---

---

Lokmongor scanned the sprawlings lands of Kaspia from the balcony of his ruined province. The blasted plains stretched for thousands of miles with low hills, great holes where lakes once resided, and gaping crevasses where rivers once streamed. Enormous mountains flanked either side of his home, forming a ruinous bowl of pocketed earth. Sporadic bunches of mutated trees in green and crimson dotted the wealth of his lands, beautifying and uglying the domain all the same. His helmeted gaze observed several tiny silhouettes walk along the encircling bastion that was his citadel. Ruined walls, fortified thrice over with scrap and talismans, defended the pivotal entrance into Urshic territory from mountain edge to mountain edge. In his mind, it was the most well-defended pass across wartorn Terra, save only for Kalagann’s fortress-palace of Mosrovoth.

A fresh cry pierced the air drawing his attention away from the demesne. A group of his men, genewarriors each clad in Urshic fur and blessed powered armor, tortured a figure in front of the mutated trees. Vitae flowed like water into the ground that nurtured the aberrant flora. Their roots squirmed like agitated creatures, drinking deeply from the gift granted by his underlings. To his disappointment, the warriors fell to their knees and threw out prayers to the Primordials in fervent chants. Lokmongor understood the adulation to a lesser extent for those very flora were gifted by the powers-that-be. Nothing should’ve prospered in Ursh’s southern wasteland, yet the life that drank was evidence of their resilience.

His home - the great ruined fortress-hive of Kaspia - was the blaspemous opposite of such fruitful life. Each step of his greaves threatened to shatter the faltering citadel underfoot. Rust covered every inch of their sole settlement, save only for the areas that preserved and cultivated the blessed flora. Where once a hundred spires would rise up into Terra’s blasphemous sky, now only ten remain to accommodate their presence. Lokmongor had protected this place for thirty-six years, protected Ursh for twenty more, and swore allegiance to the Primordials for ten further. He, alone, knew that only the blessings of volkhv could uphold this place for eons to come.

A courtyard - his very own - opened several floors below as he ventured further down his demense. Tiny blades of crimson-hued grass spread out in a wide circle that rivaled the likes of ancient war zmaj. Thin aquaducts filled with flowing vitae funneled into an eight-pointed star at the center of the opening. Several pale men were hoisted up on long pikes with their innards dangling from their chests and their blood flowing into vast pots of bubbling ichor. A volkhv loudly sang in the forgotten tongue in the center of the star. Six warriors from his retinue kneeled around the blessed priest as servants dumped fresh blood onto their armor. Horns decorated their helmets, spikes upon their pauldrons, and brass chains upon their belts. The priest must’ve noticed him as the singing was momentarily halted to address his arrival.

“General Lokmongor, you honor us with your presence. By the Primordial Will, your vityaz are being blessed for their heroic deeds.” The volkhv spoke with a rhythmic chant upon his lips, each word uttered with a dramatic sway of his body. Although dark robes swathed his body, Lokmongor knew well that blessed armor lay beneath. He detested the way that their order danced, yet it was something that he was willing to put up with for the glory of Ursh. The vityaz around the priest picked themselves up with ichor dripping from their armor.

“As it was ordained, blessed Yorjolav, they will need the blessings. The Himalazians have been spotted marching into the Khaganate through the former territories of the Ethnarchy. We’re expecting a splinter assault to attempt a pass through Kaspia.” The news of the Himalazian invasion did little to dour the ritual. His knights grew fanatically excited, each gripping their weapon and trembling with the uncontained joy of a berserker. He understood their anticipation well for even he was ready to tear into actual warriors for once and not his own populace.

The volkhv, Yorjolav, spread an unnerving smile full of rotten, dagger-sharp teeth beneath his hood. “As it was foreseen, General! What would you ask of your humble servant?” Lokmongor watched the priest drop down to subservient kneel, unfolding his arms out to fully bow in the General’s presence.

“Set the blessed order to begin the Ritual of Krovdozhd, anoint every vityaz across the Kaspian clans with the Mark,” Lokmongor began to order with the affluence of a elder commander, unsheathing the great warblade from his back and settling the tip into the courtyard ground. His cloak of skin and chains wavered as the weapon was pulled from a scabbard of writhing flesh. The general continued without missing a beat. “And prepare our zmaj for combat. I will ride her into a war of fury and blood.”

Yorjolav jolted upward with uncontained ecstasy. His body writhed as if possessed by the things that he worshipped. Both of his hands reached for the sky, revealing the blackened gauntlets carefully hidden beneath his robe. A vomit of Old Tongue exploded from his lips in a reverent chant. Lokmongor knew well that the call for war was something that his volkhv craved, more so than any other province in Ursh. He didn’t wait for the priest to finish, gesturing for his vityaz to join him in preparation of the Himalazians.

---

The crimson-forested hills of Kaspia were silent. In the times before a battle, Lokmongor could appreciate the eerie silence leading up to a crescendo of unimaginable violence. Night had fallen as his warriors prepared to fight the forces of the Himalazian coward-leader. The war-migou, painted in brilliant shades of red, strained against their chained restraints anchored to the lower walls. Pyres as tall as striders and as wide as tanks were lit in even intervals across the ramparts. Volkhv of Yorjolav’s order spread their holy word with swaying censers of belching ash and ceremonial pots of boiling blood. His vityaz, and those of the other clans, patrolled throughout the hordes of twitching lesser warriors. Axes, chainweapons, lumbering guns, and more were equipped in vast quantities along the walls. The knights, however, bore blades akin to his own with weeping sigils, whispering secrets, tempting songs, and boiling runes.

He jostled lightly as the zmaj that he rode groaned with anticipation. The crimson-scaled thing was a magnificent warbeast unlike any other on wartorn Terra. Grown by the volkhv in secret hatcheries across Ursh, his zmaj was a nightmare creature of webbing, teeth, and wings. Every second spent sitting upon her would’ve burnt his skin to cinders were it not for the chief blessing of the Krovsozdatel. She bore no saddle upon her scales as chains and horns sufficed for ample handholds. Her fangs dripped with freshly consumed ichor, droplets splashing against a pile of carcasses beneath her maw.

In the distance, Lokmongor could make out Yorjolav on the wall with a group of volkhv surrounding him. Even from here, the singing was audible to his ears. Each of their eyes were glowing with ethereal power, blessings from the Primordial Sea. Blood flowed from beneath their robes, either from bloodletting or from the holy endeavor they took. No sooner had their singing stopped did the rain come. Great torrents of fresh ichor dripped from the black clouds encircling the whole of Kaspia. A smile grew on his charred lips as his warriors turned to the sky with a cacophony of prayers. The sea of blessed trees groaned with appreciation, leaning towards the sky in an unnatural inclination for their desired substance.

Thankfully, he thought, it would do little to halt the courage of true warriors. His desire for battle only grew as the first of the Emperor’s dogs revealed themselves. Wings of metal soared over the hills sailing from the territory of the Ethnarchy. Fat-bellied planes in yellow hues with emblems of the raptor and lightning descended towards the citadel. Lokmongor scoffed in disappointment as he raised an armored gauntlet to the sky, gesturing forward with a single wave to unseen onlookers. His citadel exploded into a flurry of action as the ten remaining spires unleashed torrents of deadly flak into the onrushing Imperials. Armaments, thrice-blessed and fortified for decades, spat piercing death through the hulls of their opponents. Great plumes of fire illuminated the crimson woods surrounding the province, revealing hordes of red-garbed soldiers rushing towards their walls.

“слава Уршу!” Lokmongor roared, unsheathing the greatblade from his back and hoisting it into the air like a battle-standard. His zmaj joined him in a nightmarish shriek, unhinging all three of its mouths to cry into the bloody sky. A kick from his greaves saw the zmaj leap into the air with unnatural ease. Pale red wings unfolded to either side of him as his divine creature propelled through the rain. Belching machines on metallic wings joined him in a tight formation of death.

The vityaz on the walls followed after him with battlecries of their own, ushering the warrior-hordes of the clans into a frenzy. A tidal wave of flesh, scalding skin, and armored fur flung itself off of the walls to join the battle. Each of the holy knights remained behind, wielding their wicked blades with barely contained bloodlust. Masses of servants erupted into action, manning turrets on the ramparts and supplying materials for the volkhv. Lokmongor exploded into laughter as his demesne fully lunged into the grooves of war. It would be a wonderful, bloody day for Ursh.

Lokmongor watched the two tides of rushing flesh collide in a great melee. Lances of brilliant red danced across the distance in controlled groups of volley fire, blades dug into carapaced-fur, and explosions from deadly munitions plumed along hill and crevasse alike. The crimson trees adapted to the violence, tearing the Imperials and Urshites in a blood fueled frenzy. The General knew well that the flora of his province was one of the key reasons for failed invasions. The hallowed earth would provide them victories ordained by the Primordials. Great machines on tracked treads drew his attention to the hills in the distance. Cannons vomited shells of thermonuclear devastation, bathing friend and foe in an inferno of promethic death. Imperial warriors in strange garb ignited vast fields of blood-grass with promethium-fueled flamethrowers. The Imperials, much to his chagrin, had been prepared for the assault; however, Lokmongor knew it was in vain. War migou, unchained from the walls, plunged into combat with reckless abandon. The few armored vehicles that could maneuver around the trees were decimated by behemoths of flesh sixfold blessed by the volkhv.

A war wasn’t an apt name for this, Lokmongor decided. An annihilation sat aptly in his mind as he willed the zmaj downward towards a flank of Imperials. A jet of reality-defying flames bathed a long line of red-garbed soldiers in unquenching fire. Their armor and skin melted in seconds, yet their screams could be heard for minutes at a time. His zmaj shrieked out into the blood rain with bloodthirsty joy for it had slain many. Blood bubbled at the edges of his lips as he drank in the sight of the carnage. Were he a lesser man, then he’d certainly have fallen into possession by the Primordials. A glorious fate, yet Kalagann desired something different from him.

As his zmaj swept around for another cascade of tormenting flame, Lokmongor witnessed giants clad in green-yellow suits charging through the treelines. As a servant of Kalagann, he knew them immediately for what they were.

“Thunder warriors…” He quietly stated as his zmaj descended towards the ground with new-found prey. His blood boiled with anticipation as the Emperor’s greatest knights plowed through the battlefield. Opponents worthy of sacrifice to the Primordials, Lokmongor knew their battle would be legendary. He knew them as insane warriors, berserking madmen, and hulking giants of carnage incarnate. In essence, they were similar to himself and his vityaz.

The zmaj slammed into the ground closest to the rushing tide of genewarriors, flattening a lone operator under its scaly talons. It unfurled all three of its mouths to scream a maddening roar into the waylaid genewarriors. To his joy, however, the thunder warriors counter-charged his zmaj with the insane bravery he had come to know. One leapt at him with the force of a deity, aiming downward with a powered axe. Lokmongor flicked out with his screaming greatsword, bisecting the knight in mere seconds of contact. The upper part of the cleaved Imperial landed on the zmaj, desperately attempting to murder him with callous disregard of his injuries. It brought a maddening smile to his bloodied lips.

“By the Four do I treasure fighting you and your Emperor!” Lokmongor roared out as he stabbed the wounded thunder warrior through the skull, bisecting the corpse once more to affirm his kill. He felt the draw of the Blood-Taker filter through his veins, empowering him with each fight and each kill.

The rest of the genewarriors had gathered around the zmaj in a spread-out formation, narrowly avoiding his mount’s vicious attacks. One had managed to slice a talon from the creature’s foot, earning a swift decapitation from it’s bladed tail in brutal retaliation. Another pair had leapt onto the side of his beast, cutting into scales with chainblades and chainaxes. He had killed one with a swift jab of his greatblade, yet the other had dismounted after hearing their comrade cry in agony. They dove beneath his zmaj with the intent to sink their weapon into tender flesh. He cackled madly as another mouth opened across the creature’s belly, swallowing the genewarrior whole.

Satisfied with his kills, General Lokmongor willed the zmaj away from the desecrated site of his slaughter towards the walls of Kaspia. The battle had been going well. The migou feasted, the warriors butchered, and the defenses were winning a hundredfold against the Imperials. None of his vityaz had been forced to move from their defending position. The Imperial attack would be countered in a matter of minutes. Despite everything that spelled the obvious doom for the Himalazian dogs' advance, Lokmongor felt an uneasy feeling within his gut.

“Where are the rest of the himalazian genedogs?” He spoke aloud, voicing his concern to the blood-rain. No sooner had he asked the question did a portion of Kaspia’s frontal wall explode into a plumming cloud of destruction. He winced at the closeness of the explosion, brightening the darkened sky and illuminating the haunting woodlands around him. It would be the first of many as separate portions of his fortress-hive went up in flame, forcing him backwards and up into the air.

As the zmaj flew through the sky, Lokmongor discovered the source of his worries. Down in the depths of the mutated woods, Imperial giants cleaved the very woodland that protected their advance. Teams of auxilia strapped incomprehensible amounts of explosives to the writhing trunks of the trees. He witnessed a single thunder warrior heft the abominate log and launch it into his beloved fortress. The device exploded the moment it contacted the rusting defenses of Kaspia, destroying the fortified home that he had made. Dozens of such teams were spread out in sporadic patterns around the hive, demolishing the entrance into the Urshic heartland with savage joy.

Anger boiled over as he cried out in defiance. The zmaj responded to his will, rushing down on pale wings of crimson towards the forests of Kaspia. Unearthly flames jettisoned from its maw, claiming several demolition teams in gouts of diabolical inferno. He yanked the chain sidewards, forcing the scaled creature to turn and unleash further destruction. Lokmongor the Bloodied would see the Imperial routed, gutted, and sacrificed to Kalagann and the Primordials.

“So be it, in their name-” The general began to shout aloud as he spun the zmaj around. To his surprise, not even he thought that one of those devices could be launched at him. A log, fastened with explosives and writhing with hungry tentacles, impacted with his zmaj. An explosion saw the torso of his mount disappear in a great cascade of gore, vitae vomiting outwards in an endless torrent. He fell through the sky as his mount died, desperately attempting to untangle from its chains.

The tainted ground of Kaspia met his gaze as the zmaj finally finished its dying descent.

---

The darkness that had overtaken him quickly faded as he began to clamber out from beneath the zmaj, cutting away at the pale red scales with his whispering warblade. His body ached beneath the blessed power armor, each movement threatening to tear servos and tendons. Each cut, push, and shove from beneath the dead creature was a lesson in pain - one that he was inclined to learn once more. A final slice of stinking meat from the beast was all that was needed for the light of the sky to once more bless his field of view. Ichor drenched his ruined form as he stalked out from the corpse with his greatblade raised.

Wait, light?

The polluted, blood-drenched skies of Kaspia no longer graced him with a torrent of vitae. The brilliance of Luna in full form shone down upon the crimson-stained lands of the Urshites. He desperately scanned the horizon of the battlefield with rage beginning to quell the pain spread throughout his body. To his dismay, he could physically see the bespoke horizon of Kaspia. The ancient guardians of his fortress-hive - the mutated forests - had been cleaved from their roots and his walls had been destroyed. Combat still rang out across the badlands, though his forces lay in ruins as red-garbed Imperials bayoneted lying Urshites to death.

Lokmongor suddenly drew his blade up as a group began to approach him. Though their ground-trembling footsteps revealed them, the General saw the thunder warriors walk towards him with their brutal weapons ready to slaughter. One stood a head above the rest, marching from the forefront of the genewarrior gaggle with a two-handed axe in one hand and a body in the other. He narrowed his eyes beneath his helmet as they came to ground halt some feet away from him, outside of his warblade’s cleaving range. To his surprise, he heard the one in front of the Imperial pack laughing as they came forward.

“Bit of a tough one, aren’t you General? Sigilite warned us about you, but you weren’t anything special. Nor was your witch.” The woman finally spoke, laughing loudly with the rest of the thunder warriors arrayed around her. She tossed the corpse before him, revealing the mauled form of the volkvh, Yorjolav. He realized now why the ritual had failed.

“I will cut the tongue from your weeping head, woman.” Lokmongor responded, lowering the blade in preparation for a final stand. He hadn’t expected this outcome, yet the General was ready to fight with everything that he had left. His response seemed to further bemuse the thunder warrior.

“Let us see if you can do so without legs, Urshite.” She responded before gesturing with her free hand to the other thunder warrior. Quicker than he had been prepared to react, the genewarriors leveled their bulky armaments and spat deadly projectiles at him. A pair of shells pierced his legs, exploding both into wet piles of bone shrapnel and gore. Even still, Lokmongor focused his anger into a fine-tuned red haze to ignore the pain. He began to foam from the mouth as Primordial blessings took over.

“Disappointing. You lot, go get a trunk for him to get mounted on,” The giantess spoke as she strode forward, her ichor-covered gauntlets hefting the two-handed axe. Lokmongor snarled out in a frenzy, foam-blood spilling out from his lips as he dragged himself forward. The whispering greatblade threatened to slash out at her as she neared. She easily evaded it with a quick sidestep, bating aside the outstretched blade with the shaft of her axe. “I want Kalagann to know that one of his greatest generals was decapitated by none other than Primarch Bodiciia of the Verdant Raiders. That’ll knock Aeternus down a peg.”

The Urshite looked up with rage in his eyes as the thunder warrior raised her axe. He barked out at her with a crazed frenzy, Urshic words spilling out like a tidal wave of filth. It lasted no longer than it had began. With a single downward cleave of her axe, Lokmongor passed knowing that the great citadel of Kaspia had fallen. Flames like living tendrils trailed into the sky as the last of the Urshite barbarians were wiped from Kaspian valley.

---

---

Great, towering mesas rose high into the sky as mighty bastions of Terra’s natural, remaining majesty. Tall, emerald growth dotted the base of these stony formations in sparse clumps, daring the corrosive nature of humanity to claim what little beauty remained. Small oases of wild water pooled upon rock ridgelines, trickling down from the busted remains of manmade pipelines. Immense, mutated avians encircled several areas with their multichromatic feathers beating against polluted wind. Where once fantastical creatures would roam golden flatland from mountain to sea, now haunting monsters stalk blasted wasteland in feral hunting packs. Inhospitable sun pounded against torturous sand through dark, rusty clouds, raining heat and toxic haze upon those that miraculously survived Abyssna’s deserts.

Worse yet was the monstrosities that humanity had raised up from Abyssna’s harsh soil. Monolithic spires of twisted metal rose sharply in the arid sky, complimented only by several hundred miles of rustic shacks and billowing factorums. The tallest of these overwhelming towers claimed the great mesas as their sanctuaries, grand communities of individuals that walled off their territory from the dredges of society. Tremendous maglev systems coiled from rocky peak to the ramshackle communities below in an infinite circuit of supply and demand. Divided territory could only be insinuated based on these gargantuan trains, repurposed to ensure the status quo of overseer and enslaved.

A status quo that was broken when the Master of the Lines came trudging through Abyssna’s winding valleys. The request for peaceful integration of the scattered Abyssynian spire-kings was met with violence, messengers sent back in body bags or worse. The Imperium took direct action as the overseers of the mesas laughed to themselves at the upstart Emperor’s feeble attempt at conquest. Armies of soldiers loyal to Unity drove a wedge into blasted wasteland from the Rub Al’Khali Desert, several kilometers of armored convoys and genewarrior legions marching into Abyssnan territory. In those moments, these would-be rulers grew fearful and desperate. Long-range ballistic missiles had been launched at the Imperials out of panic and distress. Despite the sheer loss of life, they continued their enduring march closer and closer through ramshackle huts and palatine walls alike.

The Raptor quickly flew over spire-cities within the first year of the Abyssnian invasion. Fortified borders were crushed to dust by leviathan battle tanks the size of two-story structures. Tracked vehicles carrying payloads of atomic ballistics rained hell upon especially stubborn cities, demolishing the last surviving bits of Terra’s natural wonder in Abyssna. Hell was unleashed from fat-bellied, sub-orbital aeronautical craft armed to the teeth with malevolent autocannons and maleficent bombs. Mortal men in yellow, reinforced carapace stormed areas unaffected by the maelstrom of destruction, while hulking genewarriors obliterated heavily entrenched positions unreachable by long ranged explosives. Shielded cities were breached by stationary artillery the size of hab-blocks, mammothine gouts of brilliant plasma exploding forth from colossal cannons. Victory closed in with each city that fell, either captured or reduced to smoldering ruins.

One metropolis of unified resistance remained to be slaughtered. Abbaba. The core and capital of the Abyssnian conglomerate. A monolithic tribute to Old Terra, such so that it would have rivaled a hive were it any larger in size. Five, spiky spires rose into the sky from the center of the city with an exceedingly thick central hub. Recently destroyed magrail lines trailed out of the walls, sabotaged by their own people in desperation. Curiously, not a single weapon rose out from within Abbaba’s fortified walls. It lacked surface-to-orbit weapons, city-based turrets, or even rows of blinking landmines to deter assaults. Instead, a shimmering shield of blossoming energy whirled around each bastion to envelope all of Abyssna’s final city.

---

Shells dropped from the sky, accelerated by promethium propellant and pure hatred, to shatter against Abbaba’s prismatic shield. The warhead hit and exploded sending plumes of wrathful inferno cascading in all directions. Flames savagely licked against the forcefield in vain as the void shield stood firm even against a single attack of such malevolent devastation. Several more fired from several kilometers away, threatening to break or pierce the Abyssnian aegis. Explosions ignited, plentiful enough to send a great plume of smoke upwards into Terra’s polluted skies. And Abbaba still stood.

Commander Markus Kaine watched from atop a great, multistoried tank with magnoculars pressing against his eye sockets. The magnified device confirmed the worst possible scenario for someone in his position. A rain of artillery from behind him had poured everything they had in their initial stockpile to glass several hundred kilometers of ground from here to Indoi. With that same thought, he noticed that sand around the void shield had turned brittle and crystalline. His forehead furrowed with frustration, sweat beading down from bare augmented scalp to scarred lip. To his immediate left, a vox operator had been squeamishly relaying new information gathered from other regiments in the area. To his right, another one of his officers was analyzing historical records on a dataslate, preciously given to his detachment from the Sigillites.

“... Foxblade reports failures in sectors one-delta and two-bravo. Nightsong has recouped in our previously conquered spire-city, they’re enroute at the current moment with another thousand men and a hundred tanks. Fallknight has received casualties in multitudes, all self-inflicted after attempting to charge through Abbaba’s void shield. Winterdog repeats his previous report that the Abyssnians haven’t taken any action against their battalion. There’s more, sir, we’ve gotten a message from the Abyssal Hierarch on a general voxcast.” The operator spoke, his voice far too young and far too quick for Kaine’s liking. The reports had all been the same: no attack could penetrate Abbaba and the Abyssnians wouldn’t fight back. He desperately wished to be drowning in amasec right at that moment, but Markus lowered his magnoculars at the operator’s final words. A nod of his head was all the gesticulation the young officer needed to switch nets.

“-Peace. Your munitions are useless against the might of Abbaba. You may have conquered all of our neighbors, but we have survived for millennia by Abyssna’s will. Lay down your arms, Master of the Line’s dogs, and we can conduct a cordial meeting on equal footing and fair grounds. We repeat the demands that we previously wished for: to live apart from your master’s domain and continue our independent existence. With this we can pursue peace-” A man with a deep voice and a throaty accent repeated over the general vox, the message repeating over and over again until the operator switched to their encrypted network. Markus gritted his teeth together in irritation, audibly enough that either of his officers recoiled from the sound.

“Unacceptable. How are they still able to function!? We’ve tried termite assault drills, sub-orbital bombardments, artillery strikes, magnetic dissonance cannons, and every atomic in our arsenal. Reggy, you better find me an answer or so help me you’ll be in the next wave charging at this thing.” Commander Kaine screamed in frustration, turning his attention to the officer on his right hand side. The confused officer, a young adult with tired eyes and an unshaven face, merely stared back with irritated, glossed over eyes. As if it were a testament of willpower, Reginald Shoth glared back with as much annoyance that he could muster.

“With all due respect, Commander,” Reginald began to speak with a tone as slow as a sloth and as deep as a hab block’s sewer network. His lips were cracked to the point of bleeding, eyes with enormous bags beneath them, and skin more ragged than a wasteland dog's underbelly. “We would either need several macrocannon shells launched from orbit, or a full Thunder Legion with disintegration cannons to make any progress into this thing. According to this slate, these shields could withstand several hours of direct combat in space before falling short to recharge. Now would be a good time to ask for assistance from the nearby warzones.”

Markus knew Reginald to be a cocky, slow, and depressing member of their brigade, but he never failed to grow on his ire. If Reggy had been holding a cup of recaff in one of his hands, then Kaine would’ve surely smacked it out of his sad mitts. The Commander of the Tenth Excertus Imperialis, Fourteenth Division simply settled for slapping the slate out of his hands. His officer slowly watching as the datapad fell onto their vehicle’s metallic plating. A pair of confused, tired eyes turned back to him.

“Shut up, Reggy,” Markus stated, a tone of disappointment and irritation blending together to showcase his dismay. Reginald shook his head in disbelief before picking up the dataslate and returning to analyzing their opponent’s defenses. One of the commander’s gloved hands gestured for the vox operator’s casting devices, another pair of uncomfortable eyes staring at him in confusion. “Don’t be like Reggy and give me the damn vox, Abe.”

Uncertainty filled the young operator's actions as he slowly adjusted his device closer and untethered it from a relay hook. Commander Markus removed one of the communication reels from the bulky voxcaster and brought it close to his lips. Kaine licked his lips in anticipation, hoping for some sort of martial salvation to grace his campaign. He needed something, anything, even just a single one of his liege’s black armored knights. Maybe even Aristagorus, the Slaughterer of Memphos, could assist them.

