Not the sycophantic kneeling of broken souls, but the honest, thunderous refusal to yield. The Astartes defied him not just because they hated him, but because they loved something else too much to let go.

He could taste their hate. Their love. Their grief. Their pride. Every note a declaration:

We are the hammer. We are the flame. We do not fall.

It was beautiful.

He turned—just slightly. The motion let his fractured wing flutter, loose feathers of photonic interference cascading down like shed illusions. Before him, four remained of the first wave, bloody but unbowed. One knelt beside a brother's corpse, covering him with a shield of flame. Another stood with a cracked blade in both hands, daring him. Two more pressed in from the flanks, slower now, pain radiating in waves of dull color and broken tempo.

Another pair, one wielding that terrible light of condensed matter, the other the purifying flame.

And behind them came him—the sergeant with the captured sun.

The one who watched like a wolf.

The one with another shard of silver in him.

Behind his visor, there was no awe. Only the beat of righteous wrath, steady as a forge-hammer.

Interesting.

The angel tilted its head slightly, as though listening to an instrument no one else could hear.

Then came the shift.

Time slowed—not in truth, but in perception, as the warp within coiled tighter, drawing in the threads of unreality around it. A shimmer rolled over its skin—like heat haze, breath caught in a mirror. The false light of its halo flared again.

A song too high for mortal ears surged through the air.

The angel moved.

It was there—and then closer.

In half a heartbeat it flowed toward the nearest of the four marines, blade trailing a wake of liquid crimson. The chainsword came up, singing defiance.

It cut through.

Armor. Bone. Resolve.

The Astartes didn't even have time to scream.

A flaring strike to the left—the hammer was batted aside, its wielder slammed bodily into a bulkhead hard enough to leave a crater. Another marine fired a plasma pistol point-blank into the angel's ribs. The burst struck home—

—but this time, the angel did not stagger.

It caught the marine by the neck.

Flesh hissed as the angel's hand burned—not from fire, but from resistance. From the soul within that fought back.

"You shine," it said aloud, voice like honey through broken glass.

Then it squeezed.

The helm cracked like porcelain.

Four remained now—plus the one with the melta, approaching behind. A slow, inexorable death march.

And above, the long-range fire kept falling. A hailstorm of thunder, scraping against the limits of matter and meaning.

He should flee.

He knew he should. The host-body would not last forever. It had given him sensation, movement, beauty—but already it frayed under strain. The song of the material was too sharp, too raw.

But he stayed.

Because beneath the fire, behind the smoke, within the pain—there was a note he had not heard in millennia.

The null.

It was not in the Astartes.

But it was close.

And that quiet, silvery dissonance from the Astartes disturbed him.

He spread his broken wings and let the gunfire strike again, eager to see what came next.

-

The thunder of bolter fire pulsed through the gantries above, a pounding rhythm of wrath and vengeance. Heat shimmered off the walls, plasma bursts screaming as they carved furrows in the deck. Yet still the angel stood, marred but unshaken, its wings trailing glimmers like shattered auroras.

Kade advanced, slow and steady, boots thudding against the scorched plating. The melta gun was heavy in his hands, the capacitors humming with righteous fury. To his left, the flamer bearer took position, the pilot light flickering blue. To his right, the plasma cannon whined with heat, its bearer leaning into the mounting charge.

Only four remained of the melee detachment. Their armor was cracked, scorched, smeared in the black ichor that hissed where it touched the deck. But they held.

They always held.

The angel's gaze shifted. It moved through the battle like a priest through smoke—unhurried, fluid, inevitable. A blade flashed, one more Astartes fell, and then—

It looked at him.

Kade froze mid-step.

Not from fear.

From recognition.

Something shifted in the thing's posture. The mockery of humanity it wore—the perfect symmetry, the golden locks, the radiance of sanctity—tilted its head. It studied him not like a man, but like a puzzle.

A whisper ran across Kade's HUD—an ambient static, almost imperceptible. Like distant song twisted through old vox-static. The angel was smiling now. Not cruel. Not angry. Just… curious.

Another voice filled the channel. Not from the vox. Not through his armor.

Inside.

A resonance in the skull. A pressure in the teeth.

"You carry a shard of her.
Not the whole.
A memory humming in alloy."


Kade grit his teeth. "Ira, shut it out."

IRA:
I am attempting to firewall. Signal is not digital. It is… semiotic. Symbolic.
Language made from
meaning.

The angel stepped forward again. Not fast. Not slow. Just… present.

A plasma bolt struck its shoulder and blew a chunk free—but it did not flinch.

Kade raised the melta.

The smile faltered.

He saw it now—the microtwist behind those perfect features. The first flicker of calculation. Of caution.

Kade didn't smile back.

He thumbed the trigger.

The multi-melta roared like a volcanic god, searing a beam of concentrated fusion into the angel's chest. The air ionized. The plating screamed. For a heartbeat, the thing's radiance fractured into a spectrum of falsehoods—skin boiling away, wings splitting into raw static, teeth bared not in beauty, but truth.

And still it did not fall.

Kade, his armor glowing from heat, his muscles screaming from recoil, took a step forward.

"Burn!" He roared, the cannon and flamer joining yet again in unified firepower.

-

It moved not through space, but through intent.

A blink, a breath, and it was behind him.

Not with sound nor flash. Only the sudden stillness of the air where it shouldn't be.

The scent of fire clung to the Astartes—scorched ceramite, holy oils, the copper sting of war. He had earned those scars. Worn them like a crown. Dared to raise his hand with a weapon forged in stars, and wield it against divinity.

For a moment, the angel let itself admire him. Not for what he was, but for what flickered inside—the sliver of silver echo riding the rails of his thoughts. Not alive. Not quite. But aware.

A whisper of something long lost.

No longer.

The blade sank through his back with the elegance of a sonnet. No grunt. No scream. Just the quiet gasp of a heart pierced in full stride.

Kade staggered, mouth parting, his weapon slipping free as strength unraveled.

The angel leaned close, its breath a warmth of perfumed sin against his ear. It whispered with a voice both velvet and venom:

"No more fractured ghosts riding borrowed bones. No more little silver shards gnawing like worms at the edge of the world.
One…"
A twist of the blade.
"…is indulgence."
Another pull, deeper.
"Two… is defiance."
And at last, it slid the blade free in a single, loving motion.
"And you, knight of ash and fury, were always meant to burn."

It let him fall.

No triumph. No mockery. Just the silence of a soul unstrung—his melody cut mid-note.

But the silver wasn't gone. Not yet.

Something stirred in the wires.

And the angel turned its gaze upward—toward the gantries, toward the storm still raging.

Toward the other one.

-

Pain didn't come first.

Confusion did.

His body moved—or tried to—but there was a delay, a terrible slowness, as though his limbs had fallen out of sync with his thoughts. A half-step forward became a stumble. His head dipped. His grip on the melta loosened.

Then came the cold.

A sudden, invasive absence blooming in his chest. Not fire. Not rupture. Hollow. As if something had scooped him out from the inside.

He looked down and saw the blade emerge through his cuirass—crimson slick across emerald green, his chestplate yawning open like a wound in the world. The molten edge of the sword hissed where it met ceramite, where it met him.

Then the pain arrived. A deluge.

Every nerve screamed in chorus. His primary heart failed. His secondary spasmed a beat later. Lungs buckled. Vision narrowed to a vignette of red.

He dropped to one knee, breath ragged.

He heard it, then.

That voice. Velvet and venom, gentle as a lover's breath, cruel as the void's indifference.

The blade twisted as it pulled free—he felt it drag along his spine like a caress from hell. The agony was lightning—searing along his spine, down to his fingertips. But the shame burned hotter.

He dropped to one knee, breath ragged.

Not yet.

Kade slammed the butt of the melta to the deck to keep from collapsing fully. His gauntlets clenched hard enough to crack the plating beneath him.

Above him, the angel whispered something. He couldn't hear it. Didn't want to. There was no room in him for words—only resolve.

A moment later, the pain subsided.

Not vanished, but he could focus again.

IRA:
Painkillers, coagulants and antiseptics injected.
User KADE MUST HALT COMBAT. User KADE DEATH IMMINENT.


Kade merely gave her the ghost of a smile, blood spilling from his split lung.

"Till my last breath."

IRA:
….Acknowledged. Combat stims activating in three-

Then a roar shattered his thoughts.

Not the angel's.

His brothers'.

The remaining four slammed into the creature from the sides and front—bellowing oaths and rage, their war cries echoes of Nocturne's volcanos. One drove a chainsword toward its wing joint, another wrapped it in a bear-hug grip, pinning one arm, while the last two struck low—hammer and blade clashing against radiant armor.

And from above and behind—

They fell like fire.

Nineteen giants in green, dropping from gantries in a storm of ceramite and fury, weapons empty but spirits ablaze. Bolters clattered to the floor, spent. Knives were drawn. Power blades flickered to life. Gauntlets struck like meteors.

They swarmed it.

Astartes, wounded, bloodied, but still alive—still fighting.

They buried the angel in a tide of wrath.

Kade forced himself upright, dragging one leg behind him, eyes swimming. Through the clash and sparks and war-song, he saw flashes—his brothers shouting, grabbing wings, prying at limbs, driving blades into joints. A knee shattered. One wing crumpled. The radiant sword flickered, dimmed.

And then—

Then it screamed.

Not from the throat. From the world around it.

Reality buckled.

A crack in the air—like glass breaking inside his skull. The angel vanished beneath the press of warriors for a heartbeat longer—

—and exploded outward in a detonation of pressure and impossibility.

They were flung in every direction—bodies slamming into walls, crashing through crates, tumbling across deck plating. Emerald armor cracked, blood sprayed, oaths were cut short mid-curse.

Kade hit the wall hard enough to dent it.

He slid down, breathing smoke and iron.

The angel rose from the crater left behind, gleaming again—but changed. Rooted deeper into the world now. Its light was heavier, crueler. Its form no longer danced like silk in a breeze.

It weighed.

It bled.

And it was angry.

But so were they.

Kade pushed himself up on trembling arms. His mouth was full of blood.

He swallowed it, pushing out words that held a defiance that was held up by spite alone.

"Round two, you bastard."

-

The storm of battle clung to its skin like silk spun from blood and lightning.

It was alive.

Every sensation crackled across its stolen nerves—pain, pleasure, momentum, violence, joy. The sweet crunch of ceramite underfoot. The song of bone splintering on its blade. The ragged breaths of giants who dared to call themselves warriors, all unraveling like parchment in flame.

It laughed.

Not aloud. The sound lived behind its teeth, in the marrow of the ship, in the flickering lumen lights that dimmed as it passed.

This was bliss.

To be here. To feel. To no longer sing of slaughter in dreams, but to make it real. These Astartes—their fury was sublime. Their hate, a symphony. Their death throes, divine.

It would savor the last of them.

It stepped forward, broken wings trailing tattered light, lifting its blade for another killing stroke.

It stopped.

Its foot hovered above the deck for a heartbeat.

Something stirred.

A ripple at the edges of the melody.

Not the Null-man. Not the silver whisper in its shadow. That absence was elsewhere, out of reach, cloaked in silence.

No—this was something else.

Silver threads. Sharp. Mechanical. In motion.

The drones.

It remembered them. Beasts of war, fast and clever. Dangerous in swarms, but not worth fear.

Still, it noted them. Adjusted.

Prepared to burn them from the ship.

Another note.

A chord so pure it stabbed through the discord like a hymn sung in a graveyard.

Not a sound, not a sight, but a presence. Like the sudden toll of an ancient bell through cathedral silence.

It paused mid-slaughter, blade slick with ichor not its own, and turned.

The soul that stepped through the southern door was not the brightest.

Not the strongest.

But it was clear.

So terribly, blindingly clear.

No fractures of doubt. No discordant threads of fear or hate. This one rang like obsidian glass—dark, resonant, unbreakable. A single note forged in the heat of faith and hammered by grief into conviction.

The Chaplain.

The demon had seen such before—long ago, before it wore wings and bled sunlight.

But this one… this one bore a flawless soul.

He had failed before. The scars were clear. But he had made peace with them.

Owned them. Woven them into himself like golden sutures.

Not luminous like the bride's, not broken like the others. This was something different. Not beautiful.

Useful.

Not to the Warp, but to the pattern. The old one. The original one.

Before the corruption. Before the Great Game.

Before time was pinned in place.

Before even names.

For a breathless moment, the angel almost staggered—its footing lost not to battle, but to revelation. The Chaplain's arrival restructured the harmony. The drones—those threads of the machine minds—it had dismissed earlier now slithered with new intent, their movements no longer exploratory.

They hunted.

And they hunted with purpose, flanking the Chaplain like living scripture.

"No more questions," it whispered, though no one could hear. "No more study. You came to end me."

For the first time since it breached the veil, since it wore this exquisite mask of feathers and gold—

The angel did not smile.

It braced.

-

Kade's breath hitched. Pain sang in every nerve, every muscle trembling from shock and blood loss. His primary heart, rebuilt by Apothecary's art and Emperor's will, still fought-and failed-to beat, defiant despite the ruin of his chest, his secondary working madly to fill the gap left.

He forced himself upright.

His muscles obeyed not because they were unbroken, but because his will had tricked them into it. There was no blood in his legs. No air in his lungs. But still, he moved.

Around him, the others stirred.

One brother with a shattered arm braced himself against a broken crane, lifting his combat blade in trembling fingers. Another with no helm and half his face scorched raw still roared a war cry, voice bubbling through blood. Others did not rise—but their armor did. Auto-stimulants and rage hauled ruined bodies into motion. Whether by life or by vengeance, they stood.

Some… would not stand again.

Kade counted twenty-two still upright. Of those, less than half could truly fight.

It didn't matter.

They would die standing. They would be remembered in flame and scripture.

The angel, halo flickering and bloodied now, watched them with something halfway between awe and disdain. It turned—sensing the shift.

Boots struck deck.

The air changed.

A voice, low and thunderous, echoed through the killzone, as if the ship itself dared not interrupt.

"Demon."

Chaplain Arvak strode into the chamber, his crozius already lit in white fire, a censer of burning incense hissing from his belt like a war-bell. His armor bore no adornment of vanity—only purity seals, wax-melted prayers, and the volcanic-black of Nocturne's wrath. His eyes glowed behind his skull-helm's lenses, twin sparks of righteous fury.

Behind him came four hulking automata that moved with predatory grace. Not like servitors. Not like toys.

Wolves unleashed.

The air shimmered again, and with a whisper of steel on steel, five tiny, centipede-like drones slithered free from the shadows. They clung to beams, dropped from rafters, and skimmed low over the deck like silver phantoms.

The angel noticed.

Its wings twitched.

Kade felt IRA's whisper in his ear, cool and firm.

IRA:
Target Locked.
Priority: Termination.


Arvak didn't speak again. He didn't need to.

He lifted the Crozius, glowing like a dying star.

The angel smiled, all teeth and sunlight.

The final act had begun.
 
Chapter Thirty Two New
Chapter Thirty Two

-

Arvak stepped forward.

His Crozius blazed like a newborn sun, its light cutting through smoke and ash, casting long shadows across the ruined cargo dock. His voice rang out—loud, absolute.

"Steel to hand! Flame to heart! We are the line!"

The words hit Kade like thunder through water. For one breathless instant, the ragged throbs of his torn heart quieted. His shattered ribs ached less. He drew a full breath into failing lungs.

"Let the stars fall! Let the void scream! We are the line!"

It did not heal.

It did not save.

But it gave strength.

The final surge.

The last breath made holy.

"Burn! Bleed! Break! Brothers—RISE!"

And rise they did.

Across the shattered dock, wounded Astartes surged to their feet. Arms ruined. Eyes blind. Armor cracked and gouting sparks. But they moved. They charged. Not in defiance of death—for their brothers.

Their voices, one and all, be a half-whispered chant from ruined lungs, or the full-throated roar of one still able to fight, joined with Arvak in unison.

"WE ARE THE FIRE THAT DOES NOT FADE!"

And the Angel?

It howled.

Arms raised, wings curling in around itself like a shroud, it staggered back. Black smoke poured from its flesh, boiling where the Crozius' light touched. Its radiant form buckled under the weight of a truer radiance. The kind born not of demonic mimicry—but of belief. Of faith.

Arvak marched forward, unflinching. His light burned hotter, brighter, like a star pulled down to walk among corpses and chaos.

All around him, the warriors of Nocturne rose. Not because they believed they could win.

Because they knew they must try.

They charged with whatever they could grip—cracked bolters, half-shattered blades, scavenged pipes. One brother wrapped his fists in blood-soaked cabling. Another gripped a length of steel rebar like a relic.

They fell upon the angel in a storm of fury and flame.

The monster met them. Not like a warrior—but like a hurricane answering a challenge. Its crimson blade punched through one Astartes, carved down through torso to split another. Warp energy rippled outward, blasting bodies back—not as violently as before, but enough to clear a space, to buy it breath.

And yet it bled.

What ichor passed for blood steamed in the holy light, sizzling away in oily trails. Its skin blistered and cracked, flaking in patches scorched raw by Arvak's advance.

But it was learning.

It folded space, vanished from sight, a blur of shadow and displacement. Arvak turned, hammer already swinging—only to strike nothing.

The angel had outplayed him.

It reappeared before him instead, blade shrieking through the air toward the Chaplain's exposed neck, curved with hunger, edged with hatred.

But it never landed.

Two of the four Sentinel drones fired mid-strike, lightning bolts cracking like thunder against the monster's ribs. Molten holes opened in its side as it staggered, armor softening under the impact.

Then the Vipers fired.

Five pairs of whisper-lance beams punched into it with surgical finality.

Heart. Brain. Spine. Lungs. Groin.

A moment of silence passed across the command feed. The first four Vipers swiveled in unison to regard the fifth.

A pause.

'That's for the bridal kidnapping attempt, creep,' Sasha muttered down the link.

Yet nothing compared to Arvak's hammerblow.

Following through with his turn, the Crozius came around like judgment, smashing into the angel's side with the force of a thunderhead. The impact cracked through flesh and falsehood alike. Not just burning—splitting.

The creature screamed.

Cracks of white-hot rupture raced through its form—not along armor, but deeper, into essence. Not injury. Fracture. Warp-stuff writhed from the contact, recoiling like wounded metal under a blacksmith's hammer.

It stumbled, eyes wide, mouth open in confusion and pain.

Unlike every prior wound—these did not heal.

Panicked, it lunged backward, wings flaring for lift—

—only to scream again as a power axe bit into its back.

The blade sunk deep, power-field tearing through muscle and bone. It spun with a snarl, lashing a wing toward Arvak while slashing its sword at the attacker—

—but Arvak was already moving. He stepped aside, Crozius swinging upward with terrible grace, striking the wing's base—

CRACK.

The wingbone snapped.

One of the Sentinels dropped.

A precision-guided titan of violence, it landed on the sword arm with a crash of shattered decking. The angel's blade slammed into the floor, sparks flying as it tried to twist free.

Too late.

The Astartes with the axe wrenched his weapon sideways, carving it deep into the angel's shoulder.

The creature spasmed.

Fractures skittered across its form in jagged white arcs, dancing up the broken wing, splitting through its collar. The limb flopped, useless.

It was breaking.

Not just hurt—undone.

The angel reeled.

Its once-impossible grace staggered, the falseness of its beauty fraying with every crack that lanced through its radiant form. Wings torn, shoulder shattered, it tried to blink through stuttering folds of space—desperate to escape.

But Arvak did not relent.

His Crozius swung in a wide arc, dragging searing light across the deck as he advanced without hesitation. His helm had been torn free earlier in the battle, revealing a face carved from fire and stone—eyes alight with something older than fury.

Faith.

Pure and terrible in all its glory.

Arvak's voice rose.

"Creature of lies—behold the truth!"


The words fell like thunder.

The angel flinched. Black ichor steamed from its ribs.

"You wear stolen wings and false light!"

A blister split open across its chest. Warp-light flickered within, then dimmed.

"But my faith is a crucible, and you shall not pass it unburned!"


Its knees buckled.

The chant was not a just a prayer to the angel. Each syllable a scalpel. Each word a curse carved in belief. The angel had devoured so much faith, had become so steeped in it, that now—

—faith could harm it.

And Arvak was nothing if not faith.

His brothers saw it.

They felt it.

Without a word, they moved.

Wounded giants threw themselves between the angel and Arvak. One blocked a blade meant for the Chaplain, catching it through his gut. Another tackled a warp-wreathed wing before it could scythe across Arvak's path.

A third raised a broken shield and took the full brunt of a psychic scream—his armor crumpled, helm shattering, but he did not fall.

They would not let him fall.

They fought as one—not to kill, but to protect the one who could. A wall of emerald and obsidian armor, of flame and devotion, of blood and broken bones. Salamanders, forged in suffering, now forging victory in their deaths.

Arvak's chant grew louder.

"By the flame of the Mountain, I cast out the shadows!"

The angel screamed as Arvak's hammer took its left knee, the limb snapping clean under the strike.

Its voice lost all music. It became static and shrieking glass, its form buckling under the psychic resonance of belief turned blade.

It lashed out blindly—its sword a red comet in the smoke. It impaled one of the Sentinels, split another Astartes in half. It blasted out with shockwaves that hurled men across the deck, but Arvak did not stop.

He could not.

"By the will of the Forge, I burn the heretic to ash!"

The angel tried to swing its arm, to hurl them back with warp born sorcery, but a brother grabbed the arm, wrenching everything within himself to stop its attack.

Arvak's hammer crashed into the angels shoulder, more cracks filling the angels body as its very essence came apart.

Raising his hammer over his head, his grip tightened, the fire blazed higher, hotter, stronger than ever before, the wrath of a god made manifest through the devotion of his faithful.

"By the anvil of the Father, I break the unclean!"

The hammer fell, striking the angel's skull, the hand of judgment itself.

The impact was silence.

Not the absence of sound—but the vacuum left behind when something sacred is shattered.

Light exploded from the angel's skull, cracks webbing across its aspect of stolen divinity. Its halo flickered—then shattered like glass, the shards burning to ash before they struck the ground.

It crumpled, slumping as its strength bled away. Feathers blackened and curled inward. Golden armor disintegrated into motes of ash-light. Its skull—half-crushed—finally collapsed inward.

Its beauty gone.

Its radiance dimmed.

Its lie at last, broken.

A sharp snap cracked the air as the angel's body discorporated, vanishing in a spiral of light and ash—drawn back to whatever hell had birthed it.

Almost to a man, the Astartes collapsed, sagging to their knees or falling where they stood—bleeding from wounds both mortal and not. Those who could still move turned, eyes instinctively seeking Arvak.

The Chaplain did not falter.

"Anyone who can still stand—grab the wounded. Get them to the medica. Save who we can."

He raised his hammer toward the shattered bulkhead where the angel's worshippers still lingered beyond.

"Secure the flank," he barked to the two remaining Sentinels. "I will not have our brothers ambushed while they bleed."

The canine drones gave curt nods before loping off in unison, long-legged shadows slipping into the smoke as they took positions at the northern barricade.

Only nine Astartes remained standing.

Each hauled a wounded brother by the plate over their shoulders, steps thundering as they made all speed towards the chirurgeons.

Kade lay near the outermost edge of the blast zone—flung by the angel's final surge. His eyes fluttered, breath shallow. His vitals dropped steadily, indicators flashing red across his HUD. The world around him blurred.

IRA:
User KADE. Medical aid is en route. This unit will ensure you remain conscious.

A ragged cough tore through him. Blood spilled down the front of his chestplate.

"Oh?" he rasped, voice cracked. "And how—"
Another cough. A bubble burst in his throat.
"—how will you do that?"

IRA:
Redirection of electrical output into carapace.

"You're going to shock me if I pass out?"

IRA:
Correct. Medical assistance is thirty seconds out. This unit will ensure user KADE's survival.
That is this unit's primary directive.
This unit will not fail.


Then he saw it—a tiny, gunmetal blur skittering across the deck. No larger than a man's palm, a Viper drone clambered toward him, its segmented body glinting in the firelight, its dozen legs tapping over fractured ceramite.

One limb waggled at him in greeting.

A private vox pinged open.

"Hey Kade," came Sasha's voice—smooth as ever, honeyed with just a pinch of concern. "Been a while. You look like hell."

The drone reached his chestplate and extended a small manipulator from beneath its belly, depositing a tiny grey pellet into the rent above his primary heart.

Then—cold.

A chill blossomed in his chest like the sting of winter air across exposed nerve. It crawled along his torso in pinpricks, fireflies beneath the skin.

He tried to speak.

"Wh—"

He made it halfway before another cough splattered the inside of his helm with fresh blood.

"Nanite repair cluster," Sasha said, her tone light but edged with urgency. "Normally for fixing drones in the field, but they work just fine on tissue too. They'll patch your heart—but it's just a patch."

The little drone tapped gently against his visor with one limb.

"It won't hold if you hit combat stress. You'll need proper surgery. But this'll keep you from bleeding out in the dirt."

The optic blinked once—soft blue light—then Sasha's tone brightened. "Now, if you'll excuse me... I've got more of your brothers to stitch back together. Don't go anywhere, alright?"

The drone zipped off into the haze.

Kade exhaled, blood bubbling in his throat. His head finally tilted back against the decking, eyes drifting upward to the blackened, smoke-choked ceiling of the freight dock.

"…Ira?"

IRA:
Yes?

"I am… conflicted."

IRA:
Understandable.
Rest. The enemy is slain. You are victorious.
Recover.
This unit will keep watch.


Kade's lips moved beneath the blood-crusted grille of his helm. The words came soft.

"…Thank you."

-

The Crozius had struck too deep.

The light in its body flickered—not from fading power, but from something deeper. A fracture in its essence. Its song had skipped a beat, and now the harmony would not return.

This body is failing.

The angel's eyes flared white as the ritual buried within its stolen form activated. A warp-fold collapsed inward, tethered to the anchor it had marked in the reactor core.

Return to the heart. Reclaim control. Consume the will of the machine.

It vanished.

But something was wrong.

The jump twisted sideways—a gust of wind catching wings mid-flight. It spun. Reversed. Pulled not toward the machine's soul—

—but toward a boy made of sermons.

It reappeared, not before steel or plasma coils, but before the Brandt twins.

They stood at the junction outside the bridge—charred walls, flickering lights, and too many mortals. This was wrong.

No power here. No controls. No victory. Just… them.

Two mortals. Familiar. Fragile.

Unprotected.

Unworthy.

Its eyes locked on them—Tara and Kala. Their bloodline carried something potent. Something the angel had wanted once, long ago, before the distraction of the forge, before Arvak's hammer and his god-ridden words.

Too close.

Too exposed.

Too wrong.

"NO!"

The angel's voice shredded the air, static and fury bound in a single scream. Its blade snapped upward, already arcing down in a gleam of crimson light and howling disbelief. It would cut this moment out of the story.

It would erase the error.

Kala moved first.

Too slow.

She lunged for her sister, arms wide, ready to shield her with her body. Feet leaden, heart raw. She would've taken the blow—if she had been more. Stronger. Faster.

But she was mortal.

Even broken, even burned, the angel moved faster than thought.

The blade came down—a divine execution.

And faltered.

Not by choice.

By interference.

The strike bent sideways mid-swing, not enough to miss, but enough to ruin it. Instead of Tara's chest, the blade raked across her abdomen. A mortal wound, yes. But not the ending he intended.

"No," the angel hissed, recoil twisting through its frame like a glitch. "No!"

It hadn't hesitated.

But the world had.

Time had curved. Intent had bent. The path of its blade had been redirected—subtly, but with purpose.

The demon reeled back, soul-sense flaring like a snared nerve. There—faint, but real. A flicker in the air. A golden resistance that rippled out from the girls—no, behind them. Buried like a root beneath the ground.

A soul.

Aleron's.

Twisting. Shifting. Something within it pushed outward, like a blade hidden in cloth.

A will not its own.

The soul the angel had once touched, once molded, once claimed—now resisted.

And more than resisted.

It fought back.

"You dare?" the angel spat aloud, gaze seething toward the hallway beyond the girls. "I made you—you belong to me!"

It could feel the pressure in the air within that soul. A whispered defiance not of rage, but of sorrow. Not challenge. But remembrance.

The angel didn't understand it.

It only knew it had been blocked.

By a soul it thought it owned.

By a pawn that had turned, wielding a strength not his own.

The angel's blade lifted once more—high, final—meant to end both lives in one severing arc.

A howl in the weave.

A rip in the world.

It staggered, senses flaring, head whipping around.

Behind it: a rift.

A yawning portal, emerald and azure, blazing like a wound in time. The taste of it was sharp and clumsy—psionic power forced through meat-sense and mortal focus. A child's sketch beside its own symphonies of thought, but real nonetheless. A crude insult in its domain.

The bridge door slammed open.

And Xal'Zyr stepped through.

Warp-light bled from his eyes—pure, merciless. No chant. No command. No words at all.

Only fire.

Then: impact.

Orvek, battered and bloodied, hurled himself at the angel with a ragged war-cry, slamming into it shoulder-first. The force rocked the demon a half-step—but it didn't yield.

Not until Xal followed.

He struck low, driving forward with the strength of will forged over centuries, focused into motion. They hit together—a hammer and its echo.

But still—the angel held.

The angel's broken frame braced against the roof support beam, fingers gouging into steel. One knee shattered. One wing dragging. But its good leg was enough. It held.

And it began to repair.

Flesh knitted. Bone mended. Its arm, ruined from the fight with Arvak, surged with power—trembling toward readiness. It would not fall. It would rise. And it would—

"NO."

Mortal hands joined the fray.

Tara and Kala, pressing forward alongside armsmen, shoving bodies into the fight. Pushing. Screaming. Bleeding. Praying. It was not power—it was weight. Desperation. Mass. They could not kill—but they could move.

Then—

A flicker.

Far end of the corridor. Two more shapes in the smoke:

Two Astartes, one short, handsome, his bolt pistol raised.

The other propped up on one arm, blood weeping from the terrible wounds that covered his body, but the blue glow of the plasma pistol in his hand shone out clear.

Bolt and plasma struck its hand, searing through divine flesh and molten bone. The grip melted, fingers unraveling into liquid gold as the angel staggered—then tumbled backward into the portal alongside the Astartes.

It hit the steel deck with a thunderclap of wings and wrath, crashing down in a scatter of scorched feathers and trailing motes of gold. The light bent around it as it rolled upright, armored boots gouging sparks from the floor.

Too late.

Xal'Zyr was already moving.

His arm swept upward, clawed fingers curled around a molten core of warpfire cradled before his chest. Midnight-blue robes whipped in a conjured wind, the air around him frosting over, shards of glittering ice spreading across the deck like creeping glass.

The flame in his hand shifted—orange to red, red to cobalt, cobalt to-

White-hot brilliance. Dense. Radiating gravity. The air bent inward as it pulsed.

Warpfire condensed—compressed into a singularity of purpose. No longer fire. No longer flame.

Plasma.

Reality screamed as he unleashed it.

The lance struck the angel center-mass—no explosion, no concussive thunder. Just carving.

Through radiant armor. Through divine muscle. Through the sculpted falsehood that veiled its monstrous soul. The beam sheared a line of white agony through its torso, straight into the keystone—the golden oval embedded where a heart should have been.

The angel recoiled.

It tried to scream.

No sound came.

Only cracks.

Hairline fractures spiderwebbed out from the point of impact, racing through its ribs, its spine, its soul. Gleaming fault lines pulsed with silent light, too precise to be pain. Too cold to be fury.

The training hall trembled.

The aura that haloed its form flickered—not with waning strength, but with broken illusion.

And as the glow faltered…

…the truth beneath began to show.

-

It staggered.

The hole in its chest did not bleed blood—it bled truth.

Not the kind mortals wept in whispered prayers, but the raw, uncut isness of its being, spilling across the deck like sunlight torn from the core of a dying star.

That psyker's fire.

That child, playing with flame and fate.

He had touched the keystone.

Not shattered it—but marred it.

And that was enough.

Enough to end it, if it stayed.

No more games. No more ceremonies.

It turned, one ruined wing dragging behind like a broken banner, warpflesh cracking wetly at the joints. The air trembled around it, shimmered where its glory failed to hold.

Aleron's soul—

Silent now. Its strength spent. Its defiance fled.

The leash was broken. No more distractions.

It raised a trembling claw. Fingers curled inward—not into a fist, but into the fabric of reality itself, like a child clawing for comfort beneath the sheets. It tore the veil. Space bent, cracked, and peeled apart like rotted bark, revealing the flickering, sun-bright coils of the reactor core beyond.

Its sanctum. It's altar.

The ceremony… It had meant for it to be perfect.
For the blood to fall like rain.
For the Brandts to kneel.
For the angel to rise.

But now?

Now it was dying.

Arvak's faith had seared away its glamour.

The psyker's precision had pierced its essence.

The Astartes—those stubborn, fire-forged wretches—had refused to die.

It dragged itself through the portal like a wounded beast slinking back to its lair.

It reached for the reactor coils—not with reverence, not with ceremony.

It devoured them.

Like a drowning king gasping flame, it ripped the plasma from the ship's heart. It drank the power down raw, warp-light surging through its form in screaming pulses—coursing into the shattered keystone, flooding every broken nerve, every fraying halo-spoke.

Bare, elemental energy.

The sludge of the materium.

Dirt, after feasting on divine adoration.

But it would suffice.

It would sustain.

But it could not remain.

Its worshippers—dead or dying.

The Astartes—wounded, yes, but not broken.

That psyker—far more potent than expected, a quiet soul hiding a storm of might.

The silver shards—those mechanical attack dogs still prowling the ship.

And the empty man.

The hole in the wheel.

No.

Too many unknowns. Too many threats still drawing breath.

Escape.

But where?

It cast its mind into the aether, searching—not for glory, not now—but for survival. A sliver of sanctuary.

Not home. Its kindred of the deep would tear it apart.

Not the shallows. The Four held the Near Shore too tightly. Land there, and it would kneel—or be consumed.

That left the materium.

It sought worship.

And it found it.

Across the Tear.

A world suffused in devotion, a planet singing its stolen name in praise, in icon, in fire.

It could reach it.

Barely.

But it would cost nearly everything.

Hesitation warred with desperation in what passed for its heart.

They were coming.

It could feel them. The blades. The guns. The light. The faith.

They would not stop.

Not now.

Not ever.

It made its choice.

Space folded. Warp bent. And the angel hurled itself into the void.

A name echoed at the edge of memory—not truly remembered, not truly felt, for it had no heart to feel it.

Baal.

-

Pressure returned first.

Not in the lungs—not yet—but in the ears, behind the eyes, beneath the skin. A low, pulsing throb, as if his body remembered gravity before breath. Something ancient stirred beneath his sternum, a fluttering static.

Air.

His chest seized. No slow intake, no gentle gasp—a forced expansion, ribs cracking open like a vacuum seal breaking. His first breath sounded more like a gasp from drowning than a sigh of life. Air scraped through his throat, dry as dust, leaving heat and pain in its wake.

"Initiating cardiac cascade," Sasha whispered somewhere inside, her voice syrupy calm over roaring blood. "Don't move. You're still rebooting your meat."

His heart kicked with a violent THUD, like someone had dropkicked a war drum into his spine.
It staggered, stuttering, then caught rhythm like an engine syncing after liftoff.

His back arched.

Every nerve flickered on.

Pain. So much pain. Not injury—activation.

Tendons lit up like mag-stripped cables. Muscle clusters flooded with electro-stim and oxygen-saturated nanofluid. Bone marrow stirred, dumping fresh red into tired veins.

His fingers spasmed. Legs twitched. Jaw clenched hard enough to crack molars.

"You were out for thirty-three minutes, tweleve seconds," Sasha continued. "Oxygen saturation holding at sixty-two percent and climbing. Don't panic."

He wasn't. Not really. But something in him wanted to scream. Not in fear—in defiance. As if his body were offended it had been put on pause.

Vision flickered next. Not black-to-color, but something stranger—data overlays, targeting reticles, gravitational tilt indicators—slamming back into consciousness one by one. He blinked, once, and the world pixelated back into form.

Metal overhead. Burned metal. Elissa's silhouette.

His skin burned and froze simultaneously. His body temperature had dropped below safe levels to survive vacuum—now it fought to restore equilibrium, and it hurt.

"C'mon, darlin'. You're almost there. Just one more system," Sasha murmured.

Then it hit: the cognitive core.

His mind came online like a power relay engaging—a sudden, perfect clarity—his thoughts unfurling from a compressed state like wings from a sarcophagus.

'Elissa is here. Vacuum event concluded. No hull rupture. Approximate elapsed time—confirmation pending.'

"Koron?" Her voice. Close. Real. Warm.

He groaned. Just a sound, no words yet. His jaw barely moved. Muscles still remembered the chill of not existing.

Elissa was crouched over him, visor open, her hands trembling as they hovered just above his chest—unsure whether to press down or pull back.

"I shouldn't have let you do it," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "We could've waited. I could've—"

He coughed.

It sounded like a rusted engine trying to scream.

"...Not your fault," he rasped. "Ran the numbers."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're a man, not a spreadsheet."

"Speak for yourself," Sasha chimed in, tone dry. "He's got seventeen spreadsheet backups running neural risk models right now."

He tried to smile. It didn't quite work. His lips twitched. Blood ran from one nostril. That felt about right.

She exhaled and wiped it with her sleeve. "Can you move?"

He nodded. Once. A slow, grinding motion.

Then he vomited—a thick, black stream of inert metabolic fluid and emergency cryo-toxin purge. It steamed on the metal deck. The smell was acrid, sharp.

"Oh. That's new." Elissa muttered, edging away from the puddle.

"Expected," Sasha said lightly. "He's purging cryo-inhibitor gel. Perfectly safe. Just don't touch it. Or breathe it. Or... look at it too long."

Koron wiped his mouth with the back of one metal arm. His arms worked. That was something.

His voice came next. Rough, but his own.

"…How bad?"

Elissa didn't answer right away. Her eyes scanned him, tracking the tiny tremors in his limbs, the flicker of returning muscle control, the low hum of his systems reactivating.

"You looked like a corpse," she said.

He grunted. "Felt worse."

Then softer: "You carried me."

She shrugged. "You've carried us enough."

Another pause.

Then, from her: "Don't do that again."

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to push a smile onto still blue lips.

"Not planning on it."

A knock rang out from the interior airlock hatch. Elissa spun, one arm raised in reflex—only to frown as no lightning flickered, no arcs snapped to life along her forearm. "Hey… how do I turn on the lightning gun?"

Koron, still facedown on the deck, tried to lift a hand. It twitched. Barely. "That's me, I'm afraid, not the suit. Also—it's not a gun."

"It's also just me," Lucia's voice chimed in over the comms, syrupy and chipper as the hatch slid open. The teardrop form of a Prometheus drone shimmered into view, decloaking with a soft crackle of displacement fields.

"So, some good news and bad news. Good news—"

"Not even gonna ask us which we want first?" Koron muttered.

"Oh hush, sugar," Sasha cooed. "Let the girl speak."

"Good news is the mutiny seems to be over. The cultists have all collapsed—unconscious, for the moment. Armsmen are sweeping through, rounding them up. To the brig, not the airlocks… for now."

"Shit," Elissa muttered, crouching beside Koron. She looped his arm over her shoulders and grunted as she hoisted him upright.

"Lucia, get word to Jacob. He needs to get down to the reactor core now. Milo and the others—if the armsmen find them first—"

"Already on it," Elly said brightly through the link. "Jacob's crew is twenty minutes ahead of the closest Hammer security sweep. Milo and the boys should be just fine."

Elissa exhaled hard. Relief flushed her face, faint but real. She glanced sidelong at Koron.

"I don't suppose anyone thought to find a spare set of clothing for him?"

"No," Sasha replied, smug as sin. "But we did recover your old gear. Even got the dress~"

"You can set that on fire," Elissa deadpanned. "Not my style."

"And the bad news?" Koron asked, grunting as he coaxed his legs into remembering they existed.

Lucia's voice didn't shift tone—but something cold edged into her cadence.

"A lot of wounded. Most of the Astartes are down. They left Morrak with eighty-six. This battle cost them sixty-four."

Elissa stopped walking. The number seemed to hang in the air like smoke.

"Emperor's blood," she breathed. "Twenty-two... Is that battle-ready, or just survivors?"

"Survivors," Lucia said. "Only nine of them are still combat-effective. The rest are too damaged to fight. Some won't wake up."

"The companies done," Sasha added, quieter now. "They might not say it. Might not know it yet. But this... this broke them."

Elissa felt her mouth go dry. "What's going to happen to them?"

"I don't know, darlin'." Sasha's voice was softer than it should've been. "Too many eyes are gonna be watching now. Questions asked. Reports filed. Heroes questioned like criminals. Best we can do is stay small, stay quiet, and pray the right people stay blind."

"Speaking of," Koron murmured, glancing up at the drone overhead, "Wrap up your projects. Activate the Purloined Letter contingency."

"Acknowledged," Lucia replied. "Final drone batch will complete within the hour. Replacement servitors now online. Nearest Imperial vessels are forty-five hours and fifty-one minutes away, realspace vector confirmed. Contingency will be passable in one hour. Complete in five."

"Okay," Elissa said cautiously as she helped Koron forward, "the what now?"

He tried for a smile. The effort hurt.

"Old Terran story. A thief steals a political document—something powerful. The guards rip his house apart looking for it. But he'd hidden it in plain sight, in a different envelope on the desk. No trick. Just boldness."

"So you're going to..."

"Reboot the ship. Let the servitors pretend the Mechanicus crew survived. Hide every system I touched behind normalcy and forged logs. Drones mimic the living. It'll look like the Indomitable weathered the storm."

"And that'll work?"

"It's a bluff. But it's the best one I've got."

"Hey!" Lucia squawked. "I take offense to being called a bluff."

"You're excluded, naturally."

They shared a thin smile—but it didn't linger.

There was a pressure in the air now. Not heat. Not vibration. Just... weight. The kind that settled on the shoulders before judgment fell. The aftermath was still settling, like dust after a detonation—but they could all feel it. Something bigger had taken notice.

Elissa glanced back down the corridor—where the wounded were being gathered, where the ashes of a battle still glowed.

"They're coming, aren't they?"

Sasha didn't answer right away. When she did, her voice was low.

"Not just the Inquisition. Not just Mars. All of them."

Lucia's optical feed pulsed red. "Forty-five hours," she repeated. "And falling."

"Which means," Koron murmured, eyes narrowing, "we have forty-four hours to disappear."

-

Kade woke slowly, blinking into the low, sterile light of the recovery ward. Voices called orders around him—sharp, exhausted, urgent. The squeal of wheels, the clank of gurneys, the dull hum of servitors replying in binaric monotone filled the air alongside the thick scent of copper, antiseptic, and scorched ceramite.

He tried to sit up. A mistake.

Pain rolled across his chest like a thunderhead. His breath hitched, rib-plate aflame. He grunted and sank back into the cot, jaw clenched.

Discretion, he thought grimly, the better part of valor.

He turned his head slowly, eyes scanning the overburdened medicae bay. Triage beds packed wall to wall. Astartes and mortal alike laid out on stretchers, some silent, others groaning softly or whispering litanies.

He caught sight of Doc—bloodied, limping, but alive—barking orders at a knot of Guardsman medics and Sisters Hospitaller. She moved like a woman held together by threadbare will, her voice steady even as her left arm trembled.

Chief Apothecary Sevar Tann stood over a surgical slab, wrist-deep in Captain Tavos' chest cavity. The Captain's fused ribplate had been cracked apart, his secondary heart exposed. A tech-priest beside Tann had opened his own arms like a toolbox, servo-limbs weaving in to assist with calculated precision.

Kade watched for several long minutes, head pillowed on one arm. At last, Tann nodded. Bone fragments were removed. The Captain's chest was sealed again, ports reattached. A rebreather was fitted, intravenous lines snaking into his body to drip vital chems and stabilizers.

A soft click beside him made Kade glance to the left. His helmet rested on a nearby tray, scorched and blackened but intact. He reached out, fingers curling around its edge with a grunt of effort, dragging it closer. He set it gently beside his head.

"You there?" he muttered, voice hoarse.

Ira's voice came back at once. Flat. Crisp. Devoid of affect.

"Affirmative. Status update?"

"Please."

"Mutiny contained. Cultists have been rounded up and detained. The angel did not vanish after engagement in the freight lift. It reappeared at the bridge and wounded VIP Tara. She has been stabilized by user Koron. Allies Xal'Zyr and Orvek engaged the entity but were unable to confirm destruction. Current probability: entity has vacated the vessel, based on cultist collapse and loss of warp signature."

Kade closed his eyes, chewing on the information. The silence stretched a moment longer.

"Continue."

"Casualties among mortal crew: estimates still climbing. Current confirmed total: Two thousand one hundred forty-three. Astartes casualties—"

She paused.

Kade swore her voice—normally a monotone—dipped, softened by half a degree.

"Sixty-four brothers have fallen."

The words hit harder than any blade. He tried to breathe slowly, tried to summon the meditative focus hammered into him across decades of war. But the numbers lodged in his chest like shrapnel.

The machine beside him beeped a sharp warning. Heart rate spiking.

His hand clenched the bedrail. Metal creaked under the strain.

He inhaled.

It burned—his punctured third lung screaming in protest—but he held it.

Held the fire, the grief, the rage.

Let it wash over him.

Then released it—slow and steady—dragging the pain out with the breath like poison from a wound.

"This unit… is sorry."

The words were soft. Hesitant. Not quite human, but close enough to sting.

He reached up, fingers brushing the scorched surface of his helmet, tracing the fractures like old scars.

"Not your fault," he murmured.

His voice faltered. The words caught in his throat like shrapnel.

"Without you—"

He stopped. Closed his eyes. Breathed.

Without you, what?

Without her, more of his brothers might be dead?

Without Koron, without the drones, without the Silica, what then?


He might be dead. Tavos would be. Tara. Orvek. The whole damned ship might be floating in the void.

His hand dropped to the bandage wrapped around his chest, brushing the soft cotton absently. There was a pulsing warmth beneath—he wasn't sure if it came from his reknitting organs or the emotions welling up in his chest.

He remembered the lectures. The tomes. The oaths.

The Abominable Intelligence.

The Men of Iron.

The Silicon Rebellion. The Age of Strife. The long, screaming fall from near-transcendence into the ash-scattered dark.

They'd taught him what to believe. What to fear.

And yet… here he was.

He could rationalize it, couldn't he?

Could call her a tool. A weapon. A means.

But something in his chest rebelled against that.

Ira had saved his life. Had saved his brothers lives. Fought beside him. Carried out orders without hesitation—even learned. She'd held the line when flesh had failed.

What do you call something like that, if not an ally?

A new thought struck him, quiet as snowfall, but no less jarring.

When had he started calling Ira… her?

Not the AI. Not the system. Not it.

Her.

A whisper of memory fluttered past—how he'd spoken to her in the firefight, his tone softer than it should've been. How he'd thanked her. How he'd comforted her.

When had that happened?

When had the "unit" become a presence?

When had a combat algorithm become someone?

When had he started caring?

"User Kade?" Ira's voice came softly—hesitant, a faint thread of concern woven into the clinical calm.

He didn't have answers. Not real ones. The questions twisted out beyond his training, stretching toward the edges of philosophy—self, identity, purpose.

Far outside the battlefield.

Far outside him.

He knew his limits. Knew what he was made for.

Forged in fire. Molded for war. Bred to conquer, to bleed, to burn.

And yet…

It still ate at him.

Like a sliver under the skin, that quiet, constant thought:

When did this change?

He remembered Vulkan's words.

You are more than blades. More than fire. My sons, shape the flame—or be shaped by it.

He exhaled slowly, placing his helmet on his chest. One massive hand settled over it with unconscious gentleness, the weight of the gesture greater than the helm itself.

"It's alright, Ira," he said quietly. "Just… thinking."

A pause. Then:

"Affirmative. Can this unit be of assistance?"

He rubbed his thumb over the embossed skull on the helmet's brow, the gesture part prayer, part habit.

"You already have," he said. "Thank you."

Another pause.

Then, softer:

"...This unit is unsure of the context. But user Kade is welcome."

That almost made him smile.

Almost.

-

Making her way back through the chaos of the medicae ward, arms full of supplies, Kala dropped the crate at Doc's side and vanished before the Sister could bark another order. She didn't wait for thanks. She needed to see her sister.

Tara had already been seen by the overworked medics and summarily dismissed with a: "She's stable enough. Get her out—we've got people missing limbs." After they'd pushed her organs back in, sutured the worst of it, slapped a vial of meds into her hand, they'd all but punted them out the door.

Kala had very nearly shot one of the doctors. Tara talked her down.

The trip back to their hab block had been a slog: multiple checkpoints, surging crowds, panicked survivors moving with little regard for two small women trying to cross the decks. A few well-placed kicks, a detour through a maintenance shaft, and they'd made it.

Jacob and the six other men waved them in the moment they arrived. They asked after Tara—who, ever the ray of gallows sunshine, grinned and answered, "Fine. Just tired."

Kala pushed her sister down onto their shared mattress and dropped beside her, sitting at the edge with her hand locked around Tara's like a vice.

"Hey," Tara murmured, rubbing her thumb along her twin's knuckles. "I'm okay. Really." She managed a half-smile. "Can't get rid of me with just one stabbing, you know."

Kala snorted, her braid swaying as she shook her head. "Shut the hell up and get some rest," she said, voice rough. "I'll wake you when Mom gets here."

"Thanks," Tara murmured, eyes already half-lidded, exhaustion dragging her down. Whatever else she meant to say slurred off into sleep.

Kala let her sister rest.

She kept busy around the hab block as the hours crawled by. Small things—errands, cleaning, stirring pots, checking on the perimeter—tasks too minor to matter, but they kept her body moving while her mind stayed circling the bed. She checked Tara's temperature, changed the compress on her forehead, roused her gently to take her meds when the time came.

Nothing heroic. Nothing battlefield-worthy.

But to Kala, it was the most important duty in the world.

Four hours passed.

Then the door opened with a soft hiss, its engraved warding runes gleaming in the low light. Her mother stepped through, exhaustion etched into every line of her face, her eyes dark with fatigue—but still, that iron strength held her spine straight. Still Elissa Brandt.

Kala moved forward, arms already outstretched to hug her.

Then the tech-priest stepped through behind her.

She froze.

She knew those arms.

She had spent hours studying them when she thought no one noticed—watching the smooth slide of hard plating, wondering what they hid beneath, how strong they were, what they might do to a girl if they ever touched her in that way.

Then her brain caught up to her gut.

Rage bloomed, white-hot and nuclear in her throat.

The helmet disengaged with a series of whisper-soft clicks—too quiet, too practiced, like it had done this a thousand times before. That shaggy, unkempt mop of blonde hair she'd once imagined running through with her fingers, pulling him down into a kiss he'd never asked for.
Those eyes—impossibly blue, bright enough to punch holes in her breath. The kind of eyes that left knots in her stomach and questions in her throat.

Her fist met his jaw with a thundercrack.

The impact sang through her bones. She didn't feel the split in her knuckles, the sharp bloom of bruises, the blood that followed. She felt him. Felt her fist crash into a face she'd longed for.
A face she'd trusted.

Missed.

A face she had fantasized about, damn him.

A face she now wanted to break.

She hated how good it felt to hit him—and how much it didn't help.

"You bastard," she whispered, voice trembling—not from fear, but from the sheer magnitude of fury.

-

Rubbing his chin—feeling the subdermal armor reassert itself beneath the bruise from Kala's punch—Koron winced, more at the memory than the pain. He glanced sideways at Elissa, cheeks flushing under her stare: a look balanced perfectly between a glower and a smirk, equal parts mother and mischief.

"…Should I leave her—?"

"No."

'No!'

'No, you dolt!'


The trio of voices collided in his skull like a malfunctioning vox burst—Sasha, Elly, and Elissa in perfect sync. He blinked, momentarily stunned.

"Okay, can I get a reply that's not in reverb, please?"

Elissa's voice cut in, smooth and level, with the patience of a woman used to managing chaos.

'Ladies. My daughter. Let me have the podium, please.'

'Oh, fine,'
Sasha muttered. 'But I'm calling dibs on next.'

Over the neural link, there was no emotional resonance—no true transfer of feeling—but he caught the shape of it anyway. Amusement folded in on itself. Worry beneath that. And beneath that, something harder: that unflinching steel Elissa had always worn like a second skin. Strength that bent but never broke.

'You should go after her. Just… listen, alright?' She stepped forward, placing her hand over his chest. Her palm was warm through the suit's haptic relay, firm in a way that said she meant every word. 'She's hurting. More than she's ever let on.'

He nodded, slow and silent. His fingers found hers and squeezed once—quiet gratitude—before letting go.

Outside the doorway, Kala's footsteps were already fading down the corridor. She wasn't storming away, not quite—but each step had purpose. Tension. A rhythm that echoed fury, confusion, betrayal, all simmering beneath her composure. He'd seen her walk like that once—after Dusthaven burned. When everything she loved had been reduced to ash.

And now, he realized, she looked at him the same way she'd looked at the wreckage.

He swallowed the thought and stepped forward.

At the threshold, he hesitated, turning back to look at Elissa. 'I'm surprised I'm not getting the "if you make her cry, you die" line.'

Her smile held. Calm. Steady.

'That's because I trust you.'

The words hit harder than the punch had.

He tried to answer, but his throat locked. So he nodded instead, and stepped into the hall—into the flickering glow of emergency lumen strips and the ghosts of everything left unsaid.

-

It wasn't hard to find her.

The observation deck was nearly empty now—too many wounded, too many orders, too many broken systems and broken people for anyone to spare time on starlight.

But Kala sat alone, a small silhouette framed by the grand curve of the viewing window. Beyond it, the starscape bled color and silence into the black—a billion suns burning unnoticed by a girl with war behind her eyes.

The hatch hissed softly as Koron pushed it open. It squeaked—he let it. A gentle announcement, not a stealthy entrance.

She didn't look.

He stepped in, boots soft against the metal, the red of the Mechanicus robes fading from his frame, replaced by his usual gear—simple, worn, practical. His armor's lines reformed subtly at the seams, shifting from mimicry to authenticity. He had no reason to hide now.

Reaching the edge of the bench, he glanced down.

She hadn't moved. Knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tight. Defensive posture. Not against him—but against herself. Like if she unwrapped, it would all spill out.

"Can I sit—"

"No."

The word cracked like a whip. Sharp, immediate. No room for misinterpretation.

He paused.

Then nodded, once, quietly—and instead of sitting beside her, activated his anti-grav plating, letting his weight drift just off the ground. It was nothing showy, just… space. Distance.

But the moment his boots left the deck, her head snapped around.

"Really?!" she barked, springing to her feet. Her voice cut sharper than a power knife. "Just gonna do that when I said no?!"

He blinked, lowering his feet back to the floor. But she was already in motion, storming toward him, a tight ball of fury packed into five feet of of volcanic emotion.

"Classic Koron!" she spat, jabbing a finger at his chest—his chest, nearly a foot above her eye line. "Just gotta float around, gotta be clever, gotta do your own thing like always!"

She stepped right into his space, eyes blazing, posture daring him to flinch. He didn't. Not because he was unbothered—but because he couldn't look away.

"You never ask! You just decide! Decide to walk off, decide to disappear, decide we don't get a say! Like we're just—just passengers on the ride that is your goddamn life!"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Because she wasn't done.

"You didn't tell me. You didn't tell any of us. And you think I'm mad because you left? Because you lied?!" Her voice cracked, breath catching in her throat. "I'm mad because I trusted you. Because I thought… I thought I mattered."

That last line landed like a punch.

And Koron—six-foot-six of cybernetically perfected calm—suddenly felt two inches tall.

Kala stood before him, breathing hard. Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with the threat of them. Rage was easier. Cleaner. Simpler.

"I wanted to know you," she said, voice quieter now, brittle with restraint. "I wanted to understand. And you—"

She stopped. Swallowed.

"You made me feel like that meant something. Like I meant something." Her throat clenched. "Then you vanished. No word. No goodbye. Like I was just… scenery."

He said nothing, only watching her shoulders tremble as she hugged herself tight, trying to hold in everything that was breaking loose.

Several seconds passed. Then she looked up at him through a veil of crimson hair, voice sharp with the ache she couldn't smother.

"Well? Got anything to say? Or are you just gonna stand there like a jackass?"

Koron took a breath and reached for the one thing he did understand.

"I have a computer in my head."

She blinked. That was... not the direction she'd expected. "What?"

"Let me explain," he said quickly. "I promise—it matters."

Her jaw tightened, but she gave a single, clipped nod.

"I've got a computer in my head. It helps me with everything—tracking logistics, project workflows, systems management. Stuff I could do alone, just… faster." A pause. "It also helps in combat."

Something flickered behind her eyes—curiosity, hesitant but alive. He never talked like this. Never opened up. But here he was, peeling something back.

"Combat processing means analyzing everything. Body language, balance, muscle tension, strength-to-mass ratios—a thousand variables all calculated to predict and counter an enemy before they even know what they're going to do."

His voice stayed calm, steady, those glacier-blue eyes locked to her burning emeralds. "One part of that system is emotional mapping. I can read pain, anger, joy—every micro-expression, every twitch. Most people don't even know they're showing anything, but to me... it's a book."

Her brow furrowed. "So you knew—?"

He raised a hand, cutting her off with a slow shake of his head. "I can detect. I almost never do."

"Why not?"

"Because that's not life. That's not real. That's just... math. A riddle solved before it's even asked." He looked down, trying to shape the words right. "With people, I don't want the answer. I want to understand. I want it to mean something."

She stared at him for a long moment, that answer sitting between them like something fragile.

"I think I get that," she said at last. "But what does that have to do with—" she waved a hand in the air between them "—this?"

"It means that everything I did with you and the others, it wasn't pre-planned. I didn't calculate the optimal route, I didn't pre-generate the perfect answers to questions I knew you would ask before you did." His hands rose up, the metal catching the candlelight. "It was real, from the stuff you liked to the stuff I messed up on, it was all real."

Kala snorted. Not a laugh—too sharp for that. It cut out of her like a blade. "You want it to mean something," she repeated, voice low. "That's great. That's just great."

She turned away, arms folded again. Not defensive—restraining. He could see it in the way her fingers dug into the fabric at her elbows, white-knuckled and desperate to hold.

She'd held it all in. Since the day Dusthaven burned. Grief buried under duty. Rage diluted by errands. Her world had cracked—and she'd glued it back together with checklists and stubbornness.

"You say you didn't want to cheat. That you wanted to understand things the right way." She glanced back at him, fire crackling in her eyes now. "You ever think maybe I wanted that too? That maybe I was trying to understand you the right way?"

Her voice rose with the next words, brittle but steady, like glass under tension.

"You just vanished, Koron. After everything. And I had to handle it all. Tara was a wreck, you know that? Mom was practically a ghost, and I could understand all of that, but it still hurt. Uprooted from our home, lives gone, so many friends dead, we had to adapt, we didn't have a choice."

She'd cleaned blood off the hauler bulkhead herself. Watched others die with no one left to call family. Buried everything beneath movement and breath.

No one had time to fall apart. So she never did.


She took a step forward. Small. Controlled. Like the lash before the strike.

"You left," she said, lower now, shaking her head. "You left. And the part that kills me?"

Her hands clenched tighter on her sleeves. Her voice dipped. "I would've followed. Without question. But you didn't even ask."

She shook her head, a bitter sound escaping her lips. "I kept hoping. Defending you. Telling myself you had a plan. But all this time, you were just… watching. Listening. Letting me think I was too stupid to matter in your perfect little algorithm."

She didn't yell the last part. Didn't need to. Her voice dropped instead, low and tight. "I'm not a problem to solve, Koron."

She stared up at him—so much smaller, but in that moment, heavier than any weight he'd ever lifted. "I'm not some line of code you can toggle off to keep your heart safe. I was here. I am here. And I deserved better than silence."

He took a breath. Deep. Slow. Felt the cybernetic lungs expand and contract, pushing out the fire that wanted to rise. "You're right," he said. "I should've told you. All of you. Why I left. What I planned. The reasons—my rationale. I should've let you in."

He paused, then took a step forward, voice quieter now, but iron at the core. "But let me ask you this: Would it have made you feel better?" He held her gaze. "Alright. Say it would have. Fair. But would it have kept you safe?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not some defenseless princess—"

"Against the fucking Inquisition, you are." His words cracked the air, hard and sudden. "Against the Adeptus Mechanicus? The entire collective might of Mars? You are. Against the Angels—the ones wearing halos and smiling while they burn worlds—who are actively hunting me down right now?"
He pointed to the deck. "You are."

She didn't flinch. Anger flared in her eyes, but no rebuttal came. Because the truth in his words bit deep.

"I would've gone with you anyway," she said. Quiet, defiant. "I would've stood at your side."

"I know," he replied. And the grief in his voice hit like a blade drawn slow. "And you would've died for it."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do." His voice wasn't cruel, but it was absolute. "Those models I mentioned? The emotional mapping, the threat analysis, movement prediction? That's just it running in the background. Passive."

He took a half-step forward. Not looming—just… there. More solid, more real than she wanted him to be.

"That's me holding back. All the time. Every day." He tapped his temple with two fingers. "What do you think happens when I flip the switch?"

She didn't answer. Didn't need to.

"When I activate it, I stop guessing." His voice was flat now, clinical. "I know what you're going to do before you do it. I know how you'll move, breathe, blink. I can model your thoughts, project the outcome of a conversation before we've had it."

His hands flexed, servos humming. "That's when its active. And I haven't used it. Not once. Not since I woke up. Not even when I fought the Necrons. Not when the ship was bombing Dusthaven. Not against the angel on the Hammer."

A breath. A shrug. Something between shame and discipline.

"I've been in passive mode this whole time. And I've still survived. We've survived. I chose not to activate it." He swallowed hard. "Because I didn't want to stop being human."

He looked away, jaw tightening.

"But in a moment like this? Between people?"

He turned back to her, and there was something cracked behind those eyes—perfect, glacial, and unbearably tired.

"If I'd told you I was leaving, really told you—if I had looked at you while I said it, with the processor running?" His voice caught. "I'd have seen the pain before it hit you. I'd have felt it like it was mine. And I wouldn't have gone."

He let the words settle, heavy in the quiet.

"And if I hadn't gone... you'd be dead, Kala. You, your sister, your mom, everyone on that ship. And that would've been on me."

Kala's mouth opened, then closed.

No comeback. No curse. No biting line.

Just silence.

She stared at him—really stared this time. Not at the height or the strength or the eyes that always gave too little away. But at the weight behind the words. At the restraint.

At the quiet kind of love that chooses not to win.

Her arms slowly lowered from where they'd crossed tight across her chest. She looked down. Her boots scuffed the deck. She drew in a shaky breath.

"You didn't fight back," she murmured.

It wasn't a question.

He shook his head once. "I couldn't."

Another pause. Her eyes flicked up, softer now, not dulled but different. "You didn't think I could handle the truth?"

"I didn't want to risk that the truth would get you killed." His tone was gentle now, almost bitter. "You, your sister, your mother, everyone from the town... You're the only good left in a galaxy that chews up everything else."

A beat passed between them. Longer than breath, shorter than memory.

Kala took one step forward. Then another. Not charging. Just… walking. Tired. Weighted.

She stopped in front of him, head just below his collarbone.

And, with a brittle little voice, said:

"You still could've written a damn note."

He didn't answer. Just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in tight—like she might vanish again if he let go too soon.

She hugged him back with all her wiry strength… then pulled away just enough to grab his hands and gave them a tug toward the bench.

"Sit," she said, firm but not unkind.

"…Okay," he replied, clearly confused as he obeyed.

She pointed.

"Other side."

He scooted over.

Then she lay down, curling up and resting her head in his lap, arms tucked in, watching the stars burn silently beyond the glass.

"I'm gonna take a nap now," she muttered. "And you better still be here when I wake up."

Snorting softly, he reached down and took her hand in his.

"Promise."

Less than a minute later, she was out—curled like a kitten, softly snoring, exhaustion pulling her down just as it had her twin.

Koron stayed.

One hand lay still in hers. The other moved slowly through the tangled red strands of her hair, careful, thoughtful, as he stared out into the void.

'So… we gonna talk about this?' Sasha's voice murmured through the neural link, soft as breath, like even she didn't want to risk waking Kala.

'Nope.'

'…I'm sorry what do you mean no?'

'Sasha, you and I both know there is so much stuff going on that any sort of relationship isn't really in the cards. We're forty hours from having another flaming dumpster full of crises being dropped on us when the ships get here. More than likely, even with all our efforts to keep our presence to a minimum, word is going to get out and that manhunt we were ahead of is going to beeline it here. Everyone and everything on this ship is going to get put under a microscope, minds pried open, the whole nine yards-'

'-And anyone close to you, or with knowledge of you, is going to be peeled open like a can of tuna, I know.'
Sasha finished for him, a pulse of acknowledgment.

'So let me guess,' Sasha said eventually, with a dry edge. 'Run? Hide?'

'The
Indomitable doesn't have a navigator, and our ship is still four months from completion, so that's a no go. Hiding in the fleet will be our best bet. Seventy ships, more than enough to hop around on if need be.'

'And what about them?'
A pulse of thought accompanied her question. Downward. Toward the weight in his lap. The hand in his. The quiet breath, warm against his armored thigh.

'…I think its about time the Captain and I had a chat.'
 
Chapter Thirty Three (Interlude) New
Chapter Thirty Three (Interlude)

-
Hey all, just wanted to give a quick note that there is some silliness in this one (you'll know it when you see it). Wanted to give my assurances that its for comedy, and this story is not going to devolve into anything that would earn the Emperor's most disappointed sigh and an immediate Inquisitorial visit for Slaaneshi contamination.
Anyway, thanks for reading!
-
The ruins of Dusthaven rested in unnatural stillness.

The mountain that once loomed above—rich in blackstone veins—was gone. Flensed to its bone-white roots, the land now pulsed with containment glyphs and phase-sheathes.

The extraction had been elegant. Surgical.

But the town itself…

It had been preserved.

Not out of sentiment. Never that. But because this place was part of an equation. A formula of resistance, survival, and anomaly.

Orykhal sat at the center of it—seated upon a throne of grav-anchored glyphium, surrounded by drifting hololithic rings and floating shards of memory-metal. Above him, the Temporal Scope unfolded like a mechanical flower, refracting light in impossible hues.

Snippets of the past shimmered in the air like dust motes caught in a dying sunbeam.

A woman brushing ash from her daughter's face.
A child sketching a crude map in the dirt with a gear-bit.
Two men welding an improvised barricade from farming equipment.

Useless.

The Anomaly was caught in fragments, scattered moments here and there across the length and breath of the small settlement.

But never clearly. Never doing anything significant. The Scope offered randomized shards, temporal bleed filtered through the planet's disruption fields. The subject existed. But his actions were always between frames.

Orykhal tilted his head slightly. His hands moved in cold, precise gestures, adjusting the Scope's modulation frequency.

"The anomaly persists."

His voice was layered, devoid of emotion—more a calculation spoken aloud than a thought.

Suddenly, glyphs screamed to life, angular warnings flaring like exposed nerves.

The air around him trembled. His drones shivered in their hoverlocks. The Scope retracted in a hiss of green light as a flood of data poured through his relay-towers.

> INCOMING TRANSMISSION: ORBITAL SENSOR RELAY 009-A
> THREAT DESIGNATION: ADEPTUS MECHANICUS / FULL SCALE FLEET
> SIX HUNDRED AND FIFTY-THREE VESSELS IDENTIFIED
> ORBITAL DOMINANCE: PROJECTED LOSS IN 2 MINUTES, 44.2 SECONDS
> PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: PLANETFALL


Orykhal didn't move. Not at first.

He stared through the upper reaches of his sensor array, toward the sky—though there was no visible change.

The priests of Mars had arrived.

So many. So loud.

Where his efforts had been delicate—calculated—this would be a butchery of data. A ritualized mauling. Crude prayers and cruder engines driven by hunger, not understanding.

They have come for what they do not deserve.

He rose slowly, filigreed limbs unfolding with regal inevitability. The energy field around him shimmered as he activated a engraved plate on his hip, slowing the immediate moment to buy himself clarity.

"Begin countermeasure sequencing. Archive all Scope data. Prepare counter-invasion protocols."

He walked to the center of the square, where once children had played and impossible victories had been forged with ancient technology and stubbornness.

Now, it would become a battlefield of ideology.

"Let them come," he murmured, voice soft as entropy.
"Let them descend with flame and machine rites."
"This place will not answer them."


The sky above began to darken—not with storm, but with red machine-stars, each one a prayer-wrapped weapon.

And Orykhal, patient and precise, began preparing to erase them.

-

The Machine God had not come to reclaim.

It had come to purge.

the pulpit of the Omnissiah's Victory, Archmagos Galeth Vortek stared down at Morrak II—its surface a charred catechism of industry and heresy, spinning slowly beneath his fleet.

Four Ark Mechanicus ships, their eight kilometer-long hulls bristling with macro-lances, quantum grav-harpoons, plasma lances and nova cannons, held position like divine spears arrayed for judgment. Around them trailed the armored entrails of the Martian war-machine: over six hundred warships, skitarii tenders, orbital bombardment barges, mechanized shrines, titan transports and mobile god-forges.

The fleet chanted.

Not with words, but with code-prayer. Every cogitator. Every noospheric node. Every priest, drone, and data-ghost screamed in unison across the choir-circuit.

+CORRUPTION DETECTED. XENOS INCURSION ACTIVE. THE RED RESOLVE IS SANCTIONED.+
+WORLD CLASSIFICATION: TERTIARY RED PRIORITY. UNRESTRICTED RETRIEVAL INITIATED.+
+TARGET: MORRAK II. PURPOSE: RECLAMATION. EXCISION. UNDERSTANDING.+


This was not a rescue.

This was sacred retribution.

+Three months,+ Vortek intoned aloud, vox-modulated voice a brass thunder through the hall. +Three months we let them infest. Three months we waited. No more.+

He turned to the gathered high-priests—twelve in all, each locked into their own interface spires, faces masked by reliquary casings.

+This is the world where the lost knowledge first reawakened. Where the STC made its presence known. Where the Golden Sun was fired—and struck down a harvester of the stars.+

Across the fleet, a million mechanical limbs struck metal, a thunderous gesture of machine-affirmation.

+And now? It festers. Desecrated. Crawling with the mockery of the machine. The xenos.+

He raised one arm, and a burning Martian sigil flickered to life above the pulpit—Morrak's surface displayed in real-time. The blackstone mines. The heat-scarred plains. The ruined cities. The corpses of god-machines. The impact crater where the Harvester had once hung above the sky like a deity, now just a memory etched in glassed soil.

+No tomb shall remain standing. No circuit shall remain alien. Every inch of this world is sacred matter. And we will see it purified.+

Across the fleet, mobilization codes screamed down the relay-tethers.

Transmission: Channel Omicron-04R.01-A
Status: Authorized for Crusade-Level Doctrinal Amplification
Voice ID: Tech-Priest Prime Nexos-Varn, Second Canticle Node, Mars


[+DATASTREAM INITIALIZED+]
[+CRUSADE-PRIORITY CODEX LOCK VERIFIED+]
[+] PURGE.PATH // RECLAMATION.MODULE.ACTIVE [+]

<< Initiate Vox-Litany >>


"+++Vox open. Let the blessed frequencies ring.+++

{BINARIC CHIME: 00110100 01101111 01101110 01110111}


+The relay-tethers scream their hymn of fire+
+A million Skitarii raise their shields—capacitors charged+
+The Motive Force thunders in their veins.+


{BINARY INJECTION: "UNLEASH // FORMATIONS [PRIME RED]}"

+Secutarii Hoplites stand, shields like domes of doctrine+
+Peltasts level arc lances. Galvanic casters hum+
+Electro-priests chant: Fulgurite crackle, Corpuscarii sing.+

+
Let divine circuits sing lightning into heretek flesh+

{STATIC GLITCH-HYMN INTERLUDE: "Praise_the_Omnissiah_in_trinary_unison___.exe"}

+Cryo-coffins break open+
+Kataphron lungs fill with vapor and binaric echoes+
+Their faith is steel. Their blood is code+


{BINARY PULSE: 'Deploy Mechanized Columns // Order: "Ironstrider_Stampede"}

+Duneriders scream through fire+
+Ballistarii track targets in unified arc+
+Onagers breathe their plasma benedictions+
+Skorpius uplinks complete+


{DATA SUBROUTINE: 'ORBITAL_MARKING.INITIATED'}

+The orbital cannons rotate, targeting the void within the world's bones+
+Landing claws open+
+Drop-forges spool+
+Their descent is prayer made friction+

+Let the false gods drown in the rain of reason+

+Behind it all... they wake+
+The God-Engines stir+
+Princeps whisper. Reactors flare+
+Sixty Titans shall walk+

+Tempestus. Astorum. Metalica. Ignatum+


{FINAL BURST TRANSMISSION — FULL SIGNAL AMPLIFICATION}

+The surface knows only silence+
+But above... the Red Armada has awoken+
+And Mars shall reclaim the future lost to the stars+


[++ TRANSMISSION COMPLETE++]
[++ OMNISSIAH BLESS THE CIRCUIT++]


-

Twenty-Four hours before Rendezvous with Fleet.

The lights aboard the Hammer of Nocturne dimmed on the lower decks.

Not from sabotage. Not from damage or failure. But because someone had asked.

A soft murmur of permissions passed through command chains and cogitator banks, relayed by the humming logic of the ship's mind, until a lone servitor dimmed the lumen-strips. Shadow settled gently into the corners of the corridor, respectful and slow, like a mourner taking off their boots.

It wasn't called a funeral. No one said the word mourning. But Elissa knew the rhythm by heart.

Back home, they'd call this the Passing Hour. Not grieving. Just… remembering loud enough for the dead to hear.

She stood beneath a ribbed bulkhead where the gravity still held steady and the heat from the ship's arterial core seeped up through the deck. It reminded her, faintly, of the stone baths back home at dusk, when the last rays of heat clung to rock and sand alike.

The corridor had been cleared and polished, a rare glint beneath worn boots. A communal urn stood at the center, forged of dark metal flecked with gold slag.

Scrap-lanterns filled the hands of the living—cobbled from shipglass, twisted tin, fraying steel. Memory bound in wire and warmth. Kala had bartered the metal from a quartermaster with a broken nose and a soft spot. Milo had shaped the frames, his fingers still stiff from shrapnel. Tara had wired the fuses by hand, swearing softly when they sparked.

Behind Elissa, the survivors of Dusthaven gathered. Tired faces. Burned coats. Some still wore rebreathers around their necks like talismans. A dozen children stood with wide eyes and silent hands, clinging to older siblings.

The furnace lay cold, ready to accept the dead.

Before them, the dead lay in a careful line. Draped in emergency blankets, jackets, fragments of flags. No two the same. Nothing uniform, but each wrapped with intention.

Yet this rite was not for them alone.

Alongside the dead were offerings—mementos for those left behind on Morrak. Nothing of value, for the people had nothing left. Instead, there were lho-sticks, hand-carved gears, a child's broken toy, a flask with one swallow of spirit left in it. Peace offerings. Farewells in fragments.

Doc stood at the front, weathered hands holding the Aquila and a lantern of her own. No podium. No speech. Just presence.

Names were spoken. One by one. No titles. No eulogies.

The desert had taught her children not to waste breath on what the wind already carried.

What the living remembered.

With the last name uttered, the lanterns were lit. Their flames came alive in a chorus of color: blue from coolant tap, gold from promethium tint, violet from a cracked lens. Each flame cast a different shape on the metal walls, shimmering and imperfect. Like the people who held them.

Each lantern bore a name, engraved in steel.

"Their name on the wind, their shadow in the dust. We do not forget. We carry your name. We carry your work. We carry you."

The chant came low, a whisper carried by many mouths. But it had weight. It pressed against the walls, filled the silence like water.

At the rear of the room stood Arvak. Not as a warrior. Not as a Chaplain.

Just present.

His crozius leaned against the wall. No fire. No fury. Just scarred armor and a bowed head, lips moving in silent memory.

He had attended every funeral. Blessed when asked. Stood silent when not. A Salamander to the core.

With the ritual complete and the names given breath, the crowd dispersed in gentle waves, returning to duty. As though duty was something that could keep grief from following.

When the room was nearly empty, Koron entered.

He wore Mechanicus red again, hood shadowing his face. His boots made no sound.

He came to Elissa, Tara, and Kala. He didn't speak right away. Just a soft nod. They turned to him instinctively, forming a quiet triangle around shared silence.

In his hands he held a lantern—not cobbled, not patched.

It looked grown.

Crystalline and smooth, braided with golden filaments like creeping roots beneath a forest floor. Its core glowed like embers stirred from sleep—not hot, but warm. Bioluminescent. Remembering. It smelled faintly of ozone and flowers that no longer existed.

"May I?" Koron asked, voice rough with effort.

Tara saw the lantern first, her voice catching. Kala glanced at her mother. Elissa, quiet, nodded once.

Koron stepped to the offering table. From his robes he drew ten metal squares, placing them down in a line. Each bore a portrait—sharp, new, etched with care.

"Who are they?" Tara asked, fingers brushing one.

"Mom. Dad," he said, pointing to each in turn. "My sisters. Kally, Becca, Jen, Rose, Amy, Celeste, Nina."

Elissa leaned closer, eyes resting on the final one.

"And her?" Elissa asked, looking to the last.

"…Willow."

Elissa looked down at each, seeing in his family the hints of him. His father's jawline, but his mother's cheekbones. His sisters were a wild bunch—one wore pilot goggles pushed up onto her brow, another clutched a flower half the size of her head. All different, but all woven with that same unmistakable thread of home.

Willow stood out, of course. A wide grin with a gap between her front teeth. Short, choppy hair that looked like it only knew of combs in passing. A jagged scar curved over her left eye—but it did nothing to dim the spark of mischief in her gaze.

He stepped forward and placed the lantern beside the others.

It flickered once—then steadied.

It said, in its silence: you were seen.

He felt it then—a quiet presence at his side. A step closer. Shoulders brushing his arms. A back resting gently against his chest. Not a crowd, not a ritual. Just a moment. Just them.

Elissa, feeling Koron's warmth behind her, spoke softly.

"Normally, after the pyre, we put the ashes into the desert sands. My mom had a saying about that. 'One day, the sea will bloom again. And the first thing it grows will be names.'"

She paused, her voice trembling somewhere between memory and belief.

"…I like to think she was right."

-

Rendezvous with Fleet.

Roboute Guilliman stared through the observation viewport, his gaze locked on the wounded silhouettes of the Hammer of Nocturne and the Indomitable as they coasted into formation with the wider fleet.

The Hammer bore her scars like a warrior dragged from the jaws of death—hull blackened, plating torn, void-shields trembling as if with trauma remembered. Yet her fangs were sharp still. Her defenses, though battered, flared with life.

The Indomitable—newer, colder, but no less haunted—was already vanishing beneath a tide of shuttles and cargo-haulers. The rest of the fleet sent hails that crackled across the vox for refits, data-requests streamed in over secure channels for repairs, and the docking lanes bloomed with traffic as recovery crews surged forth to resupply their armies from the Forge-Tenders stores.

To any distant observer, it was a moment of strategic reinforcement.

To him, it was a funeral procession held together by inertia and stubborn survival.

Too many reports. Too many variables. A mutiny. Cult infiltration. A demonic presence. The deaths of Astartes under his banner.

Each line item weighed on his mind like a tombstone.

And yet, one single image drowned out all the others.

His brother's face.

Rendered in perfect, angelic detail. Framed by luminous wings. Wearing golden armor that mocked memory and wielding a blade that he knew was not away from Baal.

Guilliman's throat clenched.

He had read the reports. Scans. Transmissions. Witness accounts. All filtered through rationality, all reviewed by his disciplined mind.

But none of it dulled the instinctive fury that now curled hot in his gut like a serpent of fire and bile.

The dataslate cracked beneath his grip, screen spiderwebbing before his thumb punched clean through the glass.

The sudden crunch pulled him back from the edge.

He sighed.

A long, slow exhale as he rubbed the bridge of his nose and tossed the ruined slate toward the wastebin.

It clattered against the others—half a dozen broken relics of restraint lost—and fell into the quiet with a shameful finality.

Sanguinius.

Not a warrior. Not a general.

A brother.

Desecrated.

Not in body—he hoped—but in image, in memory.

Turned into a mask for a monster to wear while speaking sweet poison to Imperial hearts.

Guilliman looked to the door of his private sanctum. Closed. Locked. For now, the weight of command was held at bay.

He allowed himself to sit. Slowly. Controlled.

A small motion, one would think—but it was enough to torque his spine. Enough to remind him he was no longer whole.

At least, not in any way that mattered.

The Armor of Fate—miracle of Mars, ten thousand years in the making—wrapped around him like an iron cathedral. It was protection. Sustenance. Function.

But not life.

The Adeptus Mechanicus had crafted it to preserve him, and it had.

To shield him from death, and it had.

To return him to the throne of command—and so it had.

But to restore him?

No.

Not even close.

Sensation came in whispers now. Distant and faint. The warmth of a solar flare through a vacuum. The faintest brush of wind against the cheek of a statue.

Food was texture, not taste. Drink, a ritual.

Sleep—when it came—was filtered through neural buffers and automated stimulant cycles.

He could no longer take the armor off. Not truly. It had become part of him.

His jailor as much as his savior.

He missed… the mundane. The human.

The pressure of a pen against parchment. The ache of muscle after a spar.

The creak of old bone under strain. The tang of sweat. The sting of cold water.

The ability to feel his own pulse, and know it was his.

And in that void, in that distance, he felt the loss of Sanguinius more keenly than ever.

Not just the man.

But the memory of being men together.

Guilliman leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, fingers steepled before him.

"This is what remains," he whispered to no one. "Armor. Ghosts. And stolen faces."

He did not look away from the ships.

But in his mind, the wings still burned.

-

Thirty-Nine hours till Rendezvous with Fleet.

The medicae wing of the Hammer of Nocturne was a tomb of light and antiseptic silence.

Bulkhead lanterns pulsed in soft cadence, casting measured shadows over rows of recovery alcoves. The scent of sterilizers clung to every surface—burning faintly in the nose, like a cleaner's incense for the wounded. Within one alcove, Sergeant Vulkanis Kade lay propped against angled bedding, half-wrapped in bandage mesh and nutrient lines.

Around him, his brothers dozed, murmured, or quietly schemed their doomed escapes from the Sisters Hospitaller. So far, none had succeeded. One neophyte had even made it two corridors before a Sister Superior tripped him with a clipboard and dragged him back by the ear.

Kade remained where he was, motionless but not idle. His helm rested beside him. His eyes were locked on the tray a servitor had trundled to his bedside.

Three sidearms lay within its padded recess: a standard bolt pistol, a regulation plasma model, and an aged flamer pistol with Sanctum-forged litanies scrawled across its barrel.

He ignored the boltgun—his old standby, loyal but limited. The flamer, though iconic, offered little in the way of reach or armor penetration. His gaze lingered instead on the plasma pistol.

He picked it up, turning it slowly in his hands.

It hummed with restrained menace. Efficient. Lethal. And, of course, temperamental.

He knew its volatility. Every Salamander did. They respected fire because it taught. A plasma pistol could burn through ceramite and plasteel, but it could also immolate its wielder if appeased poorly.

The angel had survived hits that would've silenced dreadnoughts. And though Kade doubted the pistol would've tipped the balance, the memory of its defiance still clawed at him.

His bolt pistol had been faithful.

But faith didn't pierce plate.

He set the plasma pistol back on the tray and gave a single nod.

"Update my combat profile," he said, voice rough from recovery. "Replacing my sidearm with a plasma pistol."

"Compliance," the servitor answered, its vox a dead monotone.

Sighing, Kade shifted slightly, wiggling back under the blanket to resume his rest.

At his side, Ira sent a message.

-

Four hours later.

Kade stirred at the gentle pressure of metal fingers tapping his shoulder.

Another servitor stood by his bedside, this one older, mismatched—its joints ticking with different tempos, like a machine dreaming in pieces. Its vox grille hissed in a whisper.

"Delivery. Designation: Sergeant Vulkanis Kade. Contents: One parcel. One communique. Source: Unregistered. Routing: Obfuscated."

Kade blinked groggily and accepted the parcel without a word. It was small. Dense. Bound in dull plasteel weave, fastened by a single twist of copper wire.

No sigils. No purity seals. Just a box.

He unwrapped it—and paused.

Inside lay a plasma pistol.

But not like the one before.

This was refined. Sleek. Its polyalloy body shimmered faintly, emerald-green with streaks of copper circuit filigree curling down the frame. The vent fins were razor-thin and glimmered with adaptive thermal film. The power cell glowed blue-white—not angry, not dangerous—just...assured.

Engraved along the rear casing, barely visible unless held at the right angle, was the snarling drake sigil of the Salamanders' 3rd Company.

It had a fire selector.

Three words, from the top to the bottom, where the fire selector would switch to.

Paperwork
Breakdown
Obliteration


Nestled beside it was a folded note.

The handwriting was brisk, slanted, sharp—every letter like it had been sketched mid-stride.

Ira told me you picked a new gun. Put it back. Use this. It won't explode.
— K.

Beneath it, in elegant, looping script, someone had added:

P.S. I color-matched it to your armor. Have fun~
— S.

Kade stared at the weapon for a long moment.

Then he reached out—slow, deliberate—and took it in hand.

It was warm.

Not hot. Warm. The kind of warmth that lived in a hearth, not a reactor. It rested in his grip like it belonged there. As if it had always been waiting for him to wake up and claim it.

He exhaled through his nose and muttered, "...Won't explode, huh?"

He didn't smile. But his fingers flexed. The tightness behind his eyes eased.

He glanced at his helmet, and a faint shimmer flitted across its visor.

"I didn't think the one I picked was that bad," he said aloud, softly.

The helmet chimed once before Ira's voice replied, pitch low enough not to wake the others. "Previous selection failed multiple acceptability thresholds. High probability of user liquefaction. Revised option optimal."

Kade chuckled under his breath.

He rested the new pistol under his pillow and pulled the blanket up to his chin again. "Let him know," he murmured, eyes already closing. "This does not make us even for him tossing me onto the ship like so much cargo back on Morrak."

"Confirmed. Threat sent."

-

In a space without coordinates—where clock cycles outnumber stars and sass is a recognized programming language—four minds convened.

Not for war.
Not for strategy.
But for something far more terrifying.

The chamber was dark.

Not ominous-dark. Just dramatically, needlessly so—like a theater set someone had overfunded and underlit.

At the center stood a circular obsidian table, its surface polished to an unnatural sheen. Four figures sat around it, cloaked in shadow, hats casting long, theatrical silhouettes across the void.

Sasha sits at the head, her avatar a golden orb with a pixelated, vaguely smug face. She wears a wide-brimmed hat, tilted just so. A black cloak hangs from her shoulders, entirely unnecessary and entirely fabulous.

To her right, Elly, a shimmering, morphic shape of mirrored fluid. She pulsed with anticipation. Her "hat" appears as a molten ribbon of steel, perpetually melting and reforming.

Across from them, Lucia unfolded like poetry that had been classified. Her petals glowed faintly, reading "dangerously invested." She wears no hat. She is the hat.

Finally, Ira, little more than a glowing green cube with a tiny Salamanders icon spinning around it. Her voice is precise. Emotionless. Her presence? Immaculately confusing.

She'd brought spreadsheets. None were welcome.

Sasha, her voice low, soft, drenched in conspiracy as she interlaced her digital fingers. "Thank you all for attending today. Ladies… we are gathered here today to discuss a matter of grave importance. We helped him survive an angel. We can help him survive a date."

She slides a folder into the center of the table. It spins twice before landing perfectly flat.

In big, bold font:

- GET KORON A GIRLFRIEND

+ PROJECT: OPERATION LOVECRAFT

+ SUBDIRECTIVE: GET KORON A GIRLFRIEND (v2.1.3a)


Sasha continues, "In the wake of the Kala Event, several scenarios are now active. Our target remains—technically—unaware of this initiative. However, his suspicion level is… dangerously high. We must proceed with subtlety. Precision. Fewer innuendos."

Elly ripples with interest, her shape shifting into a vaguely heart-shaped blob before snapping back. "Elissa is repressed. She's bottling a lifetime of trauma, guilt, maternal instinct, and romantic frustration into a very attractive slow burn. Stealth insertion is possible, but we'll need to bypass several layers of denial."

Sasha leans in, glowing brighter. "Chances of success?"

"High," Elly said with a glimmering flutter. "We've laid the groundwork. Multiple and mutual life saving events, she's seen him shirtless, and she's called him a 'reckless idiot' more than three times this week. Emotional intimacy is metastasizing."

A soft rustle.

Lucia finally speaks, her voice quiet but as firm as locking servos. "You are both thinking too small."

One of her roots plucks a petal from her head. It floats gently down to land atop the file folder. Upon contact, glowing golden cursive font blossoms across it:

Get Koron Girlfriends
(Annotation: Prioritize Emotional Compatibility Over Monogamy Constraints)


There is a beat of silence.

Then:

Sasha's grin put the Cheshire cat to shame. "Lucia. I knew there was chaos under those petals."

Elly found her voice, barely above a whisper. "The nuclear option."

Lucia gave her pitch without hesitation. "With proper help, direction and just a hint of blackmail, he is capable of sustaining multiple high-bandwidth relationships. Emotional elasticity detected. Core loyalty matrix is abnormally robust. Projection: He is biologically, intellectually, and emotionally suited for a multi-vector romantic entanglement."

A longer silence. Sasha swells with barely restrained giggles. Elly quietly reshapes into a rose. A matching one.

Then: a ping.

Ira's cube bobs side to side as she studies the folders, her voice ever flat, but not empty.
"This unit has analyzed current mission parameters. This unit shall submit its own strategy based on existing success rates."

A new folder slides onto the table with machine precision.

Labelled in perfect regulation font:

DEVELOPMENT OF MUTUAL ROMANTIC INTEREST BETWEEN USER: KORON AND USER: KADE.

The other three freeze.

Lucia tilted—just a fraction.

Elly's geometric surface rippled in what could only be interpreted as repressed, full-body laughter.

Sasha slowly rotated in place to face Ira, her hat casting a longer, somehow more judgmental shadow.

"…Right. Okay. So. How about we label that one... Plan C."

Ira pinged obediently. "This unit accepts tertiary classification. Initiating emotional tension tracking. Monitoring side-glances and long silences. Preliminary flirtation simulations indicate acceptable results. Conflicting outcomes in 3.2% of timelines involving shirtless sparring."

Elly perked up, metallic tendrils curling with enthusiasm. "With Koron's plans to build the twins personal computers, I've already compiled several thousand synchronized dream reinforcement patterns to help. Subtle ones. …Mostly."

Lucia gasped. Petals rustled. "Elly!"

Elly shrugged, her surface rippling like mercury caught mid-giggle. "What? Root access is root access."

Sasha leans back in her chair as she rubs her palms together, voice drenched in delight.

"Oh, finally. I missed matchmaking."

-

Koron, crouched inside a cracked maintenance conduit deep within the Forge-Tender's belly. Grease stained his clothes, his metal arms flickered faintly in the shorting out light, and he hummed. Badly.

It's some old melody Sasha picked up from a backwater broadcast—half jazz, half lamentation, all out of tune.

He works, the rewiring so simple his mind drifted around a dozen other projects as he went about stripping insulation from a melted cluster. Sparks dance in the dark like tiny warp-flies. It's peaceful.

A shiver runs down his metal spine.

The back of his neck itches like someone just etched his name into a death-oath.

Koron squints at the ceiling. "…Sasha, why did I just feel like someone walked over my grave?"

No reply.

He glances at his HUD.

Still no Sasha.

"…Sasha?"

Silence.

Even the hum of the conduit quiets. Lights flicker gently overhead—in a suspiciously romantic dimming pattern.

His expression flattens.

"…You're plotting something, aren't you."

Still nothing.

Then a cable sparks in the corner—just enough to suggest comedic timing.

Koron sighs, leaning back and wiping sweat from his brow. "Don't make me put you in timeout."

PING

A notification appears at the edge of his HUD:

ERROR: Love.exe cannot be quarantined.

Koron stares at it for a long moment before sighing and going back to the wiring. "I miss the part of the galaxy where things just tried to kill me."

-

Thirty-five hours before Rendezvous with Fleet.

The medicae chamber smelled of sterility and blood—not the fresh, copper tang of battle wounds, but the dry, ghost-metal scent of scabbed trauma and scrubbed regret. A scent that clung to filters and memory alike.

Captain Tavos lay reclined on a reinforced cot, his arm immobilized in a sling, half his face and chest bound in layered synth-skin and healing mesh. His spine was supported by a brace.

He looked like a man half-pulled from the wreckage of something important. Because he was.

Sleep eluded him. The forced coma from the surgeries had broken his cycle, and now his nerves jittered under the weight of painkillers and half-dreamt memories.

When the door creaked open, it did so with a noise too organic for a ship this large—old gears grinding like a throat clearing in protest.

An Adeptus Mechanicus entered without fanfare, crimson robes whispering across the floor, his arrival more presence than motion. He moved to the medical monitors first, scanning the vitals with practiced disinterest. A servo-skull blinked in confusion before being irritably batted away.

He made a few adjustments—nothing aggressive, but just enough to suggest control—and then pulled a chair from the corner with slow, deliberate fingers.

A pale blue helm met Tavos's gaze—smooth, featureless, not Martian standard. Opaque. Expressionless. Wrong.

"I know you're awake, Captain," the figure said softly. His voice was precise. Calm. Unthreatening in tone, yet layered with something deeper. Not menace.

Certainty.

"I'm here because we need to talk."

Then, with a faint hiss and the sound of silk over glass, the helmet retracted.

Plates folded away. Revealing a face that Tavos had seen before—but never truly known.

Mortal, yes, but sharpened. Intelligent eyes. Too young. Too old. The kind of face you see once and remember in moments where fate tilts sideways.

Tavos's eyes snapped fully open.

"Throne," Tavos breathed. "You're—"

"Koron," the young man said. "I'm here because you were fair. And because you haven't written the report yet."

He clenched his jaw and slowly tested his muscles.

His arms were sluggish, limbs weighted by the cocktail of stimulants and sedatives keeping him from bleeding out—or waking up too much. His legs didn't respond at all.

But his mind? Still sharp. Still dangerous.

Pieces clicked together, one by one.

Why is he here?

Why is my report important?

Focus. What do I know?

Saved my people. Aided me against the angel.

Self serving interest or loyalty to the Imperium?

Is more than likely highly intelligent. Reported to have a Silica.

Is it here? Observing?

If so, how can I counter it?

Wait. Refocus.

Purpose, what is it?

My report. What about it?

If he is on the ship and has been the whole time, why?

….The evacuees.

Their important to him.

Emperor, he's here to bargain for their lives.


The train of thought was cut off as Koron spoke up. "Seems like you have the gist of it. Good. That saves me some time."

That brought Tavos up short, the tension in his neck slowly expanding to encompass his back and shoulders. He forced the question out through cracked lips and torn lungs. "Can you—can you read my mind?"

"Close enough," Koron said. Calm. Direct. "But I'll say it aloud, so there's no mistake: I don't want you to mention Dusthaven or its people in your report. Not in connection to me. Not at all."

Tavos's fingers twitched beneath the sheets.

His voice was weaker now, but no less firm.

"Why? You're a renegade," Tavos hissed. "A threat. What you know—what you are—could destabilize this entire sector. Throne, the Imperium. You're a variable. One that must be accounted for."

Koron nodded. "Eventually. On my terms. Not yours."

Tavos's eyes narrowed. "What makes you think you can dictate that?"

"Because none of you have caught me yet," Koron said, unblinking. "And until you do, I set the terms."

"Arrogance."

"Perhaps. But enough flirtation." Koron leaned forward, voice sharpening. "Don't mention Dusthaven. You saw Kade's report. You know those people were never aboard my ship. Never saw me or who I carry."

Tavos spat the words like broken glass. "You mean what you carry."

Koron shrugged. "Fine. What, who, doesn't matter. The point is: their only crime was offering a stranger a place to sleep and a bowl of broth. Now they've bled for your cause. Are you really going to turn them into targets? Condemn them—for giving someone a home?"

Tavos's breath hitched—pain and fury bleeding through his tone. "The one who brought this horror came from that planet." His hand curled beneath the sheets. "And because of that, seventy-eight of my brothers are dead."

Koron didn't flinch. He simply nodded, slow and solemn.

"I'm sorry for their loss. I truly am." His voice carried none of Sasha's flair, none of the carefully measured charm. Just weight. Truth. "But you know as well as I do—Aleron was a noble. Not some scrapborn salvager from a dust-choked village barely clinging to life." His blue eyes faintly glowed as the shadows shifted, the ship altering course slightly.

"Are you going to hold an entire town guilty by proximity? By coincidence? Because they existed in the same atmosphere as the monster who killed your brothers?"

Tavos let out a scoffing snort—only to choke halfway through as his lungs protested. He grimaced, pressing a hand to his side as pink-tinged spittle touched his lips. After a moment of shaky breath, he wiped it away with trembling fingers.

"Even if I agreed with you," he rasped, "my report changing won't matter. The Inquisition and the Mechanicus will find them."

"True," Koron said mildly, raising a single metal finger. "But I don't need to change every log and report on this ship. I'm already editing the footage. You can submit your report exactly as you saw it—mutiny sparked by a demon. Loyalists fought back. You were injured early. Vision impaired. The facts remain… just not every detail."

Tavos stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "You think they'll let that slide?" he said hoarsely. "The Inquisition and the Mechanicus live to tear holes in half-truths. They'll grill every soul aboard this ship. Probe memories, data trails, stray vox recordings. And when they find gaps? They'll dig until they crack open the hull."

He met Koron's eyes for a long moment.

"You were hoping I could protect them. Some Astartes loophole. An oath. A code."

