In the underhive of Hive Houston lay a vast sway of territory that was held in dread for its dark reputation. A place in the hive in which the spirits of the demented, vengeful dead clung close to the realm of the living and monsters and demons of old came to hunt for souls... and sometimes one might slip a bit further out of its hunting ground in search of prey if the conditions were horribly right. A place where the shadows themselves would consume anyone or anything stupid enough to wander into them. A place where animals would go completely mad trying to flee rather then go anywhere near.

It was called it the Ghosthive. No one knew why it was the way that it was, but it had been that way for longer then living memory. The official records of the area stored in the upper hive did not make mention of any supernatural elements within the regions that made up the Ghosthive back when the idea of sending maintenance crews into the Underhive wasn't laughable, through the long and often contradictory list of dangers and issues to theoretical maintenance staff and why they couldn't send teams into that zone decades before the rest of the underhive was simply abandoned suggested that even in the relatively young days of Hive Houston that there had been something fundamentally unnatural about that part of the underhive.

It was also where Jzzist and his gang had once willingly called home. While at the time many viewed Jzzist as completely batshit insane for trying, his success at curving a place for himself and his followers in the Ghosthive proved that it could be done... through it didn't disprove the possibility of him being completely insane.

As Jzzist himself had told those in his command, both back in the past and present, surviving in such a place was simply a matter of understanding the rules of it. There had been trial and error of course, but the lessons learned were made incredibly clear:

1: Do not wander into the dark. The Shadows will eat you.

2: Do not go off by yourself. If you find yourself alone for any reason, light yourself up as much as possible and backtrack the way you came until you find the entrance to the Ghosthive you entered from. If you cannot remember the exact path you took to get where you are, you were going to die.

3: Do not trust anything you see or hear at face value. Illusions and mind games are common tactics for the ghosts and things in the shadows to try and get easy prey.

4: If at any point a member of a designated squad is not in line of sight with anyone else for any length of time longer then eight seconds, they can no longer be trusted to be who they are and need to leave.

5: Any 'human' that is not originally with your group and tried to approach your group needed to be shot on sight. No matter who it appears to be or what they say, they are not a person.

6: Anything that tries to get you to leave the path is to be ignored.

There were other rules... other entities that stood out among the shadows that they stalked in the Ghosthive... but Jzzist and his companions didn't know them. Not well enough to trust a life or death encounter at any rate. Thankfully, for the purposes of escorting the legion and its forces through the Ghosthive into the safe havens that Jzzist had originally created as strongholds against other gangs and the authorities those seven would be more then up to the task.

They would have to be.



As far as stealth operations went, history would record this as one of the stranger ones. A fighting column solders of various types, each one lit up as brightly as the various light sources they could find or scavenge could make them while their footfalls echoed against the utter silence of the dead, dark hallways of the Ghosthive.

The first sign that something was going wrong was the death of one of the few remaining operational lights in the ceiling.

Flicker...Flicker... Dead... Darkness.

Considering the lights that was being carried by both those in the legion and their auxiliaries in order to make themselves as bright as possible at all times in the dark realm of the Ghosthive, this didn't draw the kind of attention that it might have in other circumstances.

In the moment, exactly who looked up wasn't as important as the fact that someone had done so... and the cry of "COLLAPSE! DODGE!" rang out for all to hear. Some looked up, but others bolted in whatever direction they felt would be the best for their own personal survival. The legionaries themselves, super human in reflex as they were in the rest of their body, not only clocked where the danger was coming from but were easily able to get out of harms way. Some even grabbed their slower auxiliary followers in order to carry them to more immediate safety, even as others didn't.

The titanic crunch of tonnes of metal and ceremite slamming into the ground was thunderous, even more so due to the utter silence in which the collapse had taken place. The one silver lining for those who had been too slow on the uptake or unlucky enough not to be near one of the more caring members of the legion was that their deaths were almost instantaneous; There was no time or room for suffering and pain before they left the living world.

The path itself was not completely blocked off. The wreckage that had fallen prevented travel, but there multiple gaps in which the makeshift obstruction could be seen through. With some time and a bit of effort, a passageway could be opened up in it to allow access through once again. A tiresome delay maybe, but safer then taking a detour into the unknown horrors of the Ghosthive.

No one realized that another of the hives limited supply of remaining lights had flickered out like the first one had until the monstrous crash that followed, mixed in with the torturous sounds of crushed metal and broken bodies. Like the first, it had broken away from the ceiling and fallen in an unnatural silence that its impact against the ground hadn't shared.

Even as those on the outside of the obstructions turned in order to work on clearing a path through them for the sake of getting things moving smoothly again, several heads started to look around at the area that they had suddenly found themselves trapped. A hallway without doors or recognizable weak points in the walls or floor that had just had the only two directions one could travel it sealed off by wreckage caused by the suspiciously silent failing of hive structure that had stood for centuries at the youngest... in two different places within the frame of twenty seconds from each other.

Guns were raised into ready positions. Knives, axes were brought to the ready and two separate chainswords roared to life as their owners slowly and methodically started to scan the area. This had to be an ambush of some kind... and yet... nothing. Only silence... and deepening shadows.



Squad Sergent Konrad Amutiel was careful as he slowly turned in a circle, his grip on the shaft of his chainaxe tightening even as he missed the weight of a shield strapped to his forearm. Experience from before his ascension into his current form ensured that his turn was deliberately careful, so as to avoid sweeping his allies legs from under them with his thick, crocodilian tail... but it also served to allow him to take his time in absorbing all possible details at his own pace, rather then the frantic one that the situation seemed inclined to encourage.

Both paths out had been blocked, leaving himself and the sixty five other members of the expedition (Six Marines, fifty nine auxiliaries) trapped. He could already hear and observe that allies on the other side of both blockages were striving to clear a route and thus when he gave the order to those under his immediate command to rally around him, he did so with the knowledge that he could focus on the very real danger that they might be in.

Danger that manifested itself when one of the marines named Gal spotted something and announced "What is that?!" while lighting up a seemingly blank section of wall, drawing the attention of everyone else to it as well.

A more panicked or hasty look might have simply excused it as a leak from some long neglected pipe or a strain that had endured for who knew how long, but even without the benefit of putting light directly on it, careful observation would notice that it seemed to be spreading out along the wall: An inky pool of darkness so deep that it seemed to devour the light that made contact with it and made lesser shadows appear a mere, dirty shade of grey.

Puddle was the word that Konrad would have used to describe what he was seeing, because the way that it was spreading reminded him of liquid in a way; Like something was dipping down from above and causing a puddle to form and grow, only the source was coming from the other-side of the wall and rather then a traditional 'up-down' relationship with gravity, it was dripping in from a ninety degree angle.

Several beams of volkite and a wave of bullets shot out at the puddle of growing darkness... and nothing seemed to happen as a result of it. The growing darkness didn't seem to be stalled by the attack at all... and yet there was a complete lack of sounds of either bullet or burning beam striking the wall behind it.

To say 'it' stepped out of the darkness wouldn't be true. From Konrad's point of view, it was more like the puddle was pulling parts of itself towards the center in order to form new shapes that were being pushed out of the wall. While he had never seen an actual equine in his life, even the sewer depths of the hive he had originally called him had graffiti and old pictures of the creatures that had once wandered Terra freely; This... thing kind of looked like one of those old creatures, but instead of flesh and bone it was solely made of something that looked like ink and maintained that form despite the fact that its body clearly wanted to return to a puddle like state at any given moment.

Two hooves legs connected to the front half of a torso that was sticking out of the wall, leading up to an equine face with... glowing white, humanoid eyes as horns stuck haphazardly out of its head to form a nightmarish regal crown as it glared at each and every one of them... even as bullets and blasts of volkite peppered its body to no effect, all seemingly being absorbed by the darkness of its mass like drops of rain.

Its maw opened wide unlike that of a serpent, since one doesn't need to unhinge their jaw when they didn't have jaw bones. There was a horrific sound, like air trying to be pulled into lungs that can no longer hold it. A light started to glow from its open maw... and it took Konrad several moments to realize that the blocked off 'room' they were in seemed to be growing darker; The lights they had brought were still on and powered, but the light they were producing was just... not strong enough to force back the darkness anymore... and growing weaker by the second.

As the darkness deepened, other shapes started to crawl out of the dark pool that had consumed the wall completely. Some humanoid... some animal... others a twisted abomination of both and many more that Konrad doubted anything had ever been witness too and maintained sanity or life. Some of the shapes had a third dimension, but more then a few of the shadow entities clawing their way towards them under the increasing darkness were little more then monstrous shadows pressed against the ground... through there was a very human feeling of dread in Konrad's hearts that these things were still highly dangerous despite their seeming limitation.

Chaos descended upon the auxiliaries. Some primal terror that even the cruel and brutal realities of their lives on a war torn wasteland of a world couldn't dull seemed to grip each and every one of them, through how they responded was individualistic. A number continued to fire their weapons at the incoming darkness and the things within it, despite the fact that bullets clearly weren't doing anything while wailing and laughing in a manner that suggested that they weren't going to be responsive. A small handful seemed to be consumed by a maniac sort of bravery as they abandoned ranged weaponry and instead turned to melee, charging forth.

Fear driven bellows turned into some of the most agonizing screams of torment that Konrad had ever heard before and never wished to hear again.

Others ran for the wreckage that blocked either side of their current battlefield, attempting everything in their power to try and escape; Some of the more coherent ones were even able to bring themselves to plead and beg for help as they clawed at unflinching stone and steel. The shadows seemed to intentionally move to cut off these groups from the main center one that had rallied around him. Like those who charged forth, he didn't see what happened to them... a part of him didn't want too.

The ones he personally didn't understand were those that just... seemed to stop functioning at all. There were a couple who had clearly passed out or feinted sure, but some of them... it was like seeing a puppet with its strings cut, only with an actual person. They weren't out cold or anything... at least from what he could tell. They just... crumpled on themselves where they were standing. At least the others possessed some desire to live, rather then just lay down and welcome death.

The last group was the rarest... and right now the one that Konrad barked orders at to fall in with himself and the rest of the marines; Those who were somehow keeping it together... somewhat. The terror that had caused this madness and was trying to sink into himself and the rest of his squad was still present and gripped even the hardest of them with fear, but they were still coherent and able to respond to his direct order. Of the fifty nine auxiliaries, only five were were still 'combat viable' in his mind... discounting the gunners who had entered some kind of insane shooting frenzy.

Beams of volkite rounds were also being fired into the encouraging tide of nightmares and shadows but unlike the mad spraying of bullets that the maddened auxiliaries were favoring, the marines were using a more controlled, coordinated approach. The beams didn't seem to harm the shadow entities directly but it appears that the brief flashes of light and heat were slowing down their terrible advance... if only briefly.

As the tide of darkness came crashing in at last, things got... weird. Deadly, but weird. How does one describe the sounds of inhuman whispers on the edge of hearing, accompanied by the terror of screams both imaginary and horribly real that truly captured the assault on the senses? Of the sense that no matter what direction you were facing you could see dozens of bright, lifeless and predatory eyes that were locked onto their prey and were just savoring the moment before rushing in to sink in their teeth?

To swing at a foe that was trying to strike at one of his battle brothers, hear the roar of the chain as it connected with a shadowy limb as his axe proceeded to shred it as if it were flesh and blood... only for the arm to complete the swing as normal, disconnected from its body completely with a shredded mess on both sides of the limb as claw like fingers punched through chest armor like it wasn't there. To know in your gut that in this place, the rules of reality were not working as intended and you were going to die painfully because of it... but planning to go down swinging anyway because even when facing off against an impossible foe, the idea of laying down and dying was somehow worse then simply being killed.

The words to truly convey those sensations to another simply didn't exist. Not that Konrad expected to be able to ever try.

Then there was suddenly light.

The darkness was pushed back, allowing Konrad to see again... through the light brought more then mere ease of sight with it. One of the attackers, caught outside of the shadows as he had swung his axe towards it, let out an inhuman noise of terror and pain as the axe tore it asunder and the being... disintegrated was the only real word that captured the wholeness of its destruction. It simply ceased to be.

The light didn't cover the whole room... merely a dome that had pushed back the darkness and caught a number of the inky, shadowy attackers in all variety of shapes and sizes in its glow. A flash of a glace backwards revealed the source of the light to have been one of the auxiliaries: A woman whose body had seemingly been infused with moth like features which included a pair of moth like wings, a large amount of surprisingly soft looking white fluff that grew out of most of her body and a second pair of arms that grow slightly lower on her torso. Her eyes were closed, clearly focusing as the warm, bright glow imitated from her body, creating the dome around them.

The shadow creatures themselves were not handling the light well; The more traditional 'shadows' that had been moving along the floor had been outright burned away, disappearing completely to the light alone. The ones with third dimensions were enduring it a bit better, but they seemed to be trying to shield what amounted to 'eyes' as something smoke-like seemed to rise from their bodies. Some were simply too overcome by what Konrad could only consider to be shock from being blinded and in pain to really do anything, while others were actively trying to blindly skitter back towards the darkness and out of the light.

There was no quarter or mercy given as Konrad's chainaxe roared and he descended upon the currently hapless monsters, seizing the opportunity to make the deathless die. He did not do so alone.

Of the battle brothers he had started with, he could only see Tragios and Zygane were still standing and able to fight; Two more laid on the ground, clearly dead from a variety of horrific wounds from all sides. The other two were unaccounted for, likely somewhere in the darkness.

Surprisingly, including the moth woman, two of the Auxiliaries were still alive as well... through in fairly bad condition. A young man with a somewhat equine face and hooves for feet with what could only be called a unicorn horn sticking out of his forehead and a young woman with goat horns and somewhat mossy skin... both of whom were covered in claw marks, bite marks and what appeared to be attempts to pry their skin off in chunks.

The 'unicorn' had suffered the worst of the two of them. Konrad wasn't trained in medicine and he had only had a glance, but even if untrained eye could tell that the situation wasn't great; Most of the damage had been inflicted on both of his arms and considering all the fingers and arm chunks that were now missing from each, Konrad couldn't blame him in the slightest for not being able to fight anymore.

The mossy goat girl was still physically able to shoot her gun, through the moment she tried there was a jarring sound of an autogun jamming. Since her companion couldn't currently use his, she grabbed it and despite the pain she was in, actually took the time to aim her shots before firing. Singular bullet holes weren't enough to actually kill the shadow entities, through the wounds seemed to start filling with light and thus caused far greater injury then simple bullet holes normally would.

Within a manner of seconds, the dome was cleared out of hostiles. New ones didn't seem inclined to try and enter it, but the moment seemed more like a reprieve rather than an end of the storm. Gesturing towards Tragios and Zygane to form a triangle around the moth woman that was the source of the dome that had saved their lives, Konrad fell into position himself as he not only tried to focus on the perimeter, but also consider the facts of their situation while ignoring the suppressed, but clearly pained noises that were coming from the surviving auxiliaries. He couldn't do anything about their injuries at the moment and he needed to focus to try and get them out of the situation alive.

The moth girl was clearly some kind of witch. He didn't know enough about witchcraft or whatever powers they generally used to know what kind or what to expect really, but she was actively trying to save them from whatever abomination it was that was outside of the dome so as far as he was concerned she was a good one and worth keeping. A quick glance in her direction suggested that not only was she deep in concentration... but also struggling rather badly; All the thing outside needed to do was maintain pressure and sooner or later it would win whatever battle of wills was taking place. Staying here was not an option.

Maintaining the dome seemed to be taking all of her attention and energy and thus wasn't likely to be able to move under her own power. He didn't know enough about this magical stuff to know if moving her would also move the dome with her... or if touching her at all would break her concentration and get them all killed...

And yet, what other options did they have?

If they stayed still they were dead. If they tried to move her one of three things would happen:

1) They accidentally messed up whatever spell she was doing and they died. Either because of the magic or the things lurking in the darkness.

2) The dome doesn't move with her as the center, in which case they were kind of stuck and moving her was meaningless.

3) They could move her and thus they could walk her towards the wreckage at either side of the hallway. Not only might this remove a direction that the things could be bombarding the dome from and thus take some pressure off of her, but it maybe a passage out had been made as well?

It was a gamble, but it was merely a desperate situation rather then outright suicide.

"Tragios. I need you to carefully pick up the moth woman and start carrying her. I need you to be gentle with her because we'll all die if you're too rough." He stressed, before glancing at the two auxiliaries. "I know you're both in a lot of pain right now, but me and Zygane are going to be covering you, Tragios and moth woman as we all slowly make our way towards an exit. You're going to have to walk there."

There was some grumbling and pained noises, but even as he maintained his vigilance on the edges of the dome Konrad could see that the two auxiliaries were bringing themselves to their feet and leaning on each other for support while Tragios carefully pulled out of his spot in the triangle while Zygane and himself shifted to make up the difference. It was almost comical, watching as a giant of a man placed his hands on the much smaller moth woman's sides in order to pick her up like she was a fragile piece of pottery, but considering that the barrier was still up and her feet were no longer on the ground, Tragios was at least taking the job deathly seriously.

"Alright. On my mark we move. Slow and steady Tragios, we're not leaving anyone behind and you're carrying vital cargo. Mark."

Their movements were slow and steady... and also somewhat uneventful. The darkness and the entities lurking within it continued to maintain pressure at the edges of the light... and Konrad knew he could make out several shapes just lurking outside of the point between light and darkness, but it seemed like the entities weren't inclined to try anything more direct then to wait for the dome and its creator to falter.

Konrad had seem behavior like this in a variety of predators of all shapes and sizes... his former gang amongst them at times. Whatever these things were, they were ambush predators; They had masterfully set up a situation in which they had every possible advantage before they sprung the trap, including being practically invincible while attacking... and they had run into a situation in which those advantages were negated.

It was possible that their reluctance to attack was born of cowardice. After all, if you believed yourself immortal and immune to pain encountering an enemy that can make both of those things untrue must have been terrifying on some level. It could have also been from pragmatism; The price paid to assault the dome in order to kill the remaining survivors of its trap might simply outweigh the rewards of actually doing so. They were watching to see if the dome of light faltered on its own, but if they was going to simply cut their losses so be it.

For a flicker of a moment Konrad considered the possibility of using the dome to try and expose some of the entities in order to directly attack them. Turn a withdrawal into a charge. But he dismissed it easily enough; They weren't moving fast enough to realistically catch any of them and this situation was miraculous as it was... and like such things, if you pushed it too far it would disappear.

In time they did find the wreckage that made up the blockade of their exit. It took a little bit of a walk but an opening had been curved out and lit up by their fellow legionaries on the other side. Slipping through was a one by one affair, with Konrad making sure that he was the last one to carefully withdraw, facing the darkness as he did so.

For a moment, the void stared back. In the darkness he could make out the facial features of the horrific equine creature that had started the ambush off, glaring back at him with clear irritation in its bright white, monstrous eyes. Konrad swore that he saw what looked like chainsaw wounds on its cheek, but the inky blackness was already reforming it. Then... with what could only be considered a dismissive huff, it pulled back into the darkness and disappeared.

With its disappearance, the blackness of the literal kill-box seemed to lose whatever property that allowed it to block out normal light; Torchlight from both sides started to cast it back like normal. Soon the whole 'room' was lit up once more as the march needed to continue through it... even if those doing so were a bit more concerned while making the crossing.

Disturbingly, there was almost no evidence that anything had happened in that section of hallway outside of the twin piles of wreckage that had blocked it off from passage temporally. Bodies, blood, equipment... all of it was gone. All that remained were bullet holes and scorch marks on the walls and floor.

Somewhere in cis-lunar space

Captain Volkov stormed onto the bridge, sleep still clinging to the corners of his eye, his fury at being awoken so early in his rest cycle directed at the Officer of the Deck.

“Why have I been awoken, Baran? The ship is not at combat alert, so why have I been summoned?”

Baran, ever the professional, handed his captain a dataslate without so much as a flinch at the anger directed his way.

“Sensorium report Captain, there has been an explosion of massive yield at world engine site #12. Yield estimated at or about 150 megatons, sir.”

Volkov skimmed the report, gave the pict recording of the explosion a watch, and handed the dataslate back to Baran. “A failure then? The world engines are wondrous machines, but they are not perfect Baran. Or is there more?”

Baran nodded and led his Captain to the sensorium officer’s station, “Here, Junior Grade Andreeva tracked a single craft leaving the world engine minutes before the explosion at high speed. We suspect sabotage, an outside attack.”

There was silence for a moment, Volkov raising a hand to his temple as he felt a headache coming on before he spoke again, “The direction of travel, that leads to the new Imperial borders, no? Do you think that this was their doing?”

Baran nodded solemnly, “Deep Winter reports suspected sabotage by unknown aggressors, other than the craft leaving the world engine, Deep Winter and our own sensorium and augers detected no incoming missiles or other craft. It could only be them.”

“Damn them, why now?” Volkov left Baran where he stood and moved to his command throne, “I have the bridge.”

“Captain has the bridge,” Baran echoed.

“Loading Bay, is the retrieval of cargo complete?” Volkov asked through the command thrones internal vox. He felt the headache worsen as he waited for the answer from the loading bays.

The radio crackled to life as a tinny voice answered through the distortion, “Complete Shipmaster, the last Selenar shuttle left not minutes ago, and the equipment and gene stocks are secure in the vaults.”

“Excellent,” Volkov said as he cut the connection, “Helmsman, make course for Sanctii at best speed.”

“Setting course for Sanctii at best speed, aye sir.” the helmsman echoed as the crew about the bridge began to move to their stations and set about the many tasks that came with moving a near-kilometer-long voidship.

Far away, ensconced within an arcane apparatus almost as old as he was, Malcador extended his consciousness across the void. He was a headache at first, a throbbing pain at the back of Volkov’s skull, as he extended his control over the man’s mind. “What have you received from the gene-cults?” the Sigilite whispered, exerting his will over the captain, peeling back memories with a gentle touch.

Volkov strained momentarily in his throne, his head pulsing in pain as he pulled up the cargo manifests without thinking. He read over the details, stopping on each item long enough to absorb the contents before swiping to the next item on the list.

He scoffed at the names of archeotech contraptions. Machines of which he knew disturbingly little about that had been hastily loaded into his ship's berths.

“Genetor Banks… Genetor Materiel… Vitae Wombs…” his head felt worse as he read, skimming over sections about temperature-controlled vials of genetic material and cryo-sleep equipment.

---

Somewhere in the Himalazians

The bulk of the Sigilite’s attention receded from Volkov with that act complete, the psyker remaining only as a dull pain behind the eyes. “They say imitation is the surest form of flattery,” Malcador muttered to himself as he brought forth the deployment lists of the Emperor’s vast armies, searching for a weapon that was both ready and as yet uncommitted. He did not have to search for long.

A single command ushered forth from his fastness deep beneath the Himalayzans, the Legion Master of the Second commanded to present herself before the right-hand of the Master of Mankind. It was time for the Astartes to go to war.

When Seren Crown received the summons, she thought it was fake. Her dataslate was passed around the camp, for everyone to see and snicker about behind her back.

“Are you going to go?” Her second-in-command asked her.

“I don’t exactly have a choice,” Seren grunted.

Seren’s first reaction to seeing the vault was to marvel at its size. Her second was to think about the possible ways one could break into it. There was only one entrance, and being underground would require drilling through a mountain to reach it. Her thoughts were interrupted by a set of double doors opening to reveal Malcador, the Emperor’s right hand. She gave him a lazy salute. “Malcador.” She cleared her throat and straightened her salute, “Sir. You asked to see me?”

The entrance to Malcador’s fastness was a pair of wrought adamantium doors over ten meters tall, and broad enough to comfortably fit five power armored warriors abreast. It dwarfed Seren, and made the wizened form of the Sigilite almost vanish within its immensity. He arched a brow at her as clutched upon his staff, right hand shackled to it by a length of manacle.

“Brash,” he muttered with a soft snort, turning on his heel as he began to hobble within the cyclopean vault built into the very bones of the ancient mountains. Here were stored some of the most deadly weapons ever crafted by human hands, and the most treasured artifacts of its illustrious past. Malcador cared nothing for them, locked away as they were, hinted at only by the doors locking them away from reckless use and vain ambition. “Such is well,” he added in the same, quiet, voice, simply presuming Seren would follow him.

“I have need of you, and your warriors. Is the Second prepared to take the field?”

For the last two weeks, the Second had been engaged in an intense tournament of Liar’s Dice. The finals were scheduled to be held tomorrow evening, and they were very much not ready to take the field, “Of course. Where do you need us?”

The millennia-old man froze for a moment, looking back at the Astartes with a crooked smile. “That is… a more complicated question than you might. I am afraid that your first engagement will have you roll the dice. Come.”

Malcador advanced further into the subterranean vault, until arriving at a hololith displaying representations of Terra and her moon. A red rune glowed at a point in space halfway in between the two celestial bodies. “There is a voidship I need boarded.”

Seren squinted at the shapes, the bright lights of the display making it difficult for her to see. “Something tells me that we’re not going to be allowed to take another ship out to meet it.” There was a glint of excitement in her eyes. She had not expected their first engagement to be in space. “Did you already have an idea in mind?”

“There is precious little time, and this vessel outguns all craft that the Emperor has at hand,” Malcador confirmed. “The only alternative is a teleporter deep strike, but at such a range it will be extremely perilous. I will do what I can to prepare and guide you to your destination, but I will not lie to you. This is a desperate gamble, not a cunning plan.”

As the Sigillite spoke, a smile grew on Seren’s face. When he finished, she laughed, “Malcador, you’ve come to the right person. There isn’t a legion in the army that likes to gamble more than the Second. When do we leave?”

“As soon as you are prepared,” Malcador said gravely as he stared at the glaring red rune of Sanctii’s voidship. “But first, heed my words. Your mission is twofold. While the threat of this vessel to the siege warrants it be disabled, be aware that its cargo is of great interest to myself and your lord. Take command of this vessel, with whatever it carries still intact, and the Second will have accrued great glory in their first foray. Now go, prepare your warriors and bring them hence.”

The teleportarium chamber was built atop a high peak of the proud Himalayza mountain range, the ancient stone still standing tall despite millennia of mankind throwing their most destructive weapons at each other. The snows buried vast craters caused by nuclear, and worse, explosions, steep valleys forever entombing the armies who have attempted to cross or conquer them. Here, gazing out from the roof of the world, Malcador awaited the warriors of the Second.

It was a vast chamber of bronze and glass, the entire dome that made its roof transparent so that one might see the stars whirling overhead. Those with a keen eye could see, even now, one moving with the too-fast-yet-too-slow gait of a voidship plying its way through the far orbits of the wounded Earth. Within a vast circular room the Sigilite stood, staring at that staid transit, surrounded by robed and chained psykers of his order, and as they chanted a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature outside filled the air.

“Remain calm as you prepare the way,” Malcador said softly, his staff clinking against the intricately wrought metal of the floor. Almost as much a piece of art as of technology, the entire edifice was filled with esoteric instruments and arcane displays that only the most learned of these fallen days could understand - and even then, only just. It was this nigh forgotten wonder that he would entrust the hopes of the Astartes upon, temperamental and rarely used as it was.

The Second entered the chamber in one amorphous, chaotic mass as too many people tried to walk through a too-small door at the same time. Seren was at the head, walking backward watching the amoeba that was the Second doing its best to form straight orderly lines, “Barkley, you’re supposed to be in Spade’s squad on the left! Your other left! Nope never mind you were right the first time. Gwen wake up, I can see you back there! Are you going to make Jara carry you through the teleporter?” She was nursing a terrible hangover from the previous night’s activities, as was most of the rest of the legion. Despite their looming assignment, they had pushed ahead with their gambling finale and it had been glorious. Though she had not participated in the actual tournament, Seren had still been able to take home a sizable egg nest for correctly betting on the winner.

“Crown. Coffee for you.”

She took the offered thermos from her second-in-command gratefully, “Thanks Spade. Don’t know what I’d do without you.” She took a sip and leaned in close. “What time is it?” she hissed.

“We’re only five minutes late. All things considered, I’d say we’re doing great.”

“Beautiful.” Seren turned around to faceforward, only to find herself face to face with the Sigillite himself. She stopped, made a messy salute, and shot a glare back at Spade who had obviously seen him approaching and stayed quiet, “Sir. The Second Legion is here, reporting for duty. We’re ready to enter the teleportarium chamber.”

Behind her, the Legion shifted, yawned, and whispered amongst themselves. None of them appeared to be particularly worried about being sent on a possible suicide mission. In fact, just after waking up this morning, the Legion had already started taking bets on who would and wouldn’t make it after the jump. Even now, money discreetly changed hands and numbers were being written down.

Malcador stood silently for a moment, his face inscrutable and blank, hand tightening for a moment on his staff. And then… the Sigilite laughed, a thready noise, like wind through the desert. “I can think of none better for this,” he said to Seren, before his voice grew in volume until it enveloped the whole of the chamber. “Strength of arms shall not make the difference here, for my lord has already made you mightier than the curs you shall face. Valor and bravery you have in abundance, neither will it determine who lives and who dies upon this day. You entrust yourselves, Astartes, to the cruelest test of all.”

A hum that thrummed inside of the very bones of those present began as the teleportarium began to charge, an unseen vortex pulling the air into the epicenter of the chamber where the circled psykers chanted with increased fervor. Bolts of energy arced from ancient and corroded diodes, filling the air with the stench of ozone as the work of elder days was pressed once more into service for he who would name himself the Master of Mankind.

“Are you feeling lucky, young warriors of the Emperor?”

---

(Thanks to @itarichan and @FrostedCaramel)

Veharr stared down at a communcations relay, something was in orbit. He saw it, and he somewhat felt it. He felt that those within dark cities nearby were finished, the Emperors warriors had moved on. He slowly powered on the old relay station with a prerecorded message, "We see you, and welcome you to the Home of Man." the message would blurt out over several general long distance channels. It was something fascinating, but he died that it would be enough to spark those from the old days to reach out to those below, maybe. It was his time to enlighten the Emperor, or at least his second. Most of the warrior bands of Imperial barbarians had moved far to the West, and North, maybe an audience could be found.

Or, at least communion started between those in Orbit, and those on the planet. He smiled softly as he looked back, "I am Veharr, for those listening," the old priest said as he pressed down upon a large red button, "I am a man who wishes to see his home return to it's beauty, I seek to see the green fields and forests, blue lakes and oceans once again. I wish the world to become beautiful once again. Should you hear this message, I will respond in three days at this time, and wherever you wish to meet, we may there."

Veharr slowly moved the relay to bounce between several so that it may spread to those listening, mostly those in orbit, and hopefully those who lead the Imperium, or the Emperor himself. He pressed his hand against the red button last time and watched as the light faded away. He slowly began to power down the relay, and thanked himself for the abilities gifted to him through the warp.

"May the Emperor bless us, and may we forge this world a new so that we can see purity within it. May the sons of his legions calm to my hand, and may those in this world see reason in desire and heart rather than the destruction of each other for those of evil."

Despite the vast distances between the various Hives that the 8th legion were infiltrating, the lack of communication between the various branches of the legion and the differences and unique challenges that each provided, the actual operation largely played out the same across them all. From the moment that the first of the branches made their move to the final Hive being completely under Imperial control, the whole operation spanned a grand total of four months.

Within that four month span, a number of hive cities ranging from the minor Hive Bullhead to Hives Oklahoma and Houston were flipped to Imperial control with very little in the way of resources or fight. For the amount of land that had changed hands at what would be an utterly mind bending speed compared to the grind of wars during the Unification, there was relatively little bloodshed. In every Hive, Pacific forces were always given the options of abandoning the Hive or surrendering and being treated as respected prisoners of war, with violence being saved for those that refused to do either.

There was some degree of disquiet on this campaign about the measures employed by the 8th in order to maintain control of the hives once they had taken control. Declaring martial law, the 8th would round up many of the leading figures, those of higher rank in various organizations and noble families and hold tribunals, trying each and every one of them for being traitors to the former Merica state (a former trusted ally of the Imperium) and Pacific collaborators. These trails were swift, uncaring and almost always ended with a verdict of guilty and execution.

Critics of the 8th made a point of disagreeing strongly with one of the Emperor's armed forces declaring themselves judge, jury and executioners of what were highborn and noble lineages and that these purges were a combination of revenge killings from before they joined the Emperor's armies and the legion installing officials loyal to them personally by putting them in now vacant positions of power. The 8th itself defended its actions, claiming that since it would take time for the Imperium to reinforce their new position and holdings, harsh measures were required in order to ensure stability and prevent sabotage from within, least betrayal lead to the hives falling back into Pacific hands.