“This is Commander Markus Kaine of the Tenth Excertus Imperialis, Fourteenth Division, we are requesting dire, specialized assistance in the central Abyssnian region in the siege of Abbaba. These damn defenders are using a city-wide void shield. We will continue to assault the capital city, but we’re running out of options.” Markus stated into the voxcaster, eyeing Reginald who held a single approving thumb up. He made a mental note to drill more discipline into his cocky aide once the campaign was completed. Regardless, even with his pressing the voxreceiver, only static seemed to pour through on their encrypted voxnet. Commander Kaine already knew it was a long shot with most of their forces spread infinitely thin between the Midafrik Polity and the cities of Nabatae. All of the Thunder Legions in their immediate area had either been recalled or engaged in wanton slaughter at Spire Gondar.

Silence followed for several minutes, the sounds of booming artillery and ear-shattering cannons filling the void where a voice would normally be. Abe and Reggy listened with keen interest while simultaneously performing their duties. One of Markus’ hands idly scratched scarred, irritated flesh on his augmented scalp. Every moment that passed was another centimeter of raw skin scraped. Anxiety entered his body as if it were a spirit, nearly compelling him to rip off whatever flesh remained atop his head. Finally, thankfully so, something responded to the Fourteenth Commander. Noise crackled violently from the other end of the vox as if the speaker was traveling through a windtunnel.

“Your request has been answered. Prepare for the warriors of the Thirteenth and Fifteenth.” The speaker said with a voice deeper than any human he had ever met, akin to that of his liege’s personal knights. He felt a smile grow on his cracked lips. Exaltation filled his body with fresh vigor. Markus felt himself grow with giddiness as if he were ready to outperform any general under the Master’s command. The Fourteenth Commander swiftly replied with barely contained joy.

“Excellent! I’ll prepare a landing zone at coordinates alpha-thirty-nine through alpha-forty-three. My operative will encrypt and send geographical data. We eagerly await your arrival!” Markus had said, believing that whoever these ‘Thirteenth’ and ‘Fifteenth’ warriors were would secure his victory. Reggy shared the commander’s enthusiasm with a small, tired smile, while Abe grew a great grin upon his youthful features. The stalemate that Abbaba had forced on them would surely change after they arrived, this Kaine knew for certain.

As the voxcaster fell silent from their encrypted transmission, Commander Markus Kaine began preparations for their reinforcement’s arrival. One gesture of his right hand saw Reginald furiously ducking back into their command vehicle, while another gesture saw Abe voxcalling a clear order within their backlines. All around him the Fourteenth Division shifted, turned, and adjusted to account for incoming allies. Huge, tracked vehicles with enormous cannons lowered and moved further away in anticipation. Armored machines with quad barrels aimed towards the sky rolled back from their offensive lines. A myriad of ground troops in the veritable crimson and gray of their battalion mass migrated closer to Abbaba, holstering their weapons and carrying plentiful barricades for protection. A clear landing zone had been swiftly made available, marked by quad glowglobes with blinking, red lights. Kaine watched from atop his leviathan tank, magnoculars scanning the skies furthest away from their position.

No more than thirty minutes passed before dark shapes began to dot arid skies. Fat-bellied stormbirds and skylance gunships slowly descended with their prow weapons spraying volleys against Abbaba’s void shield. Bullets harmlessly bounced off in a hail of fire, sending cascading ripples of energy around the barrier. While vulcan cannons and anti-armor missiles flew loose, other transports in vastly different colorations rapidly approached the dropzone. Some flew in with bronze and black hues, others with silver and lavender. All of them were devoid of unique sigil other than that of the Raptor. The aerial assault concluded as soon as landing gear touched arid ground, the swarm quickly turning away to engage other threats in the immediate area.

The Fourteenth Commander had since egressed from his command vehicle, rapidly approaching the dropzone with both Reginald and Abe at his sides. A cluster of lesser officers and aides trailed behind him, dataslates in hand and voxbeads in ears. Markus hadn’t expected their arrival for hours to come, but he was pleasantly surprised that they arrived when they did. Kaine patted dust off his uniform, a thick trenchcoat with carapace and fatigues beneath it, in anticipation.

What he hadn’t expected was who came out of the arriving stormbirds. At first sight, Markus had suspected Thunder Warriors or the Master’s personal knights. As they grew closer, Commander Kaine realized he was cooperating with neither. Huge soldiers in powered armor ambled down their transport’s assault ramps, heavy footsteps reverberating off metallic plating. A variety of weapons filled their gauntlets from chugging chainswords, daunting power armaments, or hulking boltslingers. They were as silent as a corpse, perhaps speaking over private communication or disciplined to a fault. The Fourteeth Commander felt a sense of unease as they approached him.

A trio of bronze and black armored giants stood before Commander Markus, their raiments akin to that of the Thunder Warriors with several sophisticated exceptions. In comparison to the previously mentioned, they were several inches shorter and thinner. Knightly helmets with orange lenses glared down at him, one of their number wielding a metallic scorpion where a crest would normally attach. All three of them wore some variation of tabard in dark hues, one with additional leather straps and another with shaven skulls attached to silver hooks. Their left pauldrons held a single numeral, while paired scorpions arranged around a numeral of thirteen inscribed on their right shoulder. A number of their gauntlets were fashioned into sharp talons, while chains attached to their weapons rattled with each step. Kaine felt fear build up in his sternum as they watched his movements.

“Commander Kaine, I am Legion Master Zaid ibn N’dar, and you stand in the presence of the Bronze Scorpions of the Thirteenth. Refrain from discussing our plan of attack until the Sirens have arrived. I would prefer an equal playing field.” The first of their number, Zaid, spoke through his voxgrills with a voice that could rupture unaugmented ears. Markus felt himself flinch after the first word had been uttered, yet he didn’t mind the more tactical tone of the genewarrior. He barely had time to recover before the next group sauntered towards their position.

Following behind him, the second wave of armored dropships began to disgorge their cargo, stolid lines of silver and lavender warriors descending from the craft. Many adorned in symbols of the Achaemenid Empire and its peoples, some bearing the signs of noble houses etched upon their armor. All moved with a fluidity and grace that belied by the heavy armor and powerful weapons they carried. From their number, a select few separated themselves to approach Commander Kaine, and the Bronze Scorpions.

The lead of their number, the imperial raptor emblazoned in glimmering silver upon their pauldrons, drew level with Zaid, nodding to each in turn. A moment elapsed, and the lavender warrior raised their hands to their helmet, and with a hiss of pneumatic seals being released, removed the armor and tucked it under their - her arm. Long hair seeming to be woven from strands of pure silver cascaded from where it had been bunched up beneath the helmet, and her smile was that of a practiced, regal figure.

“There is no need to deafen the poor man, certainly the artillery has done enough.” She said, gently chastising her counterpart, before looking back to Commander Kaine. “I am Princess Pantea Haxamanisya, Master of the Fifteenth Legion, Sirens of Terra. I understand you require our aid. How may we serve the Emperor today?”

Where Markus had been drawn to fear by the presence of the Bronze Scorpions, a new emotion bubbled up from within himself at the sight of the Sirens. He awed at the sheer brilliance of their forms, admiring armor and weaponry alike in the same glance. Yet further still, he was awestruck by the bewitching looks of the Fifteenth’s Master. Never before had he seen such a warrior in equal parts beautiful and deadly, not even the blade dancers of Franc could compare. Before he could shake himself from a stupor, Master Zaid decided to speak first.

“Such confidence, Pantea. I wouldn’t recommend removing one’s helmet in an active warzone, lest you fall before me. ” Zaid scolded his legionnaire counterpart in a playful tone, crossing his arms as he watched the mortal commander become starstruck with her appearance. Noticed by the observant eyes of the Bronze Scorpion, Markus straightened himself out and mustered a nonplussed demeanor. A small smile broke out upon the Legion Master’s hidden lips, teeth flashing beneath the helmet. “Look, you’ve even broken the commander of this operation with your appearance. The Emperor would be displeased.”

“I am perfectly fine, Master Zaid! I was merely in awe of how different you appear to your fellow thunder warriors. I simply cannot fathom how our Master could make such starkly different genewarriors of the same genome, please forgive me.” Commander Kaine urgently replied, shaking off a blush that began to brighten his face. One of his gloved hands reached up to adjust the formal cap glued to his head. Finally free of his embarrassment, he gestured for Lieutenant Reginald to come forward from behind. Similarly stricken by the Sirens of Terra, Reggy awakened to reality and stepped forward with a pair of dataslates tucked beneath his arms. Both were offered to Zaid and Pantea in his outstretched hands.

Pantea smirked, “Confidence indeed, dearest Zaid. Do you not have confidence in fellow servants of the Emperor to secure a safe headquarters for briefing us?” She winked at Kaine, taking no small amusement in his flustered response, “I for one have the fullest confidence in the capabilities of Commander Kaine and his subordinates, he would not have requested our aid were he incompetent, after all.” She regarded him for a moment longer, “Temporary cessation of higher mental functions, however, is normal I find.” She said, chuckling. “Nevertheless, despite the circumstances they have performed admirably. I am honored to come to the aid of such noble warriors as yourselves.” She nodded to Commander Kaine and to Reginald, smiling.

“Now then, let us see what you’ve prepared your guests, hm?” She took the proffered dataslate, examining its contents with a raised eyebrow as she looked back up to him and to Zaid. “Formidable defenses indeed. I can see why you requested our aid.” She paused, her lip curling as she listened to a recording of one of the fortresses’ broadcasts, “They are rather insolent, aren’t they? I suppose we will need to teach them some manners. Have you identified any weak spots within the defenses? Something vulnerable to smaller strike teams. Attempting a frontal assault against such a fortress would end little better for ourselves than for you. However, if we can infiltrate the defenses we ought be able to destroy the void shield, or even cut the head off the snake entirely.”

“Flattery is unbecoming of a war machine like yourself, Pantea, yet I don’t dislike your habit of biting back.” Master Zaid chortled in a playful tone, grabbing one of the dataslates extended to him by Reginald. A quick scan of the information available to them made the situation clearer than he had expected. An impregnable fortress surrounded by a myriad of oversaturated defenses, yet the Abyssnans lacked in total offensive power. The Bronze Scorpion felt himself snarl at the thought of a drawn-out fight. A pair of orange lenses swerved to Commander Kaine as he spoke once more. “I find myself in agreement with the Sirens, Commander. All of your assaults have failed, including your previous subterranean incursion with assault drills. They will either need to be baited, infiltrated, or tricked into compliance.”

Markus felt another flood of embarrassment as the Siren spoke, yet he quickly recovered with a brush of his hand. He shared a glance with Reginald as the two genewarriors reviewed the data, a thought forming between them as Zaid finished speaking. “Firstly, to Master Pantea, no weak spots have been identified in the sixty-two hours of conflict we’ve engaged in. Ballistics, plasma, radiation, and short-range armor-mounted disintegration cannons have all been tested against the void shield in vain. Small teams of special operatives with meltaguns and charges have attempted to open a breach in several areas with no luck. Nothing short of orbital bombardment, if we had void ships, would cause Abbaba’s shield to falter.” A pang of humility entered his tone as Kaine painted the scene of their entire invasion. Realization had dawned on him that all of their work had been for naught, pointless grinding against a nigh invulnerable opponent.

“Secondly, to Master Zaid, you are correct in your assessment that all of our assaults have failed. Paradrops, termite assault drills, and frontal assaults have all garnished casualties. We’ve attempted to parlay, as you can hear from the recordings, but they refuse to even meet our transmissions unless it’s on their terms. We’ve even threatened to scorch all of Abyssna. No dice.” Commander Kaine crossed his arms as he recounted their attempts at diplomacy. He’d forever remember the way that Abbaba’s hierarch had laughed at each attempt. An injustice to the Master of the Lines for certain. Before Markus could begin speaking again, Zaid raised a bronze gauntlet up to halt him from talking.

“All of your efforts have failed, Commander, yet you intentionally avoid degrading yourself with other options. In this, the Bronze Scorpions will succeed where you had failed. We will wage a terror campaign on their city until their spirits have broken. A physical shield is nothing to the shattered spirits of a man. We will round up every Abyssnian in the local area and broadcast their cries to goad Abbaba into an attack. Failing that, Abbaba will be stalked until the day a breach occurs, however,” The Master of the Bronze Scorpions began to speak, witnessing the eyes of Markus Kaine widen at the suggested plan. A small part of Zaid found morbid amusement in the reaction of mortals, yet he was more than happy to propagate any amount of slaughter in His name. One of the Commander’s staff turned stark white after a moment of consideration. His lips curled upwards as he spoke again, orange lenses swiveling to the unhelmeted genewarrior beside him. “I’m certain that the Sirens have a more lucrative way of blasting apart Abbaba’s shields.”

“Flattery? Why you wound me, Master Zaid. Flattery would be to imply your skills with a volkite gun are legendary rather than exceptional.” She smiled, “Nevertheless, my assessment is that the assaults have failed not due to the ineptitude of the attackers themselves, and I salute their courage in service to our Emperor. Rather, assaulting the fortress is itself where the folly lies.” She gestured at the dataslate. “This fortress is a work of art, each aspect flowing into the next. It stands like a wall of steel, sentinels standing guard to cast aside any foolish enough to attack it head on. I would be surprised if there were weaknesses in its defenses - weaknesses we could exploit, at any rate.”

She looked up to Zaid as he laid out his plans, a single eyebrow raised over an emerald eye. She caught sight of Commander Kaine’s increasingly alarmed expression, but waited her turn to speak. When it came, she simply chuckled. “Why blast them apart? This is a fortress that would serve the Emperor well. I certainly have no intention of handing over to him an unusable pile of rubble.” She smiled, “I believe the situation can be resolved with the… personal touch. You say you have attempted negotiations? I’d like to try my own hand at it, if you wouldn’t mind. The gentler touch can find a way past armor that will stop even the greatest blows.”

“Dagger and Blade, is it?” The bronze scorpion intoned, fresh energy forming in his voice at the proposal of a previously orchestrated plan. Thoughts, plans, and actions of another immediately filtered through his brain without a second thought. One of his blackened gauntlets gestured for either of the genewarriors behind him to approach. A deafened click echoed out of his crested helmet, an audible cue registering private communication between Zaid and the other scorpions. The legion master was responded to with a nod by the bronze warrior, turning around and marching away to engage the rest of their clade. Another click registered outward communication through his voxgrills. “Then it shall be done. The Thirteenth will support you as always. What do you propose?”

Commander Kaine, previously shaken by Zaid’s terror campaign proposal, felt relief physically pass throughout his body. It was echoed by Reginald, who shared a thankful look with Markus. The rest of the staff seemed more content with the Siren’s renewed attempt at diplomacy, a collection of emotions fading away from their previous tension. The bronze scorpion’s master, keenly aware of their distaste for his proposal, audibly clicked his tongue in distaste.

“Yes, yes! Absolutely! The Emperor would be most thankful to own Abbaba without its people slaughtered and its walls broken. One member of my staff, Abraham, can certainly connect you to the Abyssal Hierarch’s transmissions. If you’re lucky, then we could interrupt his voxloop long enough for a parlay proposal to go through. How can we assist, Princess Pantea?” Commander Kaine said, invigorated by a proposal that didn’t end in butchery. Euphoria won out over suspicion in this regard, he was simply happy that even a thunder warrior was capable of choosing a more diplomatic route than repeatedly headbutting the enemy to death. He waved Abe over with urgency in his gesticulation, the young voxcaster hurriedly running over with the vox strapped to his back. As he awaited, Markus felt a pang of worry that it was a vein operation. They had already attempted this route, yet something about the Sirens filled him with new courage and faith- no, with hope.

“As I said before, a dagger is a blade, but you are correct.” She said, nodding, and glancing back toward her own soldiers. Though she said nothing, after a moment, they began to move as well, speaking quietly amongst themselves and reorganizing their formation in response to some inaudible command. Pantea herself, however, turned her attention back to Zaid and to Commander Kaine. “Simple, really.” She said, beaming, “I’ll ask them to have a nice little chat. If they want to stay independent, there are deals that need to be negotiated, trade matters, passage of civilian and military personnel, airspace ordnances.” She grinned, “I can hardly have that conversation outside screaming through a vox-hailer, can I?”

She raised a finger to silence any objection, “And, perhaps when face to face with me and my wonderful irresistible charms, this Hierarch may find he likes the idea of being under Imperial rule. There are many wonderful benefits - but it is difficult to explain these from behind an artillery piece. Not that I fault you or any of your men of course, Commander Kaine, you have followed your orders splendidly.” She extended a hand, patting the man on the head as one might congratulate a child who had accomplished something small. Pantea then added, almost as if an afterthought, “And, if they prove resistant to such persuasion, I will be inside their walls and there will be no void shield between me and them.”

She turned to the voxcaster, beaming at him, “Ah, thank you young man. If you don’t mind?” She did not wait for him to say anything, merely extending her hand to take the hailer and raise it to her lips, speaking into it. “My dearest Hierarch of Abyssna, please accept my sincere apologies for the rude treatment you have received at the hands of my compatriots. I am Princess Pantea Haxamanisya of the Achaemenid Empire, and a loyal servant of the Emperor of Mankind. Please, accept my personal apology as well for the harshness and rude treatment your noble people have suffered! The Emperor does not wish such devastation upon Terra, least of all such a wondrous people as your own! If I may, I and my honor guard beg an audience with you within your beautiful home, to discuss the details of your relation to the Imperium. Would you grant me this boon?”

Silence greeted Pantea as the open vox crackled, influenced only by the occasional barrage locations further from their own. The loop that had been routinely cycling through the network had momentarily halted as her words echoed across the invisible battlefield. Markus eyed the hailer with anticipation, his studious voxcaster standing statue still as the dusken deity awaited a response. Legion Master Zaid appeared idly watched with his orange lenses, yet slight movements of his head confirmed that his true thoughts lie elsewhere at that moment. The pregnant moment finally broke as the receiver began to violently thunder to life with the familiar voice of Abbaba’s Hierarch. Lieutenant Reginald quickly retrieved his personal dataslate, recording each and every syllable uttered with insane precision.

“Pantea of the Achaemenid Empire? Another great nation of dogs bowing their heads for even a single sip of water from their master’s bowl. Your people know no honor, Princess Haxamanisya, as they decided to lean on a Himalazian warlord to handle their problems. Your arrival has only announced the defeat of your ‘Emperor’s’ forces, yet I am no fool to simply agree to parlay. No, I shall hear the terms half-way from your position to Abbaba. In approximately three hours, you will meet with my representatives and I shall hear your words through them. Reel back all of your forces exactly thirteen kilometers in conjunction with our agreement. Should you run with your tail beneath your legs, dog, then I won’t fault you. You’ll return to the ‘Emperor’ knowing that Ephrem Abimelech Abay forced you to.” The Abyssal Hierarch, Ephrem, spoke with a deep voice full of conviction and overwhelming confidence. Each mention of the Imperial title was met with a sound that resembled one spitting against tile. No sooner had the Abyssnan ruler responded did he cut the vox completely, returning the general network to the previous looping transmission. As the Imperials began to react with a mixture of emotions, the vox began to crackle to life once more. “Oh, and bring the coward that had screamed for help over the network. I would see the face of one who could not crack Abbaba’s superior defenses.” It cut once more as Abbaba’s citadel-lord guffawed.

“I’ll murder the entirety of his dynasty and hang their flayed bodies across Abbaba.” Legion Master Zaid plainly stated before the rest of the gathered Imperials had recovered from their stupor. There was a silent fury to the Scorpion’s voice, one accompanied by the telltale signs of one’s mouth curled into a snarl. His controlled rage was felt by the officers gathered around Abraham. Commander Kaine, however, appeared briefly stricken with white skin at the thought of personally dealing with Abbaba’s ruler. The genewarrior continued to speak in a louder tone than previously spoken. “Dagger and Blade would not suit this, Pantea. I suggest Siege and Slaughter. We could still keep the casualty margin below forty percent, like in the Nordafrik Conclaves.”

Markus furrowed his brows at the sound of a rather distasteful plan, yet he certainly felt compelled to lean into such fury. He shook himself free of fear and bloodlust, raising a hand to offer his own advice between the two genewarriors. “His words were damnably concerning, but Master Pantea has at least managed to bait out a party of the Abbabans. Something that we’ve failed to do in the many hours we’ve been shelling their position. Are you certain about this agreement? It’s definitely a trap.” His voice was full of concern for even thunder warriors were known to have problems with particularly entrenched opponents. Commander Kaine would rather see both of the genewarriors alive and victorious. Reginald’s incessant tapping against his dataslate momentarily halted as the gathered Imperials hung on Pantea’s next words.

Pantea looked harshly to Zaid, her expression having remained an impassive, utterly serene one throughout the Hierarch’s entire tirade. But now she scowled at Zaid, the first time she had shown even the slightest hint of displeasure. “You will do no such thing.” She hissed, narrowing her eyes. “Do that, and we destroy a fortress that can serve us for centuries to come and send a signal that we, and you are naught but the barbarian brutes of a distant master they claim we are. I will not see this scene become an abattoir of ten million of the Emperor’s servants just to sate your ego.”

A long, heavy sigh followed her words as she examined the fortress, before finally turning back to Commander Kaine. “Well, Commander Kaine, how do you fancy meeting the Hierarch?”

Before Markus was able to respond to the inquiry, Legion Master Zaid took a menacing step forward to Princess Pantea. He raised a single, bronze talon-tipped digit to the Siren. In close proximity to the Scorpion, she could hear the genewarrior fuming beneath his voxgrills. The other bronze knight that had accompanied him clapped a gauntlet on Zaid’s pauldron, forcing the orange lenses to momentarily swivel to his subordinate. A shallow, calming breath eased through the dusken entity’s lips as he regarded Pantea once more.

“You would be wise to remember that you are not some bastion of purity amongst our number. Your warriors are the most deplorable of them all for I have seen what they can do. I swear upon a thousand and one grains of sand that you will end up proving your monstrous side once again. We may be different, Pantea, but the Emperor’s work all originated from a specific type of warrior. I wish you luck, Fifteenth Master. The Scorpions will pursue their own slaughter.” Zaid rattled off in a calm, collected frenzy of criticisms and assurances. One particular phrase was spoken in a language unfamiliar to Pantea, yet he made no motion to correct himself. Immediately after speaking, the Bronze Scorpion turned away and slowly approached the rest of his cohort. The knight that had calmed the Legion Master gave a polite bow of his head before joining his commander. Imperial officers were rendered fearfully speechless once more, casting worrisome gazes between Zaid and Pantea.

Markus cleared his throat to draw his gaggle of officers and Pantea’s attention. He clasped his arms behind his back and perked up to raise an air of confidence about his form. “To answer your question, I do not fancy meeting the Hierarch. Fear be damned though. The Emperor wants Abbaba and we will certainly give it to him wrapped tightly in gift wrap. I will order a ceasefire effective immediately, pull our forces back to the requested distance, and then meet you at the directed coordinates. Almost like a date, except I’ve never dated before in my entire life. For that you’ll have to forgive me, Lady Pantea.” He awkwardly chuckled, earning a groan from Lieutenant Reginald.

Pantea showed not a hint of emotion through the Scorpion master’s tirade, her face remaining as impassive and neutral as it had through the Hierarch’s own rantings. Only as she turned did a ghost of emotion cross her features - exasperation, more than anything else. Exasperation with the brutish ways of her comrades, and the ease with which they were roused to acts of massacre. Perhaps it was simply the difference in their stations, the difference in how they had been raised. What she remembered of mortal life was careful training in both blade and the courtly arts of the Achaemenid Empire. How never to commit the deadly sin of lying, for to do such was to usher in the same darkness into her heart that had helped bring about the time of strife they lived in now. How to spare just as much with her mind and her words as with a blade. How to use the gifts - or perhaps a curse - she had been born with, now only strengthened by the geneseed she had been enhanced by. How to hold herself when speaking. How to keep her anger in check when those beneath her insulted her and her station. An upbringing fraught with danger, every gilded lily hiding an equally gilded blade.

Zaid had never had that, she forced herself to remember. He had never been trained in that. His was a wholly different upbringing. A harsher one than hers, for sure. And perhaps the geneseed that had crafted him and his brothers into the warriors they now were played a role, too. To her sensibilities, violence was the last resort of Emperors - and of princesses. The Emperor’s vision for humanity was a beautiful one, one she shared in wholly. She despaired to see it brought about in so much fire and blood - humanity was beautiful, in her eyes, and she wanted as little human blood spilt in pursuit of its perfection as possible.

That, and her Legion was small. Unlike those other creations of the Emperor, they could not count on easy reinforcements. Every one of them was trained to a level even beyond that of the norm, for every one of them that died was a blow felt as harshly as five or ten in another legion. Finding suitable candidates was a maddening task, and one made all the harder every time one of their number fell in battle. Were she honest with herself, moreso than her desire to avoid human blood spilt she desired not to see her forces ground down by attrition in fighting every battle. And of her stated monstrous side… well. That would remain to be seen.

All of this and more flashed through her mind in an instant as she watched Zaid storm off, before turning to Commander Markus, an eyebrow raised at his words and a thin smile on her lips, “You are bold and fearless, Commander. I admire that in a man. Now come, I have a city to win us. You will ride with me.”

---

Artoris of the Black Blade Clade, Thirteenth Legion, waited beneath the sands feeling naked, deprived of his powered garments bar a thin veil of tan wrapped around his body. He could feel the grains around him shift, confirming the presence of his three other fellow warriors. One of his fists tightly clenched a combat knife as long as a mortal man’s torso, while the other sprawled out through the badland warmth. They had waited there for hours, staring out beneath the pale dunes at the Abyssnan stronghold. His clade was not alone in this ordeal. Tens of groups crawled at inhumanly slow rates towards Abbaba, awaiting the moment to spring their collective trap; however, it was their task alone that victory’s laurels rested upon.

His skin prickled as the sands shifted once more. None of his warriors had dared to move in such a precarious way, thus meaning that their target was arriving. A black transport as bulky as a gunship and as long as a maglev skimmed across the badlands on invisible wings. He noted the particular use of grav-tech that the Abyssnans used from previous campaigns against their people for future use. Regardless, it closed the distance from the mile-high gates of Abbaba to the diligent host of the Fifteenth. Artoris pondered the necessity of the show of force by their cousin cohort. Perhaps their Legion Master had a different plan than their own?