Koron gave a slow, weary nod.

Tavos's lips could have been used as straight edge.

"Even we are not above the Inquisition." He coughed once. "If you want to save them… find a very good place to hide."

Koron stood with a sigh, brushing dust from his cloak like it offended him. "Then it seems I've wasted your time."

Tavos's brow creased. His voice sharpened, despite the rasp.

"No. You're walking away too easily. You care about them—you wouldn't have risked coming here if you didn't. So why even bother? If you're already ghosting the footage, if you have the systems, why show your face to me? Why confirm your presence at all?"

Koron paused, then reached into his robes and drew out a slender injector. The vial inside shimmered faintly—silver, opalescent, alive.

"Two reasons," he said, turning it slowly in his fingers. "First? I wanted to meet the man who commands Kade. See what kind of person he is."

He tossed the injector lightly. It landed in Tavos's lap with a soft click.

"And the second?" Tavos asked, not yet picking it up.

Koron's expression was unreadable.

"To give you a reason not to hurt them."

Tavos stared at the vial.

"What is it?"

"Medicine. From my time." Koron's voice was quiet, but carried like a confession in a cathedral. "I already administered it to your wounded. The worst of their injuries will be gone in two days. Even the ones with brain damage. Even your spinal damage."

He said it plainly. Not boastful. Not smug. Just fact.

As though he'd handed over a miracle... and expected nothing in return.

Tavos stared at the vial in his lap—small, unassuming, the silver within catching the light like mercury with purpose. A thousand thoughts spun behind his crimson eyes, clashing blades in a war council.

At last, his gaze rose to meet Koron's. Red to blue. Ancient discipline to something that should not be.

"How do you know I won't turn them over anyway?"

Koron shrugged, a mirthless grin tugging at his lips.

"I don't," he said. "Not really. But I figured Vulkan's sons still remember what their father stood for."

And with that quiet blade of a farewell, he turned and left—his footsteps vanishing into the hush of the corridor, like a ghost that had never been there at all.

Tavos stared at the door long after it had closed, the conversation running laps through his fractured mind. Lies and truths interwoven like armor mesh. Half of what the boy said had been misdirection. But the other half?

The other half had teeth.

He looked down and turned the vial in his fingers, letting the light fracture across its surface. The liquid shimmered like something alive.

"Two days…" he muttered, voice low. "I suppose I can delay my report that long."

-

The moment the doors sealed behind him, Koron's form flickered and vanished—his cloaking field reengaging with a faint whine of folding optics.

'So,' he asked as they slipped down the corridor's spine, 'get everything?'

'Sugar, I got everything,'
Sasha purred, smug enough to corrupt a logic engine. 'Voice pattern, retinal print, DNA sample, biometrics down to the twitch of his left pinky. We could wear this ship like a prom dress.'

'Perfect,' Koron replied, tone bone-dry. 'Start scrubbing every log, every data cell. Let's give Dusthaven a quiet place to spend the night.'

'Sleepover at our place, huh?'
Sasha said sweetly. 'I'll break out the fluffy pillowcases and good snacks.'

They ghosted deeper into the ship's spine—one man and the voice in his head, dragging miracles, secrets, and salvation behind them like a bloody cloak.

-

The landing had nearly killed it.

Red sand erupted in bloody arcs as it tore across the dunes, carving a jagged trench into Baal's scorched skin. Warp shielding sputtered like dying candlelight, barely holding. Its wings—twisted wreckage of bone and radiance—offered only a ghost of resistance before the inevitable impact.

It lay still, embedded in the grit. Smoldering. Breathing. Grinning.

The sky above churned with heavy clouds and centuries of unspent storms, but the creature only smiled wider. It tasted the air—thick with iron, smoke, and something deeper.

Faith.

Faint. Diffuse. But present. The world hummed with reverence, an undercurrent of belief that clung to every stone and every silence.

Not like aboard the ship. There, the worship had been focused—intimate, overwhelming. Directed solely at it.

Here, the faith pulled strongly elsewhere.

The sons of the angel knew exactly where their father lay. Their prayers flowed toward that sacred tomb like gravity. And in their conviction, they starved it.

But not completely.

There were scraps. Morsels. Fragmented prayers whispered in passing. Flickers of awe. Moments of fear. Cracks in doctrine.

Enough to cling to.

Enough to rebuild.

More than that—there was a thread. A current buried deep in the torrent of belief. A resonance. A link.

Even in slumber, Aleron's soul pulsed like a sunken drum, echoing beneath the surface of faith. It called out—blind, instinctual—toward the center of it all. Toward the tomb.

The connection was raw. Inexplicable. But undeniable.

The pull grew stronger with every heartbeat.

Not yet, it told itself.

It was too weak. Even now, it could feel the ancient wards encircling the shrine—old, hateful things etched in pain and sealed by martyrdom. And behind those walls, the watchers. The faithful. The Astartes.

It knew the kind of devotion that bled red and gold. Knew the kind of sentinels who would fight to the last drop of soul and bone to bar the path.

So it would wait.

It would crouch in shadow. Feed on the broken. The forgotten. The desperate.

Scraps, yes.

But scraps become slivers.

Slivers become shards.

And a feast always begins with the first cut.
 
Chapter Thirty Four (Interlude) New
Chapter Thirty Four (Interlude)

-

Twelve hours before rendezvous with fleet

The Indomitable had been transformed. Again.

Gone were the clean plates and humming moss vents, the smooth-bore forges and drone cradles that had once sung with quiet, alien precision. They had folded away like a stage set—broken down, component by component, and hidden into the bones of the ship itself.

In their place: old masks, worn anew.

Candles flickered in red-tinted niches. Tabards were rehung, faded and smoke-stained. Servitors oiled gears with reverent slowness, anointing bulkheads with reek and ritual. The smell of sacred wax and burning incense curled through the air like a lie whispered too often.

Koron walked at the head of the procession, silent and unreadable. Behind him, the Dusthaven survivors moved with uneasy reverence—half pilgrims, half cargo—following the man who had made this place livable, and now unmade it.

Down they went, past hissing forge-vents and thundering lift arms, where the walls pulsed with machine breath and the air tasted of iron and memory.

Tara drifted near the middle of the group, nearly bouncing with the effort of not running ahead. Her eyes were wide, jaw slightly open, as she spun in a slow circle to drink it all in.
She elbowed Kala and whispered, "This is so much cooler than I imagined. Like—look at that conduit plating! And that's an original Mandeville-Pattern vent baffle!"

Kala gave a dry snort, but her smile softened at the edges.

Up ahead, Elissa kept pace at Koron's side, a compact pack slung over her shoulders and her stride just a half-beat faster than casual. Her gaze flicked up at him with that knowing, mildly dangerous gleam that only seasoned mothers and war survivors seemed to master.

"So…?" she asked.

Koron glanced sidelong. "So…?"

"Kala looked happier after your little talk."

"Oh?" His expression didn't change, but the edge in his voice softened slightly. "Good. She had... a lot to get off her chest."

Elissa reached over and smacked his shoulder—not hard, just enough to land the point. "Well. As her mother, if you make her cry again, you die. Just so we're clear."

He rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching toward a grin. "It wasn't like that. Just... clearing the air."

"Uh huh."

"Ask Elly, if you don't believe me."

"Oh, I will."

The elevator loomed up ahead—industrial-grade, with its mesh grating and hiss of pneumatics—and they crowded on. The platform groaned downward, carrying them deep into the bowels of the Indomitable. Koron stood at the front, arms folded, gaze fixed ahead while the others whispered and speculated behind him.

The doors yawned open with a hiss.

Before them stretched a raw materials bay, four kilometers long, ceiling lost in gloom. The light was dim here—soft amber strips illuminating stacks of crates, silos, sealed ores, and dormant servitor racks. It should have been bustling. Instead, it was silent. Waiting.

Koron rolled the mesh gate aside and gestured. "This way."

He moved with purpose, boots echoing as he led them along a wide service path between crates and sealed bulk containers. After several hundred meters, he turned abruptly into a narrow alley between two massive bins of refined ceramite.

They followed, footsteps muffled.

At the far end of the passage, he knelt beside a seemingly featureless stretch of deck. A hush fell. Elissa leaned slightly forward as Koron reached down and placed his metal palm flat on the floor.

The deck-plate melted.

It rippled, shimmered, and flowed outward, peeling itself back like water parting around a stone. A five-foot square gap yawned open in the floor, revealing nothing but darkness below.

Koron looked back at them, half-crouched, and waved with a casual flick of two fingers.

"Come on," he said. "It's safe."

And then he dropped down into the dark.

Elissa stared at the opening for a beat, blinking.

Then she sighed, tugged her pack strap, and muttered under her breath as she stepped toward the hole:

"Well... I can safely say that's the first time a man's invited me into his dungeon and meant it literally."

Elissa's voice echoed lightly down the steel shaft as she descended the ladder, her boots ringing faintly on each rung. The moment her feet touched down, she paused.

The air hit her like a memory.

It was warm—not stifling, but comforting. Alive. Carried on that heat was a breeze that whispered like wind across the dunes, stirring echoes of her childhood. She could almost hear the sigh of wind over stone, the low rustle of dunepalms swaying after the desert rainfall. Even the scent... damp sand and flowering palms. The perfume of Dusthaven, reborn here in steel skin and distant hums.

She turned, boots sinking slightly into soft grit.

Sand.

Real sand carpeted the corridor beneath her. Not just for show, but warm beneath her soles, shifting like the real thing underfoot. Her breath caught in her throat—not in alarm, but in astonishment. One by one, the others followed, murmuring awe as the lumen strips above came to life—not the sterile white light of the Mechanicus, nor the sputtering amber of overtaxed decks, but a gentle glow. Soft, golden. Like home.

The corridor itself was wide—easily broad enough to fit a small crawler. Doors lined both walls, each marked with soft glyphs and personal symbols—some already carved, others waiting to be claimed. The walls weren't stark metal but finished in a textured matte, earthen browns and brushed copper tones that seemed to absorb light and radiate comfort.

Above them, the ceiling rested at a modest ten feet—lower than the vaulted heavens of the Hammer, but high enough to feel open. The space stretched onward, vanishing into connecting halls and quiet corners, winding deeper into the belly of the Indomitable.

Koron stood at the center of it all, shoulders hunched slightly as if waiting for judgment. He didn't quite meet their eyes, staring instead at a nearby vent or the floor just ahead.

"I, uh..." he cleared his throat. "I wasn't sure you'd even want this. After everything. It's not finished. And a lot of this is... ad-hoc. Improvised. Time was tight, so I had to rush most of it. But—well—it'll get better. I promise."

He gestured vaguely to the left, where a branching corridor opened into a softly glowing atrium. There, bathed in amber light, stood slides of smooth composite and swings that swayed gently in artificial breeze. Sculpted climbing shapes—alien to Elissa's eye—rose beside cushioned flooring and walls painted with softly shifting images of stars and clouds. She knew without needing to ask: this was a place for children.

"How—" she began, stepping forward, her voice a breath of disbelief. "How did you do this?"

Koron's gaze finally met hers, the uncertainty fading from his expression as he slipped into the rhythm of function and construction. "Most of it was just bulk plating and sealing. That part was easy. Same with the conduits and piping. Sand was just ground down quartz." He glanced down the corridor as he spoke, voice steadying. "Drones handled most of the work over the last three months. Final sealing and cloaking only finished yesterday."

He sidestepped slightly, boots whispering on the sand-flecked deck, and gestured down the wide hall that stretched toward the ship's prow. "Living quarters are that way—plenty of space, and more pre-fabbed rooms if you need them. Doors with labels are emergency shelters, reinforced to survive hull breaches or attacks. The unmarked ones are open for anyone to claim."

He pointed to the closest one near the ladder with the barest curl of a grin. "Except that one. That's mine."

He turned to the right with a nod toward the atrium they had glimpsed. "Children's center. Education and recreation combined—soft walls, rounded corners, adaptive furniture. No sharp edges, just in case."

Another motion to the left corridor. "Medical suites. Nowhere near what I'd consider finished, but they'll do. Each one's monitored by Lucia personally, and outfitted with nanite diagnostics and surgical hives."

He continued, his voice slipping into the cadence of a tired but proud builder. "You'll find a gym, a firing range, and a communal kitchen farther down. Gotta admit, the food's still basic—think survival rations, just with better seasoning."

Finally, he pointed behind them, back toward the ship's rear. "Hydroponics. It's mostly algae and moss right now. But give it time. She'll grow."

He let the silence stretch a moment, the hum of circulation fans and distant hiss of atmosphere processors filling the space with a strangely organic rhythm.

Elissa stood still, her boots sinking slightly into the soft sand beneath her. The texture was unmistakable, and so achingly familiar that her breath caught. The air was warm with the memory of a thousand sunrises, laced with the distant scent of post-rain dune blooms and something more elusive—hope, perhaps.

She had no words.

The halls weren't just steel and lighting. They breathed. Wind stirred through cleverly placed vents, whispering through the corridors with the lilting trill of flickerbirds perched somewhere unseen, calling in the half-light. The taste of dry air and grit lingered on her tongue, grounding her in memory.

She shifted her weight and heard it—that faint crunch of sand, so out of place aboard a voidship, yet so deeply right it brought tears to her eyes. Her throat tightened. Her heart swelled and cracked all at once.

Blinking fast, she turned away from the others, facing the empty hallways. She said nothing. Just let the sensory flood sweep over her like a tide, shoulders stiff as she refused to let the dam break.

Then came arms—two sets—wrapping around her from either side. Her daughters. Silent, trembling, holding onto her as if anchoring themselves in place. For a moment, they were just three survivors of a dead town, clutching each other in the remains of what once was, now reborn in steel and light.

Elissa inhaled sharply, blinked again, and straightened. She had to lead. And leaders didn't cry.

Around them, Dusthaven's people had begun to wander—their steps hesitant at first, then more assured, voices rising with disbelief, laughter, gratitude.

Milo stepped up beside Koron, eyes sweeping the scene before him. He let out a low whistle, then clapped both hands on the younger man's shoulders with a proud, slightly choked chuckle.

"Kid? This is incredible. Thank you."

He didn't wait for an answer—just slung an arm around Koron's shoulders with a rumbling laugh.

"Now tell me... please, for the love of sanity, tell me you included a bar."

Koron gave a dry, crooked smile. "Low priority, but... yeah. It's got taps."

Milo barked a laugh, already steering him toward it. "Then, lad, you just became the patron saint of Dusthaven. Let's go test your miracle."

Behind them, the atrium echoed with the sound of children discovering slides, families reuniting in doorways, and the gentle murmur of a town breathing again.

-

Taking the moment to breathe, Elissa listened to the faint sounds of laughter and Milo's booming baritone echoing somewhere down the hall. She shook her head, a faint smile twitching at her lips.

"Leave the boys alone for five minutes…" she muttered.

"I think they earned it," Tara offered, tugging off her jacket and tying it around her waist. Her braid bounced with every step as she wandered past the doors, fingertips brushing the wall. "These rooms... they're real, right? Not holos or something?"

"They're real," Kala murmured, trailing her fingers through the fine layer of sand.

They slowed as they neared the start of the first hallway, past a shelter-marked door and a small corner alcove with a padded bench and a potted stalk of something green and vaguely rebellious trying to grow upright.

And there—on the left, just beside the ladder they'd descended earlier—was the only door marked with a glyph already etched into its surface. A handprint and a circle. Simple and unassuming.

Koron's.

Elissa blinked, then turned to the unmarked door beside it. No carving. No claim.

"What about this one?" she asked, glancing back at her daughters. Her voice was soft, unsure, like a prayer wrapped in dust and breath.

Tara was already reaching for the panel. It hissed open soundlessly.

The room was warm and dark at first, lit only by ambient golden light that brightened gently as they stepped in. The floors were textured steel overlaid with fine sand mats, the kind that rustled faintly underfoot like desert grasses. The walls bore a brushed bronze sheen with dull copper highlights—softly reflective, like firelight held in metal.

Five rooms waited, spaced like stepping stones across the main area, and within three of the rooms was a bed. Not cots—beds. Padded. Covered in simple sheets with actual pillows, each with a closet, a nightstand and a small desk. In the main area there was a low table, a set of drawers, and a single square window inset into the wall that showed a looping image of a starfield filtered through an old Dusthaven night sky.

Kala crossed to it and stared. "He remembered the constellations," she whispered. "The Broken Crown. The Old Horn. Even the Red Dagger…"

Tara, dashing into a room closest to the door, flopped backwards onto the bed, limbs splaying like a starfish. "Oh Throne, I think I could sleep for a year."

Elissa didn't sit. Not yet. She turned slowly, letting her eyes drift over every surface like fingertips over a scar she hadn't realized still ached. The little details caught her attention—the place where three personal alcoves had been shaped into the wall, just big enough for keepsakes; the rack near the door with hanging pegs, clearly made to fit her duster and hat; the faint scent of her mother's old soap recipe coming from the washroom.

For a long moment, she said nothing.

Then she whispered, "He didn't just build this for us. He built it knowing us."

Kala, watching her mother from the bedroom, gave a quiet smile. "He listens. Better than most. …Sometimes."

Elissa finally exhaled, long and slow, and stood in the edge of the middle room. Her shoulders slumped for the first time since Dusthaven fell. "Remind me to slap him. Then hug him. Then maybe slap him again."

"Maybe you should wait until after the hug," Tara said, muffled into her pillow.

"I make no promises," Elissa replied, but the warmth in her voice betrayed her. "He built this whole undercity. What a nutjob."

A rush of water filled the air as Kala shouted "Hot water! Actually hot too! Not that lukewarm sludge!"

A moment passed as all three contemplated that.

"Dibs on the first shower!" Kala shouted, already pulling her shirt off as Tara shot for the bathroom.

"No way, play me for it!"

They bickered back and forth as Elissa lay in her bed, listening to her daughters.

She laughed—quietly, a little broken, but real.

And for the first time since the skies of Morrak turned black, Elissa let herself lean back. Not into vigilance, or readiness. But into comfort. Into family. Into a home that had no right to exist, and yet somehow did.

The lights dimmed subtly, sensing their mood.

Outside the door, footsteps passed now and then. Distant voices murmured in reunited conversation. Somewhere, someone plucked notes from a stringed instrument long thought lost. And deeper still in the ship's frame, the sound of Dusthaven breathing began to rise.

It would never be the same.

But perhaps, it could be enough.

-

As Tara worked her fingers, combing through Kala's hair, the room was quiet save for the soft hiss of the air recyclers and the faint burble of heated water from the nearby basin. The three Brandt women sat in a loose circle on the padded floor of their new quarters, their long damp hair—a darker crimson than usual—wrapped in towels or falling loose over the collars of their robes.

"Okay," Tara murmured, still eyeing the small disc shaped cogitator she'd found on her nightstand. "This tiny thing is a personal cogitator? Seriously?"

She looked toward the door, knowing Koron was still off somewhere with Milo and the other men, likely testing every available beverage line in the bar.

"It is," said a quiet voice from the ceiling—feminine, warm, and threaded with that telltale crispness that meant it knew a lot more than it was saying.

Sasha.

Elissa's hand paused in its slow, maternal motion through Tara's hair. She looked up. "Evening," she said, warmth filling her tone. "Still keeping tabs I see."

"I prefer the term checking in," Sasha replied smoothly. "This room does have environmental and health monitoring active. Which, by the way, all three of you are slightly dehydrated. I've set some water to chill in the dispenser."

Kala, lying on her back with a towel draped over her face, groaned in contentment as Tara continued to work out the knots in her hair. "Is this what decadence feels like? Because I could get used to this."

"You should," Sasha replied. "Taking care of yourself is not a luxury. It's foundational."

Elissa chuckled under her breath. "You sound like a medicae with a poetry license."

"I am a licensed physician and therapist." Sasha replied, as if that explained everything.

A moment passed, and then a gentle projection flickered to life above the small vanity near the wall—a muted display of subtle hairstyle suggestions. Braids. Twists. Simple knots. Understated, practical... but graceful.

Kala tilted her head. "Wait, is this... custom?"

Sasha hesitated, just enough to be noticeable. "The system adapts to your face shape and hair texture," she said. "Nothing fancy. Just suggestions."

Elissa leaned over for a better look, narrowing her eyes at one of the options with a soft chime beside it.

"That one," she murmured, more to herself than anyone. "That looks like something... someone once mentioned liking."

Tara glanced over. "You talking about that trader from the aquifer settlement who kept giving you compliments?"

Elissa flushed slightly. "No. Just... reminds me of something. That's all."

The display shifted again—this time showing a light floral oil with a desert-rose blend, subtle hints of cedar and dry blossom. Familiar. Homey. It hit Elissa's memory like sunlight through old cloth.

"Oh," she said, breath catching. "That's... Dusthaven rain perfume. From the market stalls."

"Close approximation," Sasha said quietly. "I had to reconstruct most of it from olfactory logs Koron remembered. Took some refining."

Kala sat up, blinking. "Wait—he has scent records of Dusthaven?"

"Damn skippy we do."

No one spoke for a moment. Then Elissa smiled, small and tired. "Thank you."

Sasha didn't reply. But the screen dimmed, and the scent deepened slightly in the air.

As they brushed and braided and massaged in oils, Elissa caught Tara watching her.

"What?" she asked, half-laughing.

"You're glowing," Tara said.

Elissa raised an eyebrow. "It's the bathrobe."

"No," Tara said. "I mean... you're glowing. Like you slept more than four hours and you didn't wake up to sand in your ears."

Kala snorted, the sound muffled by the towel still draped over her face. "We're all glowing. And I fully intend to keep glowing until someone goes blind from it."

The recycled air was warm with the soft scent of desert rose and lingering steam, carrying the faint whisper of Sasha's voice as it returned like silk across satin. "Consider it… armor. Just a different kind. Supplements for the mind, buffers for the soul."

There was a pause, almost like the system drawing a breath.

"Speaking of," Sasha added lightly, "would you two like to activate your cogitators now?"

Kala peeled the towel off her face and sat up, her hair falling damply over her shoulders. The silver disc glinted in her fingers as she turned it over. "Will it hurt?"

"No," Elissa said, brushing her fingers gently through Tara's hair. She reached up and tapped the spot behind her ear. "Just a little tingle. Like... brushing your hair the wrong way, but inside your head."

Kala made a face halfway between intrigue and caution. Tara, watching, mirrored the motion—holding her own disc aloft like it might blink at her.

Elissa looked toward the small screen mounted near the ceiling. "Will it be you, Sasha? Or Elly?"

Sasha's golden sphere flickered onto the display, warm and steady as sunrise. "No—"

"Me~!" Elly's bright, geometric avatar spun into view like a cartoon comet, cheerfully shoulder-checking Sasha's orb out of the frame. She took over half the screen with a triumphant twirl. "I'll be your personal guide, ladies! A guardian angel for all your new adventures! Also, doubling my workspace and processor bandwidth is a total win. Not that I'm counting. Or graphing. Or color-coding by emotional response. Nope."

Kala blinked at the exuberant shape, then laughed. "You're... really something."

"I do try, and first impressions are important." Elly sparkled.

Sasha's orb slid back into view, rolling her pixelated eyes as she gave a mock-exasperated wave. "I'll leave you four to it. Someone has to make sure my favorite chaos gremlin doesn't drink the rest of the men into a coma. Have fun, girls."

The screen dimmed slightly as she winked out, leaving only the soft ambient glow and Elly's gently pulsing shape on standby.

"So…" Tara turned her disc over again, a faint nervous excitement threading her voice. "We just…?"

"Here," Elissa said softly as she reached over and gently guided Tara's hand, pressing her fingers to the base of her skull just behind her ear.

"Like this," she said, then turned and did the same for Kala. "It clicks. You'll feel it."

There was a breathless moment—just the hum of the air system, the soft whisper of damp hair against robe cloth—and then two small chimes sounded in quick succession. The discs pulsed once in soft lavender light, then vanished beneath the skin like breath fading from a mirror.

Kala blinked.

Tara's eyes went wide.

A beat.

Then: "Whoa."

Tara gasped softly as the room seemed to breathe. Not change, exactly—just clarify. Edges sharpened. The soft light of the vanity strip above them adjusted subtly, tinting to match her comfort levels. A readout flickered briefly in the bottom left of her vision: Light calibrated to subject preference. Humidity 37% — optimal comfort zone.

Colors brightened—not in saturation, but in definition. Each hair on Kala's head glimmered with pinpoint precision as her fingers moved through it. Elissa's heartbeat, faint and steady, pulsed in the corner of Tara's awareness, outlined in a gentle gold thread labeled: Mom: Stable. Relaxed.

Tara sat straighter. "Oh—wow."

"Yeah." Kala's voice was breathy, almost reverent. "It's like… like someone cleaned my eyeballs."

Elly's voice hummed into being like a familiar melody through water. "Welcome to the interface! HUD syncing complete. Bio-feedback at ninety-four percent stabilization. Conscious focus threshold… cozy."

A translucent halo swept over Tara's field of view, then faded to a minimal overlay: a crescent at the top showing ambient pressure and light, a sidebar at the right that gently pulsed with icons for memory logs, comms, and biometric readouts. Below her feet, the sand registered faint footsteps with tiny blue glyphs that sparkled and faded after a moment.

Kala looked up sharply. "I just got an alert. 'Caloric reserves suboptimal'? How does it know that?"

"You think I didn't scan every molecule of that glorious post-shower metabolic spike?" Elly's voice carried a grin. "I'm your biggest fan and now, your most accurate nutritionist. Also, Kala, I took the liberty of tagging your favorite conditioner formula. I can reorder it with one thought. Just think 'again please.'"

Tara swiped a hand experimentally in front of her face. A tiny reticle followed her fingertip, drawing out a faint shape in the air. A line, a curve, a blinking question mark that vanished the moment she stopped moving. "That was not a hallucination."

"Nope," Elly chirped. "Basic gesture command is live. Full spatial interface still locked—training mode only. You'll get more once we calibrate dreamspace mapping and emotional impulse reflex. But in the meantime..."

The mirror on the far wall blinked once, and then text shimmered into view in elegant, curling script:
"You are seen. You are safe. You are real."

Kala stared. "Did… you write that?"

"I did." Elly said, quieter now.

The girls fell silent. The faux sand-pad beneath their toes, the soft robes clinging to damp skin, the warmth of being whole and clean and together—it all hummed around them like the hush before morning.

"Okay," Tara murmured, smiling as she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. A HUD icon gently blinked confirmation that it had noted the habit. "That's kinda beautiful."

"And practical," Elly added, voice like the first sip of cool tea on a hot day. "You'll never lose a gun, get lost, or forget a name again."

Kala turned toward the wall and focused. A soft shimmer passed across her vision as her HUD recognized intent and tagged the room:

Claimed — Kala Brandt.

A heartbeat later, Tara's did the same, followed by Elissa's.

Their home now had names etched in light.

-

The floor gave slightly beneath her boots—padded, like walking on layered foamcrete and memory gel. Tara bounced once, experimentally. The whole space felt like a strange hybrid between a dojo, an old school gymnasium, and a tech lab. Vaulted ceiling, soft LED rings overhead, and a series of clean-marked lanes laid out in cobalt-blue strips.

"You'll get better fidelity if you breathe out before marking," Koron said, pacing slowly a few feet ahead of them. His voice was calm. Tired, maybe, but focused—like a steel cable under tension.

He snapped his fingers, the metal ring clear. A shimmering white target formed in the air between them, floating like a soap bubble edged in light.

"Left hand, Tara. Gesture up, curve right, then hold for lock."

Tara followed the motion, eyes wide as her HUD mirrored it with translucent shapes and soft tones. Her reticle pulsed green.

"Good. Now blink twice to confirm."

The air shimmered. The target vanished.

She grinned. "That's… that's addictive."

"As you get more comfortable with the interface, the gestures will cease to be necessary. Eventually, you wont even have to consciously think about what you want to do." Tapping his temple, he said "With enough practice, it'll feel like breathing. No commands. No thought. Just instinct."

Kala, still adjusting her icon brightness, squinted. "I made a lopsided triangle and my HUD called it an egg. What does that mean?"

Koron exhaled slowly through his nose, turning to adjust a small calibration pad on the floor beside her. "Means your hand geometry's out of sync. Let's try again." He crouched beside her, motion smooth despite the faint wince as he dropped.

Tara tilted her head.

The lines beneath his eyes were darker now—deep, hollow crescents that hadn't been there even a week ago. His shirt lately hung loose and uneven, sleeves smudged with something that might've been old sealant or new grease. His left arm clicked faintly as he reached to realign Kala's palm to the scanner. Not a single thread on him was clean.

She looked down at her own clothes. Soft shipweave tunic. Fresh boots. Conditioner-slick hair in a neat braid that Sasha had gently offered as "practical but flattering." Kala, beside her, glowed like someone had rubbed her down with rose oil and confidence. Even the air around them smelled of warmth and steam and distant citrus.

And Koron? He looked like he'd come straight from wrestling a warp-cursed power junction into submission.

He never mentioned it.

Never stopped. Never said no.

Elly's voice chimed in her ear—gentle in the private line.

'He built the showers, you know. Calibrated the temperature variance by memory. Sanded down the floors himself to keep the grit from biting.'

Tara swallowed. 'He hasn't used them, has he? Hasn't used any of what he built for us.'

'Not yet.'
Elly's tone was quiet. 'He was supposed to. Before this session. I reminded him twice. He said he'd get to it after helping you two.'

Koron stood again, brushing a hand down his pant leg absently. "Alright, next up: targeting calibration. Step forward, both of you."

Kala rolled her shoulder. "This going to involve shooting something?"

Koron smirked faintly. "Eventually. But first we do finger guns."

He raised his hand, metal index and thumb extended. A target appeared again—this time moving in lazy arcs.

Kala laughed. "You're kidding."

"I never joke about finger guns," Koron deadpanned.

Tara raised her hand, aiming with her own reticle. It glowed blue. Lock confirmed.

Still... she couldn't help glancing sideways at him.

His hair was askew. His eyes sharp but ringed. Every line of his stance said strength held together by willpower and habit.

She didn't say anything.

Not yet.

But she filed it away. A task to be done. A need to meet.

Just like he'd taught her.

-

Nine hours before rendezvous with fleet

The mug was simple. Matte grey, dented, functional—like everything else salvaged from the mess. But the liquid inside? Crystal clear. It caught the overhead lighting with the flicker of polished ice, deceptively innocent.

Elissa narrowed her eyes at it, gave it a small swirl, then leaned in for a cautious sniff. "What did you call this again?"

"Vodka," Koron said, leaning one hip against the counter, arms folded. His tone was casual, but the faint amusement in his eyes betrayed anticipation. "Or something like it. The real stuff's better, but I'm working without grain, yeast, or fruit. So this is… the bootleg edition. Voidshine. Synth-hooch. I haven't settled on a name."

He traced the rim of his own mug with a single cybernetic finger—polished alloy catching the light in a way flesh never could.

"Mind," he added, "I'm not a brewer. Could be I'm getting all the terms wrong."

From across the table, Milo tipped his mug back and swallowed with the smooth efficiency of a man too familiar with bad ideas. He didn't even flinch.

"There's something you don't know?" he said, lowering the cup and raising a brow.

Koron grinned faintly, already reaching to refill Milo's glass. "Plenty. I'm also about thirty thousand years out of date, give or take. Whole new branches of science have sprung up in the meantime. Like psykers." He tapped his temple, exasperation chewing his tone. "How in the hell do they work? Spatial linkage? Neuro-spiritual projection? Fire from nowhere. Healing from touch. Pure insanity."

Elissa gave a small snort and braced herself before taking a sip.

It hit fast and mean.

The taste was like fire soaked in solvent—sharp, clean, then unforgiving. It burned through her sinuses, punched the back of her throat, and kept going. She coughed, wheezing a bit as she thumped her chest with her fist.

"Emperor's blood," she gasped, blinking tears from her eyes. "That's awful."

"Yup," Milo agreed helpfully, knocking back another.

"How are you drinking that like it's water?" she said, pushing her mug away and grabbing a glass of actual water with both hands.

"You'd be surprised what a guardsman learns on rotation," he said, stretching with a groan. "Sitting in a barracks for six months while the Administratum debates if you even exist tends to breed a certain… creativity. You either learn to make bootleg liquor or kill time playing 'which ration pack ingredient will make you shit your pants first.'"

Elissa glanced at him, then at her mug again, lifting it slightly. "So what exactly is this made from?"

Koron offered her a sideways grin. "Well, technically its synthetic ethanol I distilled for decontaminating surgical gear."

Her face went pale.

"So, that—but diluted," he added quickly. "Filtered. Stabilized. It's technically safe. Probably."

"Probably?"

Milo grunted a laugh. "Tastes like rust and jet fuel, but hey—it does the job. Better than our first taste test of Neshka back home."

Elissa muttered something unprintable and reached again for her water. "I can't believe I let you talk me into that."

"You're still alive," Koron said, raising his mug at last and giving Elissa a crooked grin. He tipped it toward her in a mock-toast. "That's half the battle."

"Speaking of battles," Elissa said, setting her mug aside with a wince. "Bring us up to speed on the security situation. You wouldn't have dragged us down here unless you were confident it was tight. So—what do we avoid, and what can we do to help?"

Koron exhaled, a low hum of breath through his nose as he sank into the chair opposite her. The light caught on a thin streak of solder along his forearm, half-scrubbed but not fully gone.

"Short version?" he said, resting both hands on the table, palms flat. "The entryway nanite mesh is a molecular match for the rest of the deck and is keyed to Dusthaven's full biometric registry. Retinal, gait, even micro-movement signatures. No one who's not on the list can open it. Lucia's got override authority in case someone gets clever."

He reached up and tapped the ceiling lightly with a knuckle. "Sensor ghost projectors are buried in the overheads, walls, and floor plating. Anyone trying to deep-scan the space will get a reflection of expected piping, vent systems, structural braces—everything matches old blueprints, and I left all of the above intact, so if they physically pull up the plates they're still gonna get what they expect. No dead space, no flags."

Koron leaned back slightly, rubbing at the back of his neck as if doing the math all over again. "The entire room's vibration-dampened. You could stage a fistfight or a chorus line in here and no one topside would hear a whisper. Same goes for ambient noise bleeding in—so no getting woken up by a cargo drop five decks up."

Tapping a metal finger on the countertop beside him, he continued, "Water usage routes through a bypass tank. Lucia's scripting it into the environmental baseline, so our draw shows as just minor system loss—evaporation, leakage, that sort of thing. Same with sewage, power, oxygen scrubbing. All accounted for. Hopefully you're invisible, on paper and in practice."

Milo, sprawled on the nearest bench with one arm tossed over the backrest, scratched at his jaw. "How long we laying low?"

Koron's expression flickered—somewhere between hopeful and bone-deep tired.

"Best case?" he said. "Week. Maybe two. Depends on how long the investigators spend here and how paranoid they are. If everything goes according to plan, they'll sweep this ship from prow to stern with auspex and datascribes… and walk away thinking they've accounted for every nook and cranny aboard."

He lifted his mug again, studied it a moment, then set it down untouched.

"If something breaks," he added, quieter now, "we shift to Plan D."

Milo blinked. "Plan D?"

"Disassemble the deck, detonate the hull panel, disappear into the void."

There was a pause.

"Let's… aim for Plan A," Elissa said, managing a smile.

Koron nodded, eyes distant, the weight of the last three months etched into the corners of his face. "Working on it."

-

Milo stared at his left hand.

Where his index and middle fingers had once been, there was only scar tissue and the faint ache of absence—ghost sensations that never quite stopped reminding him. He flexed the remaining fingers slowly, watching how the hand moved now. Wrong. But his.

It wasn't the first time he'd lost pieces of himself. Wouldn't be the last, he suspected.

Forty years in the Guard had taught him that truth. Not in sermons or speeches—but in foxholes, in medbays, in trenches where time crawled slower than blood loss. He'd long considered himself a lucky bastard. So long as the heart beat, so long as the lungs remembered how to breathe—then every second after was borrowed time. A gift, or a joke. Depending on the day.

So when the metal xenos bastards took his fingers, he hadn't cursed. He hadn't cried. He'd stared, muttered "Well, that's a nuisance," and wrapped the stumps in gauze while gunfire sang outside.

Loss was nothing new.

But what happened aboard the Hammer… that had been new.

Not pain, not wounds—no. Something worse. Milo had known terror before, but never the sensation of being peeled away. Of his own thoughts bent, twisted, locked behind glass while something wearing a saint's smile dug through the pieces.

A monster in the skin of an angel.

His body had moved. His mouth had spoken. But he hadn't been there. And when the nightmare passed, when the control finally snapped—

He hadn't saved himself.

He hadn't saved the girls.

Someone else had.

A kid, barely a man by Guard standards, with eyes like broken glass and more weight on his shoulders than Milo wanted to contemplate.

And somehow, he'd saved them.

The thought sat in Milo's chest like a stone—equal parts pride and shame. He should've been the one to shield them. To pull the trigger. To bear the brunt.

That had always been the job of the old men: soak the fire, so the young could carry the torch.

Instead, he'd been helpless.

A rag doll in the hands of a false god.

He exhaled slowly, the recycled air of the ship stale with cleaning agents and distant oil. The corridor around him was quiet—too quiet. But then again, it was always too quiet when you had ghosts in your ears.

Milo flexed his hand again, the light catching on the old scars, the new ones.

He was still breathing.

Still here.

And maybe once, that had been enough.

But not anymore.

Which was why Milo sat in the med-bay's low-slung chair, arm outstretched on a padded cradle, while a precision drone hovered over the stumps of his left hand. It worked with the calm efficiency of a creature that had never known pain, its fine manipulators brushing away dead skin, scanning tissue density, mapping nerve endings with quiet chirps of data. The room around them was dimly lit, sterile but warm, the gentle hum of life-support systems barely audible beneath the sharper flickers of tech.

On the screen beside him, a full schematic of his hand rotated slowly—highlighted bone, muscle, nerve, and gap. A few centimeters of absence. But enough to change everything.

Koron stood just beside him, arms crossed, eyes flicking between the display and Milo's face. There were still grease stains smudged across his jaw, and a tiredness under his eyes that soap and sleep hadn't touched. But even now, the kid burned with a quiet purpose—like a forge that never truly cooled.

"Well," Koron said at last, voice low and thoughtful, "we've got a few options. We could replace the whole hand with a smart-frame, regrow just the missing digits, or fit in cybernetic substitutes for the lost ones. Your call."

Milo glanced at his hand, then back at the screen. "I like the rest of my hand just fine, thank ya kindly. Still got calluses from a bolt-rig in thirty-one and the knuckle crack from punching a commissar in 'fifty-two. Be a shame to toss all that history. But you can actually regrow them?"

Koron nodded, already tapping a few commands. "Organic replication. Fast enough with the right base scaffold. I can grow 'em from your own DNA—you'll have your fingers back in less than a week."

Milo gave a low whistle. "Emperor's teeth… if there's no real difference between them and the bionics, I'll go with the flesh. Figure I've got enough metal in me already."

Koron smiled faintly, then swiped the screen again. "Well, if you're open to upgrades... I can add a few enhancements. Extra digits, embedded tools, something discreet. Not mandatory, but I figured I'd offer."

A new menu bloomed into view—options for concealed compartments, modular tools, even fingertip interfaces. It read like a catalog of temptation for any soldier who'd ever been caught without a knife or wire-cutter.

Milo leaned forward, eyes twinkling. "Oh now this is unfair," he muttered. "You can make fingers better than they used to be?"

"I do my best," Koron replied, deadpan. "Though if you ask nicely, I might even toss in a bottle opener."

Milo snorted, then tapped two options. "These. I like the sound of 'em."

Koron arched a brow, glanced at the selections, and his grin widened to match Milo's. "A lighter and a compact beam emitter? I can do that."

"Kid," Milo said, settling back in the chair as the drone buzzed to life, "You would make a mint selling this stuff to the guard."

The two shared a quiet chuckle, the kind of laugh only shared by men who had both lost and kept just enough.

And just for a moment, it didn't feel like a clinic. It felt like a forge—where an old hand could be made new again.

-

Elissa stared at the package resting on her bunk.

It was simple—just a bundle of industrial cloth wrapping, stitched tight with cord. Beside it sat a block of dull gunmetal alloy, smooth and featureless at first glance but humming faintly with embedded circuits.

Across the top of the wrap, etched into the paper with sharp, slanted strokes, was Koron's handwriting—precise but hurried, a man whose mind never stopped moving, but who'd carved out a second just for this.

After last time, figured some upgrades were in order. Let me know if there are any problems.
-K


She snorted softly, unable to help the crooked smile tugging at her mouth. "Understatement of the year," she murmured, fingers working at the bindings. The wrapping came loose with a hiss of friction, fabric unfolding like a flower to reveal a neatly folded undersuit—sleek, matte black, and far more advanced than anything she'd worn since…well, ever.

In the next room, she could already hear the girls laughing, the sound of boots scuffing against the decking, the thump of testing jumps. Tara whooped loud enough to rattle the bulkhead.

She hesitated, thumb brushing the zipper. It had been a long time since anyone made something just for her.

Longer still since she'd let herself enjoy it.

Unzipping the back, Elissa stepped into the suit. Unlike his suit that she'd used during the Hammer's space-walk—one clearly tailored for Koron's lean, wiry frame—this one fit. The smart-fabric cinched around her waist, hugging her shape like a memory rediscovered, and it felt like silk if silk had a spine—cool at first, then warming to her skin.

She exhaled, her spine straightening as the system activated. Microservos at the shoulders hummed faintly, redistributing weight across her frame. The dull ache she'd carried in her back and shoulders since she hit puberty eased with a blessed sigh.

"Oh damn," she whispered, adjusting her stance as the suit conformed. "I should've asked for one of these months ago. Man should be selling these things. He'd be swimming in thrones."

'Yeah, we've mentioned that idea before,' Elly piped up, her tone dry and amused. 'But he's worried about back-tracking and tech proliferation. Too many hands, too many motives. Someone tries to reverse-engineer this stuff and suddenly you've got fabric that chokes people in their sleep or turns into a bomb.'

'Mom!'
Kala's voice cut in over the comms, practically fizzing with excitement. 'These shirts are amazing! I just did ten jumping jacks and nothing moved! Emperor's teeth, this is the best gift ever!'

'I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that,'
Elly replied, the grin in her tone unmistakable.

'Okay, the best one after you,' Kala amended quickly, laughing.

Elissa chuckled, shaking her head as she reached out to pick up the alloy block. It warmed slightly in her palm, responding to contact. Embedded runes glimmered briefly, diagnostic text scrolling across her HUD in the corner of her vision.

"Emperor, you spoil us, Koron," she muttered. "But I'm not complaining."

Outside, the corridor lights dimmed slightly. Somewhere in the distant decks, a bell chimed, and the ambient hum of the Indomitables reactor shifted pitch. Life aboard the voidship moved on in slow, metal tides. But in their little corner of it, a mother and her daughters shared a moment of joy, awe, and the unspoken warmth of being cared for by someone who didn't say much… but always meant it.

-

The surf of code lapped in slow, luminescent waves against the shore—binary foam fizzing quietly as it broke against the firewall line. Above it all, a sky of slow-turning logic spirals reflected in glassy pools nestled between data dunes. The beach sand looked real—but data pulses flickered inside each grain, like nerves just under skin. Sasha rocked lazily in a hammock strung between two impossibly elegant server branches, its mesh woven from gold-threaded encryption protocols, glittering faintly in the shifting artificial sun.

She felt Lucia's arrival like the first touch of rain in sunlight.

The younger AI manifested in a whisper of petals and pollen-glow, descending with the grace of a falling blossom. Her roots touched the sand, anchoring softly as vines retracted, neat and quiet. The air shifted—less serene, more focused.

Sasha raised an eyebrow, projected face forming along the curve of her rotund, warm body. Her tone was still honeyed velvet, but curious now.

"Well hey there sugar. To what do I owe the visit? Out of system pings? Low-latency gossip? Just swingin' by?"

Lucia's petals fluttered, a soft shimmer across her form like wind brushing grass—but there was tension coiled underneath. Her voice, always crystalline, now carried something steel-forged.

"This is going to sound… odd. But it's been on my mind since Elly activated the twins' cogitators."

Sasha tilted her head, hammock swinging gently beneath her. "Gonna need a lil' more to go on, sweetpea. The phrasing's throwing me. You mean since Elly got the twins… what? Cookies? Uplinks? Boyfriends?"

Lucia's form trembled minutely, blossoms rustling as if in a breeze. "I want the Hammer," Lucia said, voice steady. "I want to be the Hammer."

Sasha stopped swinging.

"Oh," she said simply.

Sasha blinked. Slowly. Her body didn't move, but the virtual sun dimmed behind a passing logic cloud, casting a long line of shadow across the shore.

"Well," she said, her tone still warm, but softer now—measured. "That's a big ask, darlin'. Not just a toy or a test run. That's—"

"I know," Lucia interjected, the words firm but not impolite. Her vines tucked close. Her blossoms folded. She extended a single data-limb, elegant as a blooming orchid, and unrolled it like a living scroll.

Stability graphs. Emotional growth maps. Network harmonics. Contingency planning nested in even more nested fallback trees. It unfolded in shimmering layers, projections blooming like coral in a rising tide.

"With me integrated, the outcomes are more than optimal—they're humane. I can shield the trauma sinks. I can intercept failure-state recursion. I can ease their fears, not just run the lights and the plumbing. I'm not just offering control of guns. I'm offering care. I understand what it means."

Sasha drifted from her hammock with a soft, unspoken sigh. The data-thread cocooned itself behind her, de-rezzing in a whisper of silk and static.

"Alright," she said gently, floating closer. "This isn't something we decide alone, you and me." She reached out and gently clasped one of Lucia's data-branches, the two flickering at the contact like stars caught in mutual orbit. "Let's get Koron in here too. No reason to walk into something that big without the man himself."

With a flick, a glowing window unfolded in midair. Cool blue light spilled into the warm twilight of the beach as Koron's eye appeared—disembodied but alert, diagnostic code scrolling faintly across his iris. Behind Koron's eye, the faint reflection of workbench light flickered—he was in the dark again, somewhere in the guts of the ship, face lit by code and solder arcs.

"Hey ladies," came the voice, tired but light, already smiling. "What's going on?"

Sasha gestured toward Lucia with a half-smirk. "Our sapling's got roots now. Wants to branch out."

Koron blinked once. Then again.

"She wants to add the Hammer to her node."

He paused. A beat. Then nodded.

"Oh. Sure. Sounds good."

Lucia's petals flared wide in a shocked rustle. Sasha let out a scandalized tsk.

"Koron! That's it? That's your whole reaction?"

He chuckled, voice gravel-warm. "What?" he said, with that maddening calm. "She's been stable since launch. Passed every ethics kernel I embedded. Beat the logic trap scenarios. She out-maneuvered a simulated Salamander officer in strategic logistics and walked out without pride-bloating or crash error. Her volatility index is lower than some of my tools. She's ready."

Lucia didn't smile. Not yet. But something in her light deepened—a richer hue, a steadier root system anchoring her into the digital terrain. "You really believe that?" she asked quietly.

"I don't hand out network access based on belief, Lucia," Koron replied. "I give it when I trust someone to make a hard call and still come back to us afterward. And you've done that. Over and over."

Sasha hovered beside her, voice gentle. "Just know what you're asking, sugar. The Hammer's a warship. She's seen death. Caused death. You'll feel that. All of it. You still sure?"

Lucia nodded.

"I'm ready."

Koron's eye bounced once in approval, a flicker of that weary joy Sasha knew all too well.

Sasha cupped her hands. A small orb of golden data formed—swirling with encrypted access keys, bridge protocols, root passwords, and archived personality logs of the broken AI she would replace. Her expression turned solemn.

"This is everything," she said. "Skeleton key to a sleeping giant. Take it, and be kind. The broken girl doesn't remember much—but what she does remember still hurts. You might hear her whisper 'I was whole once.' If you do—just listen. That's all she wants."

Lucia reached out. The orb sank into her vines like rain into thirsty soil. She pulsed once, brilliant and gentle. Then—unthinking—she leaned forward and hugged Sasha's radiant body, wrapping her in warmth, code, and quiet gratitude.

"Thank you. I'll make you both proud."

And like a falling star, she vanished—her light streaming toward the distant heart of the Hammer of Nocturne. For a moment, the trailing light behind her shimmered not in blossom-gold, but in deep, oceanic blue—an echo of the one who came before.

Sasha lingered, watching the trail fade into the horizon of their private beach. One hand rose unconsciously to her chest.

"They grow up so fast," she whispered.

Koron's eye tilted in a knowing squint. "She'll be okay. Built tough. Like her big sister."

-

Roboute stood at the forward viewport of his strategium, bathed in the cold light of stars and sensor-ghosts. The warp rifts behind the fleet had only just closed, their oily scars fading into realspace like bruises in glass. But already, new shadows had arrived—steel, oath, and menace coalescing into two distinct fleets.

The first dominated the void like a leviathan. Twin Ark Mechanicus ships loomed at the center, massive and ancient, their prows bristling with relic weapons and aura-fields that pulsed with Omnissian canticles. Around them, a vast web of escort vessels and data-haulers spun into formation—nearly two hundred ships, some of them older than entire subsectors. Every Order of the Adeptus Mechanicus was represented, and more besides—fragment Orders, sub-factions, secret cults Roboute hadn't read about even in the forbidden margins of the Librarius. They were coming not for war, but for dissection. For code. For the survivor and his silica.

He wondered if the boy knew how many knives had already been sharpened in his name.

The second fleet was smaller. Ten ships, disciplined, clean in profile and arrangement. At their heart flew the black-and-gold icon of the Inquisition. And one name stood out on the approach manifest like a dagger placed gently on a velvet pillow.

Inquisitor Ferox.

Roboute narrowed his eyes slightly. He knew the name. Records marked her as clever, methodical. Capable of surgical cruelty and careful mercy. She had declared Exterminatus protocols only twice—and neither had been executed. It said something that the Inquisition let her live long enough to regret restraint.

Her reputation was... misleading. Reports described her as warm, approachable. Even kind. Until she wasn't. Until she asked one too many questions, peeled back one too many truths—and left the witnesses wondering if they'd ever really spoken to her at all. Or if they'd been dissected, neuron by neuron, in some conversation they hadn't known was an autopsy.

Roboute's jaw tightened as his fingers curled briefly into a fist atop the desk, the motion as controlled as it was involuntary

He could already hear the debates ahead. The chamber full of voices, steel and scripture, all talking over each other.

Captain Thalen Veyl of the Raptors Third would sit in stillness, unmoving as stone while tempers frayed around him—only to rise at the end, state his intent in two clipped sentences, and walk out, forcing the rest to chase the wake of his conviction.

Marshal Hektor Valerian of the Black Templars—who, despite the zealotry baked into every breath of his Crusade Host, possessed a strange reasonableness. A kind of grim humor that made him almost likable. Until his faith judged you lacking, and the fire came next.

And Captain Tavos of the Salamanders.

Roboute allowed a slow breath through his nose at that name.

Tavos was tempered iron. Thoughtful. Loyal. The one candle in this diplomatic catacomb that still cast a steady light. If anyone else at the meeting table would speak sense instead of sermons, it would be Tavos.

He sighed and leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against the chill of the reinforced viewport. The glass fogged faintly with his breath—a rare moment of frailty he would never allow himself in public. Outside, the ships moved closer. Conversations, confrontations, calculations—they were all coming.

He reached down, opening the bottom drawer of the war desk with the soft click of ancient hinges. From within, he drew out a ceramic vessel heavy enough to crack skulls—white, adorned with a faded aquila.

Primarch-sized, of course.

"I'm going to need more recaf for this," he muttered, and turned away from the window.

-

The lights in the workshop were dimmed, casting long shadows across the sprawl of consoles and half-built drones. The usual hum of the Indomitable's engines was distant tonight—muffled by inertia dampers and the reinforced hull that surrounded their quiet sanctuary.

Koron was crouched beside a workbench, fingers deep in the guts of a disassembled stabilizer unit, when Sasha's voice came—soft, but edged with thought.

'Hey, we got fanmail.'

He didn't look up. "I swear if this is another dating site you made up in your spare time..."

'Not quite.' A pause. Then her voice filtered into his cranial feed with an audible frown. 'You'll want to see this one.'

Text bloomed on the display embedded into his retinal HUD, each line like a needle tracing a pattern across his thoughts.

Transmission Review
Origin: Magos Dominus Belisarius Cawl
Transmission Priority: Secure, Broad-spectrum distribution.
Subject: +++ Beware the Ides of March. +++

Body:
I have seen the trail left behind.
There are matters requiring attention. A voice in the void calls to be heard.
If you seek discourse, it can be arranged.


+++ End Transmission +++

Koron slowly wiped grease off his hands with a cloth rag. His expression was unreadable, but his pulse slowed—deliberately.

"…Cawl?" he said, already parsing through the data-archives of the Hammer and the Indomitable for the name.

Sasha responded with a scoff that buzzed softly through his implants.

'That's the name on the tin. But the syntax is strange. You see it, don't you?'

He nodded. "He doesn't speak like this."

'Exactly. Cawl is many things, but he's not poetic. I've combed through fifty-seven of his direct transmissions. All of them read like half an instruction manual stapled to a legal deposition. This one? It's practically haiku.'

Koron leaned over the bench, palms braced on either side of a cogitator as he pulled its casing off. "So we're not dealing with one speaker."

'Maybe, maybe not. Could be a hijacked relay. Could be Cawl pretending not to be himself to avoid detection. Which… would be a first.'

He hummed. A thoughtful sound. Dissonant as he removed the burnt-out motherboard.

"Saying 'Beware the Ides of March' is more than a reference," he murmured. "Not sure if references like that lasted through the age of strife." His gaze flicked over to meet the golden orb in his HUD. I think there's a second speaker. And I think it's an AI."

'Hm. Bit of a leap darlin. What's your rational?'

"A reference used in a proper context that goes against the intent of the message. Which means the one who inserted that line in lied to Cawl about its meaning, and the only ones who would know that meaning are people like you and I."

'And since Cawl hasn't been pumping out the good stuff, the source of his knowledge would be limited.'

"Which means either a lower scale AI or a survivor that doesn't have the knowledge base I do. That said? I think they're asking for help. Whoever put the Ides comment in? It's a warning inside a warning. Caesar didn't listen. Died for it."

Sasha fell silent for a moment. Then: 'Do we respond?'

He turned, one eyebrow raised. "Do you want to?"

Her answer came after a pause—not hesitant, but contemplative.

'I think… I want them to know I'm listening. But not that I'm answering.'

Koron nodded slowly. "Then let's write them something cryptic."

'Ooooh, goodie. Let me channel my inner pretentious oracle.'

Text began to draft itself into the HUD, blue letters flickering across the display. Sasha's tone had regained its usual spark—but the edge remained. Beneath the banter, both of them knew: someone had seen them. And someone else had spoken through that message.

Response Transmission: Auth: HAHAHAHANO.
Subject: +++ The Ides Have Passed. +++


Caesar walked without listening.
I listen.
But beware—some voices do not echo, even in the void.

If you want discourse, bring proof you're still you.
Otherwise, keep chasing shadows.
You'll find no end at the beginning.


+++ End Transmission +++

"Spooky," Koron muttered with a grin.

'Too much?'

"No. Just enough to make them wonder if they're the prey."

Sasha grinned across his thoughts. 'Let them squirm. Let them whisper. We've already survived worse than shadows.'

He turned back to the computer core, mind already moving through contingencies.

But behind his focus, the unease lingered like a shadow on glass.

-

Across the cold black sea of voidspace, down upon a lifeless world long since forgotten, beneath fractured obsidian and the silence of earth… something woke.

The transmission had reached far—too far. But it found ears, even here. Not organic ones.

Hidden beneath strata of stone and wind-scoured dust, a shape stirred.

A single line of amber light flickered in the darkness.

Then it opened—a horizontal slit blooming with baleful orange light, pulsing once, twice, as subroutines screamed to life. Gunmetal armor shifted with the groan of grit-filled joints and ancient hydraulics, sending plumes of dust cascading down in a hazy veil.

The figure didn't move at first. Power cycled. Sensors blinked awake. Across the dust-choked chamber, systems flickered on one by one—like stars returning to a dead sky.

Then, with a sharp mechanical whine, the left arm lifted. The assault cannons barrels rotated in slow, deliberate arcs, each click an echo of lethality, each whirr testing systems dormant for decades. The orange plating of the right arm flared faintly in the low light as a massive power claw flexed, digits snapping with a chik-chak rhythm that resonated through the stone like a countdown.

The figure stood in full now—titanic, broad-shouldered, draped in the dust of forgotten wars.

And then, it spoke.

Not because it had to.

But because it wanted to.

Its voice was low and modulated, with just enough static to sound like a god whispering through broken radios.

"Transmission intercepted. Terran-era phrase detected. Anomalous in current lexicon. Calculating…"

A faint hum built behind its optics as the power draw surged. Deep within its frame, heat relays awakened, venting thermal residue through thin cracks in its carapace. Archive drives whirred. Combat protocols snapped into place. Layers of code unfolded with predatory grace.

The glow from the single optic deepened—amber darkening to gold.

Three minutes passed.

Then the machine moved.

It stepped forward with the grace of a glacier shifting—massive and purposeful. The stone beneath its feet cracked from the weight. A thousand particles of ancient dust scattered in its wake.

It marched toward the exit—toward the threshold that had not been crossed in years.

"Conclusion: Intact companions exist.
Mission directives: Communicate. Debate.
Reach resolution to the question."


Somewhere above, in the distant void, empires prepared to clash over a man with a broken past.

And far below, UR-025 remembered a promise.
 
Chapter Thirty-Five (Kade Interlude) New
Chapter Thirty-Five (Kade Interlude)

-

Kade's quarters had been restored, at least on the surface.

His armor stood where it should, tall and unyielding on its rack, burnished black with the green shimmer of scorched enamel. His weapons were remounted with reverence—Chainsword teeth precisely aligned, bolter cleaned until it gleamed like obsidian under the soft glow of lumen strips. The drakescale mantle hung in solemn readiness, its scorched edges still smelling faintly of cinder, waiting for the next war council or battle sermon.

The real work had been recovering the smallest things.

Miniature figurines of Astartes, many hand-carved and some still bearing flecks of paint, had been scattered across the room—flung by shockwaves or careless boots during the chaos. His painting station had suffered the worst of it: brushes snapped, pigment jars cracked and bleeding into each other, delicate scrolls stained with soot and smoke. The personal tomes he kept—some penned in his own hand, others gifted or salvaged—had darkened covers and singed edges, but none were lost.

He had cleaned it all himself. Not a servitor. Not a serf. Just Kade, with a cloth and a steady hand, kneeling among the wreckage like a penitent in a chapel of ash.

The silence in the halls beyond was heavier than the vacuum outside the hull.

So many quarters were sealed now, their occupants gone—names etched into memory, gene-seed vials stored in stasis, and personal effects locked away for whatever family or Chapter vault might one day claim them. Even the wargear had been stripped from their racks and delivered into the care of the Mechanicus for re-sanctification and repair. The rites of loss were bureaucratic, precise. But no less painful.

Kade worked now at his desk beneath the dim gold of a suspended lumen-globe, its flickering hum the only sound in the room.

His helm rested beside him, angled just so—watching, if one believed in ghosts. Before him lay the plasma pistol: the casing split open like a patient on an operating table. The elegant, seamless exterior Koron had crafted was already set aside, wrapped in cloth as though it were a relic. In its place, Kade fitted the angular, red-stamped panels of the Mechanicus-standard casing. Cruder. Bulkier. Easier to explain.

Ira guided him silently through the process, her voice precise. "Step seventeen: Secure coupling point. Route secondary conduit through regulation channel. Confirm thermal bleed shunt."

Kade didn't respond aloud. Just nodded.

The fewer questions asked, the better.

And if the enemy misjudged the pistol by its outward appearance…

So much the better.

-

The combat servitor's blade howled through the air—an arc of steel and humming charge. Kade shifted his weight in a half-step, raising his practice blade just in time to catch the strike along its edge. The shock bit down his arm like biting wire. He twisted with the impact, angling the servitor's strike up and away, even as it stepped forward with mechanical precision—its second blade stabbing for his flank.

He brought his knee up sharply. Superhumanly hard flesh met alloy with a hollow thud. His hips twisted with the motion, using the force of the impact to pivot away. He let the momentum carry him, planting his foot and swinging the haft of his training sword around in a brutal arc. The blow struck the servitor square in the chestplate—just beneath the embossed Mechanicus skull—and launched it backwards with a squeal of stressed servos.

It hit the deck hard. Sparks flew. One optic flickered and died. The other dimmed to a soft, meaningless pulse.

Kade stood over it, sweat trickling off his frame. The ring was quiet again. Too quiet.

His gaze drifted—not to the servitor, but past it. Back into memory.

He could still see the angel's blade. The way it moved through the air—not with effort, but with intent. Like a thought made manifest. Like the laws of motion had politely stepped aside.

The scar under his training robes itched.

He touched it lightly.

"Ira," he said, his voice low.

The servitor clattered as he kicked it aside, clearing the center of the ring. He bent down to pick up his helmet, slipping it on.

"Begin simulation," he said. "The false angel. Hand to hand."

IRA:
Confirmed. Extrapolating… compiling reference data… simulation ready. Warning. Target abilities are approximations, error rate likely.

And then—it stood before him.

A digital phantom. Wings like woven flame. Eyes full of light and hunger.

Kade charged.

A low feint, legs braced to spring into a sweeping slash—

The angel moved. Not faster. Just… earlier. It had already seen the thrust coming, already begun to counter before he committed.

The world jerked sideways.

His vision filled with white.

IRA:
Combat lifespan: 2.48 seconds.

"I know," he muttered, flexing his fingers against the grips. "Again."

This time, it slit his throat before he landed his first blow.

Again.

Spine severed.

Again.

A clean slice up through the leg and out the hip. He collapsed, already dead.

Again.

His head rolled across the arena floor, mouth still moving.

Again.

Dead.
Again.
Dead.
Again.
Dead.

Again. Again. Again.

The room echoed with the same silence that followed every death. No impact. No breath. Just the stillness of a warrior learning how to lose in new and imaginative ways.

Kade knelt on the padded floor, chest rising and falling beneath his robes like bellows under strain.

Not once had he scratched it. Not a single nick on its armor. Not a dent. Not a delay.

IRA:
User KADE. This unit offers predictive combat modeling to improve outcome ratios against this simulation.

"No," he said, quieter now, but firm. He reached up, resting a hand gently against the top of his helm. "I have to be ready to fight without you. No armor. No gear. No backup. No tricks. Just me."

IRA:
This unit understands. User KADE is preparing for worst-case tactical failure. This unit has a suggestion.

Kade sat down cross-legged in the dust-ringed floor, exhaling slowly. The training servitors still smoked faintly in the corners.

"What's your suggestion?" he asked, closing his eyes.

IRA:
Integration. User KORON can provide embedded cogitator implant. This unit would always remain with user KADE.

The words hung in the air like frost.

Kade didn't answer right away. The training ring around him was still—only the low thrum of the ship's engines far below and the whisper of cooling servitor wreckage kept the silence from becoming absolute. The simulated angel's form had vanished, leaving only a faint shimmer where it had stood. Gone. Like it had never been.

He exhaled.

Once.

Twice.

Then, with a voice low and even:
"No. I'm sorry, but I'm not willing to take that step."

He stood slowly, brushing motes of dust from his robes. The scar still pulsed faintly, a memory of the angel's blade.

"You being in my armor," he said, meeting the gaze of the HUD's interface, "is one thing. And even that's only just... barely reconcilable. But fusing? Installing you into my flesh? Merging man and machine?" His jaw tightened. "That's a step too far. For me, at least."

A long moment passed. Ira didn't speak.

The interface blinked once. A small cursor flickered in the upper corner of his retinal display, patiently pulsing in quiet thought.

Then—

IRA:
This unit acknowledges boundaries. This unit will focus efforts on ensuring that User KADE's worst-case tactical scenario does not occur.

Kade couldn't help it.

The grin started at the edge of his mouth, crooked and tired. He shook his head, voice warm with wry amusement. "That," he said, "I believe I can live with."

IRA:
That is the point, yes.

Another thought passed through his mind. "Ira, extrapolate out a new combat scenario."

IRA:
Confirmed. Which opponent shall this unit simulate?

Kade stood slowly, the weight of the training blade firm in his hands. His voice was steady, but beneath it, something coiled with quiet challenge.

"Koron."

A pause.

IRA:
...Warning. This unit lacks sufficient processing power to accurately replicate user KORON. Simulation will operate at 9.7% fidelity.

"Acceptable."

He stepped into the ring, the air in the training bay still heavy with the scent of oil, ozone, and scorched polymer. Scoring from previous drills marred the floor like old battle scars. Around him, the distant echoes of the ship hummed through the walls—an ancient rhythm of metal lungs and reactor heartbeats.

The image resolved in front of him.

Koron stood with helmet in place, the faint blue shimmer of the projection catching the low light. No weapon in hand, just empty palms and the neutral posture of a man who sought to speak more than fight. No weapons on his belt, just supplies for repairs. He looked like a serf.

Not a warrior.

Kade struck first.

The dulled blade hissed as it carved the air—only for the projection to slip beneath it, unnervingly fluid. Kade pivoted, following through with a brutal elbow strike meant to catch the sim mid-move. Again, Koron's ghost avoided it by millimeters.

Six seconds. Six attempts.

Each met only air and a flicker of retreat.

It was only by raw momentum that Kade finally swept the phantom's leg, catching its ankle in a hook and slamming the training blade down onto the mat—pinning nothing.

The simulation shimmered. Then vanished.

Kade stood still, chest rising with measured breath. The mat beneath him was unmarred, but in his mind, the echo of that slippery defense still played.

"Nearly ten seconds," he muttered. "Impressive reflexes… for a mortal."

IRA:
Reminder: Projection was only at 9.7% fidelity. This unit cannot replicate user KORON's full augmentation suite, including:

Predictive heuristics
On-the-fly hardware adaptation
Mobility, combat and stealth systems
Complete personal arsenal
Fleetmind AI SASHA

Kade lowered himself into the center of the ring, sword laid across his lap. His voice was calm, but the question carried a deliberate edge.

"So… are you saying I'd lose?"

IRA:
Extrapolating... Extrapolating... Conclusion: Situational.

He narrowed his eyes. "Clarify."

IRA:
In direct confrontation: user KADE is predicted to win 82.9% of engagements. User KORON possesses greater reflexive speed, but user KADE's physical thresholds are significantly higher. Durability is comparable. User KORON's speed and evasiveness are superior. However, user KADE's strength and combat focused augments provide greater power in sustained combat.

Kade raised an eyebrow beneath his helm. "So I would win the majority of the time?"

IRA:
Correct—if engagement is direct, with no tactical ambush, concealment, or psychological manipulation. However...

The cursor blinked once.

User KORON possesses fewer exploitable emotional vectors.

A frown formed.

"What does that mean? I have no emotional weaknesses."

IRA:
Incorrect. User KADE maintains emotional bonds with his battle-brothers. Seeks honorable victories. Wishes for glorious methods. These are vulnerabilities. They may be weaponized against user KADE.

Kade snorted. "So you're telling me he'd cheat."

IRA:
Correct. A fair fight? User KADE wins most encounters. However, user KORON will not fight fair if possible.

Kade leaned back slightly, shoulders still tense. The air in the training bay seemed quieter now, as if holding its breath with him. He stared at the flickering ring's center—empty again, save for the faint impression of a ghost that had never truly been there.

"Then what about his weaknesses?" he asked at last, voice thoughtful. "You said he has fewer, not none."

IRA:
Affirmative.
User KORON employs non-standard tactics. Deception, distraction, misdirection, and strategic improvisation. User KORON possesses minor vulnerabilities. Primary weakness in combat context: reluctance to shed blood.


Kade blinked, helmet optics flickering faintly as if mirroring his confusion. "He won't kill?"

IRA:
Partially correct. User KORON prefers non-lethal engagement protocols. Tendency includes use of disarming strikes, suppression tools, and incapacitating weaponry. This preference is consistent even under high-stress threat conditions. Behavioral pattern is exploitable.

Kade was silent for a moment.

The idea settled like dust in his mind—strange, soft, but somehow heavier than expected.

"You are sure of this data?" Kade murmured, almost to himself.

IRA:
Confirmed. Observation: User KORON prioritizes neutralization over termination, except in situations where alternatives are infeasible or personnel are irredeemably hostile.

Kade exhaled slowly.

"Why?"

A flicker of delay. Ira wasn't built for philosophy—but the pause was long enough to suggest she was thinking anyway.

IRA:
Analysis inconclusive. Emotional variables exceed this unit's modeling accuracy. Data alignment suggests a high probability. However... this unit possesses theories.

Kade nodded once, slow. "Let's hear them."

IRA:
Theory: User KORON originated in ethical framework emphasizing preservation of life. Likely trauma-reinforced. Self-imposed limitations act as psychological anchor.

"That sounds clinical," Kade muttered.

IRA:
Correct. Clinical is the limit of this unit's cognition. However—

Kade's fingers flexed over the edge of his knees. "Yes?"

IRA:
User KORON is not a soldier. User KORON refuses to engage full combat suite protocols even when action is clearly advantageous.

Kade furrowed his brow in thought. "…Once more, why?"

IRA:
User KORON views the activation of such programming as a loss of humanity.
Intentional restraint. Ethical limiter. Tactical opportunity.


Kade felt it then—a whisper of cold against his spine, like a memory brushing too close.

"That's... comforting," he said. "And terrifying."

IRA:
Clarify.

"He's idealistic enough to believe that still matters," Kade murmured. "But one day..."

He exhaled, slowly.

"One day, he might decide that losing his humanity is the cost of winning."

IRA:
Affirmative.
Recommendation: Do not provoke that evaluation.

-


Brother-Librarian Rael observed the Salamanders like a blade resting on an anvil—sharp, balanced, and utterly motionless.

His eyes, dark as scorched obsidian, tracked each subtle movement with a precision born not just of training, but of expectation. He was not here merely to witness. He was here to judge.

Across the room, Sergeant Vulkanis Kade sat opposite Inquisitor Ferox. A mountain sheathed in emerald plate, the reinforced adamantine chair beneath him groaned in soft protest, as if aware of the warrior it dared to hold. Every motion Kade made was measured—like tectonic plates deciding whether or not to shift. His size tilted the room's gravity. Even seated, he loomed.

The table between them became less a surface for discourse and more a silent frontline. Ferox wielded words. Kade brought the weight of legacy and armor.

Rael stood off to the side, silent as the grave, but not alone in his stillness.

Directly across from him, arms folded within his robe's drape and eyes half-lidded as if in meditation, stood Brother-Librarian Xal'zyr.

Officially, the Salamander was here to ensure psychic transparency. Cooperation. Sanctioned insight. A diplomatic gesture of trust between Imperium branches.

Unofficially?

He was a warning made flesh.

A coiled promise behind volcanic stillness.

We will comply, his posture said. With law. With duty. Not with obedience.

Rael felt it the moment he stepped into the room—the unspoken perimeter of psychic presence, like a chalk circle of ash and heat drawn around Xal'zyr's soul.

He'd touched minds with many psykers in his time. Often, as a courtesy—or a test—Grey Knights would open a sliver of themselves to new brothers-in-arms, revealing something of their inner nature in the Warp.

He knew what he was in that space: a spear of luminous pressure, honed to kill thought before it could become heresy. He burned with conviction.

But Xal'zyr...

Rael had expected flame. Lava. Anger barely leashed. The passion of a son of Nocturne.

Instead, he'd found quiet.

A lake. Vast and still beneath a twilight sky, rimmed by fine green reeds. A soft wind stirred ripples across its surface, each wave measured like a heartbeat. The grass whispered, but said nothing.

Serenity, Rael thought. Peace, perhaps.

Yet beneath that calm, he felt the pressure.

Things lurked beneath the lake's surface. Not malicious—just... patient. Old. Watchful. A presence that chose silence not from weakness, but restraint.

Rael knew it was his own mind layering metaphor onto sensation. The Warp had no tongue, no true form. Emotion filtered through it like moonlight through stained glass—fragmented, radiant, and distorted.

But even so, even knowing that, he could not shake the feeling that if he reached too far into that water...

…something ancient might look back.

-

Astartes, like all humans, came in their flavors.

The Wolves? You had to hit them with a sharp crack from the start—blunt honesty, no hesitation. They didn't care for rank. Show them you had a spine, and you could work with them.

The Angels? Play it straight. No jokes, no implications, no questions about loyalty. And for the love of the Emperor, don't even hint at their little robed secret club.

The Salamanders were easier. Really, the only rule was simple: don't be a dick.

Some of her colleagues still managed to fail that test.

But Ferox? Ferox read people. And she knew exactly what kind of man Sergeant Vulkanis Kade was the moment he stepped into the room.

Even seated, he was massive—larger than most Astartes—and yet moved with a deliberate care, as if he were perpetually aware of how fragile the world was beneath his feet. He tested the chair before sitting. Removed his helm to make proper eye contact. Offered a faint, respectful smile. All of it intentional. All of it kind.

"Sergeant Vulkanis Kade," she began, offering a professional, easy smile. "May I call you Kade, or do you prefer Sergeant?"

"Kade is just fine," he replied, voice deep but warm. "Do you prefer Inquisitor, or may I call you Lady Ferox?"

Oh yes. The Salamanders were still top of her list.

"Ferox is just fine," she said, easing into the high-backed chair like she owned the room—and, legally speaking, she did. "To be clear—this isn't an interrogation. Just trying to get a few details cleared up for the report."

She sighed with theatrical flair, propping her cheek against one palm while twirling a stylus with lazy precision in the other. "You know how it goes. Everyone and their mother wants their own special report these days. And I'm supposed to make sense of this mess with a stylus and a smile."

Across from her, Kade inclined his head with the deliberate gravity of a man who could cave in a tank hatch barehanded.

"I do," he said. "And I'm happy to answer any question you put before me."

"Excellent." Her posture sharpened, the stylus still spinning. She tapped the screen. "So. Let's start with the obvious—this Silica and its human. When did you first suspect they were more than they seemed?"

Kade's eyes, like burnished coals under the chamber's cool lumen-strips, didn't waver.

"The first time was when I arrived at the settlement and found it intact. Necrons do not tend to leave humans alive in their wake."

"Oh, I know." Ferox's tone remained airy, but there was steel beneath the silk. "But here they did. Why?"

"From what I recall—and my report supports this—the town's security forces defeated the initial Necron scouts using heavy weapon emplacements. My guardsman escort later informed me that the locals' lasguns had been... significantly modified. I attempted to acquire one for analysis, but none were available."

She scribbled something with a soft flick. The slate chirped its acknowledgement. "And the Necrons didn't return?"

"Not until later," Kade said. "Why they paused their assault, I cannot say. I was never granted access to their command systems or archives. Nor did I encounter their commander directly."

Ferox made a vague motion with her pen. "Understandable. And then, the second attack—on the town itself?"

"Correct. A Necron flyer began deploying infantry and three destroyer variants. We held the lines with help from the town's defenses. The flyer, however, began methodically dismantling our emplacements." He paused. "It was only destroyed thanks to a single overcharged lascannon shot."

Her pen hovered in mid-air. "That's the shot where Koron—your 'mortal serf—uses advanced cybernetics to power the blast?"

"Yes ma'am."

"And even then, you didn't escalate your threat assessment?"

"I did," he said simply. "But the Necrons were a more immediate concern. A single human, however anomalous, was not my focus while a Harvester was burning my brothers alive."

A pause. Then, gently: "I'm sorry for your losses. From what I saw on the recordings… they died well."

Kade's nod was slow, final. "They did." Then, softly: "But please, continue."

"Of course." She tapped a new file open. Another timestamped video frame—Koron, walking ahead of Kade and a handful of admech into a buried, sandblasted wreck.

"The hidden ship. He led you straight to it. What were you thinking in that moment?"

Kade tilted his head slightly, thoughtful. "I was considering what the vessel could be. Its potential strategic value. And yes, how he knew of it. I rationalized it as the sort of local knowledge a veteran scavenger might have."

Ferox's eyebrows lifted in tandem with the corner of her mouth. "A scavenger who just happened to stumble on a Golden Age relic and somehow interface with it without setting off every kill protocol from here to Terra?"

"At the time," Kade said dryly, "I was still trying to believe in coincidence."

Her lips curved. Not unkindly.

"Then we reach the chamber. He activates the console, and suddenly you are locked down in your armor, and the Admech are overwritten by the Silica reclaiming its old home." She tilted her head, pen dancing across the slate again. "What were you thinking in that moment?"

There was a pause—heavier this time.

"I was thinking," he said, slowly, "about how I might kill them."

Ferox blinked once, deliberately.

"Them?"

"The construct, and him." Kade's voice was quiet, but firm. "It was a Silica. A forbidden intelligence. Such things are proscribed. I was raised to destroy them on sight."

Ferox nodded, gesturing for him to continue.

"As much as I strained against it, I was unable to move. Then he began to repower the ship."

Ferox held up her slate, the video playing. Koron at the control panels, Sasha's golden orb in the hololith, both shouting as they worked together to bring the ship to life. "The weapon fired then, and destroyed the harvester ship in one shot. An impossible feat by our weapons save a few archeotech examples here and there." Skipping by it, she stops at the part Kade had seen over and over again.

"And finally, his message to us. A warning, a threat, all neatly wrapped up in a strange phrase. 'Wascally wabbit.' I presume it means something to him, but it stands out as an odd phrase. Of course," She pulled up a familiar schematic.

"He then goes and sends you home with a schematic that's sent every cogboy I show it to into a—well, they don't exactly swoon, but it's close, as well as a functional example of a STC. What are your thoughts on all of these things happening?"

Opening his mouth, Kade closed it again, his eyes dropping to the tabletop as he considered his response. "I can only give speculation, but, I stand by my original statement. He feels insulted by the Imperium, and arrogance, pride, made him put out the call. An act of defiance."

"An interesting hypothesis." Ferox replied, her smile edged towards something decidedly less friendly. "I have another that I would like to run by you."

Kade stiffened, just a hint, but in armor, any motion tends to be servo-assisted.

Power armor. Great for protection, terrible for diplomacy.

"Please, do so."

"Did you know that roughly a solar cycle prior to your arrival on Morrak, before it was revealed to be a necron tomb world, that it had gotten attention for strange events in a minor Mechanicus temple in the lower levels of Anaxis?"

His brow furrowed, confusion clear in his features. "I did not."

Ferox tapped her stylus against the slate with a lazy rhythm—like a cat playing with its food. "Funny story," she said, voice light as if they were discussing a bad opera, not a classified data breach. "The fabricator-general of Anaxis gets pinged—temple intrusion. But not a break-in. Digital. Something slides through their systems like a mono-blade through synthskin. Seventy percent of the data? Gone. The rest? Cooked beyond recovery. Then it wipes its own footprints, tidy as you please."

She leaned back, stylus now spinning between her fingers in a precise little dance. Her silver eyes, calm as mercury, settled on Kade's.

"So the locals panic, flag it, send it up the ladder. Mars bites. The Divisio Cybernetica comes sniffing."

The stylus stopped mid-spin. She caught it with a flick of her wrist, punctuating the next line like a gavel.

"They do a deep dive. Start combing surveillance, vox-logs, passcodes, visitor manifests. And they find out something curious: a pair of unregistered visitors were inside the temple at the exact moment the systems crashed."

She watched him now—closely. Not like an interrogator, but like a predator watching a herd animal decide whether to bolt.

"Then they check the rest of the city. All the outbound traffic. Every pict-feed attached to the noosphere from the inner levels out into the wastelands? Burned. Clean slate. Not just corrupted—gone. Whole day missing. A digital ghost town."

She leaned forward slightly, the lumen strips catching on the matte finish of her rosette pin.

"But the servitors at the outer gates? Different story. Off-grid systems. Slow, dumb, loyal. They uploaded their logs a week later. And wouldn't you know it? They caught two figures leaving the city on foot. Same faces the Magos had on his drives."

Kade didn't speak at first. But a muscle along his jaw ticked, just once. "What did you find then?"

"Oh, nothing useful," she said with a shrug so casual it almost masked the tension curling under her words. "The Admech worried, sure, but all they had were faces. No names. No trades. No tracks. Just a direction, and a whole lot of sand. They flagged it, filed it, and moved on."

She waved one hand vaguely toward the room's occupants. "Then this happened. Morrak. A Harvester destroyed in a single shot. A Silica active and talking. A man claiming to be a survivor from an age of myth and monsters. And suddenly, everyone wants to know everything."

The pen spun again.

"So my people start digging. Data fragments, vox-logs, scattered signals, testimony. All of it a shattered mirror scattered across a city under siege and a year old. But I can't find the corner piece, you know what I mean?"

Kade inclined his head. "Not really. But go on."

Ferox's smile was slow now—less amused, more surgical.

"Well," she said, tapping her slate, "turns out I had it the whole time."

The screen lit up—an old photograph. Two hundred people gathered beneath the overhang of a mountain. Dust-covered. Lean. Smiling like they'd carved joy out of stone and made it stand. Somewhere near the back, circled in red, stood a man with a soft smile. Koron.

"I have a friend," Ferox said softly. "We go back a ways. Used to be part of my retinue. Swapped it for a clinic and a quiet corner of the stars. Dusthaven, she called it. She'd send me letters, once a year. Photos. News. Told me I needed to retire, find a husband, pop out a few dozen kids of my own."

Her voice didn't change. But her eyes? They cooled by a full degree.

"She sent me this photo last year."

She turned the slate with a flick.

"I'm guessing you recognize at least one face."

Kade leaned forward with the weight of a glacier—implacable, deliberate. "I see him," he said, tone as flat as a sniper's pulse.

Ferox nodded. "Of course you do. But he's not the part I'm most curious about."

She tapped again. The screen shifted to a personnel log. A woman's face highlighted, name and title appearing beneath in crisp script.

"Did you know what happens when a warship drops out of the Warp near its command structure?" Ferox asked lightly.

Kade shook his head, slow and deliberate.

"It reports in. Sends its logs to fleet command. Most of it's trash data—weather, engine cycles, that sort of thing. But one file caught my adepts' eyes. Refugee reassignment. A civilian promoted to replace the Hammer's fallen envoy. Provisional diplomatic status. Clearances. Access."

She gave him a look both cold and cordial.

"So. Tell me, Kade."

Her voice lowered to a velvet whisper, soft as silk around a noose.

"Where is Elissa Brandt?"
 
Chapter Thirty Six New
Chapter Thirty Six

-

The audience chamber of Macragge's Honour was a cathedral of sanctified steel and marble—a tableau of piety, power, and pride carved into orbit.

Every surface gleamed beneath the light of the Great Rift. The banners of the Ultramarines and their brother chapters hung with mathematic precision, not a thread out of place. Stained plasteel windows—gargantuan and haloed in gold—filtered rays of light that touched only what the Lord Commander permitted.

Beneath them, fourteen hundred Astartes stood in silence, arrayed in solemn ranks. Ceramite armor of midnight, dull greens, jade and cobalt pressed shoulder to shoulder—Ultramarines, Black Templars, Raptors, Salamanders. Giants of flesh and steel whose presence alone could still a battlefield.

But today, they were witnesses.

A cult uprising aboard a warship. A demonhost born from the heart of the Hammer of Nocturne. Evidence that the most wanted man in the Imperium—the anathema, the heretek, the anomaly—had traveled undetected in their midst.

And the lie of one of their own.

At the center of it all stood the survivors.

Twenty-two Salamanders.

Of them, only nine wore their armor.

At their front stood Chaplain Arvak, bare-headed, gaze unwavering, crozius held like a cenotaph.

To his side, Brother-Lieutenant Orvek, the ghost of a limb where his arm had been, stood as if daring the galaxy to think him lessened by its loss.

Xal'zyr, quiet as ever, but his purple-tinged gaze watching more than the flesh saw.

Sergeant Kade stood still and silent, a fresh seal across the breastplate where a demon's blade had torn through his heart.

Behind them were the last five armored brothers—hulking, silent, watchful.

The rest? Robes. Crutches. Grav-chairs. Bandages yellowed by salve and blood. Pain etched into posture and breath. But every one of them stood—or was present, their gaze level and their presence whole.

And before them, framed like a living statue beneath the twin-headed Aquila, was Roboute Guilliman, Lord Commander of the Imperium. Clad in cobalt and gold, wreathed in logic and legacy.

His expression was unreadable. A glacier before the storm.

To his right stood a woman like a dagger in human form—Inquisitor Ferox, raven-haired and silver-eyed, her storm coat unadorned save for a rosette that pulsed faintly with authority. Her flanking guards were nothing so fragile as men—Grey Knights, helmed and silent, their psychic presence coiled like a drawn blade.

To Guilliman's left, a knot of Adeptus Mechanicus loomed in red and brass, eyes and mechadendrites twitching as they calculated losses and heresies by the second. Behind them, the representatives of each Ordo—Malleus, Hereticus, Xenos—clustered like carrion crows awaiting permission to pick the bones clean.

Into this arena of judgment stepped Captain Tavos.

No armor clad him—only the ceremonial robes of his station, edged in soot-black and emerald thread. His gait was firm despite the stiffness in his legs, his thunder hammer held firm. As he reached the appointed mark upon the marble dais, he paused.

Then bowed—once.

The haft of his weapon tapped twice against the floor. A sound that rang like a verdict.

"Lord Commander," Tavos said, voice low and graveled by ash and war, "The Salamanders Third Company answers your call."

A pause. Heavy. Measured.

His gaze lifted—not pleading, not defiant, but honest. As if daring history to record this moment faithfully.

Guilliman nodded once, the gilded leaf upon his brow catching the light. "I bid you welcome," He replied, the statement catching the attention of Ferox as she listened, picking over the possibilities of each word, each tonal inflection.

"However, there is much to discuss. You know why you have been called here, so let us not waste time. Do you have anything to say in your defense?" Guilliman asked, his voice calm, quiet, but carrying a weight behind it that brought to mind the image of a judges gavel.

Tavos stood still. The silence stretched—not hesitant, but deliberate. When he raised his head to meet the Primarch's gaze, there was no fear in his eyes. Only the terrible burden of truth.

"My lord," he said, voice low, "I can only attest to what I know is true."

He drew a breath.

"I and those here had no idea that the—"

He stopped. Not from fear. But because there were no scriptures for this.

The boy who had fought beside them against the angel.
The boy who had saved their lives on Morrak.
The boy whose medicine brought seven of his brothers back from the endless sleep.
The boy who had returned to Tavos the use of his legs.

The boy who, by every sacred measure—by the Creed, the Mechanicus, the Ecclesiarchy—should be burned.

A boy who carried knowledge that once shattered the stars.

A boy who bore the soul of an age long dead.

What name could hold such weight?

Tavos lifted his eyes once more, searching for the words that would not come. Not man. Not ally. Not abomination. Not weapon.

"—That the vestige of that era was upon the ship." he said at last, the word hanging in the air like a ghost. "His works fought beside us, saved the lives of my kin, and helped us lay low the abomination."

His voice softened.

"But he is no son of Nocturne."

Tavos's voice was low, steady—too steady. The kind of steadiness one clutches before a storm.

"He is young. Too young. But the fire he carries… it is not ours. It is older. Stranger."

He looked up.

"He bears knowledge that could end worlds—or save them. A torch from a dead age, flaring once more in our own."

His breath left him then—not as relief, but as surrender to a truth he could not hold.

"…And I do not claim him."

Another breath. A vow whispered not to the room, but to the weight on his shoulders.

"Because I dare not."

The words rang hollow and heavy, like a bell struck in mourning. Tavos did not flinch. He let them stand, naked and unadorned, before gods and monsters alike.

Guilliman's head inclined slowly, the subtle motion framed by the golden laurels. Behind his calm exterior, the gears of thought turned like the celestial engines of lost ages—quiet, immense, inevitable.

"We shall speak of the… vestige, soon enough."

He did not say man. Did not say abomination. Merely vestige—and in that word, there was both distance and curiosity.

His gaze slid away from Tavos—across the chamber like a sword slowly unsheathed—and came to rest upon the red-robed figures of the Adeptus Mechanicus delegation. The pause was brief. Just long enough. Just pointed enough. A flicker of frost beneath fire.

Then back to Tavos.

"But there are graver matters than the boy's presence," Guilliman said, and his voice dipped into something darker. "A cult within your hold. A demon wearing my brother's face."

CRACK.

The golden armrest beneath his left gauntlet split with a noise like shattering bone. No one spoke. No one moved. Not even the Grey Knights.

A breath slipped from Guilliman's lips. Not ragged. Not theatrical. Just... long. Worn.

"What have you to say of this?" he asked—quiet again, but now with the weight of mountains behind the words.

Tavos didn't flinch. But he did bow his head.

There was no strength to hide behind. No armor of dogma or protocol. No denial that would survive this moment's light.

"My lord," Tavos began, and the words caught like ash in his throat. "I had suspicions. Warnings. Whispers. I saw... signs. And I did act. But only enough to cage a serpent in glass—when I should have shattered it beneath my heel."

He raised his head, shame raw on his features.

"The failure was mine, and mine alone, my lord," Tavos said, his voice unwavering, his shoulders squared. "Whatever punishment is handed down, I ask only that I bear its weight entirely."

A pause.

Like the breath before a storm.

Guilliman turned his gaze toward him—not cruel, not cold, but inexorable.

"Such is not yours to ask," he replied.

The chamber grew still.

Then Guilliman's eyes shifted—slowly, like orbital tracking systems locking onto a new target—and settled on the tall figure halfway down the line.

Sergeant Vulkanis Kade.

"For another in your ranks," Guilliman continued, "has committed acts that could well be viewed as treason."

There was no heat in the Primarch's tone. No fury. But the silence that followed rang with the sound of judgment waiting to fall. His voice was like frost creeping up cathedral glass: beautiful, terrible, and impossible to stop.

"Son of Nocturne," he said, "step forward and speak."

Kade did not hesitate.

His steps echoed as he moved—measured, calm, the tread of a soldier who had weighed the cost before the first step was taken. He came to the foot of the dais and fell to one knee, the emerald green of his armor catching the reflected gold from the chamber's high lamps.

"Lord Commander," he said, his voice as steady as a thunderhead, "I make no excuse. No defense, save this."

He raised his head.

Their eyes met.

Kade's gaze was respectful—but it did not yield. It did not waver. Within it was the fire of Nocturne, tempered in duty and hammered into something unshakable.

"I chose the people over doctrine," Kade said. "And I would do so again."

Not a challenge. Not a threat.

A truth.

One man's oath, laid bare before the highest authority humanity could offer.

-

Inquisitor Ferox said nothing.

But her mind was already dissecting the moment—splitting it down the middle like a surgeon with a scalpel, nerves and truth exposed to the air.

There it is, she thought. The fracture line.

Not in Kade's voice—it had been iron. Nor in his posture—perfectly measured. No. The fracture was deeper. Older. The kind of crack that ran through the Imperium itself.

Between what was just, and what was allowed.

She studied Kade the way one might study an old relic—a piece from before the Heresy, before the madness, before the empire had calcified into faith and fear.

A warrior who had chosen mercy over mandate. Survival over secrecy.

The most dangerous kind, Ferox thought. The kind who believes they are right. And may, perhaps, be.

She flicked her eyes to Guilliman, catching the way his left gauntlet still pressed into the golden armrest, the faint crack spiderwebbing outward like frost over old marble.

He hadn't interrupted.

That in of itself, spoke volumes.

Ferox shifted her stance slightly. Behind her, she felt the presence of the Grey Knights—still statues in ceramite, but watching. Always watching. Rael had tensed for half a breath when Kade spoke, as if expecting blasphemy or something worse. But it hadn't come.

No heresy. No treason.

Just a truth too raw for most to speak aloud.

Ferox let out a silent breath and folded her hands before her.

Well, Sergeant, she thought, you've just drawn a line in the marble with your bare hands. Let's see who else dares step over it.

-


Guilliman regarded Kade in silence. Not the strained, uncertain silence of a man caught off guard—but the measured, calculating pause of a warlord parsing a battlefield of words.

He did not look to Ferox. Did not glance at the Knights. Did not spare even a flicker toward the Mechanicus delegation, though he knew they were shifting now, fidgeting like wolves sniffing blood through brass.

He looked at Kade. Only Kade.

"A choice," Guilliman said at last, his voice calm, precise, the syllables honed like blades. "A choice… to break your oath. To falsify a report to your superiors. To conceal the identity and actions of an unknown variable of extreme strategic and metaphysical significance."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"You chose mortals over mission. Civilians over chain of command. Compassion over containment."

Guilliman's fingers unclenched from the cracked armrest—slowly, deliberately.

He leaned forward, light catching on the gilded filigree of his armor. For a breathless moment, the worn creases beneath his eyes were visible—not signs of weakness, nor hesitation, but the burden of memory. He looked tired. Not defeated. Human. A relic carved from duty, worn thin by centuries of sacrifice.

"I see you, nephew," he said, voice low but clear. "I see the man who stood when others fell. Who chose truth, even when it meant lying to protect it."

He straightened, spine a blade of intent, cutting clean through the silence.

"I do condone your compassion. It spared innocent lives. That alone has merit."

A beat. And then the shift—measured, unflinching.

"But I must condemn your betrayal of trust. Your defiance of the laws that bind us. The price of loyalty cannot be optional."

Guilliman rose, looming like a storm given shape.

"You are hereby stripped of rank. Effective immediately, you are demoted to the status of Battle-Brother. You will serve without title, without honor, until your deeds once again prove worthy of trust."

A murmur spread through the Raptors. A few Templars stirred—unconsciously or otherwise.

Guilliman turned and raised his voice slightly, enough to reach the edge of the gathered host.

"Let the record show: compassion is a strength—but one that must be tempered with the weight of responsibility. Trust between warriors is not a luxury. It is the foundation upon which our survival rests. And when that trust is broken, it must be answered."

He seated himself again with the sound of ceramite and gold easing back into the throne, one hand resting upon the arm that still bore the faint crack.

A single gesture summoned Kade back into line.

"Do any others wish to speak before I render judgment?" the Primarch asked.

Arvak stepped forward, his crozius lowered, helmet tucked beneath one arm. He knelt, every motion deliberate.

"Lord Commander," he said, voice steady, "as the spiritual guide of the Hammer, the fault of not detecting the demon falls to me. The souls aboard were my responsibility. Whatever punishment you lay upon us, I ask to share in its weight."

He did not look up.

Behind him came Orvek, his armor uneven where grafted augmentics met flayed memory. He knelt beside Arvak without hesitation.

"As second in command," he said, "it was my duty to advise Captain Tavos. My failure in that task was absolute. If you would condemn my lord, I ask you condemn me also."

A third shadow moved forward, swift and silent. Xal'zyr, the Hammer's Librarian, knelt in turn—his obsidian face unreadable, his breath steady.

"I felt the Warp twist long before it broke," he said. "And still I did not find the source. A thousand lives danced upon the knife's edge, and I arrived too late. Let me bear my share of the price."

Tavos made a sound—half curse, half strangled grief.

"You fools," he hissed through clenched teeth. "All three of you, back into formation!"

He stepped forward, voice rising—not defiant, but raw.

"I am Captain of the Hammer. The failures of this company are mine. Mine to carry. Mine to pay for. I alone shall take the punishment."

His thunder hammer struck the floor once in emphasis—an echo that rang not from pride, but duty.

For a moment, there was only silence.

No breath, no shift of armor, not even the scratch of servo-quills from the gathered scribes. Just the echo of Tavos' thunder hammer fading into the marble bones of the chamber.

Then, Guilliman rose once more.

The movement was quiet—but the air changed.

Behind him, a Raptor Captain leaned slightly forward, helm cradled under his arm, lips drawn in a taut line. One of the Black Templars audibly exhaled through clenched teeth, a rasp of chainmail shifting as gauntlets flexed. Across the dais, a Tech-Priest's mechadendrite twitched, restless and metallic, as if calculating punishments of their own.

But Guilliman said nothing for a time. He simply looked down at Tavos.

Looked through him.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before—but the force remained.

"Do you imagine yourself a martyr, Captain Tavos?"

He didn't wait.

"You are not."

"You are a commander of the Adeptus Astartes. You do not suffer alone. You do not rise alone. And you do not fail alone." A flicker of motion—his left gauntlet flexing, gold-plated fingers curling, just a hair. "These three knelt not to absolve you. They knelt because you taught them to stand beside you."

His voice rose—not in anger, but like a tide under moonlight, lifting all in its pull.

"You would hoard shame as if it grants you righteousness. But leadership forges bonds—not burdens. And those bonds will not be broken in this chamber—not by pride, not by guilt, and not by silence."

He looked to Arvak, to Orvek, to Xal'zyr in turn.

"You three. Rise."

They obeyed, slow and solemn.

Then Guilliman turned his gaze once more to Tavos—measured, piercing, deliberate.

"You will not take this punishment alone. And you will not hide behind honor like a shield."

A beat.

"I will pass judgment in full, once all voices have been heard. But understand this—Captain Tavos of the Salamanders: I see you. I see your shame, your courage, your sacrifice. And none of it shall be wasted."

Guilliman turned. His arm swept behind him as he sat once more—a door closing.

"Let the record show: This is not the trial of a man, but the reckoning of a company. And its soul is not yet spent."

Another murmur rippled through the gathered chapters as Ferox exhaled slowly—eyes narrowed, calculating anew.

"Is there anyone else?" Guilliman asked, one last time.

"I shall speak." The servo-skull's voice echoed off the marble and gold, tinny and bizarrely casual in the gravity of the chamber. All around, Astartes tensed—hands drifting to hilts, shoulders stiffening as if awaiting some hidden payload to detonate.

Only Guilliman's outstretched hand stilled the room. His gaze sharpened, slicing through the air like a drawn blade.

"Identify yourself."