What is certain through was that the Mercia Front swung in the Imperium's favor practically overnight, with the Pacific held fortress hives of Florida suddenly being at major risk of being completely surrounded and cut off as the Imperium now had a second front line that threatened to bypass them and punch directly into the heart of Mercia and attack both west and eastern borders at once.

Hive Houston

If you knew the right places, it was possible to do an utterly mind blowing amount of damage to a Hive or its population for very little effort. Prevent water from being recycled or flowing around for a grand total of two hours and countless people would die in a matter of days, from thirst and fighting to the death over what few drops of liquid could be found. It was largely the same with any resource required for the Hive to function. Fuel, food, power, coolant... any disruption to the supply line could have untold, catastrophic consequences to both people and infrastructure. That didn't even factor in the cascade effects: A disruption to one vital resource tended to cause issues for other vital resources.

If you knew the right people, it was possible to aim the disaster. Select which part of the hive was suddenly going to go without power, light or heat for an extended period of time and watch the chaos unfold.

Of course, there were a number of safeguards in place to both ensure that no one ever did such a thing (either intentionally or not) to begin with and plans and people in place to sweep in and try to fix it as quickly as possible if it did. As one of the more goat like member of the auxiliary forces smashed in the skull of the last over the overseers with a club, the first line of defense crumbled.

To say that the water station was 'quiet' would have been something of a lie. Between the humming of power, the flowing of liquid and the general noises such industrial machines that provided such a vital function and would never be willing shut down unless things were truly dire, silence was not something one would ever find here. However the sounds of conflict and hostilities had now come to an end.

Jzzist Al-Allal took a moment to admire what he was seeing. This wasn't the only treatment and recycling station that the Water Guild controlled in the Hive for logical reasons, but this far up in the hive structure the quality of the room, its machines and the conditions that its workers needed to toil in were considerably better then those found lower down. It made sense in a way... after all, this station provided for the elite at the top of the hive. If the nobles didn't get the best water and air, there would be hell to pay somewhere down the line... and that had the additional benefit of giving those providing that to them access to it as well.

The air here... it was fresher and cleaner then any he had ever breathed in before outside of the lab in which he had been transformed. Artificial still of course, but...

He shook his head as he allowed the moment to pass. They had things to do.

Squads of auxiliaries and marines were setting themselves up, digging in so that they would keep their new prize. He had a different task through. "Boyle, long time no see! How would you like a once in a lifetime opportunity?"

Boyle Vea was a 5' 0" tall, white skinned man with enigmatic, light brown eyes, a lean face, a square jaw and plucked eyebrows. Bald, with tattoos fully covering his lower back, chest, upper body and left arm and an impressively long, perfectly shaped beard that was a shade blonder than his hair... and right now the middle manager of the Water Guild looked at Jzzist with a mixture of fear, awe and curiosity. He was also the highest ranked member of the Water Guild the 8th currently had access too and the person Jzzist knew
could unless targeted harm if giving motivation to do so.

"Jzzist is that... holy shit! What is going... what have you..." Boyle began, clearly never expecting to see someone he had once known become..., well, whatever he was now or experience this situation. With a clearing of the throat from a marine flanking Jzzist to try and get Boyle refocused, the conversation continued "I-I... Sorry, what's this about an opportunity?"

A massive, armored hand that could crush muscle and bone with ease planted itself with surprising softness on Boyle's shoulder as Jzzist explained "Long story short, we're working for the Imperium now and we're going to take over Houston. You and your crew have a very rare opportunity to not only help us do that, but be heavily rewarded for doing so." With a free hand, he gestured towards both the carnage of the enforcers and overseers that had resisted and the ease in which they had been dispatched... as well as the fortifications that were being made by those who did the slaughter. "I can assure you, the pacific forces aren't going to stop us, but you could help speed the process up considerably."

A marine listening into a vox caster looked up and called over "Al-Allal, squads three and four have secured the power station and preparing for counterattack, squads five and two have fortified the air purifier. Remaining squads are still securing their locations, but they've managed to secure local assistance for the mission."

Jzzist nodded to the vox man before looking back to Boyle. Boyle gulped a little as sweat started to form on his brow as he asked "I'm not an idiot. You want us to turn water off to certain sections of the hive, right?" There was a nod that the man was correct. "We could do that... but what kind of reward are we talking about?"

Jzzist grinned. This was why he liked Boyle. The man wasn't going to pass an opportunity to benefit himself pass him by. "I'll be blunt with you Boyle. After we take over, we're going to kill most of the people living in the upper hive. Nobles, guild representatives... pretty much anyone with power or influence that might cause us trouble before we get reinforcements. Oh, the reports will say we gave them trials and all that, but they're all going to die for collaborating with the Pacifics, regardless of if they did or not." The ease in which Jzzist spoke of purging the highest rungs of Houston society, be they guilty or not was horrifying to behold... but Boyle didn't get to where he was by caring about the pain and suffering of others.

"As for the Water Guild... well, I'm thinking we might start out investigations into traitors and collaborators with... well, whatever your direct boss's rank is and working our way up from there. Of course, after the purge... well, new leadership is going to be needed for the Water Guild and since you're one of the highest ranks left and proved their loyalty to the Imperium, I feel confident that your appointment to head of the Water Guild would be accepted." It was more of an afterthought when Jzzist added "And of course veterans of the Water Guild will also be risen up to fill the vacuum left by the now dead traitors or positions emptied by those moving up. But you would be in charge of it all."

There was a moment of relative silence as Boyle needed a moment to process the extent of what he was being offered. Once he did, an ambitious, greedy smile started to grow on his face. "You son of a bitch, I'm in!"

The Decree of the Emperor was absolute. The Hand of the Emperor were his Legions.

These two truths did little to comfort Isaac as he stood in what could little be described as a tent. He disliked the need for it, true, but there were some few benefits to weigh against his feelings. For one thing, the mortal beside him did not need to wear his mask though the wastes howled and screamed outside. For another, the cartographic display could properly function in the tent. He scratched against the stubble of his face, ignored the humidity of that tent and the heat in his armor from it. The display flickered as a technician worked against it, clicking various systems here and there through an open panel. The wind howled louder, flapped against it, and some breath of it invaded into the tent. It scorched against Isaac's skin and burned his throat, though he shrugged such issues away.

A chance look to the other, his tan, light uniform and breastplate testaments to the fact that the General did not suffer from the same issues as the rabble outside. The Legion Master had looked such over earlier, a mix of mercenaries, gene-warriors drawn from Saragorn, and professional soldiers. Some were used to the wastes and how they were, others simply didn't seem to be so at all. They wouldn't have to deal with such for much longer, though. Soon enough the IV would have its first true deployment and all would have a taste of war against Ur-Atlan. He snorted at the thought that it might be somehow better weather to their north. The comparison between the General's garb and his own unpainted plate came unbidden. Some tools were best left unadorned.

"Your men," his voice crackled, harsh and rough, "are they prepared?"

The General's gaze was set on the cartographic display as it hummed into action, displaying a number of positions. Watery eyes dared not shift away from it. "They are ready for whatever comes."

There were some questions which bore little use in clarifying. Isaac did not ask for more than what had been given. He stared further still at the display, waiting patiently on the other two whose presence had been called for by the Legion Master. There was little else he could or needed to do but await their arrival. He had been told they had entered camp some moments before, and thus had called up the General to come and speak. The pause was not for long, though. The heat and breath of the wastes invaded the tent again, whipping about, introducing the two figures even as their stench seemed to assail all.

Isaac but turned his head slowly to the two Primarchs. One was clad in the gray-gold of the Seventh, Apollyor with his lantern-jaw features and acid-shaven skull, while the other wore blue-and-yellow of the Fourteenth, Sunxian with crag-hills for a face. Neither seemed especially pleased, though Apollyor greeted all present with a clenched smile. This was a new adventure, a new deed, and the Legion Master knew Apollyor was eager for it to be penned to the Ashen Marauders' list of conquests. Isaac rendered a silent salute to them, returned in kind.

"We gather for the destruction of Ur-Atlan. Long have they guarded their south against the nomad tribes of the wastes, but such defenses will be ineffective against the Emperor's Decree. Once they are swept from the face of Terra, a new front against Albia may be opened and, with it, new promises of victory."

The General spoke, bowing before he began. "Ur-Atlan. They consort with witches and falsehoods. They claim their Queen is a god. Such affront to the Emperor cannot be allowed. Their primary city is…here," a finger jabbed into the cartographic display, "Their capital, Atlas Ultima, placed between two lakes. What information we can gather suggests both are highly polluted with their foul traditions and are impassable. Fortresses here, here, and here guard against the south while the hive of Atlan Tertia, to their north, appears to provide the bulk of their reserve forces, the majority of their populace."

"Mountain pass chokeholds. We cannot pass through these easily. Your suggestion?" Apollyor ground his teeth as he spoke, eyes narrowing in mental calculations for losses. They didn't appear good.

"Here and here," Isaac motioned to portions of the region near two of the strongholds, "We shall tunnel into these, place charges to induce landslides against the fortresses. After this…tunneling out into where the fortresses were should not be exceedingly treacherous."

"That sort of activity will be noticed. They may yet attack first." Sunxian was sour, it seemed, doubtful about such a motion that did not involve the sheer speed of the bike, the firepower of the tank. His arms were already crossed in condemnation.

"Then yours will be there to meet them in the field. Let them try to move on your plains. If the foe counter-tunnels, we shall dissuade him. False tunnels, angled approaches, so on will complicate their efforts. Ours is the Emperor's Decree."

"What after?"

"We strike across Ur-Atlan like lightning. Destroy the remaining fortress behind us - their fortifications will be weak from the interior - and bound against Atlas Ultima to place it under siege. Reinforcements from their northern hive will be intercepted by the Ashen Marauders in the field, before they can solidify their position, and you shall burn Atlan Tertia to the ground. After that, Apollyor, you shall join us for the assaults against Atlas Ultima."

"When?"

"Commander Red should be back soon hold your sword Grunbah." The Astartes said as he stared up at the towering brute, then immediately receiving a backhand that tossed the young Astartes aside like a ragdoll.

"I am your elder welp, you may be Sergent but I am your superior." Captain Grunbah growled before kicking the Astartes, staring at the rest of the new squad that had entered the camp just the day prior, "He said he would be back four days ago, and that I should be arriving reinforcements, a new batch of warriors, instead I get stunted runts with no will to fight."

There seemed to be a stand off, twenty thunder warriors against seven astartes. Both sides knew who would win, but the younger warriors did drag their sergeant back into their ranks. As both lines began to set up, swords, axes, and mauls all in hand and raising. At that moment, another stepped between the lines, "Grunbah, call your wolves back, for we need not shed blood outside of a sparring pit or the battlefield. An I would not think Theadon or the Emperor would wish to see these young soldiers destroyed before their first battle." Bombda stared at them and held out several canisters of explosives that wrapped around his chest, it was a crude deterrent, but it was one that worked; there was no fun in dying in an exploding.

With that, the group of thunder warriors turned and grumbled back into their barracks and tents, Bombda turned back towards the men behind him, "You will be under me... he is anxious for bloodshed, so tread lightly around him. Lock your barracks, and have explosives nearby he sees them as weak yet charges head first into artillery barrages."

"Thank you Lieutenant, he does realize that we are not thunder warriors but Astartes right?" the younger warrior asked, "No... The commander has tried to explain to him, but he is... idiotic and wild, he is also unhinged, and becoming worse. The more he thinks the worse he gets, and blood lust takes him."

---

"He is gone." a thunder warrior muttered out after closing the cover of a tent.

Theadon Red stood behind the man sighing, "He took his bike, and sword, not even his armor. He is headed to the North East from the tracks, but why?"

"I don't know... what is to the North East, snow?" asked the Warrior, turning back towards his commander, "And at this hour as well, doesn't he know he's more likely to freeze than find anything out there?"

"Check the maps and see, we can see if we can sideline the route to find him before we continue to our first objective." Theadon said before remembering something, "There is a village there, Seargent Lathurani and his men scouted it on their way here... I think... Do we continue without our objectives without him is the question. We let him rampage through the countryside alone, or we take him with us. The man can probably draw anything away from us alone with his bloodlust."

"Commander, do you think it wise to let him go, his men might follow suit?" The warrior asked, a bit of worry on his face.

"That might be for the best; we send his fifty men with a few trucks and their bikes to chase him... knowing them, it will spread more chaos through the countryside. They are all full of bloodlust, let them get it out. While... I would like to have their bodies in the end; I would rather not kill them like... the last three that have fallen to bloodlust. Send a scouting party behind them by a few days, maybe the Astartes... they may be at odds, but the young blood still have honor in their hearts and can collect those who have fallen. Bombda can lead them while I lead the rest of the eighteenth north."

He thought this out, it was their job to cause fear and terror in the realms out of the imperiums light, through darkness there is a light that comes from the fires of ruins, and rebuilding from the smoldering ashes. He thought about his on his way to see Bombda, but he also though of his conversation with his friend when he received the new warriors of the Imperium, he figured they would be replaced eventually with old age, if they died of old age, but at that moment he sighed as he took a deep breath, looking up at the sky trying to see a moon, but it was not there. The legions symbol was that of the moon cracked by blades of the imperium, he was a night terror, and tonight was a full moon. Blood flowed thick through their bloods as they all desired war once again, sitting in these stations resupplying is something most hate. He enjoyed it, it kept his mind off fighting. He knew he could do many things, but numbers did help. But he felt himself letting loose once again, he felt his body aching for destruction, it was almost apart of his nature, of the legions nature to desire destruction.

"Let them run free... we will not be able to contain them should they find out, so let them know. Find their commander and to continue to stage two of the objectives."

---

---

"Lieutenant Mehnan, artillery fire at designated zone six. Six shots full salvo followed up by two shots of smoke." Rex said into a small vox caster unit as he held his pistol and sword in both hands, he was hidden behind a mound of stone, it hid him and six others. "If Grunbah made it this far, we have two hundred yards, and four buildings until we get to the outpost."

A minute or so later, shells landed in front of him; the human contingent of his force did better without the most bloodthirsty of his legion screaming at them and trying to flay them at night. But with that he stood and listened to two more pops down towards the grouping of buildings. He raised his pistol up and started to fire at a hole in building two. He saw a muzzle flash a moment before, and since then saw nothing. Twenty yards he had not realized he had gone so fast, but he was twenty yards from the breach in the wall as he jumped in to fight some form of the beast that came from behind him. He looked at the breach, and there was nowhere for this thing to hide. He slashed in through and let its body bisect itself after several moments before firing more shots into what he assumed was its head.

He jumped backed several feet after receiving a blow to his side, and he lowered his blade to see that this thing was reforming in front of him, dark ooze coming from it as he charged once again, and his blade fell several times against this monster he fought, and finally he cleaved it in two once again, and kept going until it was a pile at the floor.

He turned back, and continued down the hall, "By the emperor, what abominations live in this place?" In front of him, a door burst down with a large and bloody figure full of madness; he knew that madness and had seen it before it was Grunbah. Covered in blood, and sheets of skin the hulking figure stood with a sword and an axe in both hands.

"You caught up to me old man." Grumbled Grunbah, "I've fought many things and learned many things... I've sent you back the bodies of those you sent for me, and now... I get to kill a welp who should have fallen at my heels long ago."

Grunbah turned towards his superior and let out a roar as his arms went wide, with his arms before the charge. Blood and skins flapping against the speed of this monster. Commander Red lifted his pistol and shot the man several times in the face, watching the man drop to the floor feet from him. Surprised, with a bit of dew on his face, he slowly placed his sword to the back of Grunbah's neck and pressed down upon the spine, cutting it. It was a loss, but, a needed one, both in the reminder of this is how all of his warriors would end up, but also how he would end up one day.

The other, is that this became a butcher, instead of a warrior of honor, he sowed destruction of many kinds upon the lands far beyond that of which he would have taken. He saw the scars in the land left by this lone warrior, the scars in his own soldiers left hanging mutilated in effigies on the country side almost as if they were warnings from the enemy, but it came from within. He knew it to be from within but told all others differently.

Grunbah was brutal and sadistic, and in his last moments it showed, he had become almost an animal, but one of sport. One which desired only to become a sport, or allow its prey to. Death was only a final desire, and here it was given, likely not in the manner desired, but it was given and given swiftly. How long had he been moving, how long since he rested, not in some time. The building he was in shook, as the floor came down in front of him, and he climbed through the breech reloading his autopistol. He was thankful it brought Grunbah down, and surprised it did as well.

"Commander are you alright, the back half of your building came down?" someone asked through the vox channel.

"I am fine, this building is clear, finish your building and then let us proceed to the communications center. We don't have much time before the jamming is lifted."

Grunbah looked at the building, it looked like the one he was in, but with metal poles and dishes sticking from it, he saw a few using them as climbing aids in scaling the side to get to the roof, but he decided the door or one of the shell holes would be a better entry way for himself.

"Seargent, are your astartes ready?" Commander Red asked, "through the lower quarters with Bombda, take both of your squads, and meet me in the central room. Weizer and Wenttiv follow me. Yuidilon Standard to the roof, give the backlines a sight, and let honor be bound to our names."

To that several responses came through the vox network, all confirming their orders. He saw brutes charge to catch up behind him, but they were slow and he made it through the first breech as he came upon a group of three men, none of which stood a chance as his sword cleaved two in half, and his autopistols hilt caved the thirds skull in. He put a shot into the thirds head to put him out of his suffering before he kicked a door off it's hinges. Firing into any warm body in the room, he stepped on the door with a crack as the individual below the door started to break, he shot through the door to finish this poor soul as well. Two more shots, his magazine was empty, and he dropped with his thumb before letting his other hand release the sword impaling another and letting his fists pulp the last man into the wall.

Reloading once again, he retrieved his sword moments later smashing a panel in the room, and staring at the carnage that maybe took twelve seconds in total, if he was younger, he could have done it in eight. This, was slaughter, it was butchery, it was not terror, in terror you leave several alive, but so far all he came across was death. The astartes he heard below him, and he saw his own warriors follow past the room he was in. He saw them as butchers in that moment, not as the warriors he knew. He saw what other legions were, butchers, they had an artistic view, a morbid one, but it was methodical. It was logical, and full of terror. He sighed, Bombda and the Astartes he felt would be the last of those who could complete their goals, their ways. Their old ways, like in Gyptus, or when starting this crusade across the world. Slow, steady, methodical. Leaving the enemy pissing in their pants and surrendering rather than killing them wholesale. Instead of having bodies to work in workshops, or constructing roads and logistics, there was only bodies cut apart with viciousness and hate. He knew there was hate, he saw hate in himself too, he saw some the abominations within this place. This outpost, a chapel of some kind, some form of prayer, they butchered as well, but in a different way. He felt it, something was wrong, both with this place, but he felt like with some of those around him. He felt Grunbah was different as well.

He knew that something was wrong, "All units, set explosives for five hours, leave the central spire in tact, and leave our calling cards, but blow up the other buildings. Let nothing but this last building stand, then let us head out, we have three days to make it to where we need to be. So let us be quick, gather our dead, and let us go."

Theadon Red stared, and opened up a smaller communications channel, "Bombda, in my building, Grunbah is there, get his body and his things. We need it... to figure out the problems that are starting to arise. Make sure no one see him but those you trust to keep quiet... And please, be quick about it. He is in the lower level I only checked that spot, but search the rest, see if there are any survivors and keep them hidden away as well. I want to know what they faced before we arrived, this was far too easy of a fight."

With a roar of straining, grinding engines and a wail of grasping wheels, the fleet clambered up the crescent dune, kicking up a plume of brown dust into the hazy sky. Despite their light frames, the dirtbikes had the hardest time of it, sinking into the grit like an overeager flenser’s knife into meat and laboriously hauling themselves out again in a relentless cycle of bumps. The migou’s buggies, though vastly more massive and burdened by the weight of their hulking occupants, were built to cruise the sands, and rolled over their surface with stupefying ease. Radim would have found the paradox of it amusing, had he not been one of the many being brutally jolted on the saddles of the bikes. As it was, the irritation wormed around his skull like a needle, now and then incautiously prodding the pall of darkness in the back of his mind.

“Devil’s dust, this.” On the bike to his left, Kuzma spat a mouthful of dry dirt, some of it snagging on his wild rust-red beard. “Pass the samogon, some got in my throat.”

“Where’s yours?” Radim did not take his eyes off the crest of the dune ahead of him, leaning forward to avoid being rattled by the next series of bumps. It did little to help. “Your drunk face already gargled it all?”

“Gave it to the lads. If you didn’t hear, these fat lunks-” Kuzma flashed a fig to the closest migou vehicle; one of the brutes on board answered with some unclear but doubtless vulgar sign of theirs, “-have been going around the camp at night, squeezing the goods from our people if they catch ‘em alone. It’d take a barrel to get one the things drunk, so they swiped everything they could from our band.”

“Should’ve stuck close to the volkhv, or us. These apes wouldn’t dare come near.”

“It’s not just the migou who’re afraid of us, you know. People get uneasy. Even samogon doesn’t help that much.”

“Maybe.” The truth was that Radim had seen it, too. Seasoned warriors hesitated a step too far when they approached him. Fresh meat did not even dare look him in the eye. This spread even to those who had never seen him in battle; the village streets he rode through were always eerily empty. The faint vibration of the metal - if metal it was - on his back, always warm through its wraps and his clothes even in the ash winter, had been his only company for a long time, along with the other three and the volkhv. He did not mind.

“Leave some.” Without letting the front wheel swerve, he grabbed the flask from his belt and threw it ahead over the handle, almost casually. It whistled through the air like an arrow catching a spark of Monggol’s white sun, sure to fall until it found itself as if by magic in Kuzma’s hand, stretched just far enough to catch it. The red-bearded warrior opened it with his teeth, drank a single deep swig, and threw it in the same way. Again, Radim did not even look up; the shimmer slipped at the upper edge of his sight just below the lid, and at the last moment his arm shot out, serpentine. He felt the warm metal tap against the palm of his hand as an afterthought. With the same motions, he opened the flask, feeling with some relief that the other warrior had not touched it to his mouth. Kuzma might have been a beggar, but at least he was a honourable one. Hells knew what scum festered in that beard of his, and Radim was not eager to taste its residue.

“You want some too?” He glanced to his right. “Fast, before I finish it all.”

“Got mine,” Kayan laughed, twisting to the side so the sun flashed on the flask at his own belt, likely still untouched. Unlike Radim’s other band-brothers, who came from his same village, the slant-eyed man was an easterner, used to the heat and dust of the steppes even before he had taken the rite of blood. Although Nei Monggol must have been trying even for him, his bravado would not permit him to show it. It surely helped that he did not wear his beard long like an Urshite, but kept it to a small wedge under drooping whiskers in the steppe way. Easier to clean blood out of it, as well, as he boasted every time, but neither Radim nor his compatriots would humiliate themselves by baring their faces like that, even if few appreciated the difference. Some things stayed with a man no matter what became of him.

“What about Gleb back there?”

Kayan turned the other way and shouted something to the last link of their line, which Radim did not hear over the howl of the engines. He did, however, see the distant head of dark hair shake, and could very well picture the grunt that came with that. Never one to speak much, Gleb had barely uttered a dozen words since they had gone through the rite years before.

“He says-” Kayan looked back to him.

“He says kark all,” Radim cut him off with a guffaw. The easterner grinned and sped ahead, dipping over the next dune.

All the better, Radim thought, the more for him. He would need it. The day would still be long.

---

They pitched camp at nightfall. None among the Urshite horde could tell one dune from another, but Dzhute, the migou warleader, said they were well within striking distance from where the Hymalazian army had encircled Monggol Tertius. Tomorrow, then, they would at last see battle. It was about time. Samogon was all well and good, but only blood could truly wash away this damnable dust.

From the top of the dune where their small brotherhood had raised its tents and lit its fire, Radim could appreciate the immensity of the force that moved to break the southerners’ siege. Though they were united under the long shadow of Kalagann, there was little love between the rider-bands of Ursh and the colossal migou that peopled this desolate land, and so they had set down well apart from each other. The campfires of the Urshites were far more numerous, dotting the plain as far as the undulant dunes would let him see, and this stirred some pride in his chest, though he knew that the Monggol giants were little inferior in sheer weight of flesh.

“You think there’s enough of us?” Kuzma asked between mouthfuls of insipid deathworm-meat. When Radim simply nodded at the multitude of lights, he continued, “They say the king of Hymalazia has a thousand times a hundred thousand warriors.”

“More than that, he sent his champions, the warriors of the storm,” Kayan added in an indifferent tone. Gleb smirked contemptuously.

“Freaks in painted armour. What he doesn’t have is us,” Radim grinned, almost a snarl, and the light of the fire danced on his teeth, “He could fill the desert with more men than there’s grains of dust, and they’d only be chaff to our swords.”

“Right you are, brother!” Kuzma leaned back, laughing, “The four of us will cut through his whole army and topple him from his mountain!”

“That’d be poor thanks for someone who’s given us such a gift,” Kayan would never be left behind in a boast, “The wind at our backs, the enemy’s wails before us, what’s better in life?”

“What do you say, volkhv? Do you see our victory?” Radim looked up at the old man crouched in the shadow of a tent’s mouth. If he had a name, no one knew it; to everyone he had always been the volkhv.

“I see blood, that’s for sure,” the elder’s voice did not match his dry, wrinkled skin and long white beard. It had the rough vigour and turns of speech of a man in the full of his years, something many found as unnerving as the jagged black patterns inked on his face and hands, now contorted by age. He kept his eyes fixed on the bowl in his lap, the circle of the moon bright within it. “Too soon to tell if any will be yours.”

Gleb gave a dismissive grunt. Radim found there was not much to add.

---

On his way towards Monggol Tertius, Radim had often found himself wondering what a city built in this wasteland could ever be like. Now, he found his silent question answered. Sheer walls of ochre stone rose from the dust plain like the pillars of a storm, angled walls bristling like a line of teeth below dome-capped spires and sinuously aligned bastions. From the distance where he stood, it was hard to discern singular details, much less the fine lines of division between the great stone blocks, and the entire massive appeared to be an impossible monolith carved by a vanished race of titans. Though fanciful, this was not too far from the truth; surely none had the knowledge and means to build something like this any longer.

This echo of bygone glory did nothing to deter the assault that churned at the foot of the enormous walls. The Hymalazian army was like a toxic lake churning restlessly against a cliff, thousands of red-cloaked soldiers and bulky angular vehicles hurling themselves at the enormous city, a myriad metallic mouths vomiting scorching fire and metal against the stubborn millenary stone. Desultory flashes of cannon-fire answered from atop the rampart, but they were clearly outmatched by the besiegers’ numbers. The warriors of the storm were nowhere to be seen, but then it stood to reason that they would be fighting at the very foot of the city, where the battle was most intense.

It would be this that doomed the invaders.

“Here they come,” Kayan pointed. Tearing his focus from the monumental battle and the pitch-like heat of the volkhv’s brew he had drunk that morning, Radim looked to his right. All but inaudible under the cacophony of the siege, the bike-riders’ horde was spilling over the last of the dunes that had kept its approach hidden. They were numerous, like a great stain of glistening oil spreading over the dust. Busy around its tanks and cannons, the Hymalazian rearguard did not notice their approach until they were a third of the way down the slope, and then its ranks came to life in a panicked flurry. Red-garbed warriors levelled their guns at the approaching avalanche of metal, firing some disorderly shots before the horde’s stubber-bikes spoke in a lightning stroke of gunpowder, scything them down to the earth. As they fell silent again, the horde’s vanguard crashed into the besiegers’ scrambling files, screaming riders slashing wildly to all sides from their saddles.

Like a gargantuan, amorphous beast, the invaders’ army shuddered and hesitated, frozen for a few moments’ surprise and indecision before it began to ponderously turn about itself to face the unexpected onslaught. Heavy artillery pieces were abandoned as troops rushed with guns in hand, the foremost firing off hasty shots on the run. Some riders fell from their bikes. The others roared their engines, well distinct now that much of the bombardment had abated, and swerved about, withdrawing up the slope now that the momentum of their charge was spent. It spoke to the Hymalazians’ credit that they did not hurl themselves in blind pursuit as Radim’s countrymen might have done; they arrayed their ranks, consolidating under the shouts of their sergeants, and marched up the dune in good order, the forward files raking the backs of the retreating riders with autogun bursts. Behind them, the waves of red began to stretch into a steadily advancing tide, the beast that was the army stretching out a shapeless limb to grasp at the unwary mites that had stung it.

Then, from over the ridge at the flank of this body of men, the second prong of the attack struck. A sky-choking cloud heralded the feral rush of the migou, tumbling down the dune in their rough buggies and all but throwing themselves from the vehicles at the enemy. A hail of ironshod muscle rained onto the reorganizing Hymalazian troops, plunging their counterattack into confusion. The flank of their pursuit crumbled as it was taking form, hulking monsters tearing a swathe into its midst; the vanguard stopped, wavered, and the riders of the horde turned back upon them. The formation ceased to be.

“Our time,” Radim said, reaching for the handle of his still wrapped sword. He saw pennants of crimson and yellow rushing back towards them from the forefront of the siege, the Hymalazian king’s thunderbird upon them. If his champions were finally approaching, he and his brothers would be there to meet them.

He tore the rags away from his blade, feeling the sting of the circular bone amulets the volkhv had driven into his skin with their recurve spikes. The sword was unlike any other he had ever seen, aside from its three fellows. It had the feel and weight of metal, considerable given its size, but its surface looked like smooth black glass. The blade had a deep, angular curve in the middle, like a strange branch or two symbols of lightning welded together. The handle was of beige bone, or very worn wood, but it was affixed to it so smoothly that they truly seemed to be as one piece.

He dragged the edge across the palm of his hand, and it drew blood with ease despite its odd shape.

Кровь…

The darkness stirred from its rest, creeping over his mind from its hiding place, and with it came the voice. The volkhv had said it belonged to the sword, but Radim was not so sure. The weapon, unusual as it was, looked new, indeed never suffering a notch in the time he had wielded it, but the snarling words that shook his marrow when he wielded it sounded ancient in a way he could not name. Perhaps it was the language, some hoary speech the world had long forgotten, but whose meaning he nonetheless understood in a way far more primal. Perhaps it was the contempt he could feel in them, the disdain of an ageless mountain as the unsure steps of youth braved its paths. Whatever the truth, he was never given time to dwell on it.

Жажду крови…

His body insensible, Radim saw the ground beneath his feet grow further. His loose plates of armour groaned and scraped as the muscles below bulged hideously, huge lumps of flesh grown a ruddy violet pushing them apart in their abnormal growth. A smooth sliding as reforming bones broke through the skin on his back and upper right arm, their tips shearing away into spikes. Fingers on hands and feet alike curled, twisting into blackened claws. Jaws were forced apart by a forest of dagger-like teeth. The neck bobbed, adjusting to the weight of the single horn on the left side of the head. The heat that had been within him since the morning grew to an all-encompassing blaze, one which only one libation could quench.

Жажде нет конца…

The thing that had been Radim bellowed its rage to the sky, joined by the chorus of its brothers, and the battle below froze for a moment at the visceral terror of that sound.

Столько крови, столько плоти…

It crashed among the red-garbed warriors in a leap. All thought of discipline was forgotten as shreds of flesh and metal sprayed under its blows. Its sword was black lightning, gouging through the armoured hide of tanks as easily as through human skin. The vermin that dared call themselves men trampled each other to mush as they scrambled to escape its wrath.

Круши, терзай, рви в клочья…

It picked up a struggling body and snapped off its head with a bite. They were walking carcasses before it, helpless offerings to its thirst. It was invincible.

A scream rang out ahead. This one was different, somehow. The thing raised its vitreous yellow eyes, trying to track the sound. That voice did not sound afraid. It was a scream of-

Challenge?

Something slammed into its chest, and it staggered back, dense black blood spattering its armour. The warrior before it was larger than the others, bound in red and yellow metal. A defiant grin cut across his face, and a cannon worthy of a small war vehicle smoked in his hands. More of the bulky figures crowded its sight now, brandishing huge pieces of metal - guns, swords, hammers. Its wandering eye saw some further back routing a pack of migou, the gutless brutes losing heart before an enemy they could not overwhelm by sheer strength.

Они ничто… Убей, ломай их хребты… Больше крови…

The thing snarled, and its brother of the flaming beard answered at its shoulder. They sprang forward. The warrior with the cannon began to squeeze the trigger again, but he was too slow. A stroke of a black sword severed his body and weapon from shoulder to hip. The horned thing plunged among its new foes with cruel abandon, heedless of the blows that fell onto its hide, cutting, mangling, killing.