He refocused as the transport crawled to a halt half a kilometer away from the Fifteenth’s grand host. A frail figure in gold-and-black robes emerged with a squadron of warriors as tall as the Thirteenth’s knights with armor as bulky as their predecessors. Great spears with fearsome barrels on the end hummed dangerously in the hands of the Abbysian cohort. Artoris was reminded of the Emperor’s own protectors and their similar armaments. His eyes flitted between the two as select representatives marched across the badlands to begin their negotiations. Mistress Pantea, lord of the Fifteenth, was amongst their number with the short, squat form of Markus Kaine, Commander of the Fourteenth Division. A pair of lilac genewarriors and mortal attendants followed their masters. Even from here, he could tell that the Abyssnan delegate was stunned by their Liege’s genemastery.

It would have to suffice for a distraction. Artoris and his other three warriors silently slipped from the sands with their bodies crouched into an inhuman contortion. They flitted across the cracked grounds as daytime phantoms, their lithe forms and tan garments masquerading their approach to the Abyssnan transport. As they approached the great obsidian leviathan, the Black Blades slid across the pale grains beneath the vehicle. Knives, fists, and feet clung to the bottom of the hovering transport with fierce tension. They knew one mistake could end up their carcasses being flattened to atomic pulps; however, the Thirteenth were built for this. It was coded into their enhanced genealogy, yet Artoris couldn’t help but feel that he had been detected. After ruling out discovery by the Abyssnans, he decided that it had been the Mistress of the Fifteenth - or, more unlikely, the stout mortal man that commanded the Fourteenth Division.

Preposterous. He elected to rule out that possibility as the delegates finished their business with the Mistress and the Commander. Unsurprisingly, only the representatives for the Imperium were marshaled towards the transport. The vast host that the Fifteenth had brought were left behind, their emotions cloaked by frowning and knightly helmets alike. His Legion Master would certainly pride himself on their failure. He had even foreseen that their convoy would be attacked once they reached inside of the hive. Artoris wondered if Mistress Pantea had known this as well, thus gathered her cohort for combat in such large numbers - or perhaps he pondered on too many things.

The obsidian transport rumbled as directional hover-boosters turned to adjust the vehicle’s course. Small whorls of sand twisted beneath them as the Abyssnans began their short journey back into the grace of Abbaba. He spent the short trip checking over the additional wargear that the Legion Master had allowed him. Three explosives and five throwing knives had been added to his kit as requested. Artoris had similarly kitted out his clade with likewise armaments. He felt no need to steel himself for the coming battle for it was already skewed in favor of His Imperium.

Abbaba passed overhead, a veritable bastion of stone as old as humanity. Ramparts were manned by the Abyssnans, yet their parapets weren’t crewed by field guns or titanic cannons from the darkest ages. The portcullis, reinforced thricefold by precise metal and ancient shielding technology, opened mile-high doors to the oncoming transport. Artoris prepared for a biometric scan of the vehicle, yet none came as they hovered to a slow creep further into the aged walls. He could only assume that they acted in arrogance, knowing that they held enemies in their cargo, clueless of potential infiltrators. That thought, however, would prove his undoing.

Five minutes passed as the black hovercraft slowly crept through the dense hiveways of Abbaba. None dared pay attention to the vehicle, crewed only by the Hierarch’s enforcers, thus turning a blind eye to the infiltrators if they ever witnessed them. No maglev or ascender awaited them in their short journey as Abbaba’s dense city was wide and expansive compared to other hives of greater elevation or depth. All the same, Artoris saw them first before the drivers would. A crowd of warriors in uniquely patterned power armor, parts of their ebony skin exposed to the wind adorned with a plethora of cultural markings. Heavy spears with vapor-cannons, great blades with plasma-tubes, and great axes with boltslingers were held at the ready. It seems the delegation had broken down, yet it did not dismay Artoris in the slightest. The transport halted in the path of the Hierarch’s enforcers, the Abyssnan delegate stepping out with Mistress Pantea and Commander Kaine.

“Be calm, wendim, I bring a great diplomat from the Imperium. The Hierarch must witness this woman of intense genemancy. It is astound-” The delegate pleaded before a booming voice resounded throughout the thoroughfares of Abbaba. It was a voice as deep and throaty as the howling mountains of Himalazia. More than enraged, it sounded disappointed.

“You are a fool, Ajani nak’Alem. I had taken you for a wiser man than you are, but you were bound by the spells of the wyrd and the witch. Can you not smell their disgust on your nose or have you forgotten the raids of Wak’Ta on Abbaba?” The voice, Artoris understood, was the Abyssal Hierarch himself. As he focused his senses, he could tell that the voice was projecting from nearby vox-emitters and drone-wardens nearby. It was preordained that they would be the first targets. The Abyssnan warlord continued with harsh disgust on his lips, “you were supposed to kill them, wedaj, not ally them. Worry not, you’ve been officially relieved of your duties. Slaughter these dog-worshipping Himalazians.”

Before the delegate, Pantea, or Kaine could react, Artoris detached himself from the bottom of the transport. One hand had cradled an explosive orb on their journey, which was now thrown with perfect delay into the midst of the Abyssnan warriors. His fellow clade members followed his example, unfurling into the sandy streets of the hive to deliver explosive death. They phantom flitted across the limestone tile in a synchronized dance of death. As the explosives detonated, so too were the throwing weapons ignited with plasmic edges and pierced their would-be attackers. The clade leader felt joy at a task successfully executed, yet his joy would be triumphed by the Fifteenth’s bewildering powers.

If Artoris had considered himself fast or strong, then he had not realized that those that led their myriad cohort of fellow genewarriors could be greater. Mistress Pantea had already erected a field of shimmering energy similar to that of Abbaba’s shining void shield, halting a flurry of unrelenting rays and bullets. Her escorts, warrior-leaders in their own right, had flashed streaks of purple lightning across the thoroughfare. Abbysnan geneknights disappeared into hulks of meat as the Thirteenth’s explosives detonated. He felt awe for a second longer than he would’ve liked, then returned to his duties. Abbaba must fall and it was unto him that duty was paramount.

As one, the four of them separated with predesignated targets strategically remembered through the combing of the Fourteenth Division’s blueprints. Fury, fire, and sorcery erupted behind him as the Fifteenth enveloped their enemies in a storm of wyrd. Artoris found himself thankful for their presence, yet equally repulsed by their malign abilities; however, he inherently knew that anything is a weapon. A phrase that had spread through the wider cladehost- or Legion, as they had begun to call themselves. Knives flew from his robe-tattered hands, piercing vox-emitters and drones alike with high precision. Abyssnan civilians scattered away from the genegiants as they rampaged to unknown destinations.

He soon found the goal of his mission through the thronging crowds of dispersing civilians and ill-prepared militia. The great portal into the badlands of Abyssna soared up before him, flanked by tall bastions of archaic majesty. Each spread out to the wider battlements that stretched the length of Abbaba. Ascenders, visible from the bottom of the towers, awaited a fresh cohort of patrolmen ready to crest the walls. They would not meet their assignments as Artoris appeared amongst them with a combat knife as long as their mortal bodies. From there, it was short work to the top with the hive in full alert and saboteurs running freely amongst their numbers.

He smiled, another city had fallen to his knife and another victory that crowned the laurels of their helmets. Artoris flicked the blade in grim anticipation. Perhaps the Clademaster would reward him with new armaments from Abbaba’s treasury?

---

Abbaba was shattered. The unbreakable city had been penetrated, infiltrated, and broken open by the Imperium in a singular strike. The portal into the city, those mile-high indestructible gates, had opened for the first time in sixty-two hours. There was no feasible way to stop the rapid approach of the Excertus Imperialis as they marched on the hive. Auxilia, enraged by five days of unrelenting assault, screamed the victory of the Raptor as they charged. A great cloud of black rose as warmachines roared to life with renewed effort. To them, the battle was already won.

Yet to the Thirteenth, the battle had only begun. Emerging from the sands, rapidly disembarking from carrier vehicles, or dropped from air by stormbirds, the Bronze Scorpions were the first into the gap. Not to be outdone by their cousin cohort, the Sirens of Terra were next through the breach after their commander had left them. A storm of lilac and bronze power armor broke through the ramshackle inner defenses of Abbaba. The lavender tide, splitting off into coordinated groups, rushed towards the last known position of their commander; however, the burnished-black daggers dispersed as revenants of death into the depths of Abbaba.

The mortals followed in afterwards with their lasguns, autoweapons, and bulletejectors firing in waves of human flesh. The repressed frustration and rage of a prolonged siege was vented upon the bystanders and citizenry of the Abyssnan people in indiscriminate quantities. Vehicles demolished smaller buildings into rubble, while great cannons toppled towers and monuments of an unknowable past. They were the harbingers of the Emperor and they would know His will.

---

Master Zaid tore through one of the mortal militia with his chainaxe, clenching the paddle of the weapon with malevolent force. It shredded through the carapace of the Abyssnan with ease, monofilament teeth the size of a human fist churning the flesh of the man in sickening clumps. A kick to the lower half of the defender delivered a finality to the gorey display, his legs disappearing into a pink mist that painted the Scorpion’s boot. He turned with purpose, his plated fist meeting the unprotected skull of another. Similarly, it disappeared under his speed and strength.

Something approached from behind him at rapid speed. He would not allow it to live. The propulsion-tubes on his back ignited as their fans began to superheat with combustive fluids. An inferno erupted from his jetpack, cooking the Abyssnan gene-enforcer that attempted to take him by surprise. As their armor and skin began to melt, Zaid’s chainaxe whipped around in a flurry to cleave into rapidly deteriorating powered armor. The teeth chugged through flesh, bone, and metal alike in a gore torrent. His assailant died in seconds under such an assault. A muzzle flash to his right briefly caught his attention as one of his clade members appeared.

“Satisfied, Zaid?” The warrior asked beneath his snarling helmet, his bronze plating decorated with fresh pockmarks and gore. Zaid was certain that Artoris smiled wickedly beneath his helmet, bathing in the pride of another high-level infiltration achieved under his name. The warrior’s armor was embellished with a thousand and one different campaign treasures. A bullet casing from Midafrik, a necklace of teeth from Nabatae, and countless others from obscure skirmishes. A laurel graced his helmet, echoing his righteousness as a ranking member of their Legion.

“Never, Artoris, not until the last of His enemies cease to breathe. Take the Black Blades into the heart and prepare to pluck it out with your daggers.” The Legion Master responded in a snarling tone, a mixture of disgust and frustration dripping from his lip. His grim demeanor was reinforced only by the occasional flash of lilac armored genewarriors. Small teams led by a senior member in a decorated tabard sheltered citizenry and evaporated enemies with wyrd abilities.

“Perhaps some time amongst their number would enhance your humors, Legion Master,” Artoris responded with an oddly humorous tone, his clade members joining him with their armor donned and their tanned robes fluttering in the humid wind. His demeanor straightened as the retinue prepared behind him. “But your will be done. Gloria Scorpis!”

Zaid watched as the Black Blades, one of the many clades in his host, disappeared into the labyrinthine streets of Abbaba. Though he held his own thoughts on the cocky Astartes, the Legion Master was more than aware of how keenly their operation hinged on their success. Such arrogance was allowable, yet he wouldn’t allow it to fester for much longer. His attention swiveled to the Bronze Scorpions gathering around him. None of them were his namesake companions or consuls, but they were veterans of their earliest deployments. He spared them of any dialogue, igniting the rugged jumppack attached to his bronze-and-black armor to streak through the skies of Abyssna.

The battle laid out before him as he sailed through the air on promethium wings. Five spiraling towers stood in a star-shaped formation outward from the center of the city, where most of their mortal forces converged to assail the defenders. Explosions plumed up from countless districts, clogging the air with soot and depleted ozone. The wyrd licked out in separate hive thoroughfares, ripping time and space with maleficent energy from the gauntlets of lilac juggernauts. Scouring packs of black-bronze giants hunted the causeways and alleys of select targets, vivisecting the inhabitants of Abbaba as they spread out. He knew well that the city would fall within the hour. Only the Abyssal Hierarch would prove the final penultimate piece to their invasive puzzle.

Limestone rubble met his greaves as Zaid slammed against the ground on his descent. His boots rolled him forward into a sprint, ignoring the warning klaxons in his helmet of aerial debris and impending counterattacks. He deftly leapt once more as waylaid defenders began to coalesce around him, scorching their rudimentary carapace with superheated wind. As his armored form flew through the sky, the Legion Master heard the sharp bark of bolters and the thrumming swing of powered weaponry. His trusted warriors had dispatched their would-be pursuers in their following ascent. It never failed to surprise him at the deftness of their geneseed, how quick their bodies could move unlike others of their Master’s work. The thought eluded him as the vox began to crackle with a familiar voice. An irritating one at the best of times, and a truly frustrating one at the worst of times.

+’Dear Zaid, I can only assume this breach was your work,’+ The Mistress of the Fifteenth echoed against his ears. Her voice was smooth and sweet, yet he could hear the sardonic tinge ringed around her dialogue. Zaid grit his teeth in annoyance for he was certain of her next words. +’we had the situation well under control, thank you, but it seems the Hierarch isn’t keen to comply with our Emperor’s wishes.’+

+’I warned you, Princess. Insects like the Hierarch and his kin aren’t worth His time. We were well beyond the point of conversation.’+ The Master of the Thirteenth responded, easing the rising blood in his veins as he landed once more on a long stretch of concrete road. Mortals in the drab fatigues of the Fourteenth Division were forcing citizenry back into their homes, while others executed dismembered and dismayed defenders. They offered a single look in his direction before continuing their duties. He offered no such glance, ascending back into the sky once more to cross the great lengths of the hive. +’What is the status of the Fourteenth Commander? Has that man perished?’+

A short, sweet laugh responded to him as he crept closer to the center of the hive. He hated her. He despised working with her. He wished that the Emperor had stapled his nerves further than they had already been dampened to assist in his duties. Her response came shortly after as he soared through a cloud of black smoke.

+’Do you take me for an incompetent commander, my friend? He is alive and well, though perhaps scarred from the events. One of my adjutants is escorting him back to the frontline. Now, if I know you, you’ll want to take the glory of the Hierarch’s head.’+ Her response came in a tone that implied that she wore a soft smile beneath her helmet. Zaid could tell what and where she was planning to do. Unconsciously, he felt his legs pick up pace with the conversation. +’Shall we dance at the foot of the Hierarch’s door? Or will I find myself without a partner to engage diplomacy with?’+

He cut the vox. They had known each other from their inception as a pair of legions and she had never changed, not even once in their long service together. His blood boiled at the thought of her defiling all their hard work in the Emperor’s name this day. He refused to allow her victory in this regard. Those warriors that accompanied him, sensing the shift in their commander’s aura, began to quicken their step to their genetic utmost to keep pace. Little and less began to interfere with their assault as the enemy was pulled in six directions away from their palace, offering a boon in speed towards their ultimate objective. Zaid, despite his anger, was thankful that his genewarriors were built for urban sabotage.

The Abyssal Palace grew close now with each successful descent from his jumppack. A great, circular structure of obsidian stone with a domed roof and a plethora of monolithic pillars. Neither turret nor defensive warmachines defended the palace for they had never anticipated an assault this far into the impenetrable Abbaba. An area as wide as a Himalazian mountain had been cleared around the palace, sizable enough to muster an army or rally the populace of a hive city in a single district. A scattering of gene-enforcers in lumbering warsuits, accompanied by groups of mortal auxilia, readied themselves on the wide steps leading into the palace proper. Perhaps due to the shimmering shield of their city did they deprive themselves of situational awareness. Or perhaps they had never thought that the enemy would fall upon them like raptors upon vulnerable prey. It would be their undoing.

Legion Master Zaid crashed into the first gene-enforcer with a great halberd, crushing their chest in with his reinforced greaves. His chainaxe tore into the exposed neck of the fallen warrior, spraying viscera across the steps of the palace. The mortals, shocked by the sudden assault, were disposed of in quick succession by his clade members. Post-reactive shells detonated their frail bodies into quivering messes of flying organs. Eye-watering rays of volatile energy disintegrated bystanding gene-sentries into howling piles of ash. Few were the unfortunate Abyssnan that were cut down by the blades of his subordinates, or torn to pieces by his chainweapon.

He had anticipated reinforcements from the moment they had landed amongst their scattered number. From different areas around the palace they came, gene-enforcers reinforced by mortals equipped with miniature variants of their halberd weaponry. The Bronze Scorpions prepared to dive into their foes; however, Zaid soon realized that it would be pointless to engage such foes from that distance. Streaks of lilac lightning tore across the great plaza in quick succession. Every Abyssnan smote was a charred corpse or body incinerated by the power of the wyrd. The elder genewarrior instinctively knew, even before they had arrived, that Pantea was here.

“Awfully rude to begin the dance without me, even after our short spate!” The Mistress of the Fifteenth cheerily said as her lilac gauntlets weaved webs of crackling lightning. No weapons adorned her form save the armor on her body. A lavender tabard snapped in the wind generated by her psionic abilities, while purple ferning patterns painted her vambraces. Several more of her genewarrior cohort accompanied the wyrd assault. Cobalt flames spewed forth from their gauntlets to engulf mortals in wreaths of haunting fire. They broke before they were defeated, fleeing into separating alcoves and arterial thoroughfares of the hive.

“You insult my abilities, Princess. Your assistance was unneeded and unwanted.” Zaid scowled beneath his slanted helmet. The two forces approached each other in a mix-matched tide of bronze, black and lavender. Both of their commanders closed the distance, casually beginning to ascend the grand stairs towards the palace.

“I would never insult - unless it was warranted. It would do you well to remember that we could’ve taken them with less than you would’ve required.” She jabbed at him with her words. A two-fold comment, he frustratingly realized, for the Fifteenth boasted less than half of their legion’s present numbers. A side-effect of their geneseed or due process for their sorcerous origins? He cared little for her demeanor stuck at the forefront of his anguish.

Zaid N’dar refused to respond as he stepped onto a stony plateau reaching out towards the great portal of the palace. A pair of ornate doors engraved with the history of the city awaited them as speechless sentinels. The Legion Master would not suffer more of their faux invulnerability by pressing his boot against the gate and breaking in the final defenses of the Abyssnan sanctuary. He could hear the Lady of the Fifteenth tutting behind him for his apparent barbarism. He failed to find reason to regard her behavior.

The inside of Abbaba’s central leviathan structure was a beauty to behold. A wealth of culture, technology, and history that spanned the longest eras of humanity bedecked the wide halls of the citadel. Pillars, carefully engraved with the long history of Abyssna, held the domed roof of the palace, while lithe stasis chambers carried ornaments and baubles of indescribable age. A single, circular chamber made up the floor with a throne as tall as an artillery gun at it’s center. A warlord’s proof of office, the seat of power was an instrument of ancient technology in of itself. Cables snaked across the floor to concealed conduits leading up to the central seat of the city. Upon it’s metallic seat, ringed by a host of ornate warriors in powered plating, was an equally enormous juggernaut of leviathan proportion. That said gargantuan rose now, clambering down his seat with a spear as large as a Thunder Warrior.

“It is impressive, is it not? Abbaba, the Indestructible City of Abyssna. For generations this city was a bastion against impurity, depravity, and degeneration. My ancestors fought endlessly against hordes of maniacs, herds of mutants, and ancient cabals of witches. Here I stand as proof of their duty to Abbaba,” the man began to say with a voice as deep as the Himalazian mountains were tall. He bore no helmet, freely displaying his scarred and aged face to the interlopers. Dark skin with golden hued irises peered at them in defiance, while indiscernible tattoos of myriad colors perforated the darkness. “And here I, Ephrem Abimelech Abay, stand against your Emperor. Crawl back to your Master, dogs, or suffer death.”

“You and your people are stalwart, ingenious wards of humanity! Will you not consider the possibility of working in the name of Unity, Ephrem? Not even for the betterment of mankind? Would you ancestors smile upon you, knowing that you could be assisting the Emperor in reclaiming our species birthright?” Pantea asked. Her voice was outwardly pleading, yet Zaid knew that this was her final attempt to halt an outright slaughter. He knew that she wanted more for Unity than any of their number, a stalwart and judicious knight of humanity; however, the Lord of the Thirteenth knew better of her true nature than she herself did. It disgusted him.

“Your Unity would crumble as soon as it was achieved. Your Emperor’s plans are faulty. Men, greater than Him, have tried long before and failed. My ancestors have known that men such as Him would be our species undoing. No, I will not suffer His hubris, even at the cost of my life.” The Abyssal Hierarch responded with mocking laughter, his ideals as sturdy as the walls of his great city. There were no cracks in his fundamentals to break, no shifted stones to collapse, or weak links to be broken. He was as stalwart in his foundations as the group of Astartes before him.

Before the Mistress of the Fifteenth could waste more of their precious invasion time, Zaid raised his plasmic sidearm and shot the closest of the genewarriors around the Abyssal Hierarch. The time for speech was over. He could physically see the aura of frustration building around Pantea as a crackling maelstrom of energy. His reflexes had been quicker than their haphazard, gene-enhanced reaction times. The first casualty turned into a mess of sinking plasma, boiling plating and flesh in seconds upon delivery.

Chaos erupted from within the palace as combat began. Guardians of the Hierarch split in different directions, aiming to flank and feint into the invaders. Ephrem would use no such underhanded tactic, charging directly at the Lord of the Thirteenth with his spear lowered. The mixed bronze, black, and lilac tide broke apart in synchronized movements. Sirens split to the left with their wyrd conjuring shimmering barrier, but Scorpions tore up into the air with the jumppacks to rain hellfire below. Archeotech armaments rang out across the palace as the gene-sentinels unleashed their wicked devices. Rays, bullets, and shells crossed the distance between the two forces.

Crashing through either side of the palace were the Black Blades of the Thirteenth. The one at their forefront, Artoris, tumbled into one of the gene-sentinels with a curved power sword. He pierced the protective exoskeleton, forcing the Abyssnan to the ground before pulling upward to engage another foe. Four other Scorpions descended upon the vulnerable flanks of the defenders with their close combat weapons stabbing and slashing. Not to be outdone, the lilac knights of the Fifteenth pushed further into the left flank with lavender lightning and cobalt fire. In due time, those last juggernauts of the palace would be eliminated, save for the Hierarch himself.

The Titan of Abyssna proved more fast, robust, and aggressive than his bodyguards had been. His spear was a lance of obsidian underslung by a cannon made of lightning and death. His armor was Abbaba taken mortal form, every edifice engraved with victories and glories from eons before him. He was the size of an Albian deathmachine, his fingers like colossal claws and his feet like gargantuan treads; however, Ephrem had never met the Astartes before.

Mistress Pantea reached out through the ether and raked lilac lightning across the palace pillars into Ephrem’s protected form. Buckling under the stress of sorcerous manifestation, Ephrem raised a single arm to ward off the ruinous flurry. Zaid came in as a phantom from the dark, circling around the desolated pillar and flung himself into the defending Abyssal Hierarch. At point-blank range, the Master of the Thirteenth overcharged his plasma pistol and unleashed it directly into the Titan’s thigh. Fast enough to evade death, the Scorpion rolled away as the armament exploded into a gout of plasma. The Hierarch roared out in anguish, falling to his knee as the Master of the Fifteenth advanced. Before the Abyssnan could react, the lilac warlord forced his gaze downward with a wyrd-infused punch to the cranium.

The Hierarch’s skull bounced off the floor with a resounding crack. For a normal mortal, that would be enough to result in their cranium exploding; however, the Titan of Abyssna was no simple man. His robustness was a miracle given form. Blood cascaded out of the man from cracks in his face, yet his gray matter failed to spill out. In a feat of strength, the Hierarch pushed himself back up to one knee to raise his gaze back up to Pantea. His eyes, dark and deep, remained firmly on the Mistress of the Fifteenth. He appeared as if he were to speak once more were it not for the towering form of Zaid to fall upon him. The Master of the Thirteenth cleaved Ephrem’s head from his shoulders with his wicked chainaxe. A torrent of viscera sprayed out of his neck onto the Princess’ lilac armor, sealing the fate of Abbaba once and for all.

“The Hierarch is dead! Kill the rest and be done with this city! Gloria Raptoris Imperialis!” Zaid N’dar roared out as his boot kicked over the corpse of Abbaba’s Titan. His lifeforce drained out onto the decorated tiles of the palace while the rest of his gene-sentinels were butchered by the assailing Astartes. Pantea bent down and narrowed her eyes at the carcass, an inconceivable emotion bubbling up from within. Around her, more death propagated by the Bronze Scorpions continued unchecked. Soon, the city would follow in their bloodwake.

---

The banner of the Raptor unfurled from the top of Abbaba’s battlements. A thousand and one cheers rose up from the supposed liberators of the invasion. The day had long since fallen into darkness, filtered only by the lights of the Abyssnan hivecity. Silence would’ve taken hold of the area were it not for the oncoming stars falling upon the city. Transports, bulky and heavy, dropped from the sky on squat engines with sigils of the Raptor. Gunships in the colors of the Astartes cohorts aided them, patrolling the air around the citadel before touching down within the great walls. Grand vehicles of leviathan proportion, reinforcements from far afield, rumbled loudly outside of the gargantuan curtain.

Every thoroughfare, alcove, alleyway, and hiveway was congested by the victorious invaders. Mortal men and women garbed in red-black fatigues with lasguns strapped to their chests. The defeated defenders marched in chains, sequestered to makeshift prisons in different parts of the hive. Abyssnan citizens hid when they could or otherwise were forced to open their doors to their liberators. None of the towering gene-enforcers survived to see the light of a new day, each slaughtered to the last by the Astartes of the Fifteenth and Thirteenth. Their armaments were secured by the agents of the Sigilite, spirited away for later use in an unspoken campaign.

