Dulan. A miserable rock filled with miserable people who refused to bend to the Emperor’s will. A miserable rock that Kushiel and his squad were currently hurtling towards, having been fired out of the launch batteries of orbital craft. The layers of ceremite around them shook violently as they thundered through the air. The cloth of his tabard would flutter a little thanks to the movement, but then with a gut-wrenching feeling the thrusters would activate, the rear of the craft slamming into the ground with a heavy thud.

“Death to the enemies of the Imperium. Spare none who resist.” The straps popped loose from the chests of the marines, Kushiel’s chainsword revving. Almost as soon as the doors lowered themselves, they were surrounded by foes. The distinctive whooshing-thuds of boltrounds would sound as the marines of the First Legion opened fire, Kushiel sparing only a brief look upwards to where dozens more drop pods winged their way down.

Lion ‘El Johnson had meticulously planned this assault, and he was not one to disappoint the father of the legion. “Do not let yourself get distracted. Protect Brother Goran, ensure that the power of his weapon may be brought to bear against the fortified positions.” A few mutterings of acknowledgement from his marines, and then the advance would begin. Although the foes they faced were numerous, they were nothing to a full-blooded Astartes. Stubber bullets bounced off Crusade and Maximus armour as if it were rain on a roof, with the returning hail of fire leaving decidedly more permanent wounds inflicted upon their foes.

The assault would continue, swift and brutal. With the additional marines entering from the sky it seemed as if nothing could go wrong… But of course, such thoughts only invited problems. No sooner had one of the drop pods landed when a rocket had been fired. The shell would strike against something inside the craft and then the entire thing would erupt, the twelve marines inside eradicated- gone in an instant. Heavier armament would be hauled out, and now marines began to fall- one droplet of rain did little, but many could wear down even the mightiest of boulders.

“Press on brothers.” He would command, chainsword meeting with flesh and bone for the first time that day. The screams of the poor fool mangled beneath him were dampened by the auditory systems of his helmet, and by the time he had stepped past the corpse, robes red with blood, they had stopped.

The fallen could not be mourned. They must press on. They had one mission and they were duty bound to complete it. Foe after foe would be encountered, and quickly Kushiel lost count of the bodies- alive or dead it mattered not. Bolt after bolt, hack after slash. He knew only of the job to be done, and such was his concentration that the world around him fell away, replaced only by a mind singularly focused. “Brother Ariel. Concentrate your fire there, supress them and allow for grenades to be thrown.” He would merely indicate, and the fire would commence.

“Brother Goran, can you safely fire? Excellent. Enemy light vehicle, eradicate it.” Every command was calm and measured, even as a round winged its way past his armour, shrapnel fragmenting against his stomach. Even as he let out a wet cough, he continued issuing commands.
“We are almost there brothers.” He would say, grimly. Another foe slain by his chainsword, the screaming stopping as soon as the teeth churned their way through his grey matter. Now, he realised, he was marching not just with the squads that had landed from the air, but also those that had launched the assault further away from the fortress centre. Hundreds of marines, marching together, fighting together. Some, dying together. A glorious sight.

“There.” He would indicate with his bolt pistol. “Brother Goran, remove its presence.” The sound of heavy plasma was nectar to his ears, and he watched as the blossoming explosions tore through what would have been a major hinderance to their assault.

“Nothing will stand in our way! Charge!” The marines would surge forward. Even as his breaths grew laboured Kushiel fought, his orders never failing to come out in level, even tones. Eventually however, his legs would work no more. Taking a step forward, Kushiel’s knee would collapse, the sergeant using his chainsword to hold himself steady. Pushing himself up, slowly, agonisingly, he would rise back to his feet and continue walking, continue fighting, continue commanding.

It was only as he saw winged helmets advance to the front that he would at last allow himself to collapse. When a white-and-green figure stood over him, his hand would raise up, squeezing the apothecary’s gauntlet. ”I am not ready to rest yet. By the Emperor I am not ready to rest.”

'So, you alone have recognised my ploy. This will not help you.'