A shriek to the side. It looked up, and gaped. Its brother had fallen to one knee, a leg broken by a hammer’s blow. As it watched, another warrior in red and yellow swung his greatsword in a wide arc, and the flame-bearded head toppled from its shoulders. The thing howled, its rage turning bitter.

Мсти… Все они умрут…

The slayer barely had time to finish his exultant cheer before being caught upon a horn and tossed into the air. The thing thrashed furiously, uncaring of what it cut so long as something bled.

Something stung its ear, more aberrant yet than a fearless cry. In the face of its anger, someone was daring to laugh. It spun about, coming to face with yet another storm-warrior. His red and grey beard was like flames over ash, and the laughter on his lips seemed to mock the scars that surrounded it. It lashed out with its sword, but the warrior’s axe was fast in his hands, faster than it expected. Black blood spurted from its wrist as the dark blade fell into the gory dust with a damp thud. Roaring, it clawed with its good hand, but a burst of heavy shells to the side staggered it, and the warrior - no, the champion hewed its leg out from under it, sending it sprawling on its back. The heat was draining from its wound together with its blood.

Radim saw the sun shine upon the axe as it descended on his head with a boastful, theatrical flourish, and then darkness claimed him for the final time.

The original success of the 8th Legion on the Mercia Front played a major role in the war against the Pan-Pacific on Mercia's soil. Losing control of so many hives in Southern Mercia in a matter of months with little in the way of warning or defense caused a massive upheaval to the Pan-Pacific wider plans. With battle still raging against the Thunder Warriors and other Imperial forces on the eastern hives of Mercia, the hives and territory that the 8th had taken posed a very real threat of cutting off Pan-Pacific controlled hives and forces in the east from reinforcements and supplies from more stable territories.

According to some analysts, if the 8th had regrouped and taken advantage of the confusion to push, they could have actually made this encirclement happen and caused considerable damage to the military of the Pan-Pacific Empire. In practice through, such a lightning assault simply wasn't possible due to a number of factors: The first and most important was that there simply hadn't been enough active members of the 8th legion to try. While their operation was an astounding success and losses were well within accepted parameters, the 8th legion didn't have a large force to begin with and the losses they did take had a large impact on their options moving forward.

A choice had to be made. The 8th could take a gamble and rally themselves together to make a push to encircle and cut off the eastern front while the Pan-Pacific was reeling from losing so much ground at once, or they could hold they territory they had taken until reinforcements arrived to help fortify and hold the region or go on the offense themselves. In the end the 8th decided on the latter plan of action.

As Legion Master Pho Scraphurst was quoted saying about the decision: "We have delivered a jab to our enemy that has caused their jaw to be exposed for a follow up uppercut. However, in order to launch that uppercut we would have to abandon all pretense of defense to put force behind the blow... and unfortunately we simply do not have the strength to make that blow powerful enough to put 'em down. Sure it would hurt 'em, but they would be able to counter attack and unless they're completely stupid they'll quickly regain the undefended hives we've taken with a minimum of fuss. Better to draw out the fight then launch a half arsed attack that'll do more harm then good."

Another factor in the decision to hold and wait for reinforcements to secure Imperial control of the territory was the fact that there were still several Pan-Pacific strongholds within the area the 8th had claimed for the Imperium. Minor hives or independent structures, but still bastions with enemy forces still occupying them. The threat of these bastions reporting back to their higher ups that the territory was undefended or launching assaults of their own to reclaim some of their former territory if the 8th left them be was unacceptable.

So while the 8th legion waited for enforcing Imperial forces and supplies to arrive, the 8th took the time to ensure the stability of Imperial rule in the hives they had claimed, prepared what defenses they needed to in order to hold their prizes in the event that a counter offensive came before the region was fully garrisoned and secured and launching minor campaigns and sieges against what Pan-Pacific strong points remained. These operations also served as a form of training and bonding among the 8th legion, preparing them for larger scale operations and outright siege warfare that they would no doubt encounter going forward.

As the months passed, the Imperium was able to bring in the fresh forces and supplies needed to properly hold its new territory, as well as set up facilities to properly recruit fresh members for the 8th legion going forward. While this did have the negative side effect of allowing the Pan-Pacific Empire a chance to dig in and prepare for fighting on the southern front of Mercia, the Imperium had a strong and secure foothold to launch its future liberation campaigns from.

-Remembrancer Zygena Ravenlow, attached to the 8th Legion.

One moment Seren was standing in the Teleportarium chamber, the next she was bumping against a mass of bodies and what she assumed to be the outside of the Destroyer. It took her a couple seconds to remember to activate her jump pack, and then a couple more to orient herself. When she finally stopped herself from spinning, Seren found herself staring directly through a window at an observation deck. The floor was littered with an assortment of body parts: arms, legs, heads, fingers, hands. She even saw Spade’s entire torso among them. Two men were staring at the carnage, mouths agape. Serene immediately placed two charges on the window, signaling to those around her to follow her out of the way.

“Hello Second, this is Crown. I’m on the port side, top of the observation window. Group up on the highest level commander in your area and breach immediately.”

The window was thick and made of armaglass, but the charges were made to breach metal hulls and the entire window exploded when they discharged. Seren watched as the body parts and organs of her legion blew out into space, the bodies of the two unfortunate men among them. She entered the ship just as the last arm passed her. Red lights and alarms blared in the universal language for critical emergencies. In the hallway just ahead of her, she could see an airlock door just starting to close. She managed to clear it just as it shut, then reopen it for the rest of those with her.

“Crown you’re bleeding.”

Seren looked down and realized for the first time that she was missing three fingers on her right hand. As a medic quickly patched her up, Seren took stock of the current situation. The second legion had always been small, with just under a thousand members. Just under five hundred had successfully made it onto the ship, split into six groups of varying sizes scattered throughout the ship. About a fourth of them had lost limbs or been otherwise injured from the teleport, and when including those who volunteered to help the wounded, Seren left almost a third of her men behind. Assuming the rest of the legion was in a similar state, that left about three hundred to finish the operation. It was less than what she had hoped for, but still within her expectations. Seren’s group, much to her delight, had boarded closest to the bridge. She split the legion into two groups. One would gain control of the bridge. The other would sweep through to the enginarium. Her instructions were simple, but Seren had learned from experience, it was better to let the Second make their own decisions. They were less likely to disobey for the sake of disobeying that way.

They were outnumbered, but the enemy had been caught off guard, and for the first several minutes, the Second was able to easily mow down the enemy forces as they scrambled for weapons, armor, and order. Unfortunately, the chaos didn’t last and as Seren’s group rounded the next corner, they were met with return fire. Using their jumpbacks to their advantage, Seren’s group quickly closed the gap and disposed of them with minimal casualties.

Her hand was throbbing by now, and she could barely keep her grip on her weapon. Blood coated the bandage, but stopping now would mean losing the gamble. She grit her teeth and continued pushing forward.

Luck was on her side, and two of the groups behind her had finally pushed through and joined them, bolstering their numbers. Seren allowed herself to take a backseat in the fighting, focusing instead on indirectly guiding her Legion to make the correct decisions to push forward to their goal. Of course, she still participated enough that it looked like she was fighting hard. She couldn’t give anyone the opportunity to accuse her of cheating later after all.

At last, the door to the bridge came into view, and the Legion dropped all pretense of working together. They blew through the enemy like ferocious animals, all fighting to be the first through the door. Unlike the others, Seren had been ready. She raced ahead of the group, expertly taking advantage of the chaos to ensure her victory. When all was said and done, her bloody handprint was the first on the door and she burst into the room, grinning.

“Game set ladies, I’ve won again.”

Cries of protest erupted over the comms.

“You cheated again, didn’t you Seren?”

“I told you we should have ganged up on her.”

The bridge occupants stared at them open mouthed, unable to understand the conversation and casual nature of their invaders. The second ignored them and casually pushed them out of their chairs and they naturally went to huddle in the corner without direction.

Seren stared at the flight console. Lights flashed at her meaninglessly and unlabeled buttons of different colors tempted her impulses. She turned to the officer standing next to her, “Do you know how to fly this thing, Eirys?”

“Crown,” Eirys said slowly, “do I really look smart enough to do that to you?”

Seren stared at her, then put her hands on the console.

Shoutout to @FrostedCaramel and @grimely for all their help

When the wall ruptured, time had seemed to stop for all who had bore witness to it as both Imperial and Sanctii forces seemed stunned by awe and terror alike. Yet, where others marveled at the sight of destruction, the vaunted custodians seemed to be the only to respond immediately. The gunship, venatarii, and agamatus all flew through the new entrance faster than any could comprehend what had happened. The Custodians had only one focus in mind: decommissioning the abomination that ran Sanctii - to destroy Deep Winter.

The Stygian Talons were the first to fire their weapons once more, raining death from above as they flew low enough to not be targeted by anti-air. Lances flew through stunned defenders, bolters ripped through power armor, missiles destroyed fortified areas. They traveled in a singular line with but one destination in mind, the grand citadel and its spire. The gunship flew over the inner wall, Venatarii following close behind, slaughtering those in their path along the way.

“Lucius, take your jetbakes and ensure that reinforcements do not follow us in,” Amalasuntha commanded over vox, diverting the six jetbikes away from the spire where their use would be limited. Her gaze went up to the top of the spire, sitting well above most of the city - she needed not go to the top of the structure, for their target would not be found there. The gunship and other venatarii followed closely behind, their weapons spewing death in nearly every direction before her full accompaniment disembarked from the venerable ship.

“Daito, take the rest of the Venatarii and scour the upper echelons of the spire for the master of the keys,” without another word the custodians activated their packs and made for the upper spire, leaving the remaining twenty-three custodians to descend into the spire. Even upon entering the spire, the vaunted custodians found resistance, the best of Deep Winter’s forces had been dispatched to ensure that the vault would not be reached.

Augmented warriors of blackened armor threw themselves at the custodians. Bullets impacted off shields. Swords clashed. Viscera began to stain the walls and floor. Deep W1inter’s monstrosities matched the thunder warriors in size, speed, and ferocity - but their attacks were measured and calculating like a custodian. Some seemed nuerolocked, attacking in unison as if they were one organism sharing a mind.

Amalasuntha herself followed closely behind those armed with shields, who methodically advanced forwards as bodies continually piled in front of them. There was little else the supposed best of the Abominable Intelligence could do against the perfect creations of the Emperor. That was when the tricks of Deep Winter began, turrets emplaced in the ceiling and floor sprung up and began to fire into the custodians from behind. If not for their master-crafted armor, they would have all perished in that moment. Pyrihite spears turned in an instant and sent a melta-beam into them, but even in that moment two custodians perished as heavy disintegration weaponry pierced their backs.

Tricks and deceit would be the worst of what they could face for who among them could tell what such a wretched intelligence could conjure up? Amalasuntha surged forwards, her paragon blade finding purchase in the gene-warriors of Sanctii. Her peers renewed their push, knowing that they must keep the momentum for becoming bogged down would only enable further tricks and deceits. So they pushed, matching recklessness with ferocity.

Amalasuntha’s shield flared as another disintegration ray shot at her, another turret had sprouted up and she could do little but curse under her breath. A melta-beam shattered the defensive weapon, her hand had momentarily gone to the pistol holstered on her hip - but instead grabbed one of her adversaries and crushed his head in a single vice grip. She would not be undone by the likes of a horrid abomination this day, her Emperor had demanded Deep Winter and she would deliver.

As they fought through the horde, another custodian was brought down by sheer force of number - ten gene-warriors skewering him from every angle. Even then, in the custodian’s dying breath, he beheaded them in a single swing of his spear just as he succumbed to his wounds and a cloud of nanites poured from his body. Amalasuntha growled and stabbed, sliced, cleaved, and ripped forwards as she cleaved more of them apart. One came with an onyx blade that pulsed with horrid energies, another with a weapon that fired arcs of lightning. There was little end to the technology that was being hurled upon them.

Yet, there would be an end, the Black Hawk foresaw it as the gene-warriors of Deep Winter began to falter in number. Their suicidal fanaticism did them injustice, perfected warriors to match most of the Emperor’s own yet their singleminded nature brought them low. It seemed being puppets of an Abomidable Intelligence could not match His will for unity or His perfectly crafted warriors. Soon, there was nothing of them left, except for corpses and gore that littered the floor. Amalasuntha had stopped paying attention to her surroundings at the height of the battle. A cursory glance to her sides revealed that six of her companions had been felled, many surrounded by mountains of the dead.

Wordlessly she stepped forwards, and her Talons followed, for they would not be denied their quarry. A static vox cast had reached her, “Shield-Captain, we have found the Master of the Keys, her entourage felled two of us. We are currently on a maglev to your position.”

Past that there was silence as Amalasuntha let out a grunt of acknowledgement, her eyes darting along the walls and ceiling of the complex. It would not be long for Daito to regroup with the Black Hawk, meeting them along the way but now down to just two Venatarii. The two shared a silent stare before Amalasuntha looked down at the Keeper of Keys, their gateway to Deep Winter.

The Keeper of the Keys stood between the Venatarii. She was comically short compared to them, and of a far rounder nature. An archaic collar granted to the strike force by the Sigillite himself was strapped about her neck. It clicked and whirred, lights blinking along its diameter as the Keeper of the Keys looked frantically between her captors.

“Shield-Captain, the Keeper of the Keys,” DIto motioned to the woman, “the damned machine’s hold on her is muzzled thanks to the auspices of the Sigillite,” Daito confirmed as he pressed the woman toward the Black Hawk.

“She can get us into the inner sanctum of the abominable intelligence as we presumed. She wishes only for protection, that we do not remove the collar before the machine is slain.”

The Keeper of the Keys nodded meekly at the words, her eyes darting around anxiously as the Demi-gods spoke between themselves.

Amalasuntha continued a long and drawn out gaze of the Master of the Keys before speaking simply, “Your protection shall be granted. Stay within the center of our formation and you shan’t be harmed.”

Without another word the remaining custodians formed around the Keeper, each one acting as a separate shield to her form. The Black Hawk and her Talons walked as one, urging the Keeper to keep pace with their long strides until they inevitably reached the first locked door to the vault. It seemed Deep Winter had committed all of the initial guards in a bid to drive them out, but that had failed for the Stygian Talons were not a foe to be matched.

Halting in front of the large vaulted door, the custodians readied themselves for combat once more, the shields forming a wall in front of them. The Black Hawk looked down to the Keeper of the Keys and gave a silent nod to her, for it was time to do battle. The Keeper gave a silent, shaky nod of acknowledgement as she made her way to a console just off to the side. Placing her palm onto a black console as allowing her eyes to be scanned, the first of the gates to the Sanctum opened.

Without waiting, a custodian picked up the keeper effortlessly as the Stygian Talons bounded in, ready to face whatever tricks Deep Winter dared to employ.

The Shield Host, genewrought warriors without peer, surged into the sanctum. The form of the Keeper hefted over a pauldron the only human aspect of the sight to be seen as the golden figures bounded across the open space toward the next of the massive sanctum gates.

“Deep Winter—!” The Keeper gasped as she was thrashed violently about the Custodians shoulder, “she’ll be ready!” she screamed as the Custodian dropped her to her feet and stretched out her hand to the next gate locking mechanism.

“So are we,” he affirmed as the scanner clicked and flashed a contented green.

“Not for this,” the Keeper began before she was again hefted to his shoulders.

The second set of sanctum doors opened on silent hinges to a room exactly the same to the last. A vast empty possession leading to the final door to the machine’s lair.

The shield host began their sprint once more.
——————————————————

Above the sprinting Custodians, in the vaulted ceiling of the sanctum possession, things writhed unnaturally as the passing of the Emperor’s most trusted warriors disturbed their slumber.

A mass of black, so dark it seemed to swallow the light, moved in waves. Tentacles of shifting shadow reaching out of the mass as the sleeping machines woke for the first time in centuries.

A Custodian, moving at blinding speed, lifted his guardian spear and let loose a volley of bolter shells off instinct alone. The writhing, pitch black mass of tentacles that had been falling directly at him exploding into foul black ichor that stained his armor even as he continued his sprint. He swiped the power glaive, cleaving a second ball of twisting tentacles in two, only for both sides to skewer him as he sprinted between them. The Custodian crashed to the floor, the two halves of the split machine joining back together on top of him as the mass of tentacles shifted and stabbed relentlessly into the flesh beneath the armor.

More guardian spears barked fire as the machines on the ceiling began to fall like rain toward them. No orders needed to be given, they had to move forwards no matter the cost. Daito took the Keeper from the Custodian, holding her with one hand as he activated his pinion to surge forwards. The other remaining venatari followed suit, surging forth as monstrosities rained upon them - catching one by engulfing him. Yet, the monstrous creation was met with death as the talon activated a Krak grenade. Whatever the source of the abomination was, it seemed to have been annihilated in the blast.

Amalasuntha and the remaining custodians bounded forwards, hacking and slashing into the reforming entities as tendrils and spear tipped limbs met auramite. Swords flashed and shields buckled as the Stygian Talons danced amongst their foes - [/i]Conservai[/i] - knowing well these were not a mere horde of enemies they could overcome with brutality and carnage. Pyrithite spears hit with the force of tanks ripping through clouds on robotic monstrosities only for them to reform and attack with the vigor they showed before. It was in a moment such as this that the Black Hawk’s keen eyes found the source of these machines' supposed immortality, a small ball located at the center of these formations.

Quickly, she surged forwards and grasped it, crushing it in her hands as one of the spinning deaths disintegrated. More of her shield-company fell; one ripped asunder as three fell upon him, a shield bypassed as the malformation fluidly ebbed around the custodian. They hadn’t the time to deal with this - Amalasuntha did not have time to fight these creatures. So, she brought up her pistol, a relic of ages past given to her by the Sigilite, and fired towards the ceiling, where more horrors rained from.

Suddenly, a great force overtook the chamber as a black dot darker than even Deep Winter’s creations traveled the length of the room in nanoseconds. A gravitational pull opened where it had impacted the ceiling, dragging with it countless of the abominations. Metallic plating of the walls bent and snapped, being overtaken by the singularity. The Stygian Talons, even with their magnetic boots, had to dig into the floor to stop themselves from being pulled in. Then there was silence as the pull ceased within a full minute’s passing, with its death there was only a fraction of the creatures left - remnants that had robotically attached themselves to whatever they could. However, they were missing much of the cloud that had made up their bodies, and the custodians surged forth once more.

Still, the metallic beings whipped and spun, even in their deteriorated form they fought against the golden hand of the Emperor. One of them ripped the arm off a custodian, but could do little more before a spear impacted its core. Amalasuntha, content in seeing that there was little resistance to be left to offer, began walking towards where Daito and the Keeper of the Keys had advanced to.

She noted the large hole in the ceiling where the singularity had materialized.

As she approached, she saw that all the venatri had given their lives to protect the Keeper of the Keys, giving the promise to ensure that Deep Winter would not take her. Daito’s body was seen still standing in front of a corner, holding his spear as if still ready to strike despite missing a leg and a large portion of his head. The Black Hawk gave the custodian a friendly touch to his shoulder plate, allowing him to finally fall now that his duty had come to an end. That left the Keeper of the Keys cowering in the corner, still alive due to efforts of the custodians. Amalasuntha gazed over her form, speaking sternly as if she had not just fought against the horrors of old Terra, “Come. We run on little time.”

What remained of the Stygian Talons soon followed their Shield-Captain, ready to destroy the abomination that awaited them. In total 14 custodians had given their lives to take Deep Winter, a devastating loss in comparison to the casualties faced taking the walls - but only in death did duty end.

“Amalasuntha of the Stygian Talons transmitting, we are making entry to the final vault, Emperor Protect.”

The Keeper of the Keys, on the edge of her sanity after the horrors that had just unfolded before her very eyes, stumbled forward. She shakily placed a hand on the locking mechanism leading to Deep Winter’s chamber and offered an eye to the reader as she shook.

The massive doors clicked with unseen locks, before swinging slowly open to reveal the huge domed room beyond.

Cool blue light lit the vaulted space. Cables as thick as battle tanks hung from the ceiling, running from unseen access points to the massive diamond-glass prism suspended at the center of the room. Steam billowed up from the floor beneath the abominable machine's case from a pool of still warm coolant, as the same clear liquid continued dripping from an open face of the diamond casing.

The Keeper of the Keys gasped at the sight, collapsing to her knees as she began to sob.

“Empty,” she wailed, “it’s empty.”

As Amalasuntha entered the chamber, a silent rage filled her heart, only portrayed by her hands tightening in grip. Failure was unacceptable for the Emperor’s finest, no alternative to victory would be fated for their kind. The custodian looked to the Keeper of the Keys, grasping her collar and lifting the defenseless human in the air. The hawk’s voice was laced with venom, “Where is the abomination?”

The Keeper scrabbled at the armored hands of the Black Hawk, terror filling her eyes as she was lifted into the air. Her legs kicked at nothing as her chest tightened and her breath caught in her throat.

“I don’t—!” she managed hoarsely as she came face to face with the transhuman horror before her. Her face was crafted far finer than Winter had ever managed of her genewarriors, her every motion, movement, and utterance perfect beyond reproach. She knew then that her people had been wrong to stand before the creator of this being, that they had been misled by the whims of the abomination that should have been at the center of this room.

“I don’t know! Please—” she choked on her own spit, unable to swallow as the full weight of the Custodian’s gaze bared down on her. She coughed, a wretched excuse of a human hanging limp in the Black Hawk’s hands, and tried again, “It never told me of such a plan—! I don’t know!”

Without pause, Amalasuntha dropped the Keeper of the Keys onto the ground - finding no true reason to distrust the words of the human. Her head snapped to the rest of the Stygian Talons, she began stalking back into the dark halls, “Report back to the Command Tent.”

“Emperor save us all.”

---

An inferno of calamitous energy erupted from beneath the great city of Sanctii, rising into the sky like a divine pillar of destruction. A portion of the alabaster wall was vaporized in seconds, disintegrating from the mass reaction of an overheating flue station below. Those that had been nearest to the wall, Sanctiian and Imperial alike, vanished in traces of smoldering ash. Night could no longer be recognized in Terra’s poisonous sky, brightened to the extent of artificial mid-day. Storming clouds that had gathered to rain nature’s wroth had dispersed in a swirling vortex of smoldering fury. The blizzard ceased to exist in grim parallel to one of the great, alabaster bastions. The shimmering shield of Sanctii’s void-barrier buckled and disappeared into nothingness, allowing a fresh wave of cataclysmic ruination upon the hive. Bombs, shells, lasers, and more connected with undefended wall, piercing where they had never penetrated before. A tide of red-garbed auxilia switched paces from tactical withdraw to reinvigorated, suicidal assault towards the breach in Sanctii. Insanity overtook the battlefield once more.

Primarch Aeternus, along with his retreated Thunder Warriors, observed the success of the Penal Legion from afar. A wave of relief crashed over his body. Colonel Stavin had been successful and the death of his brethren had not been in vain. Hope began to filter through his being as Imperials rushed past in urgent sprints. He dared to smile, knowing that Sanctii would now fall into the Emperor’s hands. As he began to turn towards his brethren, a thousand of the newly born Astartes rushed towards the gap in complete ignorance of his existence. Unnervingly, none of their number uttered a single word in their gene-enhanced sprint, nor did their Legion Mistress respond to his query. A competitive fury formed within his mind. He wouldn’t allow them to claim the glory that his God-Slayers had earned.

“Awfully silent aren’t they? At least they’re contributing to the invasion now!” Captain Caligula chortled, running up to his side in a half-gallop. Dozens of Thunder Warriors followed after him, stopping shortly behind the First Cadre commander with reinvigorated breaths. A quick inspection from Aeternus saw the truth of their sorry state. Plating broken in several places, old wounds patched over with synthskin, and degraded weapons from the relentless assaults. Caestus fared no better than they did with dried blood cascading down his helmet and fragmented armor on his left side. They were only a small fraction of the force already in the depths of the assault.

“Indeed. Our successors.” The Primarch stated, frustration quickly leaving his voice as he turned his attention to Caligula. A part of him desperately wished that they had joined in on the assault, so that he could gauge their martial prowess. Another part of him was glad that they had reserved their numbers for this part of the siege. A wise, tactical decision that ultimately kept their force fresh for the true assault. One of the Thunder Warriors, bearing a white tabard and pauldron, affixed a part of his armor with fresh synthskin and hardening foam. “But we must not wallow in defeat. Unity is before our eyes, God-Slayers, and I would see it fulfilled… or would you rather forfeit such honors to our newly arisen genecousins?”

Refreshed warriors grit their teeth at the comment, earning a few chuckles and competitive roars. Despite wearing a helmet, Aeternus could tell that Caestus himself was smiling as the ambitious spirits overtook them. His God-Slayers shook the weariness from their limbs, preparing themselves for battle with fresh applications of combat stimulants or racking their weapons with destructive intent. Support personnel, mortals that had taken to the backlines of the siege, quickly arrived to replenish ammunition in short amounts. Magazines were restored, chainweapons retracked, and batteries replaced for further confrontation. A small advantage of their tactical retreat. Even to one such as he, the Primarch felt a toothy smile grow on his lips. Hope was beginning to take hold of the First Legion and with it he would guide them to Unity.

+’Sanctii has been breached! In the name of Unity, press forward! Pay back every pound of flesh taken during this assault!.’+ Primarch Aeternus roared into the vox as his troupe began to sprint forward. The support personnel disappeared from their sight, skittering back behind the siege lines as the genewarriors sprinted into the snow. The Imperialis Praetorios loomed nearby, idling in support of the siege. A myriad of responses returned to him in short order. Noncommittal replies from his God-Slayers that still lived, swift affirmations from the nearest platoon commanders, and thinly veiled insults from the backline scribes. Only the Colonel of the Forty-Third Excertus Imperialis drew his undivided attention over the vox-reports from others.

+’Primarch Aeternus, General Astaroth of the Forty-Third Excertus, direct your attention to the breach. We’ve maintained a cohesive bulwark, but the Sanctiians are beginning to adapt to our offensive. The God-Slayers are needed to secure our path into Sanctii.’+ General Astaroth, an old and daunting man, broke through the vox with a stern voice. The blistering sound of lasfire, tank shells, and stubberfire reverberated in the background of his communication. Men shrieked, air perforated, and engines roared as the battle continued on nearby. +’We will continue the assault with the aid of the Eighty-Eigth and the Seventy-First, but the internal defenses are showing their teeth. Raptor Imperialis.’+

“Quite haughty of him to make demands at this point of the battle.” Caligula stated as they sprinted across the bloodied snow, unmolested by Sanctii’s stationary turrets or Ursh’s horrendous weather. Their retinue was closing in on the breach, identified by the sheer wave of red-garbed human flesh pouring into the wall. In sporadic clumps, individual squads with breach equipment and battery charges scaled the alabaster bastion while the main forces sped to the singular breach. Shells from the surviving artillery in the backlines shrieked overhead, blossoming against Sanctii’s beautiful architecture. Heavy ordinance exploded from the barrel of main battle tanks, while three-man crews of heavy weapons pelted the interior of the breach.

+’It shall be done. Pull back from the breach and resurge once we’ve slaughtered our way in.’+ Aeternus’ response was swift, a plan having long formulated in his mind once the alabaster walls of Sanctii were breached. New faces began to slowly emerge from their foxholes, Destroyers rallying behind them with heavy weapons swaying in tandem with their lumbering sprint. His brow furrowed in disappointment as Nero and the Second Cadre’s Despoilers remained hidden from him. Neither had Tiberius reappeared with the Third Cadre’s Seekers.

The breach unfolded before them as they crested the final batteline into Sanctii. Trenches, dug at the outset of the siege, were clogged with vivisected and dismembered auxilia. Smoldering wreckage of Cataphract battle-tanks, Colossus siege-tanks, and Aurox armored transports formed great shields of cover for the resurging assault. Snow had long melted away in huge rivers of blood, bodies threatening to claim the ground in place of dirt. Craters the size of lakes split the gaps between the corpse-piles, frozen lakes of vitae disgustingly filling the empty areas. Yet, still, the Excertus Imperialis pressed on in waves of red armored soldiers reinforced by hulking Dracosans transports. A temporary fallback line was held aloft by the Forty-Third, who relentlessly unfurled las- and stub-fire into the quickly filling breach. Enormous, humanoid giants in yellow-plated armor stood alongside mortals with bolters hipfiring into the rushing Sanctiians.

Alabaster-plated Sanctiians bitterly fought in vain against the oncoming tide of Imperials, coherent formations breaking in seconds of performing defensive actions. Despite their overwhelming, initial victory against the Imperium, the protectors were beginning to falter in this most crucial scenario. Everything that they could throw was filling the breach from sentinels armed with adrastite stubbers to quadrupedal machines with enclosed cockpits. Unfortunately, they were few in comparison to the numbers raining perpetual hell upon their defences. Even those few Astartes that could worm their way through were beginning to tighten a grip on an exfil corridor. The battle for the breach was starting to reach a stalemate as Aeternus arrived. That singular fact was enough to spell doom for Sanctii.

The God-Slayers sprinted through the entrenched lines of mortal men with power weapons ablaze, Himalazian curses on their tongues, and ranged armaments barking sheer death. At the forefront of the charge, Aeternus withstood the brunt of the counterfire with his refractor field sparking like an overclocked cogitator core. His left hand spat out salvos of azure-flame bullets from the wrist-mounted archeotech, piercing personal shields and melting nanocomposite plating in equal droves. Panic, no matter how minor it was due to their nerve stapling, began to spread throughout the Sanctiian defenders. Precise firing solutions swiftly switched to desperate hipfire as the guardians began a backwards withdrawal from the breach. It wouldn’t save them, nor could it have saved them. The yellow-armoured giants collided with the defenders as a rushing tide of behemoths, hacking and slashing with wild abandon typical for their kind.

Primarch Aeternus leapt from the front of the God-Slayers, pushing with all of his might into Sanctii’s gaping wound. One of the quadrupedal machines attempted to aim up at his descending form, yet he was swifter than the pilot’s reactions. Apocrypha slammed into the hardened cockpit of the vehicle, piercing through with the greatsword’s brilliant, crimson edge. Something from within cried a muffled scream of pain as Aeternus deactivated the plasmafield, wrenching out the blade with a gout of flying vitae. The sight was enough to break those meager defenders around him, beginning the first of the few to retreat into the depths of Sanctii. The other God-Slayers followed suit, tearing limbs from augmented humans and battering the skulls of other machine-companions with ease. He spied a few yellow-armored corpses mixed in with the Sanctiian dead, saturated with adrastite punctures and pyrite scorches. Rex merely smiled, glad that they had met their end fighting in glorious combat compared to bashing endlessly against a wall. His attention turned away to the long line of Imperials outside of the breach, one hand lifting the mighty Apocrypha high into the air.

“Gloria Raptoris Imperialis! Join me and fight in His name!” The lion roar of Aeternus was heard for miles, echoing throughout the vox and in the nearby area. It drove the Imperials into a frenzy, auxilia abandoning their defensive positions to dive into the breach with weapons in hand. Vehicle commanders willed their machines forward, barking orders in furious litanies to claim their succulent prizes. Thunder warriors that had remained behind ushered forward with endless quantities of primal hollers, screams, and roars to echo their Primarch’s enthusiasm. Astartes ceded away from the surging forces, efficiently sprinting along the peripheries of the tide with singular focus.

The breach had been conquered.

---

Elsewhere, within Sanctii

The remains of the 31-3’s assault element crouched within the wreckage of what had been a switching substation, or a pump room, Stavin couldn’t be sure. It was something industrial, something vastly complicated that had been shattered by… something. A stray imperial rocket, perhaps, or an outbound shell that had fallen short. They had emerged from their long climb in these ruins, spending a scant few minutes to catch their breath, reload, and eat.

Stavin glanced around him, taking in his ragged coterie. There, Sergeant Whitaker was helping one of the newer influxes - Stavin thought his name was Caleb, light a lho stick. Caleb, arc rifle slung around his body, coughed as he inhaled the caustic smoke. Whitaker laughed his silent laugh, and thumped Caleb on the back.

A few feet from them, a woman with a half shaved scalp sullenly sharpened a knife. The man next to her, who sported a crude bionic eye, so blocky and ugly it looked like it had lodged there instead of been surgically implanted, chewed on a ration bar. They looked tired, worn out, and traumatized, but they had performed. Had this been any other outfit, it’d be medals and a rotation out, but cruel fate meant there was still more to do. He turned his gaze once more, and saw Severina looking through a pair of magnoculars. Her peaked cap, with the emblem of the Imperial Army’s discipline corps, had disappeared, revealing her dirty, frazzled red hair. She had it tied into a short ponytail. The rest of her uniform was also torn and ragged, and, aside from the lack of a bomb collar, she looked little different from a common trooper.