Commander Markus Kaine had felt a sense of triumph unlike ever before. He felt as if it were his achievement that had led to Abbaba’s unification efforts; or so he told himself with a bottle of amasec in one hand and a lho-stick in the other. While the reinforcements from the broad portions of Abyssna dealt with the city’s aftermath, he allowed the Fourteenth Division to recuperate in the hive-cities refitted barracks. His first order had been to make the closest spire to the gates their personal haven. It hadn’t occurred to him that this particular structure had been the pleasure palace of the city.

“We did it, Reggy, we actually did it.” Kaine said with a smile on his scarred lips, his eyes falling over the sights of Abbaba. Their suite - and the rest of the officers of the Fourteenth - was located on the higher portions of the southern spire. The rest of the enlisted were granted accommodations further below them. Reginald, similarly sitting with beverage, quietly nodded his head after some seconds of rumination.

“It was actually Mistress Pantea and Master Zaid that had led to the city's downfall, Commander.” The sorrowful tone of the officer responded, earning him a groan and an agitated glare from Markus. Before the man could continue, Reginald rose from his seat to walk out onto the balcony overlooking Abbaba. “But I will give you that you were the first to send out a distress call. If you had failed, I imagine Lord-Commander Crucias would strip you of your title as the Fourteenth Division’s leader.”

That comment had reeled in his ego. A puff of the lho-stick and a forlorn look was all that Reginald needed to know that he had pushed Markus too far. He clapped a reassuring hand on his Commander’s shoulder, his best attempt at comforting the whimsical leader of the Fourteenth. Kaine brushed off the hand with his amasec-held hand.

“At least you’ll be able to make a passable attempt at courting Mistress Pantea after everything you’ve achieved.” Reginald said with a sad, slow smile, choosing to ignore Markus’ attempt to bat him away.

“Unfortunately not, Reggy,” Commander Kaine said, raising his glass at a far-off field of gathering transports and fluttering lights. A mess of lilac, bronze, and black stood in a tight group around the dark hull of gunships. Even from this distance, the gargantuan shapes of the Thirteenth and Fifteenth could be seen from their vantage point. “They’ve already set sail for their next battlefield. Honoring the wish of the Emperor and pursuing Unity in the vast reaches of Terra.”

“Then you, at least, managed to say goodbye to the Mistress, correct?” Reginald asked, hoping to inspire some level of happiness in his commanding officer. To his surprise, Markus chuckled with a smile lingering on his lips. He sipped gently from the glass of amasec, set it down on the balcony ledge, and clutched something beneath his trenchcoat.

“You could say that.” He responded, his hand clutching a lock of silver hair in a silver chain with a Raptor Imperialis locket. Markus clipped close the amulet with a press of his fingers, trapping the treasure within before turning around to Reginald with reinvigorated confidence. “Now, I hope you’re prepared for a journey further east. We’ve gotta make our way to the palace for our next assignment. Lord Crucias’ll have our heads if we kept the amasec purely to ourselves.”

The Commander of the Fourteenth Division ambled onward towards the other end of the room, his lho-stick extinguished and his spirits as high as the very spire they resided in. Reginald, ever the loyal frontline officer, dutifully kept pace with him towards the ascender.

Further afield away from the spire of the officer’ ward, the stormbirds of the growing Fifteenth and Thirteenth whined with anticipation. Assault ramps laid bare for the embarking genewarriors to remain within. The Sirens of Terra, lilac and silver juggernauts, ambled into their respective transports, while the Bronze Scorpions, black and bronze knights, marched into their own with fresh treasures hanging from their pauldrons. Their movements were stiff, some fresh from their inoculation into the ranks of the legion. Others swaggered with freshly found confidence as campaign veterans. More still were eerily silent and dutiful, bland as their days of slate-gray pattern powered armor.

“Your actions confuse me.” Master Zaid N’dar spoke out as he walked closer to the gathering throng of genewarriors. To his left, Mistress Pantea walked with a small smile on her lips. He knew that a storm brewed deep within her from the desolation of Abbaba, yet the laurels of victory and unity brought faith to her spirit. Ever the hawk for details, he had spied her departing words with the mortal commander of their operation.

“There’s nothing to be confused about,” Mistress Pantea replied proudly, fully aware of her actions and what commotion they could cause. “Markus is a valiant, fearless man. No other had dared to confront me such as him, nor had any accompanied me into the depths of Abbaba. Such as yourself, my dear Zaid.”

His blood boiled with every second she spent speaking. Years could pass between their meetings and he would still feel the same way. For the sake of victory, he allowed her frustrating comments without rebuke. It hadn’t stopped him from gritting his teeth in anguish. “You will confuse him with your meddling, Pantea, be more aware of your actions.” The Master of the Thirteenth seethed, releasing a jet of relieved frustration from his gritted teeth. He spied a mocking smile on her lips, something that he would not allow for much longer.

“Where do the winds of war take you, Princess?” Zaid asked, changing the subject before she could rattle off another veiled insult towards him. As he suspected, her smile softened to a thin line on her perfect features. He made assumptions to the likelihood of her next campaign, yet deigned to let her speak before assuming.

“Nordyc. Frozen, blasted, and freezing. Would that I could remain in the warmer climates of Terra, battling afield sand and dune.” She replied, longing in her voice for the homeland that she had been born to. The only thing that they shared between them. The deserts and steppes of the Achaemenid Empire were their homes. The Mistress of the Fifteenth continued without missing a beat, “we will prevail and the hag-queens of the snow will be decimated. Where will you reave next, my friend?”

“Indoi,” He scoffed. They were no closer to friends than they were rivals. Compatriots that could synchronize perfectly in all motions except emotional. Often, Zaid refused to believe that she held the same level of tactical competence as him, yet Pantea always proved him wrong in that regard. “Then unto the Yndonseic Bloc. Then unto the Pan-Pacific Empire. Then unto Unity in His name.”

It was an answer that seemed to sate her curiosity. She nodded in approval, walking over and placing a gauntlet on his pauldron. He blocked the overwhelming desire to knock aside her lilac hand with his chained fist. Zaid knew that her serious composure was something to take into account. The Master of the Thirteenth prepared himself for her next words, perhaps some form of psionic premonition for his next war?

“Then until next time, Zaid, try not to die before me.” Her tone was as sweet as it was mocking. She grinned, clapping his pauldron before reaching down and planting a snarling helmet over her head. The silver hair of her progenitor disappeared into the armor. Pantea turned away from the nigh frothing form of Zaid with a kick in her step.

“I despise you!” The sloped helmet of Zaid roared out at the retreating lilac-armored genewarrior. Laughter, haughty and boastful, echoed out from the Mistress of the Fifteenth as she disappeared into the dark hulls of a stormbird. The transport’s engine began to hum with renewed vigor as the assault ramp closed behind the warrior. Seconds passed as a host of lilac gunships rose into the night sky of Abyssna. Flames erupted from fancases as the transports disappeared from his sight.

The Master of the Thirteenth Legion remained a moment longer to watch the last of the Fifteenth depart for the roaring mountains of Nordyc. He turned away as the last of their lavender hulls become starshaped crosses in the darkness of night. The prized spear of the Abyssal Hierarch rested against his right pauldron as he turned away. Zaid refocused himself on the palace of Abbaba, where the plans for the Unification of Indoi awaited him.

---

Credit: @MarshalSolgriev (Bronze Scorpions/Master of the Thirteenth Zaid/Abyssnans/Markus Caine/Fourteenth Division), @Antediluvixen (Sirens of Terra/Mistress of the Fifteenth Pantea)

//Hive-City Ovill, Terrawatt Clan

Grek Dorji let out a huff as he stomped along the precipice of his loft home in the spires, looking over the daily production schedules as decreed by the Theologiteks. The short, and admittedly chubby, man was disappointed that they had not managed to increase the efficiency of the forges. He had been working many standard days trying to implement new methods and schedules down to the microsecond all in effort to meet the new Emperor’s needs for the war effort. He grumbled, missing the days in which all he had to worry about was smaller orders for smaller warlords - older and rarer trade deals or even simply just replacing old tech of the Clans. It had been a logistical hell for him to switch to full war production for this new warlord’s needs nor did he truly understand why.

The administrator never believed in the grand vision of a unified Terra, merely wanting to make his pay that was so generously given by the Theologiteks - but ever since the Emperor came around and more eyes looked upon the inefficiencies of the forges under his view, payment had been cut. Grek was bitter, grumbling more and more until a fortunate deal had come across his desk on a most unfortunate day. The day that Sanctii had fallen, he had received a deal that would see him owning, perhaps, the most productive forges on all of Terra with production technologies that not even his immediate lords held. That said, those technologies were morally dubious at best, ashewing the traditions of the Theologiteks and their strange ways.

One of his personal guards stepped onto the cold balcony, a distorted voice breaking his grumbling, “A message from her has come for you, sir.”

“Thank you, Andson,” Grek said in an almost giddy voice, his mood swinging quickly as he stepped back into the spire home. He moved through his grandiose loft, filled with large rooms and even larger decor that was most certainly all in his own vain. There were many guards in his own loft, a home the size of a small town, as if a barracks had moved in rather than servants of a petty noble. Many of them had shown up the same day that she had arrived with her own technomats to maintain her cold logics. He knew their loyalties, but he could not truly care for what he was being paid was worth more than what he could truly be worried about. That said, it was odd how he had never had been able to meet his dealer - only communicating through screens.

Nevertheless, he arrived at his desk and sat down to open a datapad and a smile crept across his face.

---

The guards on the balcony had been attentive, rotating every half-hour on that balcony and always down to the nanosecond. Yet, that had not been enough as three blackened hands descended upon them from above in near silence. They had slammed upon them with lances, reducing them into nothing more than a pile of gore - blackened and oily gore that mocked the human form. Those were not the concern of the three talons, however, as one silently moved towards the doorway. She proceeded to force the mag-locked doors open and the three custodians entered, quickly dispatching of the interior guards in bounding leaps.

The Black Hawk had noticed that the guards reacted faster as if they were moving in response to the exterior guards being destroyed - a mindlock. Amalasuntha cast a silent glare to one of her companions and began to sprint down the hall before more could begin to swarm them.

That was when the automated defenses began. Melta and volkite turrets revealed themselves, spitting out death from all directions, yet these were not the defenses of a city-state like Sanctii, far from it. The three custodians moved in dance, leaping from turret to turret destroying them with ease even as they fell upon guards who moved to intercept. Her Stygian Talons were each an army in their own right as any of His vaunted custodians were - this was nothing but a delaying tactic and one far more desperate than when they had sieged that city.

Amalasuntha grasped a horrid automata’s head and crushed it as it turned a corner - those that did not seem to stop the form from trying to raise its weapon. A swift strike with her Misericordia cut the abomination in half. They covered a vast distance in less than a minute, they were slow and the delaying tactic was effective enough for the shield-captain to know that Deep Winter had likely already vacated this portion of the spire, if she were even here in the first place. Her blackened hand grasped the muzzle of a rifle and swiftly pointed it towards its wielder, forcing the automata to fire on itself before it could calculate what was happening.

The three of them fell upon a solitary room, breaching with nothing more than a shoulder charge brought to speed by their jump backs, sending the door clattering far into the small office. Four automations shot from prepared positions, their rounds turning away at the last moment due to their alchemical aegis. The custodians made short work of them as Amalasuntha marched up to the desk of Grek Dorji who was already slumped over on his desk. He had been executed with a data-pad in his hand, merciless and calculated just as she knew Deep Winter to be.

A silent stare to one of her venatarii sent him to move out of the room and deeper into the complex - they had to make this seem like nothing more than a terrorist attack by dissidents of the Emperor. Amalasuntha grasped at the data-slate and brought up to her mask, reading it in seconds for anything that may pertain to a lead. Deep Winter had been honest with Grek, telling him that Amalsuntha had been coming and that she needed to tie up loose ends - even going on to feign an emotion as pity for Grek’s predetermined fate.

Yet, Deep Winter had not been thorough enough in wiping previous messages on the slate. There had been diverted shipments to the Sud Afrik cities, likely vehicles to multiple safe-houses for the Abominable Intelligence’s followers. The shield-captain set the slate back onto the desk, being sure to wipe anything that would tip the Theologitek’s to the presence of the Custodians and Deep Winter. They needed utmost secrecy for this hunt and an unwarranted raid even on an inefficient administrator would be inspected with scrutiny. Amalasuntha turned and began to swiftly exit the location; they needed to move fast before Deep Winter could move further again.

As they activated their jump packs and leapt off the balcony, multiple explosions rocked the hive, vaporizing the loft and much of the surrounding area of that section of the spire - acceptable collateral.

All in His name.

---

---

The vast lands of the Indoi spread out in great, leviathan chunks of sickly green and rotten brown. Valleys, flanked by black-topped mountains, rose as stalwart giants over the urban sprawl of humanity’s overpopulated hives. Rivers of poisonous green slithered through the ravines, disgustingly poured from the top of the tallest hive as a venomous waterfall. Clumps of flora still lingered in the former jungles of Eurasia as horrible fragments of their former beauty. Putrid vines hung from megaflora trees with deadly spikes and oozing pustules of mutated flesh. Abominable monstrosities stalked the wastelands, hunting on six legs and tearing sinew with three maws. Far and few entered the urban sprawl of the Indoi, loomed over by great towers of their oldest faith. The ruins of gargantuan maglevs fell apart in the acrid drip of the hazardous runoff, formerly used to travel the many cities of the continent. In the absence of such architecture, large hordes patrol the Indoi cityscapes with bestial-genewarriors and chained mutants. Psyker-monks of the disparate overlords watch, cleanse, and purify where they can with little success to restore their once beautiful lands. Clouds gathered endlessly and ominously over the Indoi, raining acid and mutating byproduct into the land once more. The cycle repeated itself every day in the burgeoning lands, mutating over and over while the inhabitants tame what can be tamed. A dull stalemate with nature that persisted for eons.

The monotony was broken only in the northern plains of the Indoi, where great banners bearing the raptor and thunderbolt unfurled from bastions of brutal rockrete. Agents of the Imperium, an empire of the Himalazians, worked tirelessly to cleanse the areas with handheld flamethrowers and roiling juggernauts that belched horrendously black smoke. Warriors as tall as the monsters they slaughtered walked in conjunction with these machines, butchering everything in their path. It was thankless work that contributed little and worse, yet it was a portion of the bargain between Indoi and the Imperium. A fire that consumed the untamed lands, ravaged by dogmatic fanatics and mutants alike, was key to easy movement from the Himalazia. So it was that His soldiers worked in blissful ignorance to the chaos that ignited in the southern jungles.

In the southeastern lands of the Indoi, the drums of war beat against instruments forged from the flesh and bone of men. The slaves of the Indoi ran for their lives, choicedly fleeing into the mutated jungles of their land to evade a worse fate. People that they had once callied allies chased them with grim determination, tearing apart those that they caught. Their bodies were dragged back from the plains, jungles, and ravines of their homes into the poisonous basins close to the Yndonesic Bloc’s territory. Where the old, frail, and ailing were slaughtered for fresh meat in their warmachine, the young were left to a crueller fate in mind. Each of the adolescents were pumped with the mutagenic runoff of the spires, filled with the invasive augmentation of the psyker-monks, and fused together with the endless hordes of mutants in their jungles. Fierce, berzerking beast-genewarriors were secretly forged in the wicked labs of the southern lands. No sooner had they been born anew into the world were they sent out into the wastelands for new components. Either succeeding where the last failed, or dying to the malevolent horrors of their continent.

An endless tide of refugees fled from the southern lands of Indoi, fleeing away from the things that hunted within the jungles. Those that pledged protection had turned away from their vows and slaughtered wholesale with new purpose. Ravines were filled with the unwanted dead of the hunters, jungle-flesh was chopped for infernal warmachines, and surrounding hive-villages were dismantled for new wargear. Enormous waves of spire runoff flooded the lands, choking the life from outskirting civilization with religious fury. Mutants were emboldened, ruinous jungle mutation thrived, and the zealots that poured across the lands did so with reinvigorated enthusiasm. Few were able to comprehend the destruction that surged through Indoi, many firmly believing that it was a prophetic occurrence that humanity’s time was finished. Those that understood, however, noticed a particular detail on the raging zealots. They wore nothing save for ragged attire seen in the Pan-Pacific Empire. These tales were spun, woven, and threaded to the ears of the northern plains. A defense was mustered to halt the unstoppable tide. Only their defiance would survive to sing the events to their warlord…

Akash Tigerheart leaned on all four of his claws from the ruins of a toppled spire. He could smell the myriad stink of the southern zealots. A growl bubbled up from within his throat, emerging from his toothy maw as a muted groan. He ushered his body forward, rustling the powered plating that pressed against his furred body. As his burgeoning form stalked down the spine of the toppled tower, those that accompanied him fearfully parted away. Rightfully so, they were part of the lower caste, never meant to rise above their station beyond wayward service to the Padshah. His claws met the end of the spire as the lower caste began to regroup, every scent painting a new scene about the village-hive’s destruction.

Ethereal phantoms painted themselves around him, coalescing around the squalid forms of his lower caste grunts. Although they were invisible to those beneath him, Akash could keenly watch their erratic movements and twisted actions. His body perked upright as he witnessed the events playing out on a phantom stage. Ghastly zealots in scrap armor akin to the lesser caste fought against similar warriors. His brotherly genewarriors, righteous half-beasts as tall as armored personnel transports, fought in violent duels against other of their kin. Revered monks, donned in flowing robes and heavy beads, shot out strings of lightning at those they had called brethren. To his dismay, the zealots were winning beyond a doubt. Other vestiges moved through the shadows, something foreign and disgusting was woven into the scents. It paled in comparison to the stink of the Imperials.

The Imperials. A long growl vented out of his mouth, stirring the ethereal shadows and rippling fear throughout the lower caste. He twisted his maw in wounded defeat, spitting out the bones that he sucked upon. The fight with the Himalazians had left the Padshah in a bad position, perhaps leading to the current situation. Akash smelled the grimes, oils, and fabrications of their equipment on the non-zealots. Despite the fact that the Imperial wargear was present, those that defended the hive-village were dying as swiftly as they were appearing. It was a grim phantasm, one that he had finished experiencing. With one swipe of his armored claw, the shadows of the past disappeared from his refined senses. The lower caste watched on in a mixture of fear as his rending talons tore through the air. A small amount of joy bubbled up as he watched their formation topple from the shockwave.

The formation stumbled back, tripping over the corpses of their fellow servants. Lower caste warriors that had fought to defend the village-hive with everything that had. Their corpses were maimed, dismembered, and butchered beyond recognition, yet they still remained in the wreckage. Regardless of their standing, Akash’s entourage didn’t scream for their lives or vomit their lungs out in disgust. His maw split in a wicked smile as he pounced off the last stretch of spire. His men pulled away from him as they regained their composure. He had gained enough information from this battlefield to properly address the Padshah. As he began to turn away, one of the Padshah’s royal caste marched over to him. They stank of hypocrisy, delicateness, and a life spent in perfumed quarters. It revolted him, yet he was expected to serve regardless.

“By the Padshah’s grace.” Akash growled out in a tone thinly veiling his disgust. His enormous form bowed down to the member of the royal caste, who sauntered forward on strange shoes that lifted him above the ground. He despised their presence with every fiber of his being, donned in robes longer than their person and with gear that made them impervious to his claws. An aura of superiority radiated from the royal, pushing his disgust further in.

“Tigerheart. The most holy Padshah has allowed your investigation into this… little insurrection. Be thankful that a meager, artificial being like yourself was granted the grace of His blessing. Now, without wasting more of my time, tell me what has happened.” The man was pompous and regal, yet thin and tall regardless of his position. His tone, by all the Gods, was the most infuriating out of everything. The royal spoke as if he was a personal gift from the Cycle, born from the fruits of the Eternal Vine. It angered him to such a point that he actively suppressed a snarl. He reminded himself that not all royals were like that, especially not the Padshah.

“It’s grim. The scents are vague but distinct. The southerners seem to have risen up against the Padshah. They’ve got bestials, monks, and something foreign mixed with them. Scents that stink of the Pacific. Imperial equipment was used against the insurrectionists,” Akash began to reply, raising his head enough to speak but not enough to stare directly at the royal. Despite his prowess in combat, he wasn’t allowed to gaze at the upper class. A right that was reserved for the most exalted of His court. He continued with a snarl growing on his tongue. “But our warriors lost badly. If it happened here, then it’s already happened across the Holy Land. This isn’t a typical rebellion.”

The royal ruminated over what Akash said with a disapproving sneer. His body shook with disgust, ruffling like an avian in uncomfortable conditions. Both of his prismatic orbs closed to the world, allowing two additional sets of eyes to open up further on his head. They observed in several directions, consuming the sights of the destroyed village in seconds. It appeared as if the royal was looking beyond what the Tigerheart could see even with his own unique senses. A minute passed before the spheres disappeared into the folds of his skin.

“I’ve deemed your words as truthful and holy, bestial. Your senses, despite repulsive and fake, were correct in their appraisal of the situation. The southerners are in rebellion. Worse of all, they’ve accepted the most unholy and foul of foreigners into their forces. This is an unprecedented situation,” He responded in a defeated tone, defiant enough to be haughty but yielding enough to be humble. The royal gestured with one hand for Akash to look upon him and follow. Tigerheart rose wordlessly to his full height that towered even over the aristocrat. A grunt of disgust spurted out of their lips before continuing to speak. “His Holy Benevolence, High Padshah Siddharth must be informed.”

No sooner had the royal made the statement did the sounds of battle ring out in the background. A reinvigorated assault by the zealots had erupted in the nearby area. The horrific sound of butchery mixed effortlessly with the screaming of a mutant horde. The royal rolled his eyes once more and turned to the gargantuan form of Akash Tigerheart. A simple wave from his elegant hand was enough to unleash the bestial and his cohort. A wicked smile split the tiger maw of the genewarrior. The warlord raised his head to the sky and released a tiger roar into the fetid jungles. Their hunt was on once more.

---

Nolus Dolhai. The pinnacle of Indoi, holy summit of the High Padshah and grand temple dedicated to the Millennium Gods. It sprawled across all of the northern lands as the grandest hive of Eurasia. Spires rose as towering epitomes of Indoi culture, each topped with shrine-like mandapa. Brilliant gardens of cultivated mutant flora blossomed in beautiful squares in the hive, while fountains of diluted poison waterfalled from the tallest towers into ancient aquaducts. The hive was alive with activity from the bioluminiscent underhives to the tips of the holiest shrines. Transports of archaic design glided between the many towers to deliver unknowable materials. Functioning maglevs ferried an unquantifiable amount of men and women to different portions of Dolhai. Parades of well-groomed warriors marched the streets in reinforced carapace and carrying magnificent weapons, courtesy of the Imperial Himalazians. Beast-like genewarriors stood sentinel over the sacred sites, each designed with a different type of Terran animal in mind. The psyker-monks of the Cycle vigorously trained in specially designed plazas in attempts to achieve equilibrium.

And above it all, High Padshah Siddharth Enue watched with a troubled expression on his gold-tinged face. Typically, his twelve eyes would be alight with the joys of life and better spent divining the way forward for their culture; however, the words of his followers troubled him with each passing moment. One of the member from the royal caste, Raja Nayak, had further elaborated on the quickly progressing insurrection in his kingdom. He steepled his six hands in a fervent prayer to the Cycle, hoping that Indoi would return to blessed righteousness. Enue knew, though, that it wouldn’t come to be. Even Akash Tigerheart, one of his Divine Companions, had confirmed the events playing out across the land. Siddharth shook his head in defiance of fate, the myriad of ochre earrings shaking against his gargantuan golden body.

As he began to build himself up into a long prayer, one of his companions barged into his sanctum of worship. He turned to address the bestial as they prostrated themselves before his golden might. A crocodilian woman bowed to him, lowering her head in a majestic gesticulation. Unlike Akash’s defiant desire for armor, she wore an elegant robe over her lumbering form. It paled in comparison to his own, a mantle as long as the stars were bright and flowed with the smoothness of a snake’s scales. Regardless of her approval to gaze upon him, she remained impassive before his twelve-eyed observation. He spread his six arms wide in an accepting gesture of the crocodilian woman.

“Sadhika Scaleheart! O’ companion of mine! I pray that you bring me news that will radiate my day! Please, speak with my blessing!” The golden form of the High Padshah gestured with all six of his open palms turned towards Sadhika. Nervously, she raised her eyes to behold the holy monarch of Indoi. A look of sadness passed her reptilian orbs.

“Most blessed Padshah, I deliver news that will despoil your divine ears,” She began to speak in a tongue that defied logic, one crossed between a soothing song and a crocodilian growl. To him, it was beyond pleasant to listen to, yet her news brought a frown to his illustrious facial features. “Akash Tigerheart, your divine companion, has eliminated the next wave of insurgents; however, several other hordes of zealots have torched the farm-hives around the defended area. Despite the losses, we’ve managed to divine the name of their leader and backers. They are-”

“Thakur Vimal Sura, Diviner of the Cycle and Tender of the Fruit. They are backed by the Yndonesic Bloc and the Pan-Pacific Empire.” The High Padshah replied in a disheartened voice, his radiant aura dying down to a low dim as he delivered the truth. His companion looked confused, yet surrendered to his divine commandment. He had skeined the fates and learned what had befallen his kingdom moments before her arrival, yet he rejected the destiny laid out across reality. Siddharth simply wished to hear it directly from one of his most trusted servants first.

“Akash was certain of betrayal in the south, yet I refused to listen. I had hoped that the Tigerheart had been wrong in this one instance, but I was a fool not to adhere to the whims of the Gods. They had sent a songbird and I set it free without listening.” Siddharth turned away to step out onto the shrine’s balcony. Nolus Dolhai sprawled out before him in all of it’s beauty, complimented only by the cascading poisonfalls. He dipped his head in distress, golden tears beginning to build at the edge of his twelve eyes. “I know the answer to the issue, but speak the words that I need to hear, o’ companion of mine. Let me hear your song of revelation, dear Scaleheart!”