The Fallen Traitor drew his power sword, its ignition a tainted red glow far removed from the usual blue fire of a power field, and Knight Zechariah answered with a silent, contemptuous charge - this traitor had fallen thanks to the Arch-Heretic Luther's honeyed lies, and now his corrupted psychic abilities were put to use in creating a false legion of his brethren, who the rest of his squadron were occupied with to no avail. Only he had realised the truth at hand; and so only he could defeat this black-clad heretic.

The Indomitus pattern of Tactical Dreadnought armour offered far greater speed and flexibility of movement than the Cataphractii pattern, Zechariah had found. Though it was somewhat less protective, the presence of a potent storm shield made up for this downfall and then some, and paired with his Mace of Absolution, he like the rest of the squad were nearly unstoppable. Not that this assumption would hold, if he didn't destroy the Fallen Angel immediately - and whilst he'd expected some disparity in mobility, the Traitor wore his power armour like a second skin, despite the spikes and the stars of Chaos adorning its frame. His initial dodge around Zechariah seemed impossibly light. That too was Chaotic influence, no doubt.

The Traitor's returned sword strike barely deflected off of the storm shield's surface, the deflector field briefly failing to hold the weapon at bay, and Zechariah's own weapon flew toward the Traitor again, and was again dodged - just as Zechariah anticipated. If the Fallen could outspeed him, then he simply had to be prevented from moving. In a single fluid motion, he dropped his shield and snatched the Fallen's sword arm before the slab hit the ground, ramming the empowered head of his mace deep into his foe's armour, crushing his guts beneath its force. Even then, the Fallen Traitor continued to fight back, drawing his bolt pistol and attempting to aim it toward Zechariah's skull; for his efforts, he was kicked in the leg to throw him off-balance, his knee snapped back on itself as the Terminator armour's enhanced strength easily overpowered the defenses of the Traitor's joint armour. The offending weapon, hand and all, was crushed by another swing of the mace, and a third and final return blow staved in the skull of the Fallen.

And like that, one more instance of shame on the part of the Unforgiven was cleansed. Relaxing, his squad safe for now, Zechariah pulled his mace away from the corpse he was now holding up - only to startle, as the perfectly intact face of the Fallen Angel was that of-

---

The illusion passed, and naturally, as others had before him, Zechariah immediately began assessing the change in scenery, only to settle as he recalled at last what had happened. The dark metallic room they were in was akin to a standard training room, the machine spirits tapping into Zechariah's nervous system and restricting his movements realistically through wired plugs inserted into, and now one by one removed from, his Black Carapace ports, playing illusory situations into his mind. Far from being used for training, however, this room was purposed to generate scenarios for potential Deathwing Veterans, Knights, and Knight Masters to overcome; Brother Zechariah's situation had not been dissimilar to one Saraqael had encountered in the Horus Heresy, as a matter of fact. Back then, Saraqael had not been so lucky as to escape without injury, his stubborn refusal to change tactics costing him an arm, since replaced with a bionic that was, whilst a blunt beacon and reminder of his failure at the time, more functional than the original limb for it. The opponent provided in both the reality and the illusion was "a black-armoured Traitor Marine", of course, rather than the Fallen Zechariah had fooled himself into fighting- just in case a Techmarine working on the device learned too much from the spirits within- but even so, he'd outdone himself in both skill and determination.

'Brother Zechariah, you have passed the penultimate test of Knighthood,' Saraqael announced once Zechariah was free of the device, half a cold blue gaze and half an augmetic orange glare examining the unarmoured veteran from within a mass of scar tissue across his face, and in turn beneath a neat shock of short black hair. The burgeoning Knight's outfit more or less matched the Grand Master's own armourless robes in form if not in deed, though not his round eight feet of height. 'One more challenge lies before you, however. Follow on.'

As one silent unit, they moved deeper still into the bowels of the chapter barque that served as the fortress-monastery of the Lions of Absolution. Saraqael pondered for a while what he was about to tell Zechariah - a much more grim story than Master Gedeon liked to peddle to the Scouts, and yet a crucial aspect of testing new recruits. Those joining the First Company fresh often feigned ignorance about the Fallen, even when they'd been present during Caliban's Fall, and yet many had been entirely absent for the Shattering, Zechariah included.