Stavin crouch-walked to her, an awkward gait, but one that kept his sight line low. He crept to her side, and, wordlessly, she handed him the mags.

Stavin put them to his own eyes.

“God above!” He whispered.

“Do you see it?” Severina asked.

He sure did. Sanctii militia, in their alabaster white plate. Thankfully, they weren’t alive. But they were quite dead - horrifyingly so. They had been torn to pieces, arms from trunks, legs from pelvises, guts scooped out and thrown every which way. Blood plastered every surface, the snow, the road, the bricks on the buildings, which were similarly destroyed, walls knocked out, some even collapsed. Whatever had happened to the switching station they had climbed into had managed to get these troopers too.

“What the hell killed them?” Severina said. “No Imperials are this deep, besides us. We’d’ve picked them up on ‘spex.”

“Artillery?” Stavin asked. “Maybe a macro shell?”

Severina shook her head. “No. Artillery flattens buildings. Anything just out of the splash zone has its windows knocked out from the overpressure. And John - where’s the craters?”

She was right. John looked again, but couldn’t spot anything that looked like a blast point. Whatever had done this, did it manually. The thought of it chilled Stavin. The only beings he knew capable of unleashing that kind of ruination…

He thought of Aeternus, and of the Black Eagle that had held his life in her claw.

In the view of the magnoculars, a white leg stepped into view. Stavin snapped to the leg, which preceded a trooper of the Sanctii defense force. Another stepped into view, then another. Soon, they were in platoon strength, and that meant the 31-3 had a problem.

“Defensive positions! Stay low, and out of sight!” Stavin hissed, then fired off a series of hand signals. The battered 31-3 snapped from their reverie and moved to take up firing positions on the abattoir outside. They were at street level, and possessed no height advantage over the unwitting patrol, but they had cover and concealment. Their enemy, Stavin hoped, would pass right by them.

One of the troopers stopped. He looked up, and, in a moment that made Stavin start back, looked directly at him.

Time seemed to slow. Stavin looked from the magnoculars to his right.

Caleb, god damn him, was looking into the street with a lit lho stick. Stavin understood now - the militiaman had seen the cherry. He pulled his plasma pistol, still slow, so slow, and looked to what his target would be. Thankfully, the trooper who had seen them was even slower, but he had already started to yell.

Stavin aimed, and pulled the trigger. As the plasma bolt spat from the muzzle, time sped up all at once again. The militiaman vaporized, his trunk disappearing as the bolt struck him. The arm he’d raised, and both legs, spread out, toppling like ninepins. The rest of the militia began to fire on the pumping station, their volley vicious and sustained, chipping away at the pitted, damaged rockcrete. It was a deluge, and getting worse, their only saving grace being that it was inaccurate.

Stavin ducked back behind cover as the rest of the 31-3 opened up. Before Caleb swung up his arc rifle to fire, Stavin snatched the lho-stick from his mouth, and slapped the private’s bald head.

“No fucking smoking in a hot zone! Idiot!” Stavin said, then took a big drag. He exhaled the smoke, then stuck it back in Caleb’s lip, who blinked.

Whitaker then slapped Caleb’s head. “Focus on the shooting, Troopie!”

Stavin turned to Severina, and, having to shout over the weapons fire, relayed his orders.

“Call for backup!” Stavin shouted, “See if anyone can push up to us!”

Severina nodded. “Any Imperial Unit, this is the 31-3rd! We are in hot contact in grid zone…”

Severina checked her ‘spex, and relayed the map coordinates. “...I repeat, we are in hot contact! Platoon strength of Sanctii militia, minimum! We can hold for…”

Stavin flashed two hand signals. Ten fingers, closed fist, then five fingers.

“...Fifteen minutes at most!”

Stavin nodded, then stood back up to fire. If fifteen minutes was all he had, he’d help along a few more damned souls.

---

War raged around Primarch Aeternus and the God-Slayers as they pressed through the breach with weapons blazing. The air perforated with the harsh crack of lasfire, the empty clatter of smoking cartridges, and the vibrating boom of heavy ordinance. Soaring engines on flaming wings sped overhead, unleashing deadly cargos from fat-bellied hulls onto unsuspecting defenders. Each inhabitant, to his surprise, fought back as bitterly as their most experienced sentinel. Civilians, clad in a distinguished mix of advanced flak and powered armor, protected their homes with drastically less deadly weapons than their military counterparts. The Imperials remained unrelenting, slaughtering their way through militia, defender, and otherwise regardless of their association to Deep Winter. Each street, every junction, and all the corridors of Sanctii’s frontal districts were burning with munitions, choked with dead men, and desperately fighting survivors. A stench of rot had begun to waft through the air with each passing second, rolled in from the five-hundred thousand corpses sticking in front of the alabaster walls.

Aeternus tore the arm off of a sentinel, utilizing his transhuman strength to shatter plate and rip sinew alike. In one fell swoop, he plunged the defender’s arm straight through their helmet in an act of swift carnage. They fell backwards against the previously-polished tiles of Sanctii, sending a ripple of fear through the nearest group of militia. Untested, ill-trained, and devoid of proper augmentation resulted in their immediate fleeing away from the Thunder Warriors. After all the brutality he felt on the walls, Rex couldn’t help but feel disappointed with the ever-evolving siege. To his immediate left, Caligula hipfired a bolter scavenged from a fallen brother. Each shot tore through a multitude of fleeing militia, exploding viscera and vitae against nearby alabaster buildings. To his immediate right, the Destroyers had momentarily hunkered down to rain hell against several hovering machines with plasma turrets. They disappeared as quickly as they had appeared, scythed through by disintegrator cannons and laser destroyers. The rest of the God-Slayers around him were busy butchering their prey, relentlessly hacking at heavily-armed defenders with plasma blades and photon shields. Each died in short order as their genemight overpowered augmentation and advanced gear in close proximity. A war in close-range with the Legio Cataegis was a short, maleficent affair.

“Do you notice it, Caestus?” Aeternus called out to his old friend, delivering a brutal stomp to a prone Sanctiian. Vitae ejected across the quickly deteriorating tile, coagulating together with the other countless dead that now clogged the street. The First Cadre Captain quickdrew his sidearm, a silver volkite pistol with three barrels, and hammered a trio of shots into the closest defender. As the Primarch approached, he half-turned his attention to Rex.

“Without a doubt! They’re pulling back from the frontlines. It’s only been ten minutes since they’ve lost the breach and started cordoning off the afflicted area. Smart and decisive. Why waste numbers on an enemy that has access to your city? They’re gonna bottleneck us at the next set of districts.” Caligula replied, holstering the sidearm in a refined pouch across his chest. A group of Thunder Warriors rallied around him, finished with their extermination of the nearest militia pocket. He reloaded his bolter, knocking one magazine off to swiftly press another one squarely into the weapon. Racking the bolt back, he turned fully towards the commander of their legion.

“Agreed. Deep Winter has decided to toss away the unmentionables to stall our advance. Do we have a read on Tiberius or Neros yet?” Rex nodded in agreement, beginning to walk forward as his wrist-mounted weapon autoloaded the next salvo with a nerve impulse. Apocrypha was hefted up and against his pauldron, deactivated and hungry for the next defender to slay. The Primarch began to press forward, followed by the rest of the God-Slayers that fought alongside him. Further away from them, Aeternus could hear the wailing and shouting of dying men, ferocious firefights, and buildings crumbling from continuous pummeling.

Caligula gestured from behind for one of the Thunder Warriors with a complex powerpack mounted on their back. An antenna extended into the air as an auspex was drawn into their hand from an unseen pouch. The familiar clicking of scanning technology and the hum of a miniaturized cogitator filled the nearby area with noise. After several seconds of silence, the God-Slayer turned towards Aeternus with a satisfactory nod.

“Captain Tiberius has been located, Primarch, along with the rest of the Seekers. They’ve already engaged the next district’s defenses along with the Eighty-Eighth Excertus Imperialis. Fifty-thousand souls have currently made it to the next segment, along with thirty-five vehicles and five-hundred ordinance batteries. Furthermore, the Forty-Third has set-up a forward relief center at the breach.” The genewarrior spoke with the promptness expected of a signal officer, consuming a tidal wave of data and processing it into a simplified format. Despite the helmet they wore, Aeternus could make out a distinct frown in the next spoken words. “Captain Nero… is well beyond the next segment, Primarch. The Despoilers have scattered all across Sanctii, engaging everything and anything that remotely resembles an enemy formation. I can’t successfully ping their vox. It seems they’ve entered their blood-rage.”

Those words nearly punched the determination out of Aeternus, enough to earn a disappointed sigh from their Primarch. The energy was felt across their immediate retinue. Caligula stepped forward and planted a firm gauntlet on Rex’s left pauldron, a solemn shake of his head was made to affirm the next course of action for Nero. The auspex loudly blipped once more, drawing attention away from the signal officer’s words back to the device in question.

“It seems the Thirty-One-Third is alive. Approximately seven hundred meters to the north-east of our position. They are in need of assistance, but none have reacted to the distress call yet. Your orders, my Primarch?” The genewarrior asked, turning away from the auspex to stare at their commander.

Aeternus never replied to the signal officer, shrugging off Caligula’s hand to begin a dead sprint in the spoken direction. His powered armor groaned against all of the genetic might that the genewarrior’s body could officer. He heard the rest of the God-Slayers follow after him, hooting and hollering with a warcry for Unity on their tongues. Rex couldn’t, wouldn’t, respond to their cries for battle. He wouldn’t let the Heroes of Sanctii die in the midst of this alabaster city. He wouldn’t let them die until they’d seen Unity together.

---

Militant Damir Pantelic shouldered up against the building nearest to him, raising the galvanic plascarbine against his shoulder and unleashing it into the rubble of a wrecked substation. Each shot of the rifle was a burst of plasmic death without an ounce of recoil, perfect for someone such as him. He cursed, however, as the shot sputtered out against the alloys of the station. A slap to his head jostled the half-helmet enough to recalibrate the auto-stabilizers within. Decade-old tech that had been given to militia at the outset of the siege was beginning to show its cobwebs.

Another of his platoon fell, roasted alive by a ball of plasma by one of the savages assaulting their city. He felt nothing for the man that had died. Like him, Militant Veliko Soloviev had been a minor criminal with a pardon of forgiveness granting him a second chance at life through conscription. The harsh crack of an electric rifle forced him to duck out of instinct. It saved his life, yet several of the nearby militia had been electrified to death behind him. Now prone and covered in snow, Damir pulled the plascarbine into a sharpshooter stance and breathed in the crisp air. Time slowed for him, awaiting the next moment that one of the savages popped up from their cover to kill them.

One of them, a younger looking savage with the electric rifle, edged out of cover to unleash another volley of handheld lightning into his platoon. Damir squeezed the trigger, allowing the auto-stabilizer to anticipate the recoil and trajectories through his helmet. A plasbullet pierced through the air, squarely hitting the trooper in the left shoulder and throwing them backwards into the ruins. Militant Pantelic cursed to himself in every single language that he could muster. He had aimed for the head. Why were they destined to die in the name of the Administrator?

That sole bullet was enough to earn a moment's respite from counterattack, allowing the rest of his platoon to viciously batter the ruins with a mixture of lavalas stubber and plascarbine volleys. Each militant inched forward in their half-plated powered armor, flak-trenchcoats jostling with every step. Damir pulled himself back up, turning away from the assault to reload his plascarbine. A small sense of accomplishment grew a smile on his cracked lips. Perhaps, when they managed to push out the invaders, the Administrator would elevate his status?

“Incoming!” One of the militants called out in a cry of sheer terror. Militant Damir turned towards the source of distress, expecting a grenade to have been flung towards their gathered position. In truth, what entered his vision was anything but what he expected. The man that had yelled - Yannick Solvavich, he thought his name was - had burst apart into several pieces of gore. Whatever remained of him was now painting the rest of their platoon in a shower of vitae, organs, and bones. Standing in his place was a being that could only be described as a giant born from the mythos of Urshic culture. Pitch-black armor, a mighty blade like a slab of obsidian, and a cloak of alabaster pelt held the remainder of Yannick in their gauntlet. What remained, however, was a quickly dissolving pile of gore and fragmented bone.

“What are you doing, keep fi-” Their Militant-Commander, Stanek Ristovic, began to yell to affix their attention. Seconds after he began speaking, his head disappeared in a shower of blood. Everything from his shoulders upward was gone. A smoking hole of exploded flesh left the commander standing. A brisk wind forced the corpse to falter, falling forward onto the snowy tiles of their city. Damir turned away from the black-armoured giant to the source of their commander’s destruction. Ten? Twenty? Thirty? He stopped counting after that. A throng of yellow-armored giants with weapons the size of men sprinted in their direction. One of their number held a gruesome boltthrower with a smoking barrel in their hands.

He was the first to react after that. Militant Damir could’ve fired back at the charging behemoths with all the valiant pride of a patriot. Instead, he dropped his plascarbine and began to run. His helmet was thrown away to boost his speed, every inch of his soul burning with the desire to survive. As he ran, Damir could hear the rest of his platoon being butchered alive by ruinous weapons and motorized creations alike. Tears and sweat drenched his face, terrified warmth drenched his fatigues, and his brain burned with the desire to live. Pantelic just had to survive, even for just a moment longer to reach the district cordon!

Then he found his world going sideways. A confused gasp whispered through his lips as the ground met his view. He couldn’t feel his legs, his arms, or anything at all. He tried to scream, cry, or emit any kind of noise that affirmed his survival. He didn’t want to die, he couldn’t! Damir tried to refocus his eyes around the scene, only to shortly realize that he hadn’t been staring at Sanctii’s beautiful tiles. A charnel house was what it could best be described as his fellow militiamen were brutalized in that killzone. Men were brutalized, maimed, and battered to beyond recognition in the ambush. One of the yellow-armored giants, a warrior with a malevolent axe and a brutally blocky sidearm, slowly walked over to him. His last moments were spent watching the warrior lift up his gigantic boot and pressing it against his skull. A sharp, crunchy crack was the last sound he heard.

---

“Cease fire!” Stavin roared as the Thunder Warriors stomped to their aide. “Cease fire!”

“Friendlies in the hot zone!” Whitaker added, “Stop shooting!”

“Medic!” A trooper called, pressing a bandage to Caleb Raum’s shoulder, the arc rifle trooper who had gotten them spotted. The last surviving medic, the sullen looking woman with the half shaved head, ran up and began properly dressing Caleb’s shoulder wound.

The trooper, the stub of a lho-stick still in his mouth, tried to look at the wound, but the medic kept pushing his view away.

“Colonel, can ye dump some morphia into him?” She growled, “He’s squirrely.”

Stavin nodded, and kneeled next to Caleb. He bent down, peering at Caleb’s discipline collar, and thumbed a blue rune. A slight hiss, and the wounded trooper relaxed.

“He gonna make it?” Stavin asked the woman.

She shrugged. “He’ll survive this. The plas-bullet went straight through, didn’t dump any energy into his body. Just a hole, boss. He’ll be able to walk in a few minutes once the drugs settle in.”

Whitaker laughed. Stavin looked relieved. He looked down at Caleb, and pulled on the younger man’s cheek, like an uncle.

“What’d we learn, Raum?” He asked.

“No smoking in a hot zone.” Caleb said, groggy.

“No more hangin’ around Whitaker, he’s teachin’ you bad habits.” Stavin said, looking to the wiry old sergeant, and winking. Whitaker belted out another laugh as he reloaded his radium carbine.

Stavin stood up, and beckoned to Severina. When she approached, he started walking.

“I think that’s Aeternus and his lot who bailed us out.” Stavin said, pointing at the plate of the nearby thunder warriors, “Their armor looks similar to his. I want to find him and turn us over to his command.”

Severina raised an eyebrow. “They’ll be in the thick of it, Colonel, are you sure?”

Stavin nodded. “Everyone’s in the thick of it. Think about it Sev - we have rapport with Aeternus. He won’t throw us away like some dick head Imperial Army colonel would. Hell, his men wouldn’t be alive if we didn’t blow the wall open.”

Stavin stopped walking after he’d finished his reasoning, looking bewildered.

“Did you just express concern for our well-being?” He asked, floored.

“Not at all, Colonel, merely expressing my wishes that the 31-3 survive long enough to fulfill our objectives.” Severina said smoothly.

“Right.” Stavin said, and looked for the largest, bloodiest Thunder Warrior to report to.

And Stavin managed to find him in a matter of seconds once the last of the militia had been pulverized into paste by the associating God-Slayers. He stood in midnight black with Apocrypha nestled against his right pauldron. The gorey mess in his left hand was flung aside, the residue of human filth dying the armor in a dark scarlet. Aeternus turned towards the Colonel as Caligula ambled up to his left side. A similar mess of vitae had painted the Imperial yellow of the Thunder Warrior in varying crimson hues. The barrel of the bolter in the First Cadre Captain’s hands was still smoking from the gnarly ambush. A twitch in his movement spoke volumes of the cocktails filtering throughout his body.

“You’ve survived, Colonel, and many more of the Penal Legion,” The Primarch stated without prompt, a strange tone in his voice conveying a level of neutrality. Thunder Warriors of the First Legion began to move around them with freshly relayed orders, none of which required speaking. Pairs of genewarriors took to the edge of alcoves, causeways, and junctions throughout their immediate area. The heavily armed Destroyers planted down nearby the rest of the Penal Legion with their armaments pointed to the skies. Aeternus lowered the great, obsidian blade with the tip pointed to the ground and relaxed his pose. “You have my utmost respect for accomplishing what was considered impossible. Know that, if we are to survive this siege, then I will herald your Legion as the Heroes of Sanctii. Your crimes forgiven and forgotten, if it is within my power.”

The statement was delivered with a swift change in his tone. One of genuine respect from one warrior to another. Captain Caligula notably turned his head towards Aeternus in muted surprise. Echoing the astonishment, some of the closer God-Slayers half-turned their helmets while maintaining some level of attention towards would-be attackers. To further their astonishment, the Primarch gave a slow and deep salute to the vastly smaller man with his fist pressed against the Raptor on his chestplate.

Stavin stood, astonished at the reception. He’d expected something more utilitarian, a ‘fall in’ and an immediate return to the business of erasing one of the strongest bastions of resistance to Unification, but it appears he had underestimated the humanity of Aeternus. An easy mistake to make. Just months ago, monsters like him had torn apart Stavin’s mercenary company, leaving only him and the few men psychopathic enough to crawl out of hell alive. Now…

Well. War had always made strange bedfellows. He looked to Severina, who just nodded at him, like he would know what to do. Stavin supposed that, if he were a proper officer, he would.

He snapped to attention, returning Aeternus’s salute the Army way, fingers pointing at the eye, hand turned slightly inwards. It was the smartest salute he’d ever given, and would ever give. History would prove surprisingly kind to Stavin; he would give many more salutes, in many more dignified settings, but none would ever match the solemnity of that gesture given in good faith to the transhuman soldier of the God-Slayers.

The moment passed, and Stavin’s hand dropped. Still, there was business to conduct.

“Primarch, it’s… I never thought I’d say it, but it’s good to see you.” Stavin said, surprised at himself. “There’s fifty of us, and if you’ll have us, we’ll help you push through the city. We can keep up pretty well, especially if we spike Frenzon, so don’t worry about us slowing you down.”

He swallowed. “We- I’ll be honest, Primarch. You know us. You know what we can do. If we report back to Army command, they’ll put us in another meat grinder. You guys are going into the worst of it, we know, but we can help, I think. We got arc guns, they can kill whatever Winter throws at you, and we’ve killed her best. She’s got power armor guys, like you. They’re lethal, and they’re packing tech as good as yours. We’ve killed them, and we can help you kill them.”

Captain Caligula gave a short bark of laughter typical for his demeanor. It stretched on for only a moment before he bubbled down to a low chuckle. He stepped forward and clapped Colonel Stavin on the shoulder with minimal force.

“Rex, I’ve only met this man three times but I like his gall! Can you imagine a normal, unaugmented person performing the impossible and then requesting to do even more after that!?” The First Captain cackled aloud once more with a tone that boomed with righteous joy. Caligula’s voice was optimistic, older, and as lively as one could be for a brutal, bloodthirsty genewarrior of the Imperium. Despite the fact he wore a helmet akin to Aeternus, there was no doubt that a wide smile had grown on the elder warrior’s lips. He released Stavin as Aeternus dropped his own salute, returning Apocrypha to it’s natural rest against the Primarch’s left pauldron.

“I can. I would imagine they were either the proudest fools I’d ever met, or the bravest warriors to grace the Emperor’s Unification. Luckily, Colonel Stavin fits into the latter.” Aeternus responded in a playful tone, turning his attention away from Stavin to the rest of the Penal Legion. He had noticed Severina standing behind the Colonel some distance back, encouraging the man to perform as a proper officer of the Excertus Imperialis. Behind her was a throng of the surviving fifty, a ragtag group of soldiers with weapons that defied their stature. After a quick scan of the Thirty-One-Third, his eyes lowered to their commander once more.

“I wouldn’t dare to dishonor you by rejecting your offer to join us.” The Primarch spoke with overwhelming confidence, gesturing to one of his God-Slayers without turning his attention away from Stavin. A Thunder Warrior with a hefty voxpack walked up to the side of Aeternus, kneeling down to deploy a girthy auspex before the two commanders. A wide display of the siege unfolded to reveal their current position, the placements of their enemy, and the rest of the Imperial forces. A circling ping gave brief, seconds-long updates of the evolving siege as they observed the auspex. One of the primarch’s black-armored fingers pointed closest to the central spire. “It goes without saying that our name - the God-Slayers - indicates our objective. We aim to decapitate and maim the enemy.”

---

---

“This was explained well before the siege began, but after your Legion had started their prepwork for the infiltration. Their military headquarters is the single bastion that prevents access into the Spire proper for the wider Imperial forces. Lady Amalasuntha and her Stygian Talons, however, will be bypassing this objective in pursuit of Deep Winter.” Primarch Aeternus momentarily paused to allow the information to sink in with Colonel Stavin. His eyes switched between the Colonel’s expressions and the genewarrior-mounted auspex. He noticed the distinct lack of Astartes on the map, aware that their presence was obscured for a specific reason. “Our targets are nothing short of butchering their entire chain of command. If Prime Minister Yurij Arturovych Yarov is present in the bastion, then he, too, will die to our hands. Our priority target is Supreme General Aleks Sergeev. Of all our established targets, the Supreme General must die.”

A handful of the Thunder Warriors at the junction furthest from their position began to shuffle, moving forward with their hefty weapons raised for hipfire. Seconds later, the barking echo of bolter fire lit up the alcove and the mulching squelch of splattered vitae muted the sound of pained screams. Primarch Aeternus continued to speak regardless. “The Eighty-Eighth Excertus Imperialis - the Cryxian Blades - will support our advance towards the Spire. You’ll have a chance to resupply there before our assault. Any questions?” With the explanation of the assault finished, Aeternus rested his gaze on Colonel Stavin.

Stavin said little, his expression open and vacant as Aeternus spread the map and explained the situation to him. As the giant warrior finished, Stavin blinked a few times, as if coming from a trance. Just as the thunder warriors may’ve thought the Colonel may’ve been struck dumb by combat trauma, Stavin spoke.

“I know we’re not in the business of taking prisoners, Primarch.” Stavin said, “But the 31-3’s had its fighting strength well obliterated. We’ve got plenty of men left, but they’re mostly fit for manual labor and other menial tasks. The four thousand plus men we lost… well, they were the real soldiers.”

Stavin looked out over the ruins, watching the direction where the chest-thumping reports of the God-Slayer’s bolt casters punched the air.

“Any prisoners we take - I want them for the Damned.” Stavin looked back. “I’ve made lots of requests from you, but after this, I wanna make sure I still have something to lead. And Sanctii…”

He took a deep breath. “These people don’t deserve this butchery. They’re paying for a bill Deep Winter racked up. Putting them with me is a different hell, but… just because the - our - emperor has consigned them to the dustbin of history, that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve a chance, however slim, to prove themselves.”

“If I speak offense, I’m sorry. But you, Primarch, you’re more human than most people I know. You must understand where I’m coming from.” Stavin smiled. “If you can’t make that happen for me, forget I said anything. We’ll be with you every step of the way.”

Caligula shared a look with the Primarch. An unspoken word was passed between the two of them. Had Stavin known the two for longer, then perhaps he could’ve deciphered the silent language of the God-Slayers. After several seconds passed, Aeternus began to speak. “If it is within my powers, then I will promise you the surrendered Sanctiians as part of your contributions; however, make no mistake, those Sanctiians that do not surrender will die to our assault. This enemy is strong. We cannot afford to hesitate, even for a second. Is this comparable, Colonel Stavin?” The question was genuinely spoken, though Aeternus wondered if the man would take it as such. In the seconds that passed, he’d attempted to think of a perfect way to grant their wish without hindrance to no avail. Even the God-Slayers would need to replenish after the siege.

“I understand. It's a strange request to make of you, Primarch, for I have survived the work your men do.” Stavin said, “It is not wise to ask a thunder warrior for mercy. But nevertheless, I thank you for your honesty. We won't hesitate either.”

As the two began to wrap up their discussion, one of the God-Slayers that had disappeared into the junction reappeared covered in sticky chunks of vitae. Each step by the genewarrior was taken leisurely without an ounce of urgency. As they closed the distance with Aeternus, Caligula split away to accept what he could only interpret as a report from the squad lead. A brief moment passes as the two speak out of earshot. Shortly after, the God-Slayer leaves back down the junction and the First Cadre Captain returns to the Primarch’s side.

“The Eighty-Eighth is preparing a breakthrough at the next wall, Rex. Squad Salathiel murdered the last wandering militants in the local area. Should give some breathing room for Fortunate Fifty while we’re making our approach.” Caligula quickly reported, chuckling at the given nickname for the Thirty-One-Third. The auspex supplied by the kneeling genewarrior pinged once more in accurate presentation of what had been reported. A large mass of the Imperial Army had been massing at the rim of the Spire’s outer walls. The next phase of the siege was preparing to begin.

“Then let us waste no more time. Unity awaits us all.” Primarch Aeternus quickly stated, gesturing for the genewarrior with the heavy auspex to stand. Captain Caligula placed his helmet against his skull, swiftly removing it from the protruding spike. The God-Slayers at the edge of the plaza left ahead of the Primarch, while the rest gathered in a protective clump around the Thirty-One-Third. Rex, in particular, waded out in front of Colonel Stavin with the First Cadre Captain at his side. The sounds of reinvigorated fighting welcomed their short journey to the spire walls.

---

Credit: Aeternus/God-Slayers @MarshalSolgriev, Colonel Stavin/Thirty-One-Third Penal Legion @BornOnBoard

---

A spearhead of golden jetbikes veered overhead into the center of Sanctii, flying past the burgeoning forces of the Imperial Army besieging the spire. The dropship of the Stygian Talons berated the pillar of Sanctiian society with all manners of devastating munitions, vigorously dodging away from wall-mounted defenses and far-flung missiles from armament racks. Their success in bypassing the ancient defenses of Deep Winter fiercely encouraged the attacking forces, leading to several breakthroughs in different portions of the city. No one knew of the slaughter on both sides within the depths of the Administrator, nor would they until the end of the siege. Regardless, the Eighty-Eighth Cryxian Blades fought valiantly to maintain a steady position against the secondary walls.

Alcoves, junctions, and corridors leading up to the assaulting position of the Eighty-Eighth were cordoned off by heavy weapon emplacements. The three, enormous buildings just shy of the spire walls were half-demolished in the wake of the reinvigorated assault. Great Malcador battle tanks positioned themselves in these ruins, aided by the hulking shadows of Colossus siege tanks and smaller Dracosan armored transports. Rubble, accumulated from the mass shelling from outside of Sanctii, formed several rows of defensive lines that infantry sheltered behind. The harsh crack of lasfire echoed a hundredfold every passing second, reinforced only by the blossoming bang of bombardment cannons. The deep thumping of heavy autocannons from ruins-turned-foxholes pocketed the Sanctiian wall, while the electrifying charge of plasma cannons unleashed azure death on wall-bound sentinels. The activities of the Excertus Imperialis were many, ranging from hundreds of support personnel on skittering buggies to groups of signal officers calling in precise artillery strikes. The chaos of it all was everconsuming and Sanctii burned for every second it was besieged.

Primarch Aeternus ventured through the closest checkpoint with the God-Slayers and Thirty-One-Third in tow. Their presence easily bypassed the heavy emplacements, recognizing the genetic might and scale of the Thunder Warriors. The familiar sound of an arcing plasma ball caught his attention, noting the following aftermath of an azure plume from the Sanctiian wall. Despite the ferocity of the nearby combat, the immediate area was the closest one could find to an operations forward outpost so close to the enemy stronghold. Great auspex cogitators, vox relays, and hefty crates of ammunition combined with medical kits were spread across a wide area around a group of fifty-odd individuals. Amid their number, five stood out as God-Slayers with long-ranged weapons and large combat knives. As the Primarch closed the distance, he realized that the group surrounded a hololithic table supplied by four aides.

“... The third and fourth segment are showing continued resistance to bombardment cannons and artillery shells. Lascannons are proving efficient yet futile against the corner-bastions. The Sigilite’s aides believe that smaller, positional barriers are being rapidly deployed in an effort to slow the assault. As previously stated, the spire’s main gate is impervious to the Tyrannis super-heavy tanks. The next actions we can take are all equally suicidal, but we’ve got a solid chance at- Primarch Aeternus!” One of the officers, a young man with an augmented eye and baremetal cranial augmentation, had been speaking before noticing Aeternus’ arrival. His announcement drew the attention of the group away from the display towards the arriving group with a mixture of emotions. The Thunder Warriors in the crowd, notably Captain Tiberius and the Seekers, pressed their fists against the Raptor on their chest in salute.

“Be at ease. There is no need for formalities. Simplify and repeat your report.” Aeternus loudly stated as the officers of the Eighty-Eighth attempted to bow, salute, and profess in their own way. Captain Tiberius momentarily drew his attention, aware that the Third Cadre Captain had been dealing with separate matters during the assault. Out of the gaggle of weary and ragged officers, a particularly large man with an ornate trenchcoat and smaller variant of powered armor emerged. His bald head was briefly covered by a unique style of helmet similar to a barbut with a metallic plume. Dark skin kissed the bitter, frozen air of Ursh, while a pair of earthen-brown eyes stared daggers into the God-Slayer. A one-handed power hammer swung from his left hip, while a dangerously sparking plasma pistol hung from his right. An undaunted, stalwart aura radiated from the man like a refractor field of righteousness.

“Primarch Aeternus. I expected you would’ve joined us sooner.” The man, General Astaroth, stated with a voice as deep as the now-nonexistent oceans. Without inquiring on the reason for the Primarch’s tardiness, the mortal commander knew exactly why the God-Slayer had ran late of the scheduled assault. The piercing eyes of the Cryxian general bore into the members of the Damned. His lip nearly parted in a disgusted near before he righted himself. “Ah. Colonel Stavin. I see that you still live.”

Stavin looked up from his auspex, a device he had been positively glued to since he, his men, and the God-slayers had arrived. An idea had formed in his head, and he'd been messing with the settings on his personal ‘spex since, a fixation that had utterly failed to prepare him for a face to face meeting with one of the most important Army officers of the Crusade. Severina elbowed him, and Stavin saluted.

“General Astaroth.” Stavin said, “Yes sir, I still live, despite their efforts.”

The two officers were a study in contrasts. Astaroth was straight backed, noble, and imposing in his powered plate; Stavin was grubby, covered in soot and blood and grime, his only protection a flak armor vest that was worn at its diamond patterned edges. No doubt, it was not an impressive countenance. Stavin briefly wondered if the General wished for a debrief, or some other military formality, or if his reappearance was so offensive that it was enough to halt the meeting in progress.

“Primarch Aeternus found us after we managed to reach the surface.” Stavin continued, “We've got valuable intel concerning the nature of the intelligence at the heart of the city, so the good Primarch has requested-”

A white lie, as it was the opposite, but Stavin continued.

“-we accompany him on his mission. We're decapitating Sanctii's brass, isn't that right sir?”