The crocidilian genwarrior was bothered but unsurprised about what had just occurred. She expected that a certain amount of information had already been passed to the High Padshah, but Sadhika hadn’t expected the precise details to be revealed. The words he demanded, though, were ones she was prepared to speak. Once more, her head was lowered to a humiliating bow as she spoke.

“We cannot hope to win without external support. We once failed to beat back the Himalazian Emperor with our combined strength and relented to their demands. Their support has born plenty of fruit. Now, more than ever, we must bow our heads and request the Imperium to intervene. Kalagann would butcher us and Narthan Dume would execute your most holiness.” Her words were wrought with a mixture of reason and desperation. Each syllable was spoken with the most humility she could muster in her geneforged being. She was heard, however, as the High Padshah placed a golden hand on her scaled skull.

“Thank you, o’ companion. Go now and reach out to the Imperials. Let the Himalazian Emperor know that we have reconsidered Unity and wish for their full support.” He said with a pitiful smile, pulling his golden hand back to steeple it with the rest of his digits. His head was bowed in a reverent prayer as he uttered the next words. “Let us pray that it is the correct path and that the Cycle may be allowed to continue.”

---

Aethys clicked the talons of his gauntlet together impatiently as the stormbird rattled around him. Unlike the typical glove that covered his digits, an oversized fist with long claws occupied both of his hands. He had grown accustomed to them after the Unification of Nabatae, shed blood with them in Abyssna, and planned to master them in Indoi. The warriors of the thirtieth clade, the Sanguine Claws, prepared in a similar manner to their clademaster. Their role to play in the skirmishes of southern Indoi were as they always had been - instigating chaos and sowing fear. New armaments, their powered claws in specific, had proven their tactics worthwhile during the rebellions following Abbaba’s defeat. Such was their glory that Legion Master Zaid had given him command over an entire clade.

Their transport violently staggered as chaff was jettisoned beneath their greaves, no doubt to deter anti-air solutions from the ground forces. The hull suddenly darkened as klaxons began to whir and whine with their approaching vector. As one, Aethys and his clade automatically unbuckled from their restraints to stand at the ready. Jump packs, those utilized in the assault of Abbaba, were mounted to their backs. Each of their fists were covered by man-sized gauntlets with elongated claws wreathed in arcing electricity. The clademaster stood at the forefront with his slopped helmet, topped with bronze laurel, looking outward. As the alarms began to dim, the assault ramp quickly dropped to reveal the dense, mutated jungles of southern Indoi.

Poison banks filled with saline snaked between fast canopies of sickly green jungle. Black-topped mountains smaller than the Himalazians rose up in the background beyond their sight. The chaos of war was raging below them in the form of erratic gunfire, swarming projectiles, and manifold explosions that threatened to wipe the flora from existence. Teeming around the flying form of the stormbird were other transports, each emblazoned with the Raptor and hued in black-bronze colors. Satisfied with their position, Aethys ignited the jump pack and leapt out into the toxic winds of Indoi. His clade followed swiftly after him with their armaments roaring to life on wings of promethium.

The clademaster of the Sanguine Claws and his clade were not alone in this ordeal. Other Astartes leapt from their stormbirds with jump packs screaming into the toxic winds. Their numbers were innumerable, all of them released from a flock of roaring transports that drew the attention of the insurrectionists. Their attention quickly swiveled over to the rapidly descending forms of the genewarriors. Small arms fire rattled against their reinforced plating to no avail, yet heavier munitions on long-legged machines plucked them from the sky in dense storms of shells. Many of them died on the descent into the jungles below, but many more survived the fall to begin the slaughter anew.

Aethys and his clade were amongst the lucky to survive the southern Indoi response. Their jump packs threatened to shudder into nothingness as they reverse-fired their variable thrusters to achieve landfall. One of his number suffered such a fate that their jetpack clogged on final descent, crashing from the sky in a plume of fire. Their sacrifice would be remembered for a time, but their death would be overshadowed by the slaughter to come.

And so it did as Aethys dived into the four-barreled, long-legged machine manned by a crew of fifteen individuals. His claws flashed left, decimating four in a brutal cut of electricity, while his clade members purposefully crashed into other automata such as he did. Their taloned instruments raked through flesh and machine alike in a catastrophic dance of nightmares. Men screamed as they were torn apart by arcing powerfields, hunted by being larger than their own genetic monstrosities. No sooner had the chaos began did it end in an explosion of gore and metal.

+’Instrument Site Epsilon-One-Five-Seven-Beta has been incapacitated. Beginning advance to Instrument Site Fennec-One-One-Three-Alpha.’+ Aethys spoke in a stiff, somber tone through the vox. His helmet, like many of their number, had been modified this campaign for wide-range transmission as part of an experiment. Though only available to the clademasters, he was certain that all of their consuls and the Master of the Legion were the first to receive this new equipment. Static followed his transmission until a voice pierced through the technological fog.

+’No. Reinforce Battle Site Concord-Five-Three-Five-Zulu. Our predecessors require assistance dispatching an ambush.’+ A voice as familiar as his warplate, Master Zaid N’dar had commanded him away from the precious duty of decapitating strikes. More importantly, he referenced those stunning, barbaric warriors that came before them. Thunder Warriors, the Legio Cataegis, their gene-ancestors and havoc dispensers of Terra. He alighted at the thought of working alongside them once more.

+'Orders received.'+ He responded in a curt voice, though Aethys could do little to hide his excitement. His talons clicked together in anticipation, a motion that he had attempted to rid himself of many times before. Although many clade members would relay their orders to their cohort, Aethys felt no need to do so. Wordlessly, the Astartes leapt into the air on burning turbines. They followed him in a great blast of pyroclastic energy.

The battlefield, closer than it had been previously, laid out before them as they leapt to their next destination. An entire swathe of the mutated dark green flora had been burned away towards Nolus Dolhai. A swarm of human flesh bearing the red-black of the Imperium trudged in violent protest to the southern Indoi insurgents. Behemoth vehicles akin to castles on treads flattened hills, trees, and trenches beneath their wake. Others swam between the human waves as augmented mercenaries with their own plethora of disastrous weaponry. Where the wall walked, tidal waves of trenches were left behind and used by thunderous cannons pointed into the sky. Be it anti-air or roaring artillery machines, the Imperium reinforced and reaved like an Nordyc axman with a shield.

All of this paled in comparison to the brutal genewarriors mixed amongst them. Clad in fully encased suits of gray power armor, the Third Legion marched as a bulwark of violent repression. Aethys had always admired their stalwart, cynical attitudes as they systematically neutralized their targets. Upon his next descent, he had watched a squad of the gray giants precisely tear apart one of the Indoi warwalkers and suffer no casualties.

His boots planted across the soft jungle floor, threatening to sink his armor in the mutated mire of Indoi. The Astartes refused this, pushing forward with the might of a demigod through the dense flora. His warriors chased after him with their claws at the ready. Their destination began to unfold in a wide opening of the tall, fungal vegetation. Giants, akin to themselves, brutally fought in close combat with bestial monstrosities. Bedecked in yellow-orange powered armor, a warrior with a standard raised an insignia of a Raptor Imperialis backed by a radiant sun and paired sabers. Aethys knew them immediately, hypno-trained and forced to memorize, as the IX Legio Cataegis - the Dawnhunters.

He awaited no alliance hail from the Dawnhunters, descending into the fray with his clade and claws. Genewarriors - if they could be called that - with myriad faces of Terran fauna fought back. Larger than the Astartes and armed with a variety of powerfielded weapons, Aethys could understand why the Cataegis were finding issues with the enemy. His claws tore through the ramshackle powered armor of the first bestial, pulling the warrior apart in a display of brutal viscera. Those behind him managed the same, decapitating and tearing their prey with relative ease. Despite their losses, the Dawnhunters held their own with roaring chainsabers and powerswords akin to equine-choppers.

The source of their call for reinforcement appeared before they could hunt it out. A smaller, lither bestial emerged from the woods with a plethora of arms weaving in apparent chant. Words, such that he had not heard before, began to spill forth from their maw as unnatural lightning arced off their apparel.

"Witch!" Aethys roared out as he pulverized the next bestial attempting to intercept him. Though he had not screamed it into the vox, his warriors had heard the call all the same. They moved in sync, weaving around the battlefield against the crushing wave of animal genewarriors and mutated hounds. Before the mutant could finish their chant, the Astartes were already upon them with claws descending.

"No!" One of the Dawnhunters screamed out as he kicked one of Indoi genewarriors in the chest, crushing their entire torso into a deep cavity. "It is not their witches we falter against!"

The trap had already been sprung. It was too late to respond before the first of the Astartes had fallen to the blades that crashed upon them. Robed figures in lithe power armor flitted into existence around them. Each wore a helmet with a howling skull, their gauntlets carrying a single-edged sword in one hand and a strange bundle of beads in the other. Edged with plasma, their swords pierced easily through the Astartes armor. Aethys had been lucky enough to avoid a decapitating strike, but he paid for that periless dodge with his helmet and one side of his face. Two of his clade perished to their ambush, decapitated and sundered. The last two managed to flit away on their jump packs with minor wounds.

Now, Aethys understood, why the Cataegis had been forced into this position. He reached up and tore the remainder of his helmet from his skull. The Scorpion had been lucky that the plasma had seared his wounds closed, elsewise he'd have to worry about the bleeding. The entire right side of his face was a mixture of devastatingly scorched and horrifically maimed. If the blade had striked an inch close, then his brain would certainly leak from his head. His tanned skin kissed the sun for the first time in Indoi, drinking deeply of the poisonous air. Brown hair descended the back of his head to his neck, cut abruptly on the right side by the wound. He lunged into the fray once more, their tricks unveiled and thwarted. It would prove to be his first of many mistakes against the eastern menace.

One of the Dawnhunters rushed into him, shouldering him away from a blast of pyrokinetic, unearthly energy. The Thunder Warrior disintegrated under the wave of wyrd, leaving nothing behind besides the charred air. It had been a warning. One that Aethys wouldn't forget or forgive. Every ounce of his training as an Astartes kicked in, words whispering into his ears from an unknown language in an unknown time. Sunder the black sands with obsidian talons. It had told him and he answered with violence.

Beams of wyrd were called forth from the unknown warriors. His preternatural senses allowed him the ability to dodge, even as they came as close as a carcharadon's tooth. Aethys focus heightened to a razor's edge, his body and claws lowered into a hunting jaunt. The black-bronze phantom, aided by the swiftness of his jets, pounced upon the warriors. They had been swift in the initial strike. They were not Astartes. His claws mauled the first, carving through ancient power armor and shredding mystic robe in single slashes. The second came upon him, cleaving through his right pauldron before being eviscerated by his talons. The next sliced through the powerfield of his left claw, rendering the weapon useless.

Anything is a weapon. The words came upon him as his unpowered, hulking fist caved the assassin's torso in. A flicker of movement saw his foot kick up one of his fallen ally's helmets, then punched down onto the aforementioned victim's skull. The last of the enemies sliced through the last of his talons, their plasma-edged sword easily carving through the humming powerfield. Aethys acknowledged his opponent, retreating backwards before charging forward with his jumppack. He was swiftly met with lightning quick stab from the sword. The Astartes caught the blade in his right fist, quickly melting through his oversized gauntlet. Their surprise was enough for the Scorpion to smash his left fist into the warrior, ending their life in a satisfying crunch. It came at the cost of his right gauntlet and part of his now-exposed hand. To him, it had been worth the price.

With their superior allies defeated, the insurgents quickly faltered. The Dawnhunters rallied after Aethys, murdering and butchering the last of the bestial warriors. Those that attempted to escape were intercepted by the last two Astartes aside from the clademaster. No sooner had the slaughter been finished did a rush of black-red mortals begin to filter through the opening. Reinforcements, smaller and expendable, filled the gaps with the rumble of heavy armaments following closely behind.

Aethys breathed heavily, his battle focus wearing off and his dual hearts rapidly thumping in rhythm. He wanted to curse his frailty, a burden of his geneseed, but remained standing solemnly. The Dawnhunters, those few that remained, approached him with similarly harrowed conditions. Both of his surviving Astartes came to his side.

"You fought like a demigod, fresh out of the anvil!" One of them said, the one that had initially warned him of the impending assassins, "I am Centurion Aralles of the Ninth Legio Cataegis, though we could hardly be called a Legion anymore." The warrior guffawed as loudly as the artillery in the background. Many of his kind would find this attitude annoying, but Aethys found it surprisingly charming.

"You have my thanks and more, Centurion," Aethys responded, pressing his wounded fist against the Raptor Imperialis across his breastplate, "I am Sergeant Aethys of the Thirteenth Legio Astartes." The title felt alien on his tongue. He had fought against Terra's earliest threats as a clademaster or cohort centurion. Now, however, the Legion's structure was rapidly changing and so too were the Cataegis.

"We had expected some of the Grey Third from the frontline, but not quite the heroism from the Thirteenth." Aralles spoke, removing his helmet to display the giantism that plagued his imperfect features. Deep bronze skin, darker than Aethys' own, and black hair with a single stripe of smoldering orange. No doubt, amongst the number of the Cataegis, this one was better looking than others.

"The Lightnings of the Third Legio Astartes," Aethys corrected him without missing a beat, "They're dour and melancholy, but they are inexperienced and raw. Their duties are the frontline to veteran themselves within a campaign. Ours is the blood of our enemy's backs upon our daggers and claws."

The response appeared to have caused some amount of approval in the eyes of the Cataegis. He beamed with delight, a great smile breaking up the scars and marks that plastered his face. An unnatural feeling filled his chest. Had they bonded in such a short time?

"A warrior after my own heart. Proper descendants. If you are an example of what comes after us, then Unity will come sooner than we expected. Raptor Imperialis, Astartes!" Aralles said, smashing his fist against the Raptor on his chestplate. The Thunder Warriors departed for the next objective, all five of them leaving three behind to fester in the Indoi jungles. Their corpses reminded him of his next duty.

"Bring the fallen to the apothecarium. Their geneseed must be recovered." Aethys stated, watching as his subordinates began to move away to the dead Astartes. With a grunt of effort, the black-bronze giant shuffled off the talon-severed fists from his arms. His right gauntlet was a maimed mess, severed and singed just as his face now was. His left was remarkably fine.

As the fallen Astartes were removed from the battlefield, lifted aloft on the jetpacks of his squad, Aethys moved towards the eviscerated corpses of the assassins. Kneeling down, he plunged the claws of his left fist into the skulls of the warriors. Tearing out clumps of grey matter, the Astartes shoveled them into his mouth. Already the augmentation began to filter images, names, words, and places into his mind. A part of him wanted to snarl at the things that he witnessed.

"The Pan-Pacific Empire." Aethys spoke aloud to none but himself. His voice bordered on a deep growl. Their involvement had been reported yet unfounded by Nolus Dolhai. His commander, Legion Master Zaid, had assumed much and more. He would need to report this to Consul Zameel. Something stirred within his person as he stood up once more. His eyes lingered on the single-sided plasma-blades of his foes. Anything is a weapon. The words, foreign and unusual, came to him once more.

He reached down and lifted the weapon into his left gauntlet. It was a sword that would normally have to be used two-handed effectively by mortals. To him, it was a weapon fit for his palm. Aethys justified that he would need a new weapon to fight with. Similarly, he thought, he would need a new helmet. Strapping the blade to his waist, the Astartes picked up one of the skull-faced helmets of the assassins. Some fitting would be required, no doubt.

With one hand he pressed the helmet over his skull. He strangely felt at peace behind the skull-faced mask. He felt as if he could walk over a thousand and one grains of black sand untouched.

---

Zameel flicked the new blade in his hand clean of enemy blood - or whatever remained that hadn't evaporated on the plasma field. His sergeant had brought him one of the enemy's weapons as proof of his kills. Though, he thought, it was odd that Aethys had decided to keep one of their skull-faced helmets to himself. Despite the grimness of the apparel, the Astartes found himself enjoying the contrast of bone-white on bronze-black. No doubt his Legion Master would agree, were it not for their current predicament.

Like a titan born of blood and fury, Zameel witnessed Zaid cleave through the rank-and-file Indoi like a reaper to their harvest. In one hand, his chainaxe was a crimson phantom of gore and viscera. In his other taloned gauntlet was the Lance of Abbaba, easily slicing through armor with an archeotech powerfield. It was impressive that any black or bronze remained to be seen with the sheer amount of shed life splashed against his warplate. Nothing remained of the Legion Master's tabard, tore or burnt asunder by his own weapons or those of his opponents. With a grunt of effort, the Astartes pierced a bestial genewarrior in the chest to lift him up into the air. The barrel on the lance vibrated to superspeed before expunging volatile energy into the sternum of the warrior. Nothing remained behind save for a pink mist.

The battlefield around him was filled with similar feats of abominable strength. The loyalist bestial genewarriors carved through their lesser cousins with religious ferocity. Astartes of the Third walked in straight lines, annihilating in waves of volkite rays and heavy bolt drills. Cataegis of the Ninth and the Eleventh marauded as they had centuries ago with crackling claw and reaving chainweapons. Zameel had even noted that the 10th Excertus Imperialis - the Black Wolves - hadn't fallen behind with their cannons ablaze and their infantry roaming in raiding squads. In truth, he loved this war more than anything at the moment. A true testament of mankinds dedication to brutal violence.

He flicked his gauntlet out, decapitating one of the multi-limbed witches with a lightning fast strike from his blade. It's carcass slumped to ground, regurgitating vile black blood out onto the jungle floor. His helmeted gaze scanned the horizon for fresh opponents as the battle continued. Delightfully, Zameel observed them as they marched from the depths of the jungle. Gargantuan suits of bolted metal and billowing engines emerged from into their trenchline with greatblades and towering shields. Both of their armaments were stacked with a plethora of ranged devices, their sword with fat-barreled rifles and their bulwarks with heavy cannons. Monstrous machines on oversized treads crunched through the foliage in support of their advance, a great mouth with a belly of plasma atop the lumbering vehicle.

"It seems the true enemy has revealed themselves. Just as you had said, Zaid." Zameel called out to the Lord of the Thirteenth, who bisected another mortal with a casual slash of his chainaxe. His helmet turned towards the new arrivals. The praetor was certain that the elder Astartes had begun to form a snarl on his lips.

“It matters little. It is the Emperor’s will to see their greatest warriors defeated.” Zaid finally responded. Zameel never believed in coincidences, yet he couldn’t deny the timing on the part of their Legion Master. Perhaps he had anticipated when, how, and why their true enemy would deploy from the depths of the jungles. Nevertheless, the praetor watched as warriors clad in the golden warplate of the Custodes strode the battlefield at lightning speed. The Astartes had always considered himself fast but never as fast as the personal vanguard of their Master. They shredded through the freshly arrived bulwarks with disgusting ease, dancing around their mighty shields as if they weren’t wearing the heaviest armor known to man. Their spears punctured thick, multilayered plating where powerswords and chainweapons would struggle to pierce. Where their legionnaires operated as a cohesive team built on genetics, they were in sync on a metaphysical level with twinned feints and assisted reloading. He admired them as much as he admired the Cataegis for their violent brutality.

+’Continue the purge, Thirteenth, our Master demands Indoi.’+ The voice of one of their warriors, Gjallahar, spoke while slaying the intruders in vast swathes. His voice was as calm as untouched water and deep as the oceans of Old Terra. No doubt he was respected amongst their golden number, but not nearly as much as their famed commander.

+’And Lord Aristagoras?’ Legion Master Zaid asked, pulling the Lance of Abbaba free from the disintegrating corpse of a bestial genewarrior. Free of enemies, he strode the battlefield with reinvigorated purpose. Zameel had wondered how his mind worked in time such as this. Similar to his own, he wagered, yet instinctually built for an entirely different purpose.

+’Worry not for the Axe of the Emperor, Astartes, he fights his own battles. When he is required, Captain Aristagoras will arrive with axe and laugh.’+ Gjallahar frankly responded, cutting the vox communication with the abrupt rudeness expected of their lineage. If it had offended the Legion Master, then Zaid hid it well beneath the knightly visage that was his helmet. Locking the chainaxe to his belt, the elder genewarrior rose up onto one of the vehicle wrecks with the Lance of Abbaba raised high. To some, mortals mainly, it was a sign to charge and advance onto the enemy. To his legion, it was a call to splinter and begin sowing operations. Such was the way of their number.

A flurry of their number, either on jetpack or on foot, spread out in all different directions to handle different tasks. His own number were amongst those soaring through the skies on burning wings; however, he was assigned a different task compared to those of his rank like Raamiz or Alim. His duty was to the Legion Master, trusted as a vaunted second-in-command should the old man ever perish on the battlefield as was his want. He thought of his duties as the Legion Master stepped from the wreckage of an Indoi warwalker.

“You’ve grown, Zaid, I didn’t hear a single snarl over the command vox.” Zameel said with a tinge of sarcasm seeping from his lips. It nearly earned him some form of backlash from the vaunted commander of the Thirteenth were it not for their current situation.

“Lord Aristagoras’ Host will handle the Yndonesic interlopers,” Zaid responded, ignoring his praetor’s sardonic attempts, “the Thirteenth has been charged with intercepting the infiltrators from the Pan-Pacific Empire. As was the plan from the beginning.” He knew what the Legion Master spoke of. Both their commander and the Emperor’s Axe had rightfully assumed that the southern Indoi separatists were backed by greater powers. They spent thirty minutes bitterly fighting over the honors of which force to fight.

“Excellent! More of Narthan Dume’s legendary blades to add to our collection.” Zameel responded, having known from the start that his comment would be disregarded and his thoughts refocused by the Legion Master. Several of their number had gathered around them in preparation for the next phase. Hunters that he and Zaid had personally selected for the mission. Seven in total, all with their preferred weapons in a mix-match of veterancy. Those that had survived the first tests of the Thirteenth. He had jokingly called them immortals. Their commander had grown accustomed to referring to them as such: the Immortals – command squad of the Bronze Scorpions.

Legion Master Zaid thrust himself into a dead sprint, his fabled lance lowered and his body propelling him forward in a wild hunt. He was never one for words as it was. Zameel chased after him with the plasma blade drawn low and activated in preparation for combat. The Immortals followed behind him in a v-shaped formation, their wide array of weapons ready for the kill. Each of them passed the conflict between the Yndonesic Bloc and the Custodes, the former quickly losing to the sheer might of the latter. Behind them, the great tide of red-black and slate gray marched in an unending wave of war. All around them, their fellow genewarriors fought for their objectives with the decisive callousness that made them Astartes. He never doubted that they would find their Pan-Pacific infiltrators.

And so it was that the first of many appeared before them, their shrouds uncovered and their objectives laid bare to the Imperium. A group of five, skulking through the underbrush, raised their weapons and minds to fight off the Astartes. It was foolish to think they could deal with them as they had the Cataegis. Zaid N’Dar, the greatest of their number, lanced through the first with a speed that surprised many but never ceased to amaze Zameel. The infiltrator was hoisted into the air and vaporized by the archeotech’s internal cannon. The praetor fell upon the next, stunned by the sudden arrival of the Lord of the Thirteenth. He had expected to fight warriors on the same level as him. He was sorely mistaken as his opponent fumbled to deal with transhuman dread. The one-sided plasmic sword cut through the robed carapace of the interloper with definite ease. His Immortals echoed the slaughter, vaporizing and churning the Pacific menace with arms of incalculable violence.

The slaughter ended as soon as it had begun. Until the jungles began to shift, sigh, sway, whisper, and moan in a ritualistic dance. The air grew dank with a sour scent, reinforced only by an acrid tinge of sulphur and ozone. Zameel understood what was happening, yet he couldn’t pinpoint the direction. Their Legion Master was the same, staring down in one direction to observe maps hidden from the praetors view. Perhaps that was their folly. The jungles of Indoi were never their hunting grounds. The sands of the blistering deserts were their home. It was foolish to think they could rapidly adapt to geological changes on a whim. Scattered across the repugnant, mutated trees of Indoi, the Empyrean spilled into the acid rivers like a torrent of toxic waste from a manufactorum. Cries and screams rose up from a thousand voices as those in attendance were slaughtered by unspeakable things. Only the voices of the Custodes broke through the chaos.

+’Retreat.’+

A damnable word. An understandable word. This situation was beyond what they were capable of, especially for the Astartes of the Third. The Excertus Imperials, aided by the Third, could fend for themselves; however, the Northern Indoi battalions were another story. They broke. Entire sections of the advancing tide buckled, their psyches shattered and bodies sundered by daemonic threat. Multilimbed priests of the Golden Padshah burst into multichromatic fragments, bestial genewarriors mutated into great horrors of apocalyptic proportion, and trained beast-mutants transformed into throbbing masses of meat and teeth. Those that survived were forced back by the brutalization of their ranks. The Imperials remained, their slaughter continued, and their protectors pressed forward with renewed vigor.

---

Lord-Commander Crucias of the Tenth Excertus Imperialis – the Black Wolves – observed the end of the psychic cataclysm with his one remaining eye. Red-black soldiers in trench coats and reinforced carapace stabbed pulsating flesh masses in squads of five with bayonet and blade. The stoic giants of the Third – the Lightnings – walked with them, conflagrating those mutants that still thrived with their volkite cannons. None of the Northern Indoi militants remained to cull their deteriorated brethren. He didn’t blame them for their cowardice. A smattering of the Emperor’s greatest tanks, one of his included, idled nearby while the tides of war were stalled. His ear buzzed with tens of different reports as he watched them continue their gruesome work. The last of the abominations were being swept aside by the vaunted knights of the Emperor’s personal retinue. The Bronze Scorpions – Astartes of the Thirteenth – assisted them in their culling. The Legio Cataegis, in staunch disregard for orders, continued their mayhem in the jungles. They would be successful, no matter their casualty margins.