'What have you been told about the Shattering?' Saraqael asked abruptly, their only audience now a cadre of Watchers.

'Of the Heavenfall Blade? Only what I have been allowed,' Zechariah replied, a polite and suitably formal response. 'As Master Gedeon has stated, the blade was formerly wielded by Supreme Grand Master Kushiel, only to shatter as it struck down the last of a band of Traitor Marines.'

'Indeed. And I suppose you recognise that you have not been told the full truth?'

'...I have supposed nothing, Grand Master. It is not my place.'

'Yet, knowing what you now know compared to the original telling, do you believe the story in full? Or do you suspect it is falsified?'

'Well, if I am permitted to say so, Grand Master...' Hesitation, just long enough for Saraqael to nod his approval. 'In this context, I imagine the foes that broke the Blade were not mere Traitor Marines.'

'Indeed.' Nothing more was said until they reached their destination: the heart of the Lions' Chamber of Judgements, a place of black marble and grey stone. The shadowed arch was a far cry from that of the Rock which the Dark Angels held sacred, but it was decorated with the names of those who had previously passed beneath, and it would more than suffice for this final test.

'The truth of the Shattering is as follows,' Saraqael uttered monotonously, halting Zechariah's motion with an arm as he stepped ahead of the veteran before turning back to face him. 'Much of it has been relayed faithfully, but the foes the sword broke against were not mere Traitor Marines. As you have surmised, those it faced on the day were Fallen, at least in part.' Zechariah's face contorted to a scowl, but he said nothing in response. Good. Contempt for the vile, more than proven before now.

'It did not, however, break with the last killing blow of battle. Rather, it broke at combat's height against the weapon of a Fallen Angel, when its edge was needed most.' This revelation caused more reaction. Not much more, but a widening of the eyes in disbelief. 'The Shattering alone marked the destruction of a priceless relic, but the blade's failure was not Sin in itself. The consequences thereafter were what was and still is unforgivable - because of the Heavenfall Blade's destruction,' Saraqael proclaimed with great condemnation, 'and in spite of our best efforts thereafter, several Fallen escaped their due punishment, an unfathomable blow to our efforts.' Now Zechariah was reacting - some mixture of uncoiling horror and disgust and righteous fury, filtered through the psycho-conditioned mind of a Space Marine to produce no more than a locked jaw and, perhaps, barely-suppressed twitching as his muscles clenched tightly.

Saraqael sympathised with his reaction. He himself considered the Sin of the Shattering a blight that the Lions of Absolution should never have experienced, and if Zechariah ever achieved the rank of Knight Master, he too would learn why this was - a stray shard from the broken blade, sharp as the obsidian it was forged from, had been what cut out Saraqael's eye and damaged much of the rest of his face, and surely his blinding, on top of his failure to react properly despite his mere wound, was what had led to the Fallen Traitor escaping with his life and too many of his unrepentant comrades. No matter how one looked at it, Saraqael surely had personal responsibility in the Sin of the Shattering.

'How dare they.' Zechariah's statement conveyed his hatred of the Fallen all too aptly, heightened yet further by another drizzle of truth. Just in time - the Watchers in the Dark had positioned his new equipment, mace and shield and black Indomitus armour with orange lenses, each attached to a pedestal on the other side of the arch. All he needed to do was walk to them.

'The Blade of Mourning,' Saraqael continued, taking the weapon from the Watcher who bore it up to him and drawing it from its sheath, 'has been intentionally warped. In bowing so, it bears the weight of the Sin of the Shattering, so that its brothers retain their parents' purity despite the Sin's marring. Kneel.' Zechariah did so, going down on one knee before Saraqael before the Grand Master continued. 'As a part of the First Company, you were dubbed with this blade, taking on the burden of both Sins, the Shattering and the Fallen. In joining the ranks of the Deathwing's Knights, you shall be dubbed again, taking on the burden twofold. If you can bear its weight, you will be accepted. If you cannot, you will die here as though you had failed any preceding test. Do you understand?'

'Yes, Grand Master.'