“Colonel Stavin speaks the truth. The time has come to enact the final part of the siege. No doubt Captain Tiberius has mentioned our priority targets. What he hasn’t relayed is that the Penal Legion will be directly under my command until the mission’s success. The Heroes of Sanctii deserve that much.” Primarch Aeternus responded with a clear tone, adding emphasis to the validity of Stavin’s comment. For a second, it appeared as if General Astaroth had been shaken by the prodigious assignment. The stoic attitude returned as quickly as it had disappeared, Astaroth responding with a simple nod to the comment. His eyes dared to linger on Stavin, a mixture of disdain and envy momentarily crossing his facial features.

“So shall it be, Primarch. No doubt you understand the gravity of your new assignment, Colonel Stavin, you will likely come back with even less men than expected.” His voice was loud enough for the Penal Legion to hear, barely a decibel higher than the nonstop crack of lasguns and mortars. Without another word, General Astaroth turned away from the entourage to evaluate the entirety of the siege. An armored hand waved to the officer that had been previously speaking, who glanced between the Primarch and the General with no shortage of anxiety. One of his nervous hands reacquired the dataslate, scrolling through the contents to find the last point discussed. The two groups began to fuse together with Aeternus, Astaroth, and Stavin at the forefront of the officers.

“... As I was previously stating. We’re locked in a stalemate at the spire walls currently with the Sanctiian militants on the defensive. We’ve managed to whittle down their numbers, but their equipment is pulling through over our current arsenal. Several breaks have found purchase in the walls, yet each breach was quickly patched after their first defeat at the entrance of the hive. We will eventually encircle the spire with the entirety of our Master’s forces, but current data estimates that it’ll take skyward of several weeks before a breach appears.” He casted a nervous glance to General Astaroth, who simply shook his head in rejection of prolonged siege warfare. The officer mustered his courage by clearing his throat, adjusting his collar, and blinking a few times over. “As it was previously stated in the original planning, the Stygian Talon has engaged with the spire proper. We do not have the luxury of a lengthy siege. That has limited our next approach to a few suicidal attempts. Firstly, a mass infantry assault on the wall with mines, grenades, and climbing gear. Secondly, a mass armoured spearhead through the walls, sacrificing all of our vehicles for a single breach. Lastly, a full withdraw and delivering inaccurate, nuclear payloads on the seven bastions surrounding the spire.”

The loftier officers began to murmur amongst themselves, whispering about different tactics that could potentially offer a breach without mass casualties. The God-Slayers crossed their arms, turning their attention to the Primarch as the one true commander of the siege. Astaroth pensively held a hand to his cleanly shaven chin. The officer that had been speaking nestled the dataslate into his chest, awaiting the final word on any of the suggested operations. His demeanor clearly painted an image of a man who didn’t want to sacrifice all the people he called comrades. A pair of young, blue eyes nervously rested on Aeternus and Stavin; however, it was Captain Tiberius that broke the silence.

“The citadel itself has shown signs of exit and entry since the beginning of the siege. Although I haven’t managed to catch their Interior Security in the act, I believe there is a point-of-entry hidden from plain view. It’s possible we could rile them with alternative tactics to draw their ire, but it may embolden their defenses.” The somber voice of the Third Cadre Captain announced, pressing a rune on the hololithic table to focus on the spire-side citadel. A vague imprint of the towering structure materialized before their eyes, pointing out several points of deduced entry. At the mention of alternative tactics, Aeternus furrowed his brow in stern disappointment. A smoldering fury quietly built up around the Primarch of the God-Slayers as his fellow genewarrior spoke. Noticing the distasteful look from Rex and the inquisitive stares from the officers, Tiberius pressed on. The hints of a small, dry smile could be heard in his tone. “As my Primarch would rather me state plainly for alternative tactics, I meant that we could openly butcher their people for them to watch.”

A plethora of emotions spiraled through the group of Excertus Imperialis officers. Some covered their mouths in distaste, while others pensively nodded their heads in grim acceptance. General Astaroth, in particular, seemed inclined towards the idea with a respective nod towards the Third Cadre Captain. Aeternus flexed his hands in silent inferno of rage. He was aware that the suggestion was valid, yet Rex knew that it was offered up as a challenge to the Primarch. Caligula shook his head in disdain at the mention of such primitive methods. Curiously, perhaps sadistically, Captain Tiberius turned to Colonel Stavin.

“You are living proof of a nigh-insane operation. What would the Commander of the Damned suggest, I wonder?” The question was spoken exactly as it was intended. For one reason or another, the Colonel had been targeted. Perhaps it was a sick game for the God-Slayer’s black sheep, or was it a genuine request for the survivors to speak their mind. Intentionally or not, the officers turned to the Thirty-One-Third.

Stavin was continuing to mess with his auspex, initially unaware of the attention on him, until, again, Severina elbowed him. He held a hand back to her, as if signaling her to hold on, and she hissed at him, something very foul and very violent. Stavin didn’t react though, as whatever he had been fiddling with seemed to fall into place. He looked around at the surrounding officers, his triumphant expression turning briefly to confusion, then to a suitably serious military bearing.

“So, the key to understanding Sanctii, gentlemen…” Stavin began, wondering how he could put his inspiration into words, “...is understanding what lies at the heart of it. The lord of Sanctii is no man, or even group of men. It is an artificial intelligence, a thinking engine - that propagates itself wirelessly over the entire city, above it, and below it.”

He held his auspex up, the detection screen facing the assembly. He had it in map mode, and overlaid on it were masses of conglomerated auspex contacts.

“When I was under the city, at the flue station that caused our first breach, we discovered this feature of Deep Winter.” He cleared his throat. “Almost everything in this city is wirelessly connected to the central Winter core, and thanks to a comms operator - Trooper Grebbin, now deceased - we isolated the base frequency this control is exerted with. We used it to jury-rig a localized signal jammer, but with that freq, I’ve recently been able to devise a few new functions.”

“One of which is that we can track their troop movements.” Stavin said, his turn to look smug. “The Sanctii defense forces enjoy unrivaled coordination, but we can use that against them. Most soldiers carry some form of implant that allows Winter to monitor them. It’s that same implant data I am tracking now, in real time, on my ‘spex. It’s also what I theorize gives them access to various parts of the city. What I am proposing, gentlemen and ladies…”

Stavin walked over to Aeternus, smiling up at the demigod. “Me and the Primarch’s kill-mission can now serve a dual purpose. We’re targeting Sanctii’s top brass. One of those guys has to have clearance into the city’s inner sanctum. We get the right guy, it’s as simple as using his access to march our army in. No tanks, no artillery…”

Stavin grinned back at them. “...and certainly no atomics. We will impale the enemy upon their own technological hubris.”

The Primarch raised a surprised eyebrow beneath his knightly helmet as a grin began to grow on his scarred lips. Once again, Colonel Stavin had managed to take him by surprise. He had wondered why the mortal commander was so affixed to the auspex since they reunited with the wider Imperial forces. It all made sense. Aeternus looked down to the Hero of Sanctii and gave him a respectful nod. Using the momentum gained from Stavin’s revelation, Rex pressed forward to steal the proverbial podium.

“Colonel Stavin has devised the penultimate plan to deal with the Sanctiians. From this moment forward, we will be enacting this as part of our siege. The Administrator will be taken by surprise between Tiberius’ watch and Stavin’s revelation. Every ounce of firepower will be needed to divert Deep Winter’s attention away from the citadel’s hidden corridors. For that, I entrust General Astaroth with venting the Emperor’s fury upon the spire-walls.” If Astaroth’s voice was the boom of thunder, then Aeternus’ was the crack of lightning in this moment. Every word was a command, an order, and a statement with the authority of their Himalazian Master. He watched officers straighten reflexively and their eyes brighten with a mixture of peaked emotions in response to his words. The General of the Eighty-Eighth gave a firm, unpleasant nod before moving away from the hololithic table with new orders. Tiberius turned his attention away from Stavin to Aeternus and began to speak.

“A solid plan. I will maintain vigilance over the citadel until the moment we are ready to begin; however, how will we obtain authentication against Deep Winter?” Captain Tiberius inquired as his Seekers began to walk away to enact freshly relayed orders. A second of silence responded to the Third Cadre Captain as Aeternus seemed to glow with an unusually enthusiastic aura. He was certain that the Primarch had grown a toothy grin beneath the black helmet.

“There is only one group I can entrust such a duty to.” Aeternus stated with a warm voice, gesturing to a nearby menial and pressing a rune on the hololithic table at the same time. One of the menials, a youthful man in snow-covered fatigues, dropped to his knee as the Primarch beckoned for him. The icon of Malcador’s Sigilites blinked into life above the table. Rex turned towards Colonel Stavin as the symbol flickered in holographic form. “The stalwart stewards of the Sigilite will grant us the authority over Sanctii. Bring your auspex here, Stavin, and become the harbinger of Sanctii’s demise.”

The menial that had been called forth from Aeternus began to work at a rapid pace, connecting together a mess of vox relays with chugging cogitators that threatened to burst into electrical fires. Thick, black cables connected to the hololithic table from the ramshackle vox-network crudely assembled in short time. The electronics momentarily shuddered as different networks communicated between each other before stabilizing out. He stepped forward, offering a set of cables for Colonel Stavin as the icon of the Sigilite’s twinkled before them.

“Varlet, you continue to impress.”

The voice of the Scribe-Intendant filled the briefing area before her face replaced the sigil of her, and Malcador’s, order in the hololith. She stared directly at Stavin, the sound of her stylus tapping against parchment transmitting clearly. “If the God-Slayers have found a use for you, I shall not deny them. This shall be noted,” she said, before scrawling something unseen.

Deep behind the lines, in the security of the semi-permanent Imperial command center, the words she wrote had almost nothing to say about Stavin. Instead they were an altogether more important data point, a tally in the whispered debate about what was to be done with the Thunder Warriors.

There was only a brief delay as the Scribe-Intendant was brought up to speed, the woman pursing her lips in silence as her eyes bored holes into the Colonel’s skull. “You are a clever man,” she said, voice entirely flat. “Proceed. Initiate data transfer, the data-smiths will prepare you as best they may. Take caution, Aeternus. This shall not last forever, do not forget your foe is canny.”

Stavin offered the auspex to the menial, who plugged it into the field expedient cogitator network. The amount of data that was being transferred must’ve been immense, as Stavin could hear the clunking and whirring of hard disks and gears and relays as the code was written to the auspex. Stavin wondered if his battered, Urshic copy of a Merican pattern ‘spex could even handle such a onload, but the little device survived.

On its small screen, the city emblem of Sanctii blazed in digital green glow.

“I admit, I thought we were gonna have to snatch an officer and figure out a way to copy it, but…” Stavin smiled up from his auspex. “I guess we got friends in high places.”

“I’ll double check and make sure my men are loaded up properly.” Stavin continued, “But I don’t see much reason to not get started immediately. We got a city to crack.”

---

A lull in the assault of the spire-walls momentarily silenced the battlefield. A nauseating quiet blanketed the areas around the last defenses of Sanctii as the Imperials pulled themselves back from advanced firing positions. Fat-bellied battle tanks wheeled away from the alabaster inner walls with their cannons facing forward. Colossus siege tanks inched backwards, retreating to the main walls with their shells muzzled. The bark and call of officers calling for a retreat saw a mass of infantry move from their foxholes into the ruins of nearby buildings. Towering, yellow-armored genewarriors vanished from the battlelines as if their presence had never been. Warmachines on metallic wings pulled away from the spire area, arcing over other areas of Sanctii that continued to fight. Whispering voices filled the repressed tones of the stifling war as the spire-wall was freed from Imperial control.

The Sanctiians allowed themselves a breath as more reinforcements began to slowly fill the gaps that dead or dying warriors left. Pocket marks on the alabaster walls revealed the wrecked remains of their advanced turrets and crushed drones. Devoid of portable turrets, the genewarriors of Deep Winter readied themselves on the spire-wall with plasma carbines, adrastite stubbers, and supernova lascannons. They knew the Imperials would return with another assault of the wall, either with fresh reinforcements or some new hell-machine to assist them. Morale was beginning to tank as every inch of Sanctii was scoured by the abominable plague of unwashed barbarians. The Administrator, however, pushed them forward in the name of preservation. They knew, without a doubt, that the future of mankind was riding on their shoulders in this battle. Valor filled each of their chests with every steady breath as they awaited the next fight.

Luckily, they wouldn’t have to wait for long. A vox blare boomed from every corner of the Imperial-controlled zones of Sanctii. Those awful noises were the heralds of war. Chaos exploded all across the spire-walls as the vox died down to a low decibel. Artillery shells, flung from Colossus siege tanks, rocked the alabaster walls protecting the Administrator. Explosive plumes harmlessly wrapped around the ethereal void shields portably placed in specific sections of the wall. Anti-armor rounds, fired forth from the maw of battle tanks, erupted against the alabaster bulwark with the ferocity of an untamed carnosaur. Lasfire barked to life as a vicious horde of mongrels across the entirety of the southern wall. Beams of brilliant red filled the air with ozone-depleting lasers in vast volleys. The rhythmic thump of a heavy autocannon resounded in the shelter of multi-storied ruins. Globs of sizzling blue plasma flew through the air, splattering against the prismatic aegis. Reality-defying rays of black-crimson snapped in lethal bursts from the few and rare disintegration weapons. None managed to pierce the sturdy barriers of the Administrator’s dominating technology.

Untapped adrenaline coursed through the veins of the defenders as the Imperials unveiled their counterattack. Sentinels fought in eerie silence as hostiles revealed themselves across their helmet displays. When a target was identified, tracked, and guided by the grace of the Administrator, the defenders unleashed a torrent from hell upon the attackers. Adrastite stubbers vomited rays of blinding white-black that cut men straight from existence. Plasma carbines vented death in waves of automatic fire, spewing a near-stream of plasmic flame against the fleshtide. Supernova lascannons unleashed all four of their maws in a brilliant dance of blue-white lasers that pierced the hardiest of Imperial hulls. Erasure grenades were tossed from the top of the walls, erupting into spheres of non-existence that claimed a myriad of souls in seconds. Supporting drones ferried batteries, automatic dispensers, and fusion cores to the warriors that needed it most. Their position was supreme, superior, and defiant against the forces of the Emperor. Yet, even mongrels had the chance to bite back.

The sky around Sanctii momentarily lit up with an eye-wateringly orange light. A beam of volcanic death pierced the upper portions of the outer-walls, melting man and metal alike in its deathly trail. Imperials rushed away in a tide of urgency as the molten ray splashed against the spire-walls in a continuous stream of malevolence. Genewarriors in alabaster plate instinctively shielded themselves from the blinding ray and nature-defying harm. The trail of ferocious gold began to die down after fifteen seconds of active punishment. As the light disappeared, the natural sky of northern Ursh peaked through the gathering clouds once more. In the distance, a lumbering tank twice the size of a Sanctiian structure smoldered in fuming agony. To the surprise of the Sentinels, their wall remained steady and stalwart against the best the Imperials could offer. One of their number, a younger warrior, cried out in triumph as they unleashed their stubber into the fleeing Imperials. Invigorated by the failed attempt, the Sanctiians cheered along with their younger soldier and followed after their example. Death returned to the fields of battle as the assault began anew once more.

Primarch Aeternus watched from far beneath the alabaster spire-bulwark as the sentinels began to murder the Eighty-Eighth again. Plasmic bullets, adrathic rays, and scorching lasfire erupted overhead as the fight continued. He turned to his left, observing the crouched forms of the Thirty-One-Third with Colonel Stavin at their head. To his right, Captain Caligula attempted to lower his hulking form with the burgeoning forms of his Destroyers. Ahead of them, Captain Tiberius pressed against the lower section of the citadel proper with his Seekers watching behind him. None remained behind him besides a trail of dead warriors from the Excertus Imperialis. Valiant souls that had made this stretch of their infiltration possible through acts of heroism.

Suddenly, Captain Tiberius gestured for the rest of their retinue to continue forward to his position. One of his yellow-armored gauntlets was pressed harshly against the pristine surface of the spire-wall’s citadel. The Seekers around him dropped to their knees, lifting their scoped bolters in preparation for an ambush. Aeternus notably turned his black helmet to Colonel Stavin and nodded with imperious purpose. Noticing the actions of their Primarch, Captain Caligula turned around and readied his weapon with the rest of the God-Slayers. From their actions alone, the Thunder Warrriors made it apparent that they would bring up the rear.

“Is this smart, sir?” Whitaker said, as Stavin took his auspex, now the most precious weapon this entire retinue possessed, out of his musette bag.

“Is what smart, sergeant?” Stavin said, “Or should I say, Lieutenant?”

“Hmmph.” The promotion didn’t seem to faze Whitaker. “Make me the bloody warmaster, don’t matter to me. I’m talkin’ about goin’ in first, ahead of the God-Slayers. Is that smart?”

Stavin extended the antenna on his ‘spex, checking his wireless connectivity. “Modern war is about firepower, Whitaker. Who can put out more hurt, more quickly. How tall is Aeternus, you reckon?”

Whitaker shrugged. “Eight, nine feet? Hard to tell. Ten?”

“But big, right?” Stavin asked, “He’s not small?”

“No. I don’t see what this has to do with nothin’. Their battle-plate can take a hell of a lot more punishment than us.” Whitaker said, refusing to budge.

“Armor’s not gonna matter with what the inner circle can throw at us, and you know it.” Stavin said, “My point is, Aeternus’s crew can shoot over us. We can’t. If we’re gonna get anywhere in Sanctii’s inner ring, we’re gonna need as many guns shooting as we can.”

Whitaker thought about that, then nodded. “Right. Makes sense.”

“Trooper Raum alright?” Stavin asked.

Whitaker nodded. “He’s been shipped back to a field hospital. Apparently we rate that now.”

“Must be the same friends who gave us this cipher.” Stavin mused. “His arc rifle?”

“Gave it to Maulins in second section.” Whitaker said, “The dyke-y lookin’ one, right?”

“Yea, I know her.” Stavin said, “She’s a good shot.”

“Not like you need to be with that tech.” Whitaker said, “But yea.”

Stavin looked at the screen of his ‘spex. “We’ve got connection. We’re looking for an access duct…”

Nearby, on a nondescript section of wall, a gust of air kicked out from an invisible seam. It blew up brick dust from the rubble in the street. Two sections, machined so perfectly that their separate panels were only apparent when they were separating, parted. It was a surprisingly wide tunnel, clearly meant for trucks, or other similarly sized transports to bring supplies and materials to the inner ring.

Stavin threw hand signals to Aeternus, on his right.

‘We’ll advance inside, bring your men in behind us.’ Stavin signaled to the God-Slayers, then signaled to his own men. Forty nine souls got up, creeping from cover to cover, the first imperial troops to breach the inner sanctum of the enemy.

Captain Tiberius observed the precise movements of the Thirty-One-Third as they spread out into the citadel’s undergrowth. He followed shortly after with the scoped bolter raised and ready. The Seekers of the God-Slayers echoed the same motions as their commander. Their augmented eyes adjusted to the darkness of the long corridor as swiftly as their helmets. Where the Penal Legion were quick to find cover, weaving into the tunnel with careful strides, each genewarrior unceremoniously stalked forward with their power armor loudly roaring. The God-Slayers suddenly halted several meters into the underpass, wordlessly awaiting the Primarch and the rest of their brethren.

Primarch Aeternus saw Tiberius’ and Stavin’s group disappear into the darkness of the citadel. Carefully, he began to inch towards the safety of the tunnel as death-dealing weaponry scorched the area above his helmet. One quick look at the parapets confirmed their attention was fully settled on the Eighty-Eighth. Confidant in the execution of their plan, Rex closed the distance into the underpass with Captain Caligula following shortly behind. As Aeternus entered, he reached back to pull Apocrypha free of its magnetic shielding and lowered it into a defensive stance. The crimson lenses of his knightly helmet illuminated the darkness, outlining the sheer amount of nothing inside. The God-Slayer behind him readied their weapons, some turning around to face the portal out into the Urshic snow in preparation. None dared to speak when the final acts of the siege rested on their pauldrons.

The portal doors, as quietly as they had opened, closed seamlessly as the God Slayers in the rear kept their weapons trained on the fading light of the hellscape on the other side.

---

Deep within her cocoon of coolant and nano-machines, Deep Winter watched the defense of her city, and her dream unravel before her. The Imperials, damned as they were, threw themselves heedlessly at her forces. Her defenses kept them at bay, reaping heavy tolls on all that attempted to breach her inner wall. Sentry turrets and magma cannons swept the killing grounds where they still stood defiant, and her mortal companions slaughtered where her mechanical defenses had long since been silenced.

She could tally the dead with every passing moment. The unfeeling mathematics of her programming telling her that there was still a chance to save her dream. To save this dying world. To save her doomed people. To save herself.

An alert notified her that a tertiary access point had been accessed at 02:26:37 by the Assistant Deputy Director for Internal Security, Bohdan Pavlo. She silenced the command, her subroutines continuing to scour her data streams and issue commands as she gave the bulk of herself to the ever changing defense of her city.

A new subalert interrupted her strategizing, Assistant Deputy Director for Internal Security Bohdan Pavlo had just entered the Central Strategium at 02:27:12. A subroutine flagged the event and Deep Winter scrutinized the entrance log. One minute and fifteen seconds had passed between his entries. He had traveled a combined total of 1627 meters when accounting for a vertical gain of 427 meters. The trip was mathematically impossible in that time frame. Winter knew without a doubt that she had been breached. The Imperials were inside, and they’d faked a transponder code to do it. She flagged the Assistant Deputy Director’s transponder code, locking it from all access, and gave the Imperials her answer for their deceit.

---

As the Imperials inched forward down the access tunnel, a strange hum began to fill their ears. A number of the Damned stopped in their tracks, their heads turning cautiously to follow the sound before their eyes fell on the pristine surface of the tunnel walls.

A genewarrior in the rear, among the closest to the closed entrance, figured it out before the mortals.

He sounded the alarm with a bellow that carried his genewrought voice down to the most forward of the 31-3 with ease, “RUN,” it was the last thing the Thunder Warrior ever said.

Deep Winter watched from the hundreds of hidden viewpoints in the tunnel as the capacitors hidden behind the walls reached full charge with audible clicks.

All along the column of Imperials, tiny pinpoint pricks of molten stone became apparent running the length of the tunnel walls. Grids of miniaturized las flashing from their hidden mechanisms and punching clean through plascrete, power armor, flak jacket, and flesh alike.

A dozen Thunder Warriors fell as Deep Winter focused the majority of the power she had allotted on the gene warriors of the Emperor. Their deaths were silent and unceremonious as they simply toppled where they stood, punched clean through in hundreds of places along their bodies by the laser traps. Weapons clattered to the floor, followed by the thuds of thousand pound warriors and the thunder of power armored footsteps as the God Slayers reacted.

The toll reaped was far less heavy on the 31-3, only those few unlucky of the Damned close enough to the Thunder Warriors suffering any losses. The rest of the mortals forward of the column were left unharassed by the malevolent gaze of the AI, the cold mathematics of killing deeming them unworthy of the energy expenditure. The humming began anew.

“Tiberius!” Aeternus called out with a lion’s roar of urgency. Every second counted as the next wave of miniaturized las would be upon them. He activated a rune on Apocrypha, charging the plasma on the greatsword for an overarching slice. The Primarch halted in the middle of the tunnel as God-Slayers rushed past him with suicidal determination. No longer would they cautiously stalk through Sanctii’s bowels.

Captain Tiberius wordlessly acknowledged the shout, rushing forward with preternatural speed to pick up the most important personnel of the Thirty-One-Third. Colonel Stavin was personally grabbed by him and forced to endure a sprint at an eyewatering speed. The Third Cadre Seekers echoed his movements, scooping up other high ranking members of the Damned such as Whitaker and Severina. Each of their weapons was holstered to emphasize their speed, easily passing ducking and weaving through the tunnel without further obstruction. Those that remained behind the Cadre, however, were in far more dire straits.

“In His name, duck your heads!” The Primarch called out once more as the last God-Slayer pushed burst past him in a headlong sprint of genewrought might. Keen to the voice of their commander, the Thunder Warriors half-bowed their bodies in a running crouch as Aeternus lashed out with hatred. A wave of plasmic fury erupted in the form of a whirlwind assault, backed by ancient technology and genetic strength. The interior of the tunnel shook with Rex’s fury as panels, servos, and more were shredded by Apocrypha. Akkad’s Blade of Destiny screamed in agony as the microcapacitors vented heat with such intensity that Aeternus’ gauntlets began to bubble with heat. The final crescendo of chaos was a ripple of plasma jettisoning from the greatsword, superheating and warping the path forward.

The men, women, and genewarriors that had adhered to his warning felt a supernova of heat pass over their bodies. Hair, armor, and equipment were singed with the heat of Apocrypha flying over them. Panels in the path of destruction were broken, mechanisms were pierced by overcharged plasma, and optics began to crack from thermal oversaturation. As the plasmic wave began to sizzle out further down the tunnel, it exploded into an azure corona that threatened to stun the sprinting Imperials. Luckily, the God-Slayers pressed on with the driving determination that had given them their namesake. Some carried lower priority members of the Thirty-One-Third to shelter them, while others braved the explosion to fight whatever awaited them. Those that hadn’t listened to his warnings, remained behind as burnt corpses or brutalized carcasses.

“Caligula!” Primarch Aeternus roared out as he dashed further into the tunnel in a unique sprint. The First Cadre captain had seen the maneuver only once before yet it unnerved him still. Their commander launched forward in a bestial lunge with Apocrypha nestled against his right pauldron like an animal. His left gauntlet was used for maneuvering while his legs were used for pouncing. As the Primarch passed him, Caligula turned to level his bolter at a disintegrator cannon of a fallen Destroyer. The rites of the fallen were whispered in his mind as a bolt was launched from the mouth of the weapon. He sprinted after Rex as the tunnel began to warp behind him.

Caestus’ post-reactive shell contacted the Destroyer’s disintegrator cannon, exploding into a torrent of supermassive energy. Those dozen warriors, many of them being Destroyers, that had been killed were immediately engulfed by expanding death. Further weapons of destruction were added to the pile of mayhem. Laser destroyers, plasma cannons, autocannons, and more expelled lethal malevolence into the detonation. The reinforced citadel of Sanctii’s spire-wall began to shudder with catastrophic force. A plume of uncontained ruination chased after the Imperials as it ravaged wall and corpse alike.

Stavin’s lungs burned as Tiberius frog-marched him through the tunnel of death - the second time in a single day - had it been only one day? His thoughts were confused, bunched up things, coming in one after the other, unorganized and diffuse. Lack of oxygen would do that.

Oxygen at this point was becoming a rare luxury. The tunnel stank of fyceline and plasma ionization. His men were slower and less well armored than the Thunder Warriors. Many simply didn’t have the initiative to duck or the speed to sprint out of the way of a murderous trap like that, but again, fortune seemed to spare most of them. Going in first had saved a majority of the Damned, who had simply had less space to cover to get to relative safety.

He checked his auspex as he and Tiberius came to a more reasonable pace, his body aching and lungs burning. Ten more souls. Twenty percent of his dwindling force had been murdered, again, by Winter’s wrath. Becoming an Imperial soldier was a slow, gradual process for Stavin, but in his later years, when he could afford to reminisce about these early, formative days, this was the moment he often came back to.

It was now that he began to hate. And hatred, as he would come to find, was an essential characteristic of being an Imperial soldier. He hated Deep Winter in that moment. He respected her, but he hated her.

---

She watched the cruel mathematics of her trap go to work from dozens of eyes. The las-traps cut down the Imperiums genetic prowess with ease. She began the second set of batteries charged as quickly as the first and finished, and with surety beyond reason, knew that she could take more of the brutes before they posed a true threat to her city..

A subroutine alerted her to the trouble beyond her crypt, a final data burst from her guardians depicting the situation as dire. She turned her attention to her own safety, a box transmission from the Imperials went out on their encrypted channels, and was easily decrypted by the machine sentience.

“Amalasuntha of the Stygian Talons transmitting, we are making entry to the final vault, Emperor Protect.”

She set a control line and released the command center guardians from their stasis pods, and turned her full attention to the Custodians knocking on her door.

---

Commander Yaroslav crouched with his head down in the lee of the fifth atrium of the command center, a medic stood over him with a bioreader and surgical gun.

“Get it over with Checkov, she’s going to catch on if you keep stalling.”

The medic gave a slight chuckle, a shaky hand stilling as he brought the surgical gun down against the base of his Commander’s neck.

“Whatever you say boss,” the medic shrugged, “little pinch.”

Yaroslav suppressed a scream, allowing himself only a small grunt as the wonder of technology that was the surgical gun excised the microchip from his neck. Hot fire shot down his spine, and he felt the warmth of blood running down his back as Checkov stepped away.

“You’re cured,” he joked as the microchip dropped to the ground with a wet slap, “you are the only one with that right?”

“The only one left still breathing, yes. Yours don’t connect to Winter, just to mine, they’re purposefully gapped, saves her processing power or so I’ve heard,” he chuckled as he stood, rubbing his neck with a smirk.

He raised a hand to the remains of his brigade, some two hundred men crouched in the darkness, and signaled for them to begin their movement.

---

Yaroslav cursed as he let loose a volley from his adrasite rifle, a burst of fire that erased the creature that had been sprinting down the hall on all fours at him and his command section from existence with only an afterimage left in his retina.

He motioned for the command section to keep moving as he trained an eye on his helmet mounted auspex toward the enemy markers moving through the inner wall. They hurried down the passageway toward the sound of fire from adrasite rifles and coil guns.

The command section burst into a fourway promenade in the tunnel section, and an all out fight for survival between the remains of his 51st and the vile creatures that bitch had siced on them.

As they sprinted across the promenade, a trooper went down to his left. The blur of a beast flailing on top of him the only thing he could make out before they exited the promenade into the next tunnel.

---

“Contact!” one of the lead troopers of the 31-3 called out as a number of Sanctiian troopers in carapace poured into the tunnel exit ahead of them, they sighted in, about to let loose with their carbine before a cooler head waved them off.

“Hold! Hold!” a newly promoted NCO urged the vanguard as they watched the Sanctiians spill into the passage.

The carapace troopers were firing rapidly back down the tunnel, their armor was rent and torn in places, as though someone had taken a can opener to them, and several were missing helmets and large pieces of their white armor.

A commander, by the stripes on his armor, pulled a pistol and the sun grew in the tunnel for a split second.

---

Yaroslav lowered his perdition pistol, the four armed beast with a mouth full of knives falling limply before his firing line with a molten hole through its chest.

He placed a hand on the shoulder of his closest trooper and yelled over the gunfire, “Stay alive!” he ordered before turning down the tunnel.

Sprinting with his arms raised in surrender toward the Imperials, he prayed that this unit too would take prisoners.

And he, unfortunately, was sighted by no less than Captain Tiberius of the God-Slayers and the Seekers. Colonel Stavin struggled under one of his yellow-armored arms as the genewarrior came to a complete stop. The honed senses of Curzio kicked in, his bolter raised in one hand to aim at the surrendering Sanctiian captain. Those Seekers that hadn’t died in the charge followed suit, dropping their Penal Legion escorts to equip their weapons. Scoped bolters trained in on the Sanctiian, ready to tear the man limb from limb in a scything burst of post-reactives shells. He could feel the Thirty-One-Third’s commander fume as he began to squeeze the trigger.

His eyes suddenly darted away from the Sanctiian, drawn by a thing that crawled on the walls of the tunnel. The brief illumination from Aeternus’ destruction and the oncoming Sanctiians revealed the many-limbed thing that prepared to pounce on their formation. Tiberius, however, was swifter. He dropped Stavin unceremoniously onto the ground to wield the bolter in both of his enormous gauntlets. His movement betrayed the expectation of execution, swiveling away from the unknown captain to the white carapaced creature. The tunnels thumped with the sound of post-reactive shell fire, splattering fresh vitae and gorey skin against the underpass. Further down, perhaps from the area that the alabaster commander’s came from, more could be seen creeping along the walls.

“You. Remain here,” The voice of Captain Tiberius mumbled to life as the Seekers began to find firing solutions, maneuvering past the Sanctiian in pursuit of slaughter. The cowled helmet swiveled away from the splattered form of the white thing to the surrendering commander. He pointed downward with one of his blackened gauntlets, directing attention away from him to Colonel Stavin. Regardless of the strange situation, Curzio seemed agitated at the appearance of non-human foes. “And do not move from this spot. You will be dealt with by Colonel Stavin and Primarch Aeternus.”

Without another word, Tiberius followed after the advancing Seekers with his bolter exploding out in fury against the unknown things that crawled. Further behind him and the coalescing Imperials, the remainder of the God-Slayers began to appear out of the destructive plume. Many limped out with their yellow-armor stained obsidian black, similar to that of Aeternus’ plating. More began to pile in around the Thirty-One-Third as Colonel Stavin stood to deal with the surrendering Sanctiian.