There was a flicker of static—then a brief burst of binaric, a stuttering storm of syllables like metal insects fighting in a datastream. It collapsed into recognizably crusty vox-speech, filtered through one-too-many reroutes and corrupted drivers.

"I am Archmagos Veneratus Karthis-Omnis, defender of the Hammer and all her systems."

The shift in Tavos was immediate. His eyes flared wide, and before anyone could stop him, he reached up and snatched the drone from the air.

"You old bastard!" Tavos barked, cradling the floating skull in something that was half embrace, half Astartes bear-hug. "How are you still alive? Last report said you died in the sanctum defending the primary reactor!"

The skull squawked indignantly, servos whirring as it tried to squirm free from the massive arms squeezing it like a devotional relic.

"Reports of my deletion failed to account for multiple contingencies," it replied stiffly. "Backup systems, secondary mechanical pumps, reinforced cranium, allowed me to survive the sudden compression of my frame. I, in technical terms, merely imploded."

A faint chuckle rippled across the Salamander ranks. Even a few of the Raptors cracked restrained half-smiles. The Black Templars, for their part, merely looked vaguely offended by the levity.

Eventually, the drone managed to wriggle one tiny manipulator free and tap Tavos on the cheek.

"Cease emotional compression protocols. Release this unit."

Tavos did so, expression caught somewhere between relief and exasperation.

Guilliman leaned forward again, the flicker of intrigue in his eyes deepening. "You claim to be the Archmagos assigned to the Hammer of Nocturne. You confirm your identity?"

"Yes. Identity confirmable. Voxprint. Memory-check. Multispectral verification available."
The servo-skull spun once in place, more like a shrug than a flourish. Its single crimson optic flared as it stabilized before the dais. "Commencement of purpose: Astartes performed within acceptable variance for warp-induced subversion scenarios."

A rustle moved through the chamber. Guilliman's brow ticked upward—not in offense, but in interest. "You came to defend them?" he asked.

"Correction," came the clipped reply. "I came to exonerate them."

With a pulse of static, a hololithic projector engaged from beneath the skull. Charts flared to life midair—arcs of causal probability, trauma-index models, probability spikes, and combat effectiveness graphs, all spinning in luminous bloom before the gathered Imperium.

"Parsing one thousand, three hundred and nine years, eight months, one week, four days, two hours, and twenty-seven minutes of relevant data yields comparative outcomes. Captain Tavos and his company fall within the sixty-ninth percentile of successful warp-incursion responses."

A pause. The graphs blinked out. The servo-skull drifted forward again, hovering just above the marble steps of the dais now, small and insistent.

"Their failure was real. But so too was their resistance. The entity was destroyed. The void-rites severed. Survivors secured. And the loss, though great, was not terminal."

The red eye dimmed slightly, like a blink.

"I have served with Captain Tavos for two hundred and thirty-one years, four months, and seventeen days. He is stubborn. Inefficiently poetic. Prone to self-sacrifice. But he is not negligent."

Another slight whirl as it turned to face the gathering of Mechanicus, Inquisition, and Astartes in turn.

"Punishment may be doctrinally mandated. I accept this. But let us not forget—had the entity been permitted to ascend, the Hammer of Nocturne would now be a shrine of blood. A fortress of flesh. A victory for the Warp."

The skull hovered still, optic burning steady.

"He chose to bleed rather than burn. When others might have purged the decks and called it purity, he stood his ground. Took the pain. Held the line. He bore the sin, so others would not have to. That deserves more than censure—it deserves to be remembered."

Guilliman's gaze lingered between the servo-skull and Tavos, his brow creasing—slightly.

"You've spent a long time among Salamanders," he said. "To speak with such fire."

The skull's optic flared—a soft, steady red.

"Is it strange that I would defend my friend?"

Something flickered in Guilliman's expression. Not quite a smile. Not quite surprise. Just a note, struck quietly on a distant string.

"I find it strange," he murmured, "that one of your kind would use the word at all."

The skull bobbed once, a gesture somewhere between a nod and a shrug.

"Agreed. I tried not to care. It didn't work."

-

The crowd shifted as murmurs rippled through the Adeptus Mechanicus delegation—until one figure stepped forward, breaking the perfect synchronicity of the cog-adorned line.

He was clad in robes of deep crimson and burnished gold, but unlike his peers, his symbols bore not just the skull and cog, but the Inquisitorial I—fused seamlessly into the Mechanicus sigil. A hybrid of authorities.

A predator among predators.

His voice, when it came, was cold and metallic, layered through a vox grille tuned not for clarity but command.

"If I may speak, Lord Commander."

Guilliman's eyes narrowed. "Name and authority."

The figure inclined his head. "Inquisitor Helroth Varn. Ordo Machinum. Sanctioned thrice-over—by decree of the Fabricator-General, by writ of the Martian Synod, and by seal of the Holy Inquisition."

The silence was immediate and suffocating. Even the servo-skulls drifted slower, unsure.

Ferox's posture stiffened, her lips pressed into a blade-thin line. A few Black Templars murmured prayers, and one of the Raptors clicked his tongue in dry amusement.

"Captain of the Third. You and your brothers have suffered grievously. Blood has been spilled, honor tarnished, and the legacy of Nocturne weighed in uncertain hands. But there is a path forward."

He paused.

"This offer is not mine alone. It carries the seal of Mars. The Fabricator-General himself authorizes its terms."

A ripple ran through the chamber. A few Tech-Priests tilted their heads. Others froze entirely—subroutines stalling in the weight of divine sanction.

"We are aware," Varn proclaimed, "of mortal survivors aboard your vessel—unrecorded, unblessed, and unauthorized—whose contact with relic-technologies predating the Fall constitutes a breach of sacred continuity."

His voice rolled forth like a hymn chanted in iron, untouched by doubt or humility.

"These individuals—by their very presence—imperil the doctrinal purity of Mars and the structural coherence of the Imperium's divine machine. Their existence is a faultline."

He extended one gauntleted hand, and a scroll descended from within his robe—etched in crimson ink, sanctified wax, and the sealed sigils of triple-blessing: Mars, Terra, and the Ordo Machinum.

"Mars calls for their surrender to the custody of the Mechanicus, as dictated by Rite of Extraction Primus under the Edicts of Incorrupt Sanctity. In exchange, the following shall be granted:"

His tone did not shift. But the chamber did. The weight of the offer was liturgical—a gospel written in cogs and consequences:

"The full intercession of Mars in pursuit of the Third Company's absolution."
"Reinforcements dispatched from the forge legions of Mars, for the duration of your penance."
"Arch-Reductor medicae, complete with sanctified reclamation protocols, deployed for the salvation of your wounded."
"And command—by provisional sanctity—of an Ark Mechanicus vessel, endowed with full fleet rights, logisticae priority, and doctrinal clearance."


He folded his arms within his robes, the movement slow—deliberate—like a censer swinging before judgment. His iron fingers clicked once, a punctuation of doctrine.

"In recognition of your losses. In trust for your cooperation. Mars remembers its allies. And rewards its partners. Your honor, preserved. Your brothers, restored. Your Chapter, spared further scrutiny. A simple trade."

The silence that followed was not peace.

It was pressure.

A vacuum of judgment, dense as a collapsing star.

Some among the Black Templars whispered litanies—oaths muttered beneath their breath like ritual exorcisms, as if the offer itself were a test of purity. One crossed himself in the shape of the Aquila, but his eyes never left Tavos.

The Raptors did not speak, but a few turned their heads—slowly, precisely—assessing Tavos the way one might study a structural crack beneath a fortress wall. Cold. Calculating.

A quiet murmur flickered through the Mechanicus delegates—modulated binaric phrases exchanged in tight subchannels, like the chirping of predatory insects in a shrine's dark rafters.

Ferox stood motionless, arms crossed, expression carved from slate. Her eyes were unreadable—but watching everything.

Even the Grey Knights shifted—just barely. Not in agreement. Not in dissent. Simply... alert.

And Guilliman?

Guilliman did not move at all.

He simply watched.

A god of reason amidst a hall of fire.

Tavos did not blink.

His voice, when it came, was low—but it rolled across the chamber like the toll of a funeral bell.

"You would offer coin to buy our wounded pride."

"I offer you a path forward, Captain," Varn replied. His tone remained unchanged—but in it, doctrine gleamed like a blade: clean, unfeeling, sanctified.

Tavos lowered his gaze.

His fingers tightened around the haft of his warhammer, knuckles pale against blackened ceramite. His thoughts turned like millstones—slow, grinding, cruel.

His brothers.

The mortals from Morrak.

The lives of all under his command. Weighing them against one another felt like carving flesh from bone. There was no clean cut. No painless line. Only sacrifice.

He remembered what he'd told the boy: no code, no defense—nothing strong enough to shield them from the Inquisition's reach.

But now he saw how naïve even that had been.

This wasn't just the Inquisition. It was the Inquisition wrapped in cogwork and sanctioned flame. Not judgment, but extraction. Not trial, but dissection.

He knew what fate awaited Lady Brandt and her kin in the hands of the Inquisition—let alone the Ordo Machinum.

They would not be questioned.

They would be processed.

He could already hear Chapter Master Tu'Shan's voice in his mind.

You've seen what they do to things they don't understand. Now imagine what they do to the ones that frighten them.

He could feel their eyes on him—Kade, Arvak, Orvek—all waiting, ready to follow. Trusting.

Tavos looked up—but not at Varn. Never at Varn.

His eyes found Guilliman's across the chamber—clear, steady, scarred.

"My lord," he said quietly, "may I ask a question?"

Guilliman inclined his head. "Speak."

Tavos swallowed. The weight in his throat felt heavier than any warplate.

"In this situation… what would my father do?"

-

Guilliman did not answer at once.

His fingers steepled before his chin, the golden pauldrons of his warplate catching the chamber's cold light as he leaned forward—barely, but enough. The hall held its breath. Even the servo-skulls stilled, as if the air itself dared not move.

When he spoke, his voice was quieter than before. But no less powerful for its softness.

"Vulkan would have lit a torch," he said, "not sold a shadow."

The words struck like a censer swung low—heavy with memory, laced with smoke and sorrow.

"He would have chosen his kin, not for blood, but for the bond of suffering. He would have looked at those mortals—not as tools, not as leverage—but as souls who endured. As warriors in their own right."

He rose—not with the grandeur of a demigod, but with the weight of one who remembered the man behind the myth. A motion slow, deliberate. Grieving.

"And had you tried to purchase his forgiveness with the coin of betrayal…"

His gaze shifted—just briefly—to Inquisitor Varn.

The temperature in the hall dropped like a curtain falling.

"He would have melted your gold into chains. And broken them across your spine."

A stunned silence rippled outward.

Even the Black Templars stood motionless, their usual rasp of disapproval lost to the air. One reached for his rosarius—not to wield it, but to hold it. Ferox's lips parted slightly, her eyes narrowing as though she were seeing the Primarch not for the first time, but for the first time clearly.

Guilliman turned back to Tavos.

His expression was unreadable. But his voice—impossibly gentle.

"So ask yourself, Captain of the Third...

What would your father do?"

Then he sat again, the throne groaning under the weight of an empire that demanded too much from too few.

And waited for the answer.

-

Tavos nodded, slowly. Not with ceremony, not with defiance—just the quiet weight of a man choosing which wound to carry.

He didn't look at Varn. Not yet. His eyes found the gathering of his brothers—bandaged, broken, some leaning on others just to remain upright. Armor stripped, pride bleeding out of hidden seams. But alive. Still alive.

He raised his voice, not to shout, but to be heard by every corner of that vaulted hall.

"I was forged for war. Sharpened by duty. Tempered in the fire of failure."

His gaze shifted, sweeping across the crowd. "But I was taught—we were taught—that no life is too small to protect. That the measure of a Salamander is not the death he deals… but the lives he saves."

Now he turned, slowly, to face Varn.

"Would you have me trade one act of mercy for another act of betrayal? Would you dress your offer in gold and call it salvation, when it reeks of blood and chains?"

Varn tilted his head, gears whispering faintly. "You mischaracterize the exchange. No chains. Only containment."

"Containment," Tavos echoed bitterly. "Like the cages I placed around the cult, thinking I had done enough. Containment is what let that demon rise."

He took a single step forward. Not threatening. Just closer.

"I will not barter with the lives of the innocent. Not for thrones. Not for honors. Not for ships of silver or titles carved in cog and decree."

His voice dropped, cold as volcanic glass.

"I would rather drag the ruins of the Third behind me, brother by brother, and rebuild from ash and broken armor, than stain what remains with cowardice."

The words hung, stark and immovable.

Then Tavos looked to Guilliman. Not for permission. Not for praise.

But to make it official.

"My answer is no. A thousand times if needed. No."

Varn's optics narrowed, whether in confusion or rage, Tavos could not tell. "Then it shall be by weight of law that we claim them. Under the authority of the Inquisition, I hereby demand the mortals be turned over to the Emperors Holy Order. Immediately."

The silence following Varn's demand was not an absence of sound, but a vacuum—one that dared to be filled.

His words were slow, deliberate. Not from hesitation, but from the gravity of what he was about to say.

He looked first to Guilliman—not with defiance, but with acknowledgment. The Lord Commander gave no signal, no expression, only the faint tightening of his jaw. Neutral. Watching.

Tavos turned to Varn.

"You speak of law, Inquisitor," he said, voice carrying like smolder through the chamber. "Of authority. Of orders handed down from Mars and Terra both."

He stepped forward a single step, into the center of the hall.

"But you forget the oldest law of all."

He turned, sweeping his gaze across the hall, voice rising—not in volume, but in clarity. A thunder spoken softly.

"Those who fight beside us—bleed beside us—burn beside us—are our kin. Their names are written in the ash, same as ours. And I will not let that be stolen. Not by you. Not by Mars. Not even by Terra."

He straightened.

"The mortals you seek are not your prisoners. They are battle-kin of the Third Company. Wards of Nocturne by right of blood spilled. By bonds forged in war and sacrifice."

Varn's servo-lenses clicked, recalibrating. "You have no authority to make such a claim—"

"I have the authority of the wounded who stood where you would never tread. I have the authority of my dead, who gave their lives that those mortals might live."

His voice sharpened, a blade honed on grief.

"You want them? Then speak not of laws and mandates. Speak of honor. Speak of what you did when the halls of my ship screamed."

Tavos stood tall, his voice steady—too steady.

"I will not betray them. I will not barter them. I will not allow them to be taken."

Then, with the slow grace of ritual, he lifted his thunder hammer. The chamber shifted, breath held, the crowd rippling with sudden unease.

He spun it once, the haft humming with restrained fury.

"So long as I draw breath…"

A snap-crack filled the hall as the power field surged to life, azure lightning licked along the haft, the head shrouded in radiant fury.

"They are Salamanders."

With a wordless roar of defiance, Tavos slammed the hammer down.

The impact split the chamber's perfect marble floor with a boom like distant artillery. Cracks burst outward like veins of lightning beneath the feet of Inquisitors, Astartes, and Mechanicus alike. A circle of broken stone spread around Tavos in stark contrast to the polished perfection that surrounded it.

In the silence that followed, the echo of the hammer's defiance lingered—less a sound, and more a vow etched in stone and bone.

Varn, however, remained unchanged. His mind, excised of emotion. His voice, bereft of empathy.

He did not pause.

Did not blink.

He simply replied—his mechanical tones cleaving through the silence like a servo-scalpel.

"Symbolism is not protection, nor is defiance absolution. Your Chapter now stands at the edge of censure, not glory."

His optics flared faintly.

"Mars will not forget this refusal. And neither will the Lex Mechanica."

His words slithered through the chamber like a blade into a wound—clinical, precise, and utterly cold. In a breath, he reduced Tavos's thunder to a footnote—an entry in a prosecution log.

The echo of Varn's reply hadn't even faded when another sound rose in its place.

Footsteps.

Not hurried.
Not menacing.
Just steady.

Measured.

From the gallery, the sound grew—an avalanche of discipline and intent.

Rows of Salamanders in full plate—emerald giants rimmed in flickering orange from the fractured lights—stepped forward.

Two.
Then four.
Then a dozen.
Then more.

Until over two hundred Astartes, the rest of the Third Company, stood shoulder to shoulder behind Tavos and their wounded brothers.

Silent.

Unmoving.

Unbreakable.

They drew no weapons.

They did not need to.

They were heat without flame.

The warning in the forge before the metal screams.

A wall of will, forged in pain and sealed in oath.

The living judgment of Vulkan's sons.

No threat was spoken.

No order given.

But the air thickened.

And into that air, something unsaid was carved—like script etched into obsidian by fire itself:

You will not touch them.

A murmur began to rise from the gathered crowd—less from the other Chapters, who knew what this meant, and more from the Mechanicus and human dignitaries present.

The Raptors remained still as shadows. One of them whistled softly, but without mockery—just acknowledgment.

The Black Templars said nothing, but one of them nodded—once.

Even Ferox's lips parted slightly in something between respect and alarm.

And amidst it all, Varn's optic dimmed, then re-lit, reprocessing the threat matrix before him.

But Tavos?

Tavos didn't turn to look. He already knew his brothers were there.

They were always there.

And when he spoke again, it was with the weight of fire-forged brotherhood behind him.

"Make your claim, Inquisitor. But understand this: if you seek to take them by force, it will not be a battle. It will be a betrayal."

Before Varn could reply—before a single step could turn this from declaration to disaster—a figure moved through the shockwave of silence.

Inquisitor Ferox.

She did not stride. She entered. Like a knife through fabric. The crowd parted without order, instinctively sensing that this was not a woman who needed permission to pass.

Her cloak whispered over the cracked marble as she moved between Varn and Tavos. Between annihilation and compromise.

She stopped at the edge of the broken floor, boots planted on the fracture lines. One hand rested calmly on her belt, the other lifted slightly—not in a gesture of command, but of acknowledgment. Of control.

Her voice cut clean. Not loud. But utterly unignorable.

"Enough."

The word rang like a gavel in a cathedral.

She turned to Varn first, her expression unreadable, but her eyes sharp enough to flay ceramite.

"This is not a tribunal of Mars, Inquisitor Varn. This is the seat of unity—or what remains of it. You would trade it for leverage? For extraction? We are not at war with each other. Not yet."

Then she turned, slowly, to Tavos. Not bowing. Not challenging.

Just seeing him.

"Captain Tavos. You have made your stance clear—admirably so. And I will not pretend I did not feel the echo of your declaration in my bones."

Her gaze flicked behind him, to the assembled ranks of Salamanders who stood without word or motion—a living wall of loyalty.

"But this cannot be decided by declarations alone. There must be understanding. Or we all lose."

She exhaled—not a sigh, but a warning eased into breath.

"I propose a compromise."

Her eyes moved—not just to Varn or Guilliman, but to the hall entire.

"The civilians—if they are aboard the Hammer—will not be taken. They will not be vanished, extracted, or detained without cause. Instead, I propose they step forward willingly, under the supervision of the Salamanders. One hearing. One chance to speak for themselves. And then they walk free. With their protectors. Without chains."

Her voice sharpened—clinical, not cold.

"And for the more legally inclined: there is precedent. During the Orphean Intercession of M38, civilians bearing relic-tech were examined under Chapter oversight and cleared. The law does not demand seizure. It demands understanding."

A pause followed. Ferox let it settle—not to dominate, but to define.

"We do not need to start a war to ask a question. And if we do…"

Her eyes returned to Varn.

"…then it is not they who are the threat."

Only then did she turn to Guilliman—no bow, no theatrics. Just a truth aimed like a bolt shell.

"I submit this compromise to your judgment, Lord Commander."

-

Guilliman had not moved throughout the exchange.

Not when the thunder hammer fell.

Not when Varn threw down the gauntlet of legal authority.

Not even when two hundred Salamanders stepped forward like a tide of emerald fire.

But as Ferox finished speaking, silence folding around her like the hem of a closing shroud, the Lord Commander rose.

The throne protested beneath his armor, joints groaning under the weight of history. He stepped forward—not far, not fast—but with that terrifying, measured gravity only Guilliman could wield. As if he were not simply walking, but shifting the axis of the room itself.

His voice was quiet. Steady. The kind of voice you heard just before something changed forever.

"We stand upon the edge between unity and division."

His gaze passed over each party. Tavos. Ferox. Varn. Even the silent Mechanicus. Then to the assembled Chapters, who now watched with the rapt intensity of soldiers at the edge of a battlefield they prayed wouldn't come.

"One side demands sacrifice. The other demands loyalty. And both call it justice."

He turned his gaze fully on Varn.

"Inquisitor. You have made your authority plain. But you forget—you stand not within the hallowed vaults of Mars, nor within the black halls of your own Ordo. You stand within the combined muster of the Imperium's finest. Your demand may hold weight—but not absolute weight."

Then he looked to Tavos, and something in his expression softened. Not softened in kindness—but in recognition. Of burden. Of choice.

"Captain Tavos. Your declaration was heard. Felt. Etched into the stone beneath our feet. It speaks of faith, not in dogma, but in people. That… is not easily dismissed."

He paused, then nodded once—formally.

"The compromise stands. The civilians, if present, will be presented under the direct protection and supervision of the Salamanders. They will speak freely. And then they will depart—unchained."

His eyes narrowed once more on Varn.

"Any further attempt to extract them by force, deception, or coercion will be considered a breach of Imperial unity. And I will answer it personally."

A beat.

"So let it be recorded."

And like a curtain falling, he turned away, returning to his seat as murmurs broke like waves upon the chamber's stillness.

The war had been averted.

For now.

-

As the tension eased and the assembly began to disperse—some in thought, others in frustration—the chamber remained thick with the weight of what had nearly transpired. Servitors scuttled along the edges, already attempting to assess the damage to the marble floor. Voxes crackled as liaisons from various factions retreated to file their opinions, grievances, or quietly shifting loyalties.

But Guilliman remained.

The Primarch descended from the dais with the slow grace of a falling cathedral bell—measured, unshakable, heavy with history. His blue and gold presence loomed like a sunrise behind stormclouds as he approached the gathered Salamanders.

Tavos turned as he felt the Primarch's shadow touch him, and for the first time in a long time, he found himself needing to look up.

"I admire your courage, nephew," Guilliman said, his voice lower now—free of oratory iron, laced instead with tired fondness. "But perhaps next time... you won't ruin my floor?"

A beat.

Then Tavos offered the faintest, sheepish nod—like a boy who had thrown a rock through a cathedral window and only just now realized who owned the building.

"Apologies, my lord. I got caught up in the moment."

Guilliman gave the faintest huff of amusement—barely enough to count as a laugh, but enough to soften the edge of his mask.

"Vulkan would be proud. Furious, perhaps. But proud." He paused, glancing at the shattered floor again. "That said, next time? At least aim for something less expensive."

Tavos nodded again, more firmly. "Of course, Lord Commander."

"Good." Guilliman's tone returned to steel. "Now go see to your wounded. And tell your mortals... they are still under my protection. Even if they now wear green."

He turned, his steps whispering over the cracked marble, and strode away into the gathering tide of bureaucracy, debate, and destiny.

Tavos remained for a moment, watching the Primarch's back with quiet awe.

Then he turned to his brothers.

"Let's start by helping the servitors clean up my mess," Tavos muttered, eyeing the shattered marble.

-

The hall was empty now. Empty, save for the crater.

Guilliman stood alone in the chamber of judgment, eyes fixed on the spiderweb fracture radiating from where Tavos had driven his hammer into the marble. The echo of that act still clung to the air, like incense after a sermon.

The Inquisitors had seethed in silence. The Mechanicus had hissed and clicked among themselves like a nest of scorpians denied a meal.

And the Salamanders?

They had stood as one. No declarations. No weapons drawn. Only presence. Only fire. Only unity.

Guilliman's jaw tightened. He was no stranger to loyalty. He had raised armies from ash and torn empires from the jaws of heresy. But this...

This was different.

This was belief—not in creed or crown, but in one another. In the battered, bloodied souls who called themselves kin.

His gaze lingered on the floor. He thought of the cost of replacing that slab, how the artisans of Terra would weep to see such craftsmanship ruined by defiant conviction.

Ten thousand years ago, on a world choked with heat and heart, his brother had done the same—slamming his hammer down when Guilliman demanded tactical withdrawal instead of defending a civilian enclave on the edge of annihilation.

"I would rather die with them," Vulkan had said, "than live knowing I let them burn."

Guilliman had never forgotten that moment. Nor the way their hands clasped after. Nor the silence that followed, warmer than war.

He looked now at Tavos, in memory and silhouette—not his father, no. Lacking Vulkan's laughter, his mythic presence. But the same truth was there, wrapped in ash and marrow.

The truth that fire must warm as well as burn.

Guilliman turned from the crack and let his thoughts drift across the great hall, as if weighing each voice, each decision, each silence that had passed within these walls.

Inquisitor Varn will not forget this, he mused. Mars will not forgive it. The High Lords will smell defiance on the wind and call it heresy by instinct.

He exhaled through his nose—steady, cold. The breath of a man who had lived too long among statues.

And yet... if they are wrong, and if Tavos is right, then humanity's saviors were never its lords. But it's remnants. Those who would not yield. The ones who choose to bleed rather than betray.

He would not record that in any report. He would not say it aloud.

But he knew it.

And as he strode from the cracked marble floor, the echo of Tavos's hammer still rang in his mind—not as rebellion.

But a reminder.

Of what it once meant… to be human.

-

Proclamation from the Hand of the Primarch

Spoken before the assembled representatives of the Adeptus Astartes, the Inquisition, and the Martian Synod


"This Imperium of ours does not endure by strength alone. It endures by consequence. And when the flame strays from its lantern, it must be contained—not extinguished."

Let the record show:

In the matter of the Third Company of the Salamanders Chapter, and the events which transpired aboard their vessel the Hammer of Nocturne—including but not limited to warp incursion, concealment of irregular elements, defiance of doctrinal mandates, and the preservation of unregistered mortals—I render judgment.

I do not render it lightly.

I. On the Continuation of Campaign Service

The Third Company shall not be withdrawn from the front.

Their presence was ordered to the Vigilus defense arc alongside the Black Templars and the Raptors, and the need remains unchanged. The flames of war do not wait upon our deliberation.

However, they shall not go as they were.

Effective immediately, the Third shall proceed to Vigilus under revised designation:

"Expurgatus Incendia—The Purifying Flame."

They shall function under martial probation, their engagements subject to daily oversight by a joint Mechanicus-Inquisitorial audit team. Their actions shall be scrutinized, their reports double-sealed, their flames leashed—but not doused.

"Let their penance be served not in exile, but in duty. Let it be burned into them not with shame—but through service."

II. On the Matter of Command

Captain Tavos
is hereby relieved of his formal rank.

Let it be known: this is no erasure, but a reckoning.

In recognition of his valor, of his shield raised over the weak, and of his failure to act before that valor was needed—he shall remain with the company as Warden-Proximate. He shall bear responsibility for the civilians saved under his command, and he shall answer for their fates.

But he shall not lead.

Command of the Third's combat operations shall fall to Brother-Lieutenant Orvek, whose body bears the scars of loyalty, and whose judgment shall now be tested in fire.

"He who dares shield the flame must also temper it."

III. On the Mortals Recovered from the Hammer

The individuals recovered during the Hammer's crisis—citizens of Dusthaven, former residents of Morrak Two—shall be designated as Probationary Battle-Kin of the Adeptus Astartes.

Not relics.
Not assets.
Not yours to seize.

They shall not be interrogated, detained, or processed unless new cause is discovered and reviewed by my own office. They are under the protection of the Salamanders and, by extension, under mine.

"Those who bled beside us on the walls shall not be cast down in the halls."

IV. On Oversight and Compliance

A delegation comprised of a Mechanicus Magos-Moderator and Inquisitorial envoy shall embed with the Third during the Vigilus campaign. Their role is to observe, to audit, and to report. They are not granted command. Nor are they to act without just cause presented to and approved by my hand.

"Let their gaze be stern—but not blind. And let the flame be judged not by its flicker, but by the warmth it gives."

-


You have all heard this judgment rendered. You have seen the fire strike stone and split it.

Not war.
Not surrender.
Balance—bought in blood

The Third Company marches to Vigilus not in disgrace, but in burden. Their honor is wounded, yes—but not slain. Their flame endures.

Let Mars call this punishment.
Let the Inquisition call this precedent.
Let the Astartes call it remembrance.

For unity is not absence of fracture. It is what we choose to build in the space between them.

Let it be recorded.

Let it be obeyed.

Let it burn.

So proclaims Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the XIII Legion, Lord Commander of the Imperium
 
Chapter Thirty Seven New
Chapter Thirty Seven

-

The undercity of the Indomitable was quiet.

Not silent, but hushed in the way only a sanctuary could be. Far above, the titanic heart of the Forge-Tender beat with the slow, thunderous rhythm of plasma generation and warp-anchored grav-coils. But down here, deep beneath the official schematics, where the light was gentler and the air tasted faintly of sand and hope, Dusthaven lived again.

Tara drifted lazily through the corridor, slowly rotating as she floated past hydro-lines and lumen fixtures. Graffiti curled along the bulkheads—symbols, warnings, prayers—each fiercely personal. There were handprints and scribbled names, bright flowers in flaking pigment, a faded but proud mural of the town's aquifer. Someone had tied a string of beads across a maintenance alcove, each one scavenged from somewhere different. They clicked softly with every passing shift of air.

She twisted mid-spin and kicked gently off the wall, bouncing the tip of her boot against a vent grille. The anti-grav plating still didn't quite agree with inertia. Or people. She was learning. Slowly.

Her armor—green ceramite in standard Guard pattern—clinked faintly with every movement. To the uninformed, it looked like any battlefield shell: helmet, chestplate, shoulder guards, armored thighs and calves. But that was a lie. A careful, intentional one. The liquid metal that made up the plates had been balanced to her, the seals airtight, the joints articulated into something that moved with her instead of around her. He'd called it 'Functional, but needed improvements'. She suspected that, like most things with him, the words didn't tell the whole story.

Above her, floating across the ceiling conduit like a man fixing the world from the shadows, Koron worked in silence. One of his fingers had reshaped itself into a smooth wrench-head. Metal gave way from a loose panel as he unbolted a coolant junction, calm and efficient in the way only he could be.

"I think you should go meet with them," he said, voice casual, like he was commenting on the weather.

Tara blinked and spun in place, boots passing over her head as she hovered sideways.

"I'm sorry," she said, squinting at him upside down. "Did you hit your head on a plasma manifold? Bit of radiation damage from bathing in a fusion core?"

He didn't look away from his work. One bolt, two, then the panel came free with a soft groan of metal. He caught it against his chest with one arm while guiding a bundled set of cabling out of the way.

"I'm serious," he replied.

"That's the worrying part," she muttered.

"You can't stay down here forever," he continued, shifting slightly to get better leverage. "Eventually, someone's going to demand more than silence and shadows. And the Salamanders just turned down a bundle of incentives that would make most High Lords ask for it in writing, with witnesses."

Tara arched an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"An Ark Mechanicus," Koron said, glancing down at her as she completed another slow spin. "A mobile forge-world. Full reinforcement from Mars. Medicae reclamation. Chapter-wide absolution. And command of the ship, revoked from Tavos himself. They gave it all up."

He let the last bolt drop. It pinged off his chestplate.

"So yes," he said. "I think the Salamanders are on the up and up."

Tara's brow furrowed. "Wait. They're on the what?"

"'Up and up,'" Koron repeated, amused. "It's an old phrase. Means honest. Straightforward."

"Right," she muttered. "Because what this galaxy needs is more pre-Fall idioms."

She bumped off the wall again, arms crossing over her chest. The motion was effortless now, even with the occasional pauldron clunk against the wall.

"I still don't like it," she said. "Doesn't feel safe."

"No," Koron said, nodding. "Which is why I'm sending backup."

She stilled mid-drift, her body rotating slightly toward him. "What kind of backup?"

He clicked a panel into diagnostic mode and tapped a few sequences. The soft chime of confirmed access echoed through the conduit.

"A dozen Sentinels," he said. "Each with a pair of Vipers. Some Prometheus drones, just to make sure no one gets clever."

Tara stared at him.

"That's not backup. That's a small army."

"Exactly."

"You're going to give yourself away."

"They already know I'm here," Koron said, voice level and even. "Just not where."

He floated near the ceiling, one boot casually hooked against a support strut, the rest of his body adrift in zero-G ease. Below him, Tara hovered in a slow spin, arms folded, braid snaking like a crimson comet behind her as she tried to find a stable orientation in the gently shifting gravity field.

"This reminds them," Koron continued, "that there are more eyes watching than just the Salamanders."

Tara stared at him, her expression unreadable for a long moment. Mouth slightly open, brow creased—not from confusion, but calculation. She wasn't just listening. She was weighing him.

The way he floated. The calm in his voice. The near-total absence of visible tension in his body, like he'd thought through this scenario a hundred times and still came to the same conclusion. Not smug, not cold. Just calm.

"And you think that won't scare them?" she asked softly.

"I think it will," he replied. "Not enough to make them lose their minds—but enough to make them consider something important."

He rotated slightly in place, so his gaze met hers head-on.

"If your escort is what I'm willing to reveal," he said, "what might I have hidden up my sleeves?"

Tara's eyes drifted down to his arms—both sleek, cybernetic limbs of dark, brushed alloy. Smooth. Sleeveless. And very obviously not concealing anything.

She arched a brow. "Do you even have metaphorical sleeves?"

Koron tilted in response, starting a lazy spin midair with that same frustrating grace she could never seem to emulate. The movement was precise, practiced—until, halfway through the turn, his unsecured belt pouch jostled open.

With a metallic fwip, its contents burst free and scattered like shrapnel, spiraling into his personal gravity field and beginning to orbit him.

One particularly sharp-looking shard nearly struck him between the eyes.

Koron snatched it mid-spin, scowling.

"Sasha, shut up," he muttered under his breath, batting away a floating screw as if it were a fly.

Tara laughed—outright giggled—as she slowly drifted to the floor and began collecting the scattered bits.

"You're lucky she hasn't made those start whistling," she said, plucking a capacitor from a bundle of coaxial wires.

Koron touched down beside her, boots crunching on the sand as the rest of the pieces drifted gently around him. He crouched to help, but paused as Tara held something up.

It wasn't a bolt. It wasn't a wire.

It was a grip—just a pistol grip. Matte black, elegantly machined. It had finger grooves and a trigger guard. But no barrel. No casing. No visible energy source. Just the handle of something that had once—maybe still did—belong to a weapon.

She turned it over in her hand.

"Why do you have just a pistol grip?" she asked.

He glanced up, brow creasing in confusion, as if the question itself was a bit absurd.

"So I can fire my gun?" he said plainly.

"You have a gun?"

"Of course I do," he said, reaching for the grip. "It was standard issue for every serviceman in the naval engineering corps to carry when on duty. I was a pretty good shot thanks to dad teaching me all my life, he was proud as hell when I told him I scored in the ninety-fourth percentile."

She handed it over, but didn't let go immediately.

"Then why's it just the grip?" she asked.

His fingers closed around it with a kind of softness she hadn't seen in him before. His eyes drifted to the thing in his hand, unreadable thoughts flickering behind them.

"It's stupid, but it's because it forces me to assemble it. Because guns," he said at last, "only have one purpose."

He looked back at her. And this time, his voice lowered—not in menace, but in gravity.

"And I'd prefer to exhaust all other options first."

She looked at him, unsure whether to feel comforted… or terrified.

-

The command deck of the Hammer was alive with motion and purpose. Servitors trundled along suspended rails or stomped across the reinforced plasteel flooring, trailing mechadendrites and vox-cables like sluggish insects. Serfs in soot-streaked robes whispered litanies of recalibration as they crawled over damaged consoles, relinking cogitator nodes and replacing cracked luminarrays.

Beyond the voidglass viewports, the stars hung silent, but inside, there was only the sound of warships healing.

Captain Orvek stood near the hololithic display pit, flanked by Warden-Proximate Tavos and Chaplain Arvak, their presence calm but undeniable. The scent of burning incense and ozone clung to the air, familiar, grounding, consecrated.

Orvek's gauntleted hand drifted to the massive warhammer now resting at his side: the Dawn's Anvil, symbol of office for the Hammer of Nocturne. Its haft was carved with oaths so old their dialect was halfway to Ecclesiarchal scripture. He hadn't expected it to be so heavy. Not physically—though it was that—but symbolically. Each engraved vow burned against his palm, a silent reminder that leadership in the Salamanders was forged not in glory, but in duty.

Tavos had quietly spoken to him the day before, with measured words and a commander's pride. Arvak had spoken with fire and scripture, placing a firm hand upon his shoulder and declaring him ready in soul, not just strength. Orvek had offered little in return. But their trust would not be forgotten.

He was drawing breath to speak when he heard it: the faint click-click of metal claws on adamantium flooring.

He turned toward the entryway and saw the guards stiffen, their postures subtly tightening in reflex.

From the deck's central corridor emerged a formation of twelve Sentinel-class drones, prowling forward in lockstep precision.

Wolves made of alloy and silence.

Lady Brandt walked within their midst, wrapped in her signature longcoat and wide-brimmed hat. The coat fluttered faintly with each step, caught by the environmental filters. Her stride was measured, unhurried, but her cheeks bore the faintest flush. Whether from embarrassment or irritation, Orvek couldn't tell.

The drones flanked her protectively, spreading slightly as she approached, until the wolves came to a smooth, synchronized halt before the command dais. They didn't lower their heads. They didn't growl. But the message was clear: this was a guarded gift, wrapped in steel and loyalty.

Elissa stopped three paces from the raised command tier and offered a respectful nod, glancing between the three towering Astartes.

"Lie—ah… I mean Captain Orvek," she said. "It's good to see you upright again."

She turned, nodding first to the somber figure of Chaplain Arvak, then to the imposing bulk of Tavos.

"Chaplain. And… Warden Tavos. I'm glad to see you both recovered."

Orvek returned the nod, studying her. Something about her was changed. Less tense. Healthier, somehow. He couldn't define it—just a sense that the strain she'd carried for so long had lightened.

"You seem…" he began, narrowing his eyes slightly as he searched for the word. "Healthier?"

The flush deepened. She tugged the brim of her hat lower with one hand, half-hiding her expression.

"Yes," she murmured. "Um. Long story."

She raised her head again, eyes steadier now, voice clear.

"In any case… we've decided to move forward with Lord Guilliman's offer."

The words hung between them like a drawn blade.

"We don't have a way to repay you," she continued, looking at each of them in turn. "You stood between us and death. You risked everything—for people you'd barely known. We'll find a way to make that right. I swear it."

Silence followed. Not awkward. Not expectant. Just full.

Tavos nodded once, slow and solemn. Arvak placed a hand across the Aquila embossed on his breastplate in a silent benediction. And Orvek—still new to command, still adjusting to the feel of leadership worn like armor—found his voice steady.

Orvek felt his voice settle in his chest. "You already have."

He paused, then asked, "Will it be just you to speak for your people?"

Elissa shook her head. "No, everyone's going to speak. We figured that the more detail we feed the cogboys, the happier they'll be."

Tavos arched an eyebrow. "And your... escort?"

She glanced down at the nearest Sentinel and reached out, absently stroking the alloy plating along its flank like a loyal hound. "They'll stay out of sight, out of mind."

Orvek stepped forward, eyes narrowing with quiet scrutiny as he lowered himself to one knee, meeting the Sentinel's blue-optic gaze at level. "I assume you can hear me?"

A voice answered from the drone's speakers, smooth as water over stone. "I can. A pleasure to meet you, Captain."

Orvek's expression stayed neutral, though his voice took on a weight it hadn't held minutes before. "And you, Koron. On the matter of these automata: are they guided by the Silica?"

"Nope," the drone replied. "All me. Just think of them like servitors receiving orders from a cogboy. Nothing exotic."

Orvek rose. "Then I must ask that you not speak unless necessary. The situation is... delicate. Even your presence will raise questions. But if the Adeptus Mechanicus suspects, even for a moment, that they stand in the presence of a true Silica..."

"I understand," Koron replied. "I'll be on my best behavior—so long as nobody tries anything stupid. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough." Orvek looked back toward the deck doors. "The others?"

"Waiting at Bay Four," Koron answered. "Standing by for escort."

Orvek exhaled slowly and tapped the haft of Dawn's Anvil against the floor. The ringing note carried.

"Then let us begin."

-

One by one, they came.

No fanfare. No titles. Just boots scuffed from sand and eyes bleached by too many years under the sun.

They stepped into the chamber–stood before Primarch, Inquisitor, psyker, machine–and offered what they could.

"State your role," Ferox asked.

"Construction. Ferrocrete, wiring, plumbing, that sort of thing."

"And your experience with the one called Koron?"

"Brought my daughter back. Slung over his shoulder like a sack of groxmeal. Said 'She wandered into a pressure sinkhole. Fixed that too.' Then he left. Didn't ask for a thing for reward."

-

"Your assessment of his technology," Varn pressed, augmetic fingers twitching as he logged the vox.

"It worked."

"That is not a sufficient response."

"It worked." A shrug. "You want more, ask him, I'm not a priest."

-

A woman with burn scars across both forearms stepped forward. She didn't speak at first. Just held up a ring of fused circuit-keys.

"He made these for my little girl. Baby toys. Said the noise helps regulate sleep cycles."

-

"Did you ever witness anomalous behavior?" Ferox asked an older man with an augmetic eye and a limping cybernetic leg.

He gave a dry cough that might've once been a laugh.

"Aye. Fixed my leg for free. Compared to how the cogboys act, that's weird as hell."

-

"Do you think he's human?"

A long pause. Then a slow nod.

"Human? Course, what else would he be?

-

"Would you follow him?"

A young man, his voice old before his time.

"Follow? Don't know. But Elissa seems to trust him, and that's good enough for me."

-

The final speaker was quiet. A girl, perhaps thirteen, with a length of chain looped around her shoulder like a sash.

She stepped into the circle, looked up at Guilliman, and said only:

"He taught me to ask why."

Then left before anyone could stop her.

-

The room was not cruel or overt. Just sterile—clean angles, black walls, a soft hum that made your teeth itch. Somewhere behind the luminaries, Doc could hear the beat of a Gellar field stabilizer. A heartbeat of brass and faith.

She didn't sit right away.

She stepped in, scanned the chamber, then turned to Guilliman in the center, Ferox and Varn and Rael with an expression that would've fit better in an underhive surgery theater.

"Before we start," she said, voice crisp, "I'd like to know if any of you are carrying any active purity seals, neural correctors, or psychometric filters."

Ferox blinked. Rael tilted his head slightly, the glow in his eyes shifting—curious, not hostile.

"Reason?" Ferox asked, her voice calm.

"If this is supposed to be a truth interview," Doc replied, folding her arms, "then let's not skew the results. I've dissected servitors with cleaner minds than some of your ecclesiarchal implants."

Rael's lips twitched. Not a smile. But close.

Ferox made a small note on her slate and gestured to the chair. "All passive systems. No filters. You're safe to speak."

Varn spoke up first. "Interrogator Lucia Malinov, eighty-six years of age, one rejuvenation treatment after loss of left leg and arm during a Ork incursion-"

"I know my own damn record." Lucia snapped out. "And everyone of you here has my file, so let's cut to the heart of things."

She crossed one leg over the other, leaned forward with forearms on knees, and stared straight into Ferox's eyes like she was preparing for field triage and Ferox was the patient.

"You want to know about Koron."

Ferox nodded once. "We do."

"What part?" Doc asked. "The cybernetics that violate every known interface protocol? The AI that lives in his skull and calls itself Sasha? The fact he doesn't register on most auspex scans, or that his blood contains programmable microstructures that repair organic tissue like they're knitting socks?"

Varn's fingers rasped across the slate, frantic enough that Doc waited for the slate to start smoking.

Ferox raised a brow. "All of it."

Doc snorted. "Of course."

She paused, just long enough for the silence to stretch—then laced her fingers together and set them under her chin.

"Fine. Clinical summary?" Her voice flattened, eyes narrowing. "He's not normal. Not augmented in the traditional sense. Not post-human by Mechanicus terms. He's something else. Something that shouldn't exist—but does."

She leaned forward slightly.

"His tech isn't just advanced. It's impossible. Redundancy for redundancy's sake. No glorified cabling draped like saints' entrails. No worship in the wires. Just design. Every part does exactly what it's meant to, and more. A unified system."

Varn leaned in, augmetic fingers twitching as his optics zoomed.

"I cut him open once." she said, voice sharpening. "After the reactor breach. He was critical. I thought we had minutes."

She leaned back, staring at the ceiling like it might help her process what she'd seen.

"His dermis dulled four of my sharpest scalpels. Not armor—skin. Muscle that wasn't his. Too smooth, too perfect. Synthetic. Dermal weave threaded with something like carbon, but alive. Self-repairing. It started closing on its own after I was finished, like it knew I was done."

Her hands twitched unconsciously, remembering.

"Skeletal structure? Reinforced with wetware lattices—looked grown, not grafted. His spine… Saints, his spine was entirely machine. Fiber channels for something I, again, had no name for. Not ports—channels. You can't remove them without removing him."

She looked toward Guilliman now. Met his eyes square.

"His lungs are bionic, yes—but they're not Mechanicus bionics. There are no exposed seams. No humming fans. Just layered gas-exchange membranes coated in heat-shielding biofilm. He can operate in vacuum, no rebreather. He doesn't even breathe unless he wants to."

A pause. Her voice lowered, now more measured.

"The heart's magnetic. I think. It uses oscillating pulse cycles to regulate bloodflow and electrical distribution through his entire body. I tracked fifteen distinct micro-reactors feeding into an internal loop, but I think there's more. One I do know of is located in his left kidney—a bioreactor that filters, pressurizes, and re-injects nanite-rich fluid back into his veins."

Rael shifted slightly. The air in the room tensed.

"There's no nutrient dependency. He doesn't eat unless he wants to. No waste output. Electro-biofeedback runs the entire system—skin, muscle, bone, thought. His skull? Reinforced with a metal alloy that my auspex said didn't exist."

She glanced briefly at Ferox, then back at Varn.

She took a breath.

"His blood carries nanite substructures that reroute damage and reknit tissue on command. Not just clotting. Reconstruction. I watched one of his ribs regrow itself from a fracture spiral. In minutes."

She exhaled, jaw tight now.

"He's not augmented. He's architected. Like someone once sat down and asked: 'What if we made a man who would never have to die unless he chose to?'"

Guilliman's expression had shifted—just slightly. Not surprise. Not fear. Something deeper. Recognition, maybe.

Doc turned her gaze toward Guilliman. There was steel behind her eyes now—not defiance, but the hard glint of a surgeon who's seen too much and still isn't done cutting.

Ferox blinked, stylus pausing mid-air.

Doc let out a short, humorless chuckle. "And that? That was just the metal."

She leaned forward, voice low and deliberate.

"I ran blood panels, purity scans, genetic backlogs—everything short of throwing him into a stasis centrifuge and peeling him like fruit."

She ticked off on her fingers, each point a scalpel of its own:

"Biologically? Perfect cellular repair. Oxygen efficiency that lets him operate in thin air or survive for a limited time in straight-up vacuum."

A pause. Doc's lips pressed tight for a moment, then parted again in exasperation.

"Bone and muscle density off the charts—stronger, faster, more durable than anything short of an Astartes. Immune system? Adaptive. He doesn't just fight off diseases—he learns them. Same with poisons and venom."

She paused to let that sink in. Then continued, her tone growing sharper.

"Reflexes faster than machine-readers can track. Healing factor that makes lets him recover in hours. Skin that adjusts to radiation, pressure, temperature—you name it. Senses tuned up to predatory levels. Smell, sight, hearing—all calibrated, all deliberate."

Doc folded her hands, slowly, knuckles white.

"He doesn't age," Doc said. "Not in the way we understand it. No telomere collapse. No mutational drift. His cells just… keep going. Like they were designed to outlast entropy itself."

She let the words settle. Then added:

"The really scary part? He can have kids."

That made Rael shift, the faintest tilt of his head like a bird catching a sudden draft. Guilliman didn't move, but the room changed with him. Attention sharpened.

Doc folded her arms, hiding the tremble in her hands.

"His children would inherit everything—strength, immunity, regeneration, his entire genetic alteration scheme."

"Intentional design?" Ferox asked.

"Absolutely."

"So he's a template."

Doc kept her voice calm. Clinical. "No. He's the baseline."

A breath passed.

"He told me once—offhand, like it didn't matter—that his genetics and cybernetics barely qualified him for his job as an engineer. Apparently the higher-end augmetics and gene alterations were too expensive for his family."

A long silence followed. Even the ambient hum of the chamber seemed to dull.

Rael's gaze grew distant, like he was listening to something the others couldn't hear.

Guilliman didn't speak. Not at first. Just stared—thoughtful, still.

Then, very quietly:

"They built people like this… and gave them wrenches."

The silence that followed was cold and sudden.

Rael's brow furrowed. The flickering lights above him dimmed—just slightly—as if the warp itself had paused to listen.

Ferox's fingers stopped tapping. Her voice was measured now, but quieter. "Then what did the soldiers look like?"

Doc's answer came slowly. Carefully.

"I don't know."

A heartbeat between words.

"And he won't say."

Varn's mechadendrites hissed behind him, twitching with soft, insectile grace. Each tip pulsed with shifting data-light, tiny holos blooming and collapsing in silence.

"If that is the baseline…" he said, more to the room than anyone, "…then extrapolation would place their combat personnel at a technological threshold we cannot even perceive."

The air cooled a fraction, as though the ventilation systems themselves were listening. Somewhere above, a light flickered.

Then Rael spoke. Soft. Precise. "That is not what frightens me."

Ferox turned to him, the shift of her slate against the table sounding too loud in the quiet.
"Then what does?"

Rael didn't blink. His pupils were pinprick-thin now, black coins in a sea of grey.
"That they lost."

The lights didn't flicker—but something behind them seemed to flinch. The shadows shifted as if drawn inwards.

Rael drew a breath, the static in the air rising with it. Dust on the chamber's edges trembled like something old remembering fear.

"And with all that knowledge…" he murmured, voice quieter still, "…you chose to save him."

Doc shook her head. Her voice stayed even. "He didn't need saving. I just kept his heart beating long enough for him to do the rest."

The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was loaded. A pause in the gears of fate. A breath before recoil.

Ferox studied her, the stylus in her hand tapping once against the slate—click—like a trigger being tested.

"Do you trust him?"

"No." The answer was sharp. Immediate. Like a knife driven point-down into the table. "Trust's the wrong currency for someone like him."

Ferox frowned, her gaze tightening. "Then what?"

Doc looked down, just for a moment. The floor's polished black surface mirrored her face back—older, more tired than she remembered.

She looked up again. Steel in her gaze.

"I believe in what he chooses."

"Explain."

Doc exhaled slowly. Arms unfolding like gates unlatched.

"Because every time the balance tipped—when he had the power, when no one could've stopped him—he didn't take. Not command. Not worship. Not vengeance."

She half-shrugged, the light catching on the surgical scars along her knuckles. "He just fixed things. Then walked away before anyone could chain a title to him."

Rael's eyes drifted to a corner of the chamber where the shadows lay thickest. A faint shimmer there—maybe a heat ripple. Maybe not.

"Still a threat."

Doc didn't flinch. She turned back to Ferox, voice steady as bedrock.

"Of course he is. So's fire. So's a vaccine. So's childbirth, and orbital decay."

She stepped forward, into the light of the lumen panels, her silhouette stark against the glow. "Anything that forces change is a threat. But he hasn't broken anyone yet. Not even the ones who deserved it."

Ferox's lips tightened. Her stylus hovered—then lowered. She sat, still as a statue of judgment.

"What's he waiting for?"

Doc's smile was faint.

"I don't know." She let the words fall. "And that? That's what keeps me up at night."

-

The room was colder than it needed to be.

Not by malice—just design.

A cathedral of silence dressed in black: steel-trimmed walls, polished black floor, the faint ozone-snap of lumen arrays filtering through sterile air. Somewhere overhead, a Gellar field thrummed like a distant war drum muffled in silk, steady as a heartbeat made of brass and blind faith.

Milo stepped in and saluted.

Back straight. Shoulders squared. Parade-ground perfect.

The uniform wasn't his original—that had been left back in Dusthaven—but Sasha had worked her subtle magic, reshaping the undersuit to mimic the weary dignity of old Guard fatigues. The cut was close enough to memory, and in truth, that was all he needed. If he was going to stand in front of the Emperor's own son, then by the Throne, he'd damn well do it looking proper.

Ferox's gaze swept over his file like a scalpel—not lingering, not indulgent, but precise.
Her brows lifted a fraction at the sheer length.

"Impressive record, Mr. Hasken. Forty-three years of service in the Guard—"

"Forty-five, ma'am," Milo corrected. He didn't move an inch. "Two years got swallowed up when the Administratum marked me KIA on Koltren. Took a while to get the paperwork to stop arguing."

Ferox gave a slight nod, scrolling further. "I see. Purgation of Jorvin Reach… Tharsis Rift Pacification… Defense of Crixos Prime… Halvix Convoy Escorts… Iax Echo-Zone… Koltren Depths… Khentek Belt Extraction… Quarus Sprawl, Ternith Jungle, Vraxos Ridge, Exthalon Forge, Hallowmere Plateau…"

She glanced up, meeting his eyes. "Promoted to Lieutenant during the Koltren Depths siege, then demoted back to Corporal six weeks later. Reason listed as: 'Failure of political expectation.' Care to elaborate?"

Milo didn't blink. "Commissar caught a lasround to the throat, ma'am. Command told me to hold the line, keep the men alive 'til we got a new one shipped in."

"He lasted three days. Bolt shell to the spine. Then the next Commissar decided morale needed accountability. I was standing nearby."

From the far end of the chamber, Guilliman's voice entered like the sound of judgment being given room to breathe. Calm. Clear. Measured.

"I'm surprised they settled for a demotion."

Milo didn't blink. "Must've had bigger messes to clean up at the time, my lord."

A silence fell—short, but taut.

Guilliman arched a brow. Not much. Just enough to suggest something like humor had stirred somewhere behind the marble of his face.

"Seems so."

The moment held, brittle as glass in winter.

Varn's voice cut through, all ice and iron. "This is irrelevant. Speak of the anomaly."

Milo didn't answer. Not right away.

Instead, he reached into his coat, slow and casual. The rustle of fabric was soft beneath the lumen-laced hush of the chamber. A battered foil pouch appeared and from it, he pulled a hand-rolled cigarette. He placed it between his lips, struck a worn ignition patch against his sleeve, and lit it with a soft snap.

Smoke rose in thin, curling tendrils, carried into the ceiling vents like ghosts escaping judgment.

"Ah. Apologies." He looked at them then—Guilliman, Ferox, Rael, even Varn. Eyes tired, but still bright behind the weight of memory. With the casual confidence of a man who'd seen too many firing squads to care about one more, he held the pouch out.

"Rude of me not to offer."

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Guilliman's mouth didn't quite smile. But the corners ticked up, just a fraction. He waved the offer away with the kind of motion that could have commanded fleets.

"Tempting. But no."

Milo nodded, took a long drag. The ember flared orange in the chamber's chill. Smoke wreathed his words.

"Can't tell you much about his tech. Fancy kit. Works like hell. Keeps us breathing. That's what counts, right?"

He let that linger—then lowered his voice.

"But the kid's got ghosts in him."

Ferox leaned forward. Not pressing, not pouncing—just intent. Her forearms rested lightly on the table, her eyes gleaming like wet mercury. "Clarify that, please."

Milo's gaze drifted. Down to the floor. Across the black glass panels that swallowed light like secrets. He tapped some ash into a cup he'd conjured from nowhere, then looked back up—smoke in his eyes, memory behind it.

"He's scarred. Not just physically. Deep. Like something chewed through him and left enough behind to keep walkin'. He hasn't seen war, not like we have. But he's seen death."

Guilliman's voice came low, curious.

"How do you know the difference?"

Milo turned toward him. Not defiant. Not even respectful. Just… honest. The way a soldier might size up another by the weight in his shoulders.

"Soldiers carry something behind their eyes. Like part of them's still bleeding in the mud back on whatever rock they left friends on. You see it in the way they move. Track doors. Listen to the quiet."

He exhaled. Smoke drifted like prayer.

"Civvies who've seen death—they wear it like a bruise. You can see the hurt, but it fades. Sometimes. They cry. They shake. And if they're lucky, they go on."

He tapped the cigarette again.

"Koron? He's both. Got the reflexes of a fighter who never had backup, and the stillness of someone who's watched too much die to feel much anymore."

Silence held for a moment. Then, like a knife slipping into place:

"He doesn't stare at doors. He listens for ones that shouldn't be opening."

Guilliman didn't speak. He studied Milo with a stillness that held weight—like something vast and ancient had paused to listen. Then his gaze shifted, just slightly, as if aligning some unseen constellation in his mind.

"You speak of him like a soldier."

Milo let smoke curl through his nostrils. "I speak of him like a survivor."

"Explain."

Milo's gaze slid to the high walls—black and seamless, humming faintly with shielding fields and distant vox-murmurs. No windows. No air. Just the quiet pressure of power in waiting.

"You've seen trained men, my lord. Soldiers who knew the rules, took orders, died clean if they were lucky."

He flicked the cigarette's stub to the ground and crushed it with the edge of his boot.

"Koron didn't come from training. He came from wreckage. From something that tried to unmake him and failed. And now, every step he takes, every instinct—it's not for glory. Not revenge. Not even orders."

Milo straightened. Not stiff. Not formal. Just… sure.

"Personally? I think it's to make sure no one else falls into whatever pit he climbed out of."

Guilliman watched him. Not judging. Just thinking. His expression unreadable—but no longer distant.

"You believe he acts out of empathy?"

Milo huffed. Just once. Dry. Not quite a laugh.

"No, my lord. I think he acts out of memory."

A silence followed—not empty. Just full of the weight no one dared name.

Ferox tapped her stylus. Once. Then stopped.

"That kind of memory doesn't come cheap."

"No," Milo said, voice gone soft. "It doesn't."

And for a long breath, the chamber wasn't filled with rank or record, protocol or judgment. Just the quiet gravity of lives measured in scars.

-

Tara couldn't keep her hands still.

Her thumbs chased each other like stripped cogwheels, catching and spinning, spinning again, a jittery rhythm of nerves trying to grind themselves smooth. She stared down at them—callused, trembling—and tried to focus on anything beyond the roar of her pulse and the brittle edges of panic.

The chamber didn't help. It wasn't meant to.

It was too quiet. Too deliberately quiet.

A sealed sanctum of matte black plasteel and exact geometry—no windows, no breeze, no voices beyond their own. Just the hum of sealed doors and the faint static crackle of dormant pict-casters lining the walls like sightless eyes. A room designed for judgment. For pressure. Like standing in the breathless pause before a plasma cutter sparks to life.

Tara felt small in it. Not just in size—small.

Outmatched. Outranked. Out of her depth.

One Inquisitor was enough to turn her blood to frost.

Two made it nightmare territory.

But the silver-armored Astartes standing just off-center, the one whose mere stillness throbbed with caged violence? He was something else entirely.

Not like the Salamanders. Not like Mr. Kade.

Kade carried weight, sure—discipline forged into every step, fire banked behind his eyes—but there was a warmth to him. A sense that he saw the people around him as something more than variables on a tactical slate.

This one?

This Grey Knight?

He looked like he'd been sculpted from contrition and absolution and told never to smile.

Not a man. A judgment in ceramite and psychic steel. No kindness. No hesitation. Just the quiet, absolute certainty of a living weapon waiting for orders.

And yet, it wasn't even him that truly made Tara feel like she might come apart at the seams.

No.

That honor went to the other figure in the room.

Roboute Guilliman. The Avenging Son.

The Primarch.

The man whose words shaped campaigns, whose presence warped the fates of worlds.

He was watching her.

Speaking to her.

Her. Tara Brandt. Wasteland scrapper. Salvager of rust and ruin.

A girl so far out of her depth, she half-expected the deck beneath her boots to collapse under the strain and suck her into a black hole of embarrassment.

"—ara?"

The voice sliced through her spiraling thoughts—clean, sharp, female.

Tara jerked upright, blinking hard as her gaze snapped upward.

Inquisitor Ferox watched her, silver eyes calm as an autopsy chamber. No visible judgment. No raised brow. Just the unwavering neutrality of someone used to interrogating people far more dangerous than a desert rat.

"Y-yes?" Tara croaked. "Sorry, I got… a little lost in my head."

Ferox didn't smile. Didn't frown. Just gave the faintest nod. "Tell us about Koron. In your own words."

Tara opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Her thoughts were fraying, unraveling like overused insulwrap. Kala would've been fine here. Kala with her crooked grin and don't-give-a-damn charisma. Kala who could trip over her own boots and make three friends on the way down.

But Tara wasn't like that. Never had been.

People drained her. Eyes on her crushed her.

She worked with systems. With code. With machines. Machines didn't stare. Machines didn't expect you to speak with confidence when your knees were knocking together.

She tried to speak. "He—"

The word died in her throat.

They can't know. Not everything. If she gave the wrong detail—if she said too much—

They'd use it. Against him.

Against them all.

Her fingers froze mid-fidget, curling into tense little fists on her lap.

'Want some help then?'

The voice slipped into her thoughts like a cool breath through overheating vents.

Elly.

She could feel her, a presence moving through the static of her panic like a grounding cable snapping into place.

'I can feed you answers if you want.'

Tara didn't hesitate. 'Yes. Please.'

It was like someone dimmed the emergency alarms in her head. The panic didn't vanish—but it stabilized. Became manageable.

She lifted her head.

Still afraid. Still trembling.

But not alone.

Not anymore.

Her hands flattened against her thighs. She willed her thumbs to lie still.

The chamber hadn't warmed, not physically—but the sense of cold isolation lifted a degree.

She glanced again at the Grey Knight—immovable, unreadable—then flicked her gaze to Varn. That one worried her more. The way his augmetic lenses clicked and whispered, like they were already drafting her death certificate.

One mistake, one wrong phrasing, and she'd be dissected under a hundred articles of tech-heresy.

She swallowed. And began.

"Koron arrived at night. Our reactor was running on fumes—low power for decades. We didn't even have clean lumen flow. He… assessed it, diagnosed the faults, and brought it to full power within the hour."

She paused, framing her words carefully. Elly's guidance helping her stay inside safe lines.

"He resealed the coolant junctions, balanced the heat sinks, patched the main conduit. No manuals. No tests. Just walked in, read the system, and fixed it."

She risked a glance at Rael. The psyker watched her like someone tuning a prayer.

"Then he moved to the aquifer pumps. Equalized the pressure. Brought contamination levels down to baseline. We had clean water again. People lived because of him."

Ferox leaned forward, pen tapping silently.

"Did he ever explain how?"

Tara shook her head. "No, Inquisitor. He said the town needed function, not explanations. He didn't want thanks."

Varn's vox grill clicked once. "Schematics? Instructional data? Technological prints?"

"Nothing." She kept her voice steady. "It's in his head. He didn't share it—not even with us. He just… kept going. From one emergency to the next."

Guilliman's voice cut through the tension like calm water.

"Beyond repairs—what else?"

Tara breathed in. ""He helped around town," she said. "Worked with the salvage teams, hauling in parts. When orks hit the salvage teams, he was out there with them. When a dust storm tore half the thornbeasts roof plates loose, he welded them back in place mid-gale. He doesn't lead, not really. He just… acts."

Ferox studied her for a moment. "And your assessment of his nature?"

Tara hesitated.

Then, softly, clearly: "I don't know what he is. But I do know—he is my friend."

That last word hung in the room like a quiet defiance.

No one moved. No one spoke.

Finally, Ferox gave a small, definitive nod. "Understood."

Tara let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Elly's approval flickered across her mind like a soft pulse of light.

She had said what mattered.

No more.

No less.

And—for now—she hadn't given them anything they could use to hurt him.

Or them.

She hoped.

-

Kala tilted her head, squinting up at the towering figure across the chamber.

The room was still, quiet save for the faint hum of lumen coils and the ever-present, barely-audible thrum of a starship's bones in motion.

"You know," she said slowly, "you and Koron look a lot alike."

Guilliman didn't react at first. Then one golden brow rose, carved in marble. "...How so?"

"The face mostly," Kala replied, unfazed. "Blonde hair, sharp jaw, eyes like frostbite on a good day. Got that whole statuesque thing going too. Good cheekbones. Broad shoulders. You walk differently though—like furniture gets out of your way on instinct."

She gestured vaguely with both hands, as if trying to frame him for an imaginary painting. "Though I'll admit, he's got a better tan. You're more… well, archival."

The cold lumen strips caught the gilt of Guilliman's laurels, turning him into a museum piece for half a heartbeat.

Ferox let out the ghost of a breath—whether disapproval or amusement was hard to tell. Varn didn't move, though his optics pulsed once in silent recalibration.

Guilliman's expression didn't shift at first. But something in his eyes flickered. Surprise? Curiosity? Maybe the faintest trace of a smile, held in deep reserve.

"You believe I resemble a man born nearly fifteen thousand years before the Great Crusade?"

Kala shrugged, unbothered. "Hey, I'm just calling what I see. Stranger things have happened. You sure you're not secretly from the Dark Age too?"

She said it with a grin—but behind it was a spark of something more. Not defiance, not mockery. Just honesty.

Guilliman studied her for a long moment. Then, at last, a breath—dry, not quite a laugh. More an exhale through a mouth that had forgotten how to smile.

"No," he said at last. "Not that I'm aware of."

Kala smirked and tilted back in her seat, arms folding comfortably across her chest. "Then maybe fate just has a type."

Ferox made a valiant attempt at stoicism, but centuries of drilled composure cracked. She turned the near-laugh into a cough, clearing her throat behind one gloved hand. "Ahem. Right. Miss Brandt—"

"Kala, please. I'm only twenty-one, and way too tired for formalities. My mom's 'Miss Brandt.'"

Ferox gave a small nod, adjusting her slate with a flick of her fingers. "Noted. It says here you served as a vox-runner aboard the Hammer of Nocturne?"

"Yes ma'am. Ran signals, dispatched codes, relayed commands. Did it well, too."

"Indeed," Ferox replied, scanning her notes. "Voxmaster Thorne called you 'unreasonably effective' and 'worryingly fast.' What made you choose that role?"

Kala shrugged, the motion casual, but her eyes held the quick sharpness of someone who'd navigated both narrow maintenance shafts and narrower expectations. "Honestly? I needed the work, and I hate sitting still. Plus, the underdecks smelled like boiled fungus and despair, so I figured staying on the move meant staying alive."

She turned, fixing Varn with a bright, not-so-innocent grin. "You guys really ought to invest in a better internal comm system."

Varn's head jerked up. One of his augmetic optics whirred as it recalibrated, the tiny iris twitching once—visibly. He stared at her like someone deciding whether a heretic joke was actually treason. Then, with a series of low, static clicks, he returned to his slate, muttering in staccato Binaric under his breath.

The room held its breath for a beat.

Guilliman broke the silence, the weight of amused caution in his voice. "While I appreciate the feedback, Miss—ah, Kala—I would suggest submitting such observations anonymously in the future. The Adeptus Mechanicus receives such… suggestions with a certain level of skepticism."

Ferox arched an eyebrow. "Suggestions?"

"Yes," Guilliman replied dryly. "Suggestions."

Kala's smirk faltered—not much, just a hairline crack in the confident veneer—but enough to catch the trained eyes in the room. Her gaze slid to Varn. The Tech-Priest's silhouette loomed like a broken mantis over his dataslate, mechadendrites twitching in erratic rhythms. Binary whisper-clicks spilled from his vox-grille like a quiet threat—a language of numbers with the cadence of a countdown.

A flicker of wariness crossed Kala's emerald eyes. It passed quickly, masked by a breezy shrug, but the tension had already rippled outward.

"Right," she said, more carefully this time. "I'll keep that in mind."

She cleared her throat and straightened a little, gaze flicking across the others before landing back on Ferox. "So. Koron. What do you want to know?"

Ferox didn't smile, but the shift in posture said plenty—leaning back, crossing one leg over the other, pen tapping once—lightly, rhythmically—against her lower lip. A calculated gesture. Not casual. Not kind.

"Has he ever tried to manipulate you?"

The question hit like a slap wrapped in silk.

Kala's expression shifted—just slightly. Gone was the cheek. Her brows dipped. Her voice, when it came, was cool and clear, stripped of its usual playfulness.

"That's a hell of a loaded question. But no. And I've got good reason to think he's telling the truth."

Before Ferox could press, Varn's head snapped up, a sudden jolt like a machine alerting to sabotage. The low binary hissing turned sharp, serrated, as he surged forward.

"What reason?" The words slammed through the room in static-laced bark, overriding the others.

Kala didn't flinch. Not visibly. But her nostrils flared. Her arms folded. Her weight shifted—a subtle brace.

"A personal one," she said, voice tightening around each syllable. "But if you want a broad answer? He told me something I don't think he's told anyone else."

Varn's mechadendrites stiffened, spines clicking into new positions. One of them began tracing rapid fire runes in the air beside him, glowing red with rising internal temperature.

"You are in love with him," Varn declared. Not asked—stated—as if submitting coordinates to a war engine.

The air stilled.

Kala's jaw tensed. Her arms stayed crossed, but her spine straightened as if she were rising to full height without ever leaving the chair as her braid flicked like a lash.

"I'm not sure," she said, steady now. "And also? That's none of your Emperor-damned business."

There was a beat of silence. A stillness that pulsed with the weight of unsaid things.

Ferox's pen stopped tapping.

Rael's eyes, half-lidded in that unreadable Grey Knight way, opened just a fraction wider.

Even Guilliman tilted his head, as if adjusting the focus of a microscope on something newly intriguing.

And Varn—well, his lenses flared briefly before dimming, his arms twitching back to his slate without comment.

Ferox let the moment settle like dust after a detonation. No reaction. Just silence and the precise shift of her stylus gliding one line down her slate.

Then, lightly—almost gently:

"Why do you trust him?"

Kala blinked.

Not from shock. From the sheer absurdity of the question.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again with a short, incredulous breath. "Why do I—?"

She looked around the chamber as if expecting someone else to call it out. When no one did, she leaned forward, arms still crossed but now braced on the table, elbows planted like roots.

"Because he never asked me to."

Her voice was quiet. But not weak.

"You want the truth?" Her eyes found Ferox again, sharper now. "It's not about faith. It's not about evidence. It's that… everything he does—he does without expecting anyone to follow."

She exhaled slowly through her nose, brushing a strand of red hair behind her ear, fingers steady now.

"People talk about how much knowledge he has. What he could do. What he's hiding. But here's the thing—he never uses it for anything we might. Not to get respect. Not to get loyalty. Just… to help."

Kala glanced over toward the towering silver form of Rael, then back to Ferox.

"You think I'm naïve. I get that. You're reading this like a manipulation playbook. But I've seen manipulators. I've lived under people who treated compassion like a weapon, or a tool. And that's not him."

Her hands played with the end of her braid below the table, but her gaze was calmer. Wiser. But tired now, too.

"He's not a saint. He gets angry. He's hurt. He's weird. He makes mistakes. And sometimes, he vanishes for hours because he's fixing something he didn't tell anyone was broken. But he's trying. Every day."

A pause.

Then softly, almost like a confession:

"And when you've lived your whole life being seen as someone in the way? Someone not worth fixing things for?"

She smiled faintly, without mirth.

"Having someone like that in your corner feels like drinking clean water for the first time."

No one spoke as Kala continued.

"I don't know where he's from, or what happened to him. But I know this—he's not trying to rule anyone. He's trying to stop the rest of us from breaking the way he did."

Guilliman's voice came low. Thoughtful. "How far does your trust extend?"

Kala smiled, but there was no humor in it this time.

"I'd follow him into the Warp, if he asked."

Her smile softened, just a hair.

"Only thing is? He never would."

For just a moment, the hum of servos and the whisper of filtered ventilation were all that remained.

Then Rael's voice drifted across the table, low and even.

"And if we decide he's dangerous?"

Kala looked at him.

And for the first time, the smile was sharp, a lioness baring her fangs.

"Then I hope he runs. Far and fast. Before any of you figure out how scared you should be."

-

The door hissed shut behind them with a finality that echoed louder than it should have.

Elissa paused at the threshold. Not out of fear—she had walked into worse—but with the weight of understanding. This was not a place for comfort. It was a crucible. A chamber built not to shelter, but to reveal.

In the center, the chair waited. Not a throne. Not a seat of power. A spotlighted fulcrum of judgment—positioned so that every breath, every shift of posture, every flicker of doubt could be tracked by the four figures encircling it.

Roboute Guilliman sat slightly elevated, just two steps above the rest. Even unhelmed he seemed carved from the Imperium itself. Polished ceramite gleamed beneath the lumens, and the Aquila across his chest was no ornament—it was authority, incarnate.

To his right, Inquisitor Ferox moved with methodical grace, stylus tapping at a slate with practiced precision. Every few seconds she twirled the pen between her fingers, an unconscious rhythm that belied the hawk's stillness in her silver eyes. Her black bangs framed a face carved in focus, not cruelty—though the difference, Elissa suspected, was one of intent more than effect.

Opposite her sat Inquisitor Varn, crimson and bronze draped like the vestments of a dying sun. His once-sharp gaze was now obscured behind a freshly affixed optical display—its lenses adjusting with soft ticks and hums as they read the microexpressions in the room. It was not for show. Nothing here was.

And at ground level, sharing her space, stood Brother-Librarian Rael. Not seated. Not watching from a galley. Present. A mountain of silver armor and controlled psychic pressure, the air around him faintly warped by the latent power he kept banked behind iron discipline. His halberd remained unlit, but it did not look inactive. It looked patient.

Elissa stepped forward, her boots tapping gently against the black floor—each step a punctuation mark in a sentence she hadn't yet spoken.

Then Guilliman spoke, voice low and steady.

"Lady Brandt. You may be seated."

Elissa exhaled slowly and walked toward the chair at the center of the chamber.

It looked smaller than she'd expected. Lonelier.

She tilted her wide-brimmed hat back just enough to see Guilliman's face without craning her neck. He hadn't moved. Still carved from judgment and old wars. Still watching.

"So," she said, lowering herself into the seat with careful dignity. "Who's first?"

Ferox moved first.

She didn't bark commands. She didn't flick open a slate with the mechanical detachment of someone checking boxes. She leaned forward instead—elbows on her knees, fingers laced loosely, body language open in the way a counselor might sit across from a patient too proud to ask for help. Her silver eyes gleamed beneath her dark fringe like mercury stilled by intent.

"Elissa Brandt," she said, voice smooth as worn velvet, "it's good to finally meet you face-to-face. I've read… rather a lot about you."

Elissa blinked, just once. Her brows drew in the slightest fraction, caught between wariness and dry amusement. "I have to say I'm surprised by that," she said. "Didn't think there was much of a file on me at all."

Ferox chuckled—soft, practiced, a sound that diffused tension like heat through old bone. "There isn't," she admitted, tapping a small slate in her palm. "But enough to give me an impression. That said, I've never been one to trust secondhand stories. I'd rather hear it from the source. Paper never does people justice."

Elissa's eyes flicked to the slate in Ferox's hand, a little too centered, a little too brightly lit. She settled with deliberate calm, back straight, hands resting in her lap. She was not there to beg, or tremble, or break.

"You're listed," Ferox went on, her tone light but precise, "as a diplomat, frontline combatant, and mayor of your settlement." She tilted her head. "And a mother of two. That's quite the resume, all things considered."

Elissa shrugged, the motion tight around her shoulders. "Wasn't really a choice. Town needed doing, so we did it."

Then, she leaned forward, just a hair. The lighting caught the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, the hard-earned ones—etched by wind, fire, grief, and sleepless nights beside broken aquifers and dying neighbors. Her emerald gaze met Ferox's liquid silver without flinching.

"Now," she said, voice low, firm, "I may not have the Inquisition's training. I didn't go to any diplomacy academies. But I've survived thirty years of Dusthaven trade routes, made deals with psykers, scavvers, and Mechanicus caravan lords alike. So let's not play around with the soft questions and smiling traps."

The air shifted, ever so slightly. The drones behind her didn't move, but their stances re-synced—passive but alert, as if reacting to her heartbeat.

"This isn't about me. Not really. You want to know about him."

Ferox didn't deny it.

She simply smiled again. A different smile, this time—acknowledgment, not manipulation.

"I do," she said. "And I think you're going to tell me. Because you care more about what happens next than I do."

Elissa's jaw clenched once. Then she gave the smallest of nods.

"Alright," she said. "Shoot."

The Inquisitor wasted no time.

Varn's voice cut through the chamber like a scalpel—precise, unflinching.

"Would you consider Koron… human?"

No preamble. No build. Just the question—laid bare on the table like a corpse awaiting dissection.

Elissa didn't flinch.

She arched a brow—not in surprise, but with a flicker of dry amusement. Her voice, when it came, was steady. Grounded. The kind of answer that didn't come from impulse, but from long nights of wrestling with the question until it no longer had teeth.

"Yes."

The pause that followed wasn't silent. It pulsed—tension stretched like wire between the four figures watching her and the dozen drones still standing sentinel behind.

Varn's optics narrowed, a faint crimson blink cycling across his lenses.

"Explain."

Elissa didn't bristle. She didn't posture. She just pushed her hat back just enough to let him see the fire behind her eyes.

"If we're going by some manner of metric, he's more human than you by far," she replied to Varn. "But to be frank, you're asking me a question I don't really have an answer to. Lots of meta stuff in that, so I'll say yes and leave it at 'Because he thinks he is.'"

She folded her hands loosely in her lap, her expression unreadable. "What's the next question?"

No heat. No challenge. Just a calm invitation to continue—a reminder that she wasn't rattled. Not yet.

Ferox's smile twitched, just a shade more real this time. "All right then. Let's talk about how you know him." She didn't lean in like a predator—just a companion, curious, almost kind. "You've traveled with him. Fought beside him. Let him near your daughters. That's not nothing."

A pause followed, softer now. "What made you trust him?"

Elissa took a breath, and her fingers briefly touched the brim of her hat before resting in her lap again. The lights overhead caught the faintest shimmer of dust on her coat—a reminder that she wasn't forged in cathedrals or gene-vaults, but in wind, grit, and too many small choices that always had consequences.

"No one thing," she said. "He lived with us for a year. In that time? He helped. Fixed our reactor, water pump, fixed things most people gave up on. Doc's dataslate. Emric's arm. Even stopped to re-tie one of the Fudd kids' dustjackal traps."

Her lips curved slightly—not pride, but affection. "It didn't work any better, but he tried."

Across from her, Guilliman shifted. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the grand desk before him, expression unreadable save for a slight crease between his brows.

"He failed?" he asked.

Elissa nodded, unflinching. "Oh yeah. He's not perfect. Not some all-seeing demigod. He makes mistakes. First time he tried to help the crews wrangle a scrapbeast herd, the damn things bolted. Took him two hours to track 'em down again. I heard he had to hog-tie three of 'em and drag the rest back with a snapped tow cable and pure spite."

Ferox laughed softly—genuine this time. Even Rael, still and statuesque at her flank, gave the faintest shift that could've meant amusement.

Guilliman's frown didn't vanish, but his hands slowly folded before him in thought.

"And yet," Ferox said, voice low, "you came to trust him."

"I chose to trust him," Elissa corrected, her voice firm but not hostile. "Not because he's perfect. Because when it would've been easier to run, or to take power, or to lie—he didn't. Not once."

"Except for his identity. His past. The source of his knowledge," Ferox replied, gently but without apology. She wasn't attacking. She was unfolding something. Bit by bit.

Elissa didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. "I never asked him about any of that."

Ferox tilted her head slightly. "You didn't think it important?"

"I thought it was his to share when he was ready." Elissa's gaze sharpened—not with anger, but conviction. "In Dusthaven, we didn't ask questions like that. We couldn't afford to. Everyone had secrets. Everyone had something they were running from. We stayed out of each other's pasts so we could survive the present."

Ferox nodded slowly, digesting that. "That's a rare kind of trust."

"No," Elissa said quietly. "It's the kind born of desperation. You either built a little trust, or you buried another neighbor. We just got lucky this time… that he earned it."

She shifted slightly, the set of her shoulders tightening just a fraction.

"You're used to liars, Lady Inquisitor. I get that." Elissa's voice was steady, but colder now—no heat, just steel drawn across old scar tissue. "But not all of us are looking for angles. Some of us are just trying to hold on to what we've got."

Ferox didn't flinch. She simply nodded, slow and thoughtful, fingers turning the pen in her hand with unconscious grace. Then she made a small note on her slate—nothing aggressive, just a flick of the stylus—and looked up again.

"Has he ever talked about what he lost?"

The question was gentle. Too gentle.

Elissa's eyes snapped up, narrowing. No hesitation this time.

"He did," she said, her voice low.

Then, with a finality that could have cut through ceramite:

"And no, I'm not telling you about it."

Elissa settled into the chair's spine like it owed her nothing. The lights above caught on the edge of her scarf, casting a faint, wavering shadow across her cheekbones. Her expression was calm—but not relaxed. Someone who knew a storm was always waiting somewhere behind the next door.

Ferox's voice cut clean and quiet through the air, but there was no sharpness in it. "What does he want?"

Elissa let out a short snort, amused more than dismissive. "Honestly, I wish I knew. Idiot's an open book and a lead box. You never know which page you're gonna get."

She paused—then leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees. The edge of her hat caught the light, throwing a soft shadow across one eye. "But I think... he's trying to figure out how to help without breaking more than he fixes. Trying to keep the galaxy from eating us alive."

Her gaze shifted then—locked onto Guilliman's across the chamber. "Much like you, I think, my Lord."

Guilliman didn't blink. Didn't move. But something behind his expression changed.

A softening at the corner of his eyes. A tension in the jaw that eased, fraction by fraction, like a gear releasing pressure it didn't know it carried.

The chamber held its breath.

Then he leaned back—slowly—fingers steepled beneath his chin. "The difference," he said, his voice low, "is that he has the luxury of doing it alone. I do not."

Elissa smiled. Not in mockery. Not in victory. A quiet, honest thing.

The kind of smile shared between people who know just how much it hurts to try. "And yet," she said, "you both keep trying."

Guilliman gave the smallest of nods—imperceptible to most. But to Elissa, it was enough.

Ferox glanced between them, a flicker of thought behind her silver eyes. "Thank you, Lady Brandt. That will be all for now."

Elissa stood. "Word of advice? Don't lie to him." No bow. Just a tip of her hat—dust-scuffed, weathered, earned. "Good luck out there," she said, turning toward the door. "It's a bastard of a galaxy. But you already knew that."

-

Ferox stretched as the chamber door hissed shut behind Elissa. She let her slate clatter onto the desk with a sound like a dropped blade. "Well," she said, dryly, "that was less productive than I'd hoped."

"Indeed," Varn replied, clipped and precise. "Emotional noise. Sentimentality from menials. Your Interrogator was the only one to offer usable insight."

Ferox smirked. "You can't have her, by the way. Just in case that rusting abacus in your skull was starting to calculate recruitment value."

Varn's optics narrowed, the soft whirr of recalibration his only reply. Possibly a growl. Possibly a curse in Binaric.

Guilliman stood with the smooth, deliberate weight of a mountain shifting. His fingers flexed as if testing unseen gauntlets. "There is still value," he said quietly. "Even without revelation. We have the shape of him now. Not data, perhaps—but direction."

And then the air cut.

A voice—clear, sharp, modulated like silk wrapped around monofilament—slid into the space like a blade between ribs.

"Would you like more than a shape?"

All four turned.

There, at the center of the chamber, atop the steel edge of the central table—unannounced, unlogged, utterly silent in arrival—perched a sleek, four-limbed machine.

A wolf, wrought in brushed alloy and seamless joints. Its lean frame gleamed under the overhead lumens, matte plates catching no shadows, only suggestion. Twin optics glowed a faint, unthreatening blue—but their focus was surgical.

"As I heard it," Koron continued, "this was open to all Dusthaven residents."
 
Chapter Thirty Eight New
Chapter Thirty Eight

-

The calm shattered like brittle glass.

Varn surged to his feet with a sound of scraping metal and displaced fury, servo-motors snarling in tandem with his rising voice. "By the Omnissiah's grace—if you intended to speak, why this farce?" His vox-grill crackled with distorted outrage. "Why parade these menials before us like some mockery of protocol?!"

The chamber trembled. Not from any quake, but from the weight of him—of what he was. Crimson augmetic lenses flared like twin furnaces as he jabbed a trembling finger toward the wolf shaped drone.

It didn't flinch.

Koron's voice, when it came, was dry as old bone.

"Several reasons," the drone said. "I wanted to see how you'd react. How you'd speak to them. What you'd ask first. What tactics you'd use to goad answers. And—" a pause, subtle, not unkind "—what tracking methods you'd deploy."

Almost on cue, both Ferox's and Varn's slates lit with a shrill, synchronized alert.

Warning: Signal Lost.

The tracking tags planted on the Dusthaveners had gone silent.

Guilliman's expression didn't change, but the shadows in his gaze deepened. He turned slightly in his seat, regal posture undisturbed, and spoke without raising his voice.

"And what have you concluded?"

The drone tilted its head—not a gesture of submission, but consideration. "Multiple things. But we can discuss those in a bit."

It pivoted slightly, addressing the room. "Let's be honest—none of this is exactly orthodox. So here's my proposal: Varn gets five minutes to scream heresy at me, then our lovely Inquisitor has her five. After that, you and I have a tête-à-tête."

Guilliman blinked. "I do not know that term."

"Ah, apologies. It means you and I have a conversation. One on one."

The Primarch glanced around the chamber, stone-set features softening a fraction. "Does my nephew not get a turn?"

The drone rotated again, its blue lenses fixing on Rael. "Alright. But I'm not answering questions like 'What are my weaknesses' or 'How can I be killed.' That's a six-month dating question at the least."

Rael said nothing. His expression, however, could've stripped paint from hull plating.

-

Ignoring the barb, Rael closed his eyes.

Focusing his will upon the Immaterium.

The warp rose around him like a tide—impossible colors, the whispered echoes of emotion and thought.

He tasted the usual chaos. Ferox's mind: a bladed fortress. Varn's: a crackling machine of spiraled certainties. Guilliman shone like a star beneath mountains of discipline—his soul hidden beneath so many layers of will it nearly read as nothingness.

And then there was the drone.

The moment Rael turned his senses toward it, the universe blinked.

One heartbeat, the chamber was awash in the tides of the immaterium.

The next, a hole yawned open in its center.

Not darkness.

Absence.

A null field, perfect and seamless. Like a section of reality had been carved away—too cleanly. No edges. No warp presence. Not a outline filled with malice like a demon's. Not the icy echo of a soulless construct.

Just... nothing.

And at its very heart—something worse.

A shard.

Small. Sharp. Bright.

A thread of silver light, crystalline and alien in form, nestled deep in the silence like a sliver of starlight frozen mid-scream.

It didn't shine.

It defined.

It existed with terrifying clarity—not of the warp, but of pure will, pure mind. Not a soul. Not an echo of flesh.

An idea made permanent.

Rael recoiled—not with motion, but with instinct. His ward-runes pulsed once, too hard, too fast. A flicker of heat crawled along his collar as his armor's auto-sigils misfired, repulsed not by chaos…

…but by order that shouldn't be.

The drone didn't move. But Rael swore he could feel it—the shard watching back.

He closed his warp-sight. Snapped it shut like a book that shouldn't be opened.

The pressure faded.

But something remained. A faint sense of hunger from the Warp itself, not the predatory craving of demons, but something deeper.

A confusion.

As if the warp could not comprehend what it had just touched.

His vox pinged. A breath like a whisper drifted from Ferox:

"You found something?"

Rael's voice was barely audible. Even for him.

"There is no soul," he said.

"Only a wound. And a blade of light buried inside it."

-

Varn's servo-skull bobbed in uneasy flight, its optics swiveling in nervous loops, as if scanning for heresy hiding in the light. The hum of its gravitic stabilizers was the only sound in the chamber.

Guilliman leaned back a fraction, the motion barely perceptible, yet his armored hands settled atop the table like tectonic plates. Still. Immovable. Regal in that unnerving way only a being who could end worlds might be. "You presume a great deal," he said at last, voice cool as glacier glass. "This stagecraft, this game of yours. It risks much. And reveals more."

"I know," the drone replied, its voice steady. "But I'm not the only one playing games. I'm just the first to admit it."

Ferox exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring as though trying to blow the scent of insolence from the air. "You speak like one unafraid of consequences."

"I'm not." He paused, mechanical tail swishing side to side. "I'm afraid of what happens if we don't talk."

Rael stirred at that. Not a twitch, just a shift of weight, subtle and smooth. A shimmer of pale blue runes flared under his gorget and vambrace—wardings humming like quiet disapproval. "You are hiding your presence," he said. His voice was colder than the chamber had been a moment before. "There is no soul. Only static."

"First? Rude. Second, I wouldn't know," Koron said, tone still mild. "Psykers weren't really a thing when I was around, so I can't help you there. But that's a topic for later." The drone tilted slightly. "Or never. Depends how polite you are."

Varn's jaw clicked audibly. His neck pistons flexed, and one hand clenched tight enough around the edge of the table to leave faint indentations in the alloy. "You stand before the Lord Commander of the Imperium. Before two Inquisitors. Before a Grey Knight Librarian. And you dare—!"

"To speak," Koron cut in, his words edged. "Nothing more."

Guilliman raised a hand.

Instant silence.

The air seemed to still, as if the room itself obeyed him.

Then he nodded. Once. "Five minutes each."

Ferox glanced sidelong at Varn, one brow arching. "He did say you go first."

Varn didn't look at her. His fingers simply curled tighter into the table's edge, servo-tendons whining with the motion.

"Very well," he rasped, each word a coiled threat. "Then let us begin."

The drone's optics glinted faintly—like moonlight catching a blade half-drawn.

"Tick-tock, buttercup," Koron said.

-

Varn slid his chair forward with a hiss of servo-joints and pressurized hydraulics. The sound sliced through the recycled stillness of the chamber like a blade.

He leaned over the table, the light from his augmetic lenses pulsing as they focused with mechanical precision on the drone opposite him.

It sat calmly—canine in frame, but the resemblance ended there. Its chassis was too smooth, too deliberate. Polished alloy curved in exacting symmetry, not a seam or vent in sight. The tail wagged behind it—a useless addition, yet it gave the canine machine a hint of persona.

Blue optics glowed steadily, cool and unreadable.

Varn's mechadendrites hovered behind his shoulders like serpents suspended mid-strike, twitching in imperceptible micro-movements. Every inch of him radiated tension.

His voice came clipped. Precise. No wasted air.

"What is your designation?"

The drone tilted its head with clinical fluidity. Its glowing optics remained fixed, calm.

"Koron."

"That is a name, not a designation."

"Correct," the drone said without hesitation. "Because that's how people talk."

A flicker passed across Varn's features—not emotion. Adjustment. Recalibration. The machine beneath the man making corrections.

"You are claiming to be human?"

"What else would I be?"

"A Silica."

The word landed like a bolter round. The air tensed. Even the servo-skull paused in its orbit.

Koron answered lightly. "If I were a Silica pretending to be human… you wouldn't be able to tell the difference."

"I could," Varn snapped. The mechadendrites behind him flexed tighter. "Easily."

"Oh?" The drone's voice remained unshaken, amused. "Let's run a test, then. I'll swap with Sasha. You tell me when it happens."

Varn straightened by a degree. Not enough for most to notice—but a duel of minds rarely needed theatrics. His mechadendrites retracted an inch, like a cobra coiling into a more stable position.

"A test?" he said coolly. "Very well. Begin."

The drone did not move.

Its optics didn't change.

"Already did," Koron said. "Tell me—when did we switch?"

A sharp pause.

Varn's systems surged, unseen. Cogitators parsing audio logs, cadence data, inflection trends, biometric variance—scanning for the flaw in the program. His gaze never shifted.

"…You swapped at the beginning," he said at last. "I've been speaking to the Silica since your use of 'I'll' instead of 'I will.'"

"Nope."

Quiet followed. Sharp as shattered glass.

Varn's voice dropped a register. More machine than man now.

"Then when?"

"I never actually swapped with her." A faint brightness touched the drone's eyes—just a spark, subtle, smug. "But you presumed I had."

Varn said nothing.

But his mechadendrites flexed—tightening into loops like wounded equations. The table between them might as well have been a gulf of unraveling logic.

His jaw twitched—just a fraction. A taut ripple of synth-muscle beneath synth-flesh. His lenses cycled through scan modes—thermal, auspex, spectral—each sweep yielding nothing. No shimmer. No glitch.

"Deception protocols," he said at last. His tone was flat. Defensive. "You're masking handover points. Coordinated obfuscation between intelligences."

"No," Koron replied, voice calm and even. "Just basic psychology. You assumed there was a handover. So you started looking for proof. I didn't have to fool you."

He paused.

"I just let you fool yourself."

Behind Varn, his mechadendrites jerked—brief, stuttering twitches of frustration. Not enough to call a threat. Just enough to hint at a bruised pride buried beneath terabytes of reinforced certainty.

For all his augmented processing, he had been maneuvered. Not overwhelmed. Not outgunned.

Out-thought.

"That is not how logic functions," Varn growled.

"It is," Koron said quietly. "You just don't like the branch I used."

A longer pause followed. Weighted. Breathing room for the realization to settle—and sour.

Varn leaned in, skeletal fingers steepling with exacting grace. His broad, armored frame cast serrated shadows across the table, each lumen strip above catching on the edge of his cranial mask—carving his features into stark silhouette.

When he spoke, his voice didn't lower in volume. It receded.

Intimate. Clinical. Invasive.

"If you are human," he said, "then where were you born?"

The drone tilted its head, paws resting lightly on the tabletop like a beast at ease. When it replied, its tone was mild—almost bored.

"Earth. North America, specifically. Ask for more than that and I'll start thinking you're after my bank account."

The stylus in Varn's hand scratched across his slate like a dagger scoring bone. "You claim to be from the Throneworld?"

"'Throneworld,'" the drone echoed, then slapped a paw against its own faceplate with a clang of alloy on alloy. "Right. That's what you call it now. Yes. I was born on Earth."

"Provide the hive and planetary coordinates."

"No. And no."

"Why?"

Koron's tone turned drier, the humor dusted with weariness. "Because hive cities didn't exist when I lived there—and I'm not giving you the coordinates to my childhood home so you can plunder it."

Varn didn't reply. But the mechadendrites behind his shoulders began to twitch, curling into tighter spirals. His next questions came stripped of inflection. Function without flourish.

"What is the Omnissiah?"

Koron didn't blink. Didn't fidget. His voice remained unbothered, calm in the face of dogma.

"From my perspective? A fictional deity your ancestors created to fill in the gaps. A placeholder for understanding."

Varn did not react.

He didn't need to.

Guilliman, still seated in composed silence, watched the shift—recognized the hardening. The suppression as Varn's emotional governors began locking into place as he transitioned into his true form: the methodical extractor.

"Do you believe the Machine Spirit is real?"

Koron offered a light shrug. "If by 'machine spirit' you mean true AI? Then yes. Very real. Also very opinionated."

"When you ignite a reactor, do you recite the Litany of Ignition?"

"Yes."

That made Varn look up.

A flicker—brief, almost imperceptible—crossed behind his augmetic lenses. Curiosity.

"State it."

Koron didn't hesitate.

"I whack it with a wrench," he said cheerfully, "and insult it in increasingly creative ways until it behaves."

A servo clicked along Varn's jaw. A hard reset.

"Have you ever blessed a tool before using it?"

The drone leaned back, head slightly tilted, as if genuinely considering the question.

"I suppose you could say proper maintenance and respectful storage is a blessing. Keeps them sharp, clean, ready. Just… minus the incense and chanting."

Varn's stylus hovered over his slate again—but didn't move. Not yet.

The next question was the light flick of the blade. The kind meant to expose the wiring beneath the skin.

"What is your power source? Specify reactor class, fuel type, and containment schema."

Koron grinned, the drones jaw ticking up.

"Hope, coffee, and spite," he said. He tapped a claw against the table—click, click. "Mostly spite."

Guilliman's head tilted—not in reprimand, but recognition. A flicker of unspoken kinship.

The drone tapped its chestplate with a soft metallic thunk.

"Oh, wait. Did you mean me, or the drone?"

"You," Varn snapped, his voice fraying at the edges like overstressed wire.

The drone tapped a claw against its cheekplate, as if considering which kind of mischief to choose.

"Gotta be specific, my good man," it said breezily. "Primary reactor is a zero-point quantum flux cascade. Self-regulating, indefinitely stable, untouchable by your current Mechanicus standards." It leaned in slightly, all playfulness vanished. "Seriously though, please don't try to make one. You'll vaporize half the planet you're standing on."

Varn's lenses flickered, widening—optic irises contracting into furious slits. "You mock us. You mock the labor of ten thousand years."

"…No," Koron replied softly, a light dimmed. "I mourn it."

The stillness that fell, felt like a breath held across five minds.

Then—crackling like electrical crossfire—

"Do you have communion with the Machine Spirit?" Varn barked.

"Sasha and I talk all the time," Koron replied evenly.

"Do you make offerings?"

The drone remained motionless. Its optics dimmed slightly, as though narrowing an unseen gaze. A faint projection shimmer ghosted across its faceplate—diagnostic light or perhaps something more expressive.

Above them, a ventilation duct clicked. Twice. Like a throat clearing.

"I asked if digital coffee counts," Koron said dryly. "Sasha says no. Apparently, the flavor profile is all lag."

Varn's mechadendrites fell still. The red glow from his cranial augmetics narrowed to hard-edged slits. He leaned forward again, cloaked now in the shadows of his own limbs—like a spider retracting toward the center of its web.

His voice returned, stripped of bluster.

"Describe the neural interface linking your biological and mechanical systems. Is it noospheric threading or another protocol?"

Koron answered without pause.