'Then, by my power.' Saraqael took up a two-handed stance with his Mourneblade, before bringing it down toward Zechariah's left shoulder - not a full-speed swing, but fast enough to threaten a slight cut if he flinched. He did not.

'As Grand Master of the Deathwing of the Lions of Absolution.' Another swing, directed towards the right shoulder.

'I dub thee.' One last swing toward the center of Zechariah's skull, and once more halted just before it would wound.

'Knight Zechariah, of the Deathwing.

'Now stand, and receive your reward,' he concluded, keeping the Blade of Mourning unsheathed. Zechariah stood, perhaps wondering why the Blade was still in Saraqael's hand - only to strain, and then tense up as he realised what was happening, before slowly and carefully beginning to walk toward the arch.

The first time a Marine of the Lions of Absolution was dubbed with the Blade of Mourning, they took on the burden of both the Sin of the Shattering and the Sin of the Fall. And Sins had Weight - not literal, but metaphorical, psychological, dragging all but the most utterly righteous down even when fully unburdened, and somehow the Blade of Mourning imposed that Weight upon them for a time. A member of the Deathwing had to be capable of bearing that metaphorical Weight - and with each subsequent step up the ladder, each dubbing from Veteran to Knight to Knight Master, and each new bearing of the Sins, the Weight grew heavier. To bear the Weight at all was proof of one's devotion to the cause of the Unforgiven; yet the Knights bore double the Weight of the Veterans; and the Knight Masters bore that Weight thrice over.

To date, the only man who had taken the Sins on a fourth time was the Deathwing's own Champion. Not even Saraqael had taken such a Weight, nor did he fully understood how the Champion had achieved it, and for that he held great respect for his functional second.

Yes, Zechariah would have his rank, his equipment, his reward. All he needed to do was walk to it.

If he could.

“Neophytes.” Gedeon’s hoarse, drab voice pierced the ceremony hall’s deep silence. It was a room in the setup of a chapel, a consecrated ground with gleaming floors and lavish furnishings, a hall which stretched on yet carried sound perfectly, yet it resonated with silence. A few dozen men, Neophytes, clad in their ceremonial robes, had been packed into rows on kneeling pews, attention now fixed steadily forward to the figure at the podium.

Gedeon stood lumbering above an altar fit for a cathedral, adorned heavily with the effects of the Lions. Lion’s heads were carved of gold and bronze, manes buffed so they seemed to flow readily beyond open, hungry mouths. Angelic wings of embossed silver harkened to their lineage, and symbols of similar theme seemed to coat the walls of the ceremony hall.

But yet, the thing that stood out was Gedeon himself, who, at the altar, stood at his stature of a modest 7’7” for an Astartes. He was the Master of Recruits. He was the one who had rend and broke all these Neophytes which sat before him used to be, and rebuilt them. Drill after drill, combat after combat, and many had not survived. This group which was soon to graduate paled in comparison to that which they had begun with. But these men were hardy. Not of Caliban, but all had come from societies similar, Feudal and Death worlds giving the harsh upbringing which the Unforgiven desired.

Gedeon, adjusted the beige robes which flowed over him, clutching in one hand a tome which he did not once look at, for he did not have to. Such texts were long committed to memory. In the other hand, in a reverse grip, a blade which pulsed with idle electricity, its exterior masterfully crafted of some dark metal.

“Let us begin with a story. Yes, a story which began in the Rock, some years after the Heresy. The world of Caliban had collapsed, its very essence consumed by the taint of the Eye of Terror itself. Of it, only our grand Fortress Monastery, the Rock, had survived, and fleeing such horrors as that of the very Warp itself, it found itself aloft above the lashing sands of Al-Baradad. In the change of gravities, the Rock found itself assailed by a hail of meteorites, but yet avoided all hits save one, which on impact split open like a mighty beast and ejected a core of pure obsidian.”

Gedeon embellished his points, his voice achieving a crescendo with motions of occupied hands for emphasis.