“Alright, first off, we accept your surrender.” Stavin said, before Yaroslav could respond. “On this term - you fight with us out of this shit hole. We’re inbound right now, not outbound.”

Stavin winced as a long peal of bolter fire rang out. “Second term, Yaroslav - you tell us what the fuck was attacking you. Us?”

The rest of the 31-3 took up security positions. Lieutenant Whitaker moved among them.

“Safeties on the arc guns!” He bellowed. “Rad carbines only! We can’t be sure the arc won’t hit friendlies in these quarters! All arc gunners, switch to sidearms!”

Whitaker, for his part, loaded his shotgun, his radcarbine slung on his back. Instead of buck, however, he loaded the shotgun with bolt shells, not dissimilar to the bolts fired by Tiberius and Aeternus’s men. He’d held on to them for a while. Now might as well be the time. Despite the Colonel’s optimism, Whitaker wasn’t convinced they’d make it out of this.

Yaroslav would have smiled then, were the combat stims not twisting his face into a sordid frown.

“Aye, we’re ahead of you on that one,” he spoke in accented gothic as he punched a thumb back at the remains of his brigade as they unleashed fire and fury at the oncoming beasts, “as far as I know—” an explosion rocked the corridor hidden beyond the corner of the passageway.

Yaroslav righted himself against the wall and continued, “they’re some form of bioweapon, Winter, that bitch loosed them on us when it became clear we were deserting to you lot.”

He turned his gaze to one of the beasts blown open a few meters from them by the God Slayers, “Right tough bastards, Ambrose says— he’s my chief medic— he says they’ve got chitin as armor, like from bugs? Glances off some of our lighter stuff, but it’s their numbers that’s giving us a real run for our money.”

Yaroslav stopped a moment and pulled in close to Stavin

“I think she’s gone crazy if I had to guess, this siege of yours is good as won for you, but she keeps everyone dying. Can’t see the reason,” he shrugged and began to turn back down the corridor, “we’ll fill out the paperwork another time yeah?” Yaroslav smiled as he pulled his pistol from its holster.

The storm of abyssal death from the citadel entrance finally parted way as the last God-Slayers burst into the clearing. Eerie flame licked off of their armor in several places, their pelt capes burnt to a singe, and their plating dyed an obsidian hue. At the forefront, the Primarch came to a halt from his bizarre sprint. The momentum from the armored gallop was enough to shred grooves into the floor. His towering form straightened up with inconceivable ease, fuming breathes momentarily wheezing from the knightly helmet. Captain Caligula appeared shortly behind Rex with chunks missing from his pauldron.

Without warning, the Primarch stepped forward with the greatblade already swinging down towards Yaroslav. The arc of the blade radiated with a muted fury carried forward from it’s master. As Apocrypha sliced through the putrid air of the cavern, it suddenly stopped mere inches away from the Sanctiian’s neck. Crimson plasma radiating from the edge of the thunder warrior’s weapon bathed Yaroslav’s form in a red hue. Optics within Aeternus’ helmet clicked with interest as he remembered the promise that was made with Colonel Stavin. As the bloodlust died down, the plasma-field was deactivated and the sword lowered to a neutral position.

“Then an accord has been struck.” Aeternus stated as his eyes bounced between Stavin and Yaroslav. Despite the losses, the Primarch’s voice was still AS loud, vigorous, and deep as the creatures he was nicknamed after. His attention turned away from the two smaller men before him, instead gazing at the horde of things crawling down the cavern. Several of the God-Slayers, untarnished by the explosive entrance, caught his eye as they battled against Deep Winter’s monsters. Wordlessly, Rex stepped past the men with Apocrypha’s plasma-field activated again. The rest of the tarnished thunder warriors followed after him with their weapons ready.

Aeternus slowly halted, turning away from the massacre to the two warriors behind him. “Come, Stavin, we have gods to slay.” After the words were spoken, the Primarch dashed into the chaos of the under-citadel with Apocrypha lashing out at the things that plagued their path. The God-Slayers roared at the top of their lungs, plunging into the mayhem with gritted teeth and foaming lips. Sounds of tearing gore echoed from their descent, accompanied only by the cries of victory for their liege.

---

Credit: Aeternus/God-Slayers @MarshalSolgriev, Colonel Stavin/Thirty-One-Third @BornOnBoard, Yaroslav/Deep Winter @FrostedCaramel, Scribe-Intendant @grimely

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A hazy red tinged the corner of his vision. Shapes, shadows, and unrecognizable figures passed him as he carved out a bloody path. Viscera cascaded against his armor in unquantifiable lumps. His limbs felt numb and invigorated at the same time. Every swing of his chainaxe was greeted with something, either armored or not. After that, whatever was inside of those things would explode out in a shower of gore. It wasn’t possible for him to tell what they were, who they were, or when they were killed. Their screams were muted to his ears. Every part of his body burned with the familiar sensation of fatigue and blood loss. Something heavy on his shoulders should’ve prevented him from sprinting, yet he ignored it to savagely attack whatever was before him.

Nero.

He had heard his name spoken yet it was ignored. His armored greaves had taken him far from the last place that he remembered. His last vision was of him running through the snowfields with the Primarch, lunging over bodies of his comrades and the auxilia all the same. Something had obliterated their formation, forcing him to sprint away and attack an undefended position of the Sanctiian menace. After that, he couldn’t remember what had happened or how it had occurred. The walls had greeted him, covered in the hybrid lifefluid of the genewarriors. Reddish-orange vitae covered every inch of his warplate, their bodies tossed aside and torn apart like morsels to a hound. His brethren had been alongside him at that point, butchering the defenders that had hid behind their precious wall. Their cries of anguish and desperation were a fitting offering to the Master of the Lines.

Victorius Nero.

The full length of his given name buzzed in his ears. It tried to draw him back from the carnage, yet he wouldn’t surrender to it just yet. The city had fully opened up to their massacre after one of the walls had exploded. He hadn’t expected it, nearly shaking him from the bloodrage that dwelled within his veins. Truthfully, he was thankful that it happened when it did. The defenders became more desperate from that point on, attempting to fight with every ounce of their being. It wasn’t enough though, he had cut through them and tore out their entrails. His rampage had bled out into the streets of the great city as they fled from him. Less armored foes greeted him closer to the heart of Sanctii. He treated them much the same as he did the more durable ones, though he couldn’t help but feel how dull the fighting was in these sectors. Once or twice, he had seen the shadows of things that he recognized. The Astartes. He considered testing their mettle with his chainaxes, yet something deep within compelled him to ignore their presence. They either never noticed him or chose to not meddle with his slaughter.

Captain Victorius Nero.

A fist slammed against his helmet. To his surprise, it was his own. It was as if his own soul was desperately fighting to bite back the mayhem that he desperately sought. No. He rejected it with all of his mental power. He wouldn’t be shackled by the chains of the God-Slayers. His slaughter continued. He couldn’t tell how long the bloodlust had lasted nor did he care how long it persisted. All he knew was the simple and glorious battlefield. Only when he murdered through a building of the Sanctiians did he realize that only a handful of his brothers remained. They had fought tooth and nail to keep up with him. A legendary feat, one that he would remember them for. Both of his legs sprinted forward, propelling a new level of slaughter to pursue. New shapes began to coalesce as he inched closer to Sanctii’s spire, some were the size of great machines and others were large masses of terrified men. He tore them apart all the same without heed or warning. Those large boxes of metal failed to hold him back, both of his axes tearing apart plating to rip the defenders from their seats. They screamed in his face yet he couldn’t understand the words they spoke. It didn’t matter, they died as easily as they yelled.

Captain Victorius Nero, Commander of the Second Cadre.

His head throbbed with uncontrollable pain as if a tumor threatened to burst within his skull. He slammed the shaft of his chainaxe against his helmet, quelling the pain and voices in a fit of fury. The second set of walls within Sanctii had greeted him as an obstacle of stagnation. A huge mass of shadows had gathered around the spire like a horde of obsidian insects. They waxed and waned as projectiles, prismatic or furious, burst apart the swarm in horrific chunks. He understood what to do without having to think on it. Both of his chainaxes started to chop through the writhing mass, accompanied only by a daring few warriors that helped clean the tide. Their screams meant nothing to him, more gibberish jumbled with piercing yells of agony. Perhaps it was their bodies that had begun to weigh him down, or was it their entrails that decorated his hulking form that encumbered him. The thought left him as the white citadel greeted him. They were close. He could feel their heartbeat with fear as both his axes slammed into the wall. Nothing would save them from his wrath and ruin.

Nero.

It finally became clear to him who had been whispering in his ear. It had been the Primarch. The crimson haze began to stir away from the edge of his vision as the last defender died in a horrific gorepile before him. The source of his fatigue became clear. He had several holes in his armor where plating should normally be. It did little to slow him down despite the vicious wounds he had sustained. He turned to face the few that dared to accompany him and found none. Their bodies had been mutilated beyond recognition with a pair of chainaxes, then torn open by something. His alabaster pelt cape had long been torn from his armor, only bloody scraps were left behind in the wake of his carnage. The Sanctiians had been cleared on that section of the wall, now beginning to flood over with the red-garbed auxilia of the Excertus Imperialis. He stared down at his viscera-coated gauntlets through his helmet. Countless thoughts raced through his mind, yet confusion was at the forefront. Without consciously attempting it, he had rampaged for the entirety of a day. Longer than any previous campaign that he had fought in. It frightened and impressed him in the same thought.

His attention turned to the citadel as white creatures began to vomit forth from entrances and exits. The auxilia around him desperately tried to hold off the beasts as they came, slicing through sinew and carapace in similar quantities. The Third Cadre Captain tightened his grip on the chainaxes, filtering fresh rage into his veins as a new horde of enemies greeted him. A hazy red tinge began to coalesce around his visions as the bloodlust took hold. He unleashed a wicked snarl, slammed his armored foot down and howled into the Urshite lands with terrible laughter. Those around Nero watched as he dove into the first wave of creatures, chainaxes tearing through sinew and chitin with blissful ease.

Brother.

It was the last thing he heard as he fought through the swarm, fresh laughter erupting from his lungs. Nothing mattered anymore other than the splendid joy of slaughter. Not even the single voice of reason in the entire legion could cause him to falter. Even if the Aeternus were to stand before him, Nero was certain that he would kill him.

They ran.

Little under one thousand pairs of ceramite boots thundered across the ground when the signal was at last given for them to advance, a bureaucrat in a distant command tent nudging the stylized 1 forward on a hololith table, orders transmitted through their helmet’s autosenses. As one, they blink clicked the notification away, and as one, they ran. This new breed moved in utter silence, giving no cheer or cry as they made for the battle that they had been made for.

Fresh fallen snow was already burying the bodies of the auxilia and Thunder Warriors who had made this breach possible, the superheated condensation from the destruction of the great gate cooling in the frigid air and falling back to earth, a violation of the natural order that stood as one of the lesser sins that man’s wars had done to the weather systems of their birthworld. Wrecked vehicles and buildings were given only slightly more heed than the corpses that they trampled through, those onrushing boots soon enough coated in gore and debris. Soon enough the white-coated outskirts of Sanctii were replaced by paved and well-kept streets turned to ruin by a war that the average citizen of the city would never be given the dignity of understanding, and still they ran.

Through barricades and redoubts, abandoned or futilely held, they ran, brushing aside the fractured and panicking militias and regrouping defenders with a contemptuous ease. Relics of the Dark Age flashed their crimson beams of death, leaving only death in grim testament of what had come to Sanctii, while chainswords left their victims in far more grisly trophies. They were a people of contradictions, and this displeased Vairya. She absentmindedly thought of this as she wrenched her weapon free of the shattered sack of meat and bone that had once been a man, continuing onward without a word or concern for his carapace-clad comrades - the others would deal with them in turn. Now, the most important thing was to continue on, not waste her focus upon the fates of shopkeepers and housewives pressed into service. True, they bore mighty weapons and had felled many of those under her command - 82 according to her helmet - but that did not make them worthy of concern or recognition.

She continued to run as she thought over her own displeasure. It was a novel thing for one such as her. One of the first to pass through the perfected process that turned men into demigods, the Mistress of the First had practically grown up inside of the Emperor’s gene-labs, taught via hypnoindoctrination and obedient to the dictates of the Imperial Truth. Yet, as the motor of her chainsword finally quieted after she had released her finger from the trigger, she could not help herself. She despised this.

Not the weapon itself, no, it was a fine thing - a tool fit for its purpose, much as she was. But they were of different purposes, that was what was important. It was a weapon of her predecessors, a weapon that was built not to merely kill the enemy, but to be so brutally demoralizing in effect that all who saw one fall prey to its chain would quail in terror. A weapon to break ones enemy, to make rebellion and resistance as impossible to consider as healthy souls avoided the yawning void of oblivion. Is this what she was? Yet she was taught no jeers, no cries, no taunts, nothing like the warriors of the other First. She and her siblings killed in silence.

Perhaps they were flawed. A certain amount of cold logic supported that thought, even if a deeper part of her railed against the very notion. Was she, and the other firstborn scions of the gene-forge, missing some critical element of their design? Was she merely the last proof of concept before the true Astartes? Was this lacking essence going to condemn her to break apart in the crucible of the wars to come? All around those not quite good enough fell to pieces, the prototypes of the immortal judging a blow off by a centimeter, reacting a half second too slowly, and they died for it. She thought nothing of them, falling as they did in service of their duty. Would those who came after think the same?

A bevy of red-runes in her helmet display informed her she was nearing the factory complex, and she threw herself into cover as her attention turned to formulating a plan to breach the structure. She had lost nearly two-tenths of her total fighting force in between the initial bombardment and rushing through the blasted cityscape, having encountered negligible, threadbare resistance. Optimistic predictions from the Sigilites suggested a 50% casualty rate for the whole operation. Silently, Vairya blink clicked the report away.

In front of the scattered souls of the First Legion lay the beating heart of Sanctii’s industrial might, a sprawling manufactorum district nestled in the shadow of the city’s sprawling spire. Dimly, she remembered that in order to get here she and her Astartes had had to pass through one of the city’s primary hab blocks, but the battles there had never waged fierce enough for her full consciousness to have been activated, the wonder of the catalepsean node allowing her to sleep through the majority of the slaughter. It was here that they would face true resistance.

Volkite weapons spewed death at the power armored guardians ringing the building she had been tasked with claiming, the weight of fire increasing as all around her the surviving Astartes slammed themselves into cover, defaulting to suppression tactics while awaiting her orders. None of them had ever trained to do that, but each reflexively knew it was the appropriate response to the situation. They huddled tightly to their makeshift defenses as the foe returned fire, arcs of lightning and more esoteric projectiles flensing the very air as they traded shot for shot.

With only a moment’s hesitation, Vairya Kurus came to the decision that this was not the time for fine tactics or clever maneuver. The broad street she and her Legion had holed themselves up in had once played host to far vaster hosts of workmen going to and from work and their homes, to say nothing of the gargantuan vehicles that shipped both raw and finished materiel. There was no protected avenue, and no capability for surprise. Perhaps if they had enough airlift they could’ve taken the roof, but she dismissed that thought out of hand. She had to work with the resources actually at hand.

Maps sprang to life in the vision of the assembled Marines, the Legion Mistress silently drawing her lines of advance as armor’s cogitator traced the movement of her pupils. A broad sweeping half-crescent, rushing forward into the grand factory hall that had, mere days ago, accommodated swarms of milling workers coming on and off shift. She had no doubt it would be well fortified by now, but it was the least bad option, presenting her with the greatest opportunity to make good her weight of numbers - assuming that the combination of speed and division of forces had given her the advantage in that regard, at least. If that was wrong, she would simply die faster. At least they would know quickly.

The Astartes continued pouring ruby-red fire into the manufactorum, none breaking cover as the plan was finalized. Fine lines delineating movements down to the squad level dominated their field of vision, orders and expectations absorbed before being acknowledged and hidden, the host silent and impassive behind their armor. Confirming, to herself if no one else, that this was the least bad plan she could devise with her current resources and information, Vairya blink clicked the rune to execute.

Some eight hundred bodies moved in response, either bolting out of cover in a sudden charge or moving themselves into a superior firing position. They were met by a fusillade in turn, the professional defenders of Sanctii better armed and better trained than the hapless militias who the Astartes had slaughtered in the hab blocks. In that exchange the last embers of the calamitous conflicts of the Dark Age flared once more into life, a war of man against machine with the deadliest arms crafted by either. Pure heat boiled men alive inside of their suits, while others simply died without a mark upon their armor as their nervous systems suffered fatal cascades. Millennia of research and enhancement in materials science and biomimicry safeguarded some from localized conduits of radiation as they moved in the moment between the trigger being pressed and the weapon responding, while pools of sludge and ash marked the passing of those who had been less lucky.

It ended with the cruelty and barbarism that only Old Night could bring. Crude motors roared to life as chains began to whirl upon their track, monomolecular edged teeth whirring into constant motion that was slowed only by the grinding of metal against metal when they began to bite into the power armor of Sanctii’s defenders. They had no such issue when they at last began to dig into flesh and bone. The bodies of men who had fought to preserve a beacon of peace and stability within the wastes were left where they had fallen in so many butchered pieces, and what remained of their murderers rushed forward.

They had arrived within the manufactorum complex itself, and now the true difficulties began.

A top-level subroutine of Deep Winter was in charge of the manufactorum network, and it dutifully sent a priority alert to its parent program as it began a threat analysis. Reviewing the combat data from the prior engagements, it immediately discarded any notion of its human auxiliary production capacity defending the installation, and instead began sitewide evacuation protocols. They had been unnecessary from the very start, but they served the important role of making the humans feel useful.

Right now the meat would just get in the way.

The Astartes breached the facility to a dulcet voice instructing them to make their way to the nearest exit point, soft-light holograms directing them to safety. Dimly, Kurus recognized that the arrows were pointing away from her and her legionnaires. A blick-click later and the gene-warriors fanned out into a vast loading hall in finely tuned rows, providing each other with overlapping fields of fire and minimizing blindspots.

It was a pointless exercise here, in this space where millions of workers had trudged in and out. The danger wasn’t going to be here. She knew this, but the very thought of laxity, of not treating every space as the pinnacle of danger, galled her on a level so fundamental it might as well have been etched onto her bones.

Deep within the bowels of the massive factory complex, automated fabricators feverishly went to work. All safeguards had been disabled, all authorizations given, and there were no pesky foremen or overseers who thought themselves in charge of the glory of the machine to be shocked at what was being forged. In the darkest days of human history, in those times when stars were reduced to cinders and planets so much dust, when Mankind fought against its most deadly child, weapons were designed with the coldest of cruelty - to kill with the utmost efficiency, to eliminate any threat in accordance to the rigid laws of logic.

Squad after squad departed into the depths, and one by one vanished from the rune-map in the Legion Mistress’ auto-senses display. Reports were scattered and varied as she followed towards the facility’s central cogitation stack. Occasionally there was nothing at all, save for a spike of hard radiation on the auspex and a vox feed unceremoniously cutting out. What did come through was bad enough as it was - nanoswarms that swam through the air so thinly they passed in between the very sinews of flesh and bone before suddenly erupting as a solid spike in the bodies of her Astartes, neutron emitters operating at such an intensity that they reduced the frail flesh within the ceramite power armor to slurry while leaving the armor intact, and yet more esoteric weapons and traps of humanity’s scourge.

Her chainsword was magnetized back onto her back, the Legion Mistress realizing with a start that she didn’t even remember putting it away. It was a toy in these warrens of death, the vast halls reducing swiftly into cramped chambers and accessways, comfortable enough for the human components of Deep Winter’s industrial might to walk between their various duty stations, but hideously small for gene-augmented warriors in power armor. Movement out of the corner of her eye registered in a hypnoindoctrinated reflex before her conscious mind could process it, but that was no concern. Muscle inducers activated, accelerating the swing of her arm as she pulled the trigger on her volkite emitter, a beam of heat instantly melting the crystal-stack processor in a battle-automaton that had been approaching.

Fire and death surrounded her in a fraction of a second as the exchange played out around her command squad, serpentine mounds of metal covered in impossibly thin plates of armor with bizarrely slender weapons collapsing from the ceiling. Two of her own had fallen in the impossibly fast combat, their torsos simply nonexistent, as if they were nothing more than paper dolls with circles cut out of them by a particularly precise child.

An alarm went off in her helmet, noting that total casualties had passed fifty percent, before shutting off a moment later and then resuming again. Cross-referencing of the hive exterior map versus how far they had traveled so far indicated that they were entering the facility’s core, and a thought that had been nestled in her subconsciousness as she had half-slept while running through the wastes informed her that this was likely due to electromagnetic shrouding cutting her off from consistent contact with the bulk of her legion. She raised a fist, and her command squad at once came to a halt. A further hand motion saw an Astarte with a bulky backpack turn away from her and slump upon his knees, the Legion Mistress plugging her helmet into his vox-set. Overcharged, it should have enough power to punch through the interference, even if only once.

“Silence all vox. Initiate aetheric warfare protocols. The Raptor strikes.”

Her voice rasped when she began to speak, the flesh unused to such demands, but hardened at her final words. Brief vox squeals of affirmation followed in response, before they went dead as well, and the man knelt in front of her took off his backpack. It was already beginning to smoke from the demands it was placed under.

Another flurry of hand signs saw them move onward once more.

Death, and the signs of death, stalked their steps. Astartes had fallen in every way imaginable to a mind that thought nothing of morality or pride, the bodies of some forced to submit to novel biophages while others simply ended, phasing into walls and ceilings, a rare few marked by nothing but a sharp spike of local ozone and a chainsword etched death tally. Hundreds died to monstrosities of the past age, dimly seen and dimly remembered. The manufactorum itself became their enemy as they advanced, gantryways swinging away to deliver hapless invaders to death in vast vats of molten metal, walls rearranging corridors into killzones.

Yet again and again the volkite beams shot out, curtains of death unmaking machinations ranging from finely tuned molecular kill drones to vast battle automata. The noose was tightening, and the factory could only make so much, so fast.

Vairya blinked in surprise when she at last stumbled into a wide chamber again, the woman scanning the monumental sphere she found herself in. Other Astartes filed in above and below, and from all sides, the cogitation center having been built for the comfort and awe of the humans who supposedly ran it. This concession to the meat in the machine proved the only advantage that the First needed, the wide and free sight lines affording them the clean shots needed to destroy the flights of buzzing drones that had been the final guardians of the Standard Templates.

One thousand Astartes had made the march to Sanctii. Fewer than eighty walked out of it.

Hive Jefferson was dead.

There was no other way that anyone who has spent the majority of their existence could describe what it was like to step into the empty hive city; While every hive had their areas that had been abandoned or fallen into ruin, there were always hums or the roars of distant machinery and humanity to remind the listener that they were never truly alone for better or worse.

There was no echo of distant machines or mulling crowds when the 8th Legion stepped over the threshold. The only noises they could hear were their own footsteps and the distant cries of neglected stone and metal as they finally gave out from centuries of neglect.

Konrad found the place reminding him somewhat of the Ghosthive in Houston, but this place felt unnerving in a vastly different way: The Ghosthive had been unnerving due to being the home of predators that didn’t belong in a sane universe, but he couldn’t help but shake the feeling that they were old enough to have caused early humans to fear the dark.

Jefferson held the heavy air of somewhere in which something utterly horrific had taken place, but the source of that horror was much more mundane in origin. The solders of the Pan Pacific had decided to use the time that fortifying the 8th’s foothold had granted them to load up everything of value they could carry… and destroy everything they couldn’t in an act of scorched earth.

The extent of the damage was still being worked out. The environmental shielding had been shut off and sabotaged so that the hive was completely exposed to the radioactive, polluted environment that was the wastes outside the hive and the ventilation systems had been made to pump toxic fumes instead of air for an extended period of time. A different investigative force was making its way to the main reactor to see what its current status was; Early reports were promising, since the core still existed rather the be a massive, empty bubble of wreckage that could turn a man into charcoal from the inside out within seconds.

Konrad’s squad were tasked with investigating the current state of various water treatment and recycling plants throughout the hive. Truth be told, the report wasn’t promising so far. The two stations they had visited so far, there had been far less water in the system then their should have been for a hive of this size; The fact that there was still something in the reservoirs suggested that the retreating solders had taken a considerable amount of it with them rather then there being a hole somewhere in the pipe system.

Of cause, the putrid sludge that remained couldn’t really be called water anymore. Between the waste, toxic chems and what he could only assume were the corpses of the former water treatment staff, recycling it into something even remotely close to clean water was going to be a tall order… and if his dealings with the old water guild back home was anything to go by, he doubted that the new guild that would arise if Hive Jefferson was repopulated would honestly bother to remove the corpses before putting the swill back into circulation.

Still… it was possible that they hadn’t poisoned the stations further down the hive. Go down far enough and adding toxic chems to the water supply might actually make it safer to drink after all.

The north had met them with deathly cold.

It had been no oversight of strategy, not with the Master of the Lines himself at the lead of this campaign. The push into the heart of Nordyc had been timed to take advantage of the warm season, for all that such divisions of the year still mattered upon the profaned cradle of Mankind. The human troops of the Excertus Imperialis that marched into the priest-king’s domain had been selected from among the hardiest units of the great nascent army, and no expense had been spared to outfit them to the last with cold-weather equipment. The tanks of a fleet of tracked vehicles had been filled with precious fuel. Sustained marching rhythms had been devised to keep the bodies heated with the warmth of action.

All of it had been in vain.

It was no natural wintry chill that rode on the winds of the Maulland Sen lands. Perhaps some terrible weapon of past apocalyptic wars had forever marked that already arctic region, tearing a howling, icy wound in the fabric of its climate; perhaps it was something more sinister still. Vast and abnormal, like a colossal and static cyclone, the cold radiated out from the heart of the tribal dominion, its intensity increasing as one neared the source in a perverse mirror of the mounting strength of the defences the Imperium faced in its advance. The gales that had been scarce more than a gnawing nuisance around the first line of balt-forts turned into a torrent of freezing whips that peeled away skin left exposed to it, leaving the frostbitten flesh beneath to fester gangrenously in a matter of minutes. Crystals of hard, dirty snow swirled in the air with astonishing violence, cutting like uncountable tiny blades and wearing away even sturdy winter coats. Sometimes a noxious reek passed through the wind, like the breath of distant graves and slaughterhouses, and sickness walked with it among the ranks.

Inexorably, these ranks began to thin. Every morning, when camp was lifted, there were bodies that did not rise. Soldiers collapsed mid-step during marches, eyes wide amid jaundiced skin, leaving their comrades the grim choice of shouldering their inert, enervated weight at risk of their own dwindling strength or leaving them to expire in the filthy snow. Raiders harried them at every step, charging out from the blizzard with froth on their lips and mad ferocity in their eyes. The warriors of Maulland Sen seemed miraculously immune to the savagery of the climate that so harrowed the invading force, ever spry and vigorous despite the crudeness of their attire, and the sight of blood itself sustained them. Bare and hostile though the land was, thousands seemed to always be lurking among the cairns and snowdrifts.

And still the Raptor advanced. That most great and fearsome weapon in the Emperor’s hands, his augmented warriors of generations old and new, did not fear the fury of the eternal illwinter as mortal men did, and they were the edge of the blade that fell on the rotting cities of the north. Livettir fell, and Kromden, Tuvabti, the fortress of Lägua. Every time, resistance was no more stubborn - for it had been inhumanly strenuous from the very first day - but heavier, more massive, more lethal. The hirdmen of the bastion-chiefs wore crude powered armour and wielded roaring chainblades. The genebrutes and necro-cyborgs grew larger, thorned in iron and bone, driven to rage by shamanic concoctions. Mutants of frightful size and misshapen form stalked the approaches, felling men with lashing boneless limbs and overturning tanks with tusk and claw. Sorcerers and wyrdmakers, each more wizened and cunning than the last, called forth hurricanes of iridescent flame and turned the ground to swamps of hands and teeth. Through all this the lightning-marked armies carved their way, burning sacrificial pits, tearing down grotesque temples, shattering the chains of those shivering empty-eyed thralls that were spared the Steel Lords’ blind wrath.

No death toll or horror could halt them, it seemed, until four months into the campaign, after the taking of Opdhall, a storm struck. It was not one of the cruel snow-hails that rose nearly every day to reap more victims, but a disturbance of vast magnitude even by the measure of blighted Nordyc. Night and day were indistinguishable in its shadow, and the air became solid with splintered ice. Those few unaugmented that remained with the main force were quite unable to push against the blasts of deafening wind, and even the gene-warriors of the Legiones found themselves blinded when they ventured out into the gales. Vehicles could not move without their tracks being immured in frozen snow within seconds. Whether a vagary of the season or a Warp-born curse, the cataclysmic tempest accomplished what the hardships and abominations of the northlands had not, and the army hunkered down among conquered walls to wait out its course.

Opdhall was a large city, and though it had been spared the excesses of the Thunder Warriors, plenty of space remained for the occupants after the more warlike portion of its population had been felled in its taking. Within its roughly circular walls, it was a chaos of ill-planned buildings, from stone hovels and the long-halls favoured in the septentrional parts of Terra to robust towers and fortified courtyards, each of which had been breached at bloody cost. At its core, the great temple had been left standing as a means of shelter, though its hideous idols had been destroyed, and the grove of strange trees that had stood near it in preternatural defiance of the climate burned in horror by the first soldiers to behold it. A similar fate had been narrowly avoided by the curious and misshapen cattle kept by the populace, these lumbering hairy beasts with bulbous bodies and eerie black eyes, for, unsettling though they were, the liberated slaves of the clans depended on them until more wholesome subsistence could be supplied.

Encampments had sprung up throughout the frigid grey maze. Ushotan’s men largely kept to themselves, and only fragments of their coarse war songs could sometimes be heard through the wailing storm from the longhouses where they burned their fires. Army units sheltered in the shadow of the walls, though their garrisons rarely patrolled the bastions themselves, and not merely because of the weather. Rumours ran through the improvised barracks like a plague of sentinels that had vanished from their posts, or been found dead, the barrels of their own weapons between their teeth. Murmurs of faces glimpsed in the shadows and the snow, the horribly familiar lineaments of dead comrades, beckoning or reproachful. Of voices that whispered in the cacophony of the wind. Few eyes and ears dared turn towards the outer darkness.

For a time, it was as though outside the walls Terra, and all the universe, had ceased to exist.

---

The gene warriors of the nineteenth, oft situated with the elements of the burgeoning Imperial Army, found themselves ever on watch in the blizzard. Constantly did the Astartes stand vigil to ensure that the rumours of abandonment and desertion were mere falsehood. While they had been ordered to protect the auxiliaries, when cowards tried to flee into the blinding snow, one of the stoic Sentinels ensured they met a traitor’s end in a swift yet bloody end. They knew of the poor morale and the hardships, but they would not suffer the abandonment of the Emperor’s Will, not so long as they were able to stand vigil.

Arturas in the meanwhile, had convened with his inner circle of officers, taking stock of their situation and planning their next advance. The wind howled outside his tent and the holographic table often stuttered as power threatened to deactivate, but still his voice commanded them, in a grim resolve, “Units of the 10th Infantry Battalion continued to deteriorate in their resolve. Five men had to be out to the sword to maintain their position, an officer included. We do not command the undying loyalty of our foe - nor the admiration of our Emperor.”

The tent was silent as the officers listened, the light hum of lamps and wind continuing to be the only noise other than the Master’s words. “Yet, we must maintain order, lest we are little different from the savages that we conquer. Gwaine, what do your men report?” He asked, looking to his most senior officer, the armour of his form already scarred from battles with barbarians.

“Our scouts report there is a small camp located not too far north of here, we believe it to be either a recon element or a rogue raiding force looking to get behind our lines,” Gwaine said in a gruff voice, looking to the battle map and pressing on it to mark the location. It gave a flicker to his touch, earning a grunt of disagreement from the Astarte, but he looked back to Arturas. “I can take five of my finest and drive them off. A small victory but a victory nonetheless.”

“No,” Arturas said looking to Gwaine, “Take five of your finest along with an element of Auxilia. Ensure that they have the victory, for their victory will raise morale and give them stories for the dark.”

“If enough return to tell of it,” came a voice from the tent’s entrance. It almost seemed as though the wind outside were modulated into words; though it had the depth and strength of a transhuman chest, it was hollow, little more than a loud, crackling whisper - the sound of a diseased throat.