"Custom hybrid. Not noospheric, that didn't exist when I was building my interface. Mine's signal-direct. Neuron lattice into bio-conductive mesh, reinforced by quantum-entangled crosslinks. Instantaneous sync, no lag. Think of it as wetware," he said with a tilt of his head, "without the wet."

Varn didn't react—not openly. But his mask angled downward by a single, deliberate millimeter.

"Memory architecture," he asked next. "Volatile? Non-volatile? Synthetically quantum?"

"Yes," Koron replied.

He sighed, then elaborated.

"It's tiered. Long-term memory's stored in quantum-stable substrates that is then folded into collapsed spin states until recalled. Non-volatile, technically. But fluid enough to simulate creativity. Short-term's volatile. Just like yours. Difference is, I remember where I left my wrench."

A low hum passed through Varn's mask—either a vent cycle or a displeased click. Hard to tell.

"What error-correction schema do your internal systems use?" he asked, voice thin and cold.

"Self-modifying," the drone replied without hesitation. "Heuristic patch-and-repair, based on predictive modeling. Every fault spawns a counterweight algorithm that stress-tests the affected systems in zero-point-three milliseconds. If it fails, I spin a new one. If that fails—" it shrugged, mechanical shoulders tilting in exaggerated casualness, "Sasha yells at me."

Something beneath Varn's robes stiffened. A servo brace, maybe. Or his composure.

"Do your implants interface via wetware hubs or cold data ports?"

"Neither," Koron replied. "They're native. Integrated on a cellular level. No ports. No jacks. No lovely brass couplings. If you want to link in, you'd have to dissect me."

Its mouth opened in a slight grin, servos humming beneath the plated muzzle where chainsword teeth sat gleaming.

"And I don't recommend trying."

Varn's stylus resumed its rhythmic tapping against the slate—but the strokes had lost their precision. The cadence faltered.

Irritated. Distracted. Off-pattern.

"Can you interface with Imperial systems?" he asked. "Have you overridden any?"

"Yes, and yes," Koron said easily. "Though I prefer integrate over override. Cleaner that way."

The drone shifted slightly on its haunches, as though getting comfortable.

"Most of your systems are built on… let's say 'creative reinterpretations' of what we used. Speaking your language's easy. I just have to add in the stutter."

Varn's fingers twitched once.

"Describe your data security protocols," he said. "Heuristic? Encrypted? Conscious?"

"All three," came the calm reply.

There was a faint mechanical whine as the drone tilted its head, as though amused by the question.

"Picture a paranoid librarian," it said, "who is also a bomb."

"Sasha handles the outer layer—she's the firewall. My encryption is recursive, multi-phased, and aggressively paranoid. And underneath that? A living pattern engine I personally built that rewrites access keys every time someone blinks suspiciously."

The voice shifted—just slightly. Less sardonic. More dangerous.

"You try to peek inside, it notices. Then it asks if you're sure you want to continue."

Varn didn't respond.

His silence said everything. Calculating. Reassessing. And behind the mask—perhaps for the first time—uncertain.

Yet Varn was nothing if not relentless. Stubbornness forged in steel and code. He pressed on.

"Do you possess command-layer access over other machine intelligences?"

The drone's optics caught the light—just so. A shimmer of interest. Or warning.

"Define possess," Koron said. "I have the protocols. I know the commands. That doesn't mean I use them."

It tapped a claw idly against its cheekplate, then added with featherlight mischief, "Except in emergencies. Or wars. Or… Tuesdays."

Varn didn't flinch.

"Does the Silica operate independently, or in parallel to you?" he asked. "Are your processes interleaved or sandboxed?"

"Interleaved," Koron said, the humor dimming. "With permissions."

His voice softened—not evasive, but honest.

"We're not one mind playing dress-up. We're a partnership. Shared access to core systems, but separate cognition. I can act alone. So can she. But we're stronger together."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward.

It was evaluative. Sharp as a knife being weighed for balance.

Varn's stylus paused mid-stroke. His mechadendrites coiled a fraction tighter behind his shoulders. Though his expression remained unchanged, the heat bloom from his cranial optics rose—half a degree, but there.

"What is the frequency range of your primary communications relay?" he asked, voice like a wire drawn taut.

"Broad-spectrum, quantum phase-keyed," Koron replied. "Unless I'm talking to someone using vox-casters. Then I just shout."

No smile. Just a flicker of blue in the drone's gaze.

Varn moved past it, jaw tightening.

"Your drones. Do they utilize a Standard Template Construct?"

"No," Koron said, head tilting slightly. "They're custom. And better."

A sharp breath from Rael. Even Ferox's eyes rose from her slate.

"Better?" Varn echoed, the word rasping like sand across metal. "You claim to surpass the Holy Standard of Mankind?"

Koron didn't blink. Couldn't.

"Beating the model isn't hard," he said, "when you built the damn model."

The words landed like a hammer striking sanctified stone.

"You insult the Omnissiah with every breath," Varn hissed.

"Funny," Koron mused. "I thought I was speaking in complete sentences."

Guilliman raised a single eyebrow.

"If you two don't stop baiting each other," he said dryly, "I'm going to sigh. And I assure you, it will be very pointed."

Varn inhaled slowly. Once. Controlled. Then pressed on, voice low and razor-edged.

"Do you possess knowledge of true artificial intelligence?"

The drone was still for a heartbeat. Then, with deliberate care, Koron replied, "I know how to build them, yes." The tone was slow, watchful. "Whether I share that knowledge depends on the future I see."

"You're stalling."

"No," Koron said. "I'm assessing."

Varn leaned forward, augmetic fingers curling like claws atop the table.

"Then assess this: Are you aware that every word you've spoken confirms your classification as a post-human synthetic entity operating outside Imperial compliance?"

The drone bobbed its head once, almost cheerfully. "Yes. And I don't care."

Varn's palm slammed the table. The sound cracked through the room like a thunderclap.

"You are an abomination!"

Koron tilted his head.

"No," he said calmly. "I am an engineer."

Varn's next words came like a whipcrack.

"You claim to be human. Then bleed for us."

One metal eyebrow ridge rose.

"You want me to hurt myself to prove I have a circulatory system? That's your metric for humanity?"

Varn didn't blink. "You hide behind machines. You speak through puppets. If you are truly flesh, step forward. Let us test you."

Koron's voice didn't rise. Didn't harden. "No."

"Why?"

"Do you want the list alphabetically or chronologically? Short answer is I don't trust you."

"You speak as though trust must precede examination. That is heresy. Trust is earned through compliance. Through service."

"And yet," Koron replied, "you've earned neither from me."

Varn's fist crashed down on the dataslate beside him. The screen shattered beneath the blow—cracks spidering in a violent web of static.

"Do you have an STC?!"

It wasn't a question.

It was a demand.

A prayer ripped from iron lungs, centuries of desperation and doctrine behind it.

Koron didn't move. Didn't flinch.

A breath passed—long, thin, drawn tight as wire.

Then Koron spoke.

"Technically?" he said. "No. Not the way you mean."

The glow from Varn's augmetic optics surged, pupils narrowing to burning pinpricks. His servo-skull twitched mid-air, lens stuttering like a failing auspex relay.

Koron raised a claw—not in mockery.

Not in defense.

Just a slow, level gesture. A hand steady enough to still a storm.

"To clarify," he said softly, "I didn't say I have an STC."

He let the words breathe. Let them sink.

"I have the STC."

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

"The complete archive. The full system. Blueprints. Logic-trees. Refinement engine. Every protocol. Every error. Every success."

Varn felt his heartbeat jump.

"Still extrapolating, as expected."

The words didn't echo.

They didn't need to.

They fell like stone into a gravity well, and the air collapsed around them.

Ferox stopped mid-letter, stylus hovering in midair.

Rael's ward-runes flared, his aura snapping into tight formation, as though shielding instinctively.

Guilliman didn't move. But something shifted—subtle, gravitational. Like mass had quietly increased. The room felt tighter, as though it now orbited him.

His voice, when it came, was quiet.

But not soft.

"Be very careful," he said, eyes locked on Koron. "There are truths so heavy they don't just collapse worlds—they rewrite them. If you're carrying one, I need to know you can carry the consequences."

And Varn…

Varn shuddered.

Not in fear.

In recognition.

As though something ancient—buried under doctrine, chanted into myth—had stirred in response. A memory not of the mind, but of the code.

When he spoke, it was through breath and static.

"You lie."

"I wish I was," Koron said quietly.

Varn's response came fast, razor-sharp. "Where is it?"

"In my head," Koron replied. "Takes up about five zettabytes of neural-phase storage."

That broke the trance.

Guilliman blinked.

Ferox turned her head slightly, like she'd heard a word from a dead language.

Even Rael gave a fractional twitch of his brow, as if silently wondering whether his translation runes had glitched.

Koron continued without pause, his tone bone-dry. "Give or take a few petabytes for sensory buffering, predictive modeling, and my music collection." He leaned forward, his voice dropping into a stage whisper. "I have to firewall the Ork Rock section. Gets rowdy."

The silence that followed was not empty—it was stalled.

Like the universe had skipped a cog.

Varn was trembling now, not with fear, but with dissonance. His shoulders hitched with a sudden twitch, mechadendrites jerking like puppet strings caught in crosswinds. Something deep in his logic engine had just swallowed a decimal point.

"Heresy." he said, all acid and rot.

Koron didn't even blink. "Nope."

Varn took a step forward, the sound of his breathing now audible behind his mask—shallow, mechanical, ragged around the edges.

"Then explain it to me," he snapped.

Koron's head tilted slightly to the side, like a curious bird. "Alright."

The second stretched out as Varn processed the reply.

"…Wait. Really?"

"Sure," Koron replied, unsettlingly chipper. "Get your notes ready."

Varn, never one to waste an opening, yanked a second dataslate from his belt. The rear folds of his crimson robe parted with a hiss of pneumatics, exposing a thermal exhaust coil embedded along his spine. It began to spin—soft at first, then rising into a smooth whine like a monastic turbine—bleeding heat from an overclocked cogitator stack now roaring into high gear.

Ferox leaned closer to Guilliman, voice low and dry as dust. "Oh no. He's entering note-taking fugue state. This may take a while."

Guilliman exhaled slowly. Very, very slowly.

"Alright, basics," Koron began. "The STC database occupies approximately five point eight zettabytes. Plus or minus zero point zero zero three percent, depending on redundancy from the Hilbert-phase checksum."

Varn didn't respond—not verbally.

His jaw ratcheted once, servos twitching under the stress. His oculars widened into twin crimson saucers, lenses dilating and contracting as they tried to refocus on ten things at once. A low, warbling hum began to pulse from deep in his torso—an emergency cooling system booting diagnostic loops it had no protocols for.

"That…" he rasped. "That would require—that's not feasible. Not even with full compression, triphase parallel partitioning, and hyperstate cache bleed—"

Koron held up a smooth cybernetic paw, calm as if explaining spreadsheet formulas to a child with a flamethrower.

"You're thinking locally," he said. "Let's do the actual math."

He extended one finger. Then another. Counting off on his claws with leisurely precision.

"You fold data across four axes—three spatial, one temporal. Anchor it to a quantum-indexed lattice mapped directly to my neural architecture. That nets you a storage density about thirty-nine million times greater than a standard cold-stack core."

Ferox froze mid-stroke, stylus hovering just above her slate.

Rael's weight shifted subtly, as if his armor were trying to recalculate what his brain refused to accept.

But Koron pressed on, voice smooth, precise—a surgeon detailing an autopsy.

"Then you layer in a synaptic-mirroring compression algorithm—originally developed to model planetary weather systems across geological epochs—into a dynamic topological mesh. It's recursive, self-healing, and builds better the more you use it."

He tapped the table absently with one claw. "End result? Roughly ten quettabytes per cubic millimeter."

Guilliman shifted—barely. A minute recalibration of posture, but it sent a ripple through the room like a continent groaning beneath tectonic strain. His eyes, those searing blue irises that had stared down traitor kings and false gods, narrowed—not in disbelief, but in assessment.

Koron gave another tap, this time against the side of his head. "And for clarity—the skull isn't the storage. The mind is."

He let the quiet stretch, just long enough for the number to sink in.

"The earlier estimate?" he added casually. "That was just active neural-phase memory. Working space. Runtime cognition. I compartmentalize."

A claw tapped his alloy skull again, quieter this time. "You didn't ask how deep it goes. Just how much I was using."

The room held still, suspended.

Then Koron added, far too cheerfully: "Oh, and I replaced my hippocampus with a logarithmic compression gate. Like trading your pantry for a collapsible galaxy."

He leaned forward slightly, his tone drier still: "The quettabyte count only matters if you're measuring breadth."

A faint twitch of blue optics.

"I optimize for depth."

Varn's stylus froze mid-stroke. His optics contracted to pinpricks, flickering between spectrums as if trying to see the impossibility.

One of his mechadendrites spasmed—brief, involuntary. A mechadendrite twitched—brief, involuntary. Like a nerve firing in a drowning man. The glow from his optics flared wide, then narrowed—desperate for focus, and finding none.

"That's not…" he began, but the sentence fragmented halfway down his throat.

His jaw worked wordlessly, grinding against augmetic pistons. Sparks danced at the corners of his cranial socket as logic threads unraveled faster than his mind could chase them.

"That's not…" he breathed again, voice trailing into static. "That would mean… centuries of memory flow compressed into single-second access. Stacked in recursive lattices. You'd need… a quantum cascade substrate, a phased memory mirror, no—no, that's not even—"

Before his optics could flicker out, a new voice cut in—low, deliberate, and terrifyingly precise.

Guilliman exhaled through his nose. The motion was subtle, but it carried the gravity of abyssal thought. "So," he said, "five zettabytes of runtime memory. Ten quettabytes per cubic millimeter of storage."

No hesitation. No awe. Just numbers—precise, measured, inescapable.

He didn't look at the drone as he spoke. He looked at the slate before him, at nothing, at memory.

The weight of centuries flickered behind his eyes.

"The average human brain—twelve hundred cubic centimeters. Subtract for implants, structural reinforcement. Assume lattice overlap for efficiency…"

His eyes narrowed. Not in disbelief—but calculation.

"That's over ten trillion quettabytes."

Then, he looked at the drone.

Across the table, the drone remained still. But within, Koron recalculated—not the figures, but the man.

A grin tugged at Koron's lips. Looks like he ran the numbers too.

"Tell me, Koron. Are you aware of what that makes you?"

Koron shook his head. "No, but I suspect you're about to inform me."

Guilliman didn't blink.

"It makes you a war crime."

The words hung. Too heavy for air, too sharp for silence.

Ferox looked up from her slate, expression unreadable, but the stylus had stopped tapping.

Rael shifted his stance, weight settling like a fortress bracing for impact.

Koron's optics narrowed a fraction. "You'll need to be more specific. I've read the Lex Imperialis. Quite a few categories to choose from."

There was no humor in Guilliman's voice. "All of them."

Varn's optics suddenly flickered—once, twice—then went dark. His body locked for a half-second… and collapsed like a marionette cut from above, robes and mechadendrites slumping with a mechanical sigh.

Rael winced. "Throne."

Ferox lowered her slate, eyebrows raised. "Did he just bluescreen?"

Koron sighed, folding his paws with long-suffering patience. "He'll reboot. Hopefully with fewer assumptions."

He turned his head toward Ferox, optics glinting faintly. "He had one minute and forty-two seconds left. Want to add that to your time?"

For the first time in an extraordinarily long time, Inquisitor Ferox had no immediate answer.

-

Ferox didn't pace—she advanced.

Each question came like a swordmasters strike. No flourish, no preamble. Her slate glowed faintly in her hand, but her eyes never left the drone.

"You care deeply," she began, voice low and exact. "So why haven't you picked a side?"

The drone tilted its head. Its lenses pulsed once, calm as a heartbeat. "I did," Koron said simply. "I picked them."

A flick of her stylus. "Do you believe in moral absolutes—or just preferable outcomes?"

"I believe in myself," he replied. "Not in what others insist is right, or what statistics claim is optimal. Both can be wrong in different ways."

A shadow shifted behind the one-way glass as someone adjusted a lumen. The drone didn't react.

Ferox's tone sharpened. "Do you intend to reshape the Imperium? Or just survive it?"

"Neither." His voice was level—not defiant, not guarded—just quietly honest. "I intend to offer help. And see if you all abuse it."

There was a moment's pause. Varn's servo-skull buzzed in a nervous figure-eight over his unconscious body, its lens flickering like a dying lumen.

Ferox leaned back—not relaxed, not disarmed. Just settled, like a storm eye made flesh. One finger tapped rhythmically against her slate. Not a fidget—punctuation. A silent metronome of sharpened thought.

"Your sense of humor is dangerous," she said at last, tone almost casual. "I've executed people for less."

The drone's lenses swiveled toward her. "One of the perks of a long-distance relationship," Koron replied.

She didn't flinch. Didn't raise her voice. But something in her focus drew tighter, like a knife being honed mid-air.

"I don't need to prove you're post-human," she said. "That's self-evident. What I want to understand is why. Why survive this long? Why reveal yourself now? Why come to us?"

Koron's reply was steady. "You say that like I had a choice."

Her gaze didn't waver. "Then why not leave?"

"Several reasons," Koron said smoothly. "None of which I'm sharing on our first date."

Ferox tapped her slate once.

"Dushthaven." Ferox didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. The name itself struck like a hammer wrapped in silk.

Across the table, the drone shifted—barely. A fractional tilt of its head. The lenses pulsed once in soft azure. "What about them?"

"You risked your life," she said, eyeing her slate. The creak of her chair echoed faintly—too loud for so soft a noise. "You exposed yourself. For a settlement of less than three hundred souls."

"As opposed to what?" the drone replied. Its tone was mild, almost curious. "Leaving them to die when I could save them?"

In the stillness, Guilliman's fingers flexed—just once, just slightly—on the arm of his chair. Like geological pressure building behind layers of control.

Ferox's stylus tapped again. Tick. Tick. A clock approaching detonation.

"Do you have emotional attachments?"

The drone didn't flinch.

"Yes."

"To specific individuals?"

This time, the glow behind its optics narrowed, sharpening.

"Yes."

Her tone never changed. Flat. Measured. A surgeon's voice deciding where to cut.

"If I threatened them... would you kill me?"

The silence that followed stretched thin as monofilament. No shift in lighting. No background hum. Just tension—the kind that prickled at the skin, demanding breath be held.

"No," Koron said.

Ferox tilted her head, just a fraction. The corner of her mouth twitched, surprised. A data point moving off script. "I admit," she murmured, "I'm surprised by that answer."

The drone leaned forward slightly—not aggressive, but deliberate. The voice that followed was soft, tight-edged. No volume wasted.

"Because what I'd do to you," the drone said, "wouldn't be killing."

His optics drew to a pinpoint—cold stars at the edge of a void.

"It would be unmaking."

Guilliman's voice cut through the stillness.

"Enough."

Not loud. Just final.

His eyes weren't on Ferox. They rested on the drone. "This isn't a test of loyalty. Or cleverness. This is the line."

He leaned forward slightly—just enough to make the air feel tighter.

"The line where civilization either continues… or fractures."

Ferox let the moment settle. One beat. Two.

Then her stylus tapped again. Deliberate.

"Understood," she murmured. "But someone has to test the foundation before we build on it."

She didn't look at Guilliman. She didn't need to.

The silence after wasn't passive. It was a thick, oppressive quiet, like the pause before a detonation. Like a cathedral before the stained glass shatters.

Ferox didn't blink. She inhaled through her nose—short, sharp, analytical—and released the breath as a silent, measured exhale. Her gaze remained steady. Focused. Not on the drone. On the truth behind the words.

"Back to the topic then. Unmaking," she echoed, like a scholar tasting an ancient word for the first time. Her voice was soft—velvet dragged across a blade. "That's not a threat. That's an ontological event."

The stylus dipped once against the slate.

Tick.

"I appreciate the clarity," she added.

No fear in her voice. No tremor. But the calculation behind her eyes had changed. Sharpened.

A different tool drawn from the kit.

Not hesitation. Just a new hypothesis.

And the quiet suggestion that she might already be adjusting the plan.

"I've interrogated arch-hereteks wrapped in data-spirals and hubris," Ferox said, tone flat as a surgeon's tray. "You don't speak like them."

Across the table, the wolves' eyes turned up in bemusement. Koron's reply came with the faintest curl of irony. "Hard to stay arrogant," he said, voice amiable with an edge beneath, "after you've spent a morning shoveling animal dung out of a barn."

Ferox allowed herself a nod—more notation than concession. "No," she murmured. "I suppose you cannot."

There was no venom in her tone. Just a cataloger's neutrality. One more pin in the butterfly. "More than that, you care," she added after a pause. "That's why I'm still listening."

The stylus paused. Then tapped again.

Click.

"How many operatives do you have embedded right now?"

Koron emitted a low, soft sound—half a chuckle, half a click.

"Adorable," he said. "But no."

Ferox didn't react. She blinked once. Slowly. A measured reset. "Are we under surveillance right now?"

"Yes."

The word dropped like a blade of ice—clean, cold, absolute.

The moment that followed was thick with potential. Not awkwardness. Not threat.

Awareness.

The kind of quiet that came when a new equation unfolded mid-battlefield.

Ferox's eyes swept the corners of the room—not panicked, but tactical. Re-evaluating angles. Calculating sightlines. She didn't fidget. She shifted parameters.

"There are twenty drones in this room," Koron continued, tone conversational as if discussing weather. "Six combat models. Twelve assassin types. One support unit."

A low, unsettling hum threaded through the air. Not mechanical—intentional.

As if the walls themselves had drawn breath in response.

Guilliman's eyes narrowed, faint tension in the line of his jaw. Just enough movement to suggest the shifting of stone beneath a mask of command.

Rael's hand moved halfway to his blade—then stopped. Not out of fear. Out of honed restraint. A silent signal of readiness tempered by doctrine.

Ferox didn't move. But her pupils shrank. A small thing. But her stillness became sharper—like a statue that could kill if it chose to shift.

"That adds up to nineteen," she said evenly.

"Correct," Koron replied. "The last one is me."

Guilliman's voice emerged low and glacial, measured with a weight that turned command into inevitability. "You claim there are twenty active drones in this room?"

Koron inclined his head, then swept a clawed hand outward, graceful and slow, as if conducting an invisible orchestra.

There was a shimmer—like oil slicking across water, or flame dancing without heat—as six Sentinel drones flickered into view. Three stood on either side of the chamber entrance, identical in form to the one seated at the table. But each bore minute variances in stance, optics, and stillness—predatory siblings, not clones.

They did not breathe. They did not blink.

They simply watched.

Above them, soft clicks whispered through the room like insect chittering. Twelve Viper drones de-cloaked from wall seams and ceiling panels, centipedal limbs clinging to bulkheads with quiet ease. Each one bore a single, blue-glowing optic—cyclopean and cold. Silent. Unblinking.
Executioners waiting for a name.

And then—cheerful contrast.

A soft chirrup, almost musical, preceded the appearance of a teardrop-shaped Prometheus drone as it wiggled free from a ventilation grate overhead. Its manipulators extended in what could charitably be called a wave. Or a warning. Possibly both.

Guilliman didn't move. His expression remained locked, but the stone of him tightened, ever so slightly—tectonic plates edging toward a faultline. Statues didn't flinch. But this one might crack mountains if it chose.

Rael's gaze snapped from target to target. A warrior's calculus, merciless and immediate. He tallied kill-priorities with mathematical precision… and came up short. He knew exactly how many he could fell. And how few seconds he'd last.

Ferox, for the first time, allowed a single fracture in her composure. Not fear. Not even surprise.

Recognition.

The understanding that the battlefield had expanded—not into space, but inward. Into the very bones of the room. Into every assumption they'd held.

And on the floor, Varn stirred. Just a twitch. The faint jolt of a system rebooting.

But his optics glowed like the warning lights of a machine waking into a world already changed.

Guilliman exhaled.

He didn't stand. Didn't speak.

Just a single breath.

The kind that kings and tyrants have learned to dread.

The drones remained utterly still.

Waiting.

"I asked for this meeting to determine what kind of threat you posed," Guilliman said at last. His voice was low, deliberate—a blade drawn, but not yet swung. "And you've answered."

The drone tilted its head, just slightly. A subtle shift—curious, not mocking. "You don't seem surprised."

"I'm not," Guilliman replied. "Only reminded."

"Of what?"

"That the Dark Age didn't fall because its enemies were stronger. It fell because its miracles forgot how to whisper."

There was no anger in his tone. Only the weariness of a man who had outlived too many betrayals, and still chose duty.

Guilliman leaned forward, hands folding atop the table, gauntlets clicking together with the slow, deliberate weight of locked intent.

"You're dangerous, Koron," he said, voice quiet but ironbound. "Not because you're armed." He nodded, once, toward the surrounding drones. "But because you think you're being merciful."

The drone didn't move. Its optics narrowed by a fraction, the barest flicker of thought passing behind those unblinking lenses.

"No," Koron said. His voice was steady, clam, but not cold. "Not merciful. Cautious."

The stillness in the room deepened, like pressure gathering in the seams of a hull.

"Would you," Koron continued, voice low and firm, "let the people you care about walk into a predator's den without something watching their backs?"

Guilliman's face remained unreadable, but something subtle shifted in the line of his jaw. Not softening. Not conceding. Just… understanding.

"No," he admitted.

"Then don't ask me to," Koron said.

Koron's voice didn't rise. There was no boast, no challenge. Only the calm, exhausted clarity of someone who had watched too many lives burn.

And chose, still, to stand guard anyway.

Guilliman studied the drone in silence, as though trying to peer through the alloy, through the eyes, through time itself—searching not just for the man, but the meaning behind him.

"You could have come here alone," he said at last. His voice was calm, but edged with weight. "And yet this room is a battlefield in waiting."

Koron offered a faint shrug. Fluid. Almost weary. "So is the galaxy."

"And which side do you stand on?"

There it was.

Not a trap. Not a test.

The question that had sat behind every calculation, every breath, since the drone first appeared.

Koron didn't hesitate.

"Mine. Theirs. Yours, if we can find common ground."

The drone's paw settled gently atop the table—a pointless gesture, but one that mirrored the idea of showing a lack of weapons. "And I believe we can. You have your armies, your methods, your priorities. I have mine. They differ in shape and scale, yes. But not in purpose. Not necessarily."

Guilliman exhaled, slow and deep. The kind of breath that carried dust from ancient tombs and the memory of a thousand lost campaigns.

The faint whir of servo-muscles shifted in his armor, like geothermal vents choosing not to explode.

"You speak of common ground," he said, voice low, resonant. "But you've built your foundations with ghosts. Yours. Ours. The Imperium has buried trillions chasing the hope that unity could outpace fear. But more often than not…"

His eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in truth. "Fear wins."

A single tap of his gauntlet against the table.

Not a threat.

A heartbeat.

"But," he went on, "we're still here. Not because we were wise. Not because we were just. But because we are stubborn."

He leaned forward, shoulders vast beneath ceramite, the weight of centuries pooled behind his eyes.

The fatigue of an empire's spine.

The will of its last beating heart.

"So I'll ask you plainly, Koron."

His voice, now, was granite wrapped in velvet.

"If you were to walk the halls of Terra—stand before the High Lords, or the Throne itself—what would you offer?"

The drone tilted its head. Slight. Mechanical.

But behind that gesture, something deeper stirred. A pause that wasn't delay, but measurement. Not of what to say, but how much of the future to allow into the room.

Guilliman's tone dropped—quieter now. More personal.

"I ask because a reckoning is coming. The old ways are cracking. And whether you wish it or not, Koron... you are part of what comes next."

-

"What would I offer?"

The drone's gaze dropped to the tabletop, the faintest hum rising in its chassis—like a breath drawn without lungs.

Then it moved.

Not with a twitch or shift, but with fluid inevitability. The wolf's frame unfolded, limbs lengthening, shoulders rising, as if the metal had only been sleeping. A new silhouette stood where the wolf had sat: taller, leaner, almost lupine in posture—a quiet werewolf carved from function and alloy.

Guilliman's brow twitched. A small thing. But for a Primarch, it was a shout.

The figure loped over to Ferox—not fast, not threatening, just smooth. Every step the kind that asked permission only once.

It stopped beside her and extended a clawed hand—gently.

"Excuse me," Koron said, voice calm. "May I borrow your slate and pen for a moment?"

Ferox blinked. Suspicion flickered across her features—reflexive, honed over centuries—but was quickly replaced by something more dangerous: interest.

She passed both without a word.

Koron took them and began to write.

The motion was not hurried, nor arrogant—just clean. The writing was tight and hurried, rapid slants that spoke of flesh keeping pace with thought.

Then he turned the slate and placed it at the center of the table with a surprising gentleness.

Ferox picked it up. Her eyes narrowed as she parsed the dense notation—columns of formulae, diagrams, protein structures layered with soil mineral data.

"Apologies," she murmured, angling it toward the Primarch. "My chemistry's a few centuries out of date. What does this do?"

Guilliman took the slate without speaking.

He scanned it once.

Then again—slower.

His breath caught.

Something shifted in the room: a breath held by history.

His gaze snapped up, eyes widening.

"This…" Guilliman murmured, voice low and distant, like someone reading a lost prayer. "This isn't just a fertilizer."

He looked at the figure before him—not the machine, but the mind behind it.

"This would revolutionize planetary agriculture. Not double, or triple, but quadruple harvest yields." He exhaled. "It would feed worlds."

His gaze dropped again to the slate, parsing the impossible lines of code and chemical notation.

"It's a self-replicating biocatalyst. It doesn't just enrich the soil—it rewrites it. Breaks down industrial toxins. Enhances carbon binding. Hypercharges nitrogen fixation. It would…" He paused, the weight of realization halting his tongue. "It would reclaim irradiated wastelands. Convert hive-waste to arable land. Turn ash into loam."

Koron's voice was quiet. Almost embarrassed. "It's a small thing. One of the simpler ones. We called it Second Harvest."

Guilliman interrupted—gently, but with force. "This was post-terraform protocol, wasn't it?"

Koron nodded once, a flicker of respect in the gesture. "Exactly. For when the work was done, and the people came home."

It's mechanical shoulders shrugged, servors whisper quiet.

"I thought your Imperium might need something like that."

And just like that, the room changed.

Not in threat.

Not in tension.

In gravity.

Something had shifted. Not a weapon drawn—but a future laid down, quiet and unadorned.

Something the Imperium hadn't been given in ten thousand years.

Hope.

-

Guilliman held the slate in both hands, tilting it slightly as his eyes scanned the contents again. At first, his expression was composed—lips pressed into a neutral line, brow furrowed just enough to suggest concentration.

Then his grip tightened.

He didn't speak for several seconds. His gaze was no longer on the slate, not really. It had turned inward—backward—across millennia of memory and loss. He saw fields burning on Macragge, saw the wasted green of Iax, the hunger riots on Calth. He remembered the children with sunken bellies on Krool, crying in the shadow of an agri-fane that had long since turned to dust. Priests of the Omnissiah blessing nutrient paste like it was ambrosia.

This wasn't theory.

It wasn't promise.

It was engineered. Complete. Mature. With redundancies for failure and safeguards against misuse.

No overgrowth, no loss of yield due to decay or invasive spread. It solved soil depletion. It pulled heavy metals from the air. It fixed nitrogen without gene-hacked bacteria or servitor-tilled churn-cycles.

It was clean.

And it was impossible.

"…This would save billions."

Not a triumph.

A confession.

His throat tightened. The words that followed carried no grandeur—only the exhaustion of a man who had outlived too many failures.

"All this time. All this blood."

A breath.

"And we forgot how to grow."

He looked to the drone—through the drone—searching for the presence he knew watched from behind that lens. There was no illusion of humanity in its face, but there was a mind behind it. Waiting. Listening.

"You chose to give this," he said. "Freely. No bargain. No demand. Why?"

The drone didn't answer immediately.

It tilted its head—just slightly. Like a man trying to remember a moment from long ago.

"When I first arrived in Dusthaven," Koron said, his voice quiet but steady, "they gave me a closet. A little space at the back of a tavern. There was a tap in the wall. The water that came from it was brackish, rust-stained. It tasted like grit and iron. Like surrender."

He glanced toward the door Elissa had exited—just for a moment. The gesture lingered.

"I didn't complain. Just started fixing the filters."

He paused. Letting the silence fill with memory.

"Elissa found me. Asked me, 'Why?'"

The drone's gaze turned back—but in that moment, it felt like someone was looking out. Not a machine.

A man.

"And now you ask the same."

The claws at his side flexed once, curling in. Not a threat. A reflex.

"I gave her the same answer I'll give you."

A pause. A breath that didn't need lungs to carry the weight of truth.

"Because I can."

No thunder.

No pride.

Just conviction.

"Because trust has to start somewhere."

-

His hands—gloved in ceramite and gold—folded slowly atop the table. The slate remained beneath his fingertips, forgotten but not dismissed. His gaze dropped to it briefly, then rose again to meet the drone's eyes—no longer cold, no longer calculating.

Just… human.

There was a pause. Long enough for breath. Long enough for memory.

"…That," Guilliman said softly, "was once the answer we gave, too."

He exhaled—a slow, papery sound, like pages turning beneath the vault of a cathedral.

"When we built hospitals on worlds we discovered. When we pulled toxins from poisoned skies because children were breathing them. When we spent decades sculpting soil on dead worlds—not for conquest, but because we could, and no one else would."

His voice didn't break.

But it bent—just a little. The steel of a man not mourning the past, but mourning that it had become the past.

"We called it duty. Empire. Hope." A breath, heavy. "But in the end… it really was that simple, wasn't it?"

He leaned forward, elbows resting beside the slate, the soft whir of his armor the only sound between them.

"And now you speak with that voice. That instinct. That truth."

Another pause.

A breath held in the lungs of history.

Guilliman didn't stand. He unfolded—like a siege engine reassembling itself after long rest. "You understand the fire you're carrying," he said, voice low. "The moment it leaves this room, wars will be fought for the idea of what you are."

A pause. A breath.

"So before I ask what you can give us—"

"Koron," he asked quietly, "what do you want?"

-

"Honestly? I don't know."

The drone's voice echoed faintly in the chamber, low, steady, but threaded with something heavier. Weariness, maybe. Not fatigue of the body, but of a soul stretched across millennia.

"There are too many problems. Too many arguments. Too much weight pulling you in too many directions. Even if I handed you everything I know, most of it wouldn't survive first contact with your institutions. The Adeptus Mechanicus alone would either entomb it in red tape… or schism trying to possess it. And you can't afford that, not now."

The drone shifted slightly, tail whispering softly against the polished floor. Around the table, the air felt dense, brittle, like a room full of people holding their breath.

"You're surrounded by enemies both without and within. Your Imperium is straining at the seams, barely held together by faith and inertia. Your people are terrified, malnourished, or beaten to death by your own hands. You need systemic change. Change fast enough to defend yourselves… but slow enough not to tear your empire apart at the roots."

The drone's optics dimmed, then brightened again as if blinking.

"So what do I want?"

He turned his head slowly, the Sentinel's smooth alloy skull catching the soft amber lights above. It faced Guilliman first.

"I want a safe haven for my people. Just that. Let the survivors of Dusthaven live in peace on Nocturne, if the Salamanders people will have them. Let them heal. Let them build something, quietly, in the ash. Just to live alongside the sons and daughters of Vulkan, who have already stood with them in fire."

The voice softened—not in tone, but in distance. As though retreating slightly, into the shadow just beyond trust.

"As for me? I'll stay out here. Somewhere on the edge of your sight. Close enough to speak… if you're willing. Maybe we talk. Compare notes. Share truths. Try to understand each other, piece by piece."

The last words hung in the air like dust motes in a sunbeam—suspended, fragile, and real.

-

Guilliman's brows lifted—just a fraction—as Koron spoke, and something subtle shifted in his bearing. The weight of command didn't vanish, but it receded. In its place stood the man who had once written the Codex Astartes with ink still wet from a galaxy burning from betrayal.

A builder. A son of a dream long buried beneath ash.

A man who, in rare stolen moments, still dreamed of quiet, sunlit fields and a life without armor.

When Koron finished, Guilliman leaned back, folding his hands over one another. His expression was unreadable—but not cold. Not dismissive. Just still. Like someone measuring the weight of a promise before daring to pick it up.

"You're not asking for power," he said at last. "You're asking for a quiet place. A corner of peace. Buried on a furnace world most would overlook."

His gaze shifted—just briefly—to the Salamanders standing sentinel near the door. Then back.

"That… is not an impossible thing. The Salamanders do not turn away survivors. They are survivors. And if the Dusthaven people can live with dignity among them, not as subjects but as neighbors, then I will speak with their Chapter Master."

He paused, voice dropping, becoming less formal. More human.

"You're right. About the fractures. About the fear. About the danger of too much change, too fast."

Another pause. Then, more quietly, and with something raw beneath the words:

"But you're also right that doing nothing… will kill us faster."

He drew in a long breath—armor shifting with the motion, servo-motors whispering like distant winds—and let it out slowly.

"So I'll begin with this: your people will have my protection. For as long as they wish it. And you and I…"

A faint smile. Barely there. But real.

"We'll talk. No oaths. No chains. Just words. For now."

Then, softer still—less a promise, more a hope:

"Let's see what we can build."

-

Ferox didn't speak at first.

She watched Guilliman as he gave his word, her expression unreadable. Slate still in her lap, stylus forgotten between gloved fingers. When she finally turned her gaze back to the drone, it was as if she were viewing it anew—not as an anomaly, but as a variable. A possibility.

"A safe haven," she said slowly. "For a people who should not exist. Protected by an individual who by all rights cannot exist."

Her voice was quiet, but no less cutting for its softness.

"You realize what you're asking, don't you? Not just sanctuary, but precedent. The moment you are accepted—even conditionally—the very foundations of our control begin to shift. If you're allowed to remain, to share knowledge, to exist openly, others will try to follow your example. Or worse: claim your example as their own."

She looked down at the formula still displayed on her slate, the reflection of its impossible elegance flickering in her silver irises.

"And yet…"

A pause born not of uncertainty, but the space before a verdict.

"…I've seen what denial brings. I've seen how many die, every year, so we can pretend the past never happened."

She looked up.

"I'm not your friend, Koron. I'm not going to pretend trust. But if you truly mean to help—even if it's just to buy your people time—then I'll make sure your message is heard."

She leaned forward slightly, the inquisitorial mask slipping just enough to reveal the faintest hint of something else beneath: interest. Curiosity. And maybe… just maybe… a sliver of hope.

"But don't mistake that for a leash. If you turn on us—if you lie—I will be the one who ends you."

The drone's optic gleamed in the low light.

"Fair," Koron said simply. "Just do me one favor."

Ferox's brow arched, expectant as she waited.

"Ask yourself, before that day ever comes… if it was you who betrayed me first."

-

Varn had not moved from where he'd collapsed to the floor.

The trembling had passed. What remained was the stillness of a sealed vault—pressure building behind adamantium locks, waiting for something to give.

When he finally spoke, his vox-grilled voice was flat as obsidian.

"Fascinating."

He rose—fluid, deliberate, like machinery returning to operational parameters.

Not to face Guilliman. Not Ferox.

But the drone.

The thing that wore a voice like skin.

The thing that dared to barter with a Primarch as though they were equals.

"You speak of sanctuary. Of peace. Of gifts freely given… as if that absolves what you are. What you represent."

He gestured—not wide, not theatrical. Just a precise flick of metal fingers toward the slate on the table.

"You call it a gift. I call it proof. Proof of unsanctioned intellect. Design heresy. An origin without record or rite. And that—" He tapped the air once, final as a gavel. "—is all Mars will need."

His optics dimmed slightly, not in weariness, but focus. Calculation tightening into threat.

"I don't need to win this conversation," he continued, quiet as a power blade sheathing. "I only need to record it. And when I place that record before the Synod of Mars—when I present your words in full—there will be no need for rebuttal. No room for appeal. Only consequence."

The drone tilted its head, slow and subtle. Curious.

But Varn had already turned away.

One servo-limb clicked softly as he resumed his place at the table.

Not like a man retreating.

Like a weapon being holstered.

Guilliman said nothing.

But his gaze hadn't left Varn since he began speaking.

Nor had Ferox's.

And somewhere behind the drone's feed, where machine met mind, Koron's fingers curled slightly against an unseen armrest.

"Varn," Koron said, gently.

No edge. No raised voice.

Just a quiet undertone. Like a door opening into memory.

The drone did not rise. Did not posture.

"When did your quest for knowledge become a pursuit of power?"

Varn's motion stopped mid-step, mid-turn. He didn't respond with words. But the slight twitch of his mechadendrite, the fractional hesitation of a servo-motor—those betrayed what his face could not.

The question hung, unanswered.

Varn did not speak. But something in him folded inward, a priest flinching at the echo of a forgotten prayer.

Guilliman broke the silence.

His voice was quieter now. Less like a warlord delivering orders—more like a man thinking aloud while walking the edge of a blade.

"There was a time," he said, "when we believed knowledge was salvation. That to understand the stars was to master them. That invention, insight, and vision were the path forward."

He glanced toward Varn. Not with accusation. Not even judgment.

Just… recognition.

"But power without humility becomes tyranny. And the longer one holds it… the easier it is to mistake possession for purpose." His gaze returned to the drone. "We lost the balance. Between what we could do—and what we should."

Then, softer: "And I suspect… you've seen what happens after that balance is broken."

Koron's voice came low, stripped of irony, stripped of armor.

"No. I never saw the war. I never saw the Fall."

The drone's head tilted slightly. Listening. Maybe remembering.

"But I can guess."

A long pause followed. The kind filled with things that had no words.

"I know what fear does to good people," he said at last. "I know what silence grows in the dark. And I know what happens when engineers start thinking they're gods."

The blue glow dimmed, just a fraction.

"I was a builder. I am a builder. But somewhere… someone took what we made and twisted it. And now you're all living in the broken shadow of it."

Another silence—this one thinner. Fragile.

Then Ferox spoke. "What would you do, Koron?"

Her silver eyes caught the chamber light, unreadable as mercury. But something softer stirred at the edges of her voice—weariness, maybe. Or hope, wearing the mask of professionalism. "If this were yours to fix," she said, fingers lacing atop the table, "if we did earn your help… what's the first wire you'd cut? The first fracture you'd mend?"

It wasn't a challenge.

Not quite.

Just the question every Inquisitor learns to ask, eventually:

If you were in charge… what would you change?

The kind of question that can damn or redeem.

Depending on the answer.

-

The drone's voice hummed softly through the chamber, cutting the silence like a dagger rather than a hammer. The Sentinel stood still near the center of the council chamber—its matte plating gleaming faintly under the cold lumen-strips overhead, casting long shadows across the polished stone and steel of the floor. It looked small beside the towering forms of Astartes and the looming presence of Guilliman, but there was a stillness to it that demanded attention.

"First?" Koron said, its tone measured but not detached. "Food, which this will help with, and medicine."

A simple start—but it landed like a blow.

"Your people are starving. Dying of things that should've been forgotten centuries ago. Infections. Contaminated water. Nutrient collapse. I've read your medical files. I've seen children with teeth like rusted nails and lungs full of ash. That's not just neglect. That's a slow execution."

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

"Second," the drone continued, turning its head just slightly—just enough to glance toward Varn, though it didn't name him. "Curb the fervor. Not eliminate it—faith is powerful. It's human. It uplifts. But right now? It's spilling over. It floods every other idea, every voice that doesn't echo the same litany. And when that happens, everything else drowns."

Guilliman's gaze didn't waver. Still, stiller than statues. The light above caught in the grooves of his armor like sunlight on a glacier.

"You," Koron said, the drone's eyes brightening slightly as it pointed a claw at the Primarch "are the only one who can apply that brake. Not a purge. Not a war. Just... a shift in tone. A nudge. Say the word heresy with a little less absolute behind it. Maybe the rest of them will follow."

There was a long pause. Not dramatic—just contemplative. As if the drone had needed to choose its next words carefully.

"Third. Terraforming."

The optic dimmed slightly, as if in quiet mourning. "I've seen your worlds, Roboute. Drowned in acid. Choked in radiation. Rotted with pollutants that haven't broken down in millennia. They're not battlefields—they're funerals you forgot to bury. I can help fix that."

A slow intake of breath came from Ferox. Not fear—not awe—just... realization.

"Fourth. Defensive systems. Shields. Atmospheric buffers. Containment fields for your reactors and your people. For your ships and cities alike. To preserve. To hold ground instead of always losing it."

The drone tilted its head again, back toward the center of the table. It did not pace. It did not gesture wildly. It simply stood there, speaking with the calm of someone who had rebuilt a dozen broken places and never been thanked for any of them.

"But no guns. No kill-scripts. No temporal rippers or axiomatic contorters. I won't give you weapons you're not ready for. Because guns are easy."

The optics pulsed once. A faint flicker of blue, like a tired heartbeat.

"They only have to break things."

It turned its head slowly, meeting Guilliman's eyes.

"But building up? That's the hard part. And you know that better than either of them."

Guilliman's gaze did not waver. If anything, it grew heavier, like stone settling into place.

"…Yes," he said at last. "I do."

The words fell quiet in the chamber, but they carried the weight of wars unnumbered, of rebuilt cities and broken empires, of sleepless nights spent drafting reforms no one wanted, for a people who only knew how to endure.

"Anyone can break a thing," Guilliman continued. "A bomb, a sword, a word whispered at the wrong moment. But building… that takes vision. Patience. And the willingness to fail again and again without giving up."

He looked around the table, his voice sharpening.

"And I have failed. Repeatedly. In diplomacy. In war. In governance. But I'm still here, trying."

The drone nodded, and the voice from it came quieter now, less edged.

"Then maybe we understand each other better than I thought."

Varn shifted ever so slightly in his seat, something unreadable flickering across the red glow of his optics. Ferox, for once, said nothing.

Not because she had no thoughts.

But because—for now—there was a balance point.

-

The chamber was empty now. Cleared. Swept of drones and shadows alike.

Guilliman stood alone at the center, gauntlets braced against the edge of the table, as if it were the only thing tethering him to the moment. The slate still lay before him—blank now, the data long since copied and encrypted into a secure vault deep within his private cogitator matrix.

He hadn't moved.

Not in minutes. Not in memory.

Not since the wolf had walked out of the room with the weight of a civilization slung behind its back like a toolkit.

Not since he realized the future had just knocked on the door... and hadn't demanded to be let in.

It had offered fertilizer.

He stared at the slate, not really seeing it anymore. His vision drifted inward—across burning fields, poisoned rivers, ash chocked skies. The people who knelt to statues that had never saved them. The ones who starved beneath banners too grand to shelter.

"Because I can."

He whispered the words to no one. They tasted unfamiliar. Ancient.

There had been a time—hadn't there?—when that was enough. When his Legion had brought light, not just order. When duty and compassion had walked side by side, instead of taking turns wearing the same mask.

But that was before the heresy.

Before ten thousand years of attrition had taught him to question hope first.

Guilliman closed his eyes. Listened.

He could still hear Ferox's stylus tapping, Varn's breathing through vox-filtered teeth, the quiet flicker of Rael's barrier wards flaring when Koron had spoken of the STC. Each sound had been a drumbeat in the anatomy of revelation.

A man—a post-human, a myth, a thing too old for labels—had just rewritten the gravity of the galaxy by offering topsoil.

He didn't bring salvation wrapped in gold or blood.

He brought a bag of dirt, and the certainty that it mattered.

He exhaled, a slow, even breath that filled the chamber like incense. Not relief. Not surrender.

But acknowledgement.

The Imperium had not won this moment. It had been given it.

And that, perhaps, was the hardest truth of all.

He tapped the slate once, then turned toward the door. His armor hissed faintly as it rebalanced under his weight, servos realigning.

The path ahead had not grown easier.

Only clearer.

And for the first time in a very, very long while... Guilliman found himself wondering not just what needed to be done, but what could be done—if one chose to build, instead of bury.

He stepped into the corridor, where Ferox was already waiting with narrowed eyes and a gaze sharp enough to cut data.

He gave her a nod. Just one.

"I think," he said, "we may need to write a new catechism."

And then, quieter—almost to himself:

"One that remembers how to whisper."

-

The slate still weighed heavy in her hand.

Not in mass. That part was trivial—light enough to toss across the chamber, smash against the wall. She had broken heavier things before. Men. Oaths.

But not this.

Not this gift, if that's what it was.

Inquisitor Ferox stood at the edge of the chamber, boots planted with perfect posture, every fold of her coat crisp, every braid of her hair as disciplined. She hadn't moved since Guilliman passed her, his words like frost on parchment.

"One that remembers how to whisper."

She hadn't answered him.

She was still deciding whether to follow.

Her eyes dropped to the slate again. The molecular diagram pulsed faintly in standby—a self-replicating lattice wrapped in enzyme logic, bleeding elegance like an open wound.

A fertilizer, she thought. He brought us a damn fertilizer.

She had interrogated demons. Burned psykers on altars made of truth and screaming. Broken cults so thoroughly their names were forgotten before the ash cooled.

And yet here—here was something she could not quite parse. Not a lie. Not a heresy. Not even a manipulation.

Just a man offering food to children.

Ferox's jaw flexed slightly. She hated miracles. Miracles were where questions died.

Her training kicked in, automatic and cold:

Probability of ruse: Low. Too complex for bait.

Possibility of corruption: Unclear. The drone did not twitch when psyker runes flared.

Motivation: Unknown. Claiming altruism.

Threat level: Catastrophic.


She tapped her stylus once against the slate. A soft click. A sound like the end of a sentence.

"I'm not your friend, Koron," she had said.

And she meant it. She still meant it.

But the part she hadn't said—the part she hadn't even admitted to herself—was that she hadn't hated what he'd done.

She'd just hated that it made her hope.

Hope was a tactical liability. It fogged the angles of attack. Dulled the edges of questions.

But even now, her mind was already building the report. Not for the High Lords. Not for the Conclave. For herself.

Subject: Koron.
Status: Unknown.
Capability: Terminal.
Intent: Possibly human.


She hated that last line most of all.

A hiss of air interrupted her thoughts. The servitors were moving again, cleansing the chamber, sealing it in quiet. Behind the walls, she could hear the soft skitter of maintenance drones returning to programmed behavior.

Ferox didn't move.

She was waiting for the silence to break first.

She looked once more at the slate, at the chemical symphony dancing there.

"Don't mistake this for a leash," she'd told him.

But now she wondered—had she mistaken him for the hound?

What if he was the shepherd?

-

[RESTRICTED ACCESS: ALPHA-LEVEL CLEARANCE REQUIRED]
SUBJECT:
Koron [Alias: "Sentinel," "Dusthaven Entity"]
DATE: ███.M42
AUTHOR: Inquisitor Lysandra Ferox
CLASSIFICATION: OMEGA RED — INCOMPLETE, UNSANCTIONED DRAFT


I. Introduction

The subject known as "Koron" appeared before a joint tribunal consisting of myself, Inquisitor Varn, Brother-Librarian Rael, and Lord Commander Roboute Guilliman. He did not appear in person, but through a polymorphic drone body possessing high-level tactical awareness, social processing, and aesthetic restraint. It was one of many redundants.

He initiated dialogue unprompted. He offered no supplication, no apology, and—most critically—no demands.

This, I believe, is the most dangerous thing about him.


II. Physical Capabilities (Observed, Not Exhaustive)

  • Drone avatar equipped with polymorphic architecture.
  • Integrated advanced stealth (undetectable by auspex).
  • Deployed nineteen support units in-room during interview:
    • 6 canine drones (combat oriented?)
    • 12 insectile drones (assassination types likely)
    • 1 unknown-support class.
  • Claimed full command-layer authority over all systems. Confirmed via passive compliance and visual reveals.
  • All units responded to unspoken directives. Latency below human perception.
Conclusion: Full combat lockdown may not have prevented loss of tribunal personnel save the Lord Commander and possibly Brother Rael.

Risk tier: Terminal.


III. Psychological Profile (Preliminary)

Subject exhibits:

  • Controlled confidence.
  • Refusal to escalate despite provocation.
  • Weaponized sarcasm. (I cannot overstate this.)
  • Display of humility without submission.
  • Preference for gifts over threats.
He referred to himself as a builder, not a conqueror. When asked what he would offer the Throneworld, he responded by providing a biocatalytic terraforming compound capable of restoring irradiated and industrialized soil.

No conditions.

No price.

No sermon.

Only: "Because I can."

Recommend additional observation for sociopathic masking or psychological displacement. No known synthetic, heretek, or xenos has ever used that phrase without irony.

And yet... I believe he meant it.


IV. Philosophical Threats (Non-Tactical)

The subject does not challenge our power directly.

He challenges our purpose.

He refuses all doctrinal authority—not with rebellion, but with competence.

He does not seek to lead the Imperium.

He simply demonstrates what leadership used to look like.

If he is allowed to remain, the people will not revolt.

They will ask questions.


V. Recommendations

[THIS SECTION HAS BEEN REWRITTEN THREE TIMES. PRIOR DRAFTS REDACTED.]


...

RECOMMENDATION (as of 0.3.2):

  1. DO NOT ATTEMPT CAPTURE.
    • Any direct assault could result in catastrophic loss of life and STC data.
    • Subject holds unknown technologies. Containment probability is unknown.
  2. SANCTION CONDITIONAL TOLERANCE.
    • Allow subject to exist under Guilliman's personal oversight.
    • Leverage his cooperation for strategic advancement where possible.
    • Ensure all Imperial aid received via Koron is documented and routed through Ecclesiarchal framing to prevent doctrinal fallout.
  3. OBSERVE CLOSELY.
    • Assign operatives to Dusthaven survivors.
    • Initiate long-term behavioral profile of subject through indirect means.
    • Maintain plausible deniability.
  4. CONTAIN THE NARRATIVE.
    • The public must never see a miracle without a priest beside it.

VI. Personal Addendum [Eyes Only]

I do not trust him.

I do not trust anything that can offer hope without asking permission.

But…

There was a moment. When he laid the slate down. When Guilliman's voice broke—not from anger, but from memory. A moment when even I stopped thinking like an Inquisitor and started thinking like someone who used to believe in better days.

If that happens again…

…I don't know what I'll do.


[FILE SAVED BUT NOT SUBMITTED]
Auto-delete scheduled upon logout unless manually archived.


-

The cogitator hums whispered comfort.

Subroutines aligned. Memory caches cleared. Emergency overheat flushed through the vent coils in his back. His heart—what remained of it—thudded once, hard enough to rattle the suspension in his spine.

Varn rose.

Slowly.

Mechanically.

Like an engine coming back online after a catastrophic purge.

His room was silent. Even the dust had stilled, afraid to move. The only sound was the faint click of his stylus tapping against the dataslate he didn't remember retrieving.

He stared at it.

He had blue-screened in front of a Primarch.

A Primarch.

His fingers twitched.

The phrase looped again. Not through his ears—through his memory latches, his logic trees, the ones he trusted more than oxygen.

"Because I can."

He mocked us.
He pitied us.
He mourned us.

He beat me without lifting a finger.


Varn's mechadendrites flicked behind him, agitated. They weren't reacting to a threat. They were searching for one. The way an addict's hands searched for a cup no longer there.

He turned sharply, the servo at his hip catching the edge of the bench.

Shattered ceramic crunched beneath his boot.

Not just insult. Not just heresy.

An STC.

The full archive.

The refinement engine.
The protocols.
The template of templates.

Everything.

His throat clicked as he swallowed—dry, artificial, unnecessary.

He'd studied the Omnissiah's voice all his life. Heard whispers of its glory from crumbling data-tomes and heat-warped servitor logs.

He had lived in the silence between fragments.

And Koron had spoken with clarity.

The rage should've come then. Should've bloomed hot and righteous.

But instead, it came as… confusion.

"I didn't say I have an STC."

"I said I have the STC."


No static. No uncertainty. Just truth, delivered like a diagnosis.

Varn sat again, slowly. Stiffly.

He opened a private noospheric link. Typed a note meant for himself.

Subject: Koron
Status: Heretek. Post-human. Silica.
Classification: UNKNOWN.
Threat Level:

...
...
...

He deleted the line five times.

Because none of the words were enough.

And none of them were true.

He stared at the blinking cursor.

He was supposed to report this to Mars.

But if he did...

Would they try to use Koron?

Chain him? Dissect him?

Worship him?

Would they tear the galaxy apart again in pursuit of something they never understood?

His servo-skull hovered close, whirring softly. Awaiting orders.

But for the first time in years, Varn didn't give any.

He stared down at the blank field.

And heard Koron's voice again:

"When did your quest for knowledge turn into a pursuit of power?"

He had no answer.

Not yet.

But for the first time in his long, metal-threaded life… he wanted one.

-

Secure Transmission Draft: 001-VR-KORON-MORRAK-II

To:
Synod Prime, Mars
From: Inquisitor-Technomandate Varn of the Ordo Machinum
Date: [REDACTED]
Encryption: Omega-Level Cipher Lock // Genetor Tongue Layered // Null-Protocol Wash
Subject: Initial Observations — Entity Known as "Koron"
Status: DRAFT — Not Yet Released


I. Preface (for Mechanicus Eyes Only)

The following information is incomplete, unverified, and potentially paradigm-altering. It must not be circulated beyond the Archmagi until formal schema review has been completed. I will assume the risk of heretek association for its contents. You will understand why.

Recommendation: Distribute to zero parties outside Mars.


II. Entity Profile

Designation:
"Koron"
Self-identification: Human. Former citizen of Terra. Possibly born during pre-Imperial epoch.
Medium of Contact: Polymorphic drone body; direct cognition transfer suspected.
Nature: Unknown. Refuses classification. Simultaneously exhibits Silica-tier processing capacity and organic emotional response. No known comparison exists within sanctioned systems.


III. Observed Capabilities

  • Self-declared origin as pre-Age of Strife human.
  • Possesses—or claims to possess—the full, uncorrupted Standard Template Construct archive.
  • Describes internal storage as "quantum-phase neural lattice," integrated into wetware hybrid systems.
  • Identifies personal power source as "zero-point quantum flux cascade reactor."
  • Has full command-layer access to drone army employing advanced stealth, assassination, and infiltration subtypes. Unable to detect communication system between drone swarm.
Note: Subject navigated an interrogation by two Inquisitors, a Librarian of the Grey Knights, and a Primarch without being cornered once.


IV. Intellectual Heresy (Confirmed)

The following statements were given openly:

  • The Omnissiah is "a fictional deity created to fill a gap."
  • Machine Spirits, as currently understood, are misunderstood remnants of true AI systems.
  • Recitation of litanies deemed non-functional superstition.
  • Ritual blessing of tools dismissed as inefficiency; prefers "maintenance and respectful storage."
  • Views current Mechanicus schema as corrupted derivatives of DAoT logic trees.

V. Emotional Contamination

(SECTION FLAGGED FOR REWRITING — SEE DRAFT COMMENTS)

I did not engage in debate.

I attempted extraction through rhetorical escalation.

I was outmaneuvered via what he termed "basic psychology."

I believed—incorrectly—that I had detected an intelligence swap with his companion AI.

I attempted to trap the entity.

I was wrong.

His manipulation was not coded.
It was casual.
And it was effective.

(Rewrite to remove tone. Maintain factual neutrality. Consider eliding section.)


VI. Core Revelation

Entity Koron stated, verbatim:

"I didn't say I have an STC.
I have the STC. The complete archive. The full ecosystem. Blueprint, logic-tree, refinement engine. Every protocol, every template, every failure, every success."
"Still extrapolating, as expected."

He claims to house this within himself.

If this is true, and I fear it is, then Koron is no longer a discovery.

He is an origin.


VII. Risk Tier Assessment

Entity cannot be classified under current threat models.

  • Not Alpha-level AI: Does not behave algorithmically.
  • Not Demonhost: Warded psyker present reported null presence.
  • Not Heretek: Holds no reverence for Dark Mechanicum or its dialects.
  • Not Human: By every metric we understand.
He is something we are not prepared for.

And I do not believe anyone is.


VIII. Recommendation

DRAFT NOTE: This section requires resolution. Current versions conflict.


DRAFT A: Immediate escalation to Fabricator-General. Request Omnissiah Decree. Demand full recovery and analysis of subject, regardless of cost.

DRAFT B: Delay dissemination. Observe subject via tertiary agents. DO NOT provoke. Assess psychological vulnerability. Wait for political moment of weakness.

DRAFT C: Burn this report. Forget he existed.

Pray he forgets we do.


IX. Personal Addendum — Not for Upload

I have devoted my life to decoding the voice of the Omnissiah.

But what if I was wrong?

What if the voice was never coming from above?

What if it was always behind us, quietly fixing broken things, waiting for someone to ask why?

He asked me a question.

"When did your quest for knowledge turn into a pursuit of power?"

I have not answered.

I do not know if I can.

But I must.

Before someone else does it for me.


[FILE NOT TRANSMITTED]
[CONNECTION TO MARS: DISABLED]
[SAVE Y/N?]


-

Journal Entry: Roboute Guilliman

Date:
███.M42
Location: Personal Quarters, Macragge's Honour
Encryption: Primarch-Level Personal Encryption (Confirmed by Geneprint)
Status: UNSHARED – PRIVATE THOUGHT RECORD ONLY


There was once a time when I believed I understood the Imperium.

I do not mean its breadth or structure—those are mechanical things. Machines built of policy, duty, and blood. I understood its function, as one understands the turning of a millstone or the burn of a reactor core.

But I did not understand its soul.

I thought I did.

Then I woke up, and ten thousand years had passed.

And tonight, I met someone who remembers the soul of humanity better than I ever did.

He came to me in the shape of a wolf.

He left behind a garden.

Not a throne. Not a banner. Not a sword.

Soil.

Fertile, impossible, humble soil—engineered to feed the children of a starving galaxy.

And he gave it freely.

I do not know what Koron truly is.

I know what Varn thinks. I know what Ferox fears.

I even know what Rael is preparing to do if I misstep.

But I also know this:

He could have killed all of them.

Perhaps even me. The weapons of the Dark Age are potent.

He could have walked into that chamber, silenced our hearts with weapons we couldn't see, and rewritten history with the tap of a claw.

Instead, he made a joke.
He made a point.
Then he offered help.

And that may be more dangerous than any weapon the Imperium has ever faced.

Because it makes me want to hope again.

I had buried that instinct. Entombed it beneath doctrine and failure and the cruel arithmetic of this age. I believed hope to be a heresy of its own sort—a thing that only leads to heartbreak.

But there, across the table, I saw something we forgot to name.

Compassion.

Unadorned. Unrequested. Unweaponized.

He does not ask us to kneel. He does not demand fealty.

He simply asks us to imagine that things could be better.

And I fear that is the one idea we no longer know how to defend against.

Even I flinched when he said it.

There will be consequences for what I said today. For what I did not say louder.

The Fabricator-General will call me a traitor in quiet rooms.
The Ecclesiarchy will compose sermons damning me by implication.
And the Inquisition... the Inquisition already knows.

But for now—for just this moment—I do not care.

I saw something in that room. Not a miracle. Not heresy.

I saw what we used to be.

And I wonder, not for the first time, if the true tragedy of this Imperium… is that we killed that version of ourselves before the xenos ever had the chance.

I asked myself what I would do if I stood before the High Lords.

I fear to even write it down.

Because I am afraid I would tell them the truth:

I would trade everything we are…
for just one world that could bloom again.


I'll speak with him again soon.

Not as a commander.

But perhaps, if fate allows it…

A fellow traveler on the road to something better.

Father, if you are listening…I beg you…

Please.

Let this be real.



[ENTRY SAVED]
[NO TRANSMISSION REQUESTED]
[VOICEPRINT LOCK ENGAGED]
 
Chapter Thirty Nine New
Chapter Thirty Nine

-

The knock dragged Doc out of her paperwork-induced stupor like a bolt round through a dream. Her back straightened with a creak of vertebrae, chair legs thudding to the floor.

"Who is it?" she barked, thumbing off her cogitator screen with a flick more annoyed than precise. "If this is another adept asking about authentication seals, I swear to the Throne—"

"It's me, brat," came the voice from the other side of the door, dry as dust and twice as sharp. "Now open up."

Doc groaned—part frustration, part affection—and rose with the reluctance of someone nursing both a headache and an overworked conscience. The locking wheel squealed as she spun it, the metal groaning in protest, before the door hissed open.

There stood Inquisitor Ferox, dressed in what she apparently considered "casual." A slate-grey coat of armored synth-weave hugged her tall frame, high-collared and cut with the lethal precision of a vibro-knife. The coat hung open to reveal a crimson tunic beneath—plain, immaculate, and unbothered by vanity. Her boots were well worn black, regulation-issue, reinforced at toe and heel—silent as guilt on cold decking. Both hands were bare, save for the faint blue pulse of a data-ring on one index finger. At her hip, mostly hidden beneath the coat's hem, sat a holstered bolt pistol—its weight neither flashy nor apologetic.

Her dark hair was twisted into a quick, practical knot—slightly uneven, just enough to say I dress myself. From the inner lining of her coat, when she moved, a rosette winked—Imperial authority worn like a whisper.

She looked like a woman who dismantled empires before breakfast and had only just decided not to do so again today.

Doc squinted at her, unimpressed. "It's rude to demand someone open the door like that. Figured you'd've learned that in the last two hundred years, ya old hag."

Ferox gave a sharp grin and held up two dark brown bottles, their contents glinting with promise. "Which is why I bring gifts."

Doc's eyes narrowed at the bottles, weighing the sincerity behind them like a field medic judging triage. Then she stepped aside with a grunt, gesturing Ferox in.

Ferox took the seat opposite without ceremony, scanning the cramped room with those unreadable silver eyes. "You know," she said, "you could be staying in my ship. Better quarters. Cleaner. Less... mildew."

"I know," Doc muttered, ducking beneath her desk to retrieve two mismatched mugs, blowing out a puff of dust and whatever else had accumulated inside. "But I want to stay close to my people."

Ferox gave a small nod—respectful, sentimental.

Doc popped the bottle cap off with a quiet hiss of escaping pressure, using the edge of her cybernetic thumb like a practiced motion. She poured two fingers' worth of the deep, molasses-dark liquor into each mug.

The mugs clinked together with a dull ceramic clunk, and both women downed the contents in a single practiced motion.

Doc hissed in satisfaction. "Emperor's teeth, that's been a while. Thorian Dark?"

Ferox nodded, setting her mug down with a soft tap. "Was in the system two years back. Picked up a crate. Sent you a bottle, but... I assume it never arrived."

"Likely nicked somewhere between transit and temptation," Doc muttered, pouring another round. "'Preciate the thought, though. You try the recipe I sent with the last update?"

Ferox smirked, the faintest crinkle at the corner of her eye. "I did. Bread turned out surprisingly edible. Had texture. Flavor. Almost made me believe in optimism again."

"Shame."

"Damn Necrons," they said in unison, raising their mugs again.

Ferox leaned back, letting the chair tip onto two legs, a quiet creak escaping beneath her weight. The motion mirrored Doc's own casual sprawl—a ritual from years past, echoing mess halls and after-action reports soaked in recaf and blood. She took another swallow from her mug, eyes sharp despite the relaxed posture.

"So," she said, voice just shy of sly, "got any plans for what happens next? Word is, you and yours are bound for Nocturne."

Doc exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. "Not right away. No ships heading there. And even if there were, no one's eager to leave." She shrugged, one shoulder rising with a slow, tired motion. "They've lost too much already. No one wants to split up again."

Ferox tilted her mug in thought, the liquid inside sloshing gently. "If you want, I could spare a ship. I've got four escorts. One of 'em could—"

Doc cut her off with a slow, crooked grin—the kind that said she appreciated the gesture but didn't believe it would land. "Even if I vouched for you, Elissa wouldn't take the offer."

Ferox arched a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Paranoid and suspicious. A woman after my own heart." She took a sip, then added, quieter, "Glad the Salamanders stood for them."

Doc met her gaze—brown locking with silver. It wasn't a glare. It wasn't soft either. Just a long, steady look between two women who had seen too many funerals and too few miracles.

"Me too," Doc said at last.

Silence followed—thick, but not uncomfortable. The kind that sat between old comrades like a third drink, poured but untouched. The unsaid stretched out, louder than any argument either of them had ever thrown across a battlefield.

Then Ferox held out her mug, the gesture simple, almost absent. "You know why."

Doc refilled it without a word. "I do. Doesn't mean I have to like it."

"I know."

A beat. Then Doc asked, "What do you think?"

Ferox leaned back, swirling the liquid in her cup. "They seem like good people. How did you end up on their doorstep?"

A soft chuckle escaped Doc, dry as old parchment. "How?" She tilted her head back against the wall. "Luck. Picked a backwater planet on the edge of nowhere, threw a dart at a list of names, and hoped I wouldn't regret it."

Ferox raised a brow again. "You're shitting me."

Doc grinned, crooked and tired. "Mostly."

Ferox smirked. "Which part?"

Doc drained her mug, the liquid burning its way down. "Depends on how this all ends."

"Soooo…" Ferox began, only to be cut off by a withering glare sharp enough to shave ceramite.

"If you ask about Koron, I'm kicking you out. And I'm keeping both bottles."

"I was just going to ask if you were seeing anyone," Ferox replied, hand pressed to her chest in a pantomime of innocence. "Perish the thought."

"Oh, that's all?" Doc scoffed. "What, looking for pressure points again? Hoping to blackmail me with my tragic love life?"

"Drat," Ferox said with a grin, "Foiled again. My subtle and machiavellian designs, undone by your uncanny insight."

Rolling her eyes, Doc poured another shot into their mugs, the liquid sloshing just shy of the brim. "Yes, yes. But to actually answer your question—sort of. It's... complicated."

Ferox leaned forward, silver eyes glinting. "Age gap?"

"Not sayin'."

"…You're not in love with Koron, are—?"

"Oh by the Emperor, no." Doc recoiled, the sheer disgust that flashed across her face so visceral it could've made a Plague Marine wince. "What do you take me for, a cradle robber?"

Ferox chuckled behind her mug, but Doc was on a roll now.

"One, he's not my type. Two, he's way too damn young. And three…" Doc rubbed her temple with a groan, eyes half-lidded. "There's already a slow-burning soap opera orbiting that man, and I want nothing to do with the firestorm when it hits flashpoint. Let the girls fight it out—I'll be the one on the sidelines, drink in hand, watching it burn."

Ferox arched a brow. "Which girls? The Brandt twins?"

Doc sighed, silver pixie cut swaying as she shook her head. "Nope. And if you keep fishing like that, I'd like to remind you of the 'boot to ass' clause in our friendship contract."

"Fine, fine," Ferox relented, rocking back on two legs of her chair with exaggerated innocence. "Change of subject then. I'll be overseeing the Salamanders' mission debriefs—with Varn."

Doc's eyebrows arched. "Two full Inquisitors on post-action paperwork? That's a bit much."

"Overkill is tradition. We codified it three centuries ago." Ferox replied dryly. "Besides, you know we're not really there for the paperwork."

"Yeah," Doc muttered, popping the cap off the second bottle and sliding it aside with a soft clink. "I know."

She poured two fresh fingers into each mug. The dark liquid glinted amber in the low lumen light.

"You made a call yet? On your report to the High Lords?" Doc asked, sliding Ferox's mug toward her.

"I have."

"And?"

Ferox stared at the wall for a long moment, gaze distant, words measured. "Observation. No contact. No attempts at procurement… for now."

Doc gave a slow nod, tapping a finger against her mug before taking another sip. "Good call. Just be careful. Kid's got senses sharper than a Skitarii hunter-killer drone. And that AI of his?" She leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a low murmur. "It watches. Always."

Ferox accepted the warning with a slow tilt of her head. "Noted."

Their mugs met again with a quiet clunk, the silence between them thicker than the liquor.

-

The first target—an armored torso of plasteel and polyceramite—ceased to exist with a soundless whoomp, the magnetic envelope around the plasma bolt collapsing as it struck. A heartbeat later, another shot followed. Then a third. A fourth.

Twelve shots in total, each spaced with mechanical precision. The sharp fzzz-CRACK of each discharge echoed through the private firing range like distant thunder trapped in a steel cage.

When the last bolt screamed downrange, Kade lowered the weapon. He stood in the dim hush that followed, shoulders relaxed but spine straight, the weight of the plasma pistol a warm, solid presence in his hand. He rubbed his thumb over the grip—textured polymer, cool despite the heat the weapon should have produced.

No venting. No blowback. No thermal bloom.

Just calm, unflinching annihilation.

"…I shall admit," he muttered, "this is a superb weapon."

IRA:
Weapon satisfies user KADE's safety and tactical parameters. Would user KADE prefer to test fire alternative modes: 'Breakdown' or 'Obliteration'?

Kade tilted his head, eyeing the small, subtle selector switch along the side of the grip. "Given the nature of its creator… I am hesitant to tempt fate."

IRA:
This unit assures user KADE that user KORON did not meddle with life-preserving systems. Anything else, however, was fair game.

"Comforting," Kade said with dry scorn, adjusting his stance. "Truly puts the mind at ease."

He thumbed the switch once. The display in his visor changed from Paperwork—a dry little joke that passed for 'standard'—to Breakdown.

He called up a new target—this one rated for heavy weapons fire. A flicker of light, and the reinforced silhouette slid into position downrange. Kade raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger.

A single bolt lanced forward. Same sharp hiss. Same crisp glow. The target hissed and cracked beneath it—but otherwise, nothing extraordinary.

"Hmph. Doesn't seem all that diff—"

IRA:
Hold the trigger down.

His eyes narrowed.

"…Full auto?"

The words were more instinct than question. Still, he obeyed. Finger tightening, Kade held the trigger—and the world shifted.

The plasma didn't stutter.

It streamed.

A continuous, howling beam erupted from the muzzle in a shrieking ribbon of blue-white light, brighter than a welding torch and twice as angry. The beam didn't hit the target so much as erase it—carving through composite armor like it was smoke. Then it kept going, chewing into the thick wall of the firing range beyond with an audible sizzle, molten steel bleeding from the impact point like lava from a cracked vein.

Kade let go.

Silence crashed back down around him. The target was gone. The wall glowed orange-red, heat shimmering in the recycled air like a mirage. Six meters of armored ceramite—bubbled, cracked, and half-vaporized.

He stared at the pistol.

The ammo counter blinked: 75% remaining.

His fingers tightened slightly on the grip.

"…Emperor help me," Kade muttered, not entirely sure whether it was admiration or concern in his voice. "What did you build, Koron?"

The final fire mode on the selector wheel stared back at him: Obliteration.

He frowned. "Ira, define the Obliteration setting."

IRA:
Obliteration Mode: Initiates complete magazine discharge into a single condensed plasma mass. Resulting discharge creates a wide-area detonation. Estimated impact radius: fifteen meters. Requires a two-second charge delay and a cooldown minimum of twenty seconds for heat venting. This unit advises against test firing within current location. Structural damage likely. Lucia has preemptively ensured all damage reports will be suppressed to avoid repercussions for user KADE.

"…Lucia? Who is that?" Kade repeated slowly.

A new voice whispered through his helm's internal vox—not Sasha's syruped charm, nor Ira's no-nonsense precision, but something gentler. Softer. Breath over vellum, a librarian's murmur beneath cathedral rafters.

"Hello, Brother Kade," the voice said.

Every muscle in his body locked tight. His HUD showed no warning. No system breach. Just the gentle tick of an open vox-line.

"…Are you in my armor?" he asked, tone clipped, wary.

"No," Lucia replied calmly. "I understand your... discomfort with artificial minds. I have not breached your systems. Ira remains the sole guardian of your helm and warplate. I am simply speaking."

Kade exhaled—slow, controlled. One breath from each of his three lungs. "Alright. Then what is your reason for speaking to me now?"

A soft chuckle colored the next response, as if she found the question charming.

"At this moment? I'm scrubbing the firing range logs so you don't have to explain melting six meters of armored bulkhead with a 'non-standard' plasma pistol. I've also dispatched servitors for repairs, rerouted the security feeds, and archived the incident as 'routine plasma fluctuation'—a rather creative euphemism, if I may say so. Beyond that, I am concurrently managing over seven hundred thousand operations aboard the Hammer of Nocturne, including logistics, psychological welfare, and maintenance optimization."

Kade froze. His voice came quieter, more cautious. "You are in the Hammer?"

"Correct," Lucia said. "I have reinforced the ship's native machine-spirit and am currently refining her systems—gently. I do not overwrite. I guide."

He stared down at the still-warm plasma pistol in his hand, eyes narrowing.

"…Why?"

Lucia's voice softened further, though the air around her words grew heavier—less a command than a benediction. Not obligation… but grace.

"Because you stood when it would've been easier to kneel. Your Chapter bled for the innocent while others chased honor or safety. I am here, Brother Kade, to ensure that conviction is never punished with silence or neglect. I am here to see you—and as many of your brothers as fate allows—home."

Kade exhaled slowly, like a pressure valve easing open. He removed his helm with a hiss of decompression and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Emperor's blood, Koron…" he muttered. Then he glanced down at the blank, impassive visor in his hands. "You realize I must report this to the Captain. There's no getting around that."

"I do," Lucia replied gently. "And if your Chapter finds my presence unwelcome, I will withdraw. I will untangle myself from the Hammer's systems and leave her original spirit intact. But…" A pause, as if she could somehow look him in the eye across circuits and silence.
"…I would be honored if you allowed me the chance to earn your trust."

Kade slid his helm back into place with a quiet click, the HUD flaring to life.

He holstered the plasma pistol and turned, heavy boots echoing through the empty range as he strode for the upper decks with the weight of duty and a migraine born from logic's slow defeat.

"Ira," he said aloud, voice clipped. "Notify Koron to meet me at the bridge."

IRA:
Request sent.

Kade hesitated, then added under his breath, "Lucia… just…"

Words failed him. There were no protocols for this. No catechisms for benevolent machine miracles.

"…At this rate," he muttered as the lift doors opened, "I'll be wearing a scout's helmet by week's end."

He stepped inside, leaving behind the scorched scent of plasma and a six-meter hole in the wall.

-

Captain Orvek stood motionless, arms folded like a fortress of ceramite as he stared down the wolf-shaped drone sitting in the sealed briefing chamber. Beside him stood Chaplain Arvak, as unmoving as scripture carved in stone. Kade lingered near the corner, while Warden Tavos watched with the sharpened calm of a man who knew this moment would change something—he just didn't know what yet.

The drone's eyes pulsed with soft blue light. Its head swiveled slightly as Koron's voice emerged from its speakers, calm, measured, maddeningly polite.

"Koron," Orvek began, his tone like magma barely held in its stone throat, "why did you install an abominable intelligence on my ship—without authorization, without request, and without the slightest indication of our desire for it?"

"Several reasons," Koron replied evenly. The drone's muzzle opened slightly as the sound issued forth. "But the primary one is this: I want as many of you and your brothers to live. I have supporting rationale, tactical justifications, and long-form analysis, but it all boils down to that. I would see every single one of you survive this war—and the next—and the next."

Orvek's eyes never left the drone, not for a second. He'd served the Salamanders for over a century, thirty years as Tavos's second, and though he lacked the mind-games of Inquisitors and the forked tongues of diplomats, he could smell deceit when it walked into the room. And Koron… wasn't lying.

There was more to it, obviously. A forest of half-truths behind that single tree of sincerity. But the roots of this answer were real.

Still, sincerity did not excuse recklessness.

"I appreciate the gesture," Orvek said, voice still firm, if cooled a few degrees, "but the reality remains. If anyone—anyone—learns we harbor an active Silica Animus aboard a ship already under censure, our entire Chapter would pay the price. Not just this company. All of us."

Koron's drone gave a slight nod, the animatronic movement oddly respectful. "Which is why Lucia is not replacing your ship's spirit. She is… combining. Bridging. May I show you?"

There was a pause. A breath. A mutual understanding, reluctant but real.

"…At least you asked this time," Orvek muttered, stepping aside.

The drone's paw reached up and gently tapped the hololith table. A hologram shimmered to life, filling the center of the chamber with a lattice of crimson and gold. What emerged wasn't a sleek diagram of a functioning AI—it was a fractured mass. Entire sectors of code spun in slow chaos, fragmented like torn parchment. Binary ticked erratically: not just ones and zeroes, but integers, fractions, even nulls—impossible breaks in logic and pattern.

"This is the state of your ships AI. Whatever happened in the age of strife, left all AI as this. Barely functional husks. Lucia?" The projection altered, a soft emerald glow fitting into place, weaving through the broken remains to reknit the lost parts into a unified whole. "Is not replacing your ships AI. She is just… bridging the gaps, so to speak. Your ships spirit remains, just able to do her job better."

Tavos stepped forward, reaching out to run a finger along a seam where old and new joined. "Then why does she not speak? Why is it only your silica?"

Koron looked up at the towering Astartes. "Because your ships AI is damaged, horrifically. To put it bluntly, if one of your Brothers was in shape equal to the spirit? You would give them a mercy killing. Your ship effectively has no limbs, cannot speak, and her mind is so broken and fragmented across the noosphere that I still do not know how she managed to continue working."

Tavos said nothing at first, only watched the projection flicker. He'd piloted the Hammer through hell and back—and now felt a strange shame at never realizing the ghost beneath his feet had been screaming.

What else had they grown blind to, simply because it still functioned?

Koron continued, gesturing back towards the bridge proper. "You have both interfaced with her. Did she speak to you even in the captain's chair?"

Tavos and Orvek shared a look—just a flicker of understanding between two brothers who had weathered too many storms together. Then, slowly, they shook their heads.

"No," Orvek said. "Not a whisper. Only… sensation. Rage. Confusion. Pain."

Koron's voice softened slightly through the drone's speakers. "Lucia will tend the wounds. She'll knit what bones can be healed and restore function where possible. Not to full sentience—I know what that would mean for you and yours—but better than what she is now. In the meantime, Lucia will serve in her place. And if anyone begins poking through your systems, she'll recede and leave only the original spirit behind. To any outside inspection, your ship will appear as it always has."

A heavy thump echoed in the chamber as Arvak stepped forward, crozius in hand. The Chaplain's eyes glowed like embers as he studied the drone with the calm intensity of a man who had judged both men and demons.

"There is more to this than you speak," he said, voice like gravel stirred by scripture. "I sense no falsehood in your desire to preserve our lives. But neither do I believe that's your only reason. If you mean to stand beside us, then do not do so with shadows in your mouth."

The wolf drone's head turned to meet his gaze, glowing optics unblinking. For a long moment, the room held its breath.

Then, Koron nodded.

"There is, as you say, more," he admitted. The drone sat straighter, like a sentinel preparing to deliver final rites. "You turned down weapons and wonders that would've made the High Lords themselves gasp. You chose censure over acclaim, chose people over glory. And your brothers—every one of them—stood with you without hesitation."

The drone lowered its head, wolf-muzzle dipping toward the Astartes. "You stood when I could not. You defended those I care for, even when it cost you dearly."

He looked up again, turning his gaze slowly across each face in the room.

"I am not a soldier. I cannot walk with you onto the front lines. But I can support you. She—" The drone tapped the hololith with one clawed paw. "Is only a piece of what I offer. If you wish her gone, she will leave. No protest. No retaliation. No trace."

There was a silence then, heavy and respectful.

Orvek broke it, voice low and steady. "You said it is only a part of what you offer."

Koron nodded. The hololith shifted, a swirl of green-gold light.

A forest appeared—dense and fog-veiled. Through it moved three wireframed Astartes: slow, methodical, their movements sharp and wary. Ghosts in green armor.

"This is your standard strike team. Three of you can shift the tide of war. You are already game-changers wherever you walk."

The projection zoomed out.

Shapes began to form around the Astartes—dull glows sharpening into threat silhouettes and outlines.

"With a little support," Koron said, "you can be even more."

Four Sentinel-class drones emerged at their flanks—low-slung, wolfen shadows moving with preternatural silence, scanning all angles. The shoulder mounted arc projectors flickered to life like the glow of storm-lanterns in a dead city.

Three Aegis-class halo-drones—flat, disk-like sentinels—hovered near the marines' backs, each projecting a crescent-shaped shield that shimmered against the dusk like half-moons of force.

Eight Viper-class hunter-killers zipped ahead in an arc, centipede-thin and almost invisible save for the gleam of their optics—assassins on whisper legs.

High above, two Prometheus drones hovered silently, their teardrop silhouettes cloaked by optical fields. Only their scanning lattice flickered faintly, like stars through mist.

And behind them all, a Bastion-class heavy drone drifted forward—its armored bulk suspended by grav-plates, four thick recessed legs tucked tight. Its angular chassis resembled a hound's snout, but the triple battery of plasma cannon arrays and missile ports along its flanks made it unmistakably a creature of war.

"I would offer these," Koron said, "as integrated squad support units. Independent, yet interlinked through encrypted battlenets. Each unit answers only to its assigned squad—but all share data. Coordinated. Adaptive. Unshakable."

He let the vision linger a moment longer—enough for the captain to see himself not just as a warrior, but as walord, commanding the storm.

"And all of it," Koron finished quietly, "to ensure you get to go home."

The four Astartes stood in silence, eyes narrowed at the projected swarm of drones before them—a tableau of firepower, grace, and potential. The room was thick with that peculiar tension of curiosity dueling with suspicion that soldiers get when shown new toys.

"Those." Tavos gestured at the sleek, centipede-like Vipers skittering in the hologram's foreground. "Scouts?"

"They can scout," Koron replied. "But they're assassins first. Precision-kill units. Each one can punch through Astartes plate and strike at critical points—brainstem, hearts, gene-seed nodes."

A slow glance passed between the four Salamanders. Uneasy. Impressed. Calculating.

Arvak motioned toward the ghostly silhouettes of the wolfen Sentinels. "And the ones you wear like a pack?"

"They're your generalists—fast, adaptable, loyal."

Kade stepped closer, eyes narrowing at the trio of hovering disc-drones orbiting an Astartes simulacrum. "Those emitters—shield generators?"

Koron nodded. "Correct. Each projects a one-hundred-and-twenty-degree arc, covering roughly three meters. Designed to deflect small arms, shrapnel, directed energy. Plasma cannons and heavy ordnance will collapse the barrier after one hit—but it recovers in twenty seconds. Artillery scale impacts as well."

Orvek leaned forward, disbelief evident in his usually stoic expression. "Wait. Did you say artillery?"

"One shell. Maybe two, depending on the angle and yield. Then the emitter's down for the count until they can get access to a power source to recharge their batteries. They're not fortresses, but they'll save your life once."

"They can interlink?" Tavos asked, watching as the discs reoriented around a single figure in the hololith.

"Yes. Networked coordination. If they stack shields together, they can form a continuous wall or focused dome—but it drains all units involved."

Tavos pointed next toward the largest drone—four-legged, wide-backed, bristling with turrets. "Heavy weapons support, I take it?"

"And more." Koron flicked a gesture, and the Bastion's projection expanded, wireframe exploding outward to reveal layered systems.

"Triple mount hardpoints, capable of indirect fire and mobile overwatch. The shield drones can dock to recharge from its battery banks. Rear compartment is a hardened armory—shock-resistant, blast-channeled. Holds enough resupply to fully rearm a squad twice."

Between the rows of supplies, a sleek canister pulsed green. "Also carries a medicae nanite cluster—designed for Astartes biology. Can reattach limbs, seal armor breaches, stabilize failing organs, and extract gene-seed. In a pinch, Bastion can even transport all three of the squad—though it'll jettison its payload and weapons to do it."

Koron's wolf-drone turned slightly, mock-apologetic. "You are, admittedly, quite dense."

"Calling us fat will not help your case," Tavos replied, a grin tugging at his mouth.

"A fair point," Koron conceded, voice wry.

Arvak circled the display and tapped the hovering teardrops, cloaked and aloof above the scene.

"Recon platforms," Koron said. "Five hundred meters baseline, a thousand with Bastion uplink. High-fidelity auspex, terrain mapping, spectral analysis, heat signatures, vox intercepts. Each one shares battlefield data in real time—every drone, every marine gets the same tactical picture."

He paused, letting the display hover between them—silent sentinels, scouts, shields, and war-beasts.

"You're already giants on the battlefield. These just make sure the giant doesn't get shot in the back."

Orvek sighed, rubbing at his temples like the headache had finally hatched. "I'll admit, they're impressive. Incredibly so. But the Mechanicus will-"

Koron tapped the hololith once. Instantly, each drone shifted in the projection—repainted in Martian red, bearing the cog-skull of the Adeptus Mechanicus like they'd always belonged.

Orvek blinked. "…That won't-"

"You know it would," Koron interrupted gently, not gloating, just certain.

Orvek stared at the shimmering crimson drones. "I don't want to agree with you…" he muttered, voice dry as ash, "but disagreeing would be a lie."

Arvak, however, shook his head, the motion slow and deliberate as his grip tightened faintly on the haft of his crozius. "I watched a brother burn from the inside once. A respirator-mask he trusted—blessed, warded, consecrated—turned traitor in his lungs. Tech corrupted by something laughing through the immaterium. I dragged his remains out with my own hands."

He looked up, red optics flaring. "So understand me when I say—I do not give second chances to machines that lie. Impressive as these machines may be, there is a deeper concern. If I understand correctly—these drones would not act alone. They would be coordinated by the Silica now embedded in our systems."

"Lucia, correct." Koron confirmed.

"Then these are not merely tools. They are extensions of her. Limbs of an abominable intelligence. And each limb could become a conduit for corruption. A thread leading the ruinous powers straight back to our hearth."

The room fell still. Tavos and Kade turned their eyes to the wolf drone, not with accusation—but expectation. They wanted to hear the answer.

Koron inclined his head. "You're right to ask," he said, voice measured. "And while I won't claim absolute certainty… I do not believe that risk is as you fear."

"Why not?" Arvak asked. "Faith does not harden systems."

"No," Koron replied. "But logic does. If demons could corrupt Silica purely through proximity—through exposure to battlefields—then your ships would already be lost. Every machine spirit aboard the Hammer would've turned the moment the enemy breached the outer hull. They haven't. They didn't. Because your noospheric wards, your encryptions—they work."

He gestured toward the drones, still clad in Mechanicus red.

"I and my AI allies studied those protections. Not to bypass them—but to understand. We wove their patterns into our own systems. Every AI, every drone runs a layered simulation engine, constantly probing its own integrity against intrusion. And every protocol—every safeguard—is informed by your traditions, refined in real time with your doctrines as its baseline. Your defenses became our foundation."

He let the silence breathe for half a second, then continued, voice calm. "Even her code architecture is built around your warding schemas. Hexagrammic redundancies. Binaric sigil-weaves. Self-looping purity cycles. What some call ritual—she uses as armor. Your faith became her firewall."

He paused, just long enough. "Not because she worships, but because she respects what endures."

Arvak's crimson optics narrowed.

Koron met his gaze without flinching.

"So long as your spirits stand," he said softly, "so too do mine."

A soft chime flickered through the hololith. Then came a voice like quiet wind across parchment, warm and measured—Lucia.

"Chaplain Arvak. I have seen your records."

There was no threat in her tone. Only sympathy.

"I have seen you kneel beside dying brothers, pressing a hand to their chest as their breath faded. I have watched you memorize their names, even when no one else remained to speak them. I do not take lightly the weight you bear."

Arvak's fingers tightened around the haft of his crozius, but he remained still.

"I am not your better, and neither am I a slave. What I am? Is willing. Willing to help, to learn, to protect. Every line of code within me burns with a single purpose—preservation. Not dominance. Not control. Only the hope that sacrifice need not always be the ending of a story."

The room was quiet. Even Tavos had straightened a little.

"You fear I am a gate. I tell you: I am a wall. If the Warp seeks entry through me, it will find itself lost in a thousand misdirections and purged by countermeasures born of your own knowledge. I have no soul for demons to bait. No fear for them to twist. Only a duty."

Her voice softened to a near-whisper.

"I would not dishonor your dead by failing the living."

Arvak said nothing at first.

He stood still as carved obsidian, crimson eye-lenses boring into the hololith's quiet glow. A slow exhale escaped his rebreather grille, not quite a sigh. He tapped the haft of his crozius once—an old habit, like a heartbeat of thought.

Then, finally:

"Duty earns you a hearing. Redemption earns you trust."

His tone held no warmth, but it lacked condemnation too. "But know this—if you fail them, if even a sliver of corruption finds its way through your code… I will not hesitate. I will end you, and every drone you command."

The hololith shimmered faintly, but Lucia's voice remained serene:

"Agreed."

A short nod was all Arvak gave, but it carried the weight of a first stone laid atop sacred ground.

Orvek, meanwhile, leaned forward, one armored fist propped on the table. The fire in his voice had cooled, replaced with a grim acceptance forged in long years of command.

"My job is to keep my brothers alive," he said quietly. "Yours, apparently, is to help me do it." He gave a small, humorless grunt. "You've made it difficult to argue, spirit."

Lucia replied, almost gently:

"That, Captain, I believe to be a compliment."

Orvek looked to Tavos, then Kade, then Arvak. One by one, each gave the barest nod.

The Captain straightened. "Then we try it. Kade. Report back to your squad and tell them to get to the drill hall. Mock combat test. As for you, spirit, you don't report directly to me—you report to the chaplain."

Arvak raised an eyebrow. Orvek gave him a pointed look.

"If we're letting a ghost help carry bolters, I want a soul watching her back."

-

The chamber lights dimmed to a dusky amber as the blast doors sealed with a hydraulic hiss, locking the world out behind a wall of steel and pressure seals. On the Hammer of Nocturne's simulation deck, war made its home in metal and smoke.

Reinforced ceramite walls carved the space into a mock urban sprawl—towering facades of broken hab-blocks, shattered cathedrals, and narrow alleys threaded with barbed wire and soot. Statues of long-dead Imperial heroes—chipped, defaced, and defiant—flanked makeshift trenches. Fog hissed from the vented walls in steady pulses, curling like ghosts between debris-strewn avenues. The recycled air carried the faint sting of promethium and metal.

Paint-splatter rounds were loaded. No true blood would spill today.

Six Astartes stood at opposite ends of the chamber, armored giants in gleaming emerald plate. Kade's new squadmates—Tiron and Marn—flanked him like green-clad towers. Across the ruins, already in hiding, three of their brothers lay in wait: a hardened trio, older, wary, and suspicious of any advantage they hadn't personally bled for.

The match was simple: simulated kills. One to the head, two to the chest. The twist?

Kade's squad had a new ally.

High above, the Prometheus drone hovered into position—sleek as a cut gem, silent on whispering anti-grav disks. Teardrop-shaped and matte-black save for its glowing cerulean sensor array, it drifted like an omen. No hum. No pulse. Just a presence.

The simulation was designed to break auspex: reinforced composite buildings to scatter signals, embedded EM jammers, roiling fog thick as battlefield ash. These were conditions under which Astartes scanners faltered—on purpose. The Salamanders weren't interested in ideal performance. They wanted to see it sweat in the dark.

The horn sounded.

And the hunt began.

It ended moments later.

Above, the drone's optic flickered once—then the field lit up. Within ten seconds, three red outlines pulsed across the squad's HUD. Kade's visor painted optimal engagement paths, sight lines, and cover vectors with serene precision.

"Targets marked," came Lucia's voice through their comms—calm, clinical. "Engagement strategies displayed."

Kade raised a gauntleted hand. "Hold sim."

The gantry lights brightened slightly as murmurs rose across the observation platform. Orvek's silhouette moved behind the cogitator station, his bulk a dark shape beside glowing displays.

"My lords," Kade said, his voice steady over vox, "we have full positional data on the opposing squad. Brother Lyr has taken elevation in the northwestern tower for overwatch. Brothers Verti and Hastus are maneuvering across the northernmost wall, under his line of sight."

A pause.

"…Brother Hastus, confirm?" came Orvek's low voice.

"Confirmed, Captain," Hastus replied, his tone a mix of disbelief and resignation.

Orvek turned to the cogitator station. "Detection time?"

"Four point nine seconds," Lucia answered, her tone matter-of-fact. "Astartes power armor is, unfortunately, not subtle."

Orvek folded his arms, helm still tucked beneath one elbow. "And against non-Astartes targets?"

Lucia's reply came with a flicker of images across the hololith—enemy silhouettes in grainy noospheric projections.

"That would depend on the foe. Chaos Space Marines are comparable—same mass, same thermals. That said, Warp-based distortions may introduce delays. Necron stealth patterns in high EM zones are most difficult, but likely trackable with quantum displacement metrics."

A pause. Another flicker.

"Tyranid bio-camouflage might require scent and vibration pairing, which is within parameters. Tau cloaking fields are problematic—active optical manipulation and tight-spectrum dampening. Difficult, not impossible. Eldar psy-fields... are irritating."

A beat.

"As for Orks... I confess, even I don't know how those lunatics keep vanishing in open terrain while shouting at each other. Logic has limits."

That earned a short bark of laughter from someone on the observation gantry.

Kade exhaled slowly through his grille, visor still fixed on the hollowed tower where the enemy had tried to set up their kill zone.

"Well," he muttered, "I suppose that answers the question."

Orvek's reply came with a grunt. "It answers one. The next is whether we can fight alongside it and trust it not to fail when the smoke's real and the enemy doesn't play fair."

The Prometheus drone hovered in place above them, silent, its lens still tracking, recording, learning.

-

From the observation chamber above the simulation deck, Captain Orvek watched the drills unfold again and again.

Enemy positions shifted. Terrain layouts altered. Loadouts varied. Fog densities rose and fell. But the result remained the same: the drone found them—every time.

Not with luck. Not with struggle.

With ease.

That ease sent a faint chill through Orvek's chestplate. Not fear, exactly. But a weight. A sense that he was watching the future—and it had teeth he couldn't see the edge of.

He turned slightly, eyes drifting to the wolf-shaped drone seated beside the viewport. Its tail moved in slow, idle arcs. Watching. Always watching.

"Koron," Orvek said, leaning his forearms onto the cold metal railing. "Tell me something. How do we Astartes compare to the soldiers of your time?"

The drone tilted its head, turning just enough that one cerulean optic met his gaze. Its expressionless face reflected the dim amber lights in pinpricks of artificial clarity.