“Commander,” one of the robed initiates of the Sigilite’s order approached. Three of their number had always travelled with him from Europa to Jermani to Abyssna to here. This one in particular, a relatively young man by the name of Sharaid, presented him with a dataslate. He ranked the lowest amongst the gaggle of intendents, perhaps as a show of faith by the Sigilite or as a test to see if Crucias would remain loyal. Malcador never failed to draw amusement from Wolfgang Crucias’ endless calculations and deliberations. The lad continued to speak as he mused. “I bring tidings from our Master and word from Lord Aristagoras.”

“Speak it then.” His voice was as sharp as a shot from a lasgun. There was no softness left in his voice from his youth. It had been tempered in the fire of Terra’s greatest battles. The same could be said about his scars. To Sharaid, he probably appeared as the most ancient commander outside of Malcador. He would assume correctly, rounding the corner of his fifty-fifth year. The Sigilite’s dataslate was as expected, no surprise there. Stay away from the psykers and pull back from quadrants Alpha through Victor. The manifestations in those zones had grown incomprehensibly. No doubt they would lose their Cataegis and Custodes support; however, the Astartes remained with them for the siege. Crucias raised his eye back up to the intendent.

“Zones Warlord through Zulu have been cleared for the assault on Protosia Agras. The Thirteenth have established a clearance corridor for a funneled siege. However,” Junior Scribe-Intendent Sharaid relayed with the carefulness of an adolescent, yet remained reluctant to part with the last piece of information. Wolfgang had already surmised what he would say, yet allowed him the time to spill it out. “Lord Aristagoras and his host will be reassigned to dealing with the incursion. The Ninth and Eleventh Cataegis are being dispatched as reinforcements as well. Squad Gjallahar will remain for the final push to settle the insurrection.”

He blinked. An entire squad of the golden plated knights were remaining with their siege. They lost nearly five-hundred Thunder Warriors to the incursion, yet gained five of the Emperor’s greatest warriors. Despite how he felt about the Cataegis, Crucias felt it was a good trade. Either Aristagoras had felt pity for the Black Wolves or the Emperor’s Axe had anticipated a greater menace in Protosia Agras. It mattered little to him.

“Relay to Lord Aristogras that we’re humbled by his willingness to allow five of his knights to remain. Dispatch a hundred of our non-mercenary Wolves to act as intermediaries and bolt-loaders. Use your guile to ascertain their inherent resistance to the wyrd. Dismissed.” He hadn’t planned to levy some of his personal troops to the Custodes, as they operated better as a cohesive unit without external support, but Crucias knew that his more veteran infantry would suffice for suppressive fire and reloading operations. Sharaid bowed his head in respect, claiming the dataslate offered by the Lord-Commander before disappearing into the hulking hull of his command tank. He had grown thirsty in the dry period of the incursion. His thirst would be quenched by the fall of Protosia Agras’ walls. His hand touched the vox-bead attached to his left ear.

+’All gathered forces. Proceed to coordinates as instructed. Ignore obstacles in the specified zones. Begin phase one of the staging operations at points Warlord-One-Seven-Nine and Yankee-Nine-One-Three. Protosia Agras will fall by night fall. Raptor Imperialis.’+ His commands were sent out across a thousand vox-beads and vox-speakers. His words were taken on immediately as the red-black mass, joined by the Gray Third, shifted towards the incursion exclusion corridors for the final assault. His voice left no question about their chances of success. To Lord-Commander Crucias, Protosia Agras had already fallen as soon as the Emperor had commanded it felled. It was simply a matter of adhering to His will.

---

Protosia Agras. Where Nolus Dolhai was a spectacle of the Old Night, a golden city of ingenuity, the seat of the Diviner was the core of the Cycle’s divinity. Great trees that towered as large as spires twisted in a dance around soaring temples. Incense permanently blanketed the air in a thin miasmic fog, while basins of purified acid floated amidst pools of cultivated sap. At the center of the city was the pyramidic temple of the Diviner, rising as the greatest structure even amongst the leviathan flora. Surrounding the spiritual hive was the Millenium Wall, formed by statues of their deities and reinforced by undefinable energies.

Where some had seen it as the culmination of their spiritual journey, it would forever now be the tomb of the Cycle’s infinite divinity. If anything, Zaid would be sure to torch every single one of their decrepit temples with his own talons. He regrets having to establish the incursion corridor. Protosia Agras was burning, shattered by the wail of a thousand cannons by the time the last of the Tenth Excertus Imperialis had been escorted through. The Legion Master knew he would have to share words with Wolfgang, stealing the glory of the siege for himself and intentionally separating the Astartes away from the action. Or perhaps his praetor was affecting his thoughts more than he had expected. Those thoughts vanished from his mind as his warriors approached the hive. Those walls that he had observed from a distance were demolished, a hundred breaches formed for them to enter.

+’Good of you to come to the battlefield, old friend,’+ The Lord-Commander spoke with what could be considered a smug tone over private vox. It confirmed some of his theories, yet he swallowed his pride and fought back a snarl. Patience is the weapon of the serpent. He heard them as they came, words from the ether that he had quickly accepted for his own. Before he could respond, Crucias continued. +’The Black Wolves will handle the separatists. Lord Gjallahar and four of his knights have begun a lightning assault on Diviner Thakur’s temple. Take your bravest and convene with the Custodes.’+

Few had the capacity or authority to command the recently risen Astartes besides the Emperor, Malcador, and the vaunted members of the Custodes. Neither were they puppets to be strung up by unseen hands to be meekly controlled. Lord-Commander Crucias, veteran general of the Excertus Imperialis, was one who he offered no bite back. He had refused orders from those that threatened to usurp the Emperor’s authority, those that challenged the legitimacy of the Sigilite’s operations, and those of whom shared the same office as him. His legion, once slate grey as the Third, attained an identity because of the Black Wolves. He would, and will, never dismiss the orders of Wolfgang Crucias. Zaid N’dar embraced them.

+’Then it shall be so. Raptor Imperialis, old friend.’+ The Legion Master responded as his lips parted in a toothy sneer-grin. The old man had always known how to strike at the warsong in his beating hearts. He beat the shaft of the Lance of Abbaba against the stone beneath his feet. Zaid ibn N’dar raised his other taloned hand to Protosia Agras and pointed out for the genewarriors of the Thirteenth.

“We’ve been given a grand honor, Bronze Scorpions! We strike at the core of the enemy to rip out their entrails and scatter their bones in His name! Pour into their wounds and poison their veins! Blood of the sand! Gloria Scorpii!” Zaid N’dar roared out through his knightly helmet. The Astartes of the Thirteenth cheered in ways that they knew best – by completing their objective. As a tide of insects into the open cuts of a fallen prey, the bronze-black giants descended upon the great city of Protosia Agras. It was here that the Legion Master truly felt as his title implied – the Lord of a Legion. Their numbers were infinite as they rushed through the canopy of the jungle. On burning wings, they rose and sank into the roaring flames of the hive city. They fell from soaring transports that screamed munitions into the ranks of the separatists. They were thousands. They were legion.

His blood boiled with the anticipation he had come to enjoy as being an Astartes. Both of his hearts beat to the hammers of war. He could no longer hold back the excitement that he felt warring for the Emperor of Mankind. Legion Master Zaid flung himself forward at the head of his hunting pack. Zameel followed in close pursuit, a pair of Pacific mono-edge plasma swords unsheathed to the wind. No doubt if his vox-grills were active, then he was certain to be laughing aloud. The Immortals were close behind him, their weapons powered and their barrels smoking. Each hunted forth with black tabards and chains rattling. Each was a veteran of a hundred skirmishes with talon-tipped gauntlets and laurel-crested helmets. Each of these Astartes was the very pinnacle of genemancy and heralds of their farflung progenitor. Each heard the songs of the umbral world, bowed to them, and used them in their lessons of war. They were a single drop in an ocean of thousands of bronze-black knights that scaled over the separatist walls.

And they were unstoppable. As Zaid sprinted over the crumbling ruins of shattered buildings, he observed the situations as they passed by. Where the inexperienced Third and the Black Wolves fought to a stalemate, the Bronze Scorpions descended with a renewed fury that broke the tide with numbers and violence. When the lumbering titan-mutants of the Diviner’s menagerie shuddered out of their pits, the Thirteenth were already carving into their fat flesh with talon and blade. They were innumerable. The actions of his legion proved worthy enough to draw attention away from the great pyramid of the Diviner. In real-time, the Legion Master witnessed the shambling warrior-slaves march enmasse to disruptions across the city. Vehicles were rerouted to handle an outbreak of bronze-black giants desecrating their shrines. Mutant-masters were forced to change their prey-targetting modules to focus on the Thirteenth. He could smell the astonishment, fear, and adulation from the mortals of the Black Wolves. Transhuman dread, the likes of which they had never seen before, was apparent in their body language. They rejoiced at sudden, unprovoked reinforcements and rose the Thirteenth up on internal pillars of glory.

Their glory, their sacrifices, would not be in vain. The golden aura of the Custodes grew closer as they crossed the fractured courtyard towards the Diviner’s grand temple. Their hulking forms were the very essence of lightning, cleaving their way through the thickest plate and densest crowd. To the surprise of Zaid, more than the Custodes awaited their strikeforce. A squad of Cataegis mulched through the temple sentinels, each as ornate as their Custodes counterparts. One bore claws with plasma-wreathed talons, while another pierced a defender with a shimmering spear of licking flames. He knew them before they could introduce themselves.

Primarch Napoleos and Primarch Vladorios. Both were unhelmed, their brazen and bruised faces open to the toxicity of Thakur’s despoiled temple. They were different in strange ways, but they were equally brutish and malformed. The Primarch of the Dawnhunters, Napoleos, bore the spear with his long hair flowing from a tight knot. His armor was orange-yellow with golden accents, decorated with a myriad of trophies from across Terra. The Primarch of the Raptor’s Claws, Vladorios, was a sullen warrior with a shaved head armed with a pair of deathly talons. His white-yellow armor stood stark amongst their assemblage. Two Dawnhunters and two Raptor’s Claws escorted their respective commanders with similarly brazen weapons of humming power.

Further, still, was the peculiar attendance of the Padshah’s Companions - bestial genewarriors of particularly old Terran animals that had long gone extinct. Unlike the Cataegis, Astartes, or Custodes, the Companions wore pseudo-power armor as their hide was enough to withstand several direct hits from explosives. One in particular, a man with intense feline features, led from the front with rending claws and a blood-covered maw.

“Perform your duties, Astartes.” The Custodes at the head of their group, Gjallahar. A crimson plume scurried out of his pointed helmet, slick with Indoi blood. A unique axe was held in his golden gauntlets, double-headed with a conflagrator at the shaft’s end. Despite the gore that decorated his armor, the genewarrior’s voice gave no inkling of fatigue or tiredness.

Zaid ibn’ Ndar and his Immortals acquiesced without verbal or physical confirmation. They bypassed the melee at the bottom of the temple’s long stairway, beginning their long winded ascent to the top. The temple itself was a steep pyramid of rustic metal and reinforced stone, centered directly at the apex of the hive-city to loom over all that reside within. Perhaps, once, it would’ve had automated guardians to defend it. Now, however, it was crewed by mutants and beast-creatures made from the toxic jungles and dank laboratories of the Indoi. Those said sentinels dared to bar their path were alike the Padshah’s Companions - bestial warriors heavily corrupted by the whimsical insurrection of the Diviner.

If they had thought they would be enough to stop the Thirteenth, then they had been sorely mistaken. The Immortals tore into them with all manners of fury. Zameel, with both of his single-edged blades, leapt into a decapitating strike on one of the defenders. Rhaehal, an Immortal, bisected another with a power glaive claimed from Abyssna. Another pair, Aghoris and Martarias, assisted each other in a deadly dance with volkite disintegrators and Jermani-pattern heavy blades. The last two, Hakam and Ghaalib, scythed through the weaker of the bestial warriors with venerable chainswords and thumping bolters. Zaid, himself, pierced through their lead opponent and tossed him from the side of the temple; yet, it was never these juggernauts that truly blocked their path.

Slinking down from the top of the pyramid, exiting from the dark depths of the Diviner’s temple, five figures began to approach them. Zaid could taste their association even before they fully materialized before them. Pan-Pacific knights, bedecked with swords of writhing plasma and power armor with skull-faced masks, squared off against them. Before the Bronze Scorpions could initiate their attack, a flash of three golden figures burst through their scattered rank. Gjallahar’s brethren leapt into combat with the straight-edged menace expected of their pristine genealogy. All at once, the Pacific knights were locked in mortal combat with the veteran genewarriors of the Emperor’s retinue.

“Zaid. Napoleos. Vladorios. With me.” The command hadn’t needed to be said over vox. Gjallahar was clear enough to be heard even through the filtered grills on his helmet. Four of them, in his mind, would be plenty. Zameel, understanding the situation as it passed, turned around and prepared his blades to fight against a gathering throng of insurrections below. The Immortals, and eventually the veteran Cataegis, followed suit with their ranged weapons ready. As the squad of four rushed past the Pacific knights, the harsh scream of volley fire echoed behind them.

While the war waged behind and below them, the four threw themselves into the upper echelons of the temple. Great braziers of strange, everburning fire were held aloft by metallic statues with unusual properties. Large murals, carved into the hallways of the pyramid, spoke of the long, religious history of Indoi and all of their predecessors. None dared pay any mind to the dreams of bygone tyrants - only one ruler mattered to them. Despite the resistance on the way up, the warriors found none to bar their journey to the Diviner; however, they began to smell the familiar scent of depleted ozone and stinking sulphur. Zaid could audibly hear the two Primarchs behind him begin to growl in response. Of their number, he agreed that the Cataegis were the ones most adequately built for handling the wyrd.

The disgusting scent finally presented before them at the top of the open-roofed pyramid. Standing at the center of a great Indoi cohort, a single figure was hovering in the midst of the air. Like the Padshah, this figure had many arms sprouting from their back in an enlightening gesture. A myriad of eyes were closed on the bald head of the stranger, yet many more were open on the plethora of limbs they held. They easily dwarfed the largest of their number, Gjallahar, and wore nothing save for a flowing robe of yellow silk. All of the attendants had perished, their skin melted and their throats slit to spill into an eight-pointed circle beneath the floating being. Reality threatened to rip apart where they stood as they closed the distance.

Gjallahar failed to hesitate. He sprinted with all of his gene-might, hipfiring the conflagrator from his axe. Similarly, the Primarchs waited for no word to begin their assault. Both split to the left and right, aiming to sync their attacks with the Custodes at the forefront. Zaid, utilizing those perks of his geneseed, flitted across the open-air chamber to the rear of the figure. Each of the veteran warriors dived in for an overhead attack, only to be interrupted by the plethora of arms sprouting from the figure.

“Vile mongrels of the Himalazian Mountains! I’ve heard the Truth! From the depths of Ursh’s nightmare citadel to the jade palace of the Pacific Empire have I seen where our beloved world is heading!” As he spoke, Zaid felt as if his skin would rip straight from the meat. If he hadn’t been certain that the creature was the Diviner, then the Astartes was well aware now that Thakur Vimal Sura was some form of abomination. The Lance of Abbaba was held in place by at least ten of his extremities, even while the disintegrator in the shaft was venting death into the air. The Diviner continued without interruption, “The Padshah - our great eminence of the Cycle - was wrong! We have followed the path set before us wrong! He - and your tyrant liege - will know what the Primordial Truth is!”

Perhaps it was due to their latent ability to resist properties of the wyrd, or perhaps it was the sheer brutality that they displayed. Both of the Primarchs wrenched their weapons free of the abomination’s grip, carving into the soft flesh with fist and tooth as if they were animals. The creature that was the Diviner screamed in agony, releasing their weapons as he was assailed. Gjallahar emptied the volatile reserves of his conflagrator into the right leg of the being, while Zaid pierced through the upper right shoulder. With a wail enhanced by sorcerous energies, Thakur unleashed a shockwave of witchcraft that sent all four flying back. Luckily, the Vladorios and Napoleos recovered quicker than the others.

“You are unable to kill me! I am the Cycle made manifest! I am the Tender, bearer of the Fruits! I am the Render, spiller of the Waters! I am the Diviner, willer of the manifold paths! I am the Enlightener, bringer of Nirvana!” The thing screamed out. It’s voice had never had a human tinge to it, yet in this moment it lost all of it’s humanity. The Diviner lashed out with chromatic rays of fire, beams of stinking acid, torrents of boiling fruit-flesh, and razor-sharp feathers of long-extinct fauna. Gjallahar and Zaid were nimble, crafted from the brightest minds, and able to dodge or parry what the Diviner gifted them. The Primarchs, however, were bulk from a different stock. They trudged forward into every assault, losing skin and armor in droves as they pressed further towards Thakur.

“Submit to the Cycle!” The being said as it focused all of it’s energy into one of the Primarchs, threatened by their insane level-headedness. Zaid watched in awe as Vladorios’ withstood all of the Diviner’s attacks without flinching. His armor had long been ruptured, scattered, and disintegrated in their fight. His flesh threatened to peel, blister, bleed, scab, and more as the wyrd attempted to turn him inside out; however, he marched on with one of his shattered talons in one of his hands. The awe faded as quickly as it had set as both himself and Gjallahar descended upon the shocked abomination.

All at once, the battle ended as Vladorios pierced it’s heart with a destroyed talon. Zaid pierced the throat of the being with the Lance of Abbaba. Gjallahar bisected the creature at the waist with his double-edged axe. Napoleos cleaved the skull from the Diviner with his flaming glaive. The floating priest dismantled like a child’s toy as it spun from the air. Blood erupted from the pierced, cleaved, and cut portions of it’s body. The sigil on the ground faded into the stone. The scent of ozone and sulphur disappeared into nothingness. The sound of fighting outside of the pyramid was dying down in a strange change of tune. Their siege was coming to a close.

Vladorios dropped to his knees, gurgling from the sheer amount of injuries he sustained. Despite his best attempt to remain upright, Zaid knew the Cataegis was not long for this world. All of his front-facing armor was destroyed, nothing remained of the skin on his skull, and his tendons were bare on many of his extremities. To his surprise, it was not Napoleos that made the first move, but Gjallahar that rushed to his side. Before the shattered form of the Primarch could collapse, the Custodes held aloft the warrior in his golden arms. The one remaining eye on the warrior stared up blankly at the ornate knight.

“Unity…” Came the hoarse words of the broken Primarch. It was as silent as the still air that remained after the Diviner’s demise. It brought both of his hearts to a beat. He was witnessing the end of one of their longest-lived Terran conquerors. There would be no Unity without their efforts. He doubt there would be Astartes without the Cataegis.

“Raptor Imperialis.” Gjallahar responded, unsheathing his misericordia - a short blade of diamantine - and plunging the weapon into the exposed breast of the Primarch. An audible gasp exhaled from Vladorios before the warrior fell limp into the arms of the Custodes. Until the day that his duty ended, Zaid internally vowed to commit this scene to memory for all eternity. The body was carefully given to Napoleos, who blanketed his body with what remained of his cloak. The golden warrior then turned to the Astartes with a swift change of demeanor. He did not understand why he did it, but Zaid dropped to his knee before the Himalazian knight.

“What is your will?” Zaid asked. Whatever pride he had before was banished after the loss of the Primarch. He couldn’t help but feel respect for the Custodes before him. Perhaps all of Aristagoras’ warriors were like this - honorable, fierce, and proud.

“There can be only one Emperor of Terra and He sits the Himalazian Throne.” Gjallahar said, reaching down and pulling the Astartes up from his kneeling position. The Lance of Abbaba was gifted back to him by the oversized gauntlets of the Custodes. He bore it with pride, despite his ever increasing lack of emotions. The golden knight began to march from the temple, turning back once more to affirm his command. “We will depose the False Emperor of Indoi - Siddharth Enue.”

And so they marched down the temple on a new warpath for Nolus Dolhai, to burn the great city and tear the High Padshah from his treasonous throne. By His will.

Dawn broke, bringing no solace. Despite knowing what lay ahead, few had slept restfully that night. Ceaseless storms and gruesome terrors had worn away at all but the most inhumanly steely nerves, but even they had been eclipsed by a new feeling. It was an old thing, deeper than fear or yearning, which since the dawn of time had stirred in the bones of mankind; the anxious expectation of those who know that only little separates them from what they desire. Just one more day, one final trial. Then, for many of those who now strode into their ranks on the snow-hardened ground, the gruelling months of campaign through the frost-scarred roof of the world would be over, at least for a time. Those who had homes would see them again. Even their genewrought fellows, those who had nowhere to return but another battlefield, would see what they most dearly desired by the day’s end if they lived until it - victory, the fall of their hated foe and the triumph of the gold-mantled saviour of Terra.

Only one thing stood between them and that end now. The rotten heart of Maulland Sen.

The citadel was nested in a high mountain cleft, sprawling its dark walls and towers onto the slopes beside it like a great beast rearing to pounce. Long weeks of strenuous combat had bought the Imperials access to the final holdfast of the Confederacy, but if any had expected that the wellspring of corruption would be easily taken once the outer rings of fortified cities had fallen, their hopes had been dashed as soon as they marched into view of the ominous stronghold. Great stone walls interlocked around its girth in a deadly defensive ring, dotted with sentry towers and ancient cannon emplacements like the spines of some nightmarish serpent. The slopes of the bastions cut strange shapes in the icy murk, and it was unwise to gaze at them for long, for soon it seemed to the eye that they slithered and flowed into impossible angles that roused a droning pain in the head. A venomous green glow poured unceasingly skywards from the unseen heart of the fortress, refracting from the overhanging glaciers and filling the night with flitting shadows.

It was here that the Priest-King had unearthed the profane technologies that empowered his armies, and here he had sworn the tribes of Nordyc to the worship of his rapacious gods. No place was better fit to be the grave of his reign, but it was clear he would not go easily into the oblivion that awaited his ilk of warlocks and prophets.

Yet even in the face of all his might, the warriors of the Imperium were undaunted. The great host that had set forth into the northern wastes was much diminished now, chipped away by the dark arts of the tribes and the cold fury of the land itself, bled by a hundred battles and sparsely reinforced so far in the enemy’s heartlands. Only the strongest and most determined had endured all that the north had arrayed against them, and now they stood, thin but firm and grim-faced, mustered at the foot of the forbidding mountains. All of them had lost friends, comrades, brothers in this deadly march; it was not only the abhorrence for the horrors they had seen that drove them on, not the restless eagerness to cast down the last obstacle and return home, nor even the presence of their Emperor, seldom seen but felt by all. Vengeance against the dark lords of the north warmed the hearts of nigh every man and woman with a bitter flame.

Though the Imperial lines were a hardened shadow of their former magnitude, they were a tremendous sight nonetheless, long files resplendent under the pale sun in their helmets and armaments. Battle-scarred tanks and hungrily awning artillery guns reinforced their backbone, turned up towards their ultimate prey. At the fore of the formations, ten thousand Thunder Warriors faced the pestilent light of the fortress with impatient defiance, uncaring of the mesmeric traps the infernal construction laid for their eyes.

Behind those unstable warriors were the proud Sentinels, arrayed in small dedicated units - about five or six squads for each of the mortal bands. After fighting the horrid monsters of the north many of their armors bore the scars of conquest and many took trophies of their victories, though none so macabre or imposing as their cousins. Their forces were arrayed to protect the men that had brought them this far and to destroy the horrors too strange or evil for human eyes. They were a boon and many of the soldiers near them knew that they had the Emperor’s finest looking after them, even if they knew not all would see the siege through. 

The one-thousand Sentinels would leave this place as undaunted as they had arrived - but not unchanged.

In the wings of its files, the Imperial army had undergone a strange inversion. Where at the outset of the campaign the Legio Cataegis had encased the flanks like a great cuirass of steel, the hulking genewarriors had gathered to the centre of the van, and though the Sentinels retained their own place, their brothers in the Astartes had been the ones to disperse outwards. The slate-armoured Ninth Legion hovered around the sides of the battle-order, embuscaded among the uncleared rocks and crags of the mountainside. While they had whetted their taste for raids and ambushes over frontal combat, their preference was just as much a matter of necessity. Their numbers were thin, eaten away by more than battle alone, and strangely irregular in places - some of the warriors seemed to stand strangely tall at a distance, perhaps as much so as even the Steel Lords, and shuffled in place, while others crouched close to the ground in a low stoop though they were far yet from the enemy.

These oddities were only visible to a sharp eye, however, for the unevenness of the self-styled Reviled was far more apparent in their armament. Each cohort had its distinct panoply of macabre spoils of glory, heralding its grim kenning as a fraternity of warriors as well as a military unit. There stood the Skulltakers with their polished stark-white masks; there the Blood Mark, each with a red handprint on his chest or shoulder; the Excoriators with their grisly standards and the pale-encrusted Bone Walkers; and the Lords of Ash, whose armour was scored with the cinders of fallen cities, the Harrowers bristling with bonded spikes, and many others.

It was at the very forefront of the assembled host that its commanders met to divide their last dispositions. The Primarch Ushotan, the highest-ranking among them and the one who led the mightiest part of the army, had willed it so, perhaps to flaunt his courage in stepping forth in the open and challenging the foe even before the battle was joined. Indeed, just as likely his men had expected nothing less of him.

“We will be first,” were the greeting words from the gnarled lips of that mountain of muscle and belligerence, no less imposing now for standing on the slopes of a massive of rock. On the bare rocky ground, with nothing behind him but the citadel and its baleful glow, the giant in brutally simple grey armour loomed perhaps even larger, undiminished by all his years of warfare. His voice was as peremptory as an avalanche. “Only we here have the force to push the tip forward. The rest of you cover us as you can, just don’t get in the way.”

The delegation of army officers, dwarfed into near-insignificance by his presence even off at a wary distance, did but acquiesce with their silence. 