An Astartes in the grey and slate of the Ninth Legion stepped in through the tent-flaps. The numeral on his right pauldron was haloed with the markings of a cohort-captain. Its counterpart on the left, however, was invisible underneath a crude yet intricate mesh of ropes that wrapped around the armour-piece, covering it with flecks of white like trapped snow. A closer look, however, revealed their true nature - human bones, dozens of them, fixed in the web’s many knots. A similar ornament ran around his right shinguard in oblique symmetry.

“If you bring troops on a raid, keep your eye on them as much as on the enemy,” he rasped, “There are worse things than snowblind outside the walls.”

The Astartes of the Nineteenth collectively looked to their cousin, not seemingly off-put by the web of bone and rope. Their faces portrayed no emotion, but Arturas gave a nod of respect to the sudden appearance of his kin. The Master looked to the captain with a slight curiosity to his eye, imperceptible to the average man, but there were no normal men within the tent. “Cousin, I will make note of your advice, but I assure you we have been keeping a watchful eye on them. They need a victory, something to cling to.”

“So they do, but it is a blade’s edge to walk.” The marine straightened as he stepped in, raising a half-closed fist to his unadorned pauldron in salute. “Nidhur Svaat. I lead the Bone Walkers.”

Such epithets, as fanciful as they were macabre, had been growing common in the legion’s vox-chatter, supplanting the numeration of its units as the patterns of trophies became signs of commonality. The very designation of the Ninth was more and more frequently accompanied by the word “reviled” since the first war-calls had sounded at the edge of Nordyc lands.

“Fortunate that I find you so. It is of this very matter that I have come to speak.”

“Then speak freely, cousin. Any advice or strategy from a fellow astartes is welcome within this tent, and I value the thoughts of those outside of my own brothers,” Arturas stated whilst walking around the holo-table, ending his words whilst clasping onto the shoulder pad Nidhur. He lightly tugged the Bone Walker towards the holo-table, his arm moving from shoulder to back as the lights flickered once more. The master looked at the display, “Tell me, Svaat, what is it that you wish to say on the matter?”

The cohort-captain fell into step with ease, craning his neck over the map as he approached it.

“Since we are among bloodkin here,” he gestured widely at the circle of Sentinels, his arm sprier than his voice, “These are things I would not trust those troops on the walls with, but you should know. There is some truth to what they whisper.” He paused, whether to rest his strained throat or for effect. “Dark spirits roam outside.”

“Believing in spirits and superstitions are unbecoming of an Astartes,” Gwaine said coldly, casting a stern gaze to the other captain before continuing, “We fight against mutants, nothing more, nothing less.”

There were silent looks between the other Sentinels present, unspoken murmurs almost as powerful as the wind that roared outside. Arturas merely cast a look to Gwaine before speaking in a softer tone, “While my Consul has spoken out of turn, he is correct. That said I shall hear all advice, and so I ask; what do you mean by dark spirits? More conjurations from the enemy psykers?”

Svaat’s head shifted from side to side, the intimation of his gaze sweeping around behind the opaque lenses of his visor, and he pointed a hand at the map, finger hovering outward of the city’s eastern walls.

“Three nights ago I led a raid in this direction,” he began, “Our prey had dived into the blizzard, but we would have found them. If not for it.” He looked up again. “We saw, coming towards us, Grezol, our third blade. He answered our battle-call as he should have, told us he had tracked the Maulland Sen. We would have followed him.”

With a deep rasping sound, he breathed in.

“But Grezol died at Livettir. He said in his own voice he had crawled from under the corpses, forgotten, but I saw him torn in half by a wyrd. Whatever it was, it was not our brother.” He rested both hands on the table’s edge now. “We could have blamed a psychic delusion, but our entire cohort had seen him move, heard him speak in reply to us. How he returned the call, as he would have known to. The thing that wore Grezol’s skin could think, and it had taken the memories of the dead. I have no better word for it than one from the long night.”

Once again the group of Sentinels were silent, a dread formed in the tent as Arturas unclamped his arm from his cousin. While normally afforded a more friendly and compassionate aura, it was instead one of a silent contempt. The talk of some form of skinwalker seemed to have perturbed the gallant and it seemed a conversation happened in glances and stares. Gwaine and Arturas continued to share stern looks before the master of the legion grasped his helmet that had laid to the side of the table.

“What is it that you call it, Svatt?” He asked, his brothers stepping back into the dim lit recesses of the tent, the eyes from their helms looking at their gene-cousin. Arturas’ face was grim, “What is this monster called?”

“In our speech - what we once spoke, it is called tzalaal.” If Svaat did notice the atmosphere in the tent growing heavier, neither his expressionless visor nor his belaboured voice betrayed it. “It means many things. A spirit, a walking corpse, something that wanders the wastes at night, sometimes just an unruly machine. A word that will no longer be needed come Unity, but for now…”

He laughed, forcedly, as if to make some light of these things. It sounded sepulchral.

“Spitefather could have said it without sounding a savage like I must. What matters is that the Army does not start thinking they are fighting more than flesh and blood. You know what that would mean for them. Take care to shield them from strange sights if you take them out there.”

“Does this beast still roam the blizzard?” Gwaine asked, his hand resting upon the hilt of his sword. Two other captains matched his motion, whilst Arturas slid his helm upon his head. There was an agreement in the air, “If it does, then that compromises security. A beast hunt may be in order, on top of our planned raid.”

“It must, if the whispers continue,” Svaat said flatly, as if it were a matter of course, “Perhaps it is not alone, and there is one for every face and rumour. However that is, a hunt would do us all good, as much as a skirmish for the troops. Some of us would be ready to join you.”

“Then a hunt it is, cousin. Would certainly rid ourselves of idleness,” Gwaine said, his face twisting into a malformed smile, an almost artificial emotion on the perpetually stoic Sentinels. The smile was short lived as he stepped past the holo-table, the common scowl returning, “That said, if we are hunting a monster that changes form. Having our other cousins join would be of great aid.”

“So it would.” Despite the words of assent, the captain’s rasp sounded noncommittal. “A witch-eye might see what we do not.” He turned to the tent-flaps, glancing back over his shoulder as he strode towards the howl of the gales outside. “I will gather our band. We will meet when and where you wish.”

“I shall send you our plans,” Arturas said, his officers standing behind him as the form of the Bone Walker strode into the blizzard. One of his subordinates stepped up behind him and a silent question was drilled into the back of the Legion Master’s mind - one of what they hunted and if they could truly find it. Slowly they backed further into the tent as the holo-table went dark and drenched them in shadow once more, whatever friendliness of the Sentinels that was there disappeared within a moment of a moment. Dread loomed over their command tent before Arturas joined his brothers and drew his sword, speaking the words of their purpose, “Corruption will become rife, brothers. Ensure that they remain silent and silence the terrors of Old Night.”

---

The city walls were as the border between the waking world and an inchoate universe of dream. While the island of relative calm within, with its narrow howling streets and its fires in the grey murk, harkened to archaic times when nothing stood between man and the elements but what he made with his own hands, it was firm and grounded, a vision of stone and wood, walls and roofs. As soon as one moved a step outside the hastily reconstructed gates or the mostly-filled breaches that served as secondary entrances, however, all of that was wiped from sight so fast that one might question if it had ever existed at all. Swirling whiteness was all the eye saw, and only the fine skein of shade between the snowy streaks became any clearer to the more unnaturally refined pupils. Anything further than arm’s reach was no more than vague shadows, rippling like reflections in an arctic river. The other senses fared little better; vox was the only to make one heard short of shouting into another’s ear.

The designated assembly point could well have been any other if one did not lean close to the wall, tracing its surface in search of what set that stretch apart. One step away, and it became nothing more than a dim looming cloud in the storm, curtained by lashing snow. Even so, it was the only form that was almost solid, and thus the one and true anchor to orient oneself by.

Trudging through the whiteness came the visages of Astartes, carrying along sword and shield as knights preparing for gruesome battle. It was two battle-squads worth of them, each hand picked to hunt the query with minds steeled by the horrors of Old Night. Their forms cast shadows in the whiteness but they were undaunted by the storm, much like the tanks of the mortal men that began to mobilize - ready to assault the small outpost that the Steel Sentinels had pointed them to.

The giants came across a crest, capes whipping and white flakes clinging to the metal of their armor. “Night Hunter has reached rendezvous,” one of them spoke into the vox, pinging their cousins to soon start the great hunt that had been called.

“The Bone Walkers see you,” Svaat’s husk of a voice answered. Soon, the party could see shapes moving further down the slope. Though details were difficult to make out through the snowy haze, some of them bulged with dully angular protrusions across their superhuman stature, the fanciful patterns of their mesh of cord and bone looking like so many ridged outgrowths of their armour. Others trailed fluttering squares and strips of what seemed to be rigid tattered cloth from their shoulders and chests. “The Excoriators are with us. They are the least troubled by this land of all our number.”

“We will cut around from behind as you advance,” another voice continued. Unlike Svaat’s hollow crackle, it was an even guttural grinding, as if every word were being forcefully pulled out from some murky depth. “If the prey scatters, we will drive them back. And if we see something approach from further out, we will warn you.”

One of the figures below swept an arm in a high gesture, and its companions began to withdraw into the blizzard from the Sentinels’ view. Leaving them to their silence, watching the lights of the Imperial column pass noiselessly through the whiteout. The Astartes bounded shortly after them, keeping their wits about them.

The Imperial column pushed in treaded transports, packed with men shivering despite whatever warm clothing they could scavenge. Two tanks led them, engines roaring as they followed the waypoint given to them by the Emperor’s finest. While the commander of their company had dispatched them to dislodge this enemy scouting force, many of the men dreaded the thought of driving through such a blizzard - visibility was all but lost and the ground was indistinguishable from the air in front of them. However, it was better than sitting and freezing to death waiting for it all to blow over.

The mortals drove for an hour before coming to a halt, only a mere 100 metres away from the encampment they had been informed of. Orders transferred and the men unloaded, fixing bayonets and ensuring their rifles were in good condition. The vaunted Astartes ram close to them, power swords crackling against the snow that whipped around them.

“Bring ruin! Strike hard, strike fast! Leave none alive!” One of the Sentinels’ distorted voices called raising his blade and earned a round of cheers from the soldiery - a whistle sounded and a general charge began. The two tanks fired blindly into the whiteness, unknowing of if their rounds would strike true or not. The armored transports advanced behind the main infantry line, awaiting any sign of the enemy so as to dispense whatever support they could.

There was a brief moment before the enemy returned fire, autoguns ripping through the blizzard just as blindly as the attackers. Explosions of the tank shells could be heard just barely above the ripping winds, and soon, a fierce melee as the enemy force charged the Imperial assault. The transports began firing, stubbers and las hitting mutated men and horrid monsters. The Sentinels did not immediately engage, half-heartedly pushing forwards to slash and kill and maim - but it was the virus of man that would see the day.

Bayonets flashed and swords revved, crimson joined the blinding white winds and there was momentary confusion. One could hardly make out the silhouette of the man in front of them, but the Astartes guided them, shouting into vox and to coordinate with the mortal men that knew not what else to do. They acted as their name-sale, a Steeled Sentinel watching over their human brethren, shielding them from the worst that would come.

Squads of men fought tooth and nail, it seemed that the Nordyc abominations had truly been caught by surprise and those that had charged out were only those manic and hate-filled enough to do so. The imperial force swept into the enemy camp, but the fight was a one sided affair, and the Sentinels merely stood back and watched them achieve their assured victory. “This is Night Hunter, victory will come. Let the true hunt commence,” the captain said over vox, turning away and to stalk into the blizzard, blades drawn.

“Understood,” the crackling wind-voice replied, and then all was still save for the unceasing howl of the storm. The crunching of snow underfoot and the sporadic rumbling echoes from the overrun encampment were the only isles of sound in that churning all-encompassing ocean, the blank greyness of the blizzard-choked sky over the pale ground a mirror of that almost dreamlike solitude.

Until…

“Brother?” the voice resonated into the ear of every Sentinel, though only their captain could see the dim figure slowly approaching out of the murk of the invisible horizon. The words were belaboured, ragged with fatigue, yet penetratingly familiar all the same. “Is it truly you?”

The captain’s head inclined as he scrutinised the figure, a hand instinctively hovering over the activation of his power sword. It was truest haunting to him, for that voice was as unmistakable to him. No Astartes dared approach, opting to let the figure approach them in the damned storm, many training weapons in horrid distrust of someone lost to them. They spread out in a wide formation, ready to kill from every angle should their suspicion be confirmed.

“Captain,” one of the Sentinels spoke, prompting their leader as he finally activated his power sword - the crackling and hissing of snow reverberated through the winds.

“I know,” the captain said in a low but confident tone as he eyed down the figure. He knew no true Astartes would allow such fatigue to overcome him, no true Astartes would be alone this far out in the wastes of a storm. Neither would an Astartes carry the voice of a dead man. He tried to ping the being with a blink, but none came through - neither did any evidence of it show upon other forms of inspection. The Captain’s eyes narrowed as he spoke into the encrypted channel with his cousins, “Contact.”

“We hear you,” came Svaat’s whistle, followed by a quiet burst of speech evidently addressed to someone else - a hissing, guttural argot that blended Gothic with a foreign idiom, through which the words near and seen any emerged. After severing that exchange, the cohort-captain of the Ninth Legion spoke into the vox again. “We cannot confirm a presence. Be wary.”

The dim figure had continued to draw closer, its features progressively forcing themselves into visibility out from the leaden murk. It was larger than any man, the height and bulk that of an Astartes, and the angles and sharp traits of its outline suggested a familiar pattern of armour. Its gait, however, was as incongruous as its voice had sounded. The nearer it came, the more inconsistent its steps were. Now they had the stability and confidence to match the stranger’s appearance; now suddenly they broke into a dragging, almost limping shuffle; now again they hastened to quick strides, all trace of impediment gone. The sight was an uncanny one.

“How glad I am to have found you,” the voice came again, “I have wandered in this damned storm for weeks. Another day, I think, and I would have gone mad.”

The captain wanted to show aggression, to charge forth at what they were seeing and strike it down in the name of the Eagle. His brothers wanted to as well, he could see their fingers hovering over the trigger from where he stood, but this situation required caution and he knew not how powerful this creature was. He needed information, subtly he pinged his location to the Bone Walker’s, before he described his blade in a bid to buy time. The importance was that the captain sought to know if this was a witch’s conjuration or some other foul trick to lower the guard of the Emperor’s finest.

“State your designation, no Sentinel walks alone,” the captain ordered in as much a more conversational tone as he could.

“I am Legionary Heider.” Somehow, the name sounded in a peculiar timbre, as if the voice had momentarily been replaced by another, very similar yet strange one. “At Kromden, I was cut away from my unit. I thought I would die then, but duty raised me back to my feet, despite my wounds..”

It cut off, and the figure staggered on its feet, slowing to a limp.

“I have endured them so far, but they are deep. Brothers, if I had not found you now…” It raised a gauntleted hand in the captain’s direction, then let it fall limply.

Legionary Heider, had truly died in the battle of Kromden that much was certain, but the true Heider’s body had been recovered shortly after - they would not waste the progenoid glands so fervently. The captain’s eyes narrowed and his grip tightened - wishing to destroy this clear abomination. There was pause in that as he spoke, speaking to throw the creature, “Heider? I heard you were felled throwing yourself upon an abomination larger than the night itself.”

“I thought that would be my final stroke,” Heider - the thing that claimed to be Heider - had stopped, leaning on one knee in a weary posture. Its voice had grown more tinged with fatigue to match; yet the change was too abrupt, from one word to the next, in a way no human tone would fall. “Darkness took me then. But I awoke, broken though I was, smothered under these things’ corpses. It was days until I could find the army’s trail.”

It moved one step closer. Far behind it, shades seemed to flow and twist strangely among the whirling snow.

“Very well, Heider. Now, take off your helm and say that while looking in my eyes,” the captain ordered, as the others took aim around the creature. The Sentinels would not be fooled by an apparition, for they were the watchers of humanity and they would protect their lessers from the foul predation of the terrors of Old Night.

Slowly, the creature’s arms rose to its head. With an inaudible sound, the sharp lines of the helmet were lifted, and underneath, through the sleet lay the features of Legionary Heider - or something twisted in their semblance. Under the piercing scrutiny of superhuman eyes, the terribly pale skin seemed to ripple and writhe, as if harbouring crawling worms underneath. The lips perpetually mouthed silent words. The eyes were bleak and glassy, fixed into the void.

“I am glad to have found you, brothers,” it repeated, and the words came ever so slightly faster than the frostbitten mouth had moved.

“You are no brother of ours, creature,” the Astartes barked - in unity, the brothers of the Sentinels fired their myriad of weaponry, bolter and volkaite, upon the abomination that took on a mockery of their form. The thing contorted and flailed under the barrage, shrieking in an inhuman voice as its body pulsated and expanded, losing all pretence of a familiar form. It was rotting flesh, spongy lichen, porous bone, a writhing mass of worms at once, shuddering and extending itself into groping pseudopods. Gunfire tore clumps of nebulous ooze from its bulk, the scorching energy of the volkites cutting grievous gouges into its protean mass until it collapsed into rapidly dissipating threads of oily smoke.

It seemed, however, that its dying cry had not gone unheard.

“Hostiles!” Svaat barked through the vox, the rattle of bolter-fire threading through the storm, “Dozens of them all around! Keep fast!”

Out from the blizzard, malformed hulks were charging at the Sentinels’ position. They were human in form - soldiers, techno-barbarians, Thunder Warriors, even some Astartes - and yet at once not. Their limbs were huge, asymmetrical lumps of jagged bone and putrescence, their heads cancerous lumps of ooze gaping with toothed maws. Their steps were erratic, their bodies almost translucent as though insubstantial, yet bolts and energy-fire wounded them all the same, and the edges of their claws were frightfully solid.

They fired in nearly all directions, yet they dared not stay still, bounding about in the direction of their cousins as they felled the abominations. The captain’s sword crackled and cut through the falsehoods and lies that made up these creatures. He cleaved one in two, bisecting it before delivering a swift decapitation as it fell to the ground. Astartes were quick as they were brutal, their superhuman physiology drove them through the storm with a blinding precision as their rounds ripped through malformed cretins that tried to snap and claw at the Astartes that proved much too fast for their forms.

The captain deduced these were ambush predators brought about by the Nordyc wyrds, nothing more than a byproduct of the horrid practices of the witches that made these lands. His sword ripped through another. Then, he saw that one of these creatures blindsided one of his brothers, swiping at him with his claws and tearing through his armor as if it were paper - a lethal blow for a human. Yet, he witnessed the battle-brother raise his volkaite and shoot the being in what constituted its chest. The captain slowed to allow the wounded to catch up, they would not abandon their kin to these monstrosities.

“Svaat, tread carefully, armour means nothing to these abominations,” the captain spoke into the vox, bringing up his plasma pistol to shoot a creature point-blank.

“They are not wholly of this world,” the cohort-captain’s voice convened, and moments after the warrior himself was emerging from the murk, stepping backwards to avoid a lunging bite from a Steel Lord whose head was a many-eyed bestial skull. The marine’s bone-adorned eviscerator chainblade arced back, dragging through the semi-corporeal horror as if through sludge, before a hacking blow from another onrushing legionnaire of the Ninth broke it into scattering miasma. “Yet they bleed all the same.”

About them, more Bone Walkers and Excoriators were pulling close, tightening their front against the onslaught of the otherworldly pack. Many had their armour scored by scrapes and gashes, but the spurts of their flamers scorched more and more of the creatures to cinders, and ever fewer new assailants were materialising out of the shade.

A hideous bellowing roar rang out then, and the howl of the storm echoed it. A tremendous figure burst into sight, encased in the loose remnants of Thunder Warrior armour, but grotesquely magnified and elongated in its many-jointed limbs. Dead-blue skin gave way to patches of cerulean scales and cancerous clumps of yellow eyes across its swollen, exposed arms and legs, and azure smoke streamed from the broken side of its halved, now-cyclopic skull. Distended fingerbones sharpened to talons raked the ground as the monstrosity hurled itself forward.

“Strike fast,” Svaat’s words sounded through the vox as he lurched to the side, bringing his weapon to bear.

“Bring ruin!” The captain of the Night Hunters bellowed through the vox, eager to take on the giant that dared show itself. His sword cut through the lesser beings as if they were nothing but a crop being felled during harvest. He fired three blasts from his plasma pistol as he met the beast in battle, parrying and striking as the master swordsman that the legion had based itself after. Yet, a single strike harsher than that of even a custodian sent the captain flying back, careening through the blizzard. He had caught its backhand, luckily enough to merely have his ribs shattered and his chest piece dented near-beyond recognition. The captain roared in anger, “Bring it down, cousin! With me!”

With renewed and unshakable vigour, the Sentinels surged forth, fighting as one unit with the cousins as they dispelled the apparitions. The captain hurled himself forwards, jumping upon the beast and driving his sword into its form. As it stumbled to the ground, spewing dark ichor from its wound, Svaat’s chainblade met its throat and tore. The abomination’s clawed limbs spasmed, and the light in its many eyes guttered out.

The last of the spectral figments died with it, discorporating into wails and ragged smoke. A sudden peace descended on the snowy field, tentative at first and almost not trusting in itself, but surer and gentler with every passing moment. What began as a suspicion solidified to amazed certainty as the torturously familiar howl grew weaker, and then weaker still.

The storm was abating.

---

Surrender had been swift and unexpected. It created a host of issues that the central command center for the Imperial army group was now being forced to deal with, problems that they had not accounted for.

Vox operators relayed endless torrents of information from frontline troops, resistance across the city had collapsed seemingly simultaneously. There were reports of Sanctii’s elite simply ambling without purpose around the battlefield, and the surrender of entire units started to be reported by forward command posts and low-grade officers that were wholly unequipped for the massive undertaking of prisoner processing that was now starting to take shape across the hivecity.

In an attached command tent, purposefully set aside from the main bustle of the central strategium, a second command post stood mostly empty. Vox operators stood idly by, and cogitator technicians tapped slowly at their stations as if trying to appear to work. A Sigillite-Intendant stood quietly over the strategium. The dour man had been silently eyeing a pair of hooded figures in the corner of the room as he awaited the arrival of the senior commanders of the siege for debrief. He found the pair so very odd, their hoods obscuring their faces in the dim light, their cloaks seemed obtuse in places against their bodies, and their hands and chests moved beneath the cloaks as if speaking yet the Sigillite heard no words from the pair.

The command tent door swung open with a squeak and the Intendant turned his gaze from the strangers in the corner to the arrival of his first battlefield commander. He frowned at the man, not recognizing the face as he raked his internal memory banks for the face.

“Major Sandovall,” the officer said to the Intendant, his face caked in blood and soot from the fighting, “43rd Imperial Army Battalion, the General will not be attending on account of being atomized Intendant, you can stop that data scrolling now,” he sneered as he took up a spot around the central strategium table intended for his late superior.

The Intendant nodded, “Of course,” he stated flatly as he turned his view back to shifting runes on the table before him.

A gaggle of five soldiers followed after Major Sandovall, each as worn with weariness as the last. At the forefront of the gaggle was a dark man with an archaic helmet snug under his left arm and a dataslate under a metallic right arm. A battle scarred husk remained where once a gilded trench coat fit for a general adorned his form. A plethora of recently tended to wounds dotted the warrior’s skin as he walked under the swinging glowglobes. He stopped short of the Forty-Third Battalion’s attendant, offering a somber nod before addressing the servant of the Sigillite.

“General Astaroth. Commander of the Forty-First Excertus Imperialis. An attendant would normally take my place, but most of my men were vaporized in the last assault.” The man spoke with wounded pride, one of his hands offering a rough salute despite the agony of his wounds. One of the men behind him shifted to offer assistance, yet Astaroth raised a hand to halt their movement. “Furthermore, I will be attending in the absence of Commander Joral of the Eighty-Eighth and General Ishad of the Seventy-First with their regimental replacements. Both perished in the final assault of Sanctii’s spire.”

A pair of crimson-clad warriors stepped forward to either side of General Astaroth. The first was a tall, Himalazian man with a cacophony of tattoos traveling up his neck to his left ear. A short crop of hair with shaved sides complimented a grossly scarred face, enhanced only by the grim presence of skin-fused facial plates from fresh wounds. The second was an average sized woman with a gaunt face and a pair of dead, pale-blue eyes. Her crimson uniform was decorated with several decorations of Achaemenidian flavor, including the power scimitar that hung from her belt. Thin hair tangled into a rudimentary bun did little to hide the veritable damage done to her dusken-skinned face.

“Captain Maggroth of the Eighty-Eighth, Forty-Fifth Battalion.” The Himalazian man said, offering a slow and strong salute to the Scribe-Intendant. His voice was similarly slow, strong, and brutal to the eardrums of those in the tent. A Himalazian twang was obvious on his tongue, hailing from one of the many tribes that had been originally conquered in the name of Unification.

“Vice-Commander Bushra of the Seventy-First, Third Battalion.” The woman spoke next, her voice deep and dour. The battle had afflicted her in more ways than one, such that it was apparent in her few arriving words. Her Achaemenidian rasp would’ve been a delight to listen to were it not for the perpetual dread clinging to her tongue.

The two remaining men behind the trio held dataslates close to their garbs, closely following their respective commanders with a mixture of new found respect and existential dread. They offered no introduction, allowing the limelight to fall upon their superior officers.

The Sigillite-Intendant returned the salute to General Astaroth as his haptics drew up the incoming data streams of casualty reports, he’d need to edit his attendance report before he could send it on to his master.

“General, Vice Commander, Captain,” he nodded solemnly, “I am glad you are all in attendance.”

Three more figures filed in, scrabbly and battlefield-dirty even by the standards of those in attendance. The first man was unmistakably Colonel John Stavin, in his third-line issue, filthy quilted flak jacket and Urshic flap-ear cap. The second was a weatherbeaten, skinny man with a wild look in his eyes and a penal det-collar on his neck; the newly promoted Lieutenant Whitaker. The third, with her distinctive cap missing, was Discipline Mistress Severina. All look like they had been through two or three hells.

“Sorry sirs, madams.” The Colonel said, “Aeternus - ahm, Primarch Aeternus, I mean - he got us back as quick as he could. It is a fuc-”

Severina elbowed him, while Whitaker simply stared off into space, trying not to laugh.

“I mean- the strategic situation is very loose out there.” He said, “As I’m sure we’re all aware.”

A carbon-scoured giant strode into the tent, whatever markings that had once graced the ceramite burnt away under the fury of elementary particles. Two Volkite Serpentas were maglocked to the armor, the barrel of one twisted and deformed by overuse. “Vairya Kurus, Mistress of the First Legion of Astartes.” Her voice came through the vox-grill built into her helmet, and sounded more like the rumbling of a giant than that of any woman.

Of course, she was nothing to the Thunder Warriors, who had fought and charged and died upon the field. She was less - and in more subtle ways than size. There was a rigidity to her bearing, as if the armor was moving on its own, and no true flesh dwelt within.

The footsteps of Mistress Vairya were echoed, louder and bulkier than when her presence had graced the command tent. Another series of heavy greaves, enhanced by muscle and servo-assisted pistons, resounded outside. The distinct sound of armored boots halting, turning, and shifting to a different stance unveiled the arrival of the next siege-commanders. A pair of Thunder Warriors stepped through with their armor scorched in tar-black with spontaneous white pockets of quickly applied ceramite sealant. Scraps clung to the back of their armor where alabaster cloaks would normally sway. None bore their weapons save for combat knives attached to their chestplates. The warrior at the forefront wore no helmet, instead carrying the knightly wargear under one arm while the other carried a dataslate. The other was similarly bare, semi-limping with several freshly installed augmentations where limbs should be.

“Primarch Aeternus Rex of the God-Slayers, First Legion of the Thunder Warriors. With me is Captain Caestus Caligula of the God-Slayers.” The man stated, his raven hair tied into a warrior’s knot behind him to reveal an unimaginable amount of scars, augmentations, and fresh wounds. His features were that of the Emperor’s without any of the perfection, uglied by unknowable decades of grueling combat. Both of his dark eyes observed the occupants of the room, consuming every detail of those in attendance. They finally rested on the scorched form of the Astartes commander, Vairya, and he offered a solemn nod to his fellow genewarrior. Caligula remained still as a statue, fully engrossed in a dataslate with a mixture of worry and annoyance.

As the Primarch turned away from the Astartes, he stepped next to the smaller forms of Severina and Stavin. A warm smile, at least one that could be conveyed as such, grew on the lips of Aeternus. A gauntleted hand fell upon one of the Colonel’s shoulders. “I’m glad to see you survived, Stavin. You as well, Sevarina. As I sliced through hordes of those biocreatures, I grew worried that your ill-fated luck would’ve caught up to you both.” He said with a strange tone, one that could be conveyed as sarcasm and genuine worry all the same.

Despite the warmth offered by Aeternus, a gripping chill seemed to fall over those present as darkness entered the tent. The Stygian armor towered over most present, two orbs filled with the most horrid hatred any could conjure in that room. Amalasuntha looked between all present before finally resting her gaze upon the Intendant, venom being cast without a single utterance. The custodian’s words finally sounded, simple and direct, “This operation is a failure. The Abomination escaped the city.”

As though unphased by the demigods' outburst, the Sigillite-Intendant gave a curt nod, “That wasn’t beyond our Master’s predictions,” he confirmed to the Black Hawk as he seemed to ignore the others that had entered just prior for the far more pressing matter that had been dropped on the strategium by Amalasuntha.

“Rest assured, the Sigillite was planning for this eventuality, and the eyes and ears of the raptor are already at work following any dissidents and deserters of this masterful siege, the abomination will be run to ground, Lady Amalasuntha, and your retinue will be required one last time in this matter, if it suits your preference.”

The Intendent turned away from the Black Hawk and addressed the Primarch and his curious comrades next.

“Primarch Rex, your warriors have done well for themselves, and this siege has much to thank their sacrifice for,” he turned a curious eye to the penal battalion commander and his discipline mistress as he called up their preliminary after action reports on his retinal haptics, “Colonel Stavin, Mistress Severina, the remains of the 51st Sanctiian Guards are to be seconded to you, sans armor and weaponry, of course. Your heroism, despite your standing, was admirable, and your service has been noted by our Master for review.”

A swarm of emotions bristled under the thunder warrior’s skin as the intendant spoke. It felt like his and Amalasuntha’s words echoed throughout his cranium. He felt a pang of anger that threatened to bubble up from a vast pit of underlying responses. Half of his legion had died, men and women sworn to the Master of the Lines that had achieved greatness. To him, the escape of the entity known as ‘Deep Winter’ felt like his warriors had died in vain. All of these feelings occurred in a brief spark of a second behind his dark eyes. The glamour wore off in a fraction of that as Aeternus brought his fist to his chest in reverence.

“We are His God-Slayers, Scribe-Intendant, it is the least we can do in pursuit of Unity,” He finally responded, his lion’s roar of a voice dimmed to acceptable levels. His head dipped forward in a short bow of appreciation before rising once more to settle on Amalasuntha. “Worry not, we will find the abomination and tear the beating cyberheart from its entrails. You will have the support of the God-Slayers, if our Master is willing. Perhaps even Mistress Vairya could assist, or even our newly polished hero of the Thirty-One-Third.”

As the Scribe-Intendant began to take another breath, the Primarch raised a hand as to continue speaking. “Your praise - and by extension the Sigilite’s - is worthy enough for me, yet I request one more thing from our Master. The crimes of the Thirty-First-Third are to be forgiven for their exemplary duty. Without their assistance, Sanctii might not have fallen. Their courage, honor, and bravery are merit enough. A promise should be kept and a duty must be honored.” He finished, lowering his hand and looked down at Colonel Stavin with a pained smile.

The Legion Mistress was inscrutable with her face hidden behind her helm, myomer false muscle holding her frame impossibly still. After a moment she spoke again, but even her voice was rendered anonymous by the vox grill. “If this is the Emperor’s will. The remainder of the Legion continues apace, Astartes combat effectiveness only marginally impaired by combat losses. If we are to be sent after target-designate Deep Winter, I would request a day to flesh-share gene-memory of recent encounters with its manufactorum subroutine with those of us who did not partake in the engagement.”

“You will have the time you need Mistress, refit your Legion. Replacements, though fresh, are expected to you in good time.”

The Scribe-Intendant flagged a reinforcement report and geneseed acceptance rate report as vermillion for the Mistress’ incoming replacements and expected reserves. No doubt she would have seen such data within the week, but this would speed up the bureaucracy behind the scenes considerably.