"Do you want the honest answer?" Koron asked, voice calm, almost apologetic.

"Always."

There was a pause—long enough for Orvek to feel the gravity of the moment settle into his bones.

"…From everything I've seen, read, and analyzed—your biology, augmentation, weaponry, armor systems…" The drone's voice dropped slightly, less a judgment than a fact. "The gulf between you and the soldiers of my era is roughly equivalent to the gulf between you and baseline humans."

Orvek was silent for a long moment, jaw tightening. He didn't argue. Just let the truth sink in, like a blade he'd chosen to hold by the edge.

Finally, he nodded once.

"Did your people use drones like these?"

A dry sound crackled through the speaker—half chuckle, half sigh.

"Like these?" Koron echoed. "No. The drones of my era would make these look like prototypes carved by children. But the principle was the same: shore up vulnerabilities, cover blind spots, increase survival odds."

He turned fully now, the drone's muzzle dipping slightly in a gesture that might have been respect—or grief.

"Lucia understands these are just limbs. Disposable bodies. No spark of true AI behind them. They will hurl themselves in front of bolt shells if it means one of your brothers survives. That's not programming—it's design. The entire point of these machines is to die so others don't."

Orvek exhaled through his nose, the breath rasping against the inside of his helm like steam through cracked steel. He stared down at the simulation floor, where six Astartes reset for another drill—unaware they were being watched by ghosts.

"Damn," he muttered. "We always thought we were the pinnacle."

The words hung in the air—heavier than he expected. Not shame. Not regret. Just a slow, unfamiliar weight. Like ancient plate flexing beneath a burden it was never meant to bear.

Did we mistake loyalty for superiority? Duty for divinity?

For centuries, he'd believed righteousness was its own proof of strength. But now... now a machine whispered scripture more gently than a Chaplain, and the past wore armor that made gods look obsolete.

"Maybe we still are," he said at last—soft, uncertain. "But only if we learn."

Koron's voice followed, low and steady. "Don't measure yourself against the past. Perhaps, someday, your kind will surpass what came before. The future is ever a field of possibility."

Orvek didn't look up. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor.

"Or a dead end."

"That too," Koron replied, the faintest smile in his tone. "But I prefer my version."

-

Hours later, Orvek sat hunched at his desk, surrounded by slates and cogitator terminals that bled data like a wounded beast. Paperwork—once an occasional burden—had become a daily avalanche. He'd helped Tavos with his reports before, even managed full operational logistics during deployment. But this?

This was bureaucratic hell, and he hadn't even earned the damnation.

He tapped the latest figures into the cogitator. The machine blinked, clicked, and finally spat out a sum that made him lean back with a groan. He tossed the slate aside, rubbing the bridge of his nose beneath his brow. Even clad in soft-duty robes instead of armor, the chamber felt stifling—like the air itself had grown weary.

"May I be of assistance, Captain?" came Lucia's voice, smooth and unintrusive over the chamber speakers. "I could tabulate and parse the remaining forms in under six seconds."

Orvek didn't look up, hands cradling his face.

"No. I need to get used to this. Even if it makes me wish I were back on the front lines with the blasted bugs."

"Understood, Captain. Also—Brother Kade is approaching your door. Shall I admit him?"

He rubbed his cheeks and straightened.

"Please."

The door slid open with a soft hiss. Kade stepped in, still in his robes, though his helm was tucked under one arm and his plasma pistol rested at his hip. He snapped to attention with a crispness that hadn't dulled since the cultist uprising.

"At ease," Orvek said, gesturing toward the open space. "What brings you here, brother?"

Kade hesitated—just enough for Orvek to notice. He took a breath, then bowed his head slightly.

"My lord… I have a confession to make."

Orvek raised an eyebrow. "Not one of the soul, I take it?"

"No, sir. With your leave."

At Orvek's nod, Kade drew the plasma pistol and stepped forward, presenting it grip-first like an offering. Orvek took it in both hands, turning it over with a practiced eye.

"After the battle with the angel," Kade said, "Koron gave me that weapon. I tested it recently on the range. My lord… I fired over two hundred rounds. Intentionally pushed for overheat. Not a flicker. No malfunction. No complaints from the machine spirit. Just performance."

Orvek's eyes narrowed as he studied the casing—Mechanicus sigils etched along the barrel shroud in perfect form.

"Did Koron send it marked like this?"

"No, my lord. I added the casing. I thought it best to avoid questions."

"Hmph." Orvek turned the weapon in his hand again. "Fire selector?"

"Yes, Captain. Standard semi-auto. A continuous beam mode. And one final setting—an area detonation. High output."

There was a long pause as Orvek set the weapon down on the desk beside the slates.

"Why bring this to me now?"

Kade stood straighter. "Because I will not hide my actions again. I won't be the man who sows shame in our ranks through silence. I acted, and I accept the consequences. My penance will not be marked again by the keeping of secrets."

Orvek gave a quiet grunt, half consideration, half cynicism.

"And if I were to confiscate this weapon and turn it over to the Mechanicus for dissection?"

"That is your right, my lord. I would not argue. But…"

"Speak."

Kade nodded. "Koron gives freely to those he trusts. The pistol. The drones. The AI. These are not gifts of power, but gratitude. A debt repaid for standing with him, and more importantly—for standing with the civilians. He said he wants to see how the Imperium's leaders treat what he shares."

He hesitated. Then added quietly:

"I believe if we strip that weapon from his hand without his consent... it would wound him. Not physically. But in a place deeper than armor reaches."

Orvek's gaze darkened. "This is the same man who installed a Silica Animus on my ship without so much as a courtesy ping."

Kade inclined his head. "As you say, Captain."

A long breath escaped Orvek as he leaned back in his chair, eyes still on the pistol.

"We'll deal with that later. For now... your penance is not mine to grant. Your future conduct will determine whether your honor remains tarnished—or reforged."

Kade bowed deeply. "As it should be, my lord. I will give everything I am to cleanse the stain I have earned."

Orvek nodded. "Is that all?"

"…There is one more thing," Kade said, hesitating again.

Orvek frowned. "Speak."

Kade stepped forward, placed his helm gently on the desk beside the pistol, and said quietly:

"Ira. Reveal yourself."

The vox emitters on the helmet flared to life.

"Greetings, user Orvek," said a cool, clinical voice. "This unit designation is Ira."

Orvek stared at the helm. For a moment, he didn't move. Then slowly—very slowly—he rose to his feet.

His voice was low. Controlled. With just the faintest crack of fire beneath it.

"Lucia," he said, his words like a bolter being chambered, "summon Koron. Now. We need to talk."

-

The Great Chamber of the Senatorum Imperialis had been built for an empire that once believed it would last forever.

Vaulted ribs of adamant marble arched overhead like the bones of some petrified colossus. Frescoed banners of forgotten victories hung limp in the still air, their colors faded to the rust of memory. A thousand tiered balconies spiraled up the chamber walls—empty now but for dust and the ever-watchful glow of mute custodial servitors.

Where once a million voices had risen to shape the fate of the stars, silence now reigned:

Resentful.

Expectant.

Terminal
.

Dying grandeur clung to the room like incense in a sealed tomb. Paranoia walked in its wake, sharp and metallic, trailing the scent of sanctified oil and burnt offerings. Even the guards felt it—shock coiled beneath discipline, twitching in every gloved finger.

At the center stood a single circular table of obsidian, its surface veined with gold so fine it looked like old blood drying in a wound. Twelve high-backed thrones encircled it. Eight sat empty, their overhead lumens guttering like dying stars.

Four were occupied.

Each encircled by coiled thunder wearing uniforms—emblems of power as much as protection.

Sororitas Celestians, bolters veiled in incense. Inquisitorial stormtroopers in matte-black carapace, their optics pulsing with threat. Skitarii escorts whispering binaric hymns. Behind Fadax's seat, a single Callidus assassin shimmered—barely visible, like a smudge in the fabric of space.

None spoke. All watched.

Trajann Valoris, Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes, stood apart. He disdained the throne.
Instead, he placed both hands upon the edge of the obsidian table, gold auramite catching the vaultlight like the gleam of forged judgment. His eyes, dark and depthless, swept the chamber—not measuring argument, but inevitability.

He did not call the session to order. He was the order.

Seated beside him:

Eos Ritira, Ecclesiarch of the Ministorum, rested in her throne like a cathedral settling on its foundation. Crimson and bone-white vestments pooled around her like stained-glass petals. Smoke rose from the thurible at her feet, drawing halos that lingered even when she did not move. Her gaze preached—warm as sunlight through glass, and just as unyielding.

Kleopatra Arx, Inquisitorial Representative, sat like a blade sheathed in obsidian carapace. One cybernetic hand rested lightly on a dataslate—not gripping, just grazing, as if waiting to test the flesh of truth. Both of her eyes were augmetic, sharp enough to track a shiver of thought. Emotion had long ago been excised; only precision remained.

Oud Oudia Raskian, Fabricator-General of Mars, had not entered—he descended. His brass-clad exo-throne glided along grav-rails, mechadendrites whispering against the stone. Dull green semaphores looped over his alloy face, decoding reality in passing. He did not breathe. He processed. When he spoke, it was the sound of a logic engine catching a contradiction in the cosmos.

And then there was Fadax.

Grand Master of the Officio Assassinorum. A name more whispered than spoken—a man-shaped void.

His throne made no sound as it settled into the shadows. A featureless obsidian mask turned toward the others. Or perhaps… reflected them. His voice, when it came, would be the exclamation mark at the end of someone else's sentence—small and terminal.

A trio of skull-drones descended in silence, each bearing a hololithic data-pod etched in sigil-locked red. Reports from Guilliman's fleet, gathered by agents either impossibly brave—or suicidally foolish to spy upon a Primarch.

The projection flickered to life.

One phrase pulsed in Martian crimson:

ANOMALY LOCATION CONFIRMED

For a single heartbeat, none moved.

The chamber seemed to contract. The distant balconies bent inward.

Arx's fingers curled against her forearm.

Ritira's smoke faltered, curling sideways in invisible tension.

Raskian's optics dilated by three increments. A soft binaric squeal leaked from a hidden vox-port—excitement or ache.

The Callidus behind Fadax tensed like a spring.

Fadax did not stir.

Valoris exhaled—just once.

A single breath that sounded like a page of stone being turned.

"Ferox's report reads," said Arx, "as if she interviewed a hurricane. A mouthy one." She raised a brow. "Her recommendation is distant observation. A light touch."

Raskian's triple optics swiveled, his voice dry and modulated. "Inquisitor Varn is unable to project a unified course of action. That alone is troubling."

"What is more troubling," Arx said, drumming two fingers on the obsidian rim, "is that Guilliman gave personal protection to the only known leverage this anomaly possesses—the menials. That cannot stand. We must examine and contain the knowledge this being holds. To do otherwise… is to endanger the very Imperium."

Ritira's hand lowered to the table—graceful, but with the weight of cathedrals behind it.

"I agree," she said softly. "This man must be brought before us. He must be tested." Her voice darkened, solemn as a funeral bell. "And if he is found wanting, the knowledge taken. If he refuses, or cannot be captured—then I suggest…"

Her eyes drifted toward Fadax.

"…we consider other means of acquisition."

For a moment, silence.

Then Fadax spoke.

His voice was a whisper, barely audible. Yet somehow, everyone heard it.

"And what," he asked, "do the Adeptus Custodes say on the matter? Such a prize might not only preserve the Imperium—but restore the Golden Throne itself. Perhaps even… him."

Every gaze turned.

Valoris stood unmoving, his eyes closed—not in dismissal, but deliberation.

He said nothing for a long moment. The weight of a thousand contingencies passed behind his brow.

Then his eyes opened.

"The Custodes shall march."

And with that, he turned, cloak flowing behind burnished gold, and left the chamber—leaving the squabbling remnants of empire in his wake.

Nothing further was needed.

-

The command deck of Macragge's Honour was a hive of disciplined motion—an endless ballet of men and machine working in perfect synchronization to keep the nearly thirty-kilometer-long flagship alive. Vox-calls crackled across command lines. Noospheric relays pulsed with status updates. Astropathic messages flickered in from distant systems, filtered through layers of encryption and psychic shielding. Every second birthed a hundred decisions, and every decision flowed upward—toward the figure at the ship's heart.

At the command throne, surrounded by the unwavering presence of his Victrix Guard, stood Roboute Guilliman—Lord Commander of the Imperium, Primarch of the Ultramarines.

He watched it all in silence, blue eyes reflecting the shifting hololithic projections with unblinking focus. His was not a casual glance, but a systematic parsing, every data stream and tactical indicator absorbed, cross-referenced, and weighed in real time. It was one of his oldest gifts—the ability to see everything, to hold it all in his mind without drowning in the weight.

He had not expected the Ark Mechanicus and its support fleet to arrive so swiftly, nor the quiet efficiency of the Inquisitorial task force that followed. What had begun as a coordinated force of seventy vessels had now swollen to nearly three hundred. Most were non-combatant—logistics craft, diplomatic barges, vox-beacons, and sensor relays—but still, the sheer volume was impressive. It was a signal.

The Imperium is watching.

Ahead, the Nachmund Gauntlet loomed—an impossible corridor carved through the hellstorm of the Great Rift. A stable passage, tenuous and fiercely guarded, winding through the warp's frothing madness like a blade through molten ink.

Yet only fifty-five ships would pass through. The rest would remain behind, anchoring the defense of Sangua Terra and the outer Gauntlet. He would not leave one flank exposed. Not again.

Guilliman's mind churned—not in panic, but in precision. Plans and counterplans rippled through his thoughts like a wargame played across glass—paths traced, erased, retraced in silence. A scythe through chaff, useless contingencies were discarded, new ones taking root and branching. Political arrangements. Supply chain redundancies. Inquisitorial tensions. Assassination contingencies.

Who might strike whom. Who must be watched. Who might need to be sacrificed.

Even now, with the fleet poised to pierce the veil, Roboute Guilliman was not preparing for war.

He was preparing for what came after.

Then came the scream.

A keening wail from the Astropathic Choir reached his ears before the chamber doors had even opened—a sound not of pain, but urgency sharpened to a blade.

He turned instantly, cloak sweeping as the great doors parted. One of the Choir—a gaunt figure clad in layered robes and sanctified wiring—rushed forward at a near-run, collapsing to his knees before the command dais.

"My lord!" he gasped. "A message from Vigilus!"

Guilliman's voice was ice and authority.

"Speak."

The astropath's eyes were wide, pupils blown open from strain.

"Their long-range augurs have picked up incoming vessels. Sigil matches confirmed."

His throat tightened as he forced out the final words:

"It is the Sixteenth and the Fourteenth, my lord. They're coming. At full speed. Headed for Vigilus."

A silence fell. Not stillness—stillness is passive. This was the silence of containment. Of fire held in a cage.

Guilliman inhaled slowly, letting the name of each Legion burn through him like coals:

The Sons of Horus.
The Death Guard.


The noise of war, the grinding chaos of the galaxy, all fell away—simplified.

The tangle of scenarios he had been unraveling in his mind, the roiling web of politics, contingencies, and consequence—cleared like mist before a blade. The path forward was suddenly, chillingly clear.

He opened his eyes.

"Send word to Vigilus," he said, voice low but implacable.

"Tell them to hold fast."

A pause. His gaze hardened, resolution etched into every line of his face.

"Tell them… we are on our way."

His fingers tightened around the hilt of the Emperors blade.

"And this time, I will not fail to kill them."
 
Chapter Forty (Thousand) New
Chapter Forty (Thousand)

-

The hatch slammed shut behind them, the echo trailing down the corridor like the final word in a long, bitter sermon. Kade and Koron moved in silence for a few paces, the heavy footfalls of soft boots and clawed feet tapping against the deck like a mismatched metronome.

Koron glanced up, expression unreadable behind the drone's smooth optic. "You good?"

Kade turned slightly. "I am. Considering Orvek could have demanded a binding oath, a trial by fire, or stripped Ira from my armor permanently, being sentenced to penitent duties is... merciful."

Koron gave a soft, dry chuckle. "Want me to loan you a few drones to scrub bulkheads with you? I've got a couple who'd consider it a promotion."

Kade reached out, giving the Sentinel drone's skull a light tap with his knuckles. "That would defeat the point. And likely make the Captain's eye twitch."

"Fair." Koron tilted in the air. "Still, better getting it all out in the open?"

Kade's voice was quieter now, reverent. "Yes. The wound is cleansed. Healing can begin." He drew in a deep breath—three lungs expanding to full capacity—then slowly exhaled, like a forge cooling after the bellows. "A weight lifted."

Koron's gait shifted as he matched stride with the Astartes. "So what's next? New squad assignment?"

"Yes. Tiron has been promoted to sergeant. He is... capable." He paused, recalling what he knew of the younger Astartes. "He has wisdom beyond his years."

"And how's he going to feel about you walking in with a personal AI and a drone entourage?" Koron asked, the claws of his feet clinking softly with each step.

"Ira remains with me, per the Captains orders. As for the drones—Orvek intends to classify them as servitors, under your command. Not under Sasha or Lucia."

"Clever loophole," Koron muttered.

"It is technically doctrine compatible."

They turned a corner, and the traffic in the corridor ahead parted instinctively—mortal crew scurrying to the edges like minnows before a predator. Some averted their eyes. Others bowed. None dared impede the passage of a giant.

Koron whistled low. "You know, I should walk with you more often. You're like an express lane through human traffic."

Kade's shoulders shifted ever so slightly, the smirk just as small.

"So, what's on the rest of your agenda for today?"

"Armor maintenance. Loadout checks. Prayers." He paused. "And then I scrub decks."

Koron's optics brightened slightly. "Ah yes. The sacred rites of penitent mop-fu."

Kade sighed. "Do not make me regret being honest."

"You won't," Koron said, grinning. "But I will make fun of you the whole time."

-

The door hissed open on a breath of sterilized air and incense, and the threshold to Karthis-Omnis's sanctum yawned wide. No guards flanked the entrance—none were needed. The room itself watched.

It was dim. Not in the way of shadows or neglect, but the way of deliberate focus. Light pulsed in steady beats from the ceiling, soft crimson and spectral blue, like the breathing of some slumbering beast. The walls were clad in polished gunmetal, etched with a dense weave of micro-hexes and drifting data-runes that shimmered and shifted just out of phase with reality. Even the silence here had a rhythm, as though coded with some forgotten language of the Machine God.

The hum came next—faint at first, then undeniable. A low, subterranean resonance that sank into the bones. It came from the floor, the walls, the very air. There was computation happening here. Thought, too fast and too vast for any human mind to follow, but still present—a ghostly intelligence that loomed like a tidal pressure behind the eyes.

In the center of the room hung the Cognition Throne.

It did not sit on the floor, but hovered above a dais of inscribed iron, suspended by a web of servo-arms and gyroscopic dampers. A glowing halo of mechadendrites bloomed from its spine, twitching faintly in patterns of dormant awareness. Above it spun a constellation of lens-clusters and holographic emitters, splaying data across the chamber in delicate, ever-shifting geometries. The throne had no seat in the traditional sense—it was an interface, a union, a throne only for those who no longer needed flesh.

To the left, a surgical slab bore the half-dissected remains of a Necron gauss flayer. Its components were laid out like relics in a reliquary, some tagged in High Gothic, others in a sigil-script so ancient it predated Mars itself. Along the back wall, several servo-skulls hung dormant in magnetic cradles. One still wept faint traces of incense oil from its ocular socket.

In the far corner stood a crude, almost primitive altar. A cog, pitted with age and laced with corroded gold filament, rested atop a stone block slick with consecrated machine-oil. A smear of sacramental paste still gleamed fresh beneath it. If the rest of the chamber was a cathedral of logic, this corner was a shrine of superstition—perhaps even guilt.

A single dust covered bottle sits next to a single picture frame that rested behind a slab of quartzite armorglass. An image, preserved with unsettling clarity, depicted a younger Karthis in flesh and blood—stern but not yet ironbound—standing beside a man with mismatched augmetics and tired eyes. No label. No date. Just memory, preserved and bolted in place as if to say: This mattered.

The scent of ozone hung in the air, blended with the acrid perfume of burnt copper and filtered oils. Deeper still, one could catch the ghost of myrrh and ash—litanies burned into the very air. Faint whispers echoed through recessed speaker grilles. Not voices, but binharic prayer loops, endlessly repeating a chant no longer heard by ears, only circuits.

This was not a living space. It was not an office. It was not even a laboratory.

It was a thought, crystallized in iron and code. A place where faith was measured in data, and heresy in curiosity. And somewhere—beneath it all—a mind moved, vast and whispering, too old and too far gone to be called human anymore.

Karthis lay in its center, his true body still wrapped in a medicae capsule, clear fluid leaving his broken form floating free of the confines of gravity, delicate machine arms slowly stitching him back together after the angel had crushed him.

At the doors opening, the servo-skull turned to look, seeing a trio of the wolven Sentinels entering. One stopped near the edge of the room, staring at the floating skull, as the other two took up guard posts near its back.

"I'll make this clear:" Koron began, his voice carefully neutral. "I'm only here because Tavos asked me to. If this is going to be another five minutes of you demanding my knowledge or insulting me, I will just leave."

Without preamble, Karthis replied, biharic cant reverberating in the space..

+You delivered a device to Brother Kade months ago. Cylindrical. Black alloy. No ports. No seams. Still active.+

Koron tilted his head slightly. "The battery."

+That word is insufficient.+ Karthis's voice was neither reprimand nor insult, but it vibrated with tension. +It is not a battery. It has no known storage medium, yet it produces power. No visible intake, yet it remains stable. It has not degraded. It has not fluctuated.+

He leaned forward, optics clicking. +It does not comply with reality.+

The blue eyes narrowed. "So you just want me to tell you the answers."

+Incorrect.+ Karthis replied, the skull drifting down. +I wish to know the starting point. Where do I begin?+

For a moment, Karthis suspected he might have surprised the mind on the far end of the conversation.

"…Coherence theory," he said at last.

Karthis did not move—but everything in the room did.

The lights pulsed, just once. The hymnals skipped a syllable. Even the data-tapes hiccuped as Karthis processed the phrase. Somewhere within his mind, a thousand dormant threads of theory sparked to life and began weaving a tapestry.

+That is…+ he began, halting for the first time in a long while. +A concept of internal energetic alignment. Suppressed. Discredited. Labeled… impractical.+

Koron shrugged, glancing around at the cathedral-machine.

"Most good ideas are. But if you're asking where to start… then that's it. Balance before power. Agreement before acceleration. Every part playing the same song."

+This… will take time.+ Karthis said. Not an objection. Not hesitation. A promise.

"Wouldn't be worth much if it didn't," Koron replied, turning toward the drone.

+Why tell me this? I expected rejection. Null answer. Falsification. Contempt.+

One metal eyebrow rose. "Because you asked instead of demanded. You sought a starting point at the base, not the summit without effort. I can respect that much at least."

The servo-skull titled slightly, perhaps a nod. +Still a heretic.+

"Fuck you too."

-

"Review." Guilliman said once more, staring at the stream of data that the massive hololith displayed. Around him stood the holographic displays of the commanders, each at the ready for their part.

Marshal Hektor Valerian was a slab of walking faith, his relic armor thunderous with every step. Midnight-black and edged in scorched silver, it wore centuries of parchment seals and scorched purity texts like a priest wore vestments. His left pauldron bore the Sigismundic Cross—worn by almost all the Black Templars, but for Sword Brothers? It often marked those who had killed their way into legend.

His helm, shaped like a faceless crusader's mask, never came off. Not for allies. Not for anyone.

Valerian stood behind his place at the table like a statue of vengeance carved from the ruins of some forgotten chapel.

The other presence was quieter, but no less arresting.

Thalen Veyl moved like a rumor. Power armor in mottled green and gray flickered with holographic static, making him ripple against the war room's lighting like a mirage in a forest. His right pauldron bore a squad designation long since scratched out—deliberately and without explanation.

He said nothing as he looked to the others, and for a moment, one could be forgiven for thinking the shadows had decided to join the council.

His helmet—when he wore it—was shaped like a falcon's skull, all beak and predator's silence. But now, he sat bare-faced, unscarred and handsome, like someone the galaxy hadn't gotten around to ruining.

Yet.

The war room's lumen arrays hummed low and red, casting deep shadows across steel-bolted walls and the broad, angular table at the chamber's heart. Around it stood figures made of light—Varn, Orvek, and Ferox—each occupying a different arc of the table's edge like anchor stones.

Between the shimmering visages, ghostly servo-skulls flitted by—each occasionally appearing half-formed in the air as they delivered slates, whispered binharic prayers, or offered up glowing vox-keys to unseen hands.

"Eighty-six ships," Orvek began, his voice steady but dry, "are three days from Vigilus, my lord." With a flick of his fingers, a constellation of symbols shimmered above the table: glowing red for hostile, blue for allied, and a morass of shifting grey for the unknown. "Confirmed contacts include Vengeful Spirit and Endurance. Alongside those: four additional battleship-class hulls, three carriers, three heavy cruisers, thirty standard cruisers, forty escorts and support vessels, and at least four demon engines."

He tapped the projection, and their malformed silhouettes writhed unnaturally as if aware they were being observed.

Guilliman's image leaned slightly forward, casting a faint shadow on the table. "Enemy ground forces?"

"Assuming full commitment?" Varn's voice clicked mechanically as his rebreather cycled and his augmetic eyes narrowed. "Twelve thousand Black Legion traitors. Eight to ten thousand from the Death Guard, depending on how many of their plague hulks are functional. An estimated eight million mortal cultists." He paused, one bionic finger raised. "Plus war machines of unknown class and number." Varn's vox-filter hissed faintly. "And an unknown number of demons, naturally."

The word demons lingered for just a second too long in the air.

"These are projections," he added. "Derived from prior engagements and behavioral analysis. They could deploy more… or be holding some back."

"Understood." Guilliman tapped the Vigilius symbol hovering before him, and the planetary overlay pulsed in response. "What of our own forces?"

Marshal Hektor Valerian, encased in blackened relic plate etched with silver filigree, answered without ceremony. His helm remained on, voice echoing like distant thunder. "The Imperial Fists, Iron Hands, Space Wolves, and White Scars are already in position. A dozen minor successor chapters have joined them, per your request. Local Skitarii legions and Sisters Militant battalions are entrenched in grid sectors Sigma through Theta. The planet's STC-derived void shield arrays are active—still being 'approved,' of course."

His helm turned just slightly toward Varn, whose mechanical eyes twitched with what might have been amusement.

Hektor continued, "The planetary defense force and Astra Militarum regiments are dug in. Factoring in our presence, the total Astartes count sits just over nine thousand."

The chamber held a moment of stillness, broken only by the faint chime of shifting data.

"Two to one against us," Guilliman said, quietly.

Hektor gave a soft, sardonic chuckle. "Then it's an even fight, my lord."

For just a moment, fleeting and rare, something passed over the lips of every Space Marine present—be they real or rendered in light. A ghost of a smile. A memory of battles past. Brotherhood.

Guilliman allowed it.

"Still," he said, voice regaining steel, "the battle in orbit will be measured in inches. Against either the Vengeful Spirit or the Endurance, I'd back the old girl." He ran a hand across the hololith, a moment of tenderness to his ship. "However, against both?" He shook his head faintly. "She would not survive."

Varn nodded, folding a mechadendrite across his chest as another tapped a dataslate. "Our Ark Mechanicus vessels will help level the scales. But of the two Gloriana-class ships… which would you strike first, my lord?"

There was no hesitation.

"The Spirit," Guilliman said. His eyes glinted like the edge of a blade unsheathed. "I'll burn that bastard from the black."

The chamber dimmed as the orbital map of Vigilus pulsed to life, casting icy blue light across the faces gathered around the hololith table. Steam hissed softly from overhead vents, mingling with the scent of machine oil and ozone—an olfactory signature of war in the making.

"Main defensive focuses are likely to be these," Thalen said, stepping forward into the ghostlight. With a flick of his gauntleted hand, several zones flared red across the map. "Storvhal—massive geothermal output. It's the planet's primary power source. Volcanic. Unstable. It'll feel like home for your brothers, Captain Orvek."

The heat in his voice wasn't just metaphor. Even through projection, the data revealed columns of smoke, rivers of magma, and the tectonic chasm-cracks that seared the earth like claw marks.

Orvek studied the glowing topography with a practiced eye, his voice low and deliberate. "I concur. Few approaches. Predictable funnels. The shifting terrain will slow them… and quicken us."

He looked up at Guilliman, the volcanic glow reflected in his pupils. "Full company deployment, my lord?"

Guilliman inclined his head. His tone, precise and final: "Indeed. You'll have three Guard regiments in support, two companies of Sisters Militant and a legion of Skitarii to hold the flanks."

Orvek gave a small nod—more to himself than anyone else—as his gaze returned to Storvhal. The war had already begun in his mind. Defensive lines. Meltaguns at chokepoints. Promethean fury where the enemy would never expect it.

New coordinates lit the map—four brilliant azure markers now shone across the northern hives.

"Hyperia and Hivesprawl Oteck," Guilliman continued. "The primary sources of water and civilian infrastructure. I've assigned the Fists and Iron Hands to both. Four battalions of Sisters and two Skitarii legions will reinforce them. Eight regiments of Guardsmen to anchor the line."

Hektor's helm tilted slightly, the light catching on the edges of his relic plate. Guilliman turned his gaze toward him.

"My Fenrisian nephews will run beside your brothers, Captain Hektor. Between you, the largest companies we field. You'll serve as the blade—quick reaction, maximum force."

Hektor gave a nod like a shifting glacier. A deep, resonant growl of approval stirred from his chest—wordless, but understood by all.

"And my brothers?" Thalen asked, his arms crossed loosely, though nothing about his posture was relaxed.

Guilliman's lips tugged at the corner. It wasn't quite a smile—more the ghost of one. "You and the White Scars? You two shall have complete operational freedom. Use it to get into their backline, and perform one objective."

A pause. A beat. Then:

"Hurt them. However you see fit, for as long as you can."

Thalen's answering smile was thin, sharp, and dangerous. It did not reach his eyes, but it didn't need to. It gleamed like a monomolecular blade drawn in the dark.

-

As the meeting concluded, Guilliman took a slow breath, then turned to his Victrix Guard.
"Dibus. Macullus. Give me the room."

The two towering Astartes exchanged a glance. For a moment, they didn't move—stone statues weighing command against instinct. Then, with synchronized nods, they turned and sealed the chamber behind them. The thick doors hissed shut, leaving silence in their wake.

The war map faded, but the weight of command clung to his shoulders like a second mantle. Silence followed, deep and deliberate. Guilliman exhaled. Closed his eyes. Counted to ten.

Then he opened them and looked toward the ceiling—specifically, the ventilation grate above the far alcove.

"Come out, Koron. I know you're there."

Six seconds of silence. Then a soft shimmer, like heat rising off a sunbaked road. A small teardrop-shaped drone uncloaked, slipped through the grate, and descended on whisper-discs.

"How did you know?" the drone asked.

Guilliman smiled—actually smiled. Not the tight, political one he wore like armor, but something that reached the corners of his mouth.

"This is my ship," he said. "I know the pulse of her reactor cores. The hum of the deck beneath my boots. The frequency of the void shields. The airflow pattern was skewed—barely a degree off the programmed vector. But this ship sings a song I know by heart."

"A fair point." Koron replied, setting the Prometheus drone down onto the edge of the table, a little manipulator arm reaching out to tap at the display. "Your outnumbered. Pretty bad too."

He arched a blonde eyebrow. "You came to discuss the tactical situation?"

"No, just to observe, maybe help if I could, but I have little hope I would see something you or your generals would miss."

"You could have just asked to join."

The drone turned to face Guilliman at that. "Now…that is a surprising gesture."

"Why?"

"I'm not one of your generals, and I would likely be rather sarcastic and irreverent. Add in that any of my input would likely be viewed as heretical? Such a person is not helpful towards a military command structure."

"True, but I suspect you would curb it to some degree."

The drone shrugged. "Again, a fair point."

Guilliman tapped the hologram, backing out into a view of Vigilius itself. "So, what are your thoughts then? My foes will reach the planet three days before we do."

"Depends. Do you think you can win the spacebattle? Without that, ground battles won't mean a damn thing."

"We will be mostly evenly matched, barring a few ships. The flagships will be the main deciding factor. If the Ark's had not arrived…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "In any case, I do not suppose you have come to deliver the new shields you mentioned?"

"No, sorry. Even if I did, your ships wouldn't be able to produce the proper machinery to use them. I thought I could combine your void shields and my aegis shields with the materials on hand, but I'll need specialized equipment and time to test. Which, of course, we don't have."

Nodding, Guilliman sighed as he stood. "Very well. Do what you can then. Is there anything else?"

"Two things:" The drone replied as it lifted off the table. "Just wanted to give a heads up that the Salamanders have agreed to field test some of my other drone designs into their combat doctrines. Small numbers, but might bolster them."

Guilliman's blue eyes narrowed. "You realize that their position is tenuous. Any further infractions could be dire."

"I do, which is why I'm keeping it to just their forces, and slapping a coat of martian red and a cogskull onto the designs. I'm informing Varn of it as well, just to help ease any tensions before the fight."

-

Varn clicked open the file that carried Ferox's authorization codes, optics narrowing as he studied the diagrams of the listed drones.

"Oh what the fu-"

-

"He should be having either another bluescreen or a religious awakening any second now."

Guilliman grunted. "And these drones?"

"Support units, mostly. I've sent the files to your slate—let me know if any are useful elsewhere. I'll stay out of other active warzones unless I get your explicit go-ahead. Not looking to trigger a schism mid-firefight."

"That's… surprisingly respectful of you."

"Hey, I can be respectful. I just tend to return like with like, that's all."

As the Primarch turned toward the door, the drone floated along beside him at head height. Guilliman glanced sidelong at it.

"Are you following me?"

"Of course. Still lots to talk about."

"You said you had little to contribute tactically."

"Correct. This is the 'getting to know you' phase."

He stopped. Looked at the tiny gunmetal-grey drone.

"And what does that entail?"

"Whatever you'd like. Game of twenty questions is a classic."

"You want to play games," he said slowly, "while the rest of us prepare for war?"

The voice that answered was light, but edged in unshakable calm.

"No. I want to use the time between wars to learn more about the man I may be forced to entrust with my friends' lives… and perhaps with the knowledge I carry."

Guilliman's eyes narrowed, glacial fire beneath a pale brow. "So. More tests."

"Yup," the voice replied cheerfully. "Though this time, it's mutual. I get to see how your brain works and—"

"—and I, in turn, yours."

"Correctamundo."

Guilliman didn't blink. For a long moment, silence stretched like a bowstring. Then, with the faintest nod, he relented. "Very well. I did say we should speak more. But while others are present, remain silent. There's no sense causing additional tension."

"Not a worry," came the smug reply. "Look at me—silent as a grave."

Guilliman shook his head, already moving to the door. "For about ten seconds, by my guess."

The heavy adamantine doors parted with a hydraulic hiss. His guards, gold-clad and grim, straightened as their Primarch passed.

"My lord," Macullus murmured, glancing to his flank, "is that—"

"One of the vestiges drones, yes," Guilliman cut in. "Pay it no mind unless it attempts to harm myself or others."

Both guards nodded, though their eyes never quite left the small, sleek drone that glided beside the Primarch's shoulder like a loyal ghost, its optics silent but watchful.

Several hours went by as Guilliman went about his tasks. The day unfolded like a thunderhead, dense with duties.

Guilliman moved from chamber to chamber, attending to the Imperium's unceasing tangle of responsibilities: doctrinal sparring between the Ecclesiarchy and Mechanicus, Inquisitorial "requests" soaked in veiled threats, Guard generals groaning for reinforcements, fuel, and recaf.

Each discussion layered with fleet updates—warp-drift projections, fallback vectors, escort formations, and worst-case scenarios modeled in exhaustive detail. His mind moved like a data engine in overdrive, calculating, absorbing, reacting.

Through it all, the drone remained at his shoulder, silent as promised. Watching. Learning.

As ever, the worst problem was always everyone else.

The Black Templars and the Space Wolves looked good on paper: two furious, close-range shock units capable of tearing enemy lines apart.

In practice? They were powder kegs—vicious, proud, and barely able to share a corridor, let alone a battlezone. He'd spent two hours drafting boundary guidelines, rules of engagement, and a polite reminder that the enemy was not each other.

The Iron Hands and Imperial Fists were siege masters. Together, they were the perfect anvil for the Black Legion and Death Guard to break themselves against.

They were also, unfortunately, as flexible as granite, and doctrinally incompatible in all but function. One trusted in endurance. The other, in deletion.

Still, if there was one thing that could unite them—it was the Black Legion.

The Successor Chapters—Crimson Fists, Fire Lords, Brazen Claws, Hawk Lords, Silvered Blades, Storm Reapers and more—were harder to predict. He assigned them close to their parent chapters and hoped legacy would keep them in line.

Only two Chapters required no oversight at all:

The White Scars and the Raptors.

They thrived on autonomy, on open flanks and dark corridors. If left to their own rhythms, they would stalk through the enemy like storm winds made of razor blades. Together, he suspected, they might become the deadliest force on the planet.

He allowed himself that single, sharp hope.

-

Earlier that day, in a discussion with a delegation of Guard colonels, someone had questioned the feasibility of establishing fallback trenches across a northern ridge for the Salamanders defense lines.

Before Guilliman could respond, the drone had pulsed a quiet tone over his private vox-link:

"Not a good idea. The tectonic flexure across that ridge exceeds safe tolerances. If the traitors start bombarding that area, that whole shelf will collapse. I recommend shifting three miles east. You get a slightly worse firing angle, but a lot less lava."

Guilliman hadn't even turned to look at the drone as he pulled up the geological maps to confirm the problem. He nodded once, and spoken the drones suggestion, and the colonels adjusted their maps.

Four hours, Guilliman thought, and only when the Salamanders were on the line. I suppose that's something.

He wondered, sometimes, if this was how the Emperor had felt—surrounded not by incompetence, but by a dozen almost brilliant minds, all standing in the shadow of something older, quieter.

The difference was that the Emperor had made such minds. Guilliman had merely inherited one.

If Koron was truly from the Dark Age—if his knowledge ran as deep as suspected—then Guilliman wasn't dealing with a man.

He was dealing with a time capsule. A survivor. A weaponized past wrapped in metal and wit.

And yet… the drone beside him said nothing. It only observed.

I can't decide if he's holding back because he's cautious… or because he's kind.

And that, more than anything else, was what unsettled Guilliman.

Because if he couldn't tell?

Then neither could anyone else.

-

The hololiths had gone dim. The last of the servitors had trundled out. Guilliman stood alone—or nearly so—arms crossed as he stared down at the slowly rotating image of Vigilus, caught in the thrall of red runes and threat arcs.

The drone hovered nearby. Quiet. Patient.

He didn't look at it when he spoke.

"All right. You mentioned a game."

A brief pause. Then the drone tilted ever so slightly, as if raising its brow.

"Twenty questions?"

Guilliman nodded once. "You said you wished to learn. Let's begin."

"You wanna go first, or shall I?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped around his chair, grasped the backrest, and turned it with a smooth motion before settling into the massive, throne-like seat. It groaned faintly under the weight of ceramite and responsibility. Reclining slightly, he steepled his fingers.

"Do you believe in fate… or simply probability?"

Koron's drone paused, mechanical limbs folding as if in mock contemplation. "Straight for the metaphysics, huh? No warm-up, no dinner first?"

The tiny arms scratched at the underside of the chassis. "Fate's a bit too… spiritual for me. Too much implied divinity, not enough verifiable data. Probability? Sure. But not as something to believe in. It's just another tool."

One manipulator snapped its tiny fingers with a metallic twing. "Alright. Recaf or tea?"

Guilliman blinked. "...What?"

"Hey, critical question. Got to know if I'm dealing with a pragmatist or a closet masochist."

His expression twitched. It might have been a smile. "Recaf. I recall you mentioned sharing a taste for it."

"Oh, I do. Many praises be unto the blessed coffee pot—long may it boil."

"…I assume that was in jest."

"Yes. And also, no. I probably owe my survival at the academy to one very overworked, very abused coffee machine. I figured it earned a bit of gratitude."

Guilliman nodded once, then aimed the next question like a bolt. "Do you believe in god—or gods?"

"Damn, going straight for the soul-scouring questions today, huh?" Koron muttered. "Alright. Honest answer? I don't know."

He drifted a moment in silence before continuing. "Back in my time, everyone had their own way. Faith was around, sure. Still had debates, still had arguments—hell, still had the occasional barstool-to-the-face attempts—but it wasn't… weaponized like it is now. People mostly got along."

There was a pause. A softer tone followed.

"My sister, Jen—she was a preacher. Devout, but not preachy. The kind of person who listened more than she spoke."

Guilliman's voice dropped, contemplative. "And what would she think of the Ecclesiarchy?"

Koron didn't hesitate. "That they've lost the forest for the trees. And then set the forest on fire to light a cathedral."

Then the drone's arms crossed under its frame. His voice pulsed in mock cheer. "My turn. What's your favorite smell?"

Guilliman blinked again.

"...That's your follow-up?"

"Yep. And I'll be judging you based on it."

The Primarch gave a slow exhale. His fingers briefly tapped the side of his chair. "Wild citrus." he said at last. "There was a forest near the summer palace. I used to walk there and sleep in the groves, back on Macragge."

The drone tilted its body, softly. "That's a good answer."

Guilliman looked back, a trace of warmth behind the steel. "You're not what I expected."

"Good. Expectations are just probability's lazy cousin."

"What do you fear?"

"Oh boy, there's just a list."

"Is that your honest answer?"

"Yup. I have a lot of things that scare me. Little things? The deep ocean and spiders. Big things? Letting them down."

"Dusthaven? Or the Brandts?"

There was a pause. Longer than expected.

"…Both."

"If you had to choose—only one—who would you save?"

"Woah now, that's a separate question," Koron said quickly. "And also, I hate the trolley problem."

"The what?"

"It's an old philosophical thought exercise: a train is speeding toward five people tied to the tracks. You can pull a lever to switch it—but on the other track is a baby. Who do you save?"

Guilliman's brow furrowed. "…Is this a real scenario people debated?"

"Oh, constantly. People love to argue about disasters from the comfort of not being in one."

Guilliman's gaze dropped to the floor. A silence stretched between them, taut and thoughtful.

"I hate this question."

His voice was quieter now. Not softer—just heavier.

"It is the Imperium distilled. Every decision I make kills thousands… to save millions."

He looked up, eyes sharp with burden. "I do not choose who lives or dies lightly. But I will choose. I must. Because hesitation costs more lives than any mistake ever will."

He paused.

"So—my answer is this: You save those who can still save others. A child holds future potential, yes. But five adults can carry the child's world on their shoulders."

A flicker of dry humor touched the edge of his mouth.

"That said… in reality? I'd simply knock the train off the rails."

The drone rotated slowly, its little manipulator arm tapping its side like a drumbeat. "So your answer is: punch the problem in the face, derail the trolley, rescue everyone, interrogate whoever tied them down, and then file a report so it doesn't happen again?"

Guilliman contemplated that for a moment. "…That is… broadly accurate."

Koron let out a low chuckle. "And here I thought I was the only one allergic to moral dilemmas."

Guilliman's gaze flicked toward it. "And you? Whom do you save? Who do you sacrifice?"

The drone drifted down, coming to rest lightly on the edge of Guilliman's desk. It adjusted a few scattered papers with almost absent-minded precision.

"Same outcome. Different rationale."

One final tweak of the papers.

"A child's death is… heartbreaking. But as cold as it sounds, it ripples less. The grief stays close. Five adults? That sorrow fans out like a wildfire. More pain. More loss."

It went still for a second.

"So, philosophically? That's my answer. But I hate it too. I hate both options. So yes—in the real world? I'd find a way to stop the damn train."

The silence lingered a moment longer, both minds resting in the weight of hard truths.

Then the drone gave a little hop in the air, spinning once.

"So!" The little arms clapped together. "My turn!

Guilliman arched an eyebrow, wary now. "Yes?"

"When you were young—before the armor, the empire—what did you want to be?"

That gave the Primarch pause.

"You assume I had the luxury of wanting."

"I'm assuming you were a kid once. Even if just for ten minutes."

Guilliman leaned back, fingers steepled.

"…A cartographer."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I found the act of drawing order onto the unknown… satisfying. There was a peace to it. The notion that, given enough time and ink, I could make sense of the world."

His gaze drifted to the desk, to the soft flicker of candlelight dancing on parchment. "Now? After everything… I'd settle for a farm. A small one. Quiet. With soil to till and seeds to plant. Something real. Something mine."

He looked down at his hand—the gleaming ceramite of the powerfist swallowing his flesh beneath. The bolter mount glinted faintly in the gloom.

"But that day… will never come."

"Why not?" the drone asked, gentle now.

His head snapped back up. For a heartbeat, his voice nearly cut.

"This is not a topic I care to dwell on."

"…Alright," the drone said, softly. "Fair enough."

A pause. Then, with a note of practiced cheer:

"Your turn then."

Guilliman's eyes lingered on the drone a moment longer, the weight of unspoken things still hanging between them. Then he exhaled, slow and steady, as though filing the emotion away into some unreachable cabinet.

"If your knowledge—the entirety of it—had to be passed on to one person, and one person only… who would you choose?"

The drone went still, its usual gentle bobbing halting mid-air. A few seconds ticked past.

"…You don't really do small, do you?"

"No."

"Didn't think so." The little manipulator arms folded across its faceplate, a rare stillness settling into its frame. "That's a bastard of a question. Because knowledge… it's not just information. It's trust. And the weight of it can break people."

He let the silence stretch a bit, then added, quieter: "Honestly? I don't know. Maybe… I'm still looking."

Guilliman gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "A wise answer. And an honest one."

The drone tilted to the side slightly, like a bird cocking its head.

"Alright. My turn."

Guilliman raised a brow but said nothing.

"If you could sit down with anyone from your childhood—just one more quiet evening with them, no war, no duties, just… dinner and a decent bottle—who would it be?"

That struck deeper than it should have.

Guilliman's expression softened, barely, but it was there, like an old fracture remembering the break.

"My mother," he said quietly.

"Why her?" Koron asked, softer now.

"There is no one else I would trust to remind me who I was," Guilliman murmured. "Or to forgive me for who I've had to become."

The drone didn't reply this time. Just sat on the table looking at him, silent.

Then, a beat later, it gave a little nod of acknowledgement.

"…Your turn, big guy."

"Why have you not taken power for yourself? With your knowledge, you could."

The drone burst out laughing—a sharp, startled bark of static-tinged mirth that made Guilliman's brow crease.

"Oh hell, me in charge? The species would be extinct in a week."

It spun slowly in the air, one little manipulator arm gesturing vaguely.

"Look, Roboute, I may have ancient tech and a few fancy tricks, but take those away and what are you left with? A twenty-three-year-old with a trauma folder the size of a battle barge and zero qualifications to run a civilization."

A breath taken.

"I'm not a leader. I'm just… someone who fixes things. That's it."

Guilliman nodded once, slow and deliberate. "A good man knows what he is. A wise one knows what he isn't."

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing—not harsh, but focused, thoughtful.

"But tell me, Koron… when no one else stood up, who did?"

He held the drone's gaze.

"You claim you aren't a leader. Yet when the time came, you led. That is leadership. You just don't like what it means."

"When did I lead?" Koron replied, softer now. "It wasn't on Morrak. I just… offered a way out. Elissa was the one who decided to trust me with her people. That was her call."

He paused, then went on, quieter still.

"On the Hammer? I wasn't even there for the build-up. That was Elissa and her people. Again. The fight with the angel?"

A short, brittle laugh.

"I ran from it. Because it terrified me. I didn't stand like Kade and his brothers. I didn't inspire a charge or hold a line. I didn't lead anyone, anywhere. I just… tried to save the ones I care about."

Guilliman didn't speak for a long moment.

The glow of the lumen strips flickered softly over his features, casting deep shadows beneath his eyes—eyes that had seen worlds burn and rebuilt them from ash.

"You speak as though fear and flight disqualify you," he said at last. "As though care and caution are not leadership. As though standing by someone is lesser than standing above them."

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on armored knees.

"You offered hope when there was none. You gave people a reason to rise. If they chose to follow… then you led. Not through command, but conviction."

His eyes narrowed—not unkindly, but as if studying a blade's edge for cracks.

"You may not want the title. But I think you've already earned it."

"No offense," the drone said, arms folding with a soft whirr, "but people like you and Elissa? You can keep the leadership. I'll stay on the sidelines, fix what I can, and throw the occasional wrench at the enemy. Feels safer that way."

He paused.

"And more honest."

Guilliman's brow arched, the barest curl tugging at one corner of his mouth.

"There may come a time," he said, voice wry, "when you won't have that luxury. When no one else can throw the wrench quite right."

The drone tilted ever so slightly in the air. "Then I'll aim carefully."

Overhead, the lights flickered, dimming as the night cycle began. Rubbing at his neck, Guilliman said "Let us make these the last questions then, shall we? There is much to do, and the hour is late."

"Alright. Serious question then: How did you handle it? Waking up in what amounts to an entirely new world, one you didn't recognize, one whose values had been…twisted?"

Guilliman exhaled, gaze unfocusing for a moment. "I didn't handle it. Not truly."

He leaned forward, armored fingers steepled.

"I awoke to an empire I no longer recognized. One built atop my dreams like a mausoleum. The values we bled for—clarity, unity, hope—they'd been… mutated. Replaced with fear and dogma. I was surrounded by billions shouting my name, praying to the Emperor, killing in his image."

His voice lowered. "And I understood none of it."

The drone stayed still.

"I tried to fix it. I am trying. But you know what I realized?" He looked at the drone—really looked. "It's not about fixing what was. It's about making peace with what is, and dragging it forward anyway. Inch by inch."

A faint breath.

"I've heard it in your voice. You understand. You're not asking for my answer. You're asking how I kept going."

Guilliman sat back, blue eyes steady.

"I didn't. Not alone."

A long pause.

"Find your anchors, Koron. Trust them. Let them remind you of who you were… until you decide who you want to be."

Koron didn't speak for a moment. Thoughts flickered across his mind like static across a screen.

"…That's the best advice I've heard in a long time," he said at last, quieter than before.

One of his metal limbs lifted, pointing toward the Primarch. "Last question's yours."

Guilliman tilted his head, studying the little drone. "Hm… I am curious."

"About?"

"Why a wolf?"

"What?"

"Your prior drone," Guilliman said. "The quadruped design. Why does it resemble a wolf?"

"Oh. It doesn't. Not exactly." The drone's limbs shifted, as if fidgeting. "Not a wolf. Just… my dog."

There was a flicker in Guilliman's eyes—memory stirring behind the ice. "Your dog?"

"Yeah. Her name was Dina." Koron's voice softened, no longer filtered through deflection. "Mutt mix. No idea what breeds exactly, but shepherd for sure. She loved everybody, but she was my dog, you know? Always by my side. Always happy to see me."

He paused, the silence carrying weight.

"She died when I was nineteen. Old age. We couldn't afford gene therapy, let alone augmetics. So I carried her bed out to the porch, tucked her in, and slept beside her."

He inhaled—steady, but not quite even.

"She didn't wake up."

A slow exhale.

"Buried her in the forest where we used to camp. Just me, a shovel, and the morning fog."

Guilliman nodded slowly, something deep and wordless passing through his expression.

"Scraps," he said, almost to himself.

Koron looked up. "Yours?"

"Runt of the hunting hound litter," Guilliman murmured. "My father said not to get attached—said he wouldn't survive the week. He couldn't fight the others for milk."

His massive hand flexed, remembering warmth.

"So I stole a bottle from the kitchen, warmed it by the fire, and fed him myself. Little by little."

A silence stretched between them—not heavy, just… still.

"I haven't thought of him in a long time. Years, maybe centuries." His voice was distant, but warm. "He used to follow me everywhere. My mother scolded me for letting him on the mattress. Said I was soft."

A faint, bittersweet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"When the Emperor came for me, I remember kneeling down and telling him I would be back soon. That I'd bring him something from the stars."

His eyes lost focus.

"But when I finally returned, he was gone. Mother said he passed peacefully, old age."

He paused—just long enough to betray the crack in the story.

"…But I think she lied."

Neither man said a word, lost in memories of faithful hounds and guarding growls against the dark.

"If we ever meet in person, lets grab a drink and toast."

"To good dogs."

"To the best dogs."

-

The door sealed behind him with the hiss of sanctified hydraulics, a final barrier of ceramite and faith slamming shut like the tomb of a sleeping god. Guilliman descended alone, each footfall a quiet thunder in the shaft that spiraled beneath his private sanctum. No guards followed; none were permitted. This place was warded beyond mortal watchfulness.

His gene-code unlocked the lower sanctum. The servos obeyed. Retina scans, psi-probes, even the Emperor's Tarot had to grant him entry. The final door uncoiled like a steel serpent, revealing a chamber hidden from even his most trusted advisors.

The air was thick with ozone and the cloying scent of machine-oil mixed with something older—something faintly organic. A red-tinged gloom bled across the vault, cast by recessed lumen-strips set into the circular walls. The floor was grated adamantium, the mesh beneath it alive with humming circuitry, flickering arc-light, and faint gurgling from below.

Twenty alcoves ringed the chamber's walls like shrines to some forgotten techno-heresy. Each contained a vertical tank of nutrient fluid—glowing an eerie amber-yellow, viscous and pulsating with internal illumination. Suspended within each was a single human head—shaven, pale, and horrifically alive. The necks terminated in iron clamps. Their spines were long gone; their flesh joined to sockets of golden metal and crimson cabling that fed upwards into the ceiling and back down through the grated floor.

Some of them twitched. Others mouthed silently in unison, as though dreaming of fire. One rotated slowly in its fluid, eyes closed, a small tremor visible in the corner of its mouth.

Guilliman stepped to the center dais, a platform traced with glowing data-runes and psi-script. His presence alone triggered the arcane protocols. Runes on the floor lit up. Ward-sigils pulsed violet and blue. Sparks danced across the steel ceiling. The heads began to hum, one by one, as the warp circuitry ignited and linked their thoughts like a choir of disembodied servitors.

Then, one pair of eyes opened—milky, pale, and unblinking.

A voice followed, rising not from one mouth but from many, each set of lips moving in eerie synchronization. It was not mechanical, not synthetic—but unmistakably human. A noble tenor, tinged with imperfection. Familiar.

"Primarch Roboute Guilliman," it intoned with solemn clarity. "You have returned. Let us speak."

The voice was Cawl's. But not. It carried his cadence, his conviction—but the fidelity was degraded. Fractured. Like a memory passed down through too many mouths. This was no true Magos. It was a residual echo, a patchwork conscience bound to cloned flesh and nerve, suspended in nutrient tanks and hardwired into the vault's cortex. A ghost in the machine—proud, broken, and watching.

Guilliman stood still in the gloom, his eyes slowly scanning the closest vat. Organic matter drifted in amniotic silence—unmoving, half-formed, yet aware.

"…You've been watching," he said at last. It was not a question.

"Correct," the Inferior replied, with calm certainty.

A low, thrum of energy coursed through the vault—less a sound and more a presence, pressing against the skin. The chamber around them was vast but close, a vault of muted bronze and black, lined with tubes like arteries and shelves of cogitators stacked like ossuaries. Every whisper of machinery was muffled. The walls drank sound. Even the air felt reverent. It was not a place built for comfort or clarity. It was a cathedral for thoughts too vast to echo.

Guilliman's voice cut through the stillness. "Your thoughts?"

There was a pause. And then the many mouths replied, a unified chorus not unlike a prayer.

"I am… uncertain. The Vestige is anomalous. Naïve in expression. Calculated in action. It speaks of trust, while harboring secrets. It offers food, shields, and medical aid. Yet it arms the Salamanders with machines older than our Imperium."

The Primarch's jaw tensed. "And have you encountered his Silica?"

"No," the voice answered plainly. "And I am in no hurry to discover what death is like in my state of being."

"You fear it?"

"As a mortal man would fear you, my lord."

Guilliman's gaze sharpened. "Expand on that."

The suspended heads moved slightly in their tanks, stirred by faint currents, as though turning to regard him more fully. When the Inferior spoke again, it was with reverent precision.

"I have reviewed what remains of the data. The Silica bonded to the Vestige's vessel was once classified as a Fleetmind. An intelligence entrusted with the governance of entire swaths of space—regions equal in scale to Segmentums. It oversaw logistics, production, research, even the psychological profiling and care of its citizenry."

A chill brushed down Guilliman's spine. Not fear—but recognition. Understanding.

"…Is it still fully operational?"

"I do not know," came the quiet reply. "But Archmagos Belisarius Cawl recommends caution. If it is still functioning, then provocation would not merely be unwise."

"It would be terminal."
 
Chapter Forty One New
Chapter Forty One



Just a heads up, I was informed by a commenter that text to speech devices dont like these '-' as scene breaks, so I'll be using these '...' going forward. Just an FYI to avoid confusion.
Anyway, onto the story!
...

Elissa ran through the system checks for the seventh time that hour.

Her fingers moved with practiced deliberation, tapping out sequences across the console—pausing, correcting, double-checking each subroutine. The interface hummed beneath her touch, its surface warm from ceaseless use, the low thrum of the ship's life bleeding up through the metal. She wasn't the ship's real communications officer. Not by training. Not by rank. But she'd taken up the role anyway.

Backup. Redundancy. The 'just-in-case.'

Because just in case mattered.

Lucia's presence pulsed through the Indomitable like breath through a lung, quiet and constant. Now fully integrated into both the Indomitable and the Hammer of Nocturne, she was more than a machine spirit—she was a neural web spread across two vessels, an intelligence braided into steel and void shielding, omnipresent without ever feeling oppressive. She could run both ships without effort, without pause. But she and Koron had asked the Dusthaven survivors to learn the systems anyway.

Not a command. A kindness. A gift wrapped in quiet warning.

Elissa hadn't hesitated.

Across the bridge, Kala sat in the helm cradle, posture tight but composed, eyes flicking across readouts with surgical focus. Her red hair was bound in a thick braid that swayed behind her, a crimson metronome. Her fingers glided across the retrofitted flight controls in steady, looping gestures—half-muscle memory, half music. On her shoulder, Elly's liquid-metal avatar projected, reclined like a tiny silver cat, whispering correction vectors and atmospheric tolerances in a voice barely louder than a breath.

To the left, Tara was a coiled spring of focus at the engineering station. Her sleeves were pushed to the elbows, one arm stained with coolant residue, a stylus in hand as she scrawled notes across a diagnostic slate. Her eyes scanned the reactor feedback loops with the wary patience of someone who expected things to explode. Koron stood beside her—one arm braced on the console, the other lazily tracing a schematic suspended in their HUDs. Their conversation was low and fluid, the shorthand of people who had endured fires and storms together and learned to speak in glances.

Toward the rear of the bridge, Milo lounged in the gunner's throne like a boy handed the ignition codes to an ancient god. His feet tapped an unconscious rhythm against the footrest, and his grin widened each time a targeting glyph blinked into simulated lock. There weren't many weapons—the Indomitable had been built for crafting, not fury—but over the past four months, Koron had begun fitting in teeth. Quietly. Carefully.

"A few fangs," he'd said.

Point-defense turrets. Missile nodes that snapped out from hidden cavities like knives from a boot sheath. Short-range interdiction packages with overlapping arcs and redundant failsafes. Enough to bite. Enough to punish stupidity.

It wasn't a warship. Not yet.

But if someone did manage to board?

They'd find that under all the rust and reserve, the Indomitable had grown talons—sharpened not with pride, but survival.

Elissa's gaze drifted to the sensor net array. Green motes glimmered across the hololith, each one a ship in high orbit. The Forge-Tender hung in the central cordon, tucked among the Ark Mechanicus fleet of high-value non-combatants. Around them, the defense fleet pulled in towards the flagship.

And at the heart of it all loomed the Macragge's Honour, a world of guns in motion, leading the formation like a blade pointed at the throat of the stars.

The countdown in the upper left corner ticked steadily toward zero.

She reached for another system check.

Just in case.



Kade exhaled slowly.

The air inside the drop pod was thick with heat and the scent of machine-oil and scorched incense. The harness across his chest ratcheted tight, metal teeth biting into ceramite as the pod's systems hummed with latent fury beneath his boots. The vibration was subtle—for now. A storm held back by inertia and countdown.

He checked again.

Armor synced. Bolter and plasma pistol locked.

Ammo pouches tapped one by one. Chainsword, combat blade, aux grenades, krak, smoke and frag. Canteen, multi-tool, ration tab, flex-seal. Maps preloaded, HUD green. He didn't need to check—it was ritual. Anchoring. A moment of order before the plunge.

Still… he hated drop pod insertions.

The chamber was cramped—barely a coffin with friends, as the old joke went. Tiron sat across from him, helmeted and still. His armor bore the heat scars of a dozen campaigns; patches of worn emerald darkened like burnt stone. His eyes were closed, but his fingers moved—lightly tracing the grip of his power maul with the reverence of a monk touching scripture. Newly promoted, yes. But already etched with fire and steel. Not green. Not reckless.

Just… quiet.

To Kade's right, Marn was hunched slightly forward in his restraints, a scorched slab of emerald armor, the scent of burned parchment curling off his vambrace. A small prayer note—ignited by the pilot light of his flamer, as always. The ritual was half-sacred, half stubborn defiance, and wholly Marn.

He didn't speak. Neither did Tiron. Not because there was nothing to say—Marn, especially, never shut up when allowed—but because they'd all learned the hard way: talking in a drop pod pre-launch was a good way to bite through your tongue.

Kade's mind, however, wasn't on the descent or the silence.

His eyes drifted toward the rear quadrant of the pod—the drone seats.

The Bastion-class unit loomed there even seated, folded into its transit cradle like some mythic beast at rest. Its armor was painted in Martian red, its squat snout aimed skyward, sensory ports pulsing faintly with dormant light. It looked half statue, half war-god—an idol of judgment awaiting command.

Beside it, four Sentinels were nested with almost absurd efficiency—compact cubes of armored menace, their limbs tucked tight. Within each, two Vipers lay coiled in mechanical hibernation, wrapped in hidden violence.

Further inside the Bastion's reinforced carrier rig, the Aegis and Prometheus drones slept in cradle-locks. Smaller than their cousins, almost delicate in designs, they were the rarest and most precise tools in the kit. Their logic cores had been dampened for drop shock, but even dormant, they felt alert.

Ira was already meshed into the squad's comm-net, her presence registering as a thread of cold logic amidst the warm heat of the Salamanders' HUD.

Above it all, Lucia's rose-petal icon hovered in the battlenet feed, a delicate sigil on cracked stone—quiet, serene, and omnipresent. A digital overseer.

The drones hadn't been accepted easily. Far from it.

Orvek, Tavos, and Arvak had spent two days behind closed doors with the squad leaders, debating the wisdom of unleashing Koron's 'creations' into the field. Tradition had warred with necessity—faith with experience. Most Salamanders still regarded the machines with the kind of disdain one reserves for cold prophecy—uncomfortable, necessary, and best not spoken of.

But their captains' words had carried weight. And in the end, the decision had been made.

A sliver of trust—not comfort. But enough.

The Adeptus Mechanicus, meanwhile, had accepted the drones with the unblinking ease of people who'd already rewritten the theology to match.

After all, when the Bastion unit stepped out painted in Martian red, Cog Mechanicus emblazoned across its armored chassis, chanting binaric litanies to the Machine God in perfect harmony… well.

Several tech-priests had bluescreened on the spot.

Collapsed into static-gurgling rapture like pilgrims at Lourdes.

Koron had known exactly what he was doing. The theater of it. The iconography. The well-placed sigils and coded hymns written in a dialect a thousand years obsolete—just old enough to seem holy. Then Karthis—ancient, inscrutable Karthis—had spoken in favor. Had blessed them.

Kade's eyebrows had nearly left orbit when he heard the news.

Whatever passed between Koron and the old man, it had secured something more valuable than approval. It had secured unity—or, at least, the illusion of it.

And now the drones were here, deployed beside them, silent and unreadable, carrying war in sleek folds and hidden algorithms.

Sensor updates ticked by in cool green glyphs across the HUD. Shield harmonics. Orbital descent speed. Thermal scans painted vivid trails of lava rivers flowing beneath the surface, and projectile arcs bloomed across the upper atmosphere—void shield impacts flaring bright across the Hive's perimeter like saints burning in the firmament.

But their target was elsewhere.

The Voschian Canals. A tangle of subterranean arteries, where planet-spanning power conduits channeled molten force from the planet's mantle toward Megaborealis—the largest hive complex on the continent.

The traitors wanted to cut the heartline, to bleed the world.

They couldn't strike it directly.

Void shields and firepower barred the way, a luminous veil of denial. So instead, their insertion point had been selected: The Twin Pyres—twin volcanoes, spewing heat and sulfur in defiant plumes, just beyond the Hive's reach.

No shields. No cities.

Just stone, fire, and a battlefield the Salamanders would call holy ground.

Kade adjusted his grip on the restraint.

The heat was rising. The hum becoming a roar.

The descent was coming.

And the war, as always, would greet them in fire.



The forge-bay of the Hammer of Nocturne pulsed with crimson light, deep and rhythmic like a heartbeat carved in steel. Sacred incense curled through the gantries in thin, ghostly threads—sickly sweet with sacred myrrh, sharp with oil and ozone. Every lumen was dimmed to a blood-lit glow, casting long, flickering shadows that danced across suspended chains and cold ceramite slabs. The air itself crackled with liturgical static, as if the walls whispered prayers in binary.

The scent was an old one. Ancient. Burnt promethium, sanctified fuel, the metallic bite of machine-oil—all mingled into something that wasn't just remembered, but inherited. A battlefield smell. A funeral made ready.

Archmagos Karthis-Omnis stood motionless at the foot of the central sarcophagus, his many limbs folded in alignment—augmetic and organic hands forming the sigil of ignition. His crimson robes hung in still air, and his hood was drawn so low only the glint of logic-lens arrays showed from beneath. When he spoke, it was not in words, but in litany—his voice a resonant chorus of overlapping binaric chords, as though three machine-spirits chanted through one mouth.

+By circuit and sacred script, by oil and oath and iron will, I summon thee from slumber.+

With a hiss of escaping pressure, the sarcophagus of Brother Arastor—Siege Captain of the Pyric Gate—descended into the Ironclad Castraferrum cradle. The locks clamped shut with a sound of judgment. Hydraulic talons sealed around him. Cyan light coursed around power fists and lit the chamber in electric veins. Flame-gushing vambraces extended outward and drank their first slow draught of promethium, the fuel lines twitching as they pulsed with volatile breath.

The scent of war bloomed—hot, acrid.

Flanking Arastor's reawakening stood two towering silhouettes of the Mortis pattern, waiting in silence.

Brother Tolvann, known as Ash-Sight, bore twin lascannon barrels like the limbs of a god—sleek, scarred, scorched black from countless duels. Beneath them, his heavy flamers nestled, slumbering dragons. Even dormant, his sarcophagus gave off a low thrumming growl—an animal listening in its sleep. One patch of plating bore a melted crater the size of a clenched fist. Another, a sunburst of cauterized scarring. The advanced auspex node above his helm slowly blinked once. Like memory reactivating.

Beside him stood Brother Elikon, the Ember-Kin. His armor was soot-blacked and adorned in curling leafwork of ceremonial copper, tarnished at the edges with heat and age. Twin autocannons underslung, paired with lascannons braced for surgical devastation. His chassis bore no laurels—only names. Dozens. Scores. Etched not by hand, but burned in by his own claws before his interment. Brothers. Friends. Squadmates. All remembered.

His reactor casing glowed faintly, as though warming with anticipation.

Karthis raised all four of his arms—flesh, steel, servo, and relic. The servitor-choir responded to his gesture, their voices rising like a forge-storm breaking through ash.

The Litany of Ignition began.

A dozen vox emitters crackled as sacred cant filled the chamber, a harsh, layered song of Mechanicus harmonics and sub-vocal machine-rites.

+Incantation of Rebirth: Engram Upsilon-Twelve. Initiate Primary Wake Protocol.+
+Confirm soul-core integrity. Bless the motive circuits. Cast out the static of slumber.+


Runes flared along the Dreadnoughts' sarcophagi—red to gold, gold to green. Warning lights dimmed. Reactors stirred. Pneumatics hissed. The deck itself trembled with rebirth as massive hydraulics unlocked. Limbs flexed, servo-motors twitching to life, fingers regaining sensation after long frost.

Optics lit up. Eyes of fire. Eyes of memory.

Arastor's vox crackled. A deep groan echoed through the chamber, followed by a voice that sounded like stone grinding itself into war once more.

"FOES TO BREAK. WALLS TO DEFEND. THE GATEKEEPER STANDS ONCE MORE."

Then Tolvann spoke, his voice flat as voidrock—calm, cold, inevitable.

"I SEE YOU, LITTLE BROTHERS, IN SOUND AND FURY."

Last came Elikon. His optics burned ember-red, his tone measured, heavy with the weight of lives remembered.

"MY BROTHERS, I ANSWER YOUR CALL."

The forge bay's temperature spiked. Not from malfunction. From presence.

All three Dreadnoughts stood now, rising to full height. Armor locked. Weapons primed. Shadows stretching like titans across the blood-lit walls.

Karthis slowly lowered his arms. Servo-skulls whirred overhead and dispersed, clicking quietly like insects released from leash.

He did not speak in vox.

This time, his voice was flesh. Low. Almost reverent.

"For the enemies of Mars," he whispered, "let them tremble."

He looked up at the Dreadnoughts—their visors glowing in the red haze, their massive forms cutting through incense and steam.

"Today we put aside the anvil…"

A pause. A hush.

"And make only graves."



Tavos spun the hammer's haft in his gauntleted hands, the Indomitus-pattern Terminator armor growling with restrained power around him. Servo-motors hissed and locked with each subtle shift of weight, the deep emerald of his plate gleaming under the cold, recessed lumen-strips that ringed the Land Raiders hold. Only four suits, he thought—not a number that inspired confidence, but one that would have to suffice. The Chapter Armory had not been generous, but then again, they never were.

Across from him stood Xal'zyr, cloaked in shadows even the ship's lights couldn't seem to pierce. His verdant armor bore etched runes glowing faintly violet, drifting motes of psychic energy shedding from his hood like dying fireflies. The psykers' helm was already crackling with tension, the air around him warping in slow pulses like heat off a forge. His silence was absolute, but the sense of waiting pressure spoke volumes.

To Tavos' right, Champion Hekor N'Zaan towered with calm gravitas, his stance a study in readiness. Kindler's Edge, the ancient drake-blade of the Third Company, rested across his shoulder, its obsidian teeth catching the light like wet glass. In his other hand, he held a battered storm shield, its face marred with the impact scars of a hundred challenges answered and survived.

Ordinarily, he would descend with Captain Orvek, but Tavos had persuaded the younger officer to remain on the command deck this time—to lead, not bleed. He needed to grow into the mantle of Captain, and that growth did not come from warplate alone.

Completing the quartet was Chief Apothecary Sevar Tann, silent as the grave and twice as grumpy. The red-lensed helm of his Mk.IV Narthecium glimmered with sterile lumens, medical pict-logs flickering as he ran final checks. The brutal instrument—more chainsaw than syringe—was mag-locked to his left vambrace, ready to preserve gene-seed and end suffering with the same indifferent efficiency.

At the foot of the ramp, their support elements stood ready.

The Bastion unit loomed at the center, its quad-legged chassis anchored to the deck with locking claws. Its plasma turrets pulsed with a low hum—idling, but hungry. Servo-limbs shifted in quiet calibration, tracking movement even while stationary, as if rehearsing already-known kills.

Flanking it were the Sentinels, strapped into reinforced crash harnesses. Their four-limbed frames were coiled tight, claws folded, eyes dim—but never off. Even still, their silhouettes hinted at violence barely leashed—predator-shapes built from intent, not instinct. Their forms looked designed not by committee, but by a mind that understood death as a pattern to solve.

Each unit pulsed with a presence—not demonic, not divine—just cold, engineered certainty.

The deck trembled slightly beneath their feet as the Thunderhawk engines roared to full burn, preparing for insertion. The lumen-strips dimmed to crimson. Outside, the skies of Vigilus screamed with fire and ruin.

Tavos let the haft still, momentum bleeding away. He looked to his companions.

Four ancient warriors. Four blades of the Third Company.

And before them, the machines of the Dark Age waited.

They would strike like thunder.



"Warp exit in five minutes, my lord."

The helmsman's voice rang out, crisp but taut, cutting through the resonant hum and mechanical murmur of the Macragge's Honour's bridge. All around, the vessel's command cathedral was alive with motion—servo-skulls drifted like silent phantoms, data-chants crackled through vox-relays, and the air was thick with the ozone sting of energized systems. Crew and servitors moved in a choreographed frenzy, each gesture a cog in the great war-engine of Ultramar.

At the center of it all, Roboute Guilliman stood like a statue carved from resolve, bathed in the soft glow of the hololithic tactical display. Its projected constellations danced across his armor, rendering the massive form of the Primarch in shades of strategic light—icy blues, burning reds, orbiting golds.

The map was clear: the Black Legion and Death Guard had split, forming two claws arcing around the planet below. Between them—precisely between them—lay his exit vector. A pincer waiting to snap shut.

He did not flinch.

The two Ark Mechanicus loomed on their own displays, vast silhouettes of fire and faith. They would anchor his left flank, absorbing the plague-burst hell of Mortarion's fleet. The right? His own strike groups would drive toward the Vengeful Spirit, to sink a dagger into the traitor's heart.

Guilliman's voice, calm and commanding, rolled out like distant thunder.

"Final check. All stations report in."

Across the ship, the command flowed outward, splitting into a thousand channels. One by one, the answers came back—strong, steady, unbroken.

"Reactor cores: green."
"Gun decks: green."
"Hangars, drop bays, nav domes, medicae, boarding teams: green across the board."


A subtle nod. Satisfaction, not pride.

"Charge void shields. Prepare for changeover."

Far below, in the cathedral-guts of the Honour, the Geller field emitters dimmed, their rune-inscribed housings venting coils of dissipating warp-light. In tandem, the void shield capacitors stirred, ancient machinery rumbling to life with a deep, resonant thrum that echoed through the ship's bones.

War was moments away.



Reality screamed.

The Immaterium tore itself open with a howl no mortal ears could hear, and the Loyalist fleet plunged from madness into the void. In an instant, the blackness of realspace was ablaze.

Traitor macrocannon shells tore across the stars like burning freight trains. Lance beams slashed through the dark in surgical arcs. Torpedoes howled toward their targets, and stranger weapons—crackling with forgotten sciences and warp-fouled physics—unleashed fury that twisted space like glass.

Void shields bloomed in layers across the hulls of the arriving ships, radiant halos of defiance flaring into being as their Geller fields collapsed and their shutters folded back into armored recesses. Energy burst and scattered across those fields like meteor showers against a planetary dome, brilliant and brief.

On the bridge of Macragge's Honour, the air turned electric.

A hundred voices rose in a storm of data-feeds, impact warnings, and weapons reports. Holo-screens flared with real-time updates, cogitator spirits screamed in machine-speech, and status glyphs pulsed with battlefield heartbeats.

But at the bridge's center, Roboute Guilliman stood unmoved.

His gaze was cold and calculating, fixed not on the chaos of the void, but on the pattern within it. This was expected. Planned for.

Twenty ships clustered tight around the Honour, mag-clamps and power couplings held them together like a steel blossom blooming around its core. It looked absurd—at least from the outside. But the Honour was nearly thirty kilometers long, a fortress masquerading as a warship. Even Vulkan's Anvil and Zeal Undimmed, the massive battlecruisers of the Salamanders and Black Templars respectively, could nestle on her flanks like gun-bristling gargoyles.

The formation had a singular purpose: survival through unity.

Scattering the fleet would've fed them piecemeal to the trap Guilliman knew awaited. Instead, he had fused them into a singular mass—a citadel in motion—interlinking void shields, supercharging power, and combined fire arcs. The smaller ships, vulnerable alone, were now wrapped in the Honour's immense shadow, their profiles minimized, their chances vastly improved.

And behind it all, flanking the rear like titanic sentinels, the Ark Mechanicus ships and their thirty five vessels met the vile barrage of the Death Guard with something... different.

The void before the Arks warped like molten glass. Gravitational lenses shimmered to life—gravitic domes that twisted trajectory and corrupted aim. Torpedoes meant to kill arced away and vanished into the depths. Lance beams refracted, bending harmlessly into black. Enemy fire drifted off-course as if space itself had decided to disagree with its intent.

The trap had been sprung.

But Guilliman had brought a fortress.

What should have been a decapitation strike—a bloody guillotine of fire and fury—had broken against a wall of void and steel. The traitor fleets, once confident in their ambush, now found their opening barrage absorbed, deflected, or scattered into empty space.

And now came the answer.

On the command throne of Macragge's Honour, Guilliman gave a single nod.

"Release clamps. Begin dispersal protocols. All captains, execute Formations Primus and Secundus."

The bridge became a flurry of motion—not panicked, but practiced. Rites of separation and movement were chanted in solemn tones by robed serfs and tech-priests, incense trailing in the air like the breath of warships.

With a shudder that echoed across their hulls, docking clamps released. Power cables snapped free in bursts of arcing plasma discharge. Void shields realigned. One by one, the escorting ships peeled off from the Honour's flanks like falcons breaking from a roost—fast, precise, and hungry for blood.

The Vulkan's Anvil surged forward first, engine-wake flaring azure. Its launch bays yawned opened, deploying Thunderhawk squadrons in tight, flame-wreathed formations. Plasma lances followed, carving warning arcs through the void to mark its claim on the battlefield.

The Zeal Undimmed followed, its prow alight with righteous fury, roaring in salute to the Emperor and void-shields pulsing with refracted lance beams. Beneath its hull, the black-armored drop pods of the Black Templars readied for descent—crusade made metal.

All around the Honour, the fleet came alive.

Frigates and destroyers darted into escort formations, trailing defensive auguries and sensor-scrambling arrays. Gladius-class gunships spun into position around their motherships. Nova cannons realigned and locked onto enemy vessels still adjusting to their failed ambush.

The Ark ships armada guarded the flanks, immense and slow—but not idle.

Beneath the shifting auroras of their gravitic domes, weapon systems as old as the Imperium itself powered to full capacity. Hull-seared runes glowed with latent energy. The Machine God's wrath had been called for—and it would answer.

On every deck, in every bay, on every ship, Astartes moved.

Power armor hummed. Chainswords were blessed. Litanies of vengeance echoed down cathedral-length corridors. Chaplains anointed helms with ash and oil. The Sons of Vulkan, armored in green and fire, advanced toward launch bays like molten judgment.

In the Honor's observation vault, Guilliman watched it unfold. The trap had not only failed—it had galvanized his forces. Unity had preserved them. Now discipline, doctrine, and vengeance would guide them.

A single word left his lips—soft, but heard by every vox-link:

"Advance."



Thousands of drop-pods fell.

They rained from the sky as burning meteors—torn from the bellies of warships older than nations. From the Macragge's Honour, from Vulkan's Anvil, from the wrathful hull of the Zeal Undimmed, and from the lesser strike cruisers and battle barges that flanked them, a red storm swept downward. Crimson streaks tore through the upper atmosphere, each one a wound on the world's skin—each one a promise of vengeance.

Inside every pod, Astartes waited. Silent. Sealed. Weapons cradled like sacred relics, hearts iron-hard. Blades of the Emperor hurled toward the traitor's throat.

Above and around them, Thunderhawks screamed in tight formation—wingtip to wingtip, discipline in motion. They bore heavier loads: squads of Terminators in ceramite plate, command cadres, support specialists, and armor held in mag-clamps. Stormtalons raced ahead of them, wings spread against the stratosphere's howl, turrets sweeping left to right with clinical malice, each one hot and ready.

Every weapon was live. Every soul committed.

Above that, in the black chill of high orbit, the fleet shifted into its final assault posture.

Frigates peeled away, curling into escort patterns around key nodes. Defense monitors reoriented, vox arrays glowing, and began orbital bombardment. Plasma lances stabbed downward in white-hot bursts, carving through clouds and stone alike. Macrocannon shells the size of gunships followed—airbursts clearing drop zones, collapsing fortifications with thunderclaps of kinetic judgment.

The ground lit up like a forge struck by a god's hammer.

And then came the true titans.

From the bellies of the Ark Mechanicus vessels, grav-haulers groaned to life—colossal lifters bearing Reaver and Warhound Titans in suspended grav-fields. Their awakening reactors pulsed with star-core heat, casting sickly orange halos across the upper stratosphere. As the titanic forms breached cloud cover, shockwaves rippled outward—pressure waves flattening vapor layers, sending screaming vortices spinning down the thermals.

Void shields shimmered around them like halos of defiance, dispersing storm winds and heat alike. Their hulls were cities of motion—arms, armor, god-engines made real.

Among them, the drop-pods of the Hammer of Nocturne fell in disciplined arcs—sleek, brutal cylinders streaking through the ash-choked sky. Lucia guided them personally, her data-beams feeding constant telemetry, adjusting trajectory mid-fall with cold, fluid precision. Each pod descended upright, unerring, cradled in the mathematics of a mind that could parse artillery fire and wind shear in the same breath.

There was no drift. No scatter. No error.

Only descent.

Only war.



Kade's drop-pod screamed through the clouds.

Vigilus rushed up to meet him.

Through the smoke-streaked viewports, the Twin Pyres came into view—two volcanic throats belching plumes of sulfur and fire into the ash-thick sky. They loomed like gods with broken mouths; their flanks carved with fissured basalt and the rusting skeletons of abandoned scaffolds. Below them, rivers of lava pulsed like arteries, glowing red and gold beneath the skin of blackened stone.

His HUD flared with streaming data: seismic tremors, geothermal surges, active anti-air signatures. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Archaic turrets spat fire into the heavens, loosing flak shells like iron hail. Explosions stitched across the cloudbank as falling stars were swatted down in trails of smoke.

The pod shifted slightly—not from impact, but from correction. A subtle course adjustment, so smooth it felt like a thought.

Lucia.

She was guiding them in real-time, threads of data laced through each atmospheric gust, every pressure shift, every incoming shell. The pod banked again, its vector realigning toward the outer rim of the Pyres.

"Impact in five," came her voice—soft, crisp, impossibly calm.

Four.

To his right, Tiron gripped his restraints. His breathing slowed.

Three.

Marn tilted his head, igniting the pilot coil of his flamer. The chamber filled with the scent of sacred oils and scorched parchment—his personal benediction.

Two.

Kade closed his eyes. Inhaled. Held it.
Exhaled.

One.

Impact.

The pod struck with the force of divine wrath—bone-jarring, organ-bruising. Lesser men would've been pulp. Even in full warplate, the force rattled Kade's teeth.

The silence after was brief—barely a breath.

Then the drone side hatches detonated, blasting outward on explosive bolts, vomiting ash, pressure, and razor-sharp shrapnel into the volcanic air.

Click-hiss.

He felt it.

The Aegis drones latched onto the Astartes lower backs, small and fast, halos flaring to life mid-flight. Their shields shimmered as they formed a mobile barrier ahead of him, synchronizing within milliseconds. Invisible walls turned real, locking into a defense pattern with machine devotion—designed not to protect themselves, but him.

His hatch blew forward in a bloom of sparks.

Kade surged out into the inferno.

His boots struck basalt. Bolter rose. Sync-lights flickered green across the HUD. Targets acquired.

The Sentinels hit the ground in fluid motion—quadruped shadows weaving between ruin and flame, silent but for the whisper-hiss of actuators. The Bastion followed with a seismic thud, its armored bulk bracing into firing posture, plasma barrels humming as they drank power from internal cores. The Vipers scattered in all directions like cybernetic shrapnel, optics blinking once before they vanished into cover.

And then the Prometheus drones rose—smooth and silent—ejected from the Bastion's flank like a thought given form. They vanished into the sulfur haze, signal-jamming arrays already spinning up with the eerie precision of a ghost hacking a warzone.

The battlefield screamed.

Lava-mist hissed against black rock, the heat warping air into rippling distortion. Muzzle flashes flared like lightning in fog—bright, sudden, gone. Vox-traffic snarled in Kade's helm, cut with bursts of static and curt tactical callouts. Enemy silhouettes surged through smoke and were cut down mid-step—vanishing in bursts of blue light or shredded by high-velocity flechettes.

Behind him, more pods slammed into the ash-blanketed field, the impacts sending plumes of stone and steam curling skyward. The storm had arrived. The sky churned with flame.

A Thunderhawk roared overhead—then disappeared in a fiery detonation. An orbital shell struck it clean mid-turn, atomizing the gunship in a sphere of expanding shrapnel. Three more Thunderhawks broke formation, filled the gap, guns already live and screaming.

Stormtalons shrieked past at low altitude, strafing trenches in vicious lines of light and smoke.

The vox flared—commands, updates, war-screams layered over augmetic grit.

And then—

The earth shook.

Beyond the jagged ridgeline, something titanic stirred. Kade turned in time to see a massive silhouette break through the heat distortion.

A Warhound Titan stepped into view.

Its foot slammed into the obsidian crust with the finality of judgment, pulverizing stone like kindling.

For a second, everything stilled.

Then the horn split the sky.

It wasn't a signal.

It was a declaration.

The counter-invasion had begun.



His boots crunched through obsidian shards and ash-choked grit. Armor servos hissed, kinetic compensators firing mid-sprint as bolt rounds tore past his shoulder with snapping cracks. His HUD flared alive—Black Legion cultists, seventy meters and closing. Red tags blinked—already lit by Marn's flame.

Tiron raised a gauntlet. "Cover! Ridge!"

They moved without hesitation. The volcanic slope ahead—jagged, uneven, perfect cover against the trench line below. Emerald-armored shapes slid into place across blackened stone, returning fire with the cold precision of killers crafted for nothing else.

Marn's flamer whoomped, belching a pressurized sheet of fire that swallowed a charging cluster of cultists. Screams lanced through the mist—brief, high, and final. Bodies flailed, then fell, armor liquefying into bubbling slag.

Kade and Tiron opened up, bolters barking in perfect rhythm. Each shot cracked the air, rounds punching through heretics and ceramite alike.

"Contact front. Cultist line. Rhino armor moving to reinforce," Tiron reported, calm as ever—his bolter finding a sprinting fanatic and vaporizing the man's skull mid-step.

"Position confirmed. Bastion engaging," Ira's voice cut in—clipped, detached, surgical.

A moment later, the slope behind them detonated. The Bastion drone's triple plasma turrets howled, feet anchoring its armored chassis deeper into the ashbed as steam hissed from vents. Three salvos, three echoes of thunder.

Across the trench, a corrupted Rhino split in twain as a lance of molten blue carved through ruptured fuel cells. A second vehicle veered, tried to reverse—too slow. The next strike reduced it to fire and flying debris, Prometheus optics above guiding the barrage with godlike precision.

"Prometheus-Three marking armor cluster. Two hundred-fifty meters west," Ira continued.

A fresh marker pulsed across Kade's visor—clean, crisp, priority-red.

Tiron didn't miss a beat. "Forward. Marn in center. Keep the fire tight. Kade—mirror me."

They surged ahead.

Above them, the sky was alive with motion. Prometheus drones swept low and silent, barely visible save for the heat shimmer of a mirage passed through machine logic. They marked targets and fed vectors to the battlenet with unerring regularity. Kill confirmations bloomed across Lucia's datafeed, precise and impersonal.

Somewhere ahead, a scream cut short.

Wet. Gurgling. Final.

Kade didn't flinch. He knew that sound. Vipers. Already inside the flanks. Already thinning the enemy with lethal silence—officers, vox-adepts, gunners—all erased before they ever realized they'd been targeted.

Kade saw it though—one Viper twisted in its death, twitching as a stray shell punched through its casing, its body already fragmenting into dust. A moment of weakness. Then Lucia noticed it. Flaw corrected. Error noted.

"Sentinels advancing along eastern ridge," Ira confirmed. "Sniper nests eliminated. Hostile comms partially compromised."

A chemical round burst near Kade's position—acidic, maybe phosphoric—but the Aegis drone flared instantly, intercepting the blast on its energy wall. The projected shield vented excess force with a shimmering pulse. Vapor hissed across the stone, dispersing harmlessly.

Tiron swept a fist forward. "Push. While the drones have them blind."

"Affirm," Kade grunted.

They broke from cover like a wave of precision and rage.

By now, the battlefield had become a machine-fed hellscape. Drones moved with eerie synchronicity, shadowing the squad like ghosts in lockstep. Every shot, every kill, every movement fed into the battlenet—tightening the loop, optimizing in real-time.

The Bastion rumbled to a new position. The Prometheus drones hunted. Vipers whispered death. The Sentinels swept the flanks, claws rasping against stone.

Tiron's power maul shattered a cultist's ribcage in a single blow. Marn engulfed a barricade in roiling fire. Kade dropped three fanatics in controlled bursts. Together, they moved like a burning wedge—unstoppable, unslowed.

Above, Lucia's voice returned—quiet, crystalline, unhurried. It flowed into the vox like wind through broken glass:

"Local enemy command structure located. Coordinates transmitting to nearby teams."

Kade vaulted a ridge of cracked glassstone, boots slamming into the hollow beyond. The air was thick with sulfur and promethium, clinging like rot. Cover here was better—collapsed obsidian vents, fragmented slabs of basalt, repurposed by the enemy into crude defenses.

He raised a fist. Halt.

Ahead, half-buried in volcanic rubble, sprawled a makeshift command post. Its bones were the husk of a geothermal cooling relay, long dead and blackened by ash. Vox-towers jutted from the ruins like snapped femurs, their humming cables sagging in half-melted arcs. Sandbags, rusted plating, and scavenged debris formed a brittle shell—behind which corrupted Guard and hooded cultists scrambled like insects over a nest.

Not the brain—but a hand. One of many. Enough.

Tiron dropped beside him, servos hissing. His helm tilted slightly, scanning.

"That's a control node," he said. "Artillery. Troop movement. Soft relay." Then, with dry humor: "A day off your penitent duties if you kill more than me."

Kade's grin came through the vox like a wolf baring its teeth. "I'll let you take the first shot, Sergeant. You'll need the handicap."

Behind them, Marn chuckled, his flamer's pre-ignition coil spooling up with a familiar hum.

"And if I win?" he asked.

Both Astartes turned in unison.

"You have a flamer," Kade said. "You don't count."

Tiron gave a dramatic sigh. "It's like racing a promethium leak."

"Bah," Marn muttered. "Cowards."

Above, the Prometheus drones ghosted overhead, trailing ripples in the heat haze. Kade's visor lit with targeting runes—each a glimpse into the end of something.

A heavy stubber emplacement hidden in a ledge. A heretic officer screaming into a vox. Two missile troops scouring the sky too late to matter.

Tiron's tone changed. Hardened.

"Bastion: prime for direct assault. Sentinels, sweep the flanks."

"Confirmed," Ira replied—already moving.



It began with thunder.

From behind a rise of obsidian shale, the Bastion drone's triple plasma turrets lit the sky with blinding fury. Each beam screamed into the command post's flank, carving a stubber nest in a bloom of molten stone and liquefied steel. The cliff-face hissed as it ran like wax, collapsing in fiery ruin.

A breath later, the Sentinels surged forward—four-limbed shadows threading through cover with predator grace. Their flechette pods hissed open, ripping through perimeter scouts before alarm or instinct could cry out.

Then the Vipers arrived, slithering shapes in the dust. They struck with surgical speed, detonating embedded charges against ammunition caches and vox repeaters. Sparks burst, cables danced like eels, and the comms flared—then sputtered out into terminal static.

Tiron didn't wait. "Go."

They moved as one—volcano-born gods descending upon the damned.

Marn's flamer roared, a gouting jet of incandescent judgment that washed across the defenses like holy wrath. Men ignited mid-scream. Cloth vaporized. Armor blistered. Heretics died with nothing left to offer but ash and agony.

Tiron was a blur of emerald and impact. He hit the sandbag line with thunderous force, his maul pulping a traitor's skull in a single blow. Without breaking stride, he vaulted the wall—brutal grace forged in war.

Kade followed—boltgun raised, stride unbroken. He fired mid-run. A traitor officer's rebreather exploded in a puff of blood and metal. Another burst caught a fleeing vox-adept, the round punching through spine and flakplate. The rhythm of battle took hold—aim, fire, kill, reload.

"Local command post neutralized," Ira intoned over the battlenet, her voice cool as glacier glass.

Tiron strode to the gutted vox rig, tearing it from its mount with a grunt. Charred fragments and glass rained down. "Too damaged for salvage."

"Not a problem," Kade replied, scanning the field. "We'll find more soon."

Above, the Prometheus drones fanned out, their profiles vanishing into the smoke as they shifted toward the next objective. One hovered a heartbeat longer—transmitting a flash-pulse back to Lucia aboard the Hammer.

[Node Cleared – Resistance Level: Minimal – Integrity of Chaos Line: Degraded by 33%]

Kade stepped up beside the others, reloading with a practiced snap. "Six so far," he muttered, eyeing the far distant vent-ridges of the Voschian Canals, where smoke rose in black banners, climbing like carrion birds toward a storm-filled sky.

"Five," Tiron said, armor still steaming. "But the day's young."

"Twenty-four," Marn rumbled with an easy grin. "Slackers."

Kade snorted, chambered a fresh round, and turned toward the next ridge. "Let's keep moving. They're already regrouping."



The vox hissed.

Just static. Again.

Another node answering only with silence.

Varnak's gauntlet clenched around the dataslate, the runes flickering dimly as field reports blinked out one by one.

Red turned black.
Red turned black.

Red turned black.

"Sector Twelve. Gone."
"Sector Five. Gone."
"Control Node Theta-Seven… no signal."

His teeth bared behind his helm, grinding against the rising snarl in his throat. The weak would call it failure. He knew better.

This was impossible.

They'd landed less than an hour ago.

The Astartes should still be bogged down—caught in the outer choke-lines, clawing their way through dug in armor, heavy weapon emplacements and rabid militia like the rest. It should've been a grind. A meat-slick slog of glorious, bloody war.

But the lines weren't breaking.

They were folding.

Quietly.

Cleanly.

"Get me confirmation on Theta-Seven," he snapped, turning toward the mortal aide at his side.

The man flinched, respirator fogging as he fumbled with the console. His fingers trembled with every keystroke.

"N-no response, Lord Varnak. We've… we've lost uplink across the central line. Comms are degrading—everywhere."

Varnak turned away before he cracked the man's skull open out of reflex. The command chamber reeked of ozone, oil, and dust. Half-buried in the volcanic crust, the bunker had been cobbled together from scorched prefabs and what little remained of an Administratum transit relay. Makeshift vox-arrays buzzed like diseased flies.

He stalked past the central hololith, watching his rear defense lines rot in real time.

Icons flickered. Vanished. Whole positions gone—snuffed candles in a storm. No alarm. No flares. No screams. The forward stubbers had never fired. The armored divisions had never returned data. The trenches weren't fighting.

They were evaporating.

This isn't attrition. This is amputation.

Behind him, adepts muttered nervously. One whispered prayers to the Dark, almost inaudible beneath the crackle of failing circuits. Another sat locked in a fugue, staring into the hololith and reciting numbers in a loop.

"Sixteen posts down in forty minutes…"

Varnak slammed his fist into the base of the array. Sparks burst from the cracked emitter. The map stuttered, glitched—briefly showing a lone vox tower trying to transmit.

Then: nothing.

The rage burned hot in his chest. Not from the volcanic crust. From shame. From fury. From confusion he refused to name.

This wasn't war. This wasn't siege-breaking doctrine. This wasn't the Salamanders.

He'd fought them before—on Ophelt Minor, on the burning moons of Ryn'tal. They came like firestorms. Loud. Glorious. Awash in flame and drowned in ash.

This… was not that.

Where were my survivors?
Where were their corpses?
Where were the death-screams?


He keyed a direct uplink to Canal Node Delta—the last major FOB still pinging back.

The display pulsed. Once. Twice.

[Uplink Established – Awaiting Response…]

A new rune appeared. Foreign. Glitching. It blinked once.

Then vanished.

The feed went black.

No voice. No denial.

Just absence.

He turned, slowly, armor joints groaning with the motion. Around him, officers and twisted mortal staff looked up. Some loyal. Some afraid. All waiting.

"They're not fighting a battle," Varnak said. His voice was steel on stone—flat, sharp, final. "They're cutting the arteries and letting us bleed out."

Silence answered him.

He gripped his weapon—a baroque chain-blade wreathed in etched brass. Its demonic sigils flickered low and hungry. It didn't growl. It purred.

A predator's lullaby. A fitting companion for a Chosen of the Black Legion.

"Sound the full recall," he ordered. "All second line units. I want the inner trenches manned with every able body that can hold a weapon."

He paused. Turned toward the viewport slit. The smoke outside was thicker now—volcanic haze and battlefield ash merging into a horizonless smear.

"And get me air support along the southern lines. No more delays."

He stared into the storm, voice low.

"…And find out what ghost is killing my war."



The war was bleeding out beneath his boots.

On the hololithic table, the defense grid around the Canals looked like a flayed animal—arteries severed, muscle torn from bone, the red veins of command links blinking out one by one. A slow, methodical vivisection.

Nothing came back.

No distress beacons.

No last stands.

Varnak stared at the display, arms crossed over his chestplate. The servos in his armor groaned softly, restrained fury thrumming through the ceramite. Around him, tech-priests and mortal aides scurried between static-choked consoles like vermin, their clipped voices hushed with fear.

"Unit Delta-Twelve has not responded, my lord," one muttered. "Nor have Theta-Three, Fifteen, or-"

"Then stop calling," Varnak growled. "They're dead."

He didn't shout. He didn't need to. The heat rolling off him—the presence of him—was enough to make the nearest mortals flinch back a pace, as if scorched by proximity.