“So long as you control the warrior’s murder-lust,” came the stoic voice of Arturas, his voice modulated by the great helm that came to mark the Astartes. Arturas had no qualms with the now obsolete Thunder Warriors - he admired them for their continued service. However, he always despised the degradation that took them and the eventual monsters that they became. The Sentinels were the shields of Humanity and would strive to save the people from monsters of any form. His voice became sharper, “Additionally, Primarch, I request that Steel Sentinels be tasked with pushing for the sorcerer-king. Our number is few but we can prove effective in decapitating the enemy leadership, this could make the conflict swift.”

“If swiftness is still a thing of this world inside that den of witches,” Skorr mused. Unlike the rest of his warriors, the Master of the Ninth was not adorned with grisly trophies or warpaint. Only the golden feather shone undimmed above his brow. His entourage was not so pristine - Nyrid donned an oversized mutant skull as a visor, after the fashion of his chosen swordsmen, and a cybernetic arm betrayed Ghaal’s incipient deterioration. Still, the Master’s voice was as congenial as ever. “Yet if any of us can hope to pierce through its defences, it is a compact speartip such as that of our brothers.”

Ushotan grunted, making no effort to conceal his disdain. He never had made a secret of his hostility towards what seemed to him painfully inadequate successors to his Thunder Legion.

“Don’t think you can end this with a clean strike,” he pointed at the sinister citadel with the tip of his sword, “The savages are bringing everything they have left to bear against us, and if we don’t do the same they will dance on our bones. The Thunder will be unleashed - there is nothing in there left to spare. If you can push through when we reach the gates, the king will be yours, but no more than that.”

Arturas bristled at such words, knowing that there was a chance that civilians still roamed the citadel and were merely hiding from unknowing liberation. He was going to speak against Ushotan, before a shadow momentarily moved over him, silencing his tongue for the briefest of moments. The Master of the Steel Sentinels gazed up and he saw what seemed to be a black hawk far above them - certainly higher than any Hawk ought to be flying. It was an auspicious sign, however, and Arturas spoke to the others with confidence, “The Emperor is with us. May His will be done! Victory is ours!”

A war cry ran up the the Sentinels who stood behind their master, the only time they seemed to ever break their rigid and silent discipline as the Astartes all cast their gaze to the black hawk that circled them. Other shouts came from further afield as the others quickly boxed the sign, the Astartes would bring death with the Emperor’s Own at their head. Not even Ushotan would be able to deny that the appearance of the Hawk spelled certain victory for the Imperial forces, though Arturas moved his gaze to the Primarch of the Thunder Warrior legion.

The Steel Lord’s eye had followed his skyward, catching the same remote swooping shadow, and his response had been a different one indeed. He scowled and grit his teeth in a feral grimace, then looked to the mountain again with a defiant growl which might have been directed at anyone and not just the enemy. The presence of the Talon leader could have meant any number of things to him. An omen of victory, to be sure, but also a sign of mistrust. That he could not be relied on to conquer this last obstacle without the Custodians at his back; or, worse yet, that a blade had to be hung over his head, waiting to fall should he be judged dangerous for the very lord whom he served. These suspicions sat ill with the violent and prideful spirit of a Thunder Warrior - and besides, Ushotan had little fondness for Custodes, so cold and stunted in the passions that made life worth living, though he did respect their prowess more than that of his fellow gene-warriors. Therefore he did not answer Arturas, but brandished his sword with a wordless cry that was echoed by his legion in a storm of ferocity. The steel-shod giants moved forward, and the battle began.

As eager as the Steel Lords were to plunge into the heart of the foe and perhaps dispel the foreboding of the shadow that hovered over them, even they knew enough to ration their strength. The slope that led up to the citadel was a steep and tall one, and an eager rush would have left the assailants fatigued once they reached the top, ready only as fodder for the blades of Maulland Sen. Thus the Thunder Legion bit its bridle and restrained its fiery blood, and marched onwards in uneven but quite orderly lines, irritatedly conscious of its vulnerability but powerless for now to act on it. In the rear followed the rest of the army, the growling bulks of the tanks and unhurried rows of infantry streaming behind them. As grandiose as the sight was, the decisive moment of the battle was already almost upon them. Now that the force was most open to attack, it depended on their grit and tenacity to climb to the gates so high up with their strength and will to fight undamped.

The ordeal did not let itself be long awaited. The ancient guns at the top of the bastions spun, slowly, almost lazily, and with a peal of thunder opened fire. Flame and incandescent metal rained in the path of the advancing army, gouging craters into millenarian rock and scattering bodies, whether they were human or more, like heaps of mangled and blackened dolls. Some vehicles groaned and fell still, dead and smouldering husks of melted steel. Then the viridian light blazed brighter all of a sudden, eclipsing the pale sun with its corrosive glare, and the air overhead began to swirl like disturbed water, stretching and spinning shadows cast by no body upon no surface. Out of ephemeral, bursting and collapsing spectral whirlpools, strikes of many-coloured lightning barraged the ascent, twisting as if with malign will to reap the greatest number of victims. Where they struck, sometimes iridescent fire blazed in columns, dissolving flesh and bone in its tongues; sometimes men and machines burst into crystalline fragments like smashed sculptures of glass; sometimes bodies swelled horribly, bristling with misplaced teeth and eyes, and weapons began to breathe in the hands of their wielders, requiring those who marched nearby to promptly cut down these nascent horrors with grim decision.

These were the harshest moments, when the fortress could rain down death from the advantage of its height while the Imperials’ own artillery was not yet in position to contest it. Hundreds, thousands fell in these first bloody minutes, unnoticed by their comrades who trampled the tortured bodies in their unrelenting march. The only way for the groans and screams of the dead to be repaid now was for the army to reach its objective and visit them on the Nordyc many times over.

At last the ponderous wheeled guns and tracked missile-pods in the rearguard crawled up the foot of the mountain and clung to its jagged and blasted stones. Slow, graceless targets that they were, had they attempted to scale the way first they would have been wiped out in a breath, but with the defenders’ fire focused on the vanguard, they had time to aim their mouths and sensors with unhurried precision. The bellowing of the bastion guns and the howl of the unnatural tempest were for an instant overcome by the concordant, synchronised roar of the siege artillery. When the embattled attackers next looked up at the citadel, several of the emplacements on its walls were smoking. The bombardment from above was diminished, though not fully staunched. The aberrant lightning had ceased, though the fiendish light and ominous ripples in the air remained.

The augmented of the new 19th Legion had waited for this opening - much like the Thunder Warriors before them. They surged forwards pressing their advantage with inhuman bounds across the open ground now that the emplacements had been momentarily silenced by the artillery. Many of them carried melta charges, primed and ready to disrupt further emplacements once they had gotten to them. Yet, the strength of land between them and the citadel was vast enough and still a perfect killing ground for whoever survived the bombardment. The Sentinels of Steel made ready for a hard fought battle, prepared to take the brunt of the fighting so that the slaughter would be quenched quickly enough. Yet, all could see that sweeping shadow from above and as the bombardment had waned they saw the vaunted custodian of the Emperor swoop low.

It had seemed that the Black Hawk, though perhaps unnerving the Steel Lords, swept towards the gatehouse, landing amongst what tattered remnants of resistance remained. Any who gazed saw bodies being thrown from the walls, often dismembered or bisected. The Emperor’s chosen had a clear objective to aid the assault for the time being - whether or not her ire towards the Thunder Warriors would be made apparent was still up for Ushotan’s speculation, but at least for now, the dreaded executioner remained away from them all.

This daring assault precipitated the defenders’ frenzy. Flashes of sorcerous light, unnerving and painful to the eye, burst atop the gates, retreating along the battlements as the tumbling silhouettes of the fallen were outlined darkly against them. Neither the Steel Sentinels nor the Thunder Warriors were to be disappointed in their undiminished zeal: the heavy metallic jaws of the citadel swung open, slowly at first, then gaining speed as if eager, with a loud metallic groan which was heard by the foremost ranks through the din of the bombardment. Out from it rushed a pestilential avalanche, the black blood of Maulland Sen distilled to its most noisome and corrupt.

Misshapen, contorted, pierced by a tangle of corroded metal, the shapes that spilled out onto the slope gave pause even to the hardened Army vanguard. Many of them bore little resemblance to humanity: grotesque mutants with a dozen limbs, or else none at all, crawling like ignoble worms and boneless slugs; faces without eyes, noses or mouths, jaws snapping and contracting beneath membranes of skin, teeth tearing the very muscle that set them into motion. Some were stunted and minute like children, but screamed with a malice and ferocity born of ages. Others towered, huge and loathsome, repellent grins of unthinking bloodlust drawn over their lipless maws. Blades and spikes transfixed them gruesomely in ritual patterns, fresh gashes drawn across flabby and leathery skin to propitiate their cruel gods of battle.

Behind the wave of mutants came the witch-marked warriors of the priest-king. They were hardly less abominable despite largely retaining the guise of man. Pagan etchings scarred their skin where it was exposed by their coarse, spike-studded powered armour, some still oozing fresh. Their lips frothed as they howled their blasphemous war cries, eyes blank and fixed blindly ahead, powerful frames shaking with ill-contained rage. There was in their paroxysm no fear in the face of the formidable army marching against them, though they wielded swords and axes against the column of Imperial armour, nor even of the imposing genehanced troops or the fury of the Thunder Warriors who even now were charging in earnest, quaking the mountain under their feet. It was death or victory for them now, but in their sanguinary rapture they appeared oblivious even to that.

At the same time, horrific shrieks erupted at the flanks of the ascent. From scores of hidden caverns and crevasses, from gaps in the stone and ancient tunnels, like a frothing cascade of impure subterranean rivers there issued another tide of horror. Misshapen brutes crawled out from the gaping stone, similar to vermin swarming from a stirred hive in their aberrant bodies as well as their clambering rush. The cohorts of the Ninth Legion soon found themselves embattled among scrabbling claws and drooling fangs, reinforced within moments by crude cybernetic juggernauts bursting out from the stony ground. The jagged landscape of the mountainside was awash in the glare of flamers. Rivulets of molten snow mixed with tainted blood and poured out onto the road, miring the advancing ranks and rumbling treads. Ice cracked and was stained red.

Over the carnage, the glare of sorcery burned wrathfully, and then, all of a sudden, abated. But the leaden daylight did not succeed it. Somehow, the venomous luminescence had torn away the sun overhead and dragged it away as it withdrew, for now dusk fell over the battlefield. It ought not have - the clouds were thin, and Sol vigorous enough to burn through them, and yet there it was, a thickening murk in defiance of time and space alike. Perhaps it was the shock of this impossible shadow, or perhaps a flock of lesser wyrds rode under its wings like invisible daemons, but uncertainty seeped down from the sky in its wake. Here and there, troops wavered, breaking rank as they warily glared around themselves. Marching feet felt as if they were sinking into something damp and yielding, nauseating to the touch, yet rested on nothing but firm stone. Behind the heedless onslaught of the Steel Lords, the Imperial files slowed, minds and bodies straining against waves of filth and spiritual poison.

Even as men wavered and broke rank, the honourable and faithful Steel Sentinels strode forwards and moved against the foul sorceries of the wyrds. They dared not abandon the mortal men that they had fought with and endured horrors beyond imagination - and for that though some men wavered, the sight of Astartes would shore up the resolve of those closest to them. Arturas, himself, had spurned much of the Auxilia forwards even as men fell in droves from invisible wounds. However, his head craned in the midst of combat, a nod of acknowledgment came from him as he spoke over the vox to his brothers. The Sentinels of Steel had been given a new task, one of great importance if they were to continue to assault on the city.

“Ushotan, I have retasked the Steel Sentinels to hold the battlements and the gatehouse,” came the sharp voice of Amalasuntha over vox as she felled wyrds by the dozens. She moved faster than any of the augmented on the field save for perhaps the Primarch of the Steel Lords and a yellow blur was seen continually diving into hordes of physic anathema only for a red mist to fill the air. Her voice cut through once more, “If you wish to honour your Emperor, I would suggest you redouble your efforts.”

A grunt was the only answer at first. When the Thunder Warrior did reply, his voice was strained, not so much from fatigue as from the audible effort of reigning in his battle-fury enough to speak.

“If the Emperor wins any honour here today, it will be by our hands!” Snarling was audible through the vox, then an impact of crushed bone so tremendous that it reverberated through the bead. “I’d like to see you here in the thick, Custodian! Let us do our work and keep your eyes on yours.”

It could not have been said that the Steel Lords were not doing their utmost to advance, at least if one had a sharp enough eye to ascertain it. The core of the Imperial host could now only see the backs of their rearguard, bent forward ferociously against the incline of the slope. All else had been engulfed by the avalanche of horrors that continued to flood undeterred out of the gates. After the first waves of mutants and witch-marked men, all semblance of cohesion in their ranks had been lost, and they bore down now as a disorderly cavalcade of nightmares. Nigh-amorphous hulks of corpse-skin stitched together with metal wire stomped and brayed like anteglacian pachyderms, cybernetic fusions of man and rot-born fungus ululated from manifold throats, grotesques of translucent, ethereal flesh raged from lattices of small fanged mouths spread like membranes between their many-jointed snarling limbs. It was testament to the courage of the human vanguard that they did not break into maddened panic at the mere glimpses of these abominations of existence, though nor were their minds clearly untouched. Their stares were blank and vitreous, steps heedless as they trudged through torrents of blood and viscera, their gunfire mechanically precise as it withered the horrors that flanked the Thunder Warriors’ mired wedge.

If anything kept the ranks cohesive, it was the example of the Steel Sentinels, steadfast beacons of surety where their genebred predecessors clove thoughtlessly ahead. Even as the ensorcelled darkness became filled with whispers and unclean sounds - as it seemed at moments to everyone that an incubus crouched on their shoulder, hissing venom into their ears and none else - as the sight began to flicker and the faces of years-long comrades contorted into grinning hallucinatory atrocities - the soldiers of Unity held behind their guides, and the maledictions of warlocks were to them as the bloody ordure they waded through. Step by torturous step, bought in wounds of the flesh and mind, the column neared the embattled gates, all the fury and terror of Nordyc powerless to halt it.

The vox crackled to life with a frequency that had until that moment been silent.

“We have the tunnels!” Nyrid, blade-champion of the Reviled, all but spat, hurried but grimly inexpressive, “Keep them focused on the gatehouse! We will take them from the back if we gain the streets.”

The rush of bestial ambushers that had attempted to clasp the column in a pincer from the craggy sides of the ascent had slowed to a trickle. Engaged by the Ninth Legion in their midst, they had been easily picked off by targeted fire from the flanks of the army, and most of those that still survived were now scampering away into the crevasses, all thought of combat abandoned in their desperate bid for survival. Their victors had now, it seemed, claimed the very passages that had allowed the assailants to move out of the citadel undetected. None could see what fiendish struggle was raging in the bowels of the mountain, what unfathomed mazes saw the light for the first time in aeons from the mortiferous flames of promethium. But something did move down below, for suddenly there was a mote of hesitation in the horde at the gates, a slow in the press of disfigured bodies - and then confusion. The packs of monstrosities stomped in place, uncertain where to turn, and were soon being swept aside in the shadow of the high gates. Atop the battlements, the last resistance the Stygian Talons were facing crumpled, the sorcerers and their hirds turning and fleeing to the heart of the citadel, where sickly light still burned on angular balconies.

“They flee now! Cowards and mutants,” Arturas spat, cleaving a fleeing magician apart as he spoke into the vox. His voice carried a calmness with it as he restrained himself, “Lord Ushotan, the Steel Sentinels shall now stay at the gatehouse as ordered. May you bring honour in His name.”

Many of the Steel Sentinels, or those that remained, regrouped at the captured gatehouse intent on holding it with all intent to kill any counter attack. They had taken great losses, however, from the several thousand that had gone into the Nordyc campaign, only near a thousand of them now truly remained, having prioritised protecting their mortal comrades from the worst that the wyrds could muster. What remained now were only those skilled enough to face horrors unseen by mankind with an unflinching resolve. Though relegated to a defensive force, the Steel Sentinels swore to protect the Imperium with all they could muster.

The Stygian Talons, however, had all but vanished as soon as the Steel Sentinels had arrived in the gatehouse proper. No vox chatter to signify where they had gone or what they were doing, save for a clue. A single corpse made of wire and metal in the mockery of human form was left buried amongst the dead - not that any could make heads or tails of why. The consternation was not limited to the forces aboveground, as soon the vox made itself heard.

“The Custodians are in the tunnels!” rasped the raw voice of a Reviled, “The mountain is all but taken! There is no need for them here.”

“Do not mind them,” the Master of the Ninth quelled it, “Push into the fortress! We must have it before Sol’s natural night is on us!”

The battle had indeed now spilled past the gates and into the passages and courtyards of the citadel. The massed ranks of the Imperial Army, previously such a vast and cumbersome target for the defenders’ guns and sorcery, unfolded as they at last brought their numerical superiority to bear against the remnants of the enemy. Squads crisply sheared away from the column as it marched into the jaws of the fortress, branching out to cover every thoroughfare and cramped passage that radiated from the access. The crackle of stubbers began to rise throughout the stronghold, interspersed with the roar of heavier weapons blazing a path through barricades of metal and flesh alike. On the walls, vanguard units clambered to occupy the space cleared by the Stygian Talons. Sparse gunfire still rained on them from the central spires, and warp-lightning smote with no regard for the battlements, but by inches red uniforms covered what had been held by the furs and jagged metal of the barbarians.

To one looking upon the citadel from below, the struggle could have seemed well and decided then, but its last steps were no less gruelling than what had preceded them. The interior of the Maulland Sen holdfast was a hell of its own, all the terror of that blighted land gathered upon a single mountaintop. It seemed as though its walls could not have been built by mortal hands: the stone curved and protruded in ways that ought not have been possible, twisted into precarious shapes which nevertheless did not budge under the fire of autocannons. The angles that had been dizzying to behold from afar, defying the rationality of sight, became dangers in their own right up close. As though surrounded by mirages, the assailants could rarely be sure of where one street ended and where it curved into an intersection; arches and corners that had seemed invisible awned suddenly when one took an unwary step, and sent man stumbling into unsuspected courtyards and alcoves where hungering blades awaited. The architecture of the fortress defied description in ways never before seen. The ground itself seeped treachery, rising or falling into stairways and inclines that were only revealed once feet trod upon them. Windows opened and closed in the walls almost like living eyes, spitting volleys of withering fire before seeming to vanish again.

And in every corner of that nightmarish labyrinth lurked the horrors of Nordyc. Bands of savage warriors in coarse, spiked power armour lay in ambush with fiendish cunning, emerging from unsuspected angles to strike into the midst of advancing units. Monsters that were neither man nor beast crouched under impossible ledges or hung, batlike, from bridges and overhangs, ready to leap down in a storm of malformed claws and rending teeth. Infernal golem-machines stirred in dark recesses and began their clanking march down the streets, each a wall of howling chainblades and unthinking brutality. There seemed to be no end to the miscreations that issued from every shadow; they were eager for blood, fresh where the Imperials were weary, and worst of all they knew the ways of that pernicious maze. Every inch of stonework was a hiding place for them, every foot of paved ground a way for them to emerge behind unsuspecting prey.

But the momentum of the Emperor’s army could no longer be stopped. Men who hesitated before the mind-wracking puzzles of the citadel soon found heart again as the unceasing steps of comrades approached, an iron-shod reminder that they were now masters of the field. Fracturing squads massed again, bristling with gun-barrels and bayonets, and met their ambushers with resolute volleys no matter which side they came from. Flamers swept every suspicious nook, grenades rained into hidden courtyards, forcing the expectant fiends within into clashes that would see them outnumbered. It was arduous, harsh fighting, but the soldiers who had carved their path through Nordyc could no longer be daunted by shadows and ferocity alone. However many of them were lost to twisting corners and abrupt descents, however many fell to the obstinate and sanguinary foe, they were undeterred, and step by gruesome step they advanced.

Nor were they alone as they tightened their grip around the last holdouts. The Reviled had been badly bloodied by the ambushes on the mountainside and then the sightless war in the tunnels, cut down to less than a fifth of their already slender number, but bloodshed had awoken in them a bitter thirst not so easily quenched. They prowled now the fractured maze of the citadel, shadows of blood and steel, clad in metal and bone and flayed skin, animal in the gait of their hunched, slinking steps and the ferocity of their strikes when they met with a roving foe. Even madmen and monstrosities hesitated as they came to face these horrid apparitions, their ragged silhouettes, stark against the smouldering fires they left in their wake, stirring memories of those most hideous Warp-borne visions that had unsettled their minds irreparably. Almost uncaring of their survival, these warriors that seemed to bestraddle the line between Astartes and their foes pounced into the very forces that sought to ambush them, and here a band of barbarians was overwhelmed by their strength, there a towering cyber-mutant toppled by their finer skill.

There was one force, however, that tore through the fortress like no other, undeterred by either the violence of its defenders or the fiendish traps of its architecture. The Steel Lords were no more ten thousand, more than half that number having fallen before they reached the gates, but whether death loomed before their eyes or stood at their shoulder, those blood-mad warriors were blind to it. Their eyes blazed like lightning, their cries were as thunder. Nothing that dared rise in their way endured. Foes were hacked to pieces and trampled without even slowing the armoured wedge. Walls crumbled under the blows of their thunder hammers and the barrage of autocannons. At their head, Ushotan, lost to the mania of bloodshed, cleared the path with the wide bloodred arcs of his plasma-wreathed blade. They did not disperse like the Army had, did not skulk and creep around impossible angles like the Reviled; like a bolt loosed from the Emperor’s own hand, they carved a straight line of ruin from the gates to the central spire.

The last house the rampant Thunder Warriors had veritably pierced through collapsed, battered down to its foundations, its huddling inhabitants crushed under the tread of the invaders. The courtyard before the spire teemed with horrors of the foulest sort, hulking mutants whose gnarled bones were joined with spined metal, furnaces of warpfire lit in their guts, almost more fiend than human, frenzied by the long-delayed expectation of slaughter.

In less than a minute, nothing remained of them.

The heavy metal doors of the tower, etched with leering gargoyles and strange symbols that were frightful to behold, fell like a silken curtain. Within, all was darkness and strange lights, luminous globes of pale corpse-fire drifting like lost souls. There was no above or below, no left or right in that disorienting gloom. Howls, roars and cachinnations taunted and menaced from all sides. Even a superhumanly robust mind would have quailed before this unearthly sight, vainly grasping for the suggestion of anything familiar, and perhaps it would have been lost then as insidious fear stilled it in its grip. Yet the Legio Cataegis was of another sort entirely - not preterhuman, perhaps, in the edge of their wit or the penetration of their insight, indeed not so far from those multitudes of humanity they towered over. That had not been their purpose; but they were wrought to be the first bulwark of Unity, its hardiest defenders, armoured in their grit against both the terrors of war and the insidious nightmares of the wyrd. Stubbornly, they plunged into the dark, not stopping to consider what might lie hidden in it, not allowing themselves to waver. Blinded, disoriented, Ushotan found the steps of a cyclopean winding stairway under his feet, and that was the only hold he needed.

“After me!” he bellowed, and a thousand voices answered him from behind. The Steel Lords could trust nothing but the rhythm of their march and the weapons in their hands as they ascended that skyward hell, but they needed no more than that. The stone they trod upon sought to betray them, undulating and shifting as though it were alive, the very uncertainty of whether its writhing was an illusion or a sorcerous transformation enough to paralyze a less steady spirit than theirs. Vile denizens of that benighted pit swarmed around them. Shamans cast away their tattered robes, and in the sickly light of dancing wisps were transfigured into immense terrors that defied earthly geometry, arcuate towers of flesh with scores of limbs that breathed flame and poison from tetragonal mouths and fulgurated from ninefold evil eyes. Wraiths, daemons, draugar in all the visages that a diseased mind could conceive crashed forth in living waves, mewling, gibbering, cursing in dead languages from Terra’s millenary past.

It was their mistake to have made themselves corporeal, susceptible to fire and sword. The rage of the Thunder Warriors surmounted the apocalyptic visions strewn before them, their stupendously puissant bodies pushed through fire and lightning, through tooth and ethereal claw. Before their blades, abyssal spawn tumbled back into the dark, trailing blood and venomous bile. Shadows were rent by the sanguine glare of plasma. 

Perhaps hours went by in thoughtless carnage where fury clashed and gnawed its own tail. Perhaps it was days or indeed mere minutes, the flow of time itself subverted among the walls of that infernal bastion - it made little difference to the Thunder Warriors, who hacked, crushed and died without a thought in the baleful murk. Yet at long last, even as he had at the foot of the stairway, their Primarch touched upon something new - a door, it seemed, flat and peaked. It was far smaller than the fortified gate at the base of the tower, and brittle in an unpleasantly organic way, but Ushotan had no time to ponder any gruesome implications. With a kick, the portal burst open in a rain of splinters, and the unnatural shadows seemed to drain through the opening in a wailing flood, leaving behind a dreary stairway that was far narrower than any had expected. At last, the Steel Lords saw light once more.

The space beyond the threshold was almost jarring in its normalcy after the aberrant climb that preceded it. A great long hall spanned what must have been the peak of the tower, cold and bare stone rising to a sharp vault overhead. Unlike the quarters of so many would-be kings and warlords overthrown by the nascent Empire, it was perfectly empty, not even an icon to profane forces or a final line of defenders breaking the desolation of its walls. At the far end, it opened like a cavern onto a wide balcony, gusts of frigid wind buffeting through with nothing to stop them. The sky outside was yet a nauseating amalgam of darkness and twisting strands of viridian light, and outlined against them, far at the edge of the terrace, stood the chamber’s only occupant. So distant, before an army of giants, he seemed minuscule, a miserable bundle of old worm-eaten cloned fur draped on the vague suggestion of a man.