“No doubt that the Sanctiian province will require a garrison to ensure full compliance of the region and the eventual supporting invasion into mainland Ursh,” General Astaroth began to speak, reviewing the dataslate in his hand as new information fed into it. “There are a hundred different regiments, mercenaries, and penal forces that can remain stationed in the province; however, I’d like to nominate the Forty-First to remain as the acting force in the region. There is a fire still lit in our breast to see this campaign to its complete and total end. Let the Seventy-First and Eighty-Eighth lead the charge against Kalagann in our place.”

The pair of recently promoted soldiers behind him shared a look as the tired, withered man offered himself and his legion to remain in the site of their greatest campaign. His tone was blissfully certain and as still as unperturbed water. It was as if he accepted that Sanctii was the place in which he would die. The thunder warriors offered a nod of their head, acknowledging a fellow warrior of dire straits.

The Scribe-Intendant nodded respectfully as the General resigned himself to seeing Sanctii through to the end.

“Just so, General, just so.”

He turned his attention back to the group at large, his haptics categorizing information, resolving unit order reports, and final debrief notes for review by the Sigillite himself.

“Colonel Stavin, Mistress Severina,” the Intendant began, “I do not have the authority to grant the request of the Primarch Aeternus, but I have already forwarded it to the Sigilite for review. Expect a decision within the week, you are to remain here, seconded to General Astaroth for prisoner processing until that decision arrives.”

“As for the rest of you, order confirmations have been forwarded to your headquarters’. You are dismissed. In the Emperor’s name.”

“His will be done. Join me whenever you are ready, Colonel Stavin.” General Astaroth stated, saluting the Scribe-Intendant with a small smile beginning to break his sullen features. Clicking his boots together, the battered man turned on his heel and marched out of the tent with the regimental replacements. He wasted no time as all five of the auxilia commanders exited the debrief into the wastes of Sanctii. A thought crossed his mind as he walked by Primarch Aeternus, about whether they’d see each other in Ursh. He dismissed the thought, knowing that the God-Slayers would see the end one way or another.

“Raptor Imperialis, Scribe-Intendant, for glory and unity. We will begin reinforcing outside of Sanctii and march on His orders.” Primarch Aeternus replied, offering a salute in the form of a fist to his chest. Captain Caligula echoed his action as the two stepped backwards towards the aft portion of the command tent. There was much he still wished to discuss with the Astartes and the Black Hawk, yet Rex knew that there was little to discuss when Unity was well within their grasp. Regardless, the commander of the First Legion awaited his allies out in the heavy snow of Sanctii.

“For glory and unity,” the Scribe-Intendant echoed as the Primarch left the command tent. His haptics flickered as he logged each of the respective commanders leaving to go about their tasks, their diligence to be recorded and forwarded to his liege lord as requested once his immediate tasks were complete.

The breath of flame across his face was his greeting, and the taste of ash on his tongue his welcoming feast. Dust and fracturing stone cracked under his feet as his soaring leap reached his mark. A chorus of panicked cries and frantic calls to order rose around him, and that was the one fitting exultation for his arrival. His blade whirled, and they shattered into agonizing gurgling. No honour ought to overstay its welcome, after all, especially not those borne of battle, where a long procession of new glories waited in every stroke of the sword, and every charging step was a new hymn to the warrior’s grandeur.

With an arcing sweep of his sword, the bodies who still crowded the ramp were swept back, scrambling over each other to avoid the murdering steel. The few seconds they gained were however nothing more than that, for a hurtling mass of metal hurtled over them as a crushing avalanche. Crimson blood stained red armour, washing away ashen grime. A bellowing war-cry silenced fading screams even as carmine-shod boots stamped on the throats they issued from.

Rodhamon, Red Knight of Thunder, raised his dripping blade to the dust-clouded heavens, and plunged into the doomed city.

Like many of its neighbours, Kinchizere greatly differed from the towering hives of Meric or the blocky behemoths of the Yndonesic basins. Far from being encased in its own walls from every side, faceless and impregnable, its was akin to a titanic forest of pillars standing tightly together like a stony oasis in the Afrik desert, each a lesser spire in its own right. Tiers of balconies spread from their stems in circles and spirals, lofty streets and avenues extending not in length but climbing upward. Some of the lower rings were so massive that they supported quarters of their own, cone-roofed houses not fashioned into the hive-pillars but standing loosely as they might have on the ground. Such private dwellings were a luxury in the hive, and its wealthier families had vied for the right to live between their own four walls. Their exterior betrayed this opulence: more than any other district they were adorned with fluttering curtains and bloodline-flags of bright cloth, set with doors of precious wood and hung with carved icons and ritual masks.

Now, these very privileges made them the first to fall as the Thunder Warriors tore through the lower levels of the hive.

The hand-flamer in Rodhamon’s left fist vomited fiery death as he charged through the streets, scourging walls and doors like a sweeping lash. Cloth and wood blazed, choking the small buildings with searing black smoke. Blinded and gasping, their inhabitants stumbled out through collapsing doors, heedless of danger in their frenzied scramble, crowding disorderly in the now all too narrow passages and jostling each other for a mouthful of air. There the fell knight’s blade scythed them down like stalks of wheat at harvest-time, its wielder as indifferent as the steel in his hand to what lives were severed by his mighty swipes. The soldiers of Kichinzere had abandoned these outer quarters to their fate, seeing the hopelessness of facing the juggernauts in these cramped streets, and thus it was the unbridled slaughter of old and young that spelled the first true letters of this battle.

They staggered out into the inner ring, red anew with gore from head to foot, glutted on carnage but yet insatiable. Rodhamon surveyed his brothers, those hundred who had followed him in the mortal leap over Kichinzere’s flaming moat and reached the other side. Their armour, like his, was scorched, but still undented, and their movements sweeping and fluid with awakened bloodlust. He roared a wordless cry and motioned ahead, past the circular plaza that ran in a band around the lowest terrace and to the entrance into the hive proper.

There, the garrison had regrouped after being cast from the outer defenses. Soldiers cloaked in vivid orange hurried under a high arch, setting down heavy repeating guns they had clearly not been counting on to use. Just yesterday, the self-proclaimed Emperor had still been but another warlord of the wastelands, one of the many scavengers who circled the hives but never could hope to breach their safety. In less than an hour, the defenders had been disabused of their safety, and the ruthless grip of the assailants strengthened by the minute.

The first guns scarcely had time to fire a volley before the Red Knights were on them. One or two warriors fell in the corner of Rodhamon’s eye, but he paid them no mind as he overturned a fuming lascannon on its tripod in the same stroke that reduced its crew to mangled ruin. The defensive line crumpled before it truly had time to form, those soldiers not caught behind their guns casting them away in dismay and rushing back into the interior of the spire. Their effort was futile - the pursuers had not even slowed, and overtook them in a few strides, scattering them with a few careless blows.

The interior of the spire was a great hollow chamber, rising far along its height. Less spacious than one could have surmised from outside, for the walls were dense enough to accommodate several hab-blocks united by galleries, it was nevertheless monumental, being largely unbroken in its expanse unlike the layered floors of individually greater hives. Its size was matched by the ingenuity of its design, built to accommodate for the passage of men and goods in bulk at all levels of the vast tower. Circling spiral walkways ran abreast of the walls, winding upwards to the summit in webs held together by oblong platforms. Those were in turn connected by elevators and wire-running cabins whose dazzling yet orderly tangle bore witness the the ingenuity of their ancient engineers, though a number of them hung limply, damaged beyond the skill of their inheritors to restore. The same air of decay shone through the very stark artificial light that stood in lieu of the sun for the enclosed city, awning in the hopeless darkness of hundreds among the vast numbers of fluorescent slabs casting their glow.

All throughout the immense structure, the mass of humanity was teeming. The Imperials’ bombardment had struck Kinchizere’s power lines, and most of the wire-platform conveyors were stilled; the flicker of ailing lights drove the people to maddened fright. Crowding the walkways in the tens of thousands, an amorphous tide clad in varicoloured weaves like the scales of a leviathan serpent, they pushed up in blind, futile flight. It did not matter to them in that moment that at the top of the spire they would find safety no surer than in their doomed homes, the bridges between the segments of the hive insufficient for their multitude and likely beset by more prongs of the attackers. In the throes of panic, each thought only to prolong their life by the next instant, and now it meant flight, escape from the advancing danger below. Vainly did those soldiers who kept to their ranks try to keep a semblance of order; before the onrush, all they could do was stand aside and prepare to meet the Red Knights with their fire.

“Death to them!” Rodhamon brandished his sword and hurled himself at the straggling rear of the human wyrm, where the infirm and abandoned had been left to claw their way through the trampled bodies crushed in the stampede. Under the pitiless blades of the Thunder Warriors, their end was as gruesome as their last minutes had been. Rodhamon did not even deign to stain his blade upon the wretches, stamping them underfoot as he raced to the bulk of his prey. Hideous was his onslaught then! Heedless in his sanguinary exhilaration of the las-bolts that rained down around him, he clove into the files of shrinking and scampering backs. Wailing in mortal terror, the unfortunates tried to leap over the shoulders of their fellows to escape. Some outright cast themselves into the yawning abyss beyond the guardrails, whether to at least meet their fate on their own terms or to in any way escape the rampant giants. None tried to fight; even the soldiers who found themselves caught in close quarters threw away their guns and madly reached for any escape. None even dared hope for mercy from these steel-shod nightmares of war.

One platform went by in a red haze, then another. Rodhamon’s arm never tired, never grew heavy. He was about to let loose another swing when something crackled through the air, and a voice too deep to be human groaned behind him. Stirring himself from his fugue, he glanced back to see one of his warriors, Marbalus, topple over, a smoking crater burned into his gut. His superhuman eyes traced the trajectory of the shot to an extended branch of the walkway overhead. There, immobile and unflinching amid the swirling chaos of the massacre, stood a troop of striking figures. Tall, uniform in their carapace of bright emerald-green and peaked helmets, they were far unlike the defenders he had faced until that point. The long maws of their hellguns took aim with cold-blooded deliberation. He leapt to the side as two more Knights collapsed, their corpses pitted with scorched wounds despite their powered armour.

Beams of infernal heat trailed them now, their butchery now even more vicious in the frenzied effort to hack their way to the sharpshooters. The hellguns were no more discerning than the Knights’ blades, nor were their wielders: crackling energy sliced impiteously through the terror-mad throngs of Kinchizere to strike at their pursuers. More and more red-armoured warriors fell.

Snarling, Rodhamon raised his left hand, which held the flamer, and cast forth an arc of fire. The cacophony of screams around him became fevered, the smells of blood and ordure fast overwhelmed by the choking stench of burning bodies. Flaming, flailing bundles hurtled into the pit. The hammering of the hellguns paused, the shooters straining to pick out their targets, however massive, in the newly risen cloud of fire and smoke. It was not a subterfuge that would last for long, but Rodhamon knew his Knights were not just the murderers everyone held them for - true warriors were prompt of mind as well as of hand. Taking advantage of the moment of reprieve, some Thunder Warriors in the back halted for a moment and took aim with their bolters across the gulf, before answering the hell-blasts with a roaring volley of their own.

Raucous cheers rose as a dozen of the green-clad soldiers burst into gory eruptions like ripe fruit under a hammer, smearing the others with mangled viscera. It was to their credit that they did not break then, like so many lesser foes had before the voice of thunder. The hellgunners wavered, but held firm, crouching in haste as more bolts tore gaps into the parapet before them. They were about to reopen their own fire when several things at once tore through the discordant arras of the battle.

First came a unified scream of many throats from far above, not merely the din of fright that had saturated the tower with its innumerable echoes, but a chorus of dismay so intense and unified that it almost seemed deliberately coordinated. The reason was one easily guessed by those whose thoughts were still lucid. In a bid to delay the fall of his seat atop the central tower of the hive, the despot of Kinchizere had sealed the upper exits of the other spires and thus their access to the connecting bridges. The vanguard of the desperate had at that moment found their last irrational hope dashed against fortified gates.

The second shock struck closer to the focus of the firefight. What appeared to be a hangar gate in the tower’s wall overlooking a crowded mustering platform ground open with a sinister rumble. The thronging fugitives paid it little mind at first, stubbornly pressing ahead still, but even ragged and exhausted throats found fuel for new horror when a nightmare crawled out from the shadows beyond.

Squamous, slavering and immense, the creature crept onto the spiral road, snapping up unlucky stragglers between its jaws. It was a reptilian beast as large as two battle tanks, reconstructed from some ancient genetic template and reshaped into a weapon of final resort. Its long, squat body dragged forward on six clawed legs, the oscillating serpentine neck ending in an arrow-shaped head that was almost wholly one wide mouth. Where spines did not protrude from its spine and joints, heavy plates of armour had been bolted to its skin. Its dull, flinty eyes were mere slits above its forest of interlocking fangs, from between which a thin lashing tongue tasted the air. Its head darted to one side with incredible speed, jaws closing around a hapless victim, before it ponderously began to crawl down towards the Knights. Even the hellgunners, still distant on their perch, had scattered into the darkened web of wires at the sight of the monster.

“Not a step back!” Rodhamon growled, kicking aside the burned husks piled before him and tensing his preterhuman muscles as the beast neared. But the Thunder Warriors needed no encouragement. As they formed into a wedge bristling with blood-slick blades, five came forward, levelling their bolters, and let loose a round of fire at the gaps in the creature’s armour. Its dirty-green scales sloughed away under the precise shots, but it did not so much as slow; indeed, as it loomed from the nearest platform overhead, it sprang with unexpected agility and crushed two of the warriors in its grotesquely distending maw. Rodhamon cursed, and lunged forward.

They circled the gargantuan brute like a pack of snow-lions around a mammoth, probing its defenses and drawing back before its clattering teeth as it clumsily but unstoppably maneuvered its bulk on the walkway. The armour that had been fastened to its hide was of the sort used for land-ships and fortresses, and even Rodhamon’s powered sword could only dent it. The gaps between the plates were more vulnerable, but the monster seemed to know no pain, and its reptilian flesh barely even bled when it was cut. Like a living bastion, it blocked the way above, and its own jaws moved with frightening speed. Time and again a Knight would be too slow in drawing back, and with a sickening crunch the adamant-sharp teeth would tear through steel and bone alike.

“Mark me now!” Rodhamon looked aside to see one of his warriors, Mandrekar, raise his spear with both hands as the monster prepared to rear up its head. He understood in an instant. As the bristling fangs came down again, Mandrekar angled the haft of his weapon, and his spear pierced into the underside of the creature’s jaw, driven deep by its own momentum. The distended beastly throat rattled drily as the steel haft bent and snapped in its wielder’s hands, and this time it was ever so slightly slower in drawing back. Rodhamon was ready to drive his own weapon forward, and his blade slid into a cold unblinking eye. The beast hissed then, and thrashed, but he held his grip firmly. Its maw stretched wide, almost tearing the sword from his hands, and in that moment another Knight, Rugier, hurled a krak grenade down its gullet. The sibilations became a liquid gurgle as half its legs went limp, blood pooling between them from under its belly.

“Hurl!” Tearing his sword out, Rodhamon slammed shoulder-first into the creature’s steely side, and with a crash of metal the others followed suit. Muscle strained, boots scraped the paved rockcrete, slipping in the admixture of human and beastly blood, but the tremendous strength of the Thunder Legions told true. The dying monster scratched the ground, vainly struggling to keep its hold, and then the ruined guardrails gave way, and the carcass tumbled into the abyss.

“To the end now!” Nothing more stood between the Red Knights and the top of the spire. Unseeing bloodlust carried them again, and Rodhamon scarce knew how many more fell under his blade, for how long he swung and hacked unthinkingly, with what violence he battered the fortified door at the very apex, the last barrier that separated him from the court of the hive’s craven satrap and the glory of their blood. Only when the heavy steel gate collapsed with a tearing groan did the first breath of clear though smoke-tainted air pass through his lips, and as he stepped once more into the light of day the haze cleared from his eyes.

He did not like what they saw.

The central tower of Kinchizere, tallest and most ornate of all, lay across an arched bridge over a vertiginous fall to the dusty ground of Midafrik far below. By all tokens, it had already been sacked. Its horseshoe-arched windows belched oily smoke into the troubled sky. The once-white facade was scored with bolts and lasfire, the turquoise mosaics once marking its grandeur in places smashed with particular relish. The culprits of this devastation were plain to see: a score of inhumanly large armoured figures were marching over the bridge towards them, their backs to the ruin. Though battle-marked, their liveries were plainly a blend of lightning yellow and black-red. The Annihilators had beaten them to the ultimate prize.

“Waste jackals!” His vision began to cloud again as he stepped forward, pointing his sword at the rival warriors, who hesitated the slightest fraction of an instant. He heard the other Knights at his back step forward behind him. “We ripped out the hive’s teeth, and we carved out its heart! The court was ours!”

“You? Ha!” The lead Annihilator’s face was an ungainly mess of scars and swollen features, beyond a doubt one of the ugliest works to issue from the Emperor’s hands. He laboured every word as if surfacing from the ocean of simmering rage behind his uneven eyes to speak were a contemptuous annoyance. “Slow. Weak. We are first! Lick the dust.”

“You will be first to taste it indeed!” Mandrekar’s fury was the first to reignite, and he sprang upon the leader, still unarmed and begrimed in gore to his shoulders. The Annihilator had been no less eager to let loose his violence, but the strangeness of this charge surprised him. His sneer turned to a grimace as the chainaxe he had been raising to strike the assailant was simply pried from his grip with a dexterous wrench, and then to a frustrated roar as its spinning blade hewed his own throat. Mandrekar tore the weapon from the stumbling corpse of its wielder and hurled it, still shrieking, at another opponent, sending him stumbling back between curses and blood. Rodhamon did not let the momentum slip away, and whirling his own sword he was soon in the thick of the fight.

It was a brutal, disorderly brawl. Both sides were tired, insofar as Thunder Warriors could be, but they were equally skilled and ferocious. Rodhamon clove through an Annihilator’s helmet, splitting his skull, even as he saw in the corner of his eye as Mandrekar was cut down by another. Step by step, blow by blow, the match grew more uneven. The Red Knights had been depleted by the battle, while another squad of Annihilators came charging down the bridge. The crimson was whittled down, hemmed in and pressed together by the black and yellow. Soon Rodhamon found himself on the defensive, inching back before the vicious swings of a fresh enemy. Another Knight fell near him; only six remained now, shoulder to shoulder, encircled by roaring blades. He snarled, tired and bleeding yet no less defiant, sword held up in a posture of challenge.

“Enough!” A harsh command pulled the Annihilators back. Their ranks loosened and withdrew, and between them there appeared the hide cloak and crested helmet of their Primarch. “Go back to your master, dogs of Charmagnol. This day is ours. Let this be a lesson to you.”

“Watch yourself, Jotharion,” Rodhamon growled, but he lowered his blade and motioned for his warriors to do the same. With rancorous glares, they stepped back, their rage undimmed but in no condition to contest such an adversary. Dusk crept into the soot-streaked sky.

All around them, for hundreds of miles, Midafrik burned.

“Acolyte, your presence is requested.”

The tone that spoke over the comms system was modulated, first through the cybernetics of the speaker and then through the tiny warbling of the comms itself. Even so, the sound of surprise, and a hint of bitterness, was impossible to hide.

If there was a hint of surprise in the speaker’s emotional cores, then a practical tidal wave of shock, nerves and perhaps true fear crashed over Oma as she realised what that entailed. Ever since the first nuclear exchange between the forces of Terra below the work of the entire team had become a frantic cascade of repair work on fried sensors, dispatching Flight-Servitors for surface work and the examination on what information they could glean. The most senior of the stationed acolytes, Acolyte For-Tek, had even been dispatched to the surface itself. Some of the listening probes had been so badly damaged that the dropped servitors couldn’t complete the task.

Oma did hope the Magus was currently ok, but she didn’t mind the additional benefit of his share of the snack bars (officially known as high-sucrose energy replenishers) while he was away. It was one of these she was currently munching her way through in a rare break in her duties that the announcement had reached her. She knew that Magus Hemmar was currently involved in a critical meeting with powerful members of the Priesthood back on Mars, requesting her presence was highly irregular. Something like that would only occur if it was of true importance.

Oma scrambled to her feet, an effort which was made easier by the exceedingly weak gravity, they’d had to priortise other systems. She patted herself down, adjusting her robe and casting aside a few crumbs of snackbar, breathing a steady routine of calming exhalations. It didn’t do much good, but she had little time to waste and began to pull herself through the post. With the low-g, she’d installed a few handrails into the bulkhead where the ponderous systems of the post didn’t already provide handy holds to use. The Magos had agreed to the modifications son the grounds it prevented unhallowed use of some of the sacred systems.

The Acolyte had never entered the Communications hub before, it was the sole duty of the Magos to make outgoing communications and he alone performed maintenance on those systems as well. Much of her work had travelled through the systems though, her fingerprints of hardwork all over the data packages sent onwards to Mars.

On this occasiona though, as she pulled herself up the central ladder (a previously quite strenuous task) the circular door that she had never seen open, slid apart to admit her into the Post’s most sacred space. It was almost twice as large as her own workspace, perhaps only rivaled in size aboard the post as the lounge/kitchen the Acolytes shared at the base of the post. It was entirely different to that utilitarian space, however. The walls were covered in cables and cogitators, each gilded with sacred symbols. The Magos himself stood at the centre, and then she beheld the manner in which the great Magi of Mars spoke with her superior.

She had previously imagined some sort of holographic communication, or perhaps simply just coded streams of Binharic. What she beheld instead was a marvel that many could find monstrous. A vast assemblage of cables, stablights, and other assorted mechanical parts arose from the wall, as if compelled by biological impulse, forming through the assemblage of their parts the face of a vast humanoid being. They spoke with one voice, and as they did, voxhailers within the amalgamation provided said voice, and lips of cabling moved in time.

“Approach, Acolyte.”

Had the force of gravity had much more hold on her, she would have surely faltered in her step, but instead she simply drifted for a moment, before remembering to bow her head.

“Honored Masters, Omnissiah bless you, and bless me for this day, I am humble in your presence.” Her colleagues often bemoaned her lack of doctrinal orthodoxy, but in the face of such terrible majesty, she found her faith.

“We are all blessed in the Machine God’s light, your Magos has presented your findings, but we would hear from the datasmyth herself.” While the machine-face was dominated by two large optical eyes, glowing a brilliant, cold, blue, she noted there were countless other small lights across the construct, which could well be where the Forgemasters truely observed from. Still, she opted to lock her own eyes to those larger, baleful glows. She had expected to feel some sort of passive hostility from her superior, as one could see this as a slight against his interpretation of her report, but in the face of the Forgemasters, if that was present, she didn’t notice.

“As we reported several cycle ago, conflict between the Technobarbarian states of Terra have escalated, the nation known as the Pan-Pacific Empire, so named for the last of Terra’s oceans contained within their territory, deployed an arsenal of atomics upon their rivals in Ursh.” That act alone had sent a ripple of shock through the Priesthood, such technology largely being considered lost from the grasp of the current generation of warlord nations. “These are the two older of the greater powers upon Terra, and it is likely why they beheld each other as the greater threat.” As the Acolyte spoke, she spread her hands out before, one of her few more advanced augments coming into use as a rudimentary hologram of Terra and the shifting frontiers of the world stretch out between them, emitted from subdermal implants across her fingers and palm.

“I believe, from my own dataweaving, those in the upper echelons of the Empire believed their conquest of Merica was assured, and did not wish to unduly damage the resources and cities they wished to claim, while they have little aim other than destruction in their campaign across the Siber Iceplain and Asiatic Dustfields, indeed, they had previously completed a through campaign of extermination against the Xeric tribes.” Those had not been transmissions that she had enjoyed looking through, no matter how she tried to compel her emotions as a good acolyte of the Omnissiah should. “They were not aware, however, that Ursh was in retreat on other fronts.”

The holographic map depicted in the space between her hands shifted, drawing attention to a great scar of activity across the Eastern reaches of Europa. Where once such scars had been the sign of ages past, they now told a story of horrific bloodshed already done, and yet to pass. “The Imperium of Man, previously confined to only the ancient valleys of ‘Tamia, has expanded at great pace, you will find in my reports further examination of their surprising technological advantages, which present innovation, rather than simply the discovery of ancient caches.” There was a hiss of pistons from behind her as the Magos adjusted slightly, but the great face of the Forgemasters did not react. “The attack from the Empire could not have come at a worse time for Ursh, their allies in Nordyc that were holding a buffer against the Imperium had begun to fall, and the route was shortly competed. As nuclear fire claimed their East, the Imperium has begun pressing from across their Western border.” The projecion she ‘held’ changed once more, depicting the hazy recordings of the giant, armoured clad, warriors of the Imperium. Annotations in rapid binharic formed around the images, notes she had made herself about the obviously genewrought warriors. “It is speculative, but I had decoded transmissions between this Imperium and exclaves upon Luna, and I believe it true another surge of these warriors will be imminent, with aid from some of its resident powers.” This was the crux of the new information she had provided, that the Imperium, alone of the three Terran powers, had now established true connections with non-terrestrial actors.

“Speculation, but you believe it so?” Finally the great face spoke to reply to her, and once again it’s cacopahnic voice trembled through her as much as it did the metal around her.

“Yes, Blessed Forgemasters, what’s more I believe there are increasingly common occurances of interstellar travel, using craft which our sensors are blind to.” This was almost tantamount to a heretical blow to the Martian Priesthood, to accept that some of the brutes on Terra could have crafted something beyond the ability of Mars, but judging by her lack of immediate censure, she imagined both the Magos and the Forgemasters had found her evidence compelling.

Steadying her nerve again, she continued. “With the Empire focused on crushing Ursh, it’s invasion of Merica has collapsed entirely, the push from the Imperium across the Eastern part of the region has secured the territory as vassals or allies, now they prepare to push into the heartland of the Empire, already aquatic battles have begun to rage, but they are merely preludes to what each plans in that theatre.” Those had been sobering communications to uncover as well, her mind had barely comprehended the forces being moved by both powers to engage each other, even while both still battled on fronts thousands of kilometers across in Ursh. “And…that is not all, in Ursh, well, I do not know how to describe it in ways that are hallowed.” Omah barely got those words out, sure she would finally bring some from of wrath down on her.

“You speak of the Wychcraft.” The great face spoke, and she found herself nodding with frantic relief, tinged still with her dread and concern.
“The core of their nation has gone dead, not simply quiet in the datastreams, but impenetrable. When the world turns to face us, and I regard it through the observation port, dark clouds gather across the heart of Ursh. I do not believe they are beaten, and I fear what they are willing to do.” It was an emotional response, but in such times even the Martian Priesthood are allowed such things, she at least hoped they would consider this.

“Your words are judged in the Machine God’s light and found to be true, Acolyte, you have worked well.” If the earlier relief had been a salve, this trembled through her almost as greatly as her continuing dread of fear. “This Imperium has attempted to converse with Mars, as it does Luna.” Omah had expected such, but had managed to hold off on attempting to uncode those transmissions, a particular saying about local terran felids and curiosity had been brought to mind. “In light of your discoveries about the foulness of their foes, we will seek an agreement of compliance. Your presence will be beneficial to the delegation.”

“P…presence where?....You Excellencies.”

“To meet with this Imperium, and their Emperor.”

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Dae-Hyun hurried along the street toward home. His shift had only recently been called to an emergency halt at the manufactorum, the entire production line sent away with hurried voxcaster announcements to make for home and await further instructions. He wasn’t sure what was happening, and rumors on the factorum floor ran wild with answers. A workers' revolt in the lower levels had prompted a hive-wide shutdown. The hive nobility had called a national night of remembrance for those lost in the hive tunnel 432-A-56 collapse. Narthan Dume was dead. People from beyond the stars were coming to visit. Enemies from beyond the Jade Citadel were closing on Ouran. He couldn’t decide which to believe, and so he followed the instructions the automated voice was repeating over and over, and made straight for his hab-block.

The streets were crowded with the residents of Ouran, and he had to shoulder his way through a number of intersections as he passed into a lower level exchange ramp up toward the hab-zone he called home. As he came up the crest of the ramp and onto the main thoroughfare within his hab level he had to stop short as a column of eight wheeled hive guard transports rumbled past at speed. Once he was sure he wouldn’t be flattened by another transport truck, Dae-Hyun crossed the thoroughfare and made straight for the lift that would take him home.

He rode the lift silently with a number of his neighbors, the emergency order audible in the distance as it repeated off of voxcasters and pict-screens. He hurried to his apartment, fumbling with the physical keys in his pocket for just a moment before he scooped up the right key and made his way inside.

Dae-Hyun shut the door behind him and locked it tight, breathing a sigh of relief as he deposited his work bag on the small crate he used as an entry table. He passed through his sparse apartment and rummaged through his cold-storage for a drink, smiling as he pulled a sojj from the back near the frost vent. He shut the cold-storage behind him and cracked the seal from the sojj as he moved across to the small window that was his only view of the world outside his apartment. He took a swig as he watched flashes of light bloom all across the rad-waters of the eastern sea, probably just rad lightning, he thought. But his curiosity was building as he noticed stark black shadows picked out along the surface in front of the blossoms of light. The day was certainly strange.

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The drone of the landing craft engines had been enough to nearly drown out cross-company vox reports and status updates for the better part of three hours according to the chronometer, but that was nothing compared to the incoming artillery fire from the Ouran hive coastal defenses. Orm Gallius, vox operator of The Emperors Eagles 33rd Company fiddled with the voxcasters bulky controls. He leaned in close, pressing his headset to his ears to pick out the messages coming through as his commanding officer stood perched high in the wheelhouse cupola with magnoculars in hand.

“Reports from the forward landing craft, heavy enemy resistance, coastal batteries and bunker emplacements are beginning to open up now.” Orm repeated for his commander.

“As expected,” Colonel Kane answered as he waved a hand inside the wheelhouse to grab Orm’s attention, “transmit it on, coastal bunkers are engaging with heavy las and heavy kinetic rounds, several landing craft are aflame well before the shore.”

Orm nodded, diligently relaying his commanders report as their landing craft rumbled forward under the barrage. “Message received sir--” an artillery shell landed close to starboard, rocking the landing craft and peppering its thin metal frame with shrapnel. Orm heard the pained screams of wounded men and women in the troop compartment ahead of them as the roar of the explosion subsided.

“Message received sir,” he repeated as he looked up to Colonel Kane in the cupola. He reeled away from the sight as he realized the Colonel was slumped headless where he stood out the roof of the craft. He noticed with a grim interest that the Colonel's uniform was caught on a jagged piece of metal and was holding him up as blood gouted down his body.

Orm gathered his thoughts and swapped to the company vox channel, “Major Vanders, Colonel Kane is dead.” He pushed the news forward to the next highest officer on the craft.

“Understood,” was the only answer from the dour Major over the vox.

“Thirty seconds!” the wheelman called out as the interior troop bay lights switched off.

Orm could hear the heavy stubber rounds pinging off the front ramp of the craft as the engine pitch rose to a high whine.

A number of blinding red flashes filled the wheelhouse as Orm gripped the handhold to his left. He registered the lascannon bolts only as an afterthought as they incinerated a naval rating directly to his right.

The landing craft bucked to a violent halt as it came ashore at full speed. An alarm sounded and the ramp fell with the help of gravity. The first row of imperial troopers barely managed a step before they were cut to shreds by stubber rounds and las. Withering fire poured into the troop compartment, bodies falling where they’d stood for hours without managing to make any forward progress at all. But Orm watched in amazement as the sheer mass of his company overcame the intense fires.

Troopers spilled down the sides of the ramp, a number of lucky ones managed it down the front of the ramp itself, and Orm punched the emergency release on the escape hatch to his left to follow his fellows onto the beach. He leapt without looking, heavy stubber rounds ripping into the wheelhouse as he fell several meters into the rad-water beneath him. He flailed and sputtered in the toxic water, his voxcaster threatening to pull him back from the shore as he struggled for footing in the sludge of the seabed, but his boots found purchase and he hefted himself out of the rad-water.

Throwing himself to cover behind an anti-landing craft obstacle, he surveyed the beach and shuddered. Flames consumed a dozen landing craft up and down the beach, troopers ablaze spilled from their craft to douse themselves in the toxic water never to rise again. Hundreds of men lay dead or dying as more joined them from the fire of the defenders.

He struggled with his voxcaster as he made himself small against his cover, “First wave ashore, sustaining heavy losses!” He managed out into the command net as a trooper was gutted by a heavy stubber round just steps from him.

He turned his gaze out to the waters, and picked out the silhouettes of the second wave of craft approaching at speed.

“Emperor save us.” He whispered.