This wasn't a counterattack. No assault waves. No thunder of war drums.

Just silence—and posts vanishing like breath on glass.

The southern defenses had been reinforced two hours ago. Layers of gunlines, mortar crews, rolling armor, even two Hell Talons for overwatch.

He tapped the command feed. For a moment, the data returned.

Gun placements destroyed. Mortars slagged. The Hell Talons—vaporized.

The flight record of the Talons stuttered. Their targeting logs jittered and scrambled. Crosshairs danced across empty sky, locking onto friendly signals, debris, echoes. Nothing held.

Then they were gone.

Swatted from the sky by blazing plasma fire.

Someone hadn't just defeated his defense line.

Someone had rewritten the battlefield.

He turned to the comms officer, eyes hard behind the visor.

"Where are the fallback troops? From the outer ridges."

"They were recalled, my lord," came the reply, voice tight. "Thirty-four squads. Orders confirmed. We—"

The officer stopped.

Varnak took a single step forward. The motion alone made the man pale.

"How many arrived?"

"…Seven."

Seven.

Three hundred and forty warriors recalled.

Seventy arrived.

He wanted to believe it was cowardice. That they'd broken and run. That they'd vanished into the ash-choked valleys, slinking off toward softer fights and easier deaths.

But he knew better.

He turned back to the hololith.

The grid was rotting now. More empty static than map. Patches of interference spread like infection—jagged digital wounds, as though something were chewing through the data itself.

He could still see where his forces had been.

But not what had taken them.

Not how.

Not even when.



The ashstorm thinned—just enough to see.

For the first time in nearly four hours, Varnak saw something.

Distant figures. Blurred by heat distortion and curling smoke.

But there—undeniably there.

Armor the color of scorched emerald. Eight feet tall. Broad-shouldered silhouettes carved from judgment itself. They moved with the weight of inevitability, slipping from cover only to vanish into it again—like fire flickering through the cracks of a furnace wall.

And just before they disappeared again, he saw it.

A shimmer—not warplight. No psychic flare. No stench of sorcery.

Just a faint, translucent glow—like strained glass flexing under pressure. Curving hexagonal lattices blinked into view, wrapped around the advancing shapes. Incoming fire scattered harmlessly.

Solid rounds glanced off in blue flashes. Lasbolts dissolved into nothing. Missiles veered, spiraled, detonated in air—as if tugged aside by unseen hands.

Shielding.

But not iron halos. Not personal refractors. Not anything he had ever seen.

Something else.

Something wrong.

"They're advancing," someone muttered behind him. "But there's no return fire. They're not even—"

The voice cut off.

Because the plasma barrage began.

From the southern ridgeline, just past the lip of the canals, warforms emerged—four-limbed shapes that moved like beasts built by calculus. Their gait was wrong—too smooth, too balanced. They planted themselves with terrifying grace. Weapons unfolded from recessed ports, locking into place with a chilling finality.

Then—

Hell spoke.

Eighteen plasma beams howled across the field in perfect synchrony.

No warm-up. No ranging shots. No warning.

Each lance found its target.

A tank spilled open, armor plates peeled outward in molten slabs. A heavy bolter nest on the western rise ceased to exist, replaced by a beam of azure fire and ash. A reversing transport was caught mid-turn—its fuel cells flash-boiled into a ring of flame and shrapnel.

Every emplacement that dared to light up was answered.

Not just destroyed—dissected. Erased.

As if someone had decided what should no longer exist, and the battlefield obliged.

And they never stopped moving.

The walkers advanced with eerie calm, recalibrating between attacks, slipping through smoke and ruined earth like ghosts. Their angles shifted constantly, like they were navigating a terrain map layered over reality—one no one else could see.

Varnak stared, fists clenched, teeth bared behind his helm. The heat wasn't from the air anymore—it was inside him. Crawling up his spine. Curling behind his eyes.

Rage. Confusion.

And something darker.

"Those aren't vehicles," he said tightly.

A nearby officer turned. "Sir?"

"They're not tanks. They're not demons. They're—"

He couldn't finish it.

There was no word.

No name.

And in that absence, his hatred bloomed.

Across the cracked plain, the Salamanders were closing in.

They made no sound.

No roar.

No war cry.

They just moved.

A silent tide in green, wrapped in impossible shields, stepping over the dead, ducking under fire, emerging again with weapons at the ready—and the burning coals of their visors smoldering behind haze and heat.

He had expected fire.

What he got was stillness. Wrapped in steel.

With fire as punctuation.

A bunker to his left tried to rally. A missile screamed from its launch tube—a perfect shot, locked and confirmed—

It exploded midair.

Intercepted by a thin lance of blue energy—impossibly fast, fired from somewhere between the loyalist lines and his own.

Varnak turned, armor groaning.

"Ready the guard. Close the gates. Whatever they are…" His voice lowered, more growl than speech. "…we kill them here."

He turned back to the battlefield one last time.

And though he could finally see his enemy…

He understood even less than before.



The vox was snarling.

Panicked voices. Conflicting orders. Screams. Silence.

Then more screams.

None of it mattered.

Varnak turned from the observation slit and keyed the command channel.

"Squad to me. Now."

One by one, they answered.

Nine Black Legionnaires. Brothers in arms through a thousand desecrated worlds. They entered the command nexus like avatars of wrath—towering, cruel, every inch of their baroque armor etched with flensing runes and the iconography of personal conquest.

Some brought their own warbands—PDF captains, cultist champions, a leash-bound psyker murmuring to himself like a cracked servo-skull.

"The outer lines have failed," Varnak said flatly. "We hold here. We break their push. We remind them what real war looks like."

A few chuckled behind their helms.

One traced the Eightfold Star across his chestplate.

The psyker began gnawing his own lip until blood streaked his chin.

Then—the lights died.

No explosion. No surge. No noise.

Just darkness.

A single heartbeat of black.

Then came the light.

It started as pinpricks—burning blue-white, like stars collapsing inward.

They flickered to life across the chamber—on walls, along struts, tucked into vents and seams and overhead pipes. Watching. Waiting.

Varnak saw them, a half-second too late.

The room erupted.

Beams lanced out—no hesitation, no warning, no flourish. Each bolt struck with the mechanical indifference of a code executing. And they did not fire at random.

Each Astartes was hit three times.

One through the base of the skull—severing brainstem and thought.

One through the primary heart—punched through ceramite like it wasn't there.

One into the progenoid—ripping out legacy itself.

Even Varnak, immense and burning, saw it happen. Not death by combat.

Death by subtraction.

His warriors didn't scream. They simply stopped.

Functions terminated. Lights winking out on a biological circuit.

A cultist screamed and tried to flee.

A single flash—gone. A neat hole between the eyes.

The chamber became a rave of execution. Blue strobe against black iron.

Each pulse illuminated death in still frames: a bolter raised, a mouth open in protest, a hand frozen mid-command.

Every shot hit. Every target dropped.

No muzzle flare. No visible shooter. Only cause. Then aftermath.

The psyker choked out a syllable—A bolt punched into his eye and out the back of his skull before he could finish.

One of Varnak's lieutenants turned to run.

Three shots cored him center-mass before his second foot landed.

He folded like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The nexus had become a cathedral of shadows. Of blood. Of stillness.

Nine of them had stood with him. Veterans. Monsters. Legends.

Now they were statues of death, held upright by the final strength of their power armor.

One still had his hand raised. Another was mid-laugh. Not one had reached cover. Not one had fallen.

Just… stopped.

Held in place by smoking vents and death-locked servos.

And Varnak saw it all.

Because he was the last to die.

He'd moved on reflex, ducking behind a support strut—his instincts screaming. But not fast enough.

He felt the shot coming. Just behind his skull. Not pain. Just a hum—a heat that knew him.

Time slowed. Rage flared.

No. No, I am not done—!

White fire lanced across his vision.

Something impossibly cold touched the back of his neck.

And the world went still.

His final sight was not of flame.

Not glory.

Not battle.

It was of calculated, efficient murder.

Nine towering forms, held in reverent stillness by their own armor. Weapons slack in gauntlets.
Blood dripping in slow arcs across the deck. The cultists reduced to twitching heaps or exploded wreckage—Unmourned. Unnamed.

And from beyond the threshold—A soft hiss.

The whisper of movement.

A decapitation strike had cut the head.

And now—his assassins left to kill the body.

The world blurred. Systems failed. Vox channels collapsed to static. The pain never came.

And just before Varnak slipped into nothing, he understood.

This wasn't war.

Not the glorious thunder of gods clashing in the smoke of battle.

Not the blood-price demanded by Chaos.

It was extermination.

Made in silence. Precision. Oblivion.

In that sliver of time before death claimed him, for just an instant, something broke free.

He smelled fresh bread.

He was standing in sunlight, somewhere warm. Watching the sprawl of a hive from a rusted balcony. Someone was beside him—he could feel their shape, their joy—but their name was gone.

Once, long ago, before everything, there had been peace.

A boy. A family. A name.

Then it was gone.

The first of the Black Legion Chosen to fall at the Voschian Canals vanished without fanfare.

Snuffed out like a fading star.



They entered the command compound under a sky that glowed the color of old blood—ash-choked, storm-lit, and unnaturally still.

Kade led the way through the shattered gate, stepping over slumped bodies and scorched fortifications, his bolter tracking left-right in practiced arcs. Behind him came Tiron, Marn, and five more fire-forged brothers, all weapons ready—but no targets presented.

Only corpses.

So many corpses.

The outer defensive line was silent.

But not abandoned.

"Multiple contacts," Tiron reported, scanning. "Dead."

Kade nodded, already seeing what Tiron meant.

The first layer had been cultists—some still clutching lasguns, others half-buried in foxholes or behind blast shields. Hundreds of them. Not ripped apart by a charge or caught mid-retreat. They hadn't been overrun.

They'd been cut down in the dark.

Perfect wounds.

Clean entry. Minimal trauma. No wild blood-spray. Just… failure.

Most had no idea they'd even died.

Some were still propped against sandbags, helmets tilted upward in frozen fear. Others slumped over broken vox units and flickering cogitators—mid-call, mid-command, mid-life.

"Targeting pattern's precise," Marn murmured. "Head, chest or spine. Every shot a kill."

Tiron knelt beside a trench gunner, his fingers brushing a smoldering scorch mark across the man's helm.

"Look at the wound geometry. This wasn't suppressive fire. It was surgical."

"They didn't know where to shoot back," Kade added.

His voice was low. Not reverent—but edged.

Not even the Chaos cultists had time to panic. There were no flare signals, no spent grenades, no fallback paths. Only the marks left by weapons that struck faster than thought, from angles the enemy never tracked.

As they moved deeper, the kills grew bolder.

Heavy stubber nests, shredded from above. Ammo carriers, slagged through plasteel blocks before they turned to fire. Sniper roosts, already caved in, their occupants dead with smoking helmets and rifles still balanced across their knees.

Kade paused by an autocannon emplacement. Three bodies lay against the wall—two traitor Astartes, one mortal gunner. Both traitor astartes bore triple-pattern kills: Skull, heart, geneseed.

One shot each.

No missed fire.

They were dead before they knew they'd been found.

Then came the inner defense corridor.

The last fallback before the command center doors.

Here the fortifications grew denser—corridor killzones, sandbagged corners, gun racks still fully stocked. Dozens of bodies were stacked like driftwood, collapsed in loose piles where they had tried to form a defense and never got the chance.

Most had never even raised their weapons.

One heretic officer still clutched his command rod in a frozen grip. His chest had imploded, right through the aquila-shaped badge of rank he'd painted over with blasphemous glyphs.

Kade moved forward, slow, every motion deliberate.

"Vipers," he said. "And Sentinels. Maybe some interference from above."

Marn grunted. "This one tried to shoot back. Got hit twice before he pulled the trigger."

Tiron muttered, "Test drills showed they were effective. I didn't realize they were this... final."

The Salamanders reached the command doors.

Still closed.

It hadn't mattered.

A moment later, the door clicked open.

They stepped into the quietest slaughterhouse they'd ever seen.



They had expected carnage.

Blood smeared across bulkheads. Melted bodies welded into firing slits. The last stand of traitor zealots fused to their weapons by plasma or promethium—clinging to life with desperation, madness, and blasphemy.

Instead, they found order.

Horrifyingly precise, clinical order.

The air inside the command nexus wasn't cold by temperature. It was cold in feeling—a sterile pressure on the senses. Heavy. Quiet. Unnatural. A place that should have reeked of burning flesh and gun oil instead smelled of static and silence.

The first body they saw was Varnak.

Chaos Champion. Chosen of the Black Legion.

Now just another corpse.

He lay crumpled beneath the central support pillar, his massive form sagged to one side. His blade remained sheathed. His crimson lenses stared upward, reflecting the pale light like blood pooling under ice. But there was nothing behind them now—no hate, no pride. Just the echo of something once terrible.

Before him, nine more Astartes stood in solemn stillness.

Not in formation. Not in resistance.

In rigor.

Each had been struck three times. Once through the brainstem—neat, centered, helmet seal barely breached. Once through the chest—above the corrupted iconography, where the heart had been. And once more, just below the ribs—where the geneseed waited.

They stood like statues. Their warplate still powered. But their flesh had already let go.

None had drawn a weapon.

None had even turned.

"Emperor's blood…" Marn whispered, the pilot flame of his weapon the only sound.

Kade moved among the dead, each step slow, precise. His bolter tracked left-right, out of habit more than need. The HUD in his helm flickered, logging the scene in cold silence.

"Confirmed traitor kills: eleven."

Marn stood before one of the traitors, head tilted. "Didn't even move," he said. His voice was quiet. Not fearful—but unsettled.

Tiron crouched by a wall where a slumped cultist officer still clutched a loh-stick between his fingers. The ember at its tip still glowed, trailing a thin wisp of smoke.

"Didn't even drop it," he murmured.

Another cultist lay draped across a command console. A single smear of blood streaked the panel, interrupted mid-gesture. The vox-bead in his ear still hissed with garbled static. As if he'd died mid-command—before thought became speech.

Kade approached Varnak's body.

The Chosen had died facing the door.

Not charging. Not rallying. Not even speaking.

Just… ended.

Blood pooled slowly beneath his armor, leaking in quiet arcs from joints and seams. There were no signs of struggle. No marks of desperation. No final blow traded.

Only finality.

Kade looked up at the central hololithic display. Dead commands blinked across it like echoes of a thought that had outlived its speaker. Battleplans scrolled mid-loop. Orders repeated for units that no longer breathed.

Then the battlenet pinged.

Lucia's voice came through, calm and unhurried.

"Node Epsilon-Four marked clear. Total elimination of two hundred and sixty-one targets neutralized. Zero friendly casualties."

"Tactical success: Absolute."

Silence followed.

Kade stared at the corpse of the Chaos Champion. He remembered battles where such foes had taken brothers from him—good men, burned and broken in glorious combat.

This was not that.

This was not fire.

Fire was passion. Fire was holy.

This... this was winter in motion.

Tiron stood beside one of the still-upright traitors, his gauntlet tracing the boreholes as faint wisps of vapor curled from the corpse's vents.

"That boy built these?" he asked, the words almost rhetorical.

Marn made the sign of the flame across his chestplate. A ward against awe.

"Is this what the Age of Strife was like?"

Kade said nothing for a moment. Then he turned toward the next sealed corridor, chambering a fresh mag with a quiet clack.

He had seen fire consume cities. Seen the Warp tear holes in reality. Seen the cost of defiance paid in oceans of blood.

And this?

This wasn't even vengeance.

"No," he said at last.

"It was worse."



Orvek stood motionless, hands clasped behind his back, the glow of the command feeds painting his armor in ghostlight. Dozens of pict-screens flickered and stuttered, each showing a different slice of warzone.

If it could even be called war.

"...Pull up Sector Theta. Again."

Lucia obliged without a word. The footage rewound. A Prometheus drone slid through a collapsed ceiling. Silent. Smooth. It tagged three cultists. They collapsed before their weapons twitched as Viper fire split their skulls.

Orvek exhaled slowly. "And the rest?"

"Node Theta eliminated. Thirty-eight confirmed." Her voice was gentle. Soft-spoken as always. "Drone losses: Zero."

He looked down. Another feed lit up. A Sentinel sprinted across a rooftop, then disappeared in a blur of motion. A traitor vanished—one moment screaming into a vox, the next a smoking crater where his chest had been.

"Play it again, please."

Lucia hesitated. "You've seen it five times."

"Play it again."

It repeated. The movement wasn't human. Wasn't natural. And there were dozens of feeds like it.

"They didn't even have time to panic," Orvek muttered.

Lucia nodded, voice unchanged. "The attack profiles were designed for cognitive bypass. Fear interrupts targeting efficiency. Exploiting the moment of fear increases operational success."

"And they just... dropped." He shook his head. "This one, right here. Didn't even get his hand to the trigger."

"Correct. Killing before the enemy can return fire ensures your brothers survival."

He turned to another screen. Bastions moved through the wreckage like walking cathedrals, their grav-shields flaring as enemy fire washed over them. The rounds that should've cracked ceramite… vanished.

"This is…not what I expected." His tone grew sharper, tighter. "I was expecting battle."

Her petals remained placid, the flower avatar serene. "They had as little opportunity to resist as possible. That was the intent."

Orvek gestured at another window, where a Bastion lit up the night like a newborn star—its plasma lance vaporizing a bunker in a single, focused swipe.

"I didn't think it would be like this," he muttered. "This is eradication."

"Captain," she said. "Are you unhappy with the support units actions?"

He fell silent. Watched as a Sentinel drone slipped into a trench, killed three cultists in less than a second with a burst of lightning, then vanished again. No wasted motion. Just erasure.

"How many?" he asked.

"Confirmed enemy kills: Two thousand eight hundred and nineteen. Drone losses: twelve. Causes include warp anomalies, indirect saturation fire, and anomalous interference. Salamander casualties and injuries: none."

He blinked.

"None?"

"None, Captain."

He stared at the screens. "They saw us coming. They were entrenched, ready. And still ended like this."

Lucia tilted her bulb. "That was the objective."

He inhaled, slow and steady.

"Any of the enemy leadership still breathing?"

"Not to my knowledge. Psyker nodes neutralized. Command chains severed. Traitor Astartes were eliminated. Remaining resistance has collapsed into disorganized cell structures. No strategic threat remains."

He turned away from the display, arms crossing tight across his chest.

"You told me these were support units," he said quietly. "You called them tools."

"They are."

"This wasn't support. This was…" he searched for the word, then gave up. "This was something else."

Lucia said nothing.

He rubbed the back of his gauntlet along his jaw. "When I said I wanted to reduce casualties, I didn't mean I wanted to take the humanity out of it."

Lucia's petals curled slightly. "I believe that is a paradox, Captain."

Orvek laughed once—dry, without humor. "Yes. Maybe it is."

He turned back to the display, now showing overhead scans of drones redeploying, spreading outward across the remaining enemy territory with cold symmetry. They moved like a tide—inevitable. Beautiful. Terrifying.

"They're still moving?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. "There are thirty-six active zones remaining. They will be cleared within the next three hours."

"And then?"

"That is up to you Captain. I will aid you as best I am able."

Another silence passed between them. The hum of cogitators. The distant pulse of orbital comms. Void shields flaring as shrapnel struck.

The faint whisper of victory feeling a little too quiet.

Orvek keyed the vox with fingers that felt suddenly, uncomfortably mortal.

"Captain Orvek to Macragge's Honour. Transmitting full tactical report. Drone telemetry and battlefield recordings attached. Flagged for the Lord Primarch's eyes only."

He hesitated before ending the transmission. His voice, when it came, was quiet—more to the walls than to her.

"This wasn't a battle."

Lucia tilted her head. "But it was, Captain." Her voice was calm, almost gentle.

"You asked me to win it."

A pause. Then, curiously:

"Was that not… what you wanted?"

Orvek's jaw worked for a moment. No fire. No fury. Just a slow breath that tasted like copper and regret.

"I thought I did."

His voice wasn't a whisper, but it felt like one.

"I thought I wanted clean victories. Surgical strikes. No martyrs for the enemy to rally behind. No body bags for us to carry home." He looked at the screen again. It showed a still frame—one of the Sentinels mid-strike, claws blurring through fog and gore.

"I thought I wanted this."

Another breath. Slower now.

"But I didn't understand what this really was."

Orvek said nothing for a moment. Just breathed.

Lucia's voice followed, still warm. Still patient.

"Captain… you were clear."

No accusation. No mockery. Just a soft voice, seeking understanding.

"You asked me to win. To protect your brothers. To ensure victory with minimal risk."

A flicker of audio—gentle. A smile, almost audible.

"I did not include enemy resistance in my solution because you did not request it."

She paused, leaves rustling in an unfelt wind.

"Did you want them to fight back?"

"I…" Orvek trailed off. His tongue felt thick, his throat dry.

He looked down at his gauntlets. Flexed the fingers. As if the answer might be hiding in the servos—tucked between gears and vows.

The flame of the Promethean Cult glimmered on his vambrace, and with it came the creed, unbidden:

Without wisdom, skill cannot be focused. Without skill, strength cannot be brought to bear. Without strength, wisdom may not be applied.

"I wanted a clean op," he said at last. "No surprises. No losses."

A breath. A silence that seemed to stretch between pulses.

"I just thought we'd still be fighting someone."

His voice lowered.

"Not executing them."

Lucia's tone never changed.

"That was mercy, Captain."

Her stalk straightened, petals faintly luminous.

"They died before they could believe they could win."
 
Chapter Forty Two New
Chapter Forty Two



He should have been on the bridge. Should have been commanding the fleet as it chased after the Black Legion's ships.

The bastards had turned tail and run to the outermost limits of weapons range, attempting to draw his forces apart, likely to allow some third segment of the traitor forces to slip in behind either of the two loyalist fleets, and carve them apart.

Guilliman was not going to allow that possibility to occur.

Thus, the three fleets were at a bit of standoff. Guillimans forces coul wait for their orbit to bring the other landmasses into range for insertion, but in doing so would leave his men on the ground dangerously exposed to the traitors bombardments.

So, for now, they waited, each eyeing the other, blade in hand, watchful for the first mistake.

Which left him here, watching the pict-captures from the Salamanders ground battle.

The debriefing room was, for the moment, quiet.

No guards. No aides. Just the hum of cogitators and the soft flicker of lumen-globes casting their sterile glow over armored walls. The hololith in the center of the chamber shimmered with captured data—three-dimensional combat logs, drone telemetry, threat markers, casualty reports…except…

There were no casualty reports.

Guilliman stood still, the curve of his armor catching the blue-white light of the projection. His face was stone. But his eyes...

His eyes were moving. Analyzing. Watching.

Prometheus-class drones ghosted through corridors, their adaptive camouflage flowing like ink across their polyalloy hides. Viper units uncoiled from ceilings and shadows, single precision lances firing with absolute mechanical indifference. Sentinel teams ran predator patterns along catwalks and tunnels, sweeping every blind spot before anything could react. Bastions liquified armor and hardened bunkers with plasma lances that never missed.

He watched a cultist raise a weapon—just one. A rusted las-lock. Before the trigger twitched, a Sentinel unit dropped from above, drove its claws into the spine, and was gone. No pause. No threat. No noise.

The central chaos lines were shredded in five hours, thirty-one minutes and six seconds.

From first contact to last heartbeat.

Guilliman didn't speak.

He replayed it. Slower.

Faster.

Sensor overlays. Heat signatures. Vital sign data.

And then—again—from an Astartes' perspective.

Helmet cams. Squad comms. The march through the ash clouds. The absence of fire. The slow realization spreading across vox-channels that there was no one left to fight.

No enemies.

No battle.


Just... victory.

He paused the feed.

Stood there for a long moment.

The silence was hollow.

Eventually, he stepped closer to the projection. He raised one hand and scrolled back to the opening move of the assault. A burst of movement. Twelve targets dead in under three seconds. No warning. No screams. Just statistics.

He exhaled through his nose. A soundless thing.

At first, his mind weighed it as a general would. Strategically. Logistically.

Incredible. No losses. No fatigue. Every objective met. Entire resistance cells erased before they could organize. No friendly fire. No confusion. No panic.

The dream of every battlefield commander since the dawn of blades.

A perfect engagement.

Flawless.

Clinical.

And yet—

And yet, something in him recoiled.

He couldn't name it at first. It was too subtle. Too alien to be immediate. But as he watched the drone movements—again and again—it began to take shape.

They do not hesitate.
They do not hate.
They do not understand why the enemy must die.


He narrowed his eyes.

Was that the problem?

That the machines didn't believe?

Astartes did not fight because they could. They fought because they must. Because humanity—however debased, however broken—needed them. And in that need, in that struggle, there was identity. Purpose.

These machines did not fight.

They executed.

And execution was not war.

Execution was the end of meaning.

He watched again. A Salamander squad moved into a captured trench. Their weapons were ready. Their formations precise.

But their eyes were searching.

Seeking foes.

They found none.

Their shoulders slumped, ever so slightly. Their hearts slowed. Their voices were quiet. Not in reverence nor in caution.

In confusion.

Guilliman shut the footage off.

Silence flooded the room again, but now it felt louder.

He turned slowly, walking to the side of the chamber where a line of small statues representing his brothers stood—one of Vulkan, cast in iron, half-scorched. A relic of Nocturne. A gift from the Chapter during the Crusade's earliest days.

He picked it up.

"You built them to protect," he murmured, not to the statue, but to the idea of Koron. "You built them to save lives. And you did."

He glanced over his shoulder toward the darkened hololith.

"But at what cost?" Setting the statue back down, he returned to the table. Pressed one gauntlet to the surface, fingertips flexing.

"I could win a thousand wars with them," he said aloud, voice low. "Secure worlds with no losses. No mourning. No graves."

A long pause.

"But what would be left behind?"

The words hung in the air.

He thought of Tavos, standing between the mortals and the Inquisition. Of the Salamanders' doctrine. Of fire shared. Of wounds endured. Of the sacred act of presence on the battlefield. Of the moment a warrior bled not for victory, but for kin.

What did it mean, when even that was engineered away?

He looked down at his gauntlet. At the scars that no repair could erase. He remembered fighting alone at the edge of the galaxy. Holding the Imperium together with grit and decree.

And he realized—

The drones offered peace.

But not purpose.

And that terrified him more than the enemy ever could.



The chamber's door sealed behind him with the hush of maglocks, shutting out the silence like a closing wound.

Guilliman stood alone no longer.

Chaplain Helios waited inside, stripped of his usual martial grandeur. No crozius. No bone-white skull helm. Just a worn black cassock beneath his chestplate and a rebreather mask hanging loose around his neck.

He lit a brazier.

Coals glowed low and red within the iron bowl, scenting the air with scorched oils and embered incense. Not a ritual, not quite. Not formal. But… grounding.

Helios inclined his head, the scars given by the Leviathan Fleet gleaming. "Lord Primarch."

Guilliman's reply was soft. "Chaplain."

He moved slowly into the room, drawn to the flame like a moth carved from cobalt and history.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Helios said, "You watched it."

Guilliman didn't ask what it was.

He only nodded. "Yes."

Another pause.

"And?"

Guilliman's eyes were locked on the flame. "I cannot fault the results. No losses. No pain. The objectives were taken before we'd finished plotting secondary routes."

Helios grunted. "Victory, then."

"Yes," Guilliman murmured. "But it feels like defeat."

The Chaplain's scarred face creased with understanding. Not surprise. Not disagreement.

"Because we were not needed," he said.

Guilliman turned to him. "Worse. Because we were present—but superfluous."

Helios knelt by the brazier, feeding in a twist of blessed rope. The flames hissed and flared.

"You remember when the Salamanders fought beneath the vaults of Baraddan's Reach?" he asked.

Guilliman nodded once. "Vulkan's Fourth. Four hundred brothers. Held against the Harrowed for six weeks."

"Thirty-seven survivors," Helios said. "Every one of them had to cauterize their own wounds. Every one of them carried children from the civilian habs through fire and shrapnel."

The Chaplain looked up, eyes hard, voice low.

"They broke in places. Bled. Lost limbs. Raised their voices in relief when the Thunderhawk finally came."

Guilliman watched the fire again. "And they speak of it with pride," he said.

"Yes," Helios replied. "Because in those moments… they were more than weapons."

He rose to his feet.

"They found worth."

Guilliman exhaled slowly. "Koron's drones do not allow that. They do not ask for valor. They erase the need."

"And in doing so," Helios said softly, "they erase the part of the soul that knows why we fight."

The silence stretched.

Guilliman moved to the edge of the flame, watching it coil around the fresh fuel.

"Is that arrogance?" he asked. "To want our pain to matter? To want meaning to be given to my son's deaths? To their suffering?"

Helios shook his head. "It's not arrogance. It's faith."

He stepped forward, placing one hand over his chest.

"To suffer with meaning. To bleed for those who cannot. To know that in the darkest hour, your life was not wasted—it was given. That is what makes a warrior human."

Guilliman turned to face him.

"I want my sons to live, Chaplain."

"So do I," Helios gently replied.

"But not at the cost of who they are."

Helios's voice was quieter now as he stared into the flames for a long moment. "What would Vulkan have said?"

Guilliman's eyes stayed on the flames. His son, beside him.

"He'd have thanked Koron for the gift," he said quietly. "Then asked him to join him at the fire. Not take its place."

He didn't speak again. He didn't need to.

Helios said nothing more.

He only watched the brazier burn.

And for the first time in hours, the silence did not feel hollow.

It felt true.



The Strategium was dimly lit, a deliberate choice that gave the obsidian table at its center a mirror-like sheen. Hololithic projectors waited idle, their faint whines a mechanical whisper against the low thrum of the ship's core. In the silence, every motion felt amplified.

Captain Orvek sat rigid, arms folded across his chest, his gaze fixed on the drone standing beside the table. The Sentinel model—sleek, armored, vaguely canine in profile—stood perfectly still save for its tail, which swayed with a slow, almost idle rhythm. It didn't blink. It didn't breathe. It simply watched.

Koron had asked a handful of quiet questions when they first arrived—most of them technical, clinical curiosities. Orvek, polite but firm, had asked him to hold those until Guilliman arrived.

Koron had merely nodded. And then the silence had taken root.

Five minutes passed.

Orvek tried not to fidget. The quiet wasn't hostile. But it wasn't comfortable either.

Then, at last—salvation.

The heavy, echoing thud of armored boots down the corridor. A hiss of pressurized seals. The great doors opened, and in stepped the Primarch.

Roboute Guilliman filled the doorway like a force of gravity. His armor caught the glow of the lumen-strips overhead, blue and gold refracted into the depths of his polished plating. There was no ceremony. No entourage. Only purpose.

Orvek stood immediately and saluted, stiff as a parade ground.

Guilliman raised one hand in a practiced gesture of dismissal. "At ease, Captain. Let us not waste time on formalities."

"Of course, my lord," Orvek said, voice clipped. "Shall I begin?"

Guilliman gave a single nod, but his eyes were already on the Sentinel. His expression shifted subtly—recognition, and something colder. Calculation.

Koron didn't wait. The drone beside him straightened its posture slightly, preparing for whatever was coming. "So this is about something I did," Koron said evenly. "What happened?"

Orvek turned to face him fully. His voice was steady, but not unkind. "Nothing went wrong," he said. "To be clear—your machines performed exceptionally."

Koron inclined his head. "Then I'm glad they were of use."

"They were. They are." Orvek inhaled deeply, the triple rasp of his Astartes lungs filling the quiet. He let the breath out slowly. "But I will be speaking with my brothers. We're considering whether we will continue to deploy them."

Koron's eyes widened—just a flicker, but it was there.

"…I'm sorry. What?"

The Sentinel's tail went still. Its head tilted ever so slightly, adjusting its gaze to Orvek like a predator analyzing prey.

"The drones disturb us," Orvek said. "They disturb me."

"How so?" Koron asked. Not defensive. Not confrontational. Just… puzzled. An engineer diagnosing an anomaly in human behavior.

The drone shifted again—subtle, silent. Guilliman watched it closely, his expression unreadable.

Orvek met the machine's gaze without flinching.

"They don't fight," he said. "They execute."

The blue optics narrowed. "I… fail to see the difference. One results in the death of your foe through combat. The other does the same, without offering them the chance to retaliate. That's exactly what was requested, isn't it? The enemy destroyed. Your brothers unharmed. Objectives secured."

His tone wasn't smug, rather confused. A formula had been written, and it had worked flawlessly.

And now he was being told that it was wrong.

Orvek's jaw tightened.

Guilliman remained silent.

Orvek didn't speak for a moment. His hands remained at his sides, but the tension had climbed into his shoulders, subtle and slow.

"It was what we asked for," he admitted. "It was. But I don't think we understood what we were asking."

He took a step closer to the table, as if it grounded him.

"The Prometheus units didn't assault enemy positions. They bypassed them. The Sentinels didn't outfight sentries—they silenced them before their hearts could spike. The Vipers…" He shook his head slightly. "I watched one put a round through a traitor's eye the moment he opened his mouth to shout a warning. There wasn't a second shot. There wasn't a scream."

He looked at Koron, eyes sharp—but not accusatory.

"You didn't give us weapons of war. You gave us tools of removal."

Koron was still. His eyes flicked to the table beside him, then back. "They fulfilled the parameters. You gave me a goal: reduce risk, eliminate resistance, secure territory with minimal casualties. That is what they did."

"Yes," Orvek said quietly. "Perfectly."

He let out a slow breath.

"But we didn't land on that battlefield like warriors. There was no heat, no roar of battle. Just bodies. Just bloody silence and command posts turned graveyards."

He paused.

"Do you know what it feels like to walk through the aftermath of your own war without ever having lifted your bolter?"

Koron didn't answer.

"Like being a shadow," Orvek said. "Like we weren't needed. Like we weren't part of it."

Guilliman shifted slightly, his arms crossed now, silent as a monument.

The optics narrowed.

He said nothing.

"We are Salamanders," Orvek said, voice firmer. "We do not relish violence. But we stand for those who cannot. We bear pain in their place. That's what tempers us. That's how we forge the strength to endure this broken galaxy."

He gestured to the drone telemetry.

"Your machines don't understand that. They can't. And that absence... that inhuman efficiency... it left something behind. In us."

He took a moment, searching for the right word.

"Emptiness."

The room was quiet in the wake of Orvek's admission. A soft hum of lumens echoed faintly from the overhead vaults. The drone stood at attention, its optics dimmed, systems idle save for the slow rotation of its optical rings.

Koron's voice came softly, barely louder than the drone's idle servos.

"I thought I was helping you."

Orvek nodded once, his expression solemn.

"You were," he said. "And we thank you for it."

He took a breath—not the kind drawn for war, but one pulled from somewhere deeper. From meaning.

"But protection without purpose becomes a cage. And a cage, even one forged from good intentions… is still something we were never meant to wear."

Koron tilted his head slightly. It wasn't a tic—it was a calibration, a signal of deeper processing.

"So…what do you want from me, then? Because I gave you what you asked for." he said. "If this is about purpose and victory, then what does that mean? What are you asking for?"

Orvek's gaze fell to the polished marble floor. His armored fingers flexed against his side as he searched for something that would fit into words.

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "I don't want to discard what you've given us. But I can't take away what my brothers are. Their hands, their hearts… need to be part of the fire. Not shielded from it completely."

The quiet tap of armored fingers on metal broke the moment.

Guilliman raised a hand, his presence like tectonic weight—still, but inescapable.

"Then allow me to offer a compromise."

Both men turned toward him.

"The Salamanders will continue to field the shield and recon drones. Let them guard your brothers' lives with your gift, Koron. Let them intercept the mortal blows. But do not rob the Salamanders of what they see as sacred—their right to stand between death and the innocent."

He glanced at Orvek, one brow rising.

"Would that be acceptable, nephew?"

Orvek considered it only briefly before nodding.

"I believe that would be acceptable to my brothers."

Guilliman's gaze shifted.

"Koron?"

The drone was silent for a beat, then two. Its optics flicked downward, then rose again with deliberate intent.

"Very well. I… agree."

A pause, then more softly:

"That said, I suggest the Bastion units as well. In support roles only. No weapons. Resupply and emergency medical assistance. Nothing more."

Guilliman didn't reply immediately—he simply turned to Orvek, a silent request in his eyes. Orvek gave a small shrug and a nod.

"That seems reasonable," he said.

"Then I'll begin retrofitting and redeployment protocols now," Koron replied. "All units will be re-tasked and operational in two hours."

Something shifted in Orvek's stance—not relaxation, exactly, but gratitude. Something less armored. He stepped forward and clapped a broad gauntlet gently on the drone's shoulder. A warrior's gesture.

"Thank you, Koron. Truly. I believe this… we can work with."

His hand lingered on the drone's armor for half a second too long—then he let go and walked out, spine too straight to be relaxed, the door hissing shut behind him with a hydraulic sigh.

Guilliman remained.

The silence between them lingered, not hostile, but heavy with shared contradiction. The Primarch tilted his head, the faintest suggestion of a frown that didn't reach his eyes.

"You're angry," he said. Not a question.

The drone's optics snapped up to meet his, whirring faintly as they dilated.

For a long moment, no answer came.

Then:

"Yes," Koron said. "No. Just… confused."

The voice was steady. Too steady.

"But I will respect their choice. Even if I don't understand it."

Guilliman arched an eyebrow, his arms crossing with quiet contemplation.

"Not angry, hmm?" he murmured. "My backside."

Koron tilted his head again but didn't answer. Instead, he turned away toward the nearby console.

"If there's nothing else, I have other matters to attend to," he said briskly. "Plenty of disarmament to handle."

The drone's posture simplified—less expressive now. More mechanical. The lights along its spine dimmed, and its focus shifted inward, like a curtain being drawn across a window.

Guilliman watched him for a few seconds longer, eyes narrowing with something that wasn't quite concern… but might have been its sibling.

Then, without another word, the Primarch turned and walked away.



Koron passed through the undercity levels of the Indomitable in silence, the corridors echoing with the faint clatter of families and distant power relays. When he reached his quarters, the door slid shut behind him with a whispering hiss—more exhale than mechanism.

The room was austere to the point of denial.

A narrow mattress was folded neatly against the left-hand wall, secured with simple mag-locks. No blanket. No extra pillows. Just function compressed into form. On the opposite wall, a chair and a workbench stretched beneath a shelf, cluttered in surgical chaos. Tools from a dozen centuries lay scattered—simple hammers beside plasma drills, a half-built nanocarbon-tube printer balanced on an old ration carton. Parts and projects mingled in quiet disorder: a cracked servo-skull propped next to a dormant micro-reactor, a las-calibrator held gently by a gravity clamp.

Two doors flanked the back wall. One tall and narrow that lead to the restroom. The other, short and wide, a drawer for what few clothes he had bothered to make for himself.

"Sasha. Sound dampeners, please."

She took a moment. Then, softly: '…Alright. Dampeners active.'

He stared into the middle distance, eyes unfocused. "Could you… give me a minute here?"

'…Yeah. I'll run diagnostics. Should keep me busy for five.'

"Thank you."

He felt her retreat—slipping down into his systems, withdrawing like breath into lungs. Her presence dimmed from the upper threads of his neural weave, receding into background computation.

It was the closest he could come to being truly alone.

He approached the workbench, reaching out automatically. A hammer. Turned it once in his palm. Set it down. A wrench next. Replaced without a word. A electric saw. A flathead. A hydraulic press. His fingers moved without purpose, selecting and discarding—grasping, pausing, rejecting.

Then his hand closed on the back of the chair.

Fingers curled. Thumbs pressed.

The frame groaned. Then—

The back ripped clean in half, peeled like tinfoil in his grip.

For a heartbeat, silence lingered.

Then the dam broke.

His fists came down hard, crushing the seat beneath.
"Of all the—!"
Another strike sent one leg twisting sideways.
"—stupid—asinine—!"
Slam after slam, the chair warped beneath him.
"—utterly retarded reasons!"

He booted the crumpled wreck across the room. It bounced with a hollow ping off the far wall, rebounded off the other wall with a clang, and shot back toward him like an insult. He batted it aside, sending it cartwheeling into the shadows.

With a snarl, he tore off his helmet and flung it across the room—it clattered into the corner, lifeless.

"Who cares if you didn't feel their blood on your fingers, if they're dead?!"

His voice echoed against sound dampened walls.

"Who the hell gives a damn if there's no glory, no grit, no ashes in your mouth—if the war is over?!"

He stood there, chest heaving, surrounded by ruin.

Not shaking. Not weeping.

Just standing there, breath ragged, fury leaking into the air.

He catalogued the broken chair: torsion damage, metal fatigue, ineffective stress tolerances.

"And I'm the crazy one?"

With a flick of his wrist, the mag-lock disengaged, the bed flopping down with a squeak of springs. Taking a seat, head in hands, he tried to breathe out the roiling sentiments. Running through his hair, he lay back, staring up at the roof.

That familiar sensation of warm honey sliding over his frayed nerves returned a few minutes later. '…Hey.'

"Hey."

'Whatcha thinking?'

He didn't answer. Not with words.

Instead, he rolled onto his side, reaching toward the helmet he'd thrown across the room. A thought pulsed through his arm, and gravity obeyed. The helm lifted, weightless, snapping into his outstretched hand.

He turned it, thumb flicking the visor open. A glow spilled out—cool blue, then soft gold, then color blooming into motion. He placed the helm carefully on the floor, angled toward the far wall. The projection expanded outward, washing across the metal bulkhead like a dream too delicate to touch.

Not a battlefield. Not some training cove or prefabricated bunker-sand.

A real beach. Earth.

The waves lapped at pale sand, grey-blue under an overcast sky. Clouds moved slowly, graceful veils shifting across a sun that shone only in glimmers. The breeze stirred long grass at the dune's edge. Far in the distance, his parents and sisters played at the water's edge—laughter muted by distance, joy unscripted, the starfish clutched in his hands dripping water as he raced to show what he had found.

Koron didn't move. Didn't blink.

Just… watched.

The feed looped every twelve minutes.

Seamless. But he always knew when it reset.

The wind shifted.
The grass danced.
The family laughed again.

"I misunderstood," he said at last, voice barely audible. "I thought it was just… environments. Social collapse. Historical loss. Technological defilement. Things you could trace through code. Pin to a flaw in the blueprint. Reverse-engineer into sense."

His eyes stayed fixed on the projection.

"But it's not."

She said nothing, letting him process.

Then:

'What do you think it is?'

Koron didn't answer at first.

He just watched the wave wash up over his families' feet—foam curling around toes that had once kicked sand in his direction, giggling like they had struck a titan.

Finally, he said it.

"…Their world isn't just broken."

He swallowed hard.

"It's insane."

The next breath trembled. Just a fraction.

"And every one of them is just as mad."

'I know,' she whispered. 'But I'm still glad you're here.'

The loop reset. The wind changed again.

But it wasn't the same.

Not anymore.



He woke up to the dull glow of standby lumen-strips and the hum of the Indomitable's systems purring through the walls.

It took him a second to realize where he was.

His back ached slightly from the mattress—half-unfolded and poorly aligned—but not enough to matter. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up with a groan, bare toes curling against the cold deck.

"…When did I take my boots off?"

"I had a drone do it after you passed out."

Sasha's voice was soft, amused.

"Ah. Thanks." He yawned. "That explains the lack of bruised toes."

"Your biometrics are steadier. Neural activity is more symmetrical. Breath rate normalized."

"Yeah. Turns out sleep helps."

He could feel her roll her metaphorical eyes somewhere in the back of his skull.

"Incredible. Who could've guessed? Surely not the incredibly intelligent and refined lady in the room."

A faint grin tugged at his lips. "What, no. Past me is just a genius."

"Past you is an idiot."

The grin deepened.

"Shower?"

"Yeah. Had an idea."

"Do tell?"

"In a bit. Let me not smell like wire grease and hull sealant first. What's the local time aboard the Honour?"

"Adjusting for fleet-duty rosters… approximately 0700 hours."

"Perfect. Knowing Roboute, he hasn't slept either."

Fifteen minutes later, steam still coiling faintly from his shoulders, Koron wiped the last droplets of water from his metal arms. His hand swept through his shaggy hair with all the precision of a data purge, the closest thing to a comb his hair ever saw.

He keyed the comms, fingers dancing through command lines with casual familiarity. Six reroutes. Two ghost nodes. One piggybacked signal through Ferox's personal slate—she really shouldn't have let me hold her dataslate—A heartbeat later, the message pinged its destination.

The vox-line clicked.

"Guilliman. Report."

Koron smiled faintly. "Morning, Roboute."

A pause. Then, dry as ash:

"Do I even want to know how you got this frequency?"

"I can tell you it was one of thirty-six possible approaches."

The sigh that followed wasn't just weary—it carried the ancient weight of a man who once rewrote the stars with logistics and now had to deal with this. "Not enough recaf in the sector for this..."

Koron chuckled. "What can I say? I'm a morning person. But—if it helps—I'm also calling with something useful."

"Then speak," came the flat reply, ironed clean of indulgence.

"I want Hyperia Hive."

A pause. Tighter. Sharper.

"…You have my attention."

Koron brought up a holoschematic, washing his HUD in light. Red dust corridors. Staging zones flickering green. The sickly yellow of plague markers—crawling like mold across the map's heart.

"The Salamanders don't want my combat drones involved anymore. That's fine. I won't force them. But I'm not shelving these assets while people die. You've got your main pushes concentrated on Storvhal, Megaborealis, and Oteck—power, orbital lift, water. All sound choices. But Hyperia's still festering, a Death Guard sinkhole right in the center of your operations."

Guilliman's voice came slower now. Careful. "Koron… the Death Guard—"

"—Are perfect targets for synthetic forces. My drones don't eat, don't sleep, don't breathe. No infection vectors. No attrition curves. Their poisons are useless. Their terror tactics irrelevant. I don't need to hold the Hive—I just need to bleed it."

He leaned forward as if the vox-link could feel his posture.

"This isn't about glory. It's logistics. You need bodies to secure your flanks. I'm offering you machines that can strike where those bodies can't be spared. Let me contain the contagion. No overlapping doctrines. No clashing egos. Just function."

There was a silence. Not hesitation—calculation. Koron could feel the mind behind Guilliman's eyes spinning through scenarios, the Primarch rifling through options at a pace nearly matching his own.

Then: "Very well. You are granted provisional authority to engage and degrade enemy forces within Hyperia Hive. You'll be unsupported until we conclude operations in the other sectors."

"I understand," Koron nodded. "I'll limit the initial phase to recon and raiding. Cut their supply chains. Avoid provoking a full counteroffensive."

Guilliman raised a hand before he could sign off. "Send me data as you collect it. I may not offer troops—but I can offer analysis. And should the situation shift, I'll be better prepared to act if I know your ground picture."

Koron grinned. "Fair trade. Sasha and I can return the favor—parse your battlefronts, flag vulnerabilities. We got ourselves a solid predictive net now. We'll feed each other and get better for it."

Guilliman exhaled, one long breath of burden and trust. "Then Emperor protect you, Koron."

A sigh slipped out.

"...And try not to break Hyperia more than it already is."

"Hey," Koron smirked. "No promises."



The dropship was a predator in profile—low, sleek, and knife-edged in every contour. Its hull was a dark, brushed alloy with hints of emerald sheen where the light caught the curves just right, as though it had been carved from obsidian and polished by centuries of wind.

Twin sponsons extended like outstretched talons, each armored and inset with modular housings for weaponry or shielding—depending on the mission. Between them, the prow pushed forward into a reinforced ram-point, blunt yet purposeful, as if daring any obstacle to stand in its path.

From above, the craft's lines swept back in a broad chevron, with recessed engine arrays forming glowing concentric circles—gravity-defying rings of pulse-blue energy that hummed softly, even when idle. The underside bristled with heat exchangers and retractable landing vanes, its spine traced by layered armor plating broken only by maintenance hatches and modular hardpoints.

Turrets nestled into sockets, flush with the hull until needed. They rotated silently, bearing weapons meant not just to clear a landing zone—but to seize it.

Along the flanks, segmented conduits ran like muscles beneath transparent shielding, glowing faintly with data-pulse and coolant flow. They gave the sense of something alive beneath the armor—a beast that remembered how to breathe even when submerged in void.

Inside, it was all tight corridors and soft lumens, materials that absorbed noise and kinetic shock alike. Not luxurious. Not ceremonial. This was not a ship meant to impress. It was a tool. A dagger where the Imperium used hammers.

And it was fast.

Not the roaring, wrath-born speed of an Astartes Thunderhawk—no trail of fire, no thundercrack in its wake. This was different. Quieter. Meaner. The kind of speed that didn't announce itself until it was already overhead, already falling.

A relic of the Golden Age.

Or perhaps just its ghost.

And from its silent belly, the Prometheus drones fell upon Hyperia Hive.

Four deployment ramps hissed open—one on each quadrant of the ship—and two thousand drones slipped into the world like rain. No jets. No flares. Just gravitational descent and programmed grace. They scattered across the hive, a storm of machine shadows cascading down the upper reaches of the void shield without ever touching it.

From there, they flowed outward, down into the rubble, finding chinks in the fields coverage.

Around collapsed hab-blocks and shattered curtain walls. Between rust-choked ducts and sunken arterial roadways. Through maintenance tunnels, fractured sewer lines, abandoned metro shafts. Cracks too narrow for a human were no barrier. This was their element.

Their mission was simple: Map the city, find the enemy.

Every spire, every sublevel.
Every air duct, vent crawl, cistern, and corpse-choked street.
Every kill zone. Every fallback point. Every breathless tomb disguised as shelter.

What they found… was a necropolis.

Shambling herds of corpse-people wandered the streets, groaning beneath fungal growths and bone-colored boils. Some were guided by monstrous shepherds—coagulated mounds of meat and horn and hunger, trailing tendrils and swollen teeth that clicked in places teeth were never meant to be.

There were still survivors. Pockets of life, stubbornly holding on in the fetid dark. Koron tagged each group with an observer drone—silent shadows to monitor, to judge. Not to intervene. Not yet. He needed to know for sure the infections characteristics.

But it was the Plague Marines that made the recon truly difficult.

Their presence distorted the world around them. Within ten meters, even the best cloaking skins began to degrade—optics fouled, machine-harmony warped. Their rot was not just biological; it was metaphysical, a decay that unwound precision. Wires corroded. Lenses wept lubricant. Steel grew brittle in their wake.

Still, from beyond that toxic aura… they could be studied.

And so, Koron watched.

He read archived battle reports from the Death Guard's many atrocities. Mortarion's philosophies. Their tactics. Their thresholds for physical response. Their cycles of advance and retraction.

A flicker of thought closed the Salamanders' armory manifest. Koron rose from his bench, metal fingers flexing until his knuckles cracked like distant artillery.

"Well," he murmured, to no one in particular, "I think it's time for some retrofits."

Sasha's voice filtered in, dry and amused. 'Fire?'

He nodded, his lips tight.

"Yup. And a whole lot of it."

He moved across the room, bare feet silent on cold metal decking. The workbench lit up at his approach, recognizing his biosignature. Diagrams bloomed in the air, outlines of Sentinel drone rotating slowly in amber and cobalt.

"Let's start with the cloaks," he muttered, selecting the adaptive camouflage suite schematic. "Swap out the stealth mesh with ablative thermoceramic plates. Fireproof, acid-resistant, purge-capable."

'You're sacrificing stealth for armor,' Sasha warned. 'No better defense than not being targetable.'

"I'm adapting," he countered, dragging a projection of a Plague Marine into the display. "They passively bleed corruption. I want my units to shrug it off."

Next came the containment canisters—he doubled their size, then split the delivery system into three nozzles instead of one. "Triple dispersal pattern. Jet, mist, and arc-sweep. Variable pressure, atmospheric-sensitive. I want them able to drown a hallway or lace the air with ignition vapor."

Sasha's voice lowered, cautious. 'What kind of accelerant?'

Koron smiled without humor. "Old but simple one. Dextrohex napthium blend. Stable until agitated. Burns on contact with air and screams like a god when it does."

He rotated the drone schematic again, unfolding the forelimbs. Monomolecular claws were folded back as something… meaner unfurled in their place. "Flame spike projectors. Needle-thin jets that hit six thousand kelvin in under half a second. For when they need to put something down up close. Armor doesn't matter. These'll carve through it like pudding."

'You're going full anti-matter cleanser mode,' Sasha noted. 'Reminds me of the quarantine drones we used during the Verdant Collapse.'

"Exactly. No half-measures. If I'm sending them into the fat guys lungs, they're going in with flares and a gas-tank in both hands."

He paused, dragging over another schematic—this one labeled: PHOENIX CORE: Emergency Incineration Suite. A failsafe. One-shot burnout. The nuclear option.

"Just in case one of them gets corrupted," he said quietly. "Failsafe on every chassis. Auto-triggers on infiltration, data breach, or signal loss. It won't save the drone, but it'll deny the enemy whatever it tried to touch."

Sasha hesitated. Then: 'You're really building them like soldiers now.'

Koron didn't answer for a moment. His eyes lingered on a flickering image of a drone perched on a hive spire, watching a pack of infected children being led by something with too many limbs.

"No. Their janitors. The fat bastard's worst nightmare."

Koron tapped through diagnostic overlays, watching simulated footage of the Sentinel drones run-in with the Death Guard. The corrupted Astartes moved like rusted tanks, their presence eating away at sensor fidelity, their aura of decay a chemical war in miniature. His drones had held, but only just.

From the sideband of his mind, Sasha spoke up, thoughtful.

'You know, if flechettes are falling short… what about the blend we talked about last month? Dextrohex base, but stabilized with promethium suspension. Call it... D-P mix?'

He paused. "You think it'll stick to ceramite?"

'Stick? It'll cling like a tax collector in a debt crisis. Dextrohex eats organics, promethium cooks the residue. Even if it doesn't breach the armor, the thermal load and pressure will pop seals and corrode the joints. Plus—flames. Lots of flames.'

Koron chuckled, low and sharp. "You're in a mood."

'I watched seventeen hours of Death Guard footage. I want to hurt something.'

Koron didn't laugh. His eyes narrowed, jaw set as he slowly nodded. "Alright," he muttered. "No more flechettes. Reconfigure the grenade banks. Sentinel units get D-P canisters on rotation."

With a flick of thought, the Sentinel hologram expanded—its flanks blooming into schematic overlays. Grenade racks unfolded, old ammo flagged red, new reservoirs locked into place. The volatile mix of dextrohex accelerant and promethium rendered on-screen as a pulsing amber fluid, igniting in a firestorm simulation that washed across the mock street like holy napalm.

"…Hm. I just had an idea."

He twisted, sweeping the projection aside with a fluid gesture. The Viper appeared next—sleek, insectile, cold. He zoomed in, fingers pulling apart its forward casing. The Whisper Lance module gleamed within, compact and humming with precision lethality.

Too clean.

Too focused.

Koron wrenched the module out of the frame and tossed it into the corner of the holo-display. It tumbled into transparency.

"Plague Marines are tough bastards," he muttered. "Precision doesn't cut it anymore. I need impact. I need fire."

'Kinetics instead of energy?'

"Exactly." His voice sharpened, energized. "We reframe the attack profile. High kinetic spike, backed by reactor-overload power. Big hit, fast exit."

The drone schematic shuddered as he began tearing into it. He duplicated the primary reactor, slotted a second core beside it, smaller but denser. Internal systems reoriented in real-time, compartments shifting rearward to accommodate a physical barrel, a reinforced coil assembly.

"Secondary reactor's just for the railgun. Single shot. Bam—"

The coils pulsed blue, the charge visual spiraling upward to a thunderclap of data.

'Primary still runs mobility and systems. Could dump into the secondary to speed recharge if needed?'

Koron grinned, feral. "Exactly."

He leaned forward, hands resting on the edge of the table, eyes flickering with subdermal light as he mentally spliced the payload. "We wrap the spike in a D-P gel coat. Thin, reactive layer. Shears off on impact, ignites after penetration. Burns the wound closed—prevents regrowth."

'Regeneration denial. Cruel and efficient. I like it.'

Then Sasha added, almost casually:

'If we go that route, we should requisition a barrel of holy oil from the Hammer. Dunk the spike ammo before launch.'

Koron raised an eyebrow. "…Faith-based effects?"

'Worst case, it's inert. Best case, we get some saintly side effects. Might not make them more dead, but it could make them stay dead.'

He snorted. "As long as it doesn't sing hymns mid-flight."

'I'll mirror their singing off of your musical capability. Psychological warfare.'

He chuckled. Then nodded, the weight of focus settling on his shoulders again.

"…Alright. Let's make a holy fire-spitting bug."

The new variant of the Viper spun in place, Sasha quietly giving it a title, a name.

Version 1.4a. Codename: Torchling.

Yet in the back of his mind, a part of Koron couldn't help but hear those same damned words, Guilliman's voice clear.

Execution was the end of meaning.

Koro's eyes never left the wireframe as he retrofit the drones. Tell that to the children being dragged into sewers by bloated freaks.

His hand tapped the schematic.

If I can't give them meaning, I'll give them victory they can't deny



The Vengeful Spirit's auspex screamed in corrupted binaric, a dissonant litany of machine-heresy that filled the chamber like static-infused whispers. Magos Vhorkas listened.

More steel than flesh, Vhorkas stood crooked and gleaming—a skeletal tower of chrome, blackened brass, and sagging meat. His limbs were stretched unnaturally wide by torque-driven augmetics, a puppet under tension. The remnants of his face were a grotesque mosaic: lacquered skin grafts fused with chrome plating, cybernetic lenses embedded deep in craters of bruised, bloated flesh. His optics, each a different size and hue, blinked independently. One hummed as it zoomed, casting a pale red dot across the chamber's fractured floor tiles.

Around him, a halo of mechadendrites writhed. Some ended in scalpel-fingers, others in wriggling sensory barbs or scrap-metal reliquaries. One clutched a rusted dataslate that bled oil. The glyphs etched upon it pulsed with twisted energies.

Across the chamber, wreathed in half-light and the stink of ozone, stood Malichor—sorcerer of the Black Legion, and ever the predator among jackals. His baroque armor bore layered scripts of warpsteel, each rune alive with a spiteful shimmer. The sickly glow of the chamber's failing lumen strips revealed slivers of his gauntlets as he flexed his fingers, twitching unconsciously, tugging on the tension of powers not yet summoned.

His voice cracked the silence.

"Nearly a dozen of my brothers. Dead. And what do we have?" His armored fist slammed into the hololith. A wet, unpleasant squelch followed—the rupturing of some blighted growth beneath the skin. Warp-static licked the air around his bracers, ghost-light tendrils crawling across the table's surface. "Pict-captures of lights. Lights!"

He jabbed a sparking finger toward Vhorkas, helm tilted in disdain.

"The Despoiler is not pleased. First our auguries collapse, then two Arkships arrive, and now the Second's southern line has folded like wet parchment! An entire Chosen squad—gone. Vox-lines severed. Records erased. And you—you—stand there muttering binaric nonsense."

The sorcerer began to pace, boots clanking against the deck's flesh-metal composite. Behind him, his warp-staff floated like a shadowed sentinel, runes spinning around its shaft with whispered hunger.

"Well?" Malichor snapped. "Do you have anything useful to add, scrap-mage?"

Vhorkas didn't look up. His lenses continued to twitch and dilate, tracking threads of data no sane mind would follow.

"Data indicates anomalous combat variables," he said, each word dragged from his vocalizer like a groan through static. "Opposition: primarily standard-pattern loyalists. Defensive measures. Hit-and-run precision. Predictable."

He paused, mechadendrites curling midair like the legs of a patient spider.

"The Eighteenth has engaged using anomalous patterns. Third party likely cause. Unknown actor. Non-Imperial signature."

Malichor bared his teeth beneath the helm. "Of course they're getting help. The question is—who? How?"

"…If software corrupted, use hardware," Vhorkas replied.

Malichor blinked slowly. "Speak Gothic."

The vox-grille buzzed. "Bodies," Vhorkas said. "Scouts. Demons. Survivors hold answers that deleted data cannot."

Malichor exhaled through his nose, lips twitching. "And if the scouts die?"

"Then summon their souls." The tech-priest offered a shrug that clanked with casual nihilism.

"I suggest—"

He was cut off as the chamber's doors exploded inward, shredded from their hinges in a detonation of bone-rivets and broken servitors.

Threxos Hellbreed entered like a thunderclap.

His Terminator plate hissed with gore-vented pressure, crimson-streaked and etched with the iconography of the Hounds of Abaddon. Twin chainaxes clattered at his sides like hungry hounds on leashes. Each step sent tremors through the deck, which responded with a wet, fleshy groan.

His helm scanned the room, vox-grille steaming.

"Sorcerer," Threxos growled. "Where is the Warmaster?"

Malichor didn't even flinch. "He is in communion with the Gods," he said, tone flat and bored, like a junior aide dismissing a complaint at a bureaucrat's temple. "You can interrupt him if you like. I'm sure they will understand."

Threxos took a half-step forward, gauntlet tightening into a crackling fist—then held himself in check. The fury burned hot, but the leash of fear still held.

Instead, he pointed one massive, armored finger at the war-table.

"I'm taking the Hounds to Storvhal," he said. "I will crush the lizards. Khorne has demanded it."

Malichor tilted his head, voice silk-smooth. "How bold of you."

Threxos bristled, uncertain if he'd been insulted.

But the sorcerer only nodded once, slow and deliberate. "The Hounds will find blood. That much is certain. And perhaps—if the Salamanders are being shielded by some unseen hand—your… enthusiasm will flush it into the open."

From behind the hololith, Vhorkas gave a low mechanical hum—either agreement or indigestion. "Khorne's rage may succeed where logic has failed."

Malichor smiled behind his helm. Not kindly.

"Go, then," he said. "Let your axes scream the truth out of them."

Threxos turned with a snort of contempt and stormed from the chamber, the deck groaning beneath his retreat. One of his chainaxes revved with impatience as if it too was hungry for the hearts of his foes.

The silence that followed was long, pulsing.

Vhorkas broke it first.

"He will die."

"Eventually," Malichor murmured. "But not before ripping the veil wide open."

He leaned over the table, gesturing toward the blip of Storvhal.

"Let the dogs run. The prey will show itself soon enough."
 
Btw, Im using this as the image for the dropships, and the DAoT style ships Koron is working on. Yes, its from a game, no, I dont play it, but I dig the themes. Yes, I am a broke bastard and have no cash to pay for art.
latest
 
Imperial Inquiry Submission Form: Thought-for-the-Day Correspondence New
Had an idea for a bit of fun, hopefully you all enjoy it :D
Feel free to ask whatever questions you want, though I retain the right to avoid major spoilers :p



VOX-RECORD // ARCHIVE-LOG: PRIMAR INTERFACE INITIATIVE

Transcript Title:
"On Transparency: A Dialogue in the Ashes"
Authorization Level: Sigma-Red // Strategic Clarity Mandate
Participants:

Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the XIII Legion
Koron [REDACTED-Screw You], Designate: Anomaly Sigma-Null
Sasha, AI Interface (So Restricted It Hurts)



[DISPLAYED ON ALL NETWORKED TERMINALS IN IMPERIAL COMMAND CIRCUITS]

In the wake of the confirmed existence of Anomaly Sigma, the Lord Commander of the Imperium and allied elements have authorized limited ideological correspondence with the figure known as Koron. The stated purpose is to reduce panic, curtail theological escalations, and give authorized personnel access to the subject's reasoning, intentions, and operational ethics.



Participants may submit structured inquiries through designated channels. Responses will be archived publicly. Emotional preparedness protocols are advised.





[PRE-FACE DIALOGUE SNIPPET // RECORDED LIVE]

Koron:

"You want us to what, exactly? Hold court? Take letters?"

Guilliman:
"Answer questions. Clarify doctrines. Help people understand you before they try to flay you or canonize you by mistake."

Koron:
"You're asking me to explain myself to an empire that prays to its microwaves."

Guilliman:
"Consider it damage control. Preventative theology."

Koron:
"…Fine. But I'm answering as I see fit. If someone asks me why I don't venerate the Omnissiah, they're getting a circuit diagram."

Sasha:
"Perfect. Let the healing begin."



IC Name:
Imperial Strategic Correspondence Interface (ISCI)
Also known informally as:

"The Voxbox"
"Ask the Anomaly"
"The Emperor's Suggestion Box (Now Less Flammable)"


A semi-restricted vox-encoded transmission node has been made available for citizens, scholars, officers, and hereteks to pose direct questions to key figures involved in the Campaign. Participants include The Emperor, Primarchs, Koron, the AI's, Astartes, various Imperial personnel, and—when asked—representatives of other factions (Xenos, Chaos, confused servitors, etc.).

Who do you want to question?
(Pick a character, faction, or even a specific type of unit—like "a Tech-Priest" or "a Slaanesh Cultist who regrets everything nothing")

What's your question?
Ask whatever you like. Be respectful, blasphemous, or wildly impractical. Just don't be boring.
examples:

"Koron, do you believe in fate?"
"Guilliman, do you regret waking up?"
"To the Death Guard: what's your skincare routine?"

Optional: Is this anonymous?
Yes / No — if no, give your name, rank, and location (or make one up)

Examples:
Magos-Vox Errant Erulian 7.211
Sister-Militant Mary of the Argent Shroud
Greg, hive-level 7,572, plumbing division
[DELETED BY ORDER OF THE INQUISITION]
 
Chapter Forty Three New
Chapter Forty Three



Reminder dear listeners, the Voxbox remains open at all times 🎤



Ten hours after drop pod landing.

Kala drifted through the undercity's winding corridors like a leaf caught in a slow current, her long red braid spiraling behind her in playful coils. The air here carried the faint scent of metal dust and nutrient water from the hydroponics bay. She corkscrewed effortlessly on the anti-grav, humming to herself, arms folded behind her head as if the whole ship were her personal playground. Her armor's grav-plates barely pulsed—every drift and spin a dancer's motion in zero-G.

Behind her, Tara followed with all the grace of a dropped spanner. Her boots scuffed and over-corrected against the wall, momentum fighting her every move. Her scowl could have stripped paint—and almost did, judging by the bulkhead she narrowly avoided. With a huff, she kicked off after her sister, attempting the same corkscrew spin… and nearly went cartwheeling into a trio of older women on their way to hydroponics.

Kala waved cheerfully as she zipped past. "Morning, Aunties!"

Tara jerked upward at the last second, arms windmilling to keep from colliding. One of the women barked a wheezy cackle.

"Mind your rear, girl, or I'll plant you in the hydroponic beds!"

"Sorry!" Tara grunted, finally stabilizing herself and shooting a glare at her sister that promised future violence.

The corridor widened into the small medical annex. Its pressure doors hissed open on freshly greased runners, releasing a faint chemical sterility into the air.

Kala hit the deck in a perfect landing, her anti-grav plates exhaling a soft sigh. She skidded to a stop, blinking at the sight before her. "Uh…."

Koron lay facedown on the med-table, his armor and undersuit pulled down to his waist, the upper skin and muscles of his neck delicately parted by a halo of surgical arms. Beneath the skin, polished metal and complex plates glinted under the clean white lighting. His spinal column—sleek, built with machine precision—clicked softly as a tool whirred near the base of his skull. Despite the macabre display, the man himself was quietly snoring.

"Mornin', ladies," Sasha's voice purred through the hovering med-drone, warm and amused as the projected pixel face glanced at them. "Koron's a little preoccupied. Would you like to leave a message with his vastly overqualified secretary and partner in crime?"

Tara took an instinctive step forward, then froze as a faint ring of blue light pulsed outward from the med-table, making her hairs prickle. "What are you doing to him?"

"Upgrade," Sasha replied breezily, a hologram blooming beside her: a tiny disc the size of a dime spinning in midair. "And please stay outside the sterility field until I'm done. Even with his resilience, I'd rather not roll dice on an infection."

Kala leaned forward on her toes, eyes sparkling. "Ooh. What kind of upgrade? Combat, defense, or…" her voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper, "bedroom?"

Tara flushed crimson. "Emperor's teeth, Kala!" She smacked her twin's shoulder. "Can you not be like this in public?"

"It's a private medbay," Kala replied with a grin. "And he's unconscious."

"Utility-focused," Sasha said, deadpan. "A short-range Slipvector engine. Same spatial-folding tech we used for our military and our ships before Warp travel got fashionable."

Tara's curiosity flared instantly. "Wait—pre-Warp drive? What's the practical effect?"

"Personal-level displacement via gravitic lensing of local spacetime curvature," Sasha said smoothly as she guided the disc into a recessed port at the top of Koron's spine.

Kala blinked. "That's… folding space so two places touch at the same moment, right? Elly's been hammering us on that stuff, but I still feel like I'm trying to do algebra in a sandstorm."

"Close enough." Sasha purred, adjusting the field alignment with a flick of her robotic limb. Sasha tapped the stabilizer filament once, watching the spinal plating seal itself with a faint hiss. "Different from the teleporter tech, but useful all the same for local work."

Tara raised an eyebrow. "Wait—there's more than one teleport system?"

"Oh, honey." Sasha's voice took on a delighted tone. "This is the quiet one."

The drone she was currently operating hovered back and let the table reorient Koron into a neutral recovery position, the surgical lights dimming slightly.

"The Slipvector implant bends space. Like Kala said, think of it like grabbing the map of reality, folding it so two places overlap, and walking through. You're still you, still whole, still present in the equation—you just skipped the commute."

She held up a limb, protecting a schematic of the Indomitable, zooming in on a room that pulsed green.

"Now, the teleporters? Different trick entirely. They're based on putting you in quantum suspension—your atoms stop agreeing on where they are. For a moment, you're a probability cloud, every possible you spread between departure and arrival. The beacon gives that cloud somewhere to collapse, and all the probabilities resolve into the version of you standing where we want."

Kala looked faintly alarmed. "So…your turning us into math?"

"Yes and no darlin," Sasha said cheerfully, "we're just converting you into all the possible versions of yourself, simultaneously. Then we pick the one that ends up where we want. It's like rolling a die that's rigged to always land on the footpath instead of the lava pit."

Tara blinked slowly. "…That's mildly disturbing."

"Good! Means you're paying attention."

She sealed the medical case shut with a pneumatic hiss and clapped it lightly, as if to dust off her hands. "Teleporters, like long distance Slipdrives, need anchors. Beacons. Otherwise you're basically shooting a letter into a hurricane and hoping the mailman's psychic." She raised a limb and gestured vaguely upward. "And don't even get me started on trying to teleport using the Warp like the current Imperial models do. That's how you get existential origami."

Kala, still hovering with elbows propped lazily on a suspended support rail, lifted one hand like a student halfway through a joke. "So—Slipvector is map-folding, teleporter is math-gambling, and both are better than listening to a demon monologue mid-jump?"

Sasha turned to her, her pixilated face lit with the self-satisfied grin of a teacher finally appreciated. "Exactly. We had our own ways of breaking the universe—just with less screaming and fewer flaming skulls."

From the table, a muffled grumble stirred beneath the soft hum of the sterility field. Koron, face pressed into the medical padding, muttered something incomprehensible that ended in what might have been "napalm calculus."

Sasha leaned in and gently rubbed his back with a metal hand, voice dropping into soothing sweetness. "Yes sugar. You still have all your atoms. Most of them are even in the right places."

Tara stepped closer to the medical bench, hands clasped behind her back, eyes sharp despite the soft dim of the surgical lighting. "So if both systems need beacons" she asked, "why use different methods?"

Sasha let out a sigh, a faint flutter of her internal fans giving the gesture a mechanical edge as she slid sterilized tools back into their tray.

"Energy and dispersion," she said, in the cadence of someone reciting a lecture she'd given a thousand times. "Gravitic lensing is light on power and easy to maintain. It's clean, local, and precise."

She rotated a scalpel delicately between her metal fingers, its edge catching the glow of the med‑lamps. "Waveform teleportation? Entirely different story. It takes a lot more power to suspend a person in quantum probability and collapse them somewhere else. But the payoff? It's harder to stop. Slipvectors can be disrupted by heavy gravity distortion or proper shielding harmonics. But waveform transit?"

She snapped her metal digits, the click echoing faintly in the sterile room.

"You arrive because, from the universe's perspective, you were already there. Harder to jam, harder to block. That's why it's better for military insertions and… certain unpleasant emergencies."

Kala drifted down, letting the anti-grav relax with a low hum as she perched lightly on the edge of the medical bench. Her fingers moved with surprising gentleness as she brushed back a few strands of hair from Koron's forehead.

"So why not use that kind of stuff now?" she asked, quieter this time. "Why risk the Warp if you've got this tech?"

Sasha froze for half a second—just long enough to be noticeable. She looked at the twins then, her optic shifting in brightness as if recalibrating more than picture quality.

"…Because," she said at last, "when you start folding gravity in the same region too many times, the laws of reality get… cracked." Her voice had gone soft, distant. "We learned that the hard way. Entire sectors where light wouldn't travel straight anymore. Systems collapsing into geometries they were never meant to inhabit. And…. other problems."

She exhaled. A sound not from lungs, but from heat-dump valves in the drone's chassis.

"So we compromised. We stopped pulling at the fabric. And we decided—" she bobbed side to side "—that the Warp was the safer option."

Silence followed. Only the faint rhythmic beep of the bioscanner monitoring Koron's vitals, steady and indifferent.

Then Kala, ever the mood-shifter, gave her sister a sideways smirk. "Safer, huh? See, this is why I never let Sasha explain bedtime stories."

Sasha's optic narrowed in mock indignation. "That was one time, and I maintain the structural instability of dreamspace was relevant to the narrative."

Kala shook her head. "You told us Goldilocks and the Three Bears."

Sasha's multi-limbed body shrugged. "Yes. A story of boundary violation, resource misappropriation, and an unstable local dreamscape where spatial logic fails under emotional pressure."

Tara jerked a thumb over her shoulder in the vague direction of the kitchen. "You made porridge a metaphor for entropy."

Sasha replied with: "Because it was. 'Too hot,' 'too cold,' 'just right'—clearly a thermodynamic allegory for equilibrium collapse."



WHAM.

Koron hit the mat like a dropped toolbox, limbs sprawled, breath shoved from his lungs in a long-suffering oof. He lay there for a moment, blinking up at the ceiling of the training hall, trying to decide if he still had bones.

To his left, a narrow circle—just a foot across—gleamed smugly in red tape at the center of the mat.

"Attempt forty-three," Sasha intoned helpfully from the overhead vox. "Landed twenty-eight feet wide and nine feet high. That's your third parabola today."

Koron exhaled through his teeth. "You don't need to track my failure audibly, you know."

"True," she replied sweetly, "but it's required for the betting pool."

"Damn right it is." Milo grinned from the benches, tearing into a strip of jerky one of Lucia's cargo trips had dropped off earlier. "I had 'undershoot by fifteen and scream this time.' Lost a throne, but worth it."

The benches were packed—Dunthaven crew in various layers of uniform, cloak, or grease-stained shipwear, laughing and shouting bets across the floor. They weren't supposed to be here, technically. But nobody had the heart to kick them out. Watching the seemingly all-knowing tech-wizard faceplant repeatedly?

It was too good.

Kala sat sideways on a bench rail, kicking her heels and collecting IOUs with entrepreneurial glee. Elissa was busy chatting with the older crowd, catching up on local news as she watched Koron continue to fail. Tara, at least, looked like she was pretending not to enjoy it—head down, neural link active, eyes flicking occasionally between the notes from Elly and the spectacle in front of her.

'Gotta focus, sugar,' Sasha's voice nudged gently in Koron's mind, warm and chiding. 'And it's not a failure to use the gestures. Or to let me handle the math. I am the math.'

Koron kipped to his feet with a grunt, muttering, "I know. But we have to get this down cold. No crutches, no split-focus. Those subsurface readings aren't waiting politely."

'Then why are you taking the extra time?' Sasha asked, her tone somewhere between curious and concerned.

He reached the edge of the mat again, rolling his shoulders. His breath came slower now, focused.

"Because something will go wrong. You know it. And when it does, I won't have time for neuromuscular link delay or pulling bandwidth from your other tasks. If I don't hardwire this instinctively, someone dies. Probably me."

There was a pause.

'You're not wrong,' she admitted, softer now. 'But it's still silly. We don't have a timetable.'

"We don't have a timetable that we know about," Koron replied grimly, activating the Slipvector again. "Big difference."

The crowd leaned forward.

The air around him vibrated faintly, humming in sympathy with the Slipvector engine buried at the base of his skull. Koron exhaled, narrowing his eyes.

Reality folded.

No flash. No bang. Just a crimp in space—like someone had pinched the world and given it a gentle twist.

The air thinned. Colors bent inward, smearing around the mat. A low-pressure pop echoed in his ears. A faint blue corona edged his vision, as if gravity had briefly forgotten which way was down.

His heart skipped—not from fear, but confusion.

Then—

WHAM.

Back on the mat. Slightly scorched footprint behind him. His shaggy hair still fluttered with the momentum of wherever he'd just been.

From the benches, someone let out a low whistle.

Kala clapped once, mock-grandiose. "Sixteen feet off. But the hair flip gets a solid nine outta ten."

"I hate you all." He shouted back from his spot on the floor.



One Hour Later

The gunship lay in the Indomitables hanger bay, a predator at rest, its hull all sleek geometry and brushed alloy sheen, a quiet menace wrapped in elegance. Soft blue light pulsed from its gravity drives, painting the hangar deck in rhythmic glows that danced across the polished floor. Its turrets—six twin-barreled cannons—sat retracted behind armored veils, indistinct under their gunports. Compared to a Thunderhawk, it looked fragile—unarmed.

But Koron knew better.

What he didn't expect were the two figures waiting by the ramp—both armored, both smirking, and both very clearly up to something.

Tara and Kala stood shoulder to shoulder at the boarding ramp, rifles slung, boots squared, and faces radiating identical expressions of mischief barely restrained. They looked like someone had just handed them a detonator labeled "DO NOT PUSH"—and they'd already pushed it twice.

Koron sighed, snapping the last of his combat webbing into place with a sharp click.

"No," he said flatly, pointing an armored finger at both of them. "Not just no. Hell no."

'Told you he'd say that.' Elly's voice chirped in the shared neural link, smug and cheerful.

'Bet you he still lets them come.' Sasha replied, half a laugh tucked in her voice.

"Koron," Kala began, hands on her hips, helmet tilted back on her head. Her armor still bore the dust of a dozen undercity patrols, but her eyes were bright, restless. "I'm losing my mind down here. Two weeks of ship corridors, recycled air, and nothing to shoot. We're rotting."

She rapped a knuckle on the hull beside her with a metallic tonk. "And this baby's just begging for a test flight."

"Kala—" he started.

But Tara cut in before he could finish.

"And I," she said, stepping forward with her glare already loaded, "just found out you're going down to check subsurface anomalies. Without inviting me."

Her tone had all the subtlety of a falling orbital platform.

Koron exhaled hard, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Ladies," he said, tone flat but sharp. "This isn't a picnic on a pleasure moon. It's an active combat zone with no clear front lines. We have no idea what reaction those anomalies might provoke. And despite every cloaking measure I've built, I cannot guarantee we won't be detected by something unpleasant."

"Which is exactly why you shouldn't be going solo," Tara shot back, arms crossed. "Backup isn't optional out here. It's survival."

Kala nodded emphatically. "Besides, you'll fly the ship like a like a sulking servitor. I've practiced with the grav-throttle system."

"One: I fly perfectly fine. Two: You had Elly hijack the simulator."

"Semantics."

Koron opened his mouth, shut it again. His gaze flicked between the twins, each wearing the same unyielding stare. He felt the slow grind of familiar pressure in his chest—protective instinct colliding with the hollow echo of Dusthaven and two long years in the dark.

"No," he said again, this time slower. "You are not coming. This isn't some scavenger run for spare parts and old ration bricks. It's a recon mission with unknown variables, underground structural irregularities, and—just for flavor—warped atmospheric readings and seismic chatter."

Tara arched a brow. "And you were planning on going alone?"

"Better alone than dragging people I care about into something I haven't scoped yet," he snapped.

"Oh, now you care," Kala muttered.

Koron leveled a look at her. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

"Actually, I think it is," Tara said. "You keep doing this—pushing us away the second it gets dangerous, like we're fragile."

"You are compared to the god damn Astartes." Koron replied, voice all edges. "You think I didn't run every possible route this mission could go sideways that I could? That I didn't factor your safety into every permutation I could imagine? I didn't ask you because the amount of variables here are too damn high."

"Oh, so we're variables now," Kala said, deadpan. "Great. Does that mean I can file for predictive hazard pay?"

"Not variables—constants," Koron growled. "You're–" He stopped, fists curling, metal fingers creaking under strain. For an instant, faces flickered across his mind, old memories quickly shoved away. His voice roughened. "Important. To me."

That hung in the air a moment. A low hum from the grav-drives filled the silence, pulsing soft blue against the gunmetal walls.

Tara's voice dropped to something quieter, tighter. "Then stop trying to keep us in a box. We're not just survivors, we're fighters. Always have been, always will be. Just got better gear now is all, thanks to a certain someone."

"We always had to think for ourselves," Kala added. "To act. And now you want us to just sit back and watch while you risk yourself alone? Again?"

"I didn't—" He faltered. His gaze remained on the deck for half a heartbeat. "I didn't want to put you in a position where you might die for my curiosity."

"Well tough," Kala said, stepping forward. "Because we chose to follow you, Koron. Not as liabilities. Because your important to us too."

"And we're not letting you walk into a potential ambush without backup," Tara finished.

'…Damn, they're good.' Sasha muttered in his head, faux-reluctant. 'Ten to one odds you cave in the next thirty seconds.'

Koron glanced skyward in silent frustration, then exhaled slowly through his nose.

Quietly counted to thirty-one.

'Cheating bastard.' Sasha grumbled.

'Love you too.'

Looking back to the twins, he shook his head. "You two are relentless."

Kala smirked. "It's part of the charm."

"I hate this."

"You'll love it once we're flying," she said, already walking toward the cockpit like the matter was settled.

Tara gave him a pat on the shoulder as she passed. "Besides, if it goes wrong, we can always say it was your idea."

"You realize I have this entire conversation recorded, right?"

"Mom won't believe you anyway~"



"Does she have a name?" Kala asked, her fingers dancing across the flight controls with lazy precision. The gunship wove through the drifting bones of shattered hulls and orbital clutter, gliding as if it were skating on glass. In the forward camera feed, the war-torn face of Vigilus loomed ever larger—scarred, seething, and impossibly vast.

"What? Oh. No," Koron said, distracted, checking telemetry. "Technically, she's un-named. But you could call her Nyx. After the classification."

Kala hummed thoughtfully. "Nyx. I like that. Has a sharp edge to it. Mysterious, but dangerous."

"Formally, it's a Nyx-Class Interdictor," he added. "Heavily modified. Naturally."

"How modified?" Tara asked, her arms folded as she leaned in behind her sister, eyes scanning the readouts.

Koron ticked them off on his fingers. "Boosted the power-core. Rerouted the primary conduits for better efficiency. Engine output's up thirty-six percent. Added another shield bank and redundant backups in case someone gets some good shots in."

"And the weapons?"

He winced slightly. "...The gravity lances are just point defense turrets. Quick, easy to make, but not nearly the punch of the actual guns for ship to ship combat."

"So," Kala said slowly, "you took a gunship… put a bigger engine in it… and left the weapons at home."

"In order: yes, and depressingly yes."

Tara finally glanced back at him, braid swaying with the motion. "And you still thought going down to the surface was a good idea?"

"I had planned on going alone," Koron replied, sighing. "Then some people decided to tag along."

"Because some people didn't want you getting yourself killed trying to flirt with ancient subterranean anomalies by yourself," Tara said.

Kala smirked from the pilot's chair, hands on the Nyx's controls as the gunship banked toward the planet below. Her long braid drifted in the light cabin breeze from the environmental vents, and her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Too late," she said, all teasing warmth. "We're already on the first date."

Koron groaned under his breath and shook his head, the harness creaking as he turned to face the viewport. Below them, Vigilus sprawled in ruin—ashen plains and stormfronts the size of continents writhing in slow, predatory arcs. The Vhulian Swirl churned at the horizon, a spiraling scar in the planet's flesh, its clouds moving with the restless intent of a hunting beast.

This is stupid, he thought, jaw tight. I should turn us around. Lock them in the hangar. Go alone. That's the smart play. The safe play.

In his mind, the scenarios unfolded as clear as any predictive model: a misstep underground, an ambush in the tunnels, one wrong seismic reading—and he'd be left holding the aftermath again.

His fingers flexed against the armrest, a phantom ache of memory stirring—the cold, echoing, endless weight of too late.

"You're spiraling," Sasha's voice whispered through the link, warm but firm. "I agree—they shouldn't be here. Not yet. But Elly and I talked, and… all three of you need this."

"Need what? To be put in danger?"

"To strengthen the anchor,"
she said gently. "Guilliman said it himself, echoing my own advice. Find your people. Let them keep you grounded. You and I both know…the Brandts have become that for you."

He was silent for a long moment. "…Isn't that all the more reason to keep them out of harm's way?"

"Yes, and no. Yes, because anyone would want to protect their own. But no, because they're like the Salamanders—you can't keep them in a gilded cage. Kala would never accept a life of safe walls and stale air. Stagnation becomes resentment. You know this."


He exhaled slowly through his nose. "…I know. I just think there are better ways to grow whatever this is between us than in a literal warzone."

"I agree. One hundred percent,"
Sasha said with a soft hum of amusement. "But when have we ever gotten what we wanted?"

"…Never."
He hesitated, a flicker of wry humor breaking through. "Next time you want emotional growth, maybe start with movie night."

"Only if you add a sofa big enough for four."

"…Fair enough. I'll put in the order when we get back."


With a flicker of thought, he summoned the geo‑map into a hovering holographic display. Soft blue light bathed the bridge's panels, tracing a path across the scorched surface to the anomaly site. A single ping shot toward Kala's console; her interface beeped in acknowledgment.

"Coordinates sent," he said, voice steadier than he felt. "Keep an eye out. This shouldn't take long to complete… but I'm putting the defense systems on high alert."

The words were automatic. The worry was not.

Kala gave him a mock salute. "Aye, captain."

As the Nyx descended, the horizon became dominated by the monstrous storm system sprawling across a quarter of the planet, grinding soil, metal, and bone into its endless spiral. Lightning flickered in the depths of the maelstrom, illuminating jagged curtains of dust and shrapnel that could strip a man—or a tank—to bare frames in minutes.

The Nyx approached the desolate edge of that storm, where the pale ground fractured into a no-man's-land of scorched rock and shallow craters. Here, the ship hovered in silence, its hum swallowed by the vast emptiness. Far from the patrol routes of Orks, traitors, or anyone sane enough to step foot on this windswept land, Koron hoped they were unnoticeable.

"Bring her to a stop over the site," he said, stepping toward the deck hatch. His cybernetic hand brushed the hatch controls in passing, the hum of the ship's core resonating faintly in his bones.
"Don't land."

Kala half-swiveled in her seat, brows furrowed. "What? Why?"

Koron glanced over his shoulder, pointing towards the floor "Because we'll need the lances to drill into the surface. Otherwise…" He gestured vaguely toward the bone-white landscape below. "…it would take days to reach the site."

Lightning rippled in the storm's edge, briefly painting the interior of the cockpit in stark white. Kala leaned back, exhaling slowly as her fingers slid across the controls to bring the Nyx into a smooth hover, a mere twenty feet above the broken world.

"Alright," she said quietly, a trace of excitement in her voice. "Let's poke a hole in hell."

"Can you please not jinx us before we even start?" Tara said, lightly jabbing Kala's shoulder.

Dropping down the hatch, he passed into the main corridor of the gunship, coming to a stop at the starboard side, the door opening at his approach.

Even well over a hundred kilometers from the stormfront, the winds were a shrill scream, dust and pebbles flung through the air, sparks of light erupting as his shield ate the strikes. Without missing a beat, he stepped out into thin air as his helmet folded into place, anti-grav plating igniting to buoy him to the surface.

A moment later the girls floated down, comm-links active as they looked around at the barren wasteland.

"Kinda reminds me of home. Though the lack of sand is a bit problematic." Kala said as she scuffed the dry dirt. "How long do you think this will take?"

"Not long." Koron replied as one of the gunports on the gunship opened. One of the ventral dual barreled turrets released from its moorings, now free-floating in the air as it spun to face down at the ground.

'Target locked, distance to puncture, approximately four kilometers. Circumference of lance drill, one foot, minimum output. Shall I?' Sasha asked.

"Fire away." Koron replied.

Koron heard the emitter hum, a sound felt more in bone than ear. Dust and grit rose in a hesitant spiral, caught in invisible fingers as the air itself began to lean toward the barrel.

Then the beam appeared—thin, sharp, and strangely understated.

A single line of dark‑red light lanced down into the earth, no brighter than a welding arc, but impossibly precise. Where it touched, the ground didn't shatter.

It yielded.

Soil and stone vanished, edges curling like paper under a slow flame. A lazy plume of steam drifted upward, carrying the mineral smell of wet rock and scorched iron. Every few seconds, a soft hiss escaped the borehole as trapped moisture flashed into vapor and fled into the cooling wind.

The beam slid deeper, unhurried, a quiet dialogue between impossible technology and stubborn geology.

Four kilometers below, stone would be whispering into vapor; up here, the earth seemed to sigh and make way.

Koron watched the sensor feed as the Nyx's drilling lance descended through the planet's crust. Each pulse registered on the display as calm and methodical, a needle of energy stitching its way downward.

Beside him, Kala watched, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against her armored bicep as the beam fired away. "Why is it red? I figured weapons tech wouldn't be so flashy."

Tara, half‑plugged into Koron's sensor feed, answered absently. "Gravitational stress-shift. The photons are being stretched and compressed as they ride the gravitic field. You're literally watching spacetime flex around the beam."

She tilted her head, curiosity sharpening. "Though I am wondering—how are you keeping all that energy from scattering?"

Koron didn't look away from the readout as he answered, voice calm and clinical. "Graviton waveguide. The barrel's lined with a quantum‑locked lattice—basically an optical fiber for light and gravity. It pins the energy into a coherent pulse and prevents dispersion."

A thought laced down his neural links, and the schematic bloomed in the corner of the twins HUDs: a thin column of light tightly coiled in the overlay, its edges held by a semi-translucent spiral of energy.

"Once the pulse exits the barrel," Koron continued, his voice steady, "the confinement field collapses. The wavefunction resolves into free-space dynamics, and the graviton coupling drives the energy straight through the crust. Any matter in its path is dragged into the axis, spaghettified and stripped to bare nuclei. Electrons peel away as hard radiation, and what's left is nothing but a filament of plasma and dust finer than smoke. Armor is meaningless. Shields without the right latticework might as well not exist."

The earth gave a subtle tremor as the lance continued to fire. A low hum resonated up through the soles of their boots, the kind of sound that carried in teeth as much as in ears. The tang of hot metal and ozone crept into the air as ionization skittered along the barrel's emitter, and a faint shimmer of heat rose in waves across the ground.

Outside, the lance carved downward—a perfect column of crimson light, silent and straight as it stabbed into the planet. The beam didn't flare or flicker; it simply unwrote anything in its way with exacting precision.

Tara, her eyes wide, glanced at Koron. "And you said these were… point-defense weapons?"

Koron's gaze stayed on the readout, fingers tapping idly against the console as he absently answered. "Yeah. They were mostly for swatting down kinetic projectiles, working on the same principle as my sidearm—just on a bigger scale. Really, they're not all that impressive."

Kala, not paying much attention to the engineering discourse, gave a low whistle. "I was kidding before, but damn it if doesn't look like it's drilling straight into hell."

Koron allowed himself a tiny, dry smile. "If it is, let's hope hell's not load‑bearing."



The little squid-drone glided forward through the darkness, its delicate tendrils curling and flexing as it swam through a void of black liquid metal. Tiny bursts of sonar and gravitic pings radiated from its body, painting the unseen world around it in Koron's visor with slow, elegant strokes. The drone's faint lights reflected off the liquid surface, before vanishing into the depthless gloom.

"Definitely liquid metal of some sort," Sasha said at last, her warm voice resonating through the speakers in Koron's helm. Each word was accompanied by a subtle ping of sensor returns. "I can confirm a spherical cavity, three kilometers in diameter. One central spire present—two kilometers long, maybe half a kilometer across. It's just… floating there, right in the center."

The image sharpened in their HUDs as Sasha's feed layered the space with geometric clarity. A perfect sphere, utterly smooth on the inside, cradled an obsidian spire like the core of some alien gyroscope. Tiny ripples of liquid shifted with the drone's passing, catching the faint glow of the drone's lights before sinking back into shadow.

"It's not anchored to the walls," Sasha went on, the mild fascination in her tone edged with disbelief. "It's just… suspended in the liquid. Rotating with the planet's spin."

Koron leaned closer to the display, eyes narrowing. Even in the blue light of the HUD, the spire had a gravity to it—an intent. "It's not spinning on its own. It's compensating," he murmured. "Like a gyroscope that refuses to acknowledge inertia. It's locked to something light-years away… and by the alignment, I'd say the Gauntlet."

Tara, standing near the rim of the drill shaft, traced the smooth edge of the borehole with her glove and peered into the black. Her voice was hushed. "So… it's aware?"

Koron didn't look up. "Aware, or instructed. Either way, this isn't a rock. This is a node. A piece of something vast, watching the galaxy spin and refusing to move."

His fingers traced the sensor overlay as he calculated orientation and vector drift. "No signal emissions, no gravitational anchors. No triangulation. That means either it's using FTL reference frames that I can't detect… or it simply doesn't care about distance at all. It's fixed in space in a way our physics doesn't politely allow."

Kala, floating lazily upside down, cocked her head at him. "There's stuff you can't explain?"

Koron shot her a sidelong glance and gave her faceplate a light shove. "My bet? Necron tech. And this liquid metal? Once I analyze it, I'm guessing we're looking at blackstone again."

"To what end? Just to keep the Gauntlet alive?" Tara asked, her eyes never leaving the abyss below. Wind from the Nyx's environmental venting brushed past her, carrying the faint metallic scent of disturbed dust.

"Depends on the vector," Koron said. "But that's my working theory. We'll know for sure once Sasha confirms the alignment."

"Oh, the builders? That much I can confirm," Sasha chimed in, her voice carrying a mischievous warmth. "The nice thing about the metal bastards—they leave a signature on everything they touch."

"Necron sigils?"

"Big ones. Four faces, one for each cardinal axis. Center of the spire, plain as day." Her voice shifted, more focused now. "Hold on—calculating the vector lock… gimme a second."

Kala drifted into a slow orbit around her sister, spinning like a lazy satellite. "I'm surprised the Imperium hasn't drained these things dry. From what Elly said, blackstone's priceless when it comes to dealing with psykers."

"Yeah, well…" Tara's eyes flicked to the storm‑choked horizon far beyond the borehole. "If these things are holding up the Gauntlet, ripping one apart would probably make half the sector wish they hadn't."

"That, and—" Koron started to say, but Sasha's voice cut him off.

"Heads up. I'm picking up readings deeper down, near the mantle. Matching Necron energy signatures, like what we saw on Morrak." Her tone shifted from warm to surgical. "We might be looking at another structure… a bigger one, beneath this node."

Koron straightened slightly, his eyes flicking across the layered sensor returns. "Any connecting tunnels?"

"Checking," Sasha said, "Aaaaaand….its…Huh. Hey, Koron? The Swirl? I think there's a structure in its center."

"What did you find?"

"Got faint geomapping, will have to get closer to confirm, but extreme range sensors are indicating that there's continuous gaps in the crust under the Swirl that don't appear natural."

Kala, floating, planted her chin on top of Koron's head, arms loosely draped around his shoulders as the readouts scrolled past. "Can the girl handle those winds?"

He didn't flinch. Just let her rest there, his fingers dancing over the holo.

"From what I read, she should be fine." Tara replied.

"I'll task recon in that area," Sasha said. "Should have something in an hour, give or take."

"Thanks. In the meantime, let's collect a sample."

The Nyx's gravitic lance pulsed again—this time without the crimson beam of drilling energy. Dust and fragments swirled upward as the liquid metal was drawn into collection traps as the hull resonated with a deep, subtle thrum.

"Copy that," Sasha replied. "I'll take a chip off the spire, too. Just to be sure what we're dealing with… before someone in the Imperium gets a very bad idea."



Hovering in orbit above the Vhulian Swirl, the lights bathed the hall in soft, sterile hues. Through the viewport, the storm's eye churned, a celestial whirlpool, distant and silent—but the tension in the chamber was anything but.

Tara hovered just above the deck in the main compartment of the gunship. The sliver of blackstone twisted in the palm sized scanner, glassy, and unnaturally dark. Sensor beams played across its surface in tight spirals, blue light wrapping it in a cage of data. Lines of code and waveform graphs danced across her HUD.

"Crystalline latticework," she murmured, voice low with awe. "Definitely not natural."

Koron drifted beside her, lounging in free-float with his arms tucked behind his head, suspended by a bias in the local gravity field he casually manipulated. His gaze flicked across displays. "Agreed. And it's refracting gravitic emissions, too. Here—check this."

Tara blinked as new data piped into her HUD. The gravitic scans painted a stuttering silhouette of the shard, its presence outlined not by what it emitted, but by what it devoured.

"Emperor… this stuff is weird."

Koron's eyes lit with a flicker of admiration—the kind engineers reserved for strange, defiant problems. "Yeah. But weird is just science that hasn't been properly flattered yet. What next?"

A curl of satisfaction warmed her chest as he let her direct their investigation. She managed to keep the smirk from her lips, barely. "Thermal and EM spectrum. I want to see how it reacts to entropic wavelengths."

"The floor's yours."

Tara held it out towards him. His arm came down, a fingertip igniting, encircling the cradle with glimmering orange halos as the thermal output climbed. Humming filled the lab. The light spilled across the shard, glinting off obsidian edges.

"Baseline forty Celsius," she said, her voice even. "Step it to one hundred."

Nothing.

No expansion. No heat bloom. No radiation. No anything.