“And such, a sign of the protection of our Lion and indeed the Emperor himself, the Angels of old forged from that core a series of blades dubbed Heavenfell. Blades which accompany the Angels and all the Unforgiven, and at one time indeed our own chapter. Wielded by our Supreme Grand Master Kushiel, the blade was a feared weapon which was the bane of all taint of Chaos. And it is in our story that it meets such foes. Traitors, Astartes which betrayed their Emperor in the name of false gods and empty promises, they often dared to challenge the Lions, taunting the lineage of the Angels. They were not prepared to meet our steel. And at that crucial moment, in the killing blow struck, when all traitors laid dead or dying, the blade shattered.”

He lowered his voice, taking a more somber tone, firmly bracing himself on the altar, tracing his two dull brown eyes across the rows of Neophytes.

“Its pieces gathered, its spirit was reforged. Ten blades were, one for each company of the Lions, and at its pinnacle, the Blade of Benediction, that which I wield before you today, the fabled induction tool which shall this day see you all become Brothers. Not just to the other companies, not just to your fellow Neophytes, but mine own Brothers, worthy of the title of Lions!”

Crying out the final stanza of the story, he raised the Blade to chest height, and commanded heartily.

“Neophytes, on one knee!” Immediately, almost robotically, all Neophytes came to a single knee, heads bowed in pseudo-prayer.

“I, Master Gedeon of the Tenth Company, the Lions of Absolution, do dub all Neophytes here with the title of Brother, and their own right to keep and bear the title of Lions! Go forth, hunt for the Lion!”

The cry echoed back.

”We hunt for the Lion!”

M30.878

The day was won, the field of war rightfully belonged to the 1st legion, as did this begotten little world and the lives of every man, woman and child on it. To apothecary Baltheus there was nothing special or particularly interesting about the barely worthwhile ball of rock that was Onara IV. But then again it need not be of great strategic importance, nor rich in resources to matter to the Imperium. It was a human world and it's destiny was to be brought unto compliance. Able to add and contribute what little they could to the future of the crusade. These poor, defeated souls might resent their conquerer's this day as butchers and war criminals, but tomorrow they would awaken under the safe protection of the Imperium, and they would know greater peace and prosperity for it.

None of that was the concern of Baltheus. His concerns were those of his own legio. The scions of the 3rd chapter of the 1st legion may have been more than a match for this world's meagre defences but that did not mean it was a victory totally without cost. Even Baltheus's own wounds were of little concern to him. His once gleaming white armour was caked in rockcrete dust and blood. Most of it wasn't his own. But his left eye was a raw, gaping hole. The shrapnel that took his sight, still lodged inside. His broken helmet hung magnetized at his hip, the left side shattered and the eyelense clearly punctured.

Kneeling down by the fresh corpse of his brother legionairre, Baltheus took a moment to ascern whether or not the fallen angel still drew breath, or if his hearts still beat. But even if they did, there was no blood left for them to pump. It was all spilling out from his ruined abdomen into the ruined urban pavement. His lower half was obliterated and this confirmed his brother was well and truly dead. He did not have to deliver the Emperor's peace this day.

But the grevious nature of this wound was itself a sin. One of the brother's progeniod glands was destroyed, lost to the explosion that claimed his life and his limbs. Baltheus didn't waste any further time. Quickly unsealing and removing the breastplate, and with a sinister whine that could only be produced by a chainblade, His narthecium made quick work of the soft armour beneath, and cut through augmented flesh and bone with equal ease. Within moments the surviving gland was delicately removed and safely stored.

A momentary inspection was all he needed to rest assured that at least some of this brother's genetic legacy remained intact. He had little time to reflect on his brother's death or the comments of mortality there raised. There were other brothers dead or dying, and only so many apothecaries to perform this necessary work.

A quick look at the fallen brother's helmet markings gave him a squad number and name. He voxed the location of the body to his sergeant and left to find the next brother, living or dead who needed his attentions. His own ruined eye socket throbbed with dull, aching pain, He felt his temperature rise as the Larraman organ in his chest worked hard to combat the intrusion of rust, grime and dirt in his bloodstream, and stave off subsequent infection. No doubt his enhanced flesh was already beginning to heal around the shrapnel, which would make for a minor annoyance later, but he did not believe any of this to be lethal. It hadn't punctured his brain cavity, Thus it wasn't an urgent concern. His own pain's were unimportant as long as other brethren lay fallen.