Heavily, without haste, the priest-king of Maulland Sen turned to face the intruders upon his sanctum. He was old, very old, the thin and weather-beaten features under the ragged hood of his cloak scarred by the years and the cold. The hand that rested on the plain gnarled staff that supported his bent frame was that of a mummy. His wild grey beard had never known a comb, it seemed, or even a moment of care. The eyes under the brows of this living corpse, however, were alive, burning with a mad and outlandish force that defied their age, and they held no fear as they met the hungry glares of the titanic blood-spattered warriors that marched at him - only visceral and inexhaustible hatred.

With a triumphant cry, Ushotan raised his sword, ready to cross the chamber in a single rush and strike down the wizened lord of the tribes where he stood, when a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder. He looked back with an outraged snarl - who of his men would have dared contest his right to the kill? - which turned to confusion as he met with a golden visor. The other Steel Lords around were equally astonished at how the Custodian suddenly stood in their midst, right at the fore of their massed ranks. The battle in the spire had been as a chaotic dream, it was true, but this newcomer was astounding nevertheless. It was a stark reminder that the Custodes had secret arts of battle which they, the Cataegis, did not even suspect, and many faces turned to hard and wary scowls at the thought.

“Hold your hand, Primarch,” the auramite-clad colossus’ words echoed, heavy and solemn, through the vaulted hall. “This one is not for you to finish.”

“And why is that?” Ushotan growled, to the assenting rumble of his warriors, “So you can take that glory? Where were you when we fought for it?”

“The Emperor wishes for him to be taken alive.” The Custodian was imperturbable.

“Ah, the Emperor.” The Primarch lowered his weapon, still simmering with rancour but bridling his rage. Whatever ill words he had for the Custodes - and they were many indeed - even he could not say that they were not always truthful, especially when the will of their master was concerned. “Go, then.”

With measured steps, the golden giant advanced upon the priest-king, who did not waver or shrink before even his presence. Malice blazed in his look, but with the Custodian’s every stride, it became clearer that it was toothless. The shaman had no more dark powers to call upon, no more curses to cast. All he was had been spent.

“Yield,” spoke the giant then, “Your armies have fallen. Your people are no more. The taint you brought upon them will be burned from the face of Terra. You may die here, now - but if you come with me, you may look upon your conqueror a final time.”

The priest-king hesitated, his spiteful glare wandering from the Custodian to the Thunder Warriors and back, the wrinkles and shadows on his ancient face growing deeper. At last his mouth hardened into a bitter grimace, and he cast aside his staff, rising to the full height of his emaciated body.

“Very well, then,” he rasped, and his old voice was a whisper on the wind after that of his captor, “Take me to him. He will hear my death-curse.”

Behind him, the caustic light faded, unravelling into pale gleams that faded into nothing, and the darkness was torn up like clouds scattering after a storm. The sun rose in the northern sky for the second time that day.

---

The winds of a ceaseless storm howled around the mountain passes, winds ripping at stone with such force that the air itself seemed to scream it wrath. It was not an easy place for man to stand, the craggy fingers of rock towering above even the final fortress of the Confederacy, or what remained of it. Tread was not easy, and the wind might pluck one without sure footing from the rock even with the mountain's cover.

It was here the Emperor stood, and here that he would have his foes brought to him in defeat and supplication.

The Master of Mankind stood and watched the Citadel below as the last preparations for its total destruction were being made. The place was suffused with corruption and festooned with dark lore. It would not simply be enough to defeat its inhabitants, or even destroyed the place. The Emperor would cast down its very memory, the glories won here would be but footnotes, no matter the bravery of his warriors. A sacrifice, but one he would make a thousand times to preserve the future of humanity.

Despite the inhospitable nature of his surroundings, the Emperor stood with little difficulty, and his own enhanced bodyguards seemed hardly to notice the gale. There was no command tent or other signs of the esteem of their lord, for what baubles or grandeur could compare to the Emperor himself? Even now, outside the fierce fire of battle, his presence blazed with a ferocity which put the storm to shame, his armour gleaming with a light without source. The fulness of Nordyc retreated from his very presence, blasting the rock and stone around him free of foul taint at his very tread.

“The prisoner approaches, My Lord.” The words of the nearest Custodian crackled with the energy of the vox, but the Emperor did not need such things to be heard over the gale, not even turning from the view of the chasm below as he replied.

“Bring him forth, let us witness the future together.”

Shadows crept up the mountain slope below the files of the gold-clad guardians, stark against the piling snow. Most stopped some way down the incline, the foremost in their lines lowering themselves to one knee. It was a gesture of reverence rather than fatigue, though they all bore abundantly the traces of a long and arduous battle - their armour was beaten and scarred, smeared with the blood of friend and foe alike. Their stature, however, would not such as to demand rest. Though begrimed with the filth of combat, their own skin was already scarring, and they only appeared lesser before the imposing Custodians. There were among them Thunder Warriors of Ushotan’s host, the Primarch himself at the fore. There were Astartes of the Ninth Legion, bedecked in bone and ragged mutant-skin, the spatters of gore over them tinged into ritual patterns.

Then, the few numbers of the Nineteenth legion knelt farther back - their honorable visages lining the periphery as they silently praised their Emperor for victory. Many held aloft banners with the names of their fallen comrades, brothers who had not been so fortunate to see the end of the campaign and the form of their master.

Meanwhile, many of the Stygian Talons had long since absconded from the battle. Their prey had not been any of the mutants or witches that the Imperium had fought. Only a select two had chosen to stay, one amongst them being none other than the Black Hawk herself, who trudged up behind Ushotan. Her eyes pierced into the back of the warrior’s head with an air of judgement almost as an executioner looking upon something irredeemable.

Between the files of the silent warriors, a lone Custodian ascended, the beat of his spear-haft upon the ground marking the rhythm of his steps. He led ahead of him the captive, with no bonds or restraints. So evident was it that they were unneeded: the once-king seemed to vanish among that entourage of giants, a minute and insignificant blot creeping among their looming shadows. He limped heavily, but scorned the need for a walking staff, stubbornly forging ahead without allowing himself a moment’s respite. His keeper’s steps in his wake were effortless, content to keep pace with the dregs of his pride.

After a laborious score of final steps, the deposed priest-king finally passed between the uppermost Custodes, and stood at the feet of the Unifier. He was breathing heavily, both his age and the tremendous effort of the climb taking a fearsome toll on his worn body. His beard was tangled by the whipping wind, and the edges of his coarse cloak lashed the sides of his face. Yet still he looked up at his vanquisher, and the bile in his eyes was undimmed by awe or fear.

“Your lands have been claimed, your temples cast down and your monsters slain.” The Emperor spoke to the Priest-King, even though his words were heard by all there was a personal tone to them that quite set it apart from the booming tone of command the Emperor could wield with ease. He turned back from those assembled to regard again the view, beckoning with one hand for the fallen leader to join him at the lip of the mountain edge. If he complied of his own accord or not, he would be brought forth.

“I do not gloat, these are truths, necessary ones, for only together can humanity prosper. All of us in one purpose, so for this fleeting moment, you too are of the Crusade, a subject of the Imperium, and so I will hear you wisdom, your mind, your soul, so that we may learn lessons from all of us, even if they are simply lessons of warning.” The Emperor's armoured fists met behind his back as he beheld the twisted spire of the enemy.

“Soon the lies of divinity will be stripped away, perhaps you see already, how much greater we are without them, how you and your people have been held back.” The Master of Mankind waved a single fist in a downward arc, and the demolition began, a chain of detonation at the base of the polluted affront to architecture as the spire began to fall. “From the rubble your people will rise, alongside us.”

“Rubble,” the old man repeated bitterly. He limped to the rim of the precipice, unsteady on the ice-slick rock. Unmoved as they had been until now, his craggy eyes winced as they saw the agonising throes of what had been his city. The Custodian remained standing behind, impassible. “That is all you leave in your wake. You call it Unity, but it is a field of ashes. What more can rise from it now that you have abolished miracles?”

The Priest-King averted his face as a cloud of dust bloomed where the tower had stood. “I did not save the people of this wild land with machines or thaumaturgy, though I gave them all those things. No, I brought them gods. Harsh gods, certainly, but we deserve no others. It was the faith that gave them courage to struggle every day.”

He turned a contemptuous gaze on the troops assembled lower upon the slope. “In dreams I heard your armies as they approached, calling out your name like we chanted our prayers. You cannot take away our need for something greater, nor can you shoulder that mantle yourself. No one man can. One day, you will stumble, and all that you have built will fall. This is my last prophecy.”

“There is no prophecy, only the destiny we make.” The words of the Emperor did not rebound as they had before, but it was soon swallowed in noise by the drummed salute of Custodian fists meeting breastplates in a heavy thud of metal. “And Our Destiny is the Stars Themselves.”

It was a shitty day to be on sentry duty, Corporal Li thought as she lit a cigarette and checked the acidproof seals on her shelter’s tarpaulin. She lit up a cigarette and checked her chrono with a grimace. She’d need to make another round soon, which meant rebreathers and a treated poncho, because whatever the elders said about their ancestors’ ancestors having once known untainted rain and clean air, nothing resembling that had stuck around for her generation to enjoy.

She’d heard about the Imperium, of course. Everyone had. Even with the censors and thought-police, you couldn’t bury every refugee and combat veteran cycling back from the front line, every rumour and ‘my cousin’s cousin’ in the Empire.

But she wasn’t worried. Not yet. The Imperium was a long way from here, and–

Li froze, dropping her cigarette and mashing it under her foot as she reached for her rifle. Whatever she’d just heard, it was definitely her job to check it out, and she wasn’t about to get her unit decimated because she didn’t want to poke her nose into the rain.

Unfortunately, by the time she had her hood up and her rebreather mask on, whatever had made the sound was MIA. She looked around, switching on her infrareds. Nada.

She lowered her autogun, frowning. She swept the perimetre again, and a moment later, a rad-deer bolted from the treeline. Cursing under her breath, she fired two shots into its flank, but only the second pierced its armoured hide, and it loped into the forest, braying.

Shaking her head, she tapped her comms to call in to explain the shots, “Just a fuckin’ animal boss. No contact.”

“Watch your goddamned fire from now on, Corporal. The next shots are coming out of your pay!”

The line went dead, and she shook her head, lowering her hand and wondering if her cig was still any good. Probably not.

Then she felt a pressure against her shoulder, and before she could turn to see what it was, a fresh line of pressure slid across her neck. There was a confused moment where she worked her throat, wondering why she couldn’t swallow, when her legs buckled, a sense of cold creeping up her extremities as she faceplanted in the mud a few feet from her tent. She tried to look up, to speak, to do anything, but her vision darkened. A figure in a camouflage cloak leapt into the tench in front of her, a pair of felinid ears twitching as glowing red eyes turned in her direction, but instead of bewilderment at the notion of a slave-race carrying a rifle, her last thought was Am I dying?

And then she died.

–

Music

“Sector four, cleared.”

“Sector six, cleared.”

“Seven, all clear.”

“Two, clear.”

The reports came in from the infiltration units, squads of hand-picked stealth and sabotage experts under the commands of some of her best operators. Legate Ainne nic Leir sat in the cupola of her enormous tank, its engine dormant as she sipped a cup of recaf. The rain was further off, in the distance–a localised weather event that would likely dissipate by the time they advanced–though if it didn’t, it wouldn’t make enough mud to trap a Deamhan Lincs.

When all twenty-six sectors had reported cleared, she tossed back the last of her caf, chucked the dregs to the side, and slid down to close the hatch. “All engines on. Squadron ready check.”

She didn’t listen as the confirmations came in and the sweet rumble of the enormous engines shook her hard enough to rattle her teeth. She was looking through the periscope at the formidable defenses of the Manufactorum-complex. Not the most impressive quarry, perhaps, but she couldn’t attack a hive-city with an armoured column unless she wanted to lose her tanks. And she did not want to do that.

Her concern here wasn’t the defenders, who wouldn’t be able to stand up to the firepower of a Lincs, nor penetrate her armour, but their heavy anti-materiel emplacements, the enormous twin-barrelled guns that dotted the complex’s walls. Any one of those could potentially take out her tanks, so before they’d even turned on their engines, she’d sent every infiltration team she could spare to capture or disable those guns, as well as punching holes in the infantry perimetre.

This would still be a hard nut to crack. Even with sixty-eight Lincs, the complex was a city of itself, and she expected to lose vehicles–though hopefully all recoverable once she’d won the day.

She saw faint trails of smoke, small fires on the guns. Nothing too noticeable from the ground, but enough that secrecy wouldn’t last.

“All vehicles report ready, Legate.”

The smell of promethium reached her nose, mixing with sweat and the tang of metal, and she nodded, “Driver advance. All vehicles, advance to your objectives. Gods go with you.”

The Lincs’ engines roared to life around them, the behemoths charging out of the treeline across open ground, blue-and-black-clad infantry forming up behind them as scattered stubber and las rounds lanced out from the trenches–but even through a scope she could see that her sabotage had done its bloody work, entire sections remaining dark–and the only direction the cannon on the walls turned was inward.

“All vehicles, this is Vanguard; Monarch. Say again, Monarch.” She grinned, switching off the vox. Monarch–total surprise. “All gunners, pick your targets and fire at will!”

The heavy main cannon barked, a volkite lance ripping its way into the curtain wall and sending superheated debris raining down on the trenchline before it; the sponson guns ripped their way across the trenches and vaporised entire infantry sections as the Lincs roared across the field, the main gun barking again with enough force that it measurably slowed the tank’s forward progress with its recoil, the remaining layers of the wall melting away into slag–by the time they were crossing the trench, a third shot had cleared the path into the factorumplex, and the Lincs was moving into the broad causeways designed to accomodate thousands of workers and heavy machinery. Civilians scattered before her vehicle’s treads as an explosion sounded from deeper in, the turret of a Chimera flying high into the air, trailing flame and smoke as one of her captured guns obliterated it with the definition of overkill.

Her people knew what the objective was–minimise damage to the industrial capacity of the ‘plex, to be restored and used for their new allies–and later for themselves. Not only to remove the nexus of industrial might outside of the Hive-Cities of the Empire, but to then add it to their forces’ own strength.

But that didn’t mean no damage, and if it was a choice between the Lincs and the Factorums, she’d told them which was more irreplaceable.

“Main cannon, traverse right! Driver…halt!” The enormous vehicle stopped at the corner of a factorumplex as she turned her gun ahead of her advance, eyes narrowed. A pair of Chimeras turned onto the main thoroughfare, and she barked a laugh, “Driver proceed to objective. All gunners, fire at will!”

The first Chimera didn’t have a chance to react as the enormous tank turned the corner into the thoroughfare, exploding in a shower of promethium and propellant, incinerating the occupants before they knew they were dead. The second turned, trying frantically to get off the causeway, when two of her sponson-mounted volkite cannons hit it in rapid succession, causing it to grind to a halt, smoking. The rear hatch opened, Pacifican troops stumbling out, at which point lasfire from supporting infantry laid into them. On the other side of the causeway, two more of her tanks emerged, and she could almost see their commanders’ ferocious grins.

This engagement had gone off perfectly, and at this point it was a turkeyshoot.

“All forces, engage at discretion! Let’s give the Sigilite a Queenly gift!”

–

She stood on her Tank’s hull with the data-slate reporting the results in one hand and another cup of recaf in the other. The smell of burned flesh, charred metal, spent promethium, and chemical propellant sat heavy in the air, but Ainne nic Leir was no stranger to war. In many ways, the fair-skinned red-head had been raised by it, given a commission as an officer in the Meallan army when she was young–a Captain, only–and expected to raise herself through the ranks as her mother’s heir. Two sisters and a brother she had, but her elder brother had died, and both sisters were younger than she.

Six tanks disabled. Two would be field-repairable, four would need time in a factorum…after they hosed out their crews.

She grimaced, a furred ear twitching and her tail joining it in a display of her displeasure. She didn’t enjoy hearing that her soldiers had perished, but such was war, and if she allowed it to turn her stomach overmuch she’d be a poor officer.

Just over two-hundred killed and a thousand more wounded. For urban warfare, that was remarkably low. It almost tempted her to try her luck at a Hive. Almost. Then the madness passed, and she returned to the data-slate.

The Factorumplex had been taken sixty percent intact. Initially, damage had been limited to the curtain wall, but street-fighting had a way of taking its toll, and her orders that the factorumplex was a lower priority than her tanks had resulted in several units firing through buildings to disable ambushes of towed anti-tank guns that might have disabled them, or ploughing through walls to turn the tables outright. And added to that, several units of Pacificans had withdrawn to factorums, betting that she wanted them intact more than she wanted her troops preserved, and had the gall to issue demands. That might have worked–except that she had the AM cannons, and she’d simply had the buildings reduced to rubble, to be rebuilt later.

The biggest coup was the workers themselves. Thousands of Felinid slaves who were eager to join their liberators, either as workers or, even better, as soldiers. She’d sent the latter back east with a small detail, along with the four tanks that needed intensive repair. They’d be trained, equipped, and brought back as reinforcements when they were ready.

All-in-all, a triumphant victory. And the largest engagement she’d led to date. Her ear twitched again, then pinned back slightly. Her instincts had been honed in raids–she was tempted to withdraw now that she’d achieved what she wanted, but she knew she had to retain momentum. To keep pushing west. But she’d leave a garrison here, and request the Sigilite to assign some troops as well. They needed to link their forces.

But her gut said this wouldn’t be so easy. She’d been fighting an uphill battle against the Pacificans all her life–she’d gotten lucky, this time, but what about the next? And the next after that?

She sipped her recaf and grimaced. Such was war.

And war, as always, was her business.

---

---

Lord-Commander Wolfgang Crucias had expected the assault on the Yndonesic Bloc to slow their campaign for several months. All of the analytics, scribe-attendants, and data-savants had made predictions for a high casualty, high attrition scenario. It was half the reason he commanded a host of thousands into the millions of the growing Imperium’s Auxilia. The logistics of such a host alone had solved a manning saturation aboard the Fangs of the Wolf - the super-heavy command tank of the Tenth Excertus Imperialis. It surprised him then when the first envoy met their host half-way through the concrete jungle of Eurasia. Before the first thermonuclear barrages could be launched from their super-artillery, the Bloc had surrendered.

His hand reached down to the power cutlass hanging from his waist, remembering the feeling of cleaving the envoy’s head from their shoulders. He refused to believe that they would surrender so easily after their full commitment in the cursed jungles of Indoi. The Yndonesic reports counted several thousands dead from their reinforcements. Crucias rejected the belief that they utilized their entire armed forces for the conflict. The second envoy proved his rejection wrong just as he had prepared to unleash an endless volley of artillery into their concrete domiciles. A part of him feared that old age was beginning to take it’s toll. The respite following a bloodless victory felt unearned.

The holographic map of the surrounding areas rotated before him on the bridge of the Wolf, highlighting the vast land-armada that he commanded. Their numbers continued to grow, each battalion growing in size as they absorbed the willing from the Yndosenic populace. His eye was drawn to separate parts of his army, those drafted up from the separate Legiones: the Astartes, the Cataegis, and the Custodes. One would swell in size from their victory, one would continue to bleed out in excess, and the other would soon likely depart from their services.

“Lord-Commander,” A soldier approached behind him, a vox-pack attached to their back and their black-red garments as fresh as newly laid Himalayzian snow. She was fresh from the recruitment camps. Despite her uneasiness and rodent-quiet voice, she held a firm posture and strict stance. He nodded in approval, their newest training regimes churning out would-be veterans for their Imperium. A wave of his hand allowed her to true. “Report from Scribe-Intendant Yarrish. Recruitment in the Bloc has been completed and we’ve received reports for reinforcements against the hive-fortress of Ouran. A portion of the Astartes are to assist the invasion. Furthermore, the Legio Cataegis have been called back to the frontline at Ursh. Lastly, Lord Ghallajar’s warriors have been rerouted to a redacted assignment.”

The loss of the Cataegis and the Custodes was certainly a blow to their overall shock assault efficiency; however, the Astartes made up for it in their sheer numbers. The Thunder Warriors gave him pause as they had fought alongside him unflinching since his first years as a mercenary. Their removal from the Eurasian frontline would cause some morale loss. The last of the Custodes, though, was something that he had anticipated on the march to the Jade Palace. War with Ursh, which had loomed for the last fifty years, finally ignited by decree of the Emperor. No doubt they were planning to surgically strike in vital zones across the Urshite border. His rumination ended with a wave of his hand and a tired grunt from his parched lips.

Parched lips. How many hours had passed already as he poured over battle plans for the remainder of the Eurasian Unification? An empty recaff mug lingered to his right on a nearby terminal. Mildew had already threatened to form at the bottom of the container. No doubt it was from how hot the command vehicle ran at all times from the sheer amount of overworked cogitators. He slammed his gloved hands on the hololithic table, forcing the hologram to momentarily flicker. Wolfgang demanded fresh air, discipline and a lho-stick.

“Lord-Commander leaving the bridge!” One of the surrounding operators said with urgency. All nine of the other soldiers popped to attention, offering their right arm in a crisp salute to their temple. Wordlessly, he dismissed them with a swift salute and stepped off the bridge down into the bays below.

His steps brought him out into the concrete jungle that was the Yndonesic Bloc. Instead of the hive-cities with great spires stretching into the sky, the Bloc was full of squat and fat compounds reinforced with rock composites to handle intense bombings. Huge manufactorums with several-hundred-meter-wide smokestacks billowed black smog into the air, pumping new armaments for their repurposed Unification efforts. The air was even denser now that an entire third of the Imperialis Auxilia patiently waited for the next campaign. The Bloc had more than enough space to accommodate their ludicrous host.

A hundred different vehicles idled around him in a storm of rumbling engines. Command vehicles meant for company and battalions remained closest to the hulking giant that was the Wolf. The stomping of a thousand boots signalled him to the endless routine of countless patrols closest to the central structure of the Tenth Excertus Imperialis. It never ceased to bother him. Far from it, he relished in the sound of a functioning warmachine working at peak capacity. It was one of his greatest prides in this lifetime - raising an army worthy of His approval.

Every soldier he passed, a crisp salute or a fist to the Raptor was met in regards to him. He catalogued their units in his brain, whether they were mercenaries or formal Auxilia. An ace from the Finned Dragons of Franc, a heavy weapons expert from the Howling Cannons of Jermani, and another from the 315th Golden Fox Company of his own Auxilia passed him by. It reminded him of their humble beginnings, fighting alongside the early Cataegis with nothing more than leather carapace and stubber. How large they had grown.

His footfall brought him through celebrating soldiers drunk on amasec, mourning warriors near heaving incinerators, and cackling knights puffing from luxury lho-sticks by their company commanders. Each one of these would catch his personal attention were it not for the sheer raucous attention at the furthest end of their war camp. A herd of human flesh surrounded a circular pit where two half-naked giants fought in brutal close quarters. Both were Cataegis of different Legio, one from the Ninth and the other from the Eleventh. Both were as scarred and augmented as the very techno-barbarians superhumans that they actively fought. Wolfgang noted that most of the Thunder Warriors were present, bare of their lethal carapace and devoid of their devastating armaments.

Even more peculiar was the presence of the Astartes. Intentional or not, they were segregated away from the Cataegis in similar numbers. Half of them were from the Third and the other half were from the Thirteenth. It was the first time he had seen so many of the Third without their helmets, noting their squat and strong facial features as if they were printed over and over again from the same printer. The Thirteenth, though, varied much more in their different tones of tan skin, scars, and trophies graciously worn on their black-bronze armor. He picked out several of them that had interacted with him personally, catching their attention from his own and offering toothy grins before resuming their observations.

“They fight like animals.” A voice said from behind him. Crucias acknowledged the voice with a tilt of his head, already aware of the owner’s identity. Zaid ibn N’dar, Master of the Bronze Scorpions, stepped out next to him bedecked in the black-bronze that his legion was well-known for. His knightly helmet remained fixated on the fight pit before them, while both of his arms were crossed against his breastplate.

“And continue to survive despite their wounds.” Wolfgang responded, earning him a scoff from the bronze giant next to him. A cheer erupted from the crowd as the Cataegis from the Ninth uppercutted the giant from the Eleventh. For a mortal man, perhaps that would’ve been the end of the fight; however, they immediately lunged back into each other with vicious snarling.

“Too stubborn to die. Too strong to falter. Too reckless to survive. Thunder Warriors.” The Astartes said with no love in his raspy voice.

A collective groan from the crowd before them drew their momentary attention as the goliath from the Eleventh managed to strike a decisive blow on the warrior from the Ninth. Like a puppet cut from its strings, the Cataegis fell to the ground in an unconscious fit. The victorious Thunder Warrior raised their fists into the air in celebration, their actions echoed by the other nearby soldiers. The Astartes, notably, remained deathly silent as they watched the fighting continue.

“The Yndonesic Bloc kneeled too quickly.” Wolfgang finally stated after the match’s conclusion. The Astartes offered no response as he ruminated over Crucias’ concerns. The Lord-Commander continued, “no doubt, they’ll mob out of their habs and attempt to halt Unity in its tracks.”

“Your doubts aren’t unfounded,” Zaid said knowingly, pulling an object from one of his many leather pockets on his belt and tossing it to Wolfgang. Crucias nimbly caught it and turned the object over in his gloved hands. A crumpled metal medallion with the Yndonesic Bloc’s sigil covered in blood. “We executed approximately seventy-three different individuals attempting to sabotage everything from industry to vehicles to barracks in the past twenty hours. Whatever cell was planning resistance has been eliminated. ”

“The hunting has been good here, then.” Wolfgang replied with a satisfied grunt. He pocketed the medallion for later. The Astartes responded to him with a muffled sound that reminded him of a strange snarl of recognition. The Lord-Commander knew well that it was his default motive to purge those that dwelt in the shadows. He continued, “your beginning to outshine the Cataegis with your suppression actions.”

“We’ve quelled enough insurrections to put our predecessors and their false progenitors to shame.” Zaid said with venom. He didn’t doubt that the Astartes’ mouth morphed into a toothy snarl as he spoke the words. Crucias hadn’t expected such aggression from the Master of the Thirteenth, a