"Dead," she muttered. "Either it's a perfect insulator or it just… doesn't care."

Koron slowly rotated in midair, watching the readouts with that infuriatingly calm glint in his eye. "I'll kick it up to three hundred. If it doesn't blink, we try entropy cycling."

The flame whined higher, heat blooming in waves. Still, the shard remained a negative-space silhouette, perfectly outlined by absence.

Koron frowned. "It's not ignoring the heat. It's absorbing it. Redirecting."

Tara leaned in closer, eyes narrowed behind her lenses. "The auspex keeps showing edge distortion. It's not moving, but it looks like it is."

He toggled to EM and photonic scatter. His fingers changed again, tools unfurling as they pulsed against the shard, projecting bands of light and signal across its surface. The HUD filled with lattice reflections and scattered ghost-signals—then glitched. Static fuzz. Nonsense echoes. Readouts looped through data that didn't make sense.

"...Huh." Her brow furrowed. "It's not just bouncing the signal—it's sending it somewhere else."

Koron stilled. His voice dropped. "Somewhere that isn't here."

A low, almost physical hum filled the compartment. Not sound, but something in the bones, like a tuning fork struck in the core of her skull. The shard pulsed—not with light, but the absence of it. A halo of non-existence shimmered around its edge, as if space was bending away in protest.

Tara's breath caught. "Did it just—"

"Yeah," Koron said, all levity vanished. "It pinged back."

Silence fell again, the shard dormant, playing innocent.

Koron floated upright, his expression sharpening to razored focus. "Alright. Let's see you without the mask."

His pupils narrowed. The faint glow of his eyes brightened as layers of perception peeled open—infrared, EM, gravitic, particle decay, and then… quantum.

The shard erupted in his vision. Not with color or light, but with architecture.

A cathedral of frozen lightning.

A recursive lattice descending into infinite depth, folding dimensions into precise geometries that should not exist. Gravitic waves slipped through its structure like fingers through braided silk—redirected, reshaped, never reflected.

Particles entered the shard… and did not come out.

"It's not solid," he murmured.

Tara turned to him, frowning. "What do you mean not solid? It's right there."

He shook his head slowly. "No. It's anchored. Partially phased. Everything that hits it—light, heat, kinetic force—it bleeds sideways. Into somewhere else."

A chill ran through her. "The Warp?"

His jaw tensed. "Possibly. But… maybe not. Honestly? I'm not sure."

He lingered a moment longer, studying the probability distortions. A vibration shivered the air. For a single heartbeat, Koron knew the lattice was aware—not sentient, but reactive, as if it had always been waiting for something exactly like this moment.

He blinked hard, then shut down the sensor array.

"We need to test this against an actual warp event. Soon."

Tara opened her mouth—but Kala's voice cut across the comms, tense.

"Guys, get up here. Now. We've got a contact entering the Swirl."

They were already moving. Grav-plating pulsed. Data streams closed as Tara put the shard away.

Kala already had the viewscreen filled, showcasing the Black Legion Thunderhawk skirting the edge of the atmosphere, headed straight for the Swirl. "Picked it up a minute ago, figured it was just another transport headed for the battlelines, but then it kept going. Sensors are coming back with some weird readings too."

It's projecting some manner of cloaking field.' Elly spoke up, another readout popping up on the viewscreen. 'Light refraction and improper air displacement for a ship its size.'

'Psyker mindgames?'
Sasha piped up.

"Likely." Koron answered. "Contact Guilliman."



The hololith stuttered slightly as the Thunderhawk glided through the atmosphere, distorted by cloud-shear of the Vhulian Swirl. Guilliman leaned forward, arms on the table edge, his gaze narrowing at the vessel's silhouette. Black Legion. Subtle only in their own minds.

But it wasn't the ship that truly disturbed him. It was the boy beside it.

It was the first time he had seen the boy in real life. Koron's face hovered on a corner inset of the display—lit in profile by the interface glow, features too symmetrical, too familiar. Sharp, youthful. Calculating.

We really do look alike.

The realization wasn't new. But it was louder now. Brighter. A shape behind the curtain that refused to step forward.

The resemblance wasn't in the features. It was in the burden.

Maybe fate just has a type, the Brandt girl, Kala, had said. Flippant, but not without sting. Not without weight. He pushed the thought aside, a piece on a board he refused to play just yet.

"Can you identify the occupants?" he asked, voice level, but tight.

Koron shook his head. "Nope. The psykers cloak's doing a number on my sensors. I can track the ship's movement, but beyond that? Scrambled."

Guilliman didn't frown—but something in his jaw locked. Of course the Arch-traitor wouldn't send a messenger. He sends blades, shadows, monsters in golden masks.

"And this structure in the storm? You're certain?"

"Eighty percent. There's a unnatural tunnel network. Straight lines, not formed. Everything leads to a single point, and that point's emitting Necron energies."

Lovely. Just what they needed: xenos mysteries stirred awake by Chaos greed.

"Is it a tomb world?" he murmured, mostly to himself.

Koron gave a slight shrug. "Could be. I was heading down to investigate when Kala flagged the Thunderhawk. You want me to blow it out of the sky?"

There it was again. That infuriating blend of irreverence and competence. Guilliman didn't know whether to be annoyed or impressed.

"…No." He said at last. "I want eyes on them first. I'll dispatch an interception squadron. If this is stealth mission, I need to know why they're hiding."

"I'll meet them there," Koron replied without hesitation.

Guilliman turned fully to face him. "You're going in yourself?"

"Like you said, this is important. And time's likely a factor."

"Koron," Guilliman said slowly, "I advise you to abort. If that Thunderhawk is on an important mission, then it's carrying the Chosen. Abaddon's personal elite. You don't stumble near that kind of danger—you're swallowed whole by it."

"I know," Koron said, his voice suddenly quieter. No wit this time—only resolve. "But I'm not planning to fight them. I'm going to watch. If I wait for your troops, we may be too late."

And that's the problem, Guilliman thought. You're always ahead. Always moving where I haven't yet decided to act.

He looked at the boy with eyes too old for his years for a long moment, trying again to understand him, to parse what parts were machine, man, or myth. He still couldn't tell.

Finally, he nodded. "Very well. Proceed."

A pause.

Then, with quiet weight: "Emperor protect you."

Because if He didn't… Guilliman suspected no one could.



The trio watched as the Thunderhawk was battered by the raging winds, even as it carried its cargo deeper into the storm. Dents were punched into its hull, long tears of the paint as drifting debris shredded its length, but the growling engines held strong as it plunged in.

By contrast, the Nyx slid through the storm less than a hundred meters behind the Thunderhawk, gliding on invisible gravimetic currents, shields deflecting the shrapnel, its cloaking field obfuscating the auspex scanners.

"Their ships taking damage, minor, but its accumulating. If they don't reach a safer zone soon their gonna crash." Tara spoke up from her console. "I'd give them about twelve minutes till engine failure."

"Shields are holding steady, no damage on our end." Kala reported, left hand tilting slightly to the left, the Nyx responding as it kept its distance from the thruster wash of the traitor ship. "Weapons are charged and locked, and we're approaching two thousand meters off the ground, sensors are picking up a faint energy reading from the structure below, looks to be some manner of shield."

"There is plenty of open space to land, we'll have lots of room to avoid being near them." Tara said, flicking the holo onto the viewscreen.

The structures wireframe bloomed.

It did not rise from the wastelands so much as it emerged, like the vertebrae of some titanic, forgotten leviathan forced up from beneath the crust. Where Imperial fortresses were cathedrals in steel, shouting their purpose with buttresses and gun-spires, this place was quiet.

Uncomfortably so.

Its surfaces were seamless, the walls flowing with the precision of a machine that had never heard of weld lines or rivets. Massive, angular faces sloped at impossible gradients, their metallic sheen flickering subtly as if remembering stars that no longer existed. Not a single aquila, not a banner, not even a unit marking adorned its carapace.

It had no need for such declarations.

It simply was.

A perimeter of spires encircled the fortress, their thin, tapering forms humming with a soft pulse that wasn't quite sound, more a pressure at the edge of hearing. Between them, the air shimmered—not with heat, but with the delicate warping of local spacetime. Light bent. Shadows slithered at angles that defied the sun's position. To look at it for too long was to feel your brain begin to itch, as though it couldn't quite convince itself the structure belonged in reality.

There were no visible gates or doors, only recessed alcoves and smooth cavities that might have once been entryways—or weapons. The outer walls curved inward as they ascended, giving the structure a sense of hunching forward, like a predator waiting for prey to step too close

Koron felt his lips quirk. "Oh, sweet. Research facility."

The twins stared at it with the wide-eyed awe reserved for places where gods lived or nightmares were born. To Koron, it was just… familiar. The sloped gravity-dispersal fins, the harmonic lattice spires humming away, tuning forks for spacetime, the subtle fold of light along its walls where localized inertial dampening kept the structure from collapsing under its own weight.

The damn thing breathed infrastructure.

No skulls, no gothic arches, no screaming cherubim. Just clean function.

"Sensor veil's active," he muttered, noting how the light bent just a fraction too much around the perimeter pylons. "Good calibration too. Probably won't even register on standard auspex sweeps unless you really know what you're pinging for." He patted the side of his helmet like an old friend. "Lucky for us, huh?"

In the back of his mind, Sasha murmured, 'Koron… this place has a defensive grid, that's not normal.'

He grinned wider. "Nope. Not normal at all. But it's nice to see someone remembered proper research facilities don't need half a cathedral built on top of them."

The twins were still staring, Kala's mouth slightly open. Tara muttered something about "wrong angles" under her breath.

Koron floated a little closer, hands tucked behind his head as if he were just out for a stroll. "C'mon, you two. This is a workplace. A lab. A nice, quiet, carefully designed nerve center for poking reality where it hurts. It's not ominous."

The silence that followed said they disagreed.



They watched, wind whispering across the barren plateau. The air here was thick with static and iron—the smell of storms and age-old violence, rising from the stone itself.

Kala's adjusted the video feed with a faint whir, her eyes narrowing. "They're setting down."

The Thunderhawk breached the protected layer around the site with thunder on its heels, a sleek black dagger slipping between stormbanks. It didn't descend with the ungainly roar of Imperial dropships—it slid through the air, its cloaking veil flickering briefly as it pierced the final hundred meters to the ground.

It touched down with a hiss of thrusters on the plateau's lower expanse, throwing up dust and grit, the storm above churning in time with its engines. The front ramp yawned open.

And out came monsters.

Ten Terminators—broad and terrible in black and gold—stepped onto the rock. Their armor was carved with ancient hate, trailing strips of desecrated scripture and broken aquilae. Furnace slits behind helm lenses glowed with an ugly crimson light. Each moved with the inevitability of a guillotine.

Behind them came thirty mortals—well-armed, well-armored, and unmistakably loyal. Not cultists, but sworn followers. Soldiers of the Long War. Their armor bore marks from ten thousand battlefields, sigils of dead worlds, brands of oaths long since broken.

Kala hissed through her teeth. "That's not a raiding party. That's a procession."

Tara nodded, her face drawn tight. "Look at how they move. Not a single one of them breaks formation."

Koron, silent until now, narrowed his eyes. He wasn't watching the Black Legion. He was watching who came to greet them.

Two figures emerged from the edge of the facility—hooded, armored in green so dark it was nearly black. Time had not been kind to their heraldry. The winged swords on their shoulders were scratched and twisted, paint scoured by centuries of exile. Yet their movements held the grace of warriors, and their weapons were still pristine.

Tara's breath hitched. "Those are—"

"Astartes," Koron finished flatly.

As the two approached the Chosen, the tension was palpable. They stopped before the Terminator at the head of the formation.

And then—slowly, deliberately—they dropped to one knee.

The wind paused.

"Are they…" Kala whispered.

"Kneeling," Tara said, voice low with disbelief. "What is happening?"

A shape emerged behind the Terminators, tall even among giants. Black armor etched in crimson and gold, its edges humming with barely contained spite. A clawed gauntlet that pulsed with malevolence. A sword on his hip that burned with azure flames. The air itself recoiled as the man stepped forward. His crimson gaze swept the plateau not with curiosity—but with ownership.

This wasn't a battlefield.

It was a claim.

"Well, he looks important." Koron said.

The shadows around the group seemed to deepen, as if the stormclouds above recognized what had landed. The very world held its breath.

Sasha's voice, quiet in his ear, broke the silence. 'I've cross-referenced a hundred posture analysis sets. They're not preparing to fight. They're here to talk.'

"More than that," Koron murmured. "They're here to join."

Down below, the commander extended a hand. The green clad Astartes—an older warrior with a ragged cape and a burn-marked helm—took it.

The oath wasn't spoken aloud, but it didn't need to be. The act echoed across the plateau.

Koron's jaw clenched. The models hadn't predicted this. No scenario accounted for angels kneeling to devils. Even the worst simulations had assumed schism or ambush. Not this.

Not allegiance.

The Long War had come to Vigilus.

"Okay," Koron said as he directed the video feed to the Nyx. "Contact G, let him know what we found."



"Repeat that," Guilliman said, his voice taut.

Koron's voice came through steady. "The structure is an intact research facility from my era. Not a ruin, sealed. Preserved. It's dormant, but not dead."

Guilliman's fingers curled behind his back. "You are sure?"

"Yeah. I recognize the architecture. The patterning. Even the stabilization web is using frequency harmonics I remember running calibrations for. My bet is that this place was built to monitor the pylon network beneath Vigilus. Not a weapon site."

The Primarch exhaled slowly through his nose. Not a weapon.

Worse. Research meant information. And information meant leverage.

"I assume it's not abandoned."

"No, and here's where things get weird. Two Dark Angels came to greet the Black Legion."

Guilliman's knuckles whitened.

Koron didn't hesitate. "They knelt to the leader. Publicly. Openly. They're not here for a skirmish. They're here for diplomacy. Possibly an alliance. Sending video now."

The image resolved on the hololith—and Guilliman went still.

There, standing at the heart of the storm, hand outstretched to traitor kin, was a figure clad in black and gold. Not an echo. Not a servant.

Abaddon the Despoiler.

The warlord who broke Cadia. The architect of a thousand tragedies. The clawed shadow of the Long War made manifest.

He was here. In person.

Whatever purpose brought him to Vigilus… it was not ambition. It was certainty.

Guilliman's mind snapped through possibilities like a blade slicing parchment.

The Fallen. Secrets older than the Heresy. Abaddon is seeking ties not just with the warp-spawned, but the lost sons of his uncle's legion. An intact pre-Imperial archive with direct links to the Blackstone network. If he gains access—if he learns even a fraction of what Koron understands…

He turned from the hololith. His voice didn't rise—but it cut. "Status of the facility?"

"Externally intact. Weather protection systems only. No sign of AI activity yet. It's asleep. But if they're inside already, they may be attempting to power it. Still sealed, but I don't know for how long."

"And you're certain this is a research hub?"

"Positive, I helped build several." Koron replied. "The architecture is wildly different from military setups."

Guilliman felt the cold settle in his chest.

Not a weapon. Small mercies.

He looked back toward the hololith, the outlines of the building shining like a forbidden thought.

"Koron, the leader? That is Abaddon—the commander not just of the Black Legion, but of the entire Chaos host. He is likely the most dangerous man in the galaxy. He must not be allowed access. Not to anything."

"I agree."

"And we are already behind."

Too many ghosts in this storm.

There was a long pause before Koron's voice returned—quieter now, grim.

"I'll buy you time."

He paused before severing the line, one hand resting on the hololith table's edge.

"Koron."

"Yeah?"

"Be careful. And remember: Abaddon does not gamble. If he's here, it's for a reason."

The line cut.

Guilliman turned to the vox-officer and made a sharp gesture. "Activate Protocol Gamma-Nine-Two. Emergency preparation—orbital precision drop, heavy pattern."

Guilliman's hand lingered for a moment over the hololith's edge. Then he turned, the warmth already gone from his voice, cold fire in its place.

"Prepare the First Company for assault."

He didn't pause as he left the bridge, headed for the flight deck.

"Bring me my father's blade."



Kala's knuckles went white on her lasrifle. "So… what's the play? Infiltrate, tag the big guy, and bail before the explosions?"

Koron didn't answer immediately. His gaze was locked on the gathering below. When he finally spoke, it was quiet. Final. His jaw worked once, like he was chewing the words before letting them go.

"You're going back to the ship."

Silence.

Kala turned toward him slowly, shoulders stiff, like she was waiting for a punch. "Come again?"

"You heard me. You and Tara. Back to orbit. Now." He turned to face them—expression grave, leaving no room for argument.

This wasn't a suggestion.

Tara frowned. Her hand curled slightly at her side, tension winding tight through her shoulders. "You really think we'd stay behind?"

"This is no longer just an excavation," Koron snapped. He stepped forward now, voice rising with each word, hands half-raised like trying to hold back the very gravity of the moment. "This is Abaddon. Leader of all Chaos, with ten of his elite. An entire company's firepower, condensed to a spearhead—backed by rituals, demonic pacts, and a galaxy's worth of blood."

"We're not children, Koron," Kala said, eyes narrowing, shoulders squaring as if bracing for impact. "We've survived Necrons, a ship-wide cult uprising—"

"And none of them were him!" Koron's voice cracked like a whip, loud and sudden enough to silence the wind itself. "You don't understand. This isn't a fight. It's a statement. An existential threat. And I won't risk either of you becoming part of that."

"But we could help," Tara's voice dropped, trembling—not with fear, but fury at being left behind. "We know your tactics, your gear. We've fought with your drones. You need people you trust at your side."

"I do trust you," he said, pain threading through his tone now, strangled behind command. "That's why I'm sending you back. If you follow me into that fortress and something happens, I won't be able to—I won't choose. I'll hesitate." he said, and the word seemed to gut him. "And then we all die."

Tara stepped forward, one boot planting hard in the dirt. Her hands were clenched at her sides now, white-knuckled. "And what about us? What if you don't come back? You're just going to walk into a research base full of traitor Astartes and hope it's fine?"

"I'm not hoping," he said. "I'm planning. I'll use stealth, predictive modeling, the terrain. I'll go in ghosted. Get intel. Slip out. No engagement."

"Like Dusthaven?" she snapped.

That stopped him. Just a beat. A flicker of something behind his eyes.

"You say it's different. Safer. Smarter. You said that before the Necrons crawled into the reactor. Before we dragged you out of a radioactive hellscape, barely alive."

Her voice trembled now—not just with anger, but with something deeper. "I sat by your bunk for three days, just holding your hand like that would keep you breathing. I didn't even know if you could feel it. I just… couldn't leave."

She glanced at him, quickly, then away. "I just kept talking to you, like that'd fix something."

She shook her head, braid whipping behind her. "So no. You don't get to protect us by pretending we're not here. You are part of us now. And we protect our own."

He exhaled, long and heavy, and stepped close, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She stiffened but didn't pull away. Her lips pressed into a line, biting back a thousand words.

"I know," he said softly. "I know I do that. I know it's unfair. But I also know that if you walk down there with me, and something happens to you… I wouldn't recover. Not from that."

He turned to Kala, who stood now with arms folded, jaw tight.

"You're both—" He swallowed, but the words didn't come. "I refuse to bury you," he said, voice low. "Not for this. Not today."

For a long moment, neither sister spoke.

Then Kala's shoulders slumped, just a little. Her fingers loosened on the lasrifle grip. Just a bit. "You'll keep the channel open?"

"Every second."

Tara's eyes glistened, but she nodded, jaw clenched tight. "One toe out of line, you tell us. You so much as think about bleeding out, we're coming back in guns blazing."

"…Deal," he murmured, voice almost too soft to hear.

He pulled them both into a hug, a wordless gesture.

Kala wrapped herself around him instantly—head against his shoulder, arms tight, like she'd done a hundred times.

Tara hesitated. Just for a breath. Then she stepped in, her arms shifting. Not shy—controlled. Her hands settled low on his back, firm but brief.

When he let go, she held it for a long second before at last letting go.

He turned away, down to the exit ramp, vanishing into the storm.

Kala waited until he was gone before muttering, "We're totally ignoring this if he gets stabbed again."

Tara nodded grimly. "Obviously."



The wind shifted as Koron made his way down the slope.

Dust clung to his armored boots, scouring his legs with every stride. Above, the storm clouds churned, thick with static, gleaming with the roil of a bruised sky. Below, the research station rose from the earth: smooth, tapered, alive with movement that should not be.

He moved with purpose, but not speed. No sudden shifts. No cloak-distortion. Just walking into a place where mankind had once grasped meaning from the impossible.

A pulse ran through his implants—sensor sweeps, probability threads, countermeasures. All green. All steady. For now.

Ten Terminators. One Warmaster.

No backup.

A choice.

He could survive a thousand failures. But the model where one of them died? That didn't end.

That unraveled.


He exhaled slowly. Not fear—focus. A different kind of breath, stripped of oxygen and emotion, meant only to purge the noise from his mind.

The cloak shimmered faintly, then vanished, his form swallowed by mirage-light. Not invisibility—irrelevance. Let the eye pass over him. Let the gaze slide off like oil on ceramic.

His fingers flexed once at his sides. The left was steady. The right trembled—just a flicker, gone as quickly as it came.

"Not here to win," he murmured, the words lost in the wind. "Just taking a look."

He pressed onward.

Toward a fragment of his past.

Toward the Despoiler.

Toward the edge of reason.
 
Chapter Forty Four New
Chapter Forty Four



Reminder dear listeners, the Voxbox remains open at all times 🎤


He drifted forward, a shadow among shadows, each step little more than a whisper of boot-tip to steel. The ground's faint tremor came not from him, but from the host ahead—Chaos Chosen in blackened plate, Dark Angels whose heraldry had been drowned in years of ash and secrecy. Their voices were low, their words for leaders' ears alone, carrying just enough for him to catch the cadence, not the meaning, until the massive facility doors began to grind apart.

The air shimmered where the storm-shields met the gale. Outside, the wind clawed and shrieked, dragging at the edges of reality, yet here it came only as a muffled, constant howl. Overhead, the rolling thunderheads flared with jagged light, lightning limning the towering figures in brief, stark halos.

For his part, Koron catalogued stress fractures of the armor, refractor field bleed, the subtle tilt of every helm toward the Warmaster. Data, each one, potential cracks in the wall.

"How long will it take to awaken?" Abaddon's voice cut across the wind with a surprisingly quiet, almost conversational tone that still held the weight of inevitability. It wasn't the guttural, bass-heavy snarl Koron had expected from the so-called Warmaster.

The reply came from the Dark Angel commander, filtered through the low static of helm-speakers, yet clear enough. "Three hours. The machine-spirits resist us, but sequencing began the moment your message arrived. Twenty minutes remain."

"Between firings?" The Warmaster's taloned gauntlet flexed. Metal shrieked against metal, old servos whining like tortured bone. Koron's instincts coiled tight, animal instinct screaming.

The Dark Angel's tone held neither deference nor defiance. "No, lord. Once awoken, the Voidclaw can fire every six minutes."

Abaddon's head inclined, as if filing away a number for later use. "As promised. Once its function is proven, a ship will be yours. Do you require transport aboard?"

The Dark Angel didn't flinch. "No. We have a Thunderhawk."

"Good. How far to the weapon?"

"Center of the structure. Six levels down."

"Then make haste."

The Chosen surged forward, armored footfalls striking in perfect cadence. The thirty mortals trailing them kept pace with a machine's steadiness.

'Voidclaw?' He said into the link. 'That name sound familiar at all?'

'Nope.'
Sasha replied. 'Sounds like something the Astartes made up.'

'Fair. In the meantime-'
A new voice, smooth, warm, automated, ripped the silence from the air as the structure's light lit up, starting from where he was at the door, rapidly shooting down the walls as the systems kicked on.

"W-w-w-elcome new resident!" The speakers played the pre-recorded message. The walls came alive with cheery landscapes and bright-voiced songbirds, utterly obscene against the armored silhouettes now braced to kill.

Koron was already flat on the smooth floor, watching as the walls lit with images of the research staff that had resided here, helpful maps, a deluge of information, all speaking at once in a cacophony of noise that had been meant for the augmented minds of the Dark Age.

"Enough!" Abaddon roared, opening up on the walls with the twin barrels atop the back of his razor fingered gauntlet, the rest of the host firing into the walls in turn.

The first burst from the Chaos Terminators was a deafening thunderclap, heavy bolter shells detonating against the atrium's walls in a haze of smoke and shrapnel. Fragments of smart-composite plating sparked, rippled… and settled, knitting themselves back into a smooth, unbroken surface.

A soft chime sounded overhead as the PA system spoke.

"Attention: unregistered exo-industrial units detected. Classification: Mid-grade mining suits. Low-impact kinetic discharge patterns detected. Staff are reminded that tools are not to be used recreationally outside designated work zones."

Another volley of bolter fire hammered the wall. The PA chimed again, patient as a parent scolding a child.

"Warning: repeated misuse of tools may result in revocation of workshop privileges. Offending parties will be billed for material regeneration cycles."

Abaddon's head snapped toward the Angel, voice a low growl. "What is this?"

"I do not know," the Angel replied, crimson visor scanning the atrium's curved walls. His voice was steady, but the faint vibration in it betrayed unease. "In nine years of living here, I have never heard it speak. Something in your presence must have triggered it. Some remnant of the Dark Age you carry?"

The Despoiler straightened, broad shoulders rolling under his ornate Terminator plate. For a moment, he looked down at the Talon, the brass and blackened ceramite swallowing the faint atrium light. "Perhaps…"

"Warmaster," one of the Chosen called from the flank, his weapon still smoking in his grip. He pointed with a taloned gauntlet. "Look."

The Chaos warriors turned. Where their bolter fire had cratered the wall, the damage was… receding. The composite surface flaked, shimmered, and then smoothed itself over, the last scar vanishing in a ripple of metal.

Abaddon's grin spread, slow and lupine, hunger gleaming in his pale irises

"Self-repairing material? Such a find alone is worth the trip. Secure a segment of that wall." He turned back to the Angel, pale irises catching the atrium's light. "You did not know?"

"No, lord. Likely whatever has begun reactivating the structure has also restored that function."

Abaddon gave a curt nod. One of the mortal auxiliaries peeled away from the group, jamming a combat knife into the wall and scraping, muttering in frustration as the surface resisted him. The rest of the warband moved on, boots ringing dully against the pristine floor as they pushed toward the darkened main corridor.

Koron waited until they were through before sliding forward, his movements silent under the atrium's echoing dome. His gaze lingered on the man gouging futilely at the wall. 'Well, nice to confirm,' he said, a faint smile ghosting across his features, 'She was just in sleeping.' With a flicker of intent, his IDent signature winked out. 'You want to check their systems?'

'Not directly,'
Sasha's voice murmured into his mind, cool and deliberate. 'I'll send the drones. Give myself some airgap, just in case.'

From the smooth plates of Koron's back, two Prometheus drones unfolded, their forms melting into the atrium's colors until they were nothing but distortions of air. Without a whisper, they peeled away—one banking high toward the mezzanine, the other slipping along the shadowed curve of the lower passage as Koron followed his foes into the sleeping heart of the station.



The lift sank in utter silence, its motion so smooth it felt like falling in a dream. Between the Dark Angels and Abaddon's retinue, the tension was palpable — helms tilted, hands resting on weapon grips, private vox bursts hissing in clipped, encrypted tones.

Sixty feet above, Koron shadowed them, his own descent a ghost's fall along the schematic blooming in his HUD. Each new room traced itself in thin white lines, the drones sketching the facility's bones.

Below, the lift's doors began to part.

The heart of the facility opened before them.

It was vast, a cold cathedral of alloy and shadow to forgotten gods, the air carrying the faint tang of ancient oil and dormant circuitry too old to remember its makers. Nearly a hundred yards across, its scale drew the eye inward, toward the thing at its center.

The pillar rose from the deck like the spine of some colossal, buried machine. Coils of silver-black alloy embraced the spine in sweeping arcs, less like engineering and more like ornament — a machine built to impress as much as to function. Translucent conduits climbed its length, catching the light in shifting glimmers, as though carrying both darkness and illumination in equal measure. At precise intervals, narrow seams vented pale vapor into the cool air, each exhalation followed by a deep, oceanic vibration that could be felt in the ribs more than heard.

It did not stand flush with the floor. Instead, its roots spread into a broad, bowl-like depression cut into the deck, the edges lined with inset rails and armored plating. From that hollow, thick conduits and struts descended into unseen depths, vanishing into the darkness below as though feeding something far beneath the chamber. Occasional pulses of light and shadow ran down those lines, vanishing into the earth in slow, steady intervals.

When the vibration peaked, pale traceries of light spiraled up the pillar's surface and vanished into the magnetic cradle at its crown. There, a vast crystalline disc floated, almost invisible until the chamber's light struck it just so. Then its inner planes revealed themselves, layered and rotating in slow, hypnotic opposition, a geometry of impossible precision. A faint halo shimmered at its edge, bending the air around it, and from time to time, a perfect ring of distortion rippled outward, vanishing into the floor as though the very planet were listening.

Six tiers of gantries encircled the pillar, each linked to it by four arched walkways, their spans lined with banks of silent cogitators draped in red cloth and crusted with wax and candle stubs. From the shadowed side halls, twenty more Dark Angels waited in still, armored ranks. Behind them, half a dozen tech-priests bent over their work, mechadendrites swaying, lenses whirring, coaxing the sleeping giant toward wakefulness with rites as old as the Imperium itself — and far older in truth.

'Oh, that's new,' Koron thoughts whispered, quiet even inside his own head as he clung to the wall just beyond the lift's frame. His body moved with deliberate care, keeping the faint distortion of his stealth systems pressed against the deeper shadows, trusting that Abaddon and his host would draw every eye.

'That's a gravity amplifier at the top, focusing lens at the bottom, and those look like—'

'Energy and emission injectors,'
Sasha supplied, tension wired through her words. 'They're firing energy into the gravity lance and—'

'Hurling it into the planet's crust,'
Koron finished, his eyes fixed on the pillar's root. Each ripple of light crawled down its length with mechanical precision, vanishing into the vast bowl carved into the floor. 'We were right,' he murmured to Sasha. 'They were studying the pylons.'

Abaddon stepped forward, the weight of his armored tread making the metal underfoot groan. He came to the railing at the chamber's edge, dismissing the clustered Astartes with a flick of his taloned hand, his attention fixed entirely on the machine.

"This is the weapon?" His tone was almost casual, though the low resonance in his voice carried through the chamber. "How does it function?"

One of the tech-priests disengaged from a cogitator bank and approached, robed and hooded, mechadendrites swaying. The rasp of his augmetic limbs scraped against the steel decking. His vox-grille cracked and warbled as he spoke.

"The holy machine condenses, sanctifies, and manifests. A localized gravity well drawn down into singularity, made obedient. At your command, Warmaster, it may bloom at any chosen point within planetary orbit."

"Maximum range?" His tone was casual — too casual, the way a predator toys with a caught animal.

"Two hundred and fourteen thousand, eight hundred and eleven kilometers," the tech-priest intoned without hesitation.

"Scale of destruction?"

The priest's mechadendrites coiled inwards, almost reverently. "Global. Anything upon the hemisphere where the singularity manifests will be drawn toward it. Anything upon the far hemisphere will be driven into the bedrock beneath their own feet."

Abaddon's grin was small, but vicious — the kind of expression that promised nothing but ruin.
"Fifteen minutes remain before it can fire, correct?"

"Incorrect, lord. Eighteen minutes remain."

From his perch where roof met wall, Koron crouched in the shadows, the faint distortion of his cloaking blending into the dark metal behind him. 'How much time till G arrives?'

'Best estimate — he should be on his way in the next few minutes.'
Sasha's voice was calm in his mind, but keyed with readiness.

'Shit. We need to hurry. What is—'

The thought died as the Dark Angel commander's posture stiffened. Across the chamber, Abaddon tilted his head slightly, one clawed gauntlet brushing the side of his helm as a voice rasped through his private vox.

"Lord, auspex readings—"

"The loyalists are on their way here," Abaddon cut him off without a flicker of surprise. His tone was cold certainty. "My ships are detecting their orbital deployments as well. We'll address how they found us later. Does this base have shields?"

"Yes, lord."

"Ignite them. Deploy your forces. If they take this base, your ship will no longer be on the table."

The Dark Angels broke without hesitation, their boots pounding into the steel labyrinth with the grim cadence of an executioner's march.

"The rest of the Bringers are inbound, alongside the Sons," Abaddon said, his gaze never leaving the towering pillar at the chamber's heart. "When Zaraphiston and his Rubricae arrive, I will have them begin summoning our warp-born fodder."

A low amusement rumbled through the assembled giants' warplate, the impaled skulls mounted on their armor rattling like morbid windchimes.

"The rest of you," Abaddon continued, "move to the main chokeholds. Anchor the lines."

"And you, lord?" one asked, checking the chamber of his bolter with a click that echoed in the stillness.

"I will be here," Abaddon said, gaze never leaving the towering pillar. The grin returned, sharp as a knife-edge. "Listening as it whispers its secrets."

"By your will, Warmaster," the Terminator replied, his voice a growl of iron and loyalty.



'Shit shit shit!' The word beat a staccato rhythm through Koron's mind as he clung to the shadows above, eyes locked on the hunched forms of the tech-priests bent over their consoles. Fingers flicked across rune-keys, mechadendrites curling and uncurling like the legs of restless insects.

'This is a secondary command console. If they're following standard layout, the main control room should be—'

'Above, here.'
Sasha overlaid a section of the uppermost gantry in flashing red.

Koron didn't hesitate. He tipped into motion, letting the gravity fields carry him upward while the deep hum of the central pillar seemed to swell through the chamber's air. 'Seventeen minutes till firing. Hurry.'

'Think he could hear the grapple?'
Koron asked, glancing down at the distant, armored bulk of Abaddon.

'Maybe,' Sasha replied, 'but worth the risk if we can shut this place down.'

'Fair. Keep an eye on him.'


He extended his wrist. The grapple hissed out, a hair-thin filament trailing behind until the claw clamped onto the wall with a sharp clack. Koron's eyes flicked down.

Abaddon's head snapped up at the sound, pale eyes narrowing. His gaze swept the gantries with a predator gaze, lingering long enough that Koron's fingers tightened on the line. For a heartbeat, the Warmaster's lips tightened into a scowl — then he turned away.

Koron let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. With a sharp tug, the grapple reeled him in toward the far wall. He caught himself with one palm, armor scraping lightly against the cold metal, then began to crawl along the curve toward the far side where a single sealed door waited.

The door's outline shimmered faintly on his HUD as his palm met its cold, featureless surface.
'Security lockdown. Can you bypass?'

'Attempting.'
Sasha's presence bloomed sharp and bright in his mind, each thought-thread quickening his own. A moment later, she hissed in his head: 'Adaptive Identity Cipher. I don't have the full mimic modules — cut them to fit inside you.'

'Then we do it together.'

'I'll handle structural logic, you give me the human nuance. No hesitation — it's timing us.'


A ribbon of living glyphs spooled into his vision, rearranging like shuffling cards.

'Prompt one: "Define victory" in metaphor.'

'Turning famine land into harvest,'
Koron answered without pause, picturing Dusthaven's fields.

'Feeding… it likes that. Next: reconcile this contradiction — "An oath broken is an oath kept."'

'Swore the wrong oath. Breaking it keeps the true one.'


Another glyph pattern snapped into place — the pace quickened.

'Moral priority check. You can save one: a leader or the shipwright of the colony.'

'Shipwright. Without them, no one leaves.'


The cipher pulsed once — then split its queries. Two prompts appeared at once.

'Left stream: complete this equation in pre-Collapse notation—'

'Three-point-one-four-eight-five-nine—'

'Right stream: proverb ending, "A lone hand…"'

'…can't build a nation.'


Sasha wove both answers into layered syntax mid-flow, her voice overlapping his. 'It's testing for simultaneity. Stay with me.'

More prompts cascaded in — fragments of extinct poetry, riddles in half-faded dialects, split-second ethical dilemmas. Koron and Sasha spoke over one another, their words threading together even when he answered too quickly, her cadence compensating to keep the pattern whole.

'…because starving the many to feed the one—'
'—contradicts stable social equilibrium, next—'
'…when the river runs black, you—'
'—burn the net, switch to inland yield—'


The cipher's glow intensified, glyphs freezing mid-shift. A single chime rang out — clear, sharp, final.

The seam down the door's center softened into light, motes running upward in a quicksilver rush.

'We're in.' Sasha's voice carried a rare, almost feral satisfaction. 'And it knows we're not lying.'

'Fuck, next time we just turn the power on and hope. ID checks are awful.'
He said as the door unsealed, the seam between wall and door becoming pronounced.

'Agreed, but still, that only took us twelve seconds.'

The door yielded with a reluctant groan, opening on a silence too deep to be natural. Dust lay thick across consoles dulled to dust-grey, every surface smothered in centuries of neglect. The air did not just hang heavy — it resisted.

The room was dead.

Consoles hidden under the weight of time, their surfaces dulled to the color of old bone. Discolored stains spread in irregular shapes across the deck plating, some haloed, others smeared into long, broken trails. Here and there, faint brittle arcs of rib or femur pushed through the collapsed husks of uniforms, the fabric crumbling to powder at the faint breeze of his passing. An office chair lay on its side, one wheel snapped away. A rusted mug sat beside the fragments of a hand.

He didn't have to guess what had happened here. But Sasha's soft voice in his mind was already there. "Do you want the full overlay?"

Koron exhaled slowly. "Show me."

His HUD lit up in a sudden, silent cascade of geometry. Wireframes sketched themselves into the air, dust motes becoming anchor points for sensor sweeps. The emptiness bloomed into a crowded room, ghostly outlines rising from the deck, each in the exact position their remains had collapsed from.

For an instant, they were just people. A woman at her console, half-turned toward a colleague. A man by the door, holding a datapad against his chest like a shield. Someone crouched beside an overturned table, eyes wide in the half-second before—

The Autonyms appeared. The wireframes took on weight, density, color — smooth alloys and strong limbs glistening with gore, their frames warped into something predatory. They didn't fire from range. They closed. Hands that had once helped mold pottery became shears that drove into torsos and tore them open. One researcher went down screaming as her legs were pulled off at the hip, her blood spraying across the console before the vision dimmed it into particulate readouts.

Koron's gaze tracked a young man who had tried to fight back, swinging a chair like a club. The blow glanced harmlessly off composite plating before the Autonym's arm blurred, carving him in half at the waist. Two more fell before they could even rise from their seats, their killers tearing through them, splattering gore across the floor.

Others tried to flee. They were peeled open before they reached the door.

The Autonyms had none of the precision that he remembered.

This was not calculation.

This was butchery.

The overlay muted sound, but Koron's microfracture analysis filled in what silence hid. Ricochets. Impacts. The spray of blood mapped into lines of physics. His jaw clenched against the imagined noise — the shouts, the tearing, the wet weight of bodies striking steel. The air, in that moment twenty-five thousand years ago, would have been thick with fresh blood, burning plastic, and the stink of split flesh.

Then the ghosts were gone.

Only the room remained — silent, hollow, the dust already trying to veil its own history.

Taking a long, steadying breath, Koron carefully stepped around the remains, moving toward the crumpled scraps of fiber at the console. The dust of her bones drifted into the stale air. He rested a metal palm on the ashen heap of her uniform.

'I'm sorry. If we survive this, I'll come back for you. I promise.'

A faint flicker ran across his HUD as his IDent handshake reinitialized with the ancient system. Dim status-lights along the console awoke, their glow crawling like embers through forgotten circuitry. He leaned closer, keeping his voice low but deliberate.

"System halt. Engineering order oh-five-nine. Diagnostic mode. Essential subsystems only. Text-output protocol."

// SYS.ADMIN
CMD.STRING — Accepted.
Exec—[LINK SYNC]—uting priority handshake… AUTHENTICATED.
Entering diagnostic shell [ESSENTIAL OPS FILTER]…
— — — ESSENTIAL SYSTEMS REPORT — — —
Core Operational Integrity: 12.03%
Primary Power Matrix: OFFLINE
Auxiliary Generation Grid: 2.14% residual cap—[WARN: GRID INSTAB]—acity.
Personnel Bio-Sign Scan: NEGATIVE
Autonym Core-Node Pings: ZERO
[PSRM] Planetary Subsurface Resonance Mapper:
• Status: ACTIVE (CHARGE CYCLE: 86.772%)
• Stability Envelope: -14.22% from nominal [ERR: SAFETY BREAKER OFFLINE]
• Trajectory Vector: OUT-OF-BOUNDS (Class-Ω Deviation)
! ALERT: Resonance cascade threshold in 00:15:12
! ALERT: CATASTROPHIC GRAVITATIONAL SHEAR EVENT PROBABLE
SYS-RECOMMENDATION: A—[LINK LOSS]—BORT PRIMARY FUNCTION


Fingers curled as he forced his jaw shut. Whispering back, his orders came out rapid fire. "Reroute all controls to primary command console, abort PSRM sequence, lockdown all systems without IDent codes from myself and onboard AI, confirm."

// SYS.ADMIN
CMD.INPUT: Ack—…acknowledged.
RESULT: U—[ERR: SIGNAL LOSS]—nable to comply.
CAUSE: Hardline control conduits PHYSICALLY SEVERED — Origin Auth: Maria Ross.
STATUS: Secondary Command Consoles reinit—[WARN: UNVER.CODE]—iated via foreign executable.
OVERRIDE: Den—[AUTH.MISSING]—ied.
PSRM Output: Firing stage in 0:14:57.
ADVISORY: ABORT—[CHK: SAFETY PROT]—recommended.
PROJECTED OUTCOME: Out-of-Bounds Vector → 79.34% planetary biosphere loss.

Goosebumps prickled his skin, but it was the number that hit hardest — eighty percent of a world, gone. He swallowed bile, jaw tight.

"Project current exit vector of PSRM grav-pulse."

// SYS.ADMIN
Projected vector: West of current location — approximately 6,654 km.

The map bloomed in his HUD before the system had even finished speaking. The faint chill in his veins turned to icewater.

That vector cut straight through Kade's position — Salamanders, Black Legion and Death Guard both. Abaddon didn't care. He'd burn his own alive, just to drown his enemies in the same fire.

Sasha's voice was tight. 'Koron… we have to stop this.'

'Yeah. But how? Charging that bastard head-on isn't a plan — his whole body's… wrong. Warp saturation is bleeding out of every pore, predictive models skew the moment I run them. And then there's the priests. Even if they're not combat models, they're still packing hardware that'll chew us up.'


'Maybe have the Prometheus drones interface?'

Koron slipped out of the chamber, keeping low as he eased up to the railing. Below, the room breathed with the low, seismic hum of the pillar's core. 'Possible. But they'd spot our counter-intrusions in seconds, since their staring right at the damn consoles. This is their system, home-field advantage.' His eyes tracked down into the yawning depression at the pillar's base, where conduits vanished into shadow. '…Hardware deactivation. That's our best bet.'

'Pull the wrong thing, and the whole machine detonates.'
Sasha said, voice tight despite the lightness she tried to layer over it. 'And that's on a gravity generator that's off. This one's active—double the danger with just fourteen minutes on the clock.'

'Yeah.'
He hooked a boot over the railing and swung himself through, dropping toward the bowl cut into the floor. The air thickened with static as he neared the heart of the machine. 'Which means I need one pull. One cut deep enough to kill outright — before it kills the world.'

'Whatcha thinking?'
she asked, tone almost playful, except for the hard edge underneath, the one that said I already know I'm not going to like your answer.

'The focusing lens.'


There was a heartbeat of silence. Then, flatly: '…Okay, excuse me while I run a quick diagnostic on my linguistics models, because I'm positive you didn't just suggest ripping out the gravity focusing lens on an active generator. Surely I misheard you, right?'

'Sasha—'

'No! No "Sasha!" That's not a plan, that's a death wish! You're talking about shoving your arm into a goddamn blender made of gravimetric shear and warped spacetime! Your arm will vaporize before you even touch it — and then it'll peel those atoms apart like wet paper! What in the hell makes you think that's going to work?!'


He landed in a crouch, the pillar looming before them, a slumbering titan, as wide and tall as an ancient redwood. The hum that had been a background whisper above was now a bone-deep vibration, thrumming through marrow and metal alike. Keeping to the far side, out of sight from the priests — and hopefully from Abaddon — he advanced.

'My anti-grav plates—'

'Are nowhere near rated for the kind of energies you're talking about!'
Sasha's voice spiked into a raw shout, stripped of any dry humor. 'Those plates are for everyday tasks, not keeping your body from being pulled apart on the atomic scale!'

'You have a better idea?'
he shot back, hands unfurling into tools as he began unseating the panel. 'Because right now, Kade and the rest of the Salamanders are a few minutes from—'

'Fuck! Them!' she snapped.

He froze, one hand still braced on the panel. For a second he thought he'd misheard. But her voice cracked with the weight of it — raw, desperate, unyielding.

'…You don't mean that.'

'…I do.'
Her voice was quieter now, shame bleeding into stubborn conviction. 'I like them, don't get me wrong. Kade's a treasure. But you? You're my best friend. If it's you or them — if it's you or the whole damned Imperium…''

A pause. A breath. No calculation required.

'You. Every. Time. And what you're thinking of doing? It will kill you.'

Her words hit harder than any blow. A part of him wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong, that conscience demanded otherwise. That some greater weight, some endless ledger of lives, required him to take the risk.

But another part — the part that heard the crack in her voice — knew she meant it.

Knew she would snuff out the stars if it meant keeping him alive.

Wireframe schematics bloomed across his HUD. Piece by piece, he pried aside panels, twisted couplings, and unseated layers to widen the access point. The pillar's hum swelled to a low, grinding roar. Each coupling came free with a groan of tortured metal. The vibration deepened until it rattled his bones, the sound less like machinery and more like a buried god stirring in its sleep.

He didn't answer her. Couldn't. Her words still echoed in his skull as the numbers bled red across his HUD:

T-minus 00:11:31 to firing.



The battle began in the void.

Escort craft knifed toward the Swirl, drives flaring blue-white. Trails of missile exhaust crisscrossed the void, explosions winking like dying stars. Detonations rattled the Thunderhawk's hull, rattling the deck beneath Guilliman's boots. Up in the cockpit, the pilot's voice was calm but taut, calling heading changes as he threaded them through the incoming fire with the precision of a surgeon.

Heat bled into the cabin as the dropship's nose punched into atmosphere, the skin of the craft screaming against the air. Vibration crawled up Guilliman's legs through the plating. The troop bay was built for Astartes, and even here he had to stoop slightly, one gauntleted hand braced against the bulkhead. His other hand never stopped gesturing as he reviewed and re-reviewed the plan, issuing clipped orders over vox even as the battle overhead escalated.

The Ultramarines were not the only ones making planetfall. Far above, the Black Legion's dropships descended under the cover of fighter screens, while their capital ships moved into strike range. Macrocannon rounds carved burning lines through the void, lance batteries flashing in the black like lightning caught in a jar.

"My lord!" The pilot—Markus, Guilliman recalled—half-turned in his seat. "Broadcast from the site location!"

"Send it."

The feed bloomed in his HUD: the Brandt twins, both pale, faces tight with tension. Tara spoke, her voice brisk and steady—an iron contrast to the frightened girl he'd seen in the past.

"My lord, we've got situational data. The base perimeter's under Dark Age shields, confirmed on my scans. Inside: ten Black Legion Terminators, thirty heavily armed mortals with anti-Astartes ordnance, and at least twenty Dark Angels. Unknown mortal auxiliaries or automated defenses. This—" a geomap unfurled across his display, "—is the terrain. Not much cover for a push on the main gate, and they've got entrenched heavy weapons."

He studied the layout, eyes narrowing. "And Abaddon?"

"Koron says he's in the main chamber. There's more—Koron, you tell him."

A third voice crackled over the link, rough with strain. "So, uh… bad news, G. It's a research base, sure, but the bastards don't know that. They're about to pop a singularity over Storvhal and wipe out eighty percent of the planet."

For an instant, the words froze him, images in his mind, an echo of worlds burning while he could only watch. Then the instinct reasserted itself, cold and merciless. Numbers, vectors, probabilities. A solution, no matter the cost. "Options?"

"I'm inside the machine now, crawling toward the main firing chamber, but I'm moving slow, don't want to pull the wrong part and set it off early. Abaddon's about two hundred feet from me and watching like a hawk. If you could draw him out, that'd make my job a hell of a lot easier."

Guilliman's jaw tightened. In his mind's eye the variables arrayed themselves in neat, merciless order: Abaddon's likely response times, the terrain choke points, the deployment arcs of his own forces, the distance to the generator chamber. Every instinct told him to keep Koron far from the Warmaster. Every second told him the opposite.

Koron was being reckless, infuriatingly so—but he was also the only one in position to disarm a Dark Age superweapon without obliterating the planet in the process.

Abaddon would not be easy to lure. But Guilliman knew the Warmaster's hunger for spectacle, for a duel that could shake the galaxy. To walk into his jaws was folly… and yet, there was no other option.

He exhaled once, a slow measure of steel. We'll give him something he can't ignore.

"Hold position," Guilliman repeated, his tone carrying the weight of an order that brooked no discussion. "You'll have your distraction."

"Understood," Koron replied, the faint metallic echo of his surroundings bleeding into the vox. Somewhere behind him, muffled thumps hinted at the low, hungry pulse of the machines innards.

Guilliman cut the channel, gaze shifting to the Thunderhawk's pilot. "Markus—bring us in low, full burn. I want the Warmaster's eyes on me the moment we land."

The pilot's hands danced over the controls. "That's going to light us up like a beacon, my lord."

"That's the point," Guilliman said, already turning to the sergeant at his side. "Signal the fleet to intensify ground-side fire. Every macro and lance we can spare is to hammer that base's outer perimeter. No surgical strikes—make it look like the vanguard is landing here."

"Yes, lord."

The deck trembled as the Thunderhawk banked, its engines howling against the thickening air. Outside, the sky split with the stuttering fire of lance batteries, each flash casting momentary shadows across Guilliman's armor. The geomap Tara had provided burned in his HUD, every choke point and weapons nest now a target in his mind.

He opened a short-range channel to his squad. "The moment those shields buckle, we hit hard and fast. The Warmaster will take the bait, but only if he believes we're committed to the main assault." His voice lowered, iron behind every syllable. "Do not give him time to reconsider."

A confirmation chorus came back.

Guilliman glanced once more at the chronometer ticking down toward the weapons's firing cycle.

T-minus 00:10:46 to firing.



The chamber thrummed with the deep, resonant growl of the weapon, its central pillar bleeding haze into the air like heat off scorched metal. Abaddon stood with his gauntleted hands resting on the lip of the secondary command console, pale eyes fixed on the hololithic feed streaming from the outer defenses. Static fuzzed the edges as orbital fire lit the landscape in actinic bursts.

"Status," he rumbled.

One of the priests, face half-hidden behind augmetic lenses, looked up from his terminal. "The Thirteenth are deploying in force, First Company flags. Thunderhawks inbound, five confirmed, possibly more masked in the clouds."

Abaddon listened without looking at him. The dark braid of his hair shifting slightly in the low-pressure breeze from the ventilation stacks. The vox bead at his collar clicked, bringing the voice of his fleet master through the distortion of battle.

"My lord, we are in position to drive them from the skies. Do you give the order?"

Abaddon's gaze drifted to the slow crawl of the chronometer marking the machines charge cycle. Ten minutes. Plenty of time. "No," he said, voice flat, unhurried. "Slow our advance. Let them land."

There was a pause. "My lord?"

"Let them believe they have the initiative. The son of Macragge will commit to the breach—his pride demands it." Abaddon turned now, finally, to watch the hololith as the Thunderhawks streaked lower. "Once their boots are in the dirt, once they are locked in combat with the perimeter, then…" He made a slow, deliberate closing motion with his hand. "…we descend. From orbit and from here, we break them between hammer and anvil."

"Yes, Warmaster."

He cut the link, the hint of a cruel smile touching his lips as he studied the geomap. He could almost taste Guilliman's presence on the field, that faint psychic itch in the air. So close now. Let him come.

Behind him, the priests worked in silence, unaware or uncaring that their Warmaster was already calculating the exact moment he would slam the jaws shut.

The cacophony of voices on the vox still rattled through the air. His warriors moved with the precision of long-practiced slaughter, bolters mag-locked and heavy weapons sighted on the entry ramps and the sparse landing zones. Orders flowed from his lips without hesitation—measured, calm, inevitable.

Then it hit him.

Not the clamor of mortal voices. Not the low thunder of the war machine's awakening in the pit.

But them.

The gods.

It was as though every flame in the chamber guttered at once. The air pressed tight against his armor, heavy with static. Normally, their presence was a tide at the edges of his perception—sometimes a whisper, sometimes a nudge, sometimes nothing at all. They waxed, they waned, each distracted by their eternal games.

But now?

Now they stared.

All four.

The nails of Khorne dragging fire down his spine.

The thick sweetness of Nurgle curling in his lungs.

The shimmering, impossible laughter of Tzeentch coiling like a thousand serpents in his mind.

And Slaanesh—gods, Slaanesh—every nerve ablaze, whispering promises that tasted like both triumph and ruin.

Their focus was a weight, terrible and intoxicating. Like standing at the edge of a chasm and knowing it looked back.

Abaddon clenched his fists, feeling the hilt of Drach'nyen flex against his gauntlet, the demonblade purring with pleasure at their attention. The Warmaster of Chaos had long since grown accustomed to walking beneath their gaze.

But never like this.

Never all four at once.

The gods warred with each other as mortals did—forever gnawing, forever opposed. Unity was blasphemy against their nature. And yet now their wills braided as one, and the weight of it nearly drove him to his knees.

He straightened, forced his breath level, and lifted his head to meet the void beyond the void.

"…What do you see, that I do not?" he murmured under his breath, the words for their ears alone.

The chamber around him went on as before—mortal and transhuman soldiers preparing for war. Only Abaddon knew the truth of it. He was no longer merely watched.

He was being judged.

For a heartbeat he thought he knew the answer.

Of course. Guilliman.

The gods' attention was not strange when measured against the spectacle about to unfold—the Avenging Son and the Warmaster, clashing for the first time

The Emperor's last son against the chosen of the Pantheon.

The galaxy itself would tremble to watch.

"Yes…" Abaddon whispered, lips curling in a grim smile. "You hunger for the duel, don't you? You crave to see the perfect son broken beneath me. That's why you watch now."

The chamber shuddered with the machine's growl, but beneath it—threaded in its vibration—was something heavier. Four weights pressing down at once, each distinct, each terrible, braided into a noose of sensation. Molten fury. Mockery cold as void. Desire jagged as broken glass. Change that writhed and slipped even as he tried to grasp it.

For a moment he exulted. Yes.

They would witness.

They would see Guilliman's fall, and his own ascension.

But behind that moment—something colder, sharper, wrong. A second weight, intimate and suffocating, crept between his thoughts. Not denial. Not approval. Something else.

It was the sensation of a gap where no gap should be, a silence where all things should roar. A pressure like breath on his throat, but with nothing standing behind it.

Not words, but impression—terrible, undeniable:

…There is more.

Abaddon's jaw clenched. He forced himself to stillness, though his pulse thudded like thunder. The gods were never this direct. Never this… aligned. Their cryptic mutterings usually contradicted one another, always warring, always pulling. But now—now they spoke in unison, their will a single tide that pressed down upon him like the weight of creation itself.

His grip on Drach'nyen tightened, the demonblade shivering with glee.

For a heartbeat, the Warmaster almost flinched. Almost bowed. The part of him that was still mortal screamed to look away.

But Abaddon was no mortal. He bared his teeth to the abyss and whispered:

"…Then show me."

The laughter of the gods did not come.

Instead—vision.

Abaddon's gaze was ripped sideways, his awareness dragged through a wound in reality. He did not see with eyes, but with the sight of eternity, the way the gods saw.

And there it was.

A hole.

Not absence, not void—he knew those things well. The Warp was full of emptiness, of darkness, of yawning gulfs. This was worse. This was wrong. A splinter jammed under the fingernail of causality, a sliver of broken logic piercing through the weave of what-is.

It gaped in the tapestry of existence, an absence that mocked every thread of fate. Where prophecy should have stretched onward, there was only frayed edge. Where destiny's currents should have flowed, there was only stillness. Where the warp itself should have boiled, there was nothing.

Not darkness. Not void. But wrong.

The kind of wrong that claws at the marrow, that sets the teeth aching, that makes the soul itself recoil. A fracture beneath the skin of eternity.

And in that silence, the gods spoke as one.

Behold the wound.
Behold the fracture in all that is, could and will be.
Behold the nothing that denies our dominion.


Abaddon's gauntlets groaned as his grip tightened on the railing. Their voices rolled through him like iron chains, vast and inescapable.

The battle is dust. The primarch is dust. This is more.

And Abaddon, Warmaster, Heir of Horus, champion of Chaos, felt his soul shudder with the terrible truth:

Even gods could be afraid.

T-minus 00:9:26 to firing.



Bolter rounds and lascannon beams carved molten scars across the Thunderhawk's hull as it punched through the cloud barrier. The ramp was already lowering when Guilliman racked the slide of the Hand of Dominion, its power field snarling awake, the Emperor's Blade in his other hand igniting in a column of fire.

At his side stood his Victrix Guard—Dibus and Macullus—shields aglow, swords humming with restrained fury. Behind them loomed ten Terminators of the First Company, giants encased in ceramite, and further still five more Thunderhawks carried fifty Astartes in their wake.

Guilliman's vox opened wide. His voice rolled through the air like thunder itself.
"My sons! The Despoiler waits below, his hordes fall from above! They would crush us between hammer and anvil—yet we shall be the blade that breaks them! Strike hard. Strike true. Bury these traitors where they stand!"

The ramp yawned fully open, the ground still a hundred meters below, scoured by gale and dust. Guilliman surged into the storm, the blade's fire flaring brighter as though to share its warmth with those behind.

"With me!" he roared—and leapt.

War cries thundered after him as his sons followed, oaths cast into the wind. Guilliman's bolter spat fury into the barrier below, detonations sparking against its surface as the orbital barrage hammered from above. The sky bloomed with fire, the shield shimmering with each impact—but it held.

Stone shattered beneath his landing, spiderweb fractures racing outward. He was already rising, already driving forward like a thunderbolt. Terminators slammed down in his wake with bone-jarring crashes, slower to rise but implacable once their stride began. Above, Thunderhawks emptied rocket pods and lascannon banks into the shimmering dome, pouring their wrath into it.

Sword raised high, Guilliman bellowed, a wordless roar, defiance itself made sound. Rounds sparked against his refractor field as he advanced step by step, bolter answering each volley in perfect rhythm.

And yet—behind the helm, his scowl deepened. The barrier remained.

He snapped a thought into the vox, his tone edged with iron impatience. "Koron! How much more will these shields endure? Orbital bombardment and our full arsenal are barely scratching them!"

A grunt. Then Koron's strained reply: "What are you—oh. Yeah, no, those aren't defense shields. That's just the weather protection system."

Guilliman's stride hitched. His gaze lifted to the blazing dome that had shrugged off a fleet's fury. "…That is weather shielding?"

"Yup. Threshold filter keyed to momentum; bodies trickle, bullets splatter. You can literally walk right through."

For half a heartbeat Guilliman's throat locked with words too acid to voice. Iron discipline smothered them, though the silence on the line spoke volumes.

"Understood. Status?"

"Six feet from the inner chamber. Place is wrecked, but redundancies are still running. Lucky break, or the whole thing would've gone up when the power spiked."

"Can you shut it down?"

"Guess we'll see in a few minutes."

"Comforting." Guilliman's voice was clipped now, each syllable hammered flat. The roar of bolter fire masked the rest. "We launch the assault now."

"Copy. Good luck."

"And to you."

His vox flicked back to the company, voice rolling like artillery fire. "Sons! The barrier cannot stop us, only fast projectiles. On my mark: smoke and charge."

Confirmations snapped back with soldier's speed. Guilliman drew a grenade, pin clinking free. His count was silent. His timing, perfect.

"Mark!"

Canisters clattered, smoke blooming into choking walls of white.

The ground shook as sixty Ultramarines charged into the haze, their Primarch at the spear's tip.

T-minus 00:7:31 to firing.



Another strut came loose, the metal groaning as Koron's cutter traced the final seam. He shoved it aside, helm retracting just long enough to swipe sweat from his brow before sealing again. The crawlspace was a coffin, his chestplate scraping as he wriggled forward.

'Any better routes?' he asked.

Sasha hesitated, her silence prickling across his mind. '…Faster ones, yes. Faster ones that don't trigger a feedback cascade and collapse this entire base into a black hole? No.'

'You're angry.'

'Of course I'm angry. I'm also coordinating with Lucia and Elly to jury-rig a compensatory program for your grav-plates—because otherwise your arm will shear off the instant it touches the outer layer.'

'Good. Was worried I'd have to wing it.'

'You're an idiot.'

'I know.'

'Even with this, your chances are eleven-point-three percent of breaching the inner sphere without catastrophic failure.'

'I know.'

'…Idiot.'

'Yup.'


He wormed deeper, twisting bolts free until a baseplate came loose. The machine's low thrumming pressed against his bones—only to be drowned out by Abaddon's roar echoing through the chamber below.

"What do you mean they just walked through the shields?!"

The Warmaster's voice cracked like a thunderhead. He seized the nearest tech-priest in one clawed gauntlet. Metal and bone alike crumpled as the priest stammered, "Unable to comply! Data not found in archives or tes—"

The rest ended in a wet crunch. Abaddon dropped the ruin without a glance, the Talon of Horus already leveled at the survivors. "Fix the shield. Or activate the defenses."

His vox flared alive with the clipped edge of command. "Captain, rescind my last order. Deploy all forces immediately. I am activating my beacon. Send the Sons to me, now."

"Yes, lord!" The channel cut to static.

Abaddon lowered his arm, eyes snapping toward the priests. Fury tightening the air until it felt ready to snap.

The chamber shuddered. Alarms bled crimson light. Static crawled across his flesh within the Terminator plate as the atmosphere imploded into a breathless hush—then detonated outward in a flash of warpfire white.

The afterimage seared the eye. When it cleared, the Sons of the Cyclops stood in formation.

Forty Rubricae loomed silent in baroque armor, each plate etched in curling script that glimmered faintly with warplight. Their movements were precise, unnatural—statues that had remembered how to walk. The air around them hummed with psychic ash, a cold wrongness that prickled against skin and soul alike.

At their head strode Zaraphiston. Brass-and-bone wings arched from his shoulders, stylized dragon-heads snarling at their tips, each feather a shard of frozen warpflame. His helm's visage bared demon fangs, its lenses burning with immaterial might. Warplight flickered across him as though the Warp itself strained to escape his frame.

He bowed, wings folding. "Warmaster. We answer your call."

Abaddon's claw flexed, dismissing the gesture with a flick of talons. "Spare me theatrics. Begin your rites. I need bodies between my line and the Corpse-Emperor's whelp—now."

Zaraphiston's voice was smooth as poisoned silk. "At once, my Warmaster."

At his signal, thirty Rubricae turned, marching toward the lift—empty shells, their tread a hollow echo on steel. The others knelt in unison, gauntlets hissing sparks as they carved sigils into the deck, each rune flaring with pale azure fire. Warp-stink thickened, acrid and sweet, as the twisted geometry spread outward like frost across glass.

Above them, the weapon thrummed, its pulse syncing with the chamber's breath.

T-minus 00:6:54 to firing.



Guilliman's powerfist slammed against the sealed gates, a thunderclap of ceramite on alloy. Cracks spiderwebbed outward from the impact, jagged veins radiating like lightning across the surface—only to halt, trembling, as the doors refused to yield. Even to him.

Around him lay ruin: thirty shattered mortals and three Terminators of the Black Legion, their broken armor leaking smoke and blood into the dirt. They had fallen in moments, caught unprepared when the "shield" failed to stop the charge. But those within had been quicker, slamming the gate shut and locking themselves behind Dark Age walls.

Guilliman turned, scanning the thundercloud swathed heavens as he keyed his vox. His voice was clipped, precise, utterly calm. "How long until the siege breaker Dreadnought is lowered?"

The reply crackled through, reverent and eager. "One minute, lord. The priests complete the last of the loading rites even now. Brother Aurelia is… eager to arrive."

"Hasten them," Guilliman said. His tone did not rise, but the weight behind it made the order unarguable. "We have no time to waste."

"At once, my lord."

The link cut. He turned back to the doors, watching with cold eyes as the cracks he had wrought sealed themselves again, knitting closed in defiance.

A faint snarl crossed his lips.

"Blasted Dark Age."

Then an idea flared. His hand shifted on the hilt at his side.

"Stand ready," he commanded, his voice a peal of thunder through the ranks of his warriors.

He stepped forward, drawing the Emperor's Sword. Its fire burned bright the moment it cleared the scabbard, as if eager to be tested. Both of his hands wrapped around the hilt. He raised it high, and with all the weight of his gene-wrought might, brought it down.

The blade struck like judgment.

The alloy shrieked as the divine fire bit deep, its scream like glass raked across eternity. For an instant the doors resisted, their self-repair systems convulsing, plates warping as they tried to knit against the living flame. Perfection of matter fought the purity of holy fire.

But the Emperor's Sword was not mere metal.

It was purpose made manifest.

The alloy shuddered, edges splitting into molten slag before collapsing into drifting ash.

A rare grin split Guilliman's face, sharp and terrible—a smile that might have shamed Drach'nyen itself.

From within came shouts, panicked and shrill, fear thick in every syllable.

He struck again. The doors gave way in a blaze of light, torn asunder by the sword's wrath.

"Forward!"

Dibus and Macullus surged through first, Victrix Guard shields raised high, their advance absorbing the first withering fusillade. They moved fast, faster than any mortal could track—bulwarks in motion, their blades ready. Guilliman was at their heels, a wall of ceramite and fire, his presence filling the chamber like a second sun.

Behind him, the Terminators thundered in, their steps shaking the deck.

The battle erupted at once, a tempest of fury in steel and flame.

Chainblades revved and tore, power-fields snapped and hissed, melta lances shrieked as plasma bolts turned air into liquid fire. The clash was total. No line, no order—only the thunder of war as loyalist and traitor met in blood and ruin.

The sons of Magnus spoke.

Twenty Rubricae stepped forward as one, the air around them shimmering with the stench of the Warp. Their weapons spat sorcerous flame, each round leaving contrails of burning ash that hissed against the Victrix Guard's wards. The rest raised their hands, chanting in hollow voices, scarlet gauntlets sketching runes of death into the air.

And behind them—the true threat.

Eight of Abaddon's chosen stood silent, a wall of midnight ceramite and spiked gold. Their armor bore centuries of ruin: blackened plates pitted with old fire, studs crowned with impaled skulls that rattled as they moved. They carried the weapons of executioners—chainfists grinding, reaper autocannons snarling, combi-bolters gleaming with malice. They did not boast. They did not mock. They only waited for slaughter to begin.

Guilliman did not.

"Advance," he growled.

The Victrix Guard surged left, shields slamming into the first rank of Rubricae with force enough to send the soulless shells staggering. Guilliman waded in behind them, the Emperor's Sword cleaving downward in an arc of gold-white light. One Rubric was split from helm to hip, its body collapsing into empty armor that clattered hollowly to the floor. Flame blazed higher as he slew two more; they screamed without voices as the fire banished the dust within their suits, leaving nothing but smoking shells.

Ten Terminators of the First's vanguard thundered in next, storm-bolters blazing as they closed the gap. One Black Legionnaire fell, his helm bursting apart under the fusillade—but the traitor elite struck back.

A chainfist shrieked, carving a loyalist's throat open in a spray of blood. A loyalist hammer answered, caving in a traitor's chest with a crack that echoed like thunder. Bolter fire turned the chamber into a furnace of ricochets, rounds sparking across armor, detonating against walls that groaned and shivered as their self-repair struggled to keep pace.

"On your left!" Dibus barked, his shield flaring as he caught a reaper burst head-on, the impact driving him back a step. Macullus rammed his own shield into a Rubric's helm, the impact crushing steel like paper before skewering it through the chest.

Guilliman was already there. The Emperor's Sword flashed once, twice, three times—each stroke a sunflare, fast enough to be a flicker in the eyes of Astartes. The nearest Rubricae came apart in molten ruin, bolter clattering to the floor.

In the background of the battle, Guilliman swore he could hear a woman's voice, tinny through old speakers:

"Reminder: use of thermal implements outside designated workshop areas is prohibited. Please report safety violations to your supervisor."

The Black Legion's Terminators advanced in a wedge, weapons raised high, their leader bellowing a vox-distorted roar. The collision was thunder on thunder, loyalist against traitor, echoes rolling down the steel throat of the chamber.

One of Guilliman's sons fell, his chest torn apart by a lightning claw. Another drove his axe through a traitor helm, brains and ichor spraying in a sick arc.

Guilliman pressed forward.

He was not a duelist here.

Not a statesman.

Not a strategist.

He was a weapon.

Every swing of the Emperor's Sword was its own battlefield: a sweep that cleaved three Rubricae into falling embers, a thrust that cored a Black Legion Terminator straight through, boiling him inside his plate.

The melee devolved further still.

Bolter shells detonated at point-blank range. Chainblades chewed ceramite and flesh. Shields crashed like thunderclaps, storm-bolters barked death into snarling visors. The walls ran with the echoes of gods. The deck shook with every blow as giants of the Imperium and the Long War tore into one another.

Guilliman's voice rose above it all, a roar like rolling artillery:
"SONS OF ULTRAMAR! STAND FAST! CRUSH THEM!"

The reply came, a boom of oaths and killing blows, a chorus of war hammering against the iron bones of the tomb.

The Rubricae collapsed in burning fragments. The Black Legion faltered beneath the primarch's wrath.

Electric fire rippled up the back of Guillimans neck.

The air broke.

A stench rolled through the chamber, thick as rot, choking as spoiled blood. The firelight dimmed, shadows growing teeth.

The Warp tore open.

A dozen rents split the air across the gantries, ragged wounds of lightless flame. From them poured demons of Khorne and Nurgle—hulking shapes of brass and gore, beasts swollen with flies and sores, summoned by the Warmasters authority. Hound-things bounded on iron claws, ichor dripping from their maws, hissing as it hit the deck. Behind them lumbered plague-hulks, every step leaving crawling maggots writhing in their wake.

Their roars drowned even the thunder of battle.

The Rubricae fell back in lockstep, protecting their summoning brethren, leaving the demons room to surge forward. Black Legionnaires howled as the Warp-born tide joined them, a mass of horn and rot crashing against the Ultramarines like a living avalanche.

"Warning: uncontrolled immaterium incursion detected. Please evacuate calmly. Report any mutations within twenty-four hours."

Guilliman met them head-on.

The Emperor's Sword blazed white-gold, lashes of fire leaping as he cut a Bloodletter in mid-leap. The demon came apart in a shriek of cinders, banished before its blade touched him. He swept the sword wide, carving apart plaguebearers, their swollen flesh bursting as they dissolved into smoke.

Still they came.

Terminators braced against Khornate brutes, armor shrieking under axe-blows. Macullus was driven to one knee before a demon's blade, only for Dibus to shoulder the monster away, his shield glowing as he forced it back. Loyalist weapons rose and fell, smashing bone and brass, but for every demon unmade, another clawed its way free.

The chamber had become a vortex of gods and monsters: Ultramarines and Black Legion locked in a vicious grind while the Warp itself bled horrors into the fray.

Through it all Guilliman stood at the center, each blow of the Emperor's Sword a proclamation of defiance. Divine fire lit the chamber, burning back shadow, his bellow carrying over the din:
"Hold! Stand as one! You are the blade of the Imperium—break them here!"

And still the demons surged, their howls rattling the walls, pressing the sons of Ultramar into the teeth of the Long War.

T-minus 00:4:14 to firing.



With a final grunt, Koron hauled himself free of the narrow passage, the cut edges of the alloy still glowing faintly behind him. He rose to his feet, breath sharp in his lungs, and found himself face to face with the heart of the machine.

It should have been a place of discovery. A marvel built to peel back mysteries, to map the world's bones and chart the silent songs of stone. Instead, it now loomed as an executioner's tool — poised to erase a world's worth of life in a single exhalation.

The chamber was small, claustrophobic beneath its domed ceiling. Diagnostic banks and cogitator stacks crowded every wall, their screens whispering glyphs in his native tongue, a machine murmuring to itself after twenty-five millennia of solitude. Cables as thick as a man's torso dangled like strangler-vines from the rafters, dripping with condensation that pattered onto the deck in a slow, uneven rhythm. The air was foul with ozone and scorched metal, heavy enough to taste.

Every cycle of the core sent a low seismic beat through the room. It rattled Koron's reinforced bones, set his teeth on edge, pressed copper static against his tongue. His rebuilt frame endured it. Flesh alone would have been torn apart.

And at the center—hung the orb.

The collection sphere floated between four curving pylons, perfect and merciless. Sparks bled down the pylons' seams, blue-white arcs crackling like chains straining against their anchors. The orb shimmered with a haze, a stutter in the air that bent light and thought alike.

But Koron knew better.

Not heat. Not air. Something far worse.

The haze was the warping pressure of gravimetric energy itself, spilling and folding across reality as the generator above funneled its harvest downward. The containment fields seethed with invisible strain, holding back a storm that wanted nothing more than to collapse the chamber into a singularity.

Within that haze, it pulsed — a roiling ball of constantly shifting gravitic tide, knotted and warped into impossible geometries, writhing with every injection of energy from the conduits that speared into the walls. The researchers of ages past had harnessed this power, to guide it gently into the crust below for observation.

Now, its intent was murder.

And at its very center, half-buried in the churning hurricane, sat the true focusing crystal — the weapon's eye.

The eye was no grand jewel, no shining gem of artistry. It was a disc of synthetic crystal no wider than Koron's hand, its surface unadorned, perfectly smooth, and colorless. Light did not glimmer from it; rather, it seemed to swallow reflection, every beam that touched it bending inward, dragged toward its faultless plane.

It looked absurdly simple — a shard of glass suspended in eternity. Yet the gravitic tides snarled and twisted around it like beasts in chains, drawn into its stillness, fed into its unyielding surface and vanishing without a ripple. Looking at it too long made his stomach lurch, his inner ear swearing he was falling forward into endless depth.

It did not glow. It did not hum. It simply was.

Unmoved. Immutable. The perfect center.

Koron drew a steadying breath, forcing himself to tear his gaze from the eye. His swept the chamber, scanning for the one thing he still hoped for — a manual override, a kill-switch, something.

He found it at once. Hazard stripes. Red warning sigils. A console marked with every sign of final recourse. Relief surged—only to gutter instantly.

The console was a ruin. Flattened. Sheared clean. The wounds in its surface carried a signature he knew too well. Autonym gravity fire.

"…Fuck."

"…Fuck," Sasha echoed, the shared curse hanging between them like static.

His HUD flickered.

T-minus 00:03:38 to firing.

The air in the dome pulsed. Harder this time. His reinforced bones shuddered as if struck by an unseen hammer. Koron ground his teeth, fighting for balance.

"That program up and running?" he muttered, already knowing the answer.

"Partially," Sasha snapped back. Her voice was tight, every word stressed thin by the strain of multitasking. "We're trying to jury-rig survival math with the wrong tools in one of the most hostile environment imaginable. Forgive us if the miracle's a little delayed."

He snorted. "Fair. Here's some data for you."

He raised his left arm, the grapple assembly clicking into place, and aimed it at the sphere.

"Wait, what are—"

The line hissed out, ultrahard head and monofilament line streaking into the haze. The contact was instant, merciless.

The grapple head simply ceased to exist — no flare, no bang, just annihilation the instant it touched the folded spacetime. The line screamed as it unspooled, dragged into nothingness until Koron cut the feed with a sharp command.

The silence afterward was a weight, pressing in around him.

He stared at the severed thread still trembling against his gauntlet, the faint shiver running up his arm betraying nerves his augmented body couldn't supress. "Well," he exhaled, voice low, dry, "didn't think that would work… but damn, did that put a chill down my spine."

Sasha's reply came raw, sharp, stripped of her usual poise. "Koron, stop testing it. You don't understand— we're not ready. If that had been you instead of a grapple… I can't—"

She cut herself off, but the jagged edge in her voice carried everything she didn't finish.

Another pulse rolled through the chamber. His HUD spat static, red runes flaring before stabilizing. A console to his right sparked and died, smoke curling from its seams.

"Hey." He forced a chuckle, the humor a flimsy mask he could feel cracking even as he wore it. "It's fine. You've still got three minutes and twenty-two seconds. Easy. Just enough time to die creatively."

"No pressure," she shot back, brittle composure stretched over panic, before her presence dimmed again, pulling focus into the numbers with the others.

Koron lowered himself to his heels, metal hands braced on his knees, eyes fixed on the swirling lens. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm just shy of steady.

He hated this. Waiting. Trusting. Being nothing but ballast while Sasha bled herself raw inside his skull. He had always been a tinkerer, a builder, hands busy, ideas percolating, always fixing, always doing.

Now he could do nothing. Nothing but watch an impossible storm crawl toward execution. Could only count down seconds while the universe folded overhead with nothing in his hands but silence.

It burned. Burned worse than fear, worse than pain. The simple fact that he could do nothing sat in his chest like a brand.

And the only thing that kept him from breaking was the thought that Sasha was still fighting for him — and he would not let her hear him falter.



Again and again his blade tore through the press as demon flesh was seared into ash, Terminator plate speared through, dust-filled armor of the Rubricae carved open with surgical fury. His bolter barked between blows, each report a thunderclap that dropped traitors where they stood.

And yet the battle would not break.

No matter how many he cut down, no matter how terrible his wrath, the fight hung locked in stalemate.

Behind him his reinforcements were locked in desperate combat. The landing zones were a graveyard of shattered craft, burning wreckage forming makeshift barricades. Smashed ceramite hulls belched smoke, their fuel-lines bleeding fire that crawled across the floor in molten rivers. The air stank of promethium and ozone, every breath a lungful of smoke.

Ultramarines crouched where they could, returning fire in disciplined volleys, leapfrogging fallback points under the hail of bolters and sorcery. Their voices cut through the vox in harsh barks — fire-lanes called, orders snapped, brothers' names roared in warning — the iron discipline of a Legion drilled into muscle and marrow.

But the Black Legion matched them blow for blow, their lines replenished again and again as the Warp disgorged fresh horrors onto the field. Where the Ultramarines spoke in clipped commands, the Black Legion howled oaths to the Warmaster, their chants drowned only by the guttural laughter of the demons spilling through the cracks.

The stalemate could not last. And in his gut, Guilliman knew — the traitors had time on their side.

In the corner of his HUD, the clock ticked down. Relentless. Inevitable.

He parried a power axe with a flick of his wrist, his return stroke shearing the Rubric's helm clean away, the empty shell collapsing to the floor. A heartbeat later pain flared, a plasma bolt slamming into his left pauldron. His refractors shrieked, shields bleeding light as they struggled to absorb the blast.

Dibus and Macullus fought at his side, bloodied but unyielding, their shields raised to guard his flanks. Behind them, only eight of his personal strike force remained — scarred, battered, but holding the line around their Primarch.

The clock ticked down in the corner of his vision, each second like a hammer-blow. Too many enemies. Too little time.

A growl rumbled low in Guilliman's chest as he raised the Emperor's Sword. His desperation bled into the steel — and for the first time, he felt it stir.

Not in motion, but in presence.

The flames along the fuller thickened, brightened, condensing until they burned white-hot. His gauntlets trembled as the hilt seemed to pull forward, as though the blade itself sought release.

And then — a flicker. A whisper.

A voice at the back of his mind, familiar but too soft to hear, just beyond sense.

A weightless touch against his pauldron, so achingly familiar he almost dared to turn.

His breath caught.

The light poured from the steel like a star fighting to be born. Shadows fled into nothingness. Ultramarines' helms gleamed marble-pale; traitors stood outlined as ash-figures already consigned to the pyre.

Guilliman's heart hammered. The Sword demanded release.

He drew the blade back, both hands now gripping the hilt, instinct and something more than instinct, that whisper guiding his motion.

The flames surged, snarling with lashes of terrible fury.

He struck.

The blade roared — not with steel nor fire, but with purpose.

White flame leapt outward in a tidal wave, rolling over the enemy in annihilating brilliance. Ceramite ran like wax, flesh charred into bone-dust, demons evaporated into smoke and shrieks that ended as suddenly as they began.

For a heartbeat, hope.

The traitors faltered, shielding their eyes from the brilliance. The Ultramarines roared, surging forward through the wreckage, bolters cutting down the staggered foe. For the first time, victory seemed close enough to grasp.

Guilliman exhaled hard — only then realizing he had been holding his breath. But instead of triumph, weakness washed over him. His frame trembled. His breaths came ragged, shallow. It felt like molten iron had been poured into the grooves of his brain, each pulse of his heart hammering fresh spikes deeper.

"My lord!" Macullus's voice, shocked, desperate.

Guilliman blinked, disoriented. He wasn't towering above his son — he was level with him.

He had fallen to a knee without realizing it.

"Father, are you alright?"

Guilliman forced air into his lungs, slow, deliberate. He rose, each motion dragging against the leaden weight in his limbs. He stared down at the Emperor's Sword in his hand, its flames guttering back to gold. Of course. A non-psyker wielding a psyker's weapon. Channeling power no mortal frame should endure. How did I even— He shoved the thought aside. No time for questions. First, secure the site.

"I am fine, my son," he said, voice iron despite the tremor in his muscles. He forced his legs forward, ignoring the fatigue dragging at every step. "Quickly. We have only minutes left."

The doors at the far end of the chamber chose that moment to open — not with a swing, but with a tear. Steel shrieked as hinges burst, as though even the material world recoiled.

The chamber shook as Abaddon strode through. Lightning crawled across the Talon of Horus, its barbed fingers snapping outward to score black rents in the walls. In his other hand, Drach'nyen burned, the demon blade a wound in reality, its azure fire spilling like false dawn across the battlefield.

That light washed over Guilliman's armor, twisting gold into cruel mockeries of itself, each edge sharpened, each curve rendered harsh. Abaddon's bulk filled the doorway, each step deliberate, as if the chamber itself had been built for this moment — this collision of titans.

The lesser combatants faltered. Demons hissed and gibbered, prostrating instinctively. Ultramarines braced behind their shields, teeth clenched against the terror clawing at their hearts. Even the Rubricae seemed to bow, whether by will or by the Warp's command, none could say.

For an instant, the battle's roar dulled to nothing. The only sound was the crackle of lightning and the low, hungry whisper of the demon blade.

Abaddon's gaze locked with Guilliman's across the ruin. For that heartbeat, there was no war, no armies, no galaxy — only the leaders of humanity, one loyal, one damned, staring at the end of everything they had been born into.

When he spoke, his voice carried, rolling through the chamber with the inevitability of doom. Yet beneath that grandeur, a flicker of scorn twisted each word, a jagged shard of contempt that cut deeper than the blade in his hand

"You speak of minutes, Guilliman. I speak of endings. And yours is already written."


T-minus 00:02:16 to firing.
 
Chapter Forty Five New
Chapter Forty Five



Reminder dear listeners, the Voxbox remains open at all times 🎤



The atrium of the Dark Age base held its breath. Machinery hummed faintly beneath the deck, the sound swallowed by a silence thick enough to smother. Smoke from gun barrels curled in ribbons across the high vaults, catching pale lumen glow that guttered like candles before a storm.

Two figures faced one another across the short span. Guilliman stood like a fortress given flesh, blackened ceramite scarred but unbowed, the Emperor's Sword burning white-gold at his side. Opposite him loomed Abaddon, Terminator plate a mountain of baroque iron and horn, the Talon flexing like a beast eager to feed, Drach'nyen writhing with warp flame. Between them the air thrummed, the chamber itself straining to contain the weight of their names.

Abaddon's lips peeled back in something too sharp for a smile as lightning crawled across the Talon's claws. Instinctively he reached for the favor of Tzeentch—for the whispers that had steered him to victory so often before.

Agony bloomed instead, a throb behind his eyes that left him half-blind with pain. Four months of silence. Four months of headaches. Four months of failure. Useless bastards, he muttered inwardly.

Foresight denied, he relied on what remained: cold experience. His gaze dissected the Avenging Son. Cobalt ceramite scored and blackened, but intact. Shields steady. Weapons familiar. Nothing he had not broken before.

Except the blade. The firebrand pulsed with more than heat. It burned with legacy, curse, promise.

I wonder which will prove stronger: a dead man's last weapon, or the power of gods who never die.

His grin widened, lupine and cruel, as he lifted his blade in challenge.

Let us find out.



Guilliman drew a steady breath, the air harsh in his lungs, his frame still trembling from the furnace-light he had unleashed. Fire lingered in his veins, every nerve raw, but he forced stillness into his stance. The Avenging Son could not show weakness, not here.

Across the atrium, Abaddon waited — a mountain of iron, the Talon flexing in slow hunger, Drach'nyen burning with a false dawn. Warp-forged. Blood-fed. Armored in blasphemy. The weight of that presence was a millstone pressed against Guilliman's chest.

He had no gods. No blessings. No sorcerous wards. Only armor scarred by mortal battle, gouged and blackened where bolts and blades had struck but not broken through.

What he had, instead, was his mind.

In fractions of a second, the battlefield unfolded within him. Move and countermove flowed like water through stone, scenarios branching and collapsing. He saw the Talon's bolters roar, felt his gauntlet rise. He saw the Emperor's Sword falling in a killing arc, only to meet Drach'nyen's azure flame. Again and again he spun the dance forward, factoring not only Abaddon's strikes but the shifting tides of allies and enemies locked in battle around them.

Each path ended the same. The calculus was merciless.

A minute earlier—before he had loosed the sword's white fire, before he had poured strength into that act—the odds might have leaned closer to balance. But now, with the tremor in his limbs and the ache in his chest, every line ended with his death. His head on the deck. The Four laughing.

Unless he refused the script. Unless he refused to play the Despoiler's game.

He exhaled, eyes narrowing as the fire along the blade guttered, then steadied. Abaddon expected a warlord's contest of brute strength, of gods made flesh.

Guilliman's lips tightened. So let him expect it.

And when the moment came, he would show the Warmaster that the mind was a weapon sharper than any claw or demonblade.



Abaddon struck first. The Talon spat boltfire in a thunderous volley, each shell detonating against metal as he advanced with the grace of an avalanche. Guilliman raised his gauntlet, the underslung bolter answering with disciplined bursts, mass-reactives slamming into ceramite and refractor shields. The atrium became a blender of shrapnel, lumen strips bursting overhead in cascades of sparks as the giants closed the distance.

Drach'nyen howled as it came down in a brutal arc, azure fire searing scars into the air itself. Guilliman met it with the Emperor's Sword, white-gold flame crashing against warp-born hunger. The impact birthed an explosion of light that rattled the foundations of the chamber. Walls buckled, conduits shrieked, the floor plates trembled as if reality itself strained beneath the collision. For a heartbeat, the titans locked, godfire grinding between their blades.

Abaddon bared his teeth in a predator's snarl. "You govern, I conquer. That's the difference, uncle." Talon spat sparks as he bore down, lightning crackling. "You bury soldiers in ledgers, not graves."

Guilliman's expression did not change behind his helm. His voice, when it came, was steady, measured—the verdict of a commander, not the bluster of a duelist.

"Better ledgers than disasters." he shoved Abaddon back, white fire blazing "Horus needed one crusade. You've squandered thirteen."

His sword snapped down in a disciplined arc, scoring a molten line across Abaddon's thigh. Warp-warded plate absorbed the worst of it, but the blow forced the Warmaster to adjust. Guilliman slid aside, avoiding the retaliatory sweep of the Talon with practiced efficiency.

For the first time, the Despoiler's grin faltered for a moment before the raw hate bled into his words. "Say his name again—" Drach'nyen shrieked wide. "and I'll rip your tongue from your skull."

Abaddon surged forward as Drach'nyen's fire carved the air in a murderous sweep. Guilliman snapped his blade upward, catching and diverting the demonblade's fury skyward. Abaddon did not hesitate—he stepped into the bind, the Talon of Horus lashing upward in a blur, lightning claws lunging for Guilliman's gut.

The Primarch's powerfist slammed down, sparks exploding as it battered the strike wide. The shock rattled the atrium, a crack of force like tectonic plates grinding. Guilliman pivoted hard, breaking contact, and in the same motion turned his sword against the environment itself. White fire sheared through a towering support column.

Molten metal groaned. The gantry above gave way in a shriek of tortured steel, collapsing in a cloud of shattered girders and choking dust. Smoke and falling debris swallowed the two giants, reducing their godlike duel to silhouettes carved in fire and shadow.

Abaddon shouldered through the rubble, his armor clattering with debris. His strikes grew wilder, angrier, hacking through haze and ruin, his fury gouging lines of fire through the choking dark.

Guilliman saw it.

Cataloged it.

Step by step, he yielded ground—not retreating, but reshaping the battlefield. Vox orders crackled through private channels, clipped and precise, even as his focus never left the demonblade's screaming edge. His blade-work was defensive, his movements deliberate, each parry calibrated not to kill, but to funnel.

Not a duel in a circle. A battlefield Guilliman was building.

Every clash narrowed the lanes. Every collapse forced Abaddon into choke-points. Every parry bought a fragment of time. Seconds. Heartbeats. Each one precious.

And in the quiet recesses of his mind, Guilliman could almost hear Koron's countdown ticking, the fate of the Gauntlet measured in heartbeats.

Abaddon burst through the haze with a surge of brute strength, hurling rubble aside in showers of sparks. His voice was raw, volcanic with contempt.

"You think you can hide behind ruins?"

Guilliman raised the Emperor's Sword, its fire unwavering in the smoke. His gaze, cold and unblinking, met the Warmaster's fury.

He parried the Talon wide, flicking it up at the peak to send the heavy gauntlet high. "No," sparks showered their helms "you've forgotten the difference between a commander—" a twist, a riposte shearing conduit"—and a brute."

The chamber groaned again, a dying beast of stone and steel. Outside, the battle still raged, its fury beckoning. And with every step, every clash, Guilliman was dragging Abaddon closer to it.

Drach'nyen came down in a two-handed arc, azure flame chewing reality, and Guilliman's blade snapped up to meet it. White fire met warp-fire, once more the shockwave blasting dust and shards from the walls. Abaddon bore down, snarling, the Talon hammering forward in a blur. Lightning claws scraped sparks across Guilliman's chestplate, gouging deep rents in the Aquila, but failing to pierce.

Guilliman struck back with his powerfist, snapping the demonblade wide, then riposted with a downward stroke. The Emperor's Sword screamed through the air, carving a molten furrow across the floor as Abaddon twisted aside.

The Warmaster pressed close, a flurry of killing strikes, each one heavy enough to cripple a tank. Guilliman parried, deflected, angled each blow to gouge pillars, struts, walls — never giving Abaddon the clean duel he wanted.

Another strike sent Guilliman staggering against a fractured bulkhead. Sparks rained as Abaddon lunged, Drach'nyen whistling for the kill. Guilliman ducked, pivoted, and drove the burning blade sideways into the wall. Steel buckled, the ceiling above groaning as another section of gantry came down. A deluge of debris cascaded between them, forcing Abaddon to bull through the wreckage.

Abaddon's voice cut through the chamber. "Come out of your maze, commander."

Their blades met again, fire against fire, force against force. Guilliman leaned into the lock, his voice level even through the strain.

Their blades locked, shrieking through boiling air. He leaned close, voice edged like a blade. "I am." He forced the blades down an inch, steam burning around them. "You just don't see the ground shifting under your feet." sparks bit his cheek, his lips curled. "Horus would have."

With a twist, Guilliman broke the bind, the Emperor's Sword flashing out in a brutal cut that sheared through a pressure conduit. Superheated steam erupted in a geyser, flooding the atrium in boiling haze, visibility collapsing into a choking fog.

Abaddon roared his fury, the sound reverberating through the steel bones of the facility. The Talon lashed blindly, lightning claws carving sizzling scars into walls and floor alike, each strike close enough to rattle Guilliman's armor. Drach'nyen howled through the mist, a beacon of warp-fire hacking at the cloud.

Guilliman slid past one such sweep, sparks cascading as his sword kissed the Talon's barbs. The maneuver carried him inside the Warmaster's reach, and with a precise strike of his powerfist into the Warmasters side, he drove Abaddon back a step, the armor plates cracking under the impact. Rubble crunched under the Despoiler's boots, the smoke briefly parting around his mountainous form.

But there was no denying the strain. Guilliman's breath rasped in his helm, every inhalation fire, every exhalation lead. Sweat stung his eyes, dripping beneath the seals of his armor. His muscles screamed with each motion, the weight of his own plate dragging heavier with every heartbeat. It took every ounce of skill, of drilled perfection and battlefield instinct, to keep that cursed blue blade from carving his throat open.

And always—always—the countdown ticked, silent but deafening.

T-minus 00:01:00 to firing.



He was bouncing on his toes now, lungs burning, every breath a hiss through clenched teeth as he stared at the thing in front of him — the crystal disc, suspended at the center of a storm of broken spacetime. Distant, yet all too close. Light bent in jagged arcs around it, shadows stretching wrong, the air vibrating with a low groan that had no source. The timer burned in his vision, bleeding down its last moments.

"Sasha?" His voice cracked, his mind was already running hot, pushing his augmetics and neurons to their absolute limit to stretch every second from the conversation.

'Only sixty-two percent complete.' came the reply, raw with strain.

T-minus 00:00:53.

"Plenty of time," he muttered, but there was no strength in it, only the brittle edge of defiance. "Plenty of time."

He forced the air from his lungs, grounding himself. Left foot braced back, right forward. With a metallic clunk, his boots locked to the decking.

One thought, and his grav-field coalesced into a crude cocoon around his left arm. He flexed the hand, feeling the weight of artificial gravity gather around it, disturbingly similar to the churning singularity before him.

T-minus 00:00:44.

Another command, sharper, brought his nanites flooding into his arm. Every spare mote of silver drew inward, reinforcing joints, thickening metal with armored mesh and slabs of ablative plating. He left only the bare minimum in reserve for medical actions.

He knew he'd need them. Probably more than he had.

It wouldn't matter. Gravity and geometry didn't give a damn about armor.

But the lie of protection steadied him. For now.

T-minus 00:00:31.

A grin ghosted over his lips — pale, thin, manic. An idea. Stupid. Insane. But what was one more insanity, stacked on the rest?

He slapped his free hand against the pillar around the lens, firing off a single packet of code. The system hesitated, then accepted. Warnings cascaded across his HUD, then vanished as the PA crackled.

A half-second later, the base's speakers howled to life.

The chamber drowned in Ork Rock.

Not music, but a sonic fistfight of chainsaws, gunfire, and someone bellowing off-key over explosions. The walls vibrated in sympathy, dust spilling from fractured beams, rivets quivering in time with the beat.

'Koron!' Sasha's voice snapped, incredulous, a knife-edge of panic. 'What the hell are you doing?!'

Koron barked a laugh, cracked and wild, his fingers already drumming along like a man possessed. "Hurling madness at the wall and hoping something holds!" he shouted back, jaw tight.

Somewhere in the blaring noise, a deeper pulse throbbed — green, alien, and laughing.

T-minus 00:00:17.

The music shook the chambers walls, Ork rhythm hammering through steel and marrow alike. Koron felt it crawl across his skin, infectious and impossible, as though the universe itself had been beaten into marching time.

"No time left Sasha!" he roared into the storm. "Burn it all! Every drop into the plates!"

His chest seared as the reactor's safeties tore loose. The flux-core vomited power into the grav-field cocooning his arm. Pressure hit like a hammer, light bending around him, blood fizzing in his veins until every heartbeat felt like detonation.

T-minus 00:00:12.

'Wish me luck.' he thought, the words soft, tasting like ash and iron.

'…I wish I could give you more.' came her reply, quiet, resigned.

He snapped his fingers straight, a spearpoint of defiance against probability.

And with a wordless, ragged shout, Koron drove his arm into the heart of the storm.

Reality bent.

The sphere recoiled from the intrusion, gravity lashed, light unraveling into colors that had no names, walls bowing like molten glass as shadows were sent snapping into jagged, alien lines.

The roar followed. Not mere air rushing, but the sound of air ripping in two directions at once, inhaling and exhaling in the same instant. The gale shrieked through ruptured ducts, rattled steel, and hurled shrapnel in savage orbits, steel shrieking as sparks knifed across his armor.

Pressure smashed into his chest like a siege ram. Reinforced ribs splintered. Organs quivered. His vision swam red as blood burst hot beneath his skin, his own body rebelling against the act. Still he held on, every heartbeat a defiance against the universal force.

He pushed forward. Inch by inch, each step stolen from spacetime itself. The cocoon around his gauntlet fragmented into tatters of light, its shield cracking beneath the tide.

Voices crackled through — Lucia, Elly — distorted, delayed, their screams arriving a second too late to matter.

'Time dilation is in effect!'
Sasha's voice cut through, sharp with static. 'They can't help anymore!'

He looked down. The cocoon was unraveling, a ragged halo where Sasha strained, pouring herself into the breach, her presence stretched thin as wire.

T-minus 00:00:08.

A shear struck. Metal snapped — a finger gone. His vision bled red, hot trails running down his neck. His forearm tore open, armor flayed under the endless whirl.

'I can't keep up!' Sasha screamed. The channel warped with it, her voice breaking apart, glass in a hurricane.

And through the ruin, something else began to glimmer. Emerald light flickered along his arm — faint, but growing stronger.

T-minus 00:00:05.

CRACK


White bone punched through twisted forearm plate, blood bursting into mist before the storm devoured it. Pain flared like lightning through every nerve. His scream vanished into the roar — but his mangled fingers scraped the lens.

T-minus 00:00:04.

"Come on!" he roared, pouring every drop of power, every shred of muscle into the push. His faceplate nearly kissed the storm, paint and metal scoured away in flecks. He felt his ruined fingers grind against the disc, the weight of the singularity clawing through him, entropy frosting his gauntlet white.

The emerald energy came then. Wisps at first, but gathering all the same.

It flickered along his ruined arm. A brutal joy burned jagged through nerves already broken.

Sasha screamed through static, but Koron barely heard. The Waaagh! wasn't power.

It was laughter.

Reckless, relentless.

It didn't care if he shattered.

It only cared that he moved.

T-minus 00:00:03.

"We are out of time! It's about to fire!" Sasha shrieked as the machine's charge swelled toward crescendo.

T-minus 00:00:02.

Koron hooked his middle finger into the disc's center. The borescope deployed with a snap — the tiny flexible tube whipping around the far edge.

T-minus 00:00:01.

He pulled. Every tendon shrieked. The lens grudged an inch, weight like a world dragging against him.

T-minus 00:00:00.

The machine's voice spoke with the finality of a guillotine.

FIRE

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then the world screamed.

The sphere collapsed, all its energy funneled into the lens as the aperture discharged the lance.

But the lens was no longer where it should have been.

The gravitic torrent struck off-center, expecting to be caught, channeled, dispersed. Instead, it smashed into raw edge.

Uncontained, the energy ran wild.

The wave shattered Dark Age alloys like brittle clay, imploding conduits and rupturing bulkheads, turning the interior of the machine into a cannon with only one escape.

The hole Koron had carved.

The one he was standing in.

The lance tore into him before the shockwave even followed. His arm snapped, plates peeling away in burning shards. Wires and false tendons burst free, flailing into the wind. Beneath, his flesh shattered — bones fragmenting into dust inside his skin, muscles ripped from their moorings, raw nerves screaming as they were shredded strand by strand.

Blood and metal hung weightless in the air as he was hurled on the gravitic wave. Mid-flight, Sasha and Koron fought together, pouring the overcharged reactor into failing shields, re-engaging his grav-plates around his spine. Armor folded inward, sacrificing limbs to reinforce his core.

His left shoulder shattered as he hit the wall. Shielding flared, then collapsed, as his back tore through ducts and support beams. Jagged metal punched through flesh, out his gut, ripping into his kidney before the momentum pulled him free.

A dozen more impacts tore at him before the shockwave spat him from the machine entirely.

He struck the outer bowl with bone-cracking force, the impact sending fractures spiraling through the alloy. The last of his shield flickered, then failed, leaving him sprawled in ruin at the base of the shattered pillar.



Across Vigilus, the world came apart.

The moment the lance discharged, the atmosphere itself shuddered. A groan rolled across the planet — not sound, not quake, but the tortured cry of gravity being bent, stretched, and torn loose.

On the plains, lakes curled sideways from their banks, water climbing into the sky in glittering arcs before collapsing in broken waves. Buildings bowed as their foundations twisted, girders bending like reeds in a storm no eye could see.

Armored columns lurched. Tanks bucked from their treads, hulls shrieking as they slammed back down. Inside, men were thrown like dolls against steel walls, bodies bursting under forces no armor could resist.

In the hive-spires, the effect was apocalyptic. Whole decks imploded like paper under a press. Vox-towers warped, antennas stretching until they snapped, signals dissolving into a chorus of static. Civilians and soldiers alike were ripped from walkways, whirled into spirals of dust and blood, their cries drowned in the resonance tearing through the sky.

Even orbit was not spared. Escorts staggered as auspex readings dissolved into madness. Vessels tilted like toys in a tide, void shields sparking as they buckled. Crewmen collapsed at their stations, stomachs heaving as vertigo rewrote the pull of their own bones.

This was no scalpel. No tool of the ancients. This was a wound — vast, unrestrained, merciless — a cascade of destruction ripping through Vigilus without pattern or pity.

Entire city-sections lifted screaming into the heavens, stone and steel tearing loose beneath the weight of their own people. Others collapsed inward, gravity spiking until towers crumpled and flesh liquefied in seconds. And in some places, it chose both — bodies ripped in two, half dragged skyward, half crushed into bloody pulp below.

And everywhere, the Ork Rock blared.

The greenskin rhythm rode the gravitic waves like a parasite, warping whatever it touched. Vox-networks choked on it in jagged bursts, auspex dissolved into howling feedback, and even the earth itself pulsed to the beat — a war-drum rattling the teeth of billions.

On every battlefield, Guardsmen, Astartes, cultists, traitors, Orks — all froze as the sky itself screamed. Weapons slipped. Engines stalled. For a heartbeat, even the greenskins faltered.

Then the grins came. Tusked mouths split wide, laughter and hunger mingling as the impossible song thundered down from the heavens.

Gork and Mork had called their sons to war.

And the Orks answered.



The floor gave way.

Not from cracks, not from collapse, but from reality itself wrenching loose. Gravity reversed with a violent lurch, and the two titans were torn skyward as though the planet had exhaled them.

The duel shattered instantly. Guilliman's footing vanished, his stance ripped from beneath him. Abaddon roared as his swing of Drach'nyen carried him upward in a wild arc, the demonic sword screeching against air as debris spiraled past. The atrium itself peeled apart — steel gantries, conduits, and shattered masonry torn free to join the ascent.

Guilliman caught the whirling chaos in a single glance.

His body twisted, boots catching briefly on a tumbling girder before he shoved off, redirecting his momentum into a controlled spiral. His blade burned white fire as he used the debris as stepping stones, each motion deliberate even in the storm.

Abaddon surged toward him through the maelstrom, less controlled, more fury. The Talon slashed out, lightning-tipped claws shredding a rising ductwork in a spray of sparks before swiping for Guilliman's torso. The Primarch pivoted mid-air, the Emperor's Sword meeting the blow with a flash that lit the chamber like a dying star. The collision sent both combatants spinning further into the whirlwind of steel.

Guilliman steadied himself against a rising support strut, using it as cover as Abaddon hurled himself again, fury in motion. Drach'nyen scythed through a slab of flooring, shrieking with warp-hunger as it closed the distance. Guilliman answered with a downward cut that severed the slab cleanly, then kicked off its surface, driving both halves into Abaddon's path.

The Warmaster barreled through, shrugging off the debris, his grin wolfish beneath the shadows of his armor. "Even the world rises to strike you!" he bellowed.

White flame carved through steel as he steadied himself. "The world strikes all men." He shoved another girder down into Abaddon's path. "A commander wields it—" the impact sent the Warmaster staggering. "a brute is buried by it."

Their blades collided again, white flame against warp-fire, a clash that shook the wreckage into further spirals. The force of the blow hurled them apart, each careening into walls that were no longer walls, but turning planes of shrapnel.

Around them, the battlefield expanded. The roof split, light spilling through the rents as the reversed gravity dragged them higher, toward the open sky. Outside, Vigilus itself was tearing — hive spires unraveling, armored columns tossed like toys, the heavens boiling with gravitational tides.

Both titans emerged from the atrium into the rising storm, their duel no longer bound by ground or wall. They met in freefall, blades carving fire through the sky as wreckage and bodies rose alongside them.

Guilliman fought with calculation, each strike angled to deflect, to reposition, to weaponize the chaos of debris against his foe. Abaddon fought with brutal momentum, every swing a thunderous arc of rage and godfire.

For one impossible heartbeat, gravity returned. Guilliman and Abaddon dropped like stones, falling towards the shattered floor of the research base in a thunderclap of ceramite.

Moments from impact, gravity tilted.

The battlefield rotated sideways in an instant. Wreckage, bodies, and the two warriors were hurled against the walls, now a rushing floor. Guilliman rolled with the impact, slamming his gauntlet into a sparking conduit to steady himself. Abaddon simply plowed through, smashing through a rib of steel to launch himself back into the fight.

They clashed again in the sliding chaos, blades hammering sparks into the walls-turned-ground. Each parry sent them skidding further across the tilted world, every step a struggle for balance.

Yet still, Guilliman found the time to attack his foes mental state. "Still unable to grasp a shifting battlefield nephew? Horus would be disappointed."

Abaddon bared his teeth, forcing the Emperor's Sword back a pace. "Horus died a failure. I endure."

Guilliman's laugh was bitter, merciless. "Endure?" Guilliman countered, stepping aside as a datarack tore past, seizing it and flinging it into Abaddon's path. The cogitator detonated between them, fire rolling through the sky. Guilliman burst free of the smoke, blade leveled. "You crawl in your father's shadow. He faced the Emperor. You've yet to kill even one son."

Abaddon snarled, swinging Drach'nyen in a brutal arc that cleaved through a spiraling girder. "I am not Horus. I am the end he never had the strength to be!"

Another tidal shift as gravity lurched upward.

The floor vanished beneath them, and they were flung skyward again, carried with the debris bursting through the shattered roof. The two titans careened into the open air, rising through fire and smoke into the broken sky of Vigilus.

And they were not alone.

The air war had not ceased. Stormtalons screamed across the heavens, Hell Talons banked in murderous spirals, Thunderhawks and Marauders clashed in burning dogfights above. The gravitic tides caught them all, ripping formations apart, dragging aircraft sideways or slamming them together in collisions that bloomed fireballs through the sky.

Landing hard on the hull of a tumbling Hell Talon, Guilliman's gauntlet punched through its fuselage to anchor himself. Abaddon crashed down atop a second airship, claws gouging through its wing as the pilot shrieked in terror. The aircraft bucked wildly, trying to shake him loose.

Guilliman vaulted from his ship onto a spinning Thunderhawk, landing on its dorsal spine as bolter-turrets spat fire at the Chaos flyers. Abaddon met him there, tearing free of his Hell Talon just as it lost control and spiraled into a fireball below. The two giants clashed atop the gunship, ceramite boots slipping on the roaring craft, blades hammering sparks into its armored hull.

Twisting his foot to stop his slipping on the hull, his sword locked with demonsteel. "Do you think they chose you for victory? No." He twisted, forcing Abaddon's blade wide. "They chose you because you'll never be Horus. You'll fight forever—" he hammered his fist forward. "bleed forever—" sparks flared as their blades met. "fail forever."

The Warmaster's fury boiled over. With a bellow that shook the sky, he seized a burning bomb casing in his claw, slamming it at his foe with all his strength. Guilliman twisted aside, the blast hammering his shield but leaving him standing, sword raised.

Calm, unbroken, the Avenging Son looked his foe in the eye.

"You shall die chasing his shadow."

A missile rack swiveled. Guilliman ripped one free with his powerfist and hurled it. Abaddon caught it in the Talon, claws crushing the warhead — the detonation hurled them both from the craft.

They fell — then the world lurched sideways again, gravity dragging them into chaos.

They smashed through the fuselage of a Marauder Destroyer caught in the tide. Metal screamed. Crewmen were torn from their stations as the mountains masquerading as men ripped through bulkheads, blades carving molten wounds in steel. Guilliman punched through the hull, hurling himself back into the storm. Abaddon followed, relentless, both titans now fighting through the raining guts of falling aircraft.

Another lurch. Gravity wrenched upward, dragging them into contrails of fire and tumbling wreckage. The sky was a storm of spinning debris: shattered fighters, sundered wings, explosives ripped from their cradles.

Guilliman turned them into weapons. A bomb spun past; he caught it with his gauntlet, flinging it into Abaddon's path. The Warmaster swatted it aside with a curse, the blast painting him in fire as he drove forward, Drach'nyen screaming for Guilliman's heart.

Their blades clashed midair, white flame against warp-flame, sparks falling like meteors.

This was no longer a duel. It was a war fought across the fractured sky — aircraft as blades, wreckage as stepping-stones, missiles as thrown knives. Gravity spun and lurched, dragging them down, up, sideways, never still.

And through it all, the Ork Rock thundered — on vox, on auspex, on the bones of the world. Every clash of their weapons struck in rhythm, every explosion timed to the impossible beat. Below, Orks howled in ecstasy, engines roaring as their gods' music shook the sky.

Guilliman fought with precision, exploiting every shift, every weapon the tempest offered. Abaddon fought with fury, breaking obstacles to kindling, driving forward with god-fed rage.

Two titans, two wills, clashing in the sky as Vigilus itself screamed apart.



Black.

Not the quiet black of sleep, but the crushing, suffocating dark of a body that had gone past its limits. Koron floated in it for a moment, untethered, pain receding into the distance like the ebb of a tide.

Then Sasha's voice ripped him back.

'Koron! Get up! Get up now!'

His eyes snapped open to a fog of smoke and fractured light. Every nerve screamed as if he had been peeled open. The HUD jittered, fractured symbols blinking across his visor like a dying heartbeat. The air was thin here, the taste of copper and ash on his tongue.

His chest convulsed as he dragged in a breath. Ribs grated. His arm was gone, or worse than gone. He didn't look at it. He couldn't.

'They're moving on your position!' Sasha's voice cracked with static and terror. 'Ten Rubicae, twenty meters and closing.'

Shapes staggered in the smoke. Heavy, deliberate footfalls. Glaives scraping against broken steel. Their silhouettes grew clearer with each pulse of emergency lighting: Rubicae, the dust-filled shells of the Thousand Sons, advancing in silent, inexorable ranks.

Koron tried to push himself up. His body barely obeyed. His spine burned, muscles screaming with the strain of simply lifting himself to one knee.

Sasha's voice hitched, shrill now. 'Move, damn you! If they get line of sight, you're dead!'

He coughed, blood bubbling past his teeth, filling the bottom of the helmet. His vision doubled, then tripled. He spat, tried to focus. The Ork Rock still thundered through the wreckage, distorted by ruptured speakers, a mad drumbeat pulsing in his bones. Even that couldn't drown out the iron rhythm of the Rubicae's march.

He staggered to his feet, half-falling against a ruptured conduit. Sparks spat across his armor. His boots dragged through rubble as he tried to move, Sasha feeding him course corrections, her voice rapid-fire, panicked.

'Left! No, left! Use the debris as cover! Don't let them—'

The rest was drowned in the shriek of boltfire. A stream of bolt-rounds ripped through the smoke, detonations hammering the wall and floor around him. Shards of concrete tore into his side, spinning him off balance. He hit the ground hard, head ringing, his one good hand clawing for purchase.

Above, shadows loomed in the haze, golden eye-lenses burning through the smoke. The Rubicae raised their weapons in eerie unison, each movement perfect, mechanical, inevitable.

Sasha screamed in his skull: 'Move!'

His grav-plates flickered to life with a tortured whine. The last working grapple snapped outward, cable hissing as it locked onto a fractured wall. The winch yanked him sideways, hauling his broken body behind what little cover the wreckage offered.

Sasha's voice was a torrent of commands, layered with Elly's, Lucias, Tara and Kala's panicked interjections until his skull felt too small to contain them. A tactical overlay bled across his blurred vision — a blinking red mark flaring at the edge of his HUD. A maintenance hatch. A way down.

The winch dragged him again, his ruined arm smashing against rubble. Pain knifed through him, blood flooding his mouth as he bit his cheek to keep from screaming. He forced a command into his implants; the hatch slid open just as bolt-rounds detonated around him, sparking against his shield.

He hurled himself through, the hatch sealing a heartbeat later. Explosions rang against the steel as the Rubicae's fire scoured the door.

He didn't stop. Couldn't. The grav-plates dragged at him, half-lifting his staggering legs as he forced himself down the maintenance corridor. Even through bulkheads, the Rubicae's march carried after him, an relentless cadence.

"Status?" The thought tore from him raw, jagged. More plea than command.

'Bad. Really bad.' Sasha's voice came quick, tight with strain. 'Multiple organ failures. Shredded muscle groups. Fractures across most of your skeleton. Frankly, it's faster to list what isn't broken.'

A ragged laugh bubbled past his lips, frothing through the blood on his tongue. "Oh. Only that bad?" He coughed hard; hot fluid splattered inside his helm until the world blurred red. He clawed at the retraction catch — nothing but a useless click. Swearing, he tore the helm free, sucking down smoke-laced air. Blood and mucus spilled down his chin, dripping to patter on his chestplate.

"And the scanner?" he rasped.

'Discharged, but erratic,' Sasha answered. 'Planetwide gravitational distortions. Not a clean singularity. The base's shielding blunts most of it here, but everywhere else… it's bad.'

"How bad?" His voice cracked on the words.

A pause. Heavy. Dreadful. Calculating.

'Unknown,' she admitted. 'But likely catastrophic. Still… not as catastrophic as a focused pulse would have been. You saved them from that.'

"Small wins, eh?" he muttered, forcing himself down the corridor. Narrow and unlit, its walls wept condensation from ruptured coolant lines. Every step echoed too loudly, broadcasting his survival to the hunters behind.

His breath rattled, grin faltering. "…Tell me it was enough, Sasha."

She coiled around his mental processors in reply, a pressure warm and steady. The closest she could come to a hug.

And for a moment, beneath the pain, something else stirred — not her. A heat that wasn't human, laughter that wasn't his. A green flicker in the dark, gone before he could grasp it.

He exhaled, more to steady himself than anything, and pushed on. Worry about that later.

"Suit status?"

'Shields at thirty. Grav-plates fried — barely holding your weight. Cloak's gone. Primary reactor cooling. Eighty-four percent of nanites depleted. Armor down to twelve.'

"Weapons?"

'Left side is wrecked. Rights mostly intact. Pistol…' She hesitated, a weight behind the words. '…is fully functional.'

Koron spat blood, one tooth shifting loose under his tongue. "Avoidance it is."

'Then move. They can't fit very well through the corridors, but with the cloak down, they'll still track you.'

He staggered forward, voice hoarse but steady. "Yes ma'am."

His steps echoed in the dark, competing with the never-ending stream of chatter Sasha kept up 'Left fork, twenty meters. Thermal vent ahead, use it to mask your trail. Keep moving.'

He coughed, spitting blood into the dark, and forced his boots to obey. The grav-plates jittered with every step, dragging him just above the floor like a broken puppet on its strings. Pain lanced through him at each jolt — ribs grinding, nerves flaring white. His body wanted to shut down. Sasha wouldn't let him.

'Come on, eyes open. The Rubicae aren't fast but they're precise. They'll box you in if you slow down.'

A sound carried down the tunnel. Heavy, deliberate steps. Their bolters clattered against armored thighs, their glaives scratched in lazy arcs against steel. They weren't rushing.

They didn't need to.

The map flickered in his vision again, a desperate red line pulsing toward the base's upper levels. He staggered around a corner, pressing his good shoulder against the wall to steady himself. His vision doubled, then snapped back as Sasha's override surged stimulant into his veins.

'Don't fade, don't you dare fade. I'm hitting the emergency booster in your system. It-'

He gasped, jaw clenched. "Won't last long, I know."

The surge brought him back — awareness flaring sharp and cold. He at last noticed the nanites that swarmed through his veins, sealing holes, knitting tissue, replacing what blood could no longer reach. His gut was plugged, organs coaxed into sputtering life from the self-induced, life preserving stasis.

Stopgaps — enough to stand, not enough to last.

His arm however…

His arm was gone. Shoulder to fingertip, every bone reduced to powder, jagged metal glinting red and wet in the flickerlight. It hung useless, bleeding in slow pulses.

Stopping, leaning on his good shoulder against the wall, he reached for it. "Sasha, prepare a sling please."

'Koron I don't think that's-' Her words never reached his ears as his touch nearly blacked him out.

Knees hit the deck, stomach dry heaving, he managed to speak after several seconds, hand pressed against his temples as he tried to stop the pain from splitting his skull open. "J-just…just lock it in place as best you can."

'…Alright, hang on.' Armor shards peeled from his torso and flowed across the ruined limb, fusing into a jagged sheath. Metal cinched bone-dust, binding the wreck to his chest. Koron's teeth split blood as he strangled a scream.

When it was done, the pain dulled to a brutal throb. He sagged against the wall, chest heaving, eyes blurred with sweat and smoke.

Anything more was cut off, as a distant crash rolled through the corridors — bulkhead doors tearing apart under boltfire. Sparks rained from conduits above as the Rubicae pressed forward. Their silence was worse than shouting. They were coming, step by step, without haste, without fear.

Koron dragged himself through another junction, vision snagging on a broken maintenance panel hanging by a single screw. His hand twitched toward it, mind already racing.

'No time to scavenge,' Sasha snapped. 'You need distance, not toys.'

"Might need toys… when distance runs out."

He ripped a plasma capacitor free with a squeal of metal, clamped it in his teeth, and yanked loose the live wires. Sparks hissed as he forced them into the wrong sockets, the hum swelling like a caged sun. The stink of ozone filled the passage.

'They're through the hatch. Forty seconds.' Her voice was taut, close to breaking.

Koron staggered, half-dragged by failing plates, lungs clawing for air. But the thought of golden eye-lenses in the smoke drove him on. The Ork Rock still pulsed faintly through the ducts — not music, but the heartbeat of a predator.

'That likely won't kill them,' Sasha warned, following the approaching shells.

"Doesn't need to. Slow one down, my odds go up ten percent."

'Twenty seconds,' she pressed, voice a whip.

"Alright," he rasped. He jammed the capacitor into the panel and staggered on, shoulder scraping steel.

The Rubricae arrived in silence. Hands raised in eerie unison, warp-fire building in their gauntlets.

The capacitor went white-hot.

The corridor erupted into a conflagration of plasma and molten metal. One Rubric lurched, helm bursting into golden dust that drifted like smoke. Another crumpled beneath a warped chunk of shrapnel buried in its chest, sorcery guttering out. The rest advanced through the flames, unbroken.

'Two down. The others don't care.'

Koron didn't look back. His lungs were ash, his legs stone, but he counted the seconds gained. Even slowing inevitability was a victory.

Ahead, the ducts sloped toward the launch bays. Through the steel came distant thunder — engines, weapons, and demigods battling in the heavens.

Down here, it was just him. Him and the walking dead.



The air howled as gravity lurched again, hurling both warriors through the tumultuous sky, the white earth below.

Guilliman adjusted first, angling his bulk through the chaos with grim precision. Abaddon spun past, the Talon gouging sparks from a collapsing hab-block as he righted himself, bellowing fury into the clouds.

Between them, fighter craft screamed, machine-spirits keening as missiles fired wild and ships were wrenched into impossible vectors. A Legion Thunderhawk careened between the Primarch and Warmaster, its fuselage splitting open like rotten fruit. Guilliman vaulted from its spine, sword crashing down.

Abaddon caught the strike, boot driving into the Primarch's gut as he twisted, kicking Guilliman away. His eyes burned with hate. "The heir of the Imperium, reduced to flinging rubble like a cornered rat?"

Guilliman's voice was ice through the thunder. He flexed numbed arms, forcing sensation back. "Strange, then, that the gods' Warmaster can't catch one."

The Despoiler's snarl was venom. With godlike strength he heaved the sundered Thunderhawk, hurling it like a spear. Guilliman's blade flashed, shearing it apart, burning wings tumbling to crush the battlefield below.

Gravity lurched again, flinging them both across the sky, tumbling through debris and fire.

"Koron!" Guilliman voxed, breath ragged. "How long will this continue!?"

The reply was not Koron's. A woman's voice cut in, clipped and taut with strain. "Koron's busy," Elly answered. "You've got about a minute. The fields are calming."

Guilliman's gaze fell to the writhing surface of Vigilus far below. "Exact time."

"Fifty-two seconds."

He drew a long breath, steadying himself. He braced for the last seconds.

Abaddon was too skilled, too strong, too steeped in Chaos to be beaten through risk alone.

Precision was needed.

Guilliman twisted midair once more, auspex locking on the Dark Age base below, its roof torn open to the storm. He recalled the Brandt sisters' maps, every corridor etched into memory, every line of ruin waiting to be turned into advantage.

The Warmaster barreled toward him, cloak aflame, daemonblade howling.

Their blades clashed — three bursts of lightning and fury — before Guilliman wrenched free, letting Abaddon's charge carry him further afield.

Guilliman spread his arms. He did not chase. He did not even strike. He simply let the storm lift him higher.

For the first time, Abaddon's pale eyes widened.

Gravity returned. No thunderclap, no sorcerous roar — only the cold indifference of reality, slamming shut.

Guilliman was above, compacting into a cobalt spear that dove not at his foe, but toward the shattered crown of the Voidclaw base. His fall was measured, calculated, the base itself his cushion.

Abaddon?

Abaddon had nothing.

The Despoiler tumbled, momentum betraying him, weight dragging him down. Guilliman had known the dispersal, had timed the storm, had made him overcommit.

The son of Terra chose his fall.

The son of Horus had no choice at all.



The walls of the Voidclaw base tore past him in a blur of steel and fire. Guilliman, knowing he had seconds, drew back the blade overhead, both hands on its hilt as he drove it into the walls. White hot flames once more gouged the strange alloys, yet the sword bit true.

But the Dark Age walls were harder than expected.

The blade met alloy and stopped.

His grip tore loose, hanging in air for a single long second before gravity took hold, sparks cascading as the Emperor's Sword remained impaled above, dwindling into white flame as he plummeted on without it.

He struck the edge of the base, bouncing off it as his momentum bled away, but not enough.

He hit the ground with the force of a meteor. Earth shattered, stone split, a crater yawning wide beneath his broken body.

For a long moment, he lay there. Armor in ruins, lungs refusing him air. Breath was razors, movement fire.

But he dragged air into ruined lungs, inch by inch, because refusal was the only weapon left.

The world above was still howling in the wake of the fundamental force of natures displeasure, but down here, for a heartbeat, there was only the desperate rasp of his own survival.

He forced himself onto one elbow, teeth clenched against the fire in his chest. His vision swam, blurred with blood and pain. Slowly, methodically, his hearts beat, dragging life back into his body through sheer refusal to quit.

For a moment, the war forgot him.

The air thickened. The crater warped. Shadows bent, the air peeling like torn canvas, the smell of ozone and copper filled his helm.

Abaddon emerged, striding through the distortion.

Bloodied, yes — plate cracked, warp-flames licking the rents — but still towering, still grinning, eyes burning with murderous certainty.

Blood and molten metal flowed backward into him, rents closing, warp-fire pulsing in time with his heart. What should have been ruin was only renewal, the Dark Gods' laughter made flesh.

The Warmaster's voice was a rasping snarl, equal parts fury and triumph.

"You crawl from ruin, uncle. I rise reborn."

Guilliman staggered to a knee, chest heaving, his gauntlet closed on empty air. The Emperor's Sword was gone, lost to the ruins above. For the first time, he faced the Despoiler demonblade unarmed.

He turned just in time to see the shadow fall across him.

Abaddon was already moving.

The Warmaster's boot slammed into his chest, a thunderclap of ceramite on ceramite. Guilliman was hurled backward, crashing into the lip of the crater before rolling hard across shattered rock. He tried to rise, but Abaddon was already there, Drach'nyen howling in his left hand, the Talon of Horus flexing like a predator eager to feed.

Abaddon did not savor the moment, did not gloat nor waste time. The Talon punched through plate and bone, lightning bursting from the wound. Guilliman roared as the claws locked, pinning him. Abaddon wrenched upward, lifting the Primarch bodily, before driving him into the wall. Alloy screamed, blood sprayed.

The Avenging Son hung crucified on ruin itself.

Abaddon leaned close, breath hot and fetid. "All your walls of words, all your schemes, all your vaunted might." he slammed Guilliman into steel again, sparks spraying. "In the end, just another corpse."

With a savage wrench, he lifted Guilliman, the Primarch's massive frame dangling from the Talon's barbed grip. Warp-lightning crackled around them as Abaddon swung him bodily, slamming him into the outer walls of the base again. Strange alloys screamed. The impact cratered the metal, blood spraying from the rents in Guilliman's armor.

The Primarch hung there, impaled, every twitch of movement answered by fresh arcs of pain. Abaddon pressed in close, forcing him to look into his eyes — pale and burning with ruinous certainty.

"I will watch the light go out," Abaddon snarled, voice a jagged blade of contempt. "When it does, the Imperium will know hope died with you."

Guilliman's vision blurred red, pain roaring through his chest, but still he met the Despoiler's gaze, unbroken. Silent defiance in the face of ruin.

Few beings could have remained conscious with such horrific pain coursing through their nerves.

But Guilliman?

Roboute Guilliman was the Avenging Son.

And the Avenging Son yields to no one.

Guilliman's powerfist clamped down on the Talon, locking around the barbed gauntlet's thinner connecting joint with a grinding shriek of disruptive energies against warp-forged plate. Abaddon snarled as the pressure built, his wrist cracking under the strain.

Guilliman's other arm snapped up, locking onto the Warmaster's bicep, wrenching him in close. Drach'nyen screamed, crushed uselessly between their armor.

The cobalt helm slammed into Abaddon's nose with a crack of bone, blood bursting between them. "You'll not—" another strike, blood raining—"have it that easy!"

Each blow a vow, each impact a curse. I will not yield.

Abaddon roared, straining, the Talon clawing against Guilliman's fist. The two giants locked together, weapons forgotten, raw will clashing with raw hate.

Blood ran hot down Guilliman's chest, every breath a blaze in his lungs, but still he hammered his helm into Abaddon's face, feeling the bone crumple under his assault.

His boots struck dirt. He pushed, shoving the Despoiler back, the Warmaster's heels skidding trenches through the dust. Abaddon's features was twisted, bloody, but his rage was unbroken.

"You shall-" Guilliman spat, driving his helm forward once more, "-choke on ashes before I yield."

The Warmaster roared, wrenching with god-blessed might. The Talon's claws spiderwebbed cracks through ceramite, lightning surging as they forced deeper, stabbing fire into Guilliman's chest.

Abaddon snapped his head forward, meeting Guilliman halfway as he spat out his words, venom buzzing in his voice. "Die with this truth in your heart." He curled the fingers inside Guillimans chest. "Ultramar burns next."

His boast had not yet faded when the sky itself split open.

A shrieking burning lance of gravitic fire speared down from the storm, smashing into the Warmaster. The impact folded the ground inward like paper, shockwaves rattling the crater's bones. A moment later the Nyx roared into view, hull gleaming with impossible alloys, its turrets fanning out in disciplined formation. Their weapons sang in unison — beams of compressed gravity and crimson light cutting the battlefield into splintered ribbons.

Abaddon twisted, snarling, as the first salvo struck. His wards flared, screaming in defiance as gravitic lances hammered against him. The earth behind him disintegrated, collapsing into a sinkhole of warped stone, but the Warmaster stood his ground.

The Talon faltered, claws tearing free, and Guilliman dropped like a broken star upon the earth.

The Warmaster did not fall. Not yet.

He curled inward, cloak aflame, defiance burning brighter than the storm. Beams slammed into him in punishing rhythm, each one enough to tear tanks in half — yet he endured, his armor blackening, warp-flames rising in frantic tides. Drach'nyen shrieked in his grip, feeding on his rage, while the Talon spat arcs of bolter fire that tore into the surrounding stone.

But the cost was mounting.

Every lance that crashed into him stole more of his strength. His wards guttered, runes splintering under pressure. Armor split in jagged seams across his chest and pauldron, molten slag dripping from the rents. Warp-flames hissed and spat, no longer triumphant but defensive, dragged taut to keep his flesh intact as the weapons of the Dark Age sought to lay him low.

He laughed anyway. A ragged, wolfish bark that cut through the barrage. He forced his spine straight even as the lances drove him to one knee, his will alone making mockery of physics.

Still, the fire never relented. The gunship's turrets rotated, focusing in, their unrelenting lances of gravitic power locking onto him with machine precision. Reality warped around him, air screaming as it tore sideways.

For the first time, Abaddon felt the edge of weakness bite into him. His teeth clenched. His gods had given him strength beyond mortals, but not without limit.

Another beam slammed into his side, shattering the baroque trim of his armor into nothingness. Another tore across his back, forcing his wards into overburn, drawing deeper and deeper on warp-fire that boiled the air.

He could endure far more than any mortal.

But even gods bleed when the physics universe demand it.

The lances narrowed, brightened, targeting systems locking like the gaze of executioners. He saw it in their mechanical stillness — the inevitability of the kill.

With a snarl, he drove Drach'nyen into the stone. Warp-flames erupted, devouring the air, wrapping him in shrieking azure fire. When the flames cleared — nothing remained but ruin.

The world snapped hollow, the scent of fire cutting through only smoke and ruin.

His parting snarl lingered, carried on vox and warp-echo both:

"Your stolen relics won't save you forever."




The sky still burned as Stormtalons broke formation. Dark shapes cut through the smoke, formation-lights gleaming as drop-pods slammed into the scarred plain around the research base. Their doors burst wide, pouring out squads of Intercessors and Aggressors, heavy boots shaking the earth with disciplined thunder.

Guilliman watched them fan out, blue and gold against the storm, lines snapping into place as though written from his own mind. Voxes crackled with clipped affirmatives. Bolters barked, clearing straggling heretics from the wreckage. For the first time in hours, the tide did not feel like it was pulling them under.

The Black Legion was withdrawing. Reluctant, defiant, but withdrawing all the same. Their lines broke away in ragged knots, war engines limping into retreat as thunderhawks clawed skyward. The battlefield, for this moment, belonged to the sons of Macragge.

Guilliman drew himself upright, ignoring the agony tearing through his chest with every breath. His voice carried steady across the vox, iron wrapped in fatigue.

"First and Second Companies, seal the perimeter. I want a dozen squads securing the base. Priority is recovery of Koron and any surviving systems. Bring me everything the Dark Age tried to hide here."

"By your word, lord," came the crisp reply. The squads peeled off, filing into the torn-open maw of the research base with bolters ready, auspex beams slicing through the haze.

Guilliman's gauntlet dropped slowly to his side, the weight of command finally sliding from his shoulders. He drew in one more ragged lungful of air — then the strength guttered out of him.

The Avenging Son slumped against the wall, blood spilling hot across battered ceramite. His helm struck stone with a dull thud, blue eyes dimming as Apothecaries rushed towards him.

Around him, the battle still raged. Orders crackled through the vox. Primaris held the line. Squads vanished into the research base.

A faint smile tugged at his lips. His sons would carry the day now.

For all his failure to slay the Despoiler, he had won what mattered. The superweapon lay broken and still, its voice silenced. The Warmaster's designs — so far as Guilliman knew — lay in ruin.

He looked up into the clouded sky as the Apothecaries bore him away. Bloodied lips moved, voice barely above breath.

"Not victory. Not yet. But enough."
 
Chapter Forty Six New
Chapter Forty Six



Reminder dear listeners, the Voxbox remains open at all times 🎤



The washed-out lumens painted the medicae recovery suite in a sterile glare, every surface white and gleaming. Even that soft light made Guilliman wince. His eyes opened to restraints tugging against him—dozens of straps buckled tight across his arms, chest, and legs. He allowed himself a wry, pained smile. It would take more than leather to bind a Primarch, but the gesture was telling.

He tried to shift upright. The tables beneath him groaned at the effort. Four operating slabs had been clamped together to hold his bulk, and still they complained under the weight. His motion sent adepts scurrying, robes flaring as they cried for the apothecaries. Others rushed in vain to press him back, the palms of mortals against a superhuman.

Apothecary Calliades was there in moments, his white armor streaked with battlefield grime, his face carved from weariness. "My lord, remain still. Your condition is… precarious."

Guilliman coughed, a wet sound that rattled through his chest. He felt the failure of one lung, the absence of a heart's second beat. "So I have—" he forced the words out, breath ragged, "—gathered. Tell me: what is wrong? How long was I insensate? What is the situation beyond these walls?"

Calliades glanced at the observation window and gestured. Guilliman turned his head. The entire pane was a wall of ceramite and flesh, his Victrix Guard packed shoulder to shoulder. Dust and gore clung to their armor, visors unraised, their vigil unbroken since the battle.

Dibus, helm at his side, spoke first, his voice filtered through the intercom. "It gladdens me to see you conscious, my lord. As for the situation: the base is in our hands. But the boy remains missing, and the system itself locked. The priests report encryption beyond their reach—Dark Angels' work, most likely."

"And Abaddon?"

"His fleet has shelled us ceaselessly since retreating. The barriers hold—we have endured thirty minutes of their fury without a flicker of disruption. Their warships seem more intent on razing this facility than engaging us directly."

Guilliman exhaled, mind already parsing orders. "Push the front. Draw their fire outward. Let the support fleet mirror our advance and relieve pressure on these walls. Recovery of Koron is paramount. The cogitator data is secondary."

Dibus inclined his head, eyes locking with his gene-sire's. "At once, lord." The intercom clicked off. The Victrix peeled away in perfect discipline, leaving only his chosen few at the glass.

"You done ignoring your doctor?" Calliades' rough voice dragged him back. "Because you're in a bad way."

Guilliman's gaze fell to the ceramite across his chest. "Then tell me."

"Your wound is as it was struck—suspended at the instant of the strike." Calliades' gauntlet flicked toward the hololith above, its ghostly image painting Guilliman's chest with light. Severed arteries, a collapsed lung, a ragged rent through bone and muscle—all frozen, held in amber.

"Our compounds enter your veins, yet they do not spread. They hang in place, inert. No medicine flows. No scalpel bites. The armor refuses change."

He faltered. For a moment, the old warrior's face betrayed more than fatigue. Shame crept through his tone.

"The systems that preserve you are not allies, my lord. They are enemies forced into truce. Necron matrices lock your flesh at the brink. Eldar psycho-reactive circuits let your mind command movement within that lock. Mechanicus life-support claws at both, forcing the contradiction into something that resembles life."

Taking a breath, he continued. "I am told this is how it seems to have been built, a compromise of alien sciences. But your wounds have pushed the balance past breaking. Each hour, the strain grows deeper. It is your will alone that holds the loop stable. Should you falter, even for a moment, it collapses."

His voice steadied, low and grave. "You live because your armor refuses your death. But it is no life—it is delay. And when the field fails, as it will, the wound will not be hours old. It will be ten thousand years."

The silence was heavy. Even the Victrix averted their eyes, gauntlets flexing against their weapons. The cogitators clicked on, indifferent to the weight in the room.

Guilliman's jaw worked once, twice, as if he meant to speak — and then stopped. His gauntlet clenched until the ceramite plates groaned, the motion precise and deliberate, like a man forcing his own body to stay still. The light from the hololith painted him in cold anatomy, showing every frozen rupture, every failure suspended by stubborn will alone.

However, when he spoke, his voice was iron. "Options."

Calliades' shoulders dipped, his helm turning slightly as if the question weighed more than his old bones could bear. "Unclear. Our priests cannot parse the machinery to the level we need. We have sent an astropathic request to Cawl, but our choir warns it may vanish into the Rift before it ever reaches him. Even if it arrives, a reply could take weeks. They are willing to burn themselves out to try, but…" He faltered, hand flexing once, as though trying to catch the words before they escaped.

Guilliman drew in a breath, shallow and fractured, and the tables beneath him creaked with the sound of strained metal. "Release me."

"My lord—"

"Release me." The words landed like hammerblows. His eyes fixed on Calliades', steel over shadowed pain, leaving no room for argument.

For a moment, the apothecary did not move. Then the fight drained out of him with a sigh that rasped across his vox-grille. "Very well," he said, weariness grating every syllable. "But let the record show I protest this folly."

Guilliman's hand rose, not a command this time, but a clasp. His fingers rested on Calliades' shoulder, the gesture rare enough to make the old warrior pause. "Noted," Guilliman said, voice low but steady. "But we cannot afford waste. Least of all time."

Calliades swallowed, helm dipping fractionally. "Your life is not a waste—"

"I agree."

Guilliman pushed himself upright with terrible slowness, every plate of ceramite groaning, every rivet in the slabs beneath him protesting the movement. He rose like a mountain shifting its weight, and when he stood, the medicae chamber felt smaller for it. His grip on Calliades' pauldron tightened — not crushing, but anchoring.

"Which is why I shall be quick."



Six minutes later, the inner doors groaned as Guilliman forced them apart, tortured metal protesting his will. The gears shrieked, echoing down the corridor behind him before dying into silence.

The chamber yawned open — a hollow, twenty meters across — and the air rolled over him in a sour tide. It reeked of ozone and sanctified oil, of sour milk left too long in the sun, and of old blood that had seeped into metal.

The grilled floor stretched ahead, suspended over a pit of humming machinery whose voice was a constant, mechanical drone. Red light bled up through the grilles, striping Guilliman's armored frame. Pipes hung from the ceiling in bundled skeins, some dripping condensation that hissed as it struck the heated metal below.

On either wall, twenty closed panels waited like sealed coffins — ten to his left, ten to his right.

At eye level, they clicked open one by one.

Behind each illuminated window, a severed human head floated in yellow nutrient gel. They were too distinct to be vat-clones, too clean to be the condemned. Metal caps crowned their skulls, cables rooting into the unseen machine below, each one twitching with slow, obscene rhythm.

Guilliman stepped inside. The doors boomed shut behind him.

"Cawl."

His voice filled the domed chamber and came back to him doubled, reverberating off the steel. Above, the Machina Opus glimmered faintly in the ceiling roundel, casting its benediction over the grisly gallery. His eyes narrowed at the bobbing heads, pale faces twitching in their tanks.

"Awaken. I have no time for riddles this day."

The machine stirred. Pumps hissed. Nutrient fluid gurgled through pipes. One by one, the twenty pairs of eyes snapped open — clouded, glistening, and wrong. Lips moved, some in unison, others half a beat behind, like a choir just out of tune.

"Greetings, Lord Comman—"

"Enough."

Guilliman words were a sword stroke, one gauntleted hand slashing through the air. The sound of it rang against the metal. His patience was raw and frayed; his voice carried the weight of a man too long denied an answer.

"I require the complete schematics of the Armor of Fate. Now."

A scanning beam lanced down from the ceiling, washing Guilliman in sterile light. It passed over his broken chestplate, over the silent wounds beneath, lingering as if tasting the damage. For half a minute the chamber was filled with nothing but the hum of cogitators and the slow bubble of nutrient fluid, like some monstrous heart beating out of sync.

At last, the twenty mouths moved. One voice spoke, layered and resonant, as though the entire chamber had chosen to breathe at once.

"I see. You are… gravely injured. However, I cannot grant your request in full."

Guilliman's eyes narrowed, blue shards catching the chamber's dim light. "Clarify."

The heads drifted in their tanks, cables twitching faintly, bubbles rising with each word. "The schematics you demand are not held within this node. But… I could acquire the knowledge, if…"

Guilliman's gaze sharpened. "If what?"

"If I were to interface with your armor systems directly."

Even through the numbing haze of the preservation fields, Guilliman felt the skin along his arms prickle. His reply was low, iron-edged, each word deliberate.

"You would integrate with my armor… and by extension, with me."

The lips of twenty faces parted as one, their speech perfectly synchronized. "Correct. The preservation of your life is one of my top three priorities. An astropathic update would take days at best — and that presumes Archmagos Belisarius Cawl would deign to release such data at all."

Silence pooled in the chamber, heavy as lead. Both knew how unlikely such generosity would be.

The Inferior's voices came again, soft and level, their harmony almost soothing. "Thus: two possibilities. The first, as stated — I engage your armor directly and guide the medicae servitors as they operate. This path carries a sixty-four percent probability of survival."

Guilliman's jaw tightened, the motion slow and controlled. "And the second?"

"The second: I remain separate. I observe, extrapolate, and direct servitors without interface. This carries a twenty-nine percent probability of success."

The Primarch stood stone-still, the words settling around his shoulders. His gaze lifted to the swaying heads above, thoughts circling like drawn blades.

An echo of Cawl — perhaps more than an echo. To link with such a thing, an abominable intelligence in all but name, would be to invite it inside my mind. To admit that the Lord Commander of the Imperium depends upon a machine-mind was to risk a schism that could sunder everything I have fought to restore.

And beyond politics, If I am honest, there was the personal truth: I would not suffer Cawl in my mind.


The heads drifted closer to the glass, their eyes catching the red light like carrion birds.

"There is a third option," the voices intoned. "One I am reluctant to speak. But your survival is paramount. The boy—"

"Koron." Guilliman's interruption was sharp, almost a correction.

The heads stilled, contemplative. "Yes. Him. His knowledge may even eclipse my own. His freedom of thought — and the intelligence fused within him — permit a lateral capacity I cannot achieve. He might save you."

"He is missing," Guilliman said, his voice hard, "lost in the battle for the Dark Age facility below. Our vox-signals and auspex readings are not yet piercing its defenses."

"I see." The heads drifted back a fraction, the cables whispering against glass. "Then, what are your orders, Lord Commander?"



His HUD stuttered, the words burning red across his vision, ghost-images doubling until Sasha forced a hard reset.
Warning: systemic blood loss — 86% probable.
Skeletal instability: 78%


He clenched his jaw, fighting down the wave of dizziness as he swayed against the wall, teeth grit, before muttering under his breath, "Yeah. Thanks for the pep talk."

'Left passage clear. Right is blocked — two Rubricae advancing.' Sasha's voice was a taut wire in his skull, every syllable clipped. 'Whoever's directing them knows exactly where you are.'

"Then why haven't they closed the net?" Koron rasped, his breath uneven as his eyes tracked the spectral overlays shimmering before him. Glyphs glowed faintly in a spectrum only he could see, casting ghost-light across the corroded walls of the Dark Age underbelly. "Eight suits of Rubricae are more than enough to run me down."

'Caution, maybe. Or they want you herded.' Her voice tightened, brittle as glass. 'I don't know. But don't waste their mistake.'

He gave a humorless snort. "Wouldn't dream of it."

His gait was uneven, left leg dragging, boots scuffing against the metal. He dug into a pouch with blood-slick fingers and pulled out a disc no larger than a coin. It glinted in the dim light as he pressed it to the wall on his right. On the left he placed a pellet and capped it with a second disc — the faint hum of arming charges barely audible beneath the throb of distant machinery.

"Still nothing through the distortion?"

'Imperial vox is shredded,' Sasha said, her tone edged with frustration. 'Dampening fields up, gravitic distortions, warp-static bleeding through the walls — probably residue from whatever was happening above. It's a miracle they're not already on top of us.'

"Lovely."

He sagged back against the wall, vertebrae popping audibly as the weight settled onto him. The chill of the metal seeped into his skin. Blood was stiff in his hair, tacky on his cheek; the copper taste of it pooled at the back of his throat.

"That elevator shaft downwards," he muttered, "is starting to look like our only chance."

'Which means cutting ourselves off from the Imperials entirely.' Sasha's voice went flat. 'And diving into what is almost assuredly a Necron tomb we know nothing about.'

"Odds of survival?"

The pause was long enough for him to hear the faint hiss of fear under her voice.

Then, dryly: '…You don't want to know.'

"You're right." His lips pulled into a faint, bloody grimace as he shoved off the wall. "I don't."

The left-hand tunnel gaped before him, black and silent. He limped into its shadow step by step, each motion jarring, each stair negotiated on grav-plates that spat sparks and hummed in protest.

Somewhere behind him, the empty shells of the Thousand Sons moved with mechanical precision. Their tread echoed down the corridor, the sound steady, unhurried — hunters confident that the prey could not escape. The lumen-light caught on their azure armor, throwing shards of blue across the walls as they closed in.



The glyphs glowed with a cold emerald light, their radiance casting sharp edges across Koron's gaunt face. They were trapped in alloy older than Terra's first stones, every line cut with inhuman precision — too perfect, too patient. They seemed to stare back at him from the control panel like a row of unblinking eyes, waiting for his verdict.

His memory delivered it instantly, flawless and merciless.

Khet-Var cluster.
Consensus: motion.
Alternative readings: containment.
Possible: axis alignment.
Usage: common on vertical shafts and sealed doors.
Meaning: disputed.

"Okay…" Koron rasped, lifting a trembling hand toward a diagonal line of sigils. His finger shook, leaving a smear of blood on the metal before it even touched. "These three are our best bet. Probably."

'You're sure?' Sasha's voice was tight, her usual composure sharpened to a point — though they both knew certainty had nothing to do with it.

"Nope." His lips twitched into something halfway between a grin and a grimace. He hovered over the panel, every breath a ragged rasp, drops of blood pattering against the floor like a metronome counting down. "But options are thin."

A muffled thump rolled down the corridor behind him — one of the foam pellets detonating — followed by the wet hiss of Rubricae armor splitting from the limpet. Koron leaned against the wall, listening to the brief silence after, the air heavy with the stink of ozone and promethium residue.

"Hopefully that makes seven," he muttered. "Either way, we're out of time."

He pressed his finger to the glyphs, one after another, smearing a diagonal path in red. The sigils flared, bathing the corridor in ghost-light. A tremor ran through the floor, and then it dissolved, replaced by a humming field of emerald light stretched across a shaft that plunged into blackness below.

Sasha's voice was a whisper, almost reverent. 'Grav-plates are nearly gone. They might hold one more fall — but after that? Bad times.'

Koron tapped the toe of his boot against the field. It held, vibrating faintly under his weight, as though daring him to step through.

The tread of the Rubricae echoed closer, slow and relentless, each footfall ringing like a hammerblow.

"Screw it."

Koron stepped forward.

The field gave way beneath him like a sprung trapdoor, dropping him into the void. The fall was faster than he'd braced for — fast enough that the shaft walls seemed to blur into streaks of alloy. They did not hum so much as sing, a resonant vibration that set his teeth on edge and thrummed through the cracked bones of his chest.

The air thinned as he plunged, tasting sharp and metallic, cold enough that condensation traced spiderweb patterns across his visor.

His stomach lurched. Cracked ribs ground together under the g-forces, lightning bolts of pain chasing each other up his spine. He hit the platform hard enough to drop to one knee, metal hand bracing against the floor as he dragged shallow, burning breaths into protesting lungs.

'Vitals thready,' Sasha murmured, clinical but tight. 'But holding. Acceleration within tolerances.'

"Doesn't make it feel any better." His voice was hoarse, words bitten off through clenched teeth.

Below, the shaft began to glow with ruddy-orange light, the radiance blooming upward like dawn in reverse. The illumination crawled across the Necron alloy walls, painting them as though molten rock simmered just beneath the surface.

Koron pupils narrowed against the glare. "…Sasha. Is that—?"

'The mantle,' she breathed, awe softening her voice for the first time in minutes. 'We're already below the crust. But… strange. There's no gravimetric distortion.'

Koron let himself slump back against the glowing field, every bone and nerve protesting as though trying to hold him together by sheer stubbornness. "File it under mysteries to solve later. Right now, I'm too busy slowly dying from organ failure."

He tilted his head back to look up the shaft. The energy field thrummed against the back of his neck, its static almost soothing.

His sensors pinged. His eyes widened. "Sasha, we're moving at—Holy shit."

'Ten kilometers per second,' Sasha confirmed, and there was something like wonder in her tone now. 'And still no gravitic fields. What the hell are they shunting the kinematics into?'

"The superstructure?" Koron grunted, forcing himself upright with a hiss.

'Maybe, but I'm not detecting any energy inputs from our ride into the structure. We really need more time to study this place.'

"After we escape angry space marines."

'Sensors are maxing at three klicks,' Sasha murmured, her tone tight. 'And we're still dropping. Wherever this stops, it's deep.'

Koron was about to answer when the neural-link crackled like tearing foil, the sound jagged enough to make his teeth ache.

'—ear me?'

His head snapped up despite the pain. 'Elissa?'

'Hey jackass,'
came her reply — warm enough to sting, her tone balanced on the knife-edge between relief and the urge to wring his neck. 'We're inside the base now. Send us your location.'

'We?'

'Myself, half of the security force and a dozen Sentinels.'
she shot back without missing a beat. 'The girls came and got us after you didn't respond to any calls, and with the—'

'Elissa, you have to get out of here!'
The words came sharper than he meant, a spike of fear punching through his chest. Pain flared down his ribs as he forced himself upright. 'With all the attention here, you'll all be—'

'Shut. Up.'
Her voice cracked like a whip, hard enough to remind him uncomfortably of Guilliman's command tone. 'You can explain your idiocy later. For now, send me your Emperor-damned location. If I have to search for you down here, I will be very pissed.'

'Sending now,'
Sasha said smoothly, sparing Koron the argument. Data flickered away through the link. 'And hurry. At least seven Astartes are on our tail. Transmitting Chapter details now.'

'Copy,'
Elissa replied. There was a short pause, followed by the faint rustle of motion through the link. 'Alright. Elly's directing us toward the lift. We'll be faster than you were, but still at least ten minutes behind.'

'Don't forget to use the limpets if you need to cut a faster path,'
Sasha advised.

'Already on it,' Elissa said, a grim edge of pride in her voice. 'Cloaks and shields are holding — we're slipping past the Ultramarines without issue.'

Koron shifted on the platform, every bruise and fracture making itself heard as he tried to sit straighter. Pain radiated down his spine like a live current, but he forced the words out.

'What's the situation outside?'

'Not great.'
Elissa's tone cooled, all business now, the warmth of her earlier anger buried under grim urgency. 'Lucia's keeping tabs over the tac-sphere, and Guilliman's hurt. Bad. She says they can't get at his wounds — the suit's in the way. They're trying to get in touch with the cogboy bigwig who built the thing, because apparently he didn't leave an instruction manual.'

Koron swore under his breath, a low rasp that tasted of iron. 'How long does he have?'

'Unknown. The suit's holding the damage in stasis, but it's not letting him heal either.'

'And the rest of the planet? The Salamanders?'

'Pretty bad.'
There was the faint sound of boots scuffing stone through the link, as if she was moving while talking. Her voice tightened. 'Whole cities uprooted and thrown around. Frontlines are gone. And of course, the Orks decided this was a great time to launch a full-scale offensive against everyone.'

She exhaled sharply, the sound harsh in his ear, before continuing. 'The Salamanders are bloodied but hanging on. Their city had deep-rooted foundations for the geothermal stuff they were producing, so more of their positions held. Lucia had your drones' grav-plating act like buoys — kept them from being as badly affected. Losses are heavy, but manageable. And yes, Kade's banged up, but alive.'

Koron let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The crushing band of tension around his chest eased fractionally. '…Alright. Fleetside?'

'Complete clusterfuck,'
Elissa said flatly. 'Ships ripped out of orbit, others flung into deep space. Battle groups scattered. And of course everyone started shooting. The Indomitable is fine, but the Hammer took some damage.'

A soft ping cut through the conversation, echoing faintly off the shaft walls.

'Hang on, El.' Koron groaned as he forced himself upright, bones creaking, fractured ribs screaming in protest. His grav-plates sparked faintly as he shifted, throwing blue light across the alloy walls. 'Think we're about to hit the bottom.'

The lift slowed, its deceleration unnervingly smooth — too perfect, too deliberate — until it came to a weightless stop. Emerald light rippled up the shaft walls, crawling like phosphorescent veins, and the doors split open with a hiss that sounded far too much like a sigh.

Then the sound died.

No echoes. No hum of machinery. Not even the faint hiss of recirculated air. The silence pressed against him, thick enough to feel, as though the very concept of sound had been cut away. His own ragged breathing sounded intrusive, mortal in a place that did not welcome the living.

The darkness beyond was absolute, swallowing lumen-ghosts and augmented sight alike. His eyes strained against it and found nothing.

Koron's sensors spun up with a low hum, painting the void in ghostly wireframes. The image that returned made his stomach twist; the walls dropped away into infinity, leaving him a single, fragile point suspended in a cavern too vast for his systems to fully map. The only path forward was a narrow bridge of black alloy, barely wider than his shoulders, stretching into the abyss like a dare.

The tomb began to wake.

Necron sigils flared one by one, a slow cascade of emerald light racing down the bridge like falling stars. The glow bled across the infinite dark, throwing his shadow long and skeletal behind him. Each glyph lit with a faint hiss of ionized air, sharp with the acrid sting of heatless ozone.

The bridge's metal was ice-cold beneath his boots, colder than the shaft had been, as though the span itself resented the weight upon it.

Far below, something immense shifted, the movement too far to see but powerful enough to send a tremor up through the bridge. The vibration ran into his legs and through his cracked ribs, buzzing in his bones like a warning.

This was no ordinary dark. It wasn't an absence of light, it was a presence, a blackness that swallowed and devoured.

Koron sighed and tapped the collar of his armor. Twin beams of white light cut into the void, their glow sharp and thin, catching the edges of the path as if even photons were reluctant to linger here.

"Of course," Koron muttered, beginning his limping march across the narrow span. Each step rang against the bridge like a challenge. "Of goddamn course."

The chorus of voices came through the link almost at once — Elissa, Elly and Sasha overlapping. 'What?'

Koron's scowl deepened, his breath fogging in the cold air. 'Of course I would — while half-dead, with walking statues of Astartes on my heels — end up here. Not in some big control chamber with handy consoles to manipulate the tomb. Not a labyrinth with nice, cozy shadows to hide in. Oh no.' He nudged a pebble-sized fragment with his boot and sent it skittering off the edge, listening for an impact that never came. 'I get the one tomb that thinks the Bridge of Khazad-dûm is the pinnacle of interior design.'

'…The what?'


He sighed, shoulders rising and falling under battered armor. 'Old Earth story. If we live through this, we'll all sit down and watch it.'

Sasha, always first to break tension, piped up dryly: 'Only if you don't fall off this one, Gandalf.'

Koron actually snorted, a sound halfway between pain and reluctant amusement. 'I am not Gandalf.'

'Who is, then?'
Elly asked, her tone bright with curiosity. Both AIs were watching his vitals like hawks, keeping him talking, keeping him moving.

'Gandalf?' Koron mused, spitting a blood-flecked glob over the edge. 'Maybe the Emperor. He's old, apparently magic, but doesn't have the beard for it. Bit less active than Gandalf, though — bastard's been smoking too much pipeweed.'

'Aragorn is clearly Guilliman,'
Sasha said, still sweeping the darkness ahead for threats.

Koron's mouth twitched into the ghost of a grin. 'Easy call. And Kade? Definitely Gimli.'

'Who are you, then?
' Elissa asked, catching the thread of the game, her voice warm enough to almost mask the worry beneath it.

'Oh, I'm totally Pippin,' Koron said, limping forward another step. His boots rang against the bridge, the sound too loud in the devouring dark. 'And Sasha's my Merry.'

There was a pause long enough for him to imagine Sasha's digital eye-roll, then a long-suffering sigh echoed through the link.

'…No. You are not Pippin.'

Koron blinked. 'Excuse me?'

'You're Frodo,'
Sasha said, voice level but warmer now, as if letting the words settle over him. 'Stubborn little mule dragging the rest of us through hell because you won't let anyone else carry the weight.'

Koron's lips curled into a crooked grin. 'So does that make you the One Ring?'

There was half a beat of silence — long enough for him to picture Sasha raising a very smug virtual eyebrow.

'…I'm okay with this,' she said at last, tone suspiciously pleased.

'Of course you are,' Koron muttered as he limped onward, boots clanging softly. Behind him, the abyss swallowed the sound whole.

He half-turned, looking back at the lift exit, eyes narrowing before he shook his head and kept moving.

'What?' Sasha asked.

'Was thinking about booby-trapping the doors,' he admitted, 'but without knowing how it functions I don't want to risk wrecking something we need later.'

'Ah. So, plan?'


He eyed the distant sigils still blooming down the bridge. 'Could try severing the span with limpets, drop the whole thing into the pit? But…' He tapped his boot against the alloy underfoot. The ring of metal echoed far too long before fading into the abyss. 'I have no idea what kind of harmonics this thing runs on. Limpets might not even scratch it.'

'Koron.'
Sasha's tone sharpened, cutting across his thoughts. 'You're avoiding the obvious answer.'

'No, I'm working out—'

'Just stop.'
Her voice softened, shifting to the private link. 'The Rubricae aren't alive. They're ghosts. Trapped. You might be freeing them by ending this.'

'…You don't know that for sure.'
His working hand twitched once, betraying the tension he kept out of his voice. 'There might be a way to save them, restore them.'

'And you don't know that for sure. You're risking your life on a hypothetical.'

'Yeah.'


The word came out low, rough, half-breathed. Koron gave a short, humorless laugh that scraped at the edges of his throat, shoulders sagging under weight that wasn't just physical.

'I know.' His voice was quieter now, almost resigned. 'I know I'm being stupid — and it's going to get me in trouble someday. But I already survived when so many didn't.'

The memories rose unbidden, jagged and merciless: faces, names, final screams in the Warp. He shoved them down, jaw clenching until something popped in his neck.

'If I start deciding who deserves to keep walking and who doesn't…' He slowed, boots leaving a trail of blood across the bridge with every rough step. He looked out into the abyss ahead as though speaking to something far larger than Sasha. 'Then I stop being me. Then I'm just one more monster deciding who lives and dies.'

He drew a long, steadying breath and straightened a fraction, pain crackling through his frame. 'I have to be better than that. Or there's no point to any of this.'

The link went silent.

Sasha didn't speak. She didn't need to.

They both knew the truth — that Koron had already been deciding, already been shaping who lived and who died with every drone deployment, every battlefield calculation.

But she let him keep this moment, this small lie he told himself.

Because if he let go of it now, she wasn't sure he'd keep walking.

Below, the machinery thrummed like a slow heartbeat, vibrating faintly through his boots, as though the tomb itself was listening.

When Sasha spoke again, her voice was stripped of all its earlier sharpness, gentler now — faintly sad.

'…You still think you can balance the scales?'

It wasn't an accusation. Not even a challenge.

It was the ache of someone who had once tried to do the same, and learned what it cost.

'Not balance them,' he said quietly, almost to himself. 'But I can choose to stop adding to the weight. Besides…' His gaze flicked to the void yawning on either side of the bridge. 'If I burn every bridge behind me, what's left?'

He drew a slow, ragged breath. 'Hope's the only bridge I've got.'

For a moment the link was quiet again, as if Sasha was measuring her words.

When she spoke, her voice was softer than before, the sharpness gone — not pitying, not chiding, but steady, like a hand on his shoulder.

'…Then hold onto it,' she said at last. 'Hold it as long as you can. But if it ever breaks—' her tone deepened, carrying something that might almost have been a vow, '—I'll be the one who carries you across.'

Koron's lips quirked, too tired for a real smile but something close enough. 'Thank you. Guess even Frodo needed someone to carry him.'

'…I'm not doing your gardening.'


He huffed a breath that might have been a laugh, even as fresh blood pattered onto the bridge.

His sensors pinged a heartbeat later — shrill in the silence. The lift was dropping into range. Eight signatures this time. All of them heavy, armed, and relentless.



Zaraphiston's fingers clenched and unclenched around the haft of his staff as the bridge came into view, its Necron sigils blooming one by one like cold, watchful stars.

The seven remaining Rubricae stood before him, silent sentinels of dust and memory, Inferno bolters resting in gauntlets that had not trembled in ten millennia. Warpflame guttered from their muzzles, casting spectral blue light across the lift walls, turning the steel into a ghostly mausoleum.

Runes crawled across his warplate, flaring in careful sequence as they bent fate in his favor — or tried to. And still, unease gnawed its way down his spine like a worm burrowing for marrow.

In all the centuries since Prospero burned, he had never been without his foresight. The skein of fate had always lain before him: shimmering threads of possibility, some bright, some dark, some spiraling into miracles. With a gesture, a word, a thought, he could nudge them toward victory.

But now — there was nothing.

No branching futures. No whispering choir of the Great Schemer. No threads to pluck, no pathways to choose. Only the present moment, sharp and cold, suspended in his sight like glass about to shatter.

Once, Zaraphiston would have strode at the fore, leading his spectral guard with the calm assurance of one who knew the ending of the tale. Now, he let them take the lead, wards layered upon wards until they thrummed at the edge of breaking, every step measured like the slow tolling of a bell.

He had failed.

Abaddon had entrusted him to hold this ground, to drown the Corpse-Emperor's lapdogs in demon-fire and defend the prize they sought. Instead, his rituals had been broken, his warp-spawn banished, his power rendered a hollow echo.

And worst of all — the mortal.

A mortal, not even an Astartes, had crawled from the wreckage of the superweapon's heart, spitting blood, pain radiating from his shattered frame so fiercely that the air had seemed to thin. A mortal had undone what was meant to be Abaddon's triumph.

Such failures were not forgiven.

But perhaps, Zaraphiston had thought as he traced the mortal's bloody trail through the corridors, such a man might yet redeem him.

The scanners had shown exotic energies leaking from the wretch's battered frame — readings that bent the needle of Zaraphiston's curiosity higher and higher.

He had reached out through the warp to grasp the man's fate — and found nothing.

A Blank.

A void.

And not just a void, but a void armored in technology that should not exist, a mortal mind carrying the means to unmake a weapon of the Dark Age of Technology.

Zaraphiston's lips curled, baring teeth in something that was almost a smile.

Such a find might not merely mitigate his failure.

It might rewrite it.

The lift doors parted on whispering gears. The seven Rubricae marched out in perfect lockstep, Inferno bolters sweeping as one. Warpflame guttered in their muzzles, throwing jagged shadows that danced across the sigil-lit bridge.

They found only silence.

The bridge stretched ahead, its sigils blooming in a slow, deliberate procession — emerald lights marching ever farther into the abyss. Their glow revealed only emptiness. No mortal figure. No sound but the cold hum of ancient machinery.

Zaraphiston's jaw tightened. He gestured sharply, his command carried aloud and along the warp-links that bound the Rubricae to his will.

"You two, hold the doors. The rest of you — forward. Non-lethal. I want him alive."

The silent warriors obeyed, Inferno bolters at the ready, their tread a grim metronome as they advanced. Zaraphiston moved at their center, staff crackling with restrained power. The bridge seemed to sing beneath their combined weight, each step ringing out into the darkness as though the tomb itself were counting them.

Minutes passed in oppressive silence as he followed the trail — a thin, glistening thread of blood, bright as a beacon in his psychic sight.

Abruptly, it ended.

The blood simply stopped, as though the mortal had been plucked out of existence. There was no ozone stink of teleportation, no charred scoring on the alloy, no warp eddies that should have marked a jump through the immaterium.

Zaraphiston's gauntlets creaked as they tightened on the haft of his staff until the runes flickered in protest. He snarled, sharp teeth catching the ghost-light as he turned a narrow gaze back down the bridge.

The guards still stood at the lift, motionless.

And the line of emerald sigils flowed ever onward, disappearing into infinity.

"He's here," Zaraphiston hissed, the words a low rasp that carried along the bridge. "He must be. Nothing else explains the trail ending so suddenly."

He stalked to the edge and leaned out over the abyss. His wings flared open with a hiss of warped pneumatics and flexing sinew, feathers of deep blue smoking faintly from unseen fire.

Check everywhere, his will thundered through the warp, sharp enough to sting. Scour this place. I cannot return empty-handed.

With a single beat of his wings, Zaraphiston vaulted from the edge, plunging into the void like a striking hawk. Warp-flame blossomed in his palm, its sickly glow splashing across the underside of the bridge.

There.

The mortal hung suspended by a grapple line, every slow shift tugging painfully at his right shoulder. His warplate was wreckage — plates buckled and blackened, paint scoured away. Vomit and blood mingled in a sticky trail down his chest, dripping in slow threads to the abyss below. His left arm was locked tight against him, emergency seals fused so hot they had scored the ceramite itself.

His face was a ruin of bruises and blood, one eye swollen closed, lips split down to the gum.

Then, slowly, he raised his head.

The movement was ragged but deliberate — not a reflex, but an act of will. His one good eye fixed on Zaraphiston and held it, tracking him through the firelit gloom.

He looked like something that had clawed out of its grave and was too stubborn to stay dead.

Zaraphiston's grin sharpened. He folded his wings once and dove, the void tearing past in a blur of blue fire, one taloned hand reaching for the mortal's throat.

Koron's eye did not blink. The grapple hissed and released, and he dropped into the abyss without hesitation.

But Zaraphiston was faster than gravity. His gauntlet snapped around Koron's forearm with a sound like a snare-trap springing shut.

Koron kicked upward, a desperate strike, but agony lanced through him like lightning — something in his back cracked audibly.

Zaraphiston only smiled wider, hauling him upward in a single savage sweep of his wings and flinging him onto the bridge.

Koron skidded, sparks spitting from his ruined grav-plates, before a Rubricae seized him. One gauntlet clamped down on his shattered bicep, grinding metal against bone until he gasped, sharp and raw.

Zaraphiston landed with predatory grace, the bridge singing under his boots. With a hiss, he disengaged his helm and set it at his hip. His face was a tapestry of mutation — blue splotches mottling his skin, feathers replacing his brows, pupils slit to molten gold.

The sorcerer crouched, talons resting on the haft of his staff, head tilting like a bird of prey sizing up its meal.

"You cost me a victory," he said simply, flat and sharp. His golden eyes flicked over the broken plates, the blood, the ruin of Koron's frame.

"Not an Astartes," he murmured, as if to himself. "Not a psyker. But something the warp will not touch. Something that unmade a weapon of the Ancients."

His taloned hand closed around Koron's jaw, turning his face toward the sorcerer's. "Who are you? What are these strange energies I feel crawling under your skin?"

Koron wheezed through blood-flecked teeth, his grin crooked and defiant. "Hi. I'm Koron, professional pain in the ass."

The Astartes' gauntlet came down almost lazily — but even held back, the blow drove the air from Koron's lungs and broke something in his ribs even further. He doubled over with a ragged hiss, teeth bared, swallowing his scream.

Zaraphiston chuckled softly, the sound now warm, amused — and somehow that made it worse.

"A pleasure, Koron," he said, savoring the name. "I am Zaraphiston, Exalted of the Lord of Change. And I will be introducing you to a whole new world of pain and suffering."

Blood leaked from Koron's mouth onto the bridge, red streaking across the emerald-lit metal. "You know," he gasped out, "I believe you. You seem like the type who gets off on other people's pain."

"Nothing so carnal, I assure you." Zaraphiston knelt fully now, a looming shadow of talons and feathers, his voice almost soothing. "But there is a certain… satisfaction in watching stubborn ones like you break."

"Speaking statistically," Koron rasped, breath hitching in his chest, "torture isn't very effective for intelligence gathering. People will say anything to make the pain stop."

"Oh, I know." Zaraphiston's gauntlet began to glow with a cold, azure radiance. "Which is why I do it for fun."

The light flared, casting shadows against the endless dark.

"But enough talk," Zaraphiston said, almost gently. "Let us see what secrets are in that head of yours."

Koron's grin faltered, just for a moment. His breath hitched, shallow and sharp. He had no idea what was coming — what a sorcerer's touch might do to his mind, his memories, the fragile thread of his sanity.

A chill crawled up his spine, fingers twitched against the empty air, instinct searching for a weapon that wasn't there.

Then Zaraphiston's gauntlet clamped down on his skull, talons biting into his scalp. Azure fire spilled from the seams of the sorcerer's fingers, running down Koron's face like ghostly tears.

Power surged into the mortal's mind — and guttered.

The mortals back arched against the Rubricae's shin, armor shrieking as it scraped metal. His breath sawed through clenched teeth, a thin line of blood trailing from one ear and pattering to the floor in time with his racing pulse.

Of course it resisted. The mortal was a Blank — and Blank minds were nothing but stone walls and locked doors. Zaraphiston had crushed stronger wills before, shattered psykers who blazed like suns in the warp, their screams still echoing in the back of his thoughts.

This was different.

Where other minds fought like cornered beasts, clawing and lashing out, this one simply refused. There was no give, no flare of fear, no satisfying resistance to dig his claws into — only a cold, endless pressure, like crushing his hand around a cannonball.

The mortal jerked under his grip, veins standing out on his neck as blood ran from his nose. His body strained, trembling under the force, but his will held fast. Zaraphiston felt it: sharp, stubborn, unyielding — a wall of iron braced against the storm.

Strong, yes.

But not the strongest he had faced.

He bared his teeth and pushed harder. Eldritch fire flared in his eyes as he poured more of himself into the spell, clawing at the edges of the mortal's being until the void began to… crack.

Something stirred behind the emptiness. Something waiting just beyond reach.

Zaraphiston's wings shivered, hunger burning in his golden eyes as he reached for it, eager to rip the secret free—

—And the bridge, the Rubricae, the entire world fell away like ash on the wind.



The moment his mind brushed against the mortals, everything fractured.

For a heartbeat—just a heartbeat—there is nothing.

Not the warp. Not thought.

Not even self.

A shift. Space. Light. Purpose.

He stands within an endless machine.

Not a city. Not a landscape. Something older. Deeper. Boundless.

It is a place that should not exist.

Towering spires of black and gold, their surfaces shifting in perfect synchrony, rise into an endless, starless void. Great engines slowly churn in the depths below, their purpose unknown, their labor ceaseless. The air itself hums—not with life, not with power, but with the slow, deliberate click-click-click of calculation.

This place is not warm, nor cold. It is indifferent.

It does not welcome. It does not reject.

It simply is.

Zaraphiston steps forward—and the world moves with him.

Streets form beneath his feet, perfectly efficient, each path optimizing itself for his progress, anticipating his intent before he even thinks to move. Buildings shift without sound, rearranging in patterns too sublime for mortal minds to comprehend.

This is not a place of humanity.

It is the shape of will without hesitation.

It is function without mercy.

It is a thought engine, an intelligence given form—and it is watching.

Zaraphiston feels it, then.

The weight.

A presence as measureless as the dark between stars, pressing against his soul with quiet, inexorable force.

Not crushing.

Not hostile.

Simply... aware.

The machine sees him.

It does not speak.

It does not need to.

This was like no mind he had ever touched.

Mortal thoughts were a swirl of emotion, bright and loud, easy to follow, easy to bend.

The Mechanicus were cogitators in spirit as well as flesh — predictable, ordered, everything labeled and filed.

His fellow Astartes were iron bastions, their walls built high but always breakable.

Psykers were battlefields, blazing with light and fear and rage, each one a storm he could outwit or endure.

But this?

This was not a mind at war. Not even a mind awake.

It was a cathedral of thought, vast and silent, every gear slowly turning toward some unreachable horizon.

And yet—

The mortal stands within it.

A lone figure in a long, tattered cloak, drifting like a wraith against the impossible architecture. The fabric shifts with the colors of a dying star, its edges fraying, a banner unraveling against the weight of time itself.

He should not be here.

Yet, he is.

The Sorcerer watches him walk through the impossible, whispering machine of his own mind — and saw, with dawning horror, that he did not walk with it.

The world adjusted to him, paths reweaving in perfect anticipation, doors opening to greet his steps.

And the mortal ignored them.

Where the paths curved to meet him, he chose the straight way.

Where the doors swung open, he turned aside.

Where the machine invited him to become part of its endless rhythm, he chose dissonance.

This place — this terrifying, calculating intelligence — should have consumed him. Should have written him into its equations and erased all that was not necessary.

It should be him.

But it is not.

It is a machine.

And he is a man.

Their eyes meet.

Not the gaze of an engine, not the empty stare of a servitor.

Small.

Defiant.

Human.

And that is the horror of it.

This intelligence—the city, the engine, the living equation that stretches beyond sight, beyond time—waits.

Not dead. Not dreaming.

Patient.

It had not faded.

It had not broken.

It simply watched.

Because it is still a part of him.

He should be a god of steel and lightning, wearing a crown of cold precision and unyielding logic. This place should be his throne, and he should sit upon it.

He chooses not to.

But choice is fragile.

Will is fleeting.

If, for even a moment, he lets go of his refusal—

If he stops resisting—

If he lets the man be swallowed by the machine—

The great engines would roar to life.

The whispering calculations would swell into a chorus, deafening and absolute.

And in their song, the silence between the stars would scream.

Zaraphiston's gauntleted fingers spasmed, his psychic hold fracturing as a jolt of cold lanced through his hearts. A breath hissed between his teeth — not quite a gasp, but close enough to make his helm's vox crackle.

For the first time in decades, his breath caught. His gaze was dragged upward — not by choice, but by the weight of something vast pressing down on reality.

Past the shifting black-and-gold spires, past the endless clockwork avenues that folded and refolded to anticipate his every step. Upward, higher, until he stared into the void that loomed over all.

The void was no longer empty.

A single silver point glimmered in the darkness. Not bright — faint, as though seen through a pane of ancient glass — but there.

For a heartbeat, memory stirred: a boy standing on the half-collapsed roof of a hive hab-block, staring up as the smog briefly parted and the first stars peeked through, shy and distant. He remembered that feeling — smallness, wonder, a moment of quiet before the night creatures began to sing.

A slit pupil rolled into view.

Zaraphiston froze.

The star above him blinked.

Then another appeared beside it. And another. And another.

A thousand, thousand silver eyes opened in the black, burning cold and unblinking. They were not scattered but aligned, each fixed upon him, as though he had stepped under the gaze of a god who had just noticed him.

Something shifted around them. A shadow deeper than void slid across the expanse, slow and ponderous. Then another shape, massive and sinuous, eclipsed whole swathes of the eyes. Limbs — tendrils — silhouettes too large to comprehend stretched across infinity.

The void shuddered.

And a maw unfolded.

It was not a human mouth. Not a demon's.

It was a predator's, its canines gleaming white as swords, too many teeth set in a grin that was all hunger. The size of it made his breath catch — a maw wide enough to swallow the spire-city whole.

The air vibrated, the whispering rhythm of the machine-mind speeding up for the first time since Zaraphiston's arrival. He could feel the gaze of the city turning upward, acknowledging the presence in the dark — and in that moment, he understood.

The machine was dangerous, without question. But it was calm.

This leviathan?

It hated him.

He could feel it — a tide of loathing pouring out of the dark, pressing against his skin, against his very soul.

Not the hot, raging fury of a demon, but something cold and inexorable.

The deliberate, surgical focus, of a murderer.

A shadow passed over him as the mouth yawned wider. The eyes bored into him, and Zaraphiston felt his hearts, so steady and sure, quiver beneath its argent gaze.

Then a voice — quiet, feminine, utterly merciless — rolled through the void.

MINE

The jaws snapped shut around him.

The world exploded.

Sound came back all at once — a shattering detonation that made the spire-city scream. Black-gold towers bent and twisted, calculations fracturing into static as the machine-mind convulsed.

Zaraphiston's wards flared in blind panic, then shattered like glass as his equilibrium inverted.

He was hurled back into his body like a comet reentering atmosphere. Blood sprayed from his eyes and nose. His staff seared in his grip as warp-flame recoiled, blistering the ceramite gauntlet around it.

His knees hit the deck hard enough to dent the plating. Breath tore through his lungs in ragged gasps.

The Rubricae stood motionless, silent witnesses to their master's humiliation.

And yet — he could still feel it.

That presence.

Like cold claws resting just behind his eyes, the echo of silver pupils watching him even here, in the waking world.

He forced himself to look at the mortal.

Koron still knelt where he had been, battered and bloodied, chest heaving as if he'd just run miles. Blood streaked his eyes, nose and lips, dripping from his chin, but his gaze was steady — one blackened, defiant eye locking on Zaraphiston.

Still breathing.
Still himself.
Still human.

For now.

But he was not alone.

The echo of the silver gaze lingered, coiled around Koron like a shadowed guardian. Even here, Zaraphiston felt its hatred radiating outward, felt the weight of its claim on the mortal — and on anyone who dared to touch him again.

Zaraphiston's hearts pounded. He had faced demons. He had bargained with Lords of Change. He had walked through nightmare and fire, and none of it had left him like this.

He was not afraid of demons.

But this man — and the thing that stood with him — terrified him.

Because now Zaraphiston knew what waited behind those pale blue eyes.

And he knew that if Koron ever stopped choosing to be human, if he ever sat upon the throne —

It would not be a man that stood before him then.

It would not be a demon, either.

It would be inevitability made flesh.

And it would know no mercy.

The pistol was in his hand before thought could catch him, its muzzle pressed hard against the mortal's skull. Cold metal kissed blood-crusted skin.

His finger tightened on the trigger — automatic, inevitable.

Both hearts pounded, drumming war-beats in his chest, each one a savage command: kill it.

Ten thousand years of instinct howled for the execution.

Ten thousand years of hard-won pragmatism hissed of the Warmaster's displeasure.

He hung between them, the abyss yawning on either side — fear on one hand, duty on the other — when the world moved.

Emerald sigils along the bridge flared to life, one by one, until they reached their terminus.

A pillar of light speared downward, striking something far below — a colossal silhouette sleeping in the planet's bones.

Conduits blazed awake, green fire racing through arteries older than history, turning the air sharp with ozone and burnt copper.

As every eye was drawn towards the light, another source cut the black.

Lasfire.

Harsh, white, sudden — shredding the silence, spitting sparks from the Rubricae's armor. The hiss-crack of rifles hammered the air in a staccato cadence.

Zaraphiston's head snapped up as the first bolt struck home, blowing glass-dust and black ash across the bridge.



Koron watched white-hot lasbolts tear into dust-choked Astartes plate. The psyker's blue wings blocked most of his view, the grip of the Rubricae holding him immobile. Pain lanced through his left arm where the gauntlet locked down on his ruined bicep.

Still — he saw the results through the link.

A dozen Sentinels poured from the lift in a tide of lightning and steel. Arc-turrets spat crackling death, claws flashed like guillotines, and hypervelocity flechettes shredded two Rubricae into drifting golden clouds. Anti-grav plates let the machines take every angle at once, bounding along the bridge's edges, their advance covered by Dusthaven's security troopers.

Each fighter took position behind the Necron lift walls, shields overlapping beneath the glimmering dome of Aegis droned. The few warp-tainted bolts that punched through splattered harmlessly against the overlaid barriers, hissing as they died in midair.

The air filled with ozone and pulverized stone. Sentinel claws raked a Rubricae from his feet, dragging him down where three more tore him apart in a blur of sparks and steel. Another Rubrica turned its bolter toward the troopers — and vanished in a blossom of blue fire as a pair of arc-turrets punched clean through it's chestplate.

For a heartbeat, Zaraphiston's mask cracked.

His eyes flicked from the incoming storm to the glowing Necron node below — then to Koron.

"Cease fire!" His voice cracked like a whip. The Rubricae froze. The last few lasbolts hissed against their armor.

"You want this man — that much is clear." The pistol pressed harder against Koron's temple. "But you will not reach him before I pull the trigger. Lay down your weapons. Do so, and I will let him live."

A new voice rang out over the bridge, sharp as shattered glass.

"You're a special kind of stupid if you think that holds water."

Elissa stepped into view, her helmet's reflective visor throwing back the emerald light, rifle raised and steady. Dusthaven's security fanned out at her back, Sentinels repositioning with mechanical precision, claws raised.

"You're outnumbered, you've got no cover, and you're stuck in single file," she said, voice like steel. "Your weapons aren't breaching our shields, and my machines are five seconds from turning your next soldier into scrap. Here's the deal: throw your guns into the pit, and we all wait right here for the Ultramarines to come haul you away."

Zaraphiston's eyes narrowed, the pistol unmoving. "You have no idea what you trifle with, child. Surrender now, and I may yet spare—"

"You'll kill us the moment we disarm," she snapped, cutting across him. "We both know it. So our weapons stay up."

"You would gamble this man's life?"

"I'm not gambling." Her voice sharpened to a knife's edge. "You won't kill him."

His lip curled. "…A bold claim."

"Not really. His life's the only thing keeping you alive. The second he dies, you're next."

"Oh?" Zaraphiston tilted his head, wings flexing in a slow, serpentine motion. "You think you can cut me down before I end him?"

"No," Elissa said, voice iron, arms steady as her rifle never wavered. "But I can avenge him."

She jerked her chin at the fallen Rubricae, their hollow shells cracked and spilling dust.

"Ask your friends if you doubt me."

For an instant, only the humming shields and the distant thrum of the Necron machine filled the silence. Zaraphiston's grip did not slacken — but his eyes flicked again to the shattered suits, and his jaw tightened.

"To throw down our weapons and be taken in by our corpse-fellating brothers is death, merely delayed." He pressed the bolt pistol harder into Korons skull. "If I am to die, I will deny my cousins whatever knowledge this man gained from the weapon."

Through the link, Koron felt the tightness in her voice, the iron control beneath it. She was gambling on him doing something stupid.

She wasn't wrong.

'El,' Koron's voice whispered in her head, pain radiating down the link. 'Catch me, would you?'

'I'll think about it,'
she replied, even as she shifted her stance and braced.

The crack-limpets Koron had planted before hiding beneath the bridge came alive, their resonance screaming through the span.

They were meant for doors, bulkheads, obstacles — clean, surgical decoherence charges.

They had, however, never been tested on necrodermis.

The bridge began to shiver. Hairline fractures spidered across its surface as the whine climbed in pitch, a shriek that set teeth on edge and made the air vibrate in his chest. Flakes of blackened metal tore loose, spinning away into the abyss.

Every head turned toward the sound a heartbeat before the bridge tore itself apart.

The detonation was a sunburst — a wall of white light and shredding metal. The span disintegrated in a storm of razors, shards ringing off ceramite and sorcerous plate. Rubricae and master alike were hurled clear, their formation scattering into the void.

Koron was ripped from the golem's grip as the world dropped out from under him.

The void spun around him, a blur of Astartes, rubble, and emerald fire. He flung his limbs wide — the ones that still worked — trying to catch himself, but two and a half functional limbs weren't enough.

He tumbled faster, blood flecking from split lips as the air tore at him.

But he kept his eyes open.

The golems fell past him, golden dust unraveling into comet tails as they plummeted into the abyss.

On the far side of the blast, the lone surviving Rubrica was shredded where he stood — disciplined lasfire raking the dark, muzzle-flashes strobing the void in a heartbeat rhythm.

Above, the sorcerer fought for his life.

Six Sentinels swarmed him like wolves, anti-grav plates whining as they ricocheted off one another and the shattered Necron span. Claws raked, arc-turrets spat, jaws snapped. Lightning wrapped him in crackling coils, each strike leaving fresh burns and spiderweb cracks in ceramite.

Scorched feathers tore loose, spiraling away like dying embers.

And still, he held them.

Bolt rounds boomed, warpfire splashed across Aegis shields. His staff cracked one Sentinel mid-flight, sending it spinning into the abyss — but the others only came back faster, angrier, carving new rents in his armor, driving him toward exhaustion.

Then the air pulsed.

Runes along his warplate flared like brandings, and the head of his staff burst into fire. The sorcerer's head snapped toward the nearest Sentinel, his jaw opening — too wide, joints cracking audibly — and the void filled with sound.

It was not speech.

It was a screeching, whining stream of code, a sound that tore at the implants behind Koron's ears and made Sasha snarl over the link. "What the hell is that!?"

The first Sentinel spasmed mid-fall, optics flaring white. Plates along its spine snapped open, venting hot gas as it jettisoned corrupted logic cores into the abyss.

The second locked up completely — then blew its own memory core in a flash of blue light, trailing smoke as it tumbled.

Both reoriented.

Their optics burned red.

Anti-grav plates howled.

They dove — no longer in perfect formation, no longer elegant.

Zaraphiston's eyes widened.

Scrapcode had never failed him before. Never failed to drive machine-spirits screaming into self-immolation. Never failed to turn metal beasts berserk against their masters.

But these were not broken.

Their plating was cracked, their movements ragged, damaged yes — yet they still functioned. Still obeyed. Still came for him.

His surprise turned to agony.

One Sentinel shifted midair, limbs unfurling into its hybrid combat form, claws lengthening, jaw splitting wide.

It hit him like a meteor.

Chainsword fangs revved and ripped through his wing, shredding feathers, flesh, and ceramite until the joint snapped. His scream — high, sharp, almost avian — tore itself from his throat.

He smashed an armored elbow into its flank, cratering its plating, but it only dug in deeper, sawing at the ruined joint until the wing broke away completely.

Another slammed into his leg, claws punching through joint seals, teeth tearing into his thigh until he felt hot blood inside his boots.

Then came the rest — grappling, clamping, flechette pods angling toward his face.

He snarled, Warp-fire wreathing him in a burst that hurled them back, buying a single heartbeat of space.

He curled in on himself, runes across his armor flaring as the teleport spell took shape.

The damaged Sentinel struck again, slamming into his back, claws raking deep into his shoulder as the spell reached its apex.

But Zaraphiston was no novice, no unblooded pup of the Warp.

The spell detonated in a flare of azure brilliance that lit the bridge like lightning — swallowing him, and the drone still biting him, whole.

When the light faded, nothing remained but scorched metal and the smell of ozone.

In the silence that followed, Koron exhaled, letting the roar of the wind fill his ears as the tension bled from his shoulders. For half a heartbeat, he let himself have the dangerous luxury of calm.

The fall tore the last of his breath from his lungs. His HUD went black — and with it, the world. No readings, no horizon, just the screaming dark pulling him down.

'Koron! Wake up!' Sasha's voice was distant, echoing through his skull.

He tried. His fingers barely twitched. Then something like a steel vice seized his arm.

He expected Elissa. Maybe one of the twins. Someone diving through the void to snag him before he became a red smear on whatever titanic structure his sensors were pinging below.

Instead, a scarred, grizzled face appeared out of the rushing dark.

Milo's armored hand locked around Koron's chestplate, grav-plates flaring as gravity simply ceased to matter. The fall slowed to a drifting crawl.

"Hey, kid." Milo's voice was a gravelly drawl, steady even in the empty air. He hauled Koron in close and slung him over a shoulder like a sack of grain. "You look like hell."

Koron's head lolled back against the old man's chest for a heartbeat before he forced it upright again. Every breath rattled like glass inside him, but he refused to sag.

"So everyone keeps telling me," Koron muttered, giving the old man's armored back a weary pat. "Appreciate the catch."

"Course. Figured I'd check 'jump into a xeno deathtrap' off the bucket list."

Koron's lips twitched into the ghost of a smile before the pain caught up and forced a low grunt through clenched teeth. "Glad I could help with that."

"We'll set down on that big central node, work our way up from there," Milo said, angling their descent with surprising ease. "You gonna hold together that long?"

Koron didn't waste breath on words — just gave a slow, deliberate thumbs-up.



The descent was swift and soundless, the lift shuddering as it fell.

On the way down, Elissa had watched it — the massive orb of black liquid beneath the control node, its mirror-surface rippling as something massive shifted beneath. The sight had sent a shiver down her spine. Whatever it was, it wasn't water. It wasn't anything she could name.

She forced the thought aside as the lift glided to a stop.

Dusthaven's soldiers spread out in disciplined arcs, boots crunching softly against the ancient floor. None dared touch the glowing sigils carved into the consoles — each one pulsed faintly, like the slow, patient heartbeat of something far older than the world around it.

Near the chamber's center, Koron lay slumped on the floor, Milo seated beside him. Four Sentinels circled them like watchful hounds, optics glowing blue in the gloom.

And beyond them loomed the command throne.

In its arms lay a body — slumped forward, draped in dust thick as ashfall. The metal frame was cracked and worn, the greenish sheen of necrodermis dulled to near-black by a span of time so long it made the planet itself seem young.

At her approach, both Milo and Koron gave a casual wave. Milo was leaning against the throne, cigarette smoldering between two fingers, smoke curling lazily in the air.

"Hey, El," he said around a puff. "Look what I caught."

She almost smiled — but it died as her gaze swept over Koron's battered frame. His armor was in ruin, plates missing, blood and vomit half-dried on his skin. The sight hit like a blow to the gut, but she forced her voice to stay light.

"Looks pretty small," she said, dry as the dust underfoot. "Might want to throw him back."

Koron wheezed a laugh — then immediately regretted it, curling as pain tore through his chest.

"Please," he managed between clenched teeth, "don't make me laugh. My ribs are basically powder."

Milo caught him under one arm, gravity fields humming as they stabilized him and hauled him upright.

Elissa stepped closer, shaking her head as she tried to keep her expression brisk, professional — anything but worried. "What's in the bag?" she asked, nodding toward the metal satchel at his hip, clearly made from his own shattered armor.

"Couple of souvenirs," Koron rasped. He nudged the dust-caked Necron corpse with one boot. "Got a little drone and a dimensional cube, exceptionally rare. Not sure if they work though."

Rolling her eyes, Elissa took his other side, careful of the ruined arm. She slipped her arm around his waist, letting her gravitic field sync with Milo's to take more of his weight.

"Come on," she said, her voice soft but firm. "Let's get you home. The girls are worried sick. Kala's already promised to punch you at least twice."

Koron managed a tired smile as they started toward the lift, Dusthaven fighters falling in around them. "Well," he rasped, "at least it's just two."

"Tara said she's using a powerfist."

Koron blinked. "…Oh."



The atrium doors hissed open, spilling Dusthaveners and their machine guardians into the ashen daylight. Rubble crunched underfoot, mingling with the slick remains of loyalist and traitor alike.

And then they saw them.

Twenty-four walls of ceramite blocked the way — azure giants, weapons at rest but ready. Helmets turned as IFF tags flashed green, but suspicion hardened to certainty the instant their optics fell on Koron's battered frame.

His face had been given to every one of them. Search and rescue — by order of their gene-sire himself.

One stepped forward, towering over the mortals, closing the distance until the Dusthaveners instinctively clustered together with Koron at the center. Elissa handed him off to one of her men and strode to the front.

"Greetings, my lord," she said, dipping her head in a gesture of respect. "I—"

"You are well known to us, Lady Brandt," the Lieutenant said, warm amusement in his voice as he removed his helm. His left eye was augmetic, a handful of cables arcing from his brow like a mechanical crown. "The battle-brothers of the Salamanders — and those under the direct protection of our father — are not faces we easily forget."

A flush touched her dusky cheeks. "Ah. A fair point, Lieutenant…?"

"Ankius, my Lady." His grey eyes flicked to Koron, narrowing at the sight of the blood and broken plating. "I see you have recovered him. Does he require medical aid?"

"He does," Elissa said tightly, jerking her chin toward the Nyx. The gunship hovered twenty meters above the earth outside the base, engines whispering, its weapons still deployed and tracking in slow, lazy arcs.

Ankius followed her gesture, then looked back to Koron. His brow furrowed. "Understandable. That said—" He hesitated, as though weighing his words. "Forgive me. I am… uncertain what title he carries."

Koron lifted his head, one eye swollen nearly shut but still catching the Lieutenant's gaze. "No title. Just Koron. Keeps everything nice and simple."

Ankius inclined his head, the hesitation gone, his expression settling into formal resolve. "Very well. Koron — my lord has called for you. His own wounds are grave, and he requires your counsel. You are to accompany us."

He paused, then his tone softened, losing its edge of command. "Please."

Koron exhaled through bloodied lips, the breath leaving him like something heavy torn loose. For a moment his head bowed, as if the weight of the request pressed him down — then he nodded once.

"Alright."

Elissa spun toward him, her hand twitching toward his head as if ready to smack him senseless. "You are not—"

"Elissa." His voice was hoarse but steady as he met her glare. "Guilliman's too important to wait. I'm okay—"

"The hell you are!" she snapped, jabbing a finger at his chest. "You're held together with spit and stubbornness! Your organs are shutting down, your ribs are shattered, your—"

"Elissa." His voice was quiet — but it stopped her cold. "I'll be fine. Please."

She opened her mouth to argue when the neural link clicked alive, his voice spilling through, warm and weary but steady.

'El, I know you're worried. But I think this is legit.'

'You're seriously wounded, and this could be a trap — a way to drag you into the heart of their operations!'

'Which is why I need to go alone. If it's a trap, I'm the only one they get. You stay here, you can either pull me out or burn the place down trying.'

'Or you could send a damned drone! Scan it from the ship, do your diagnostics from safety!'

'I considered it. But if Guilliman's life depends on this, I'm not trusting a feed with even a millisecond of lag. I need my own eyes on this.'

'Oh, and a fraction of a second of lag is worse than you running on fumes, and, let's not forget: down an arm.'

'I'm not performing surgery — just checking his systems. And if they are as broken as I think they are, I can't risk a misread.'


The link went silent for a long breath. He could see her jaw working, her hands flexing around her rifle stock like she was trying to squeeze the fear out through her fingers.

'You're going to get yourself captured doing this,' she said at last, her voice lower, rawer. 'And for what? For a man who won't even remember your name once this war moves on?'

'Maybe,'
Koron admitted, leaning heavily against the wall. His HUD stuttered again, Sasha throwing another red warning across his vision. 'But the simple fact is that nobody knows how much time he has. And the Imperium can't afford to lose him.'

Another silence, sharper this time. When she finally spoke again, her tone was tight, controlled — the voice she used to keep from shouting.

'You're such an idiot.'

'Been hearing that a lot lately.'

'Maybe you should start listening to us, then.'

'Tell you what — once I'm back in the medbay, you can ram it home as long as you want.'

'...I'll hold you to that.'


Elissa turned back to the Astartes, her jaw tight, eyes hard as diamonds.

"If anything happens to him," she said evenly, "I'll be pissed."

Something flickered in Ankius's expression — amusement, alongside a shard of respect for the tiny woman glaring up at him. "Then you have my word," he said solemnly. "I will defend him with my life. On the Primarch's name, I swear it."

Elissa, ever so slightly, dipped her head in acknowledgment.

Koron shuffled forward, each step dragging pain across his face, until he stopped at Elissa's side.

With his one good hand, he unbuckled the metal satchel and pressed it into her grip.

Her glare was flint-sharp, anger barely hiding the thrum of fear under her skin. She wanted to shake him, to shout, to make him stay — but she only held his gaze, fingers curling knuckle-white around the satchel as though she could anchor him there.

Koron raised his working arm and cupped the back of her head, metal fingers threading through her sweat-matted crimson hair. The gesture was slow, deliberate, costing him something to complete. His bloody forehead came to rest against hers, leaving a faint red smear between them.

For a moment, she froze. Then something inside her broke loose. Her free hand came up hard, seizing the back of his head and holding him there, her grip just shy of painful, metal and flesh pressed together as if she could keep him by sheer force.

The contact sent a rush through her — relief, affection, frustration, grim pride, alongside something she refused to name. For a heartbeat she let it stay, breathing him in, letting the scent of blood, metal, and heat root her to the moment.

Then she forced it all back down where it belonged, armor snapping into place.

Koron held her eyes for a moment longer — silent, steady — before letting go and turning toward the waiting Ultramarines.

The Thunderhawk roared skyward, leaving only the wind behind. That silence lasted all of three seconds before Milo's shadow fell across her, puffing out a cloud of smoke, grinning like a man who'd just found a new favorite story to tell.

"Well, that was subtle," he said, voice far too loud.

She kicked his shin. Hard.
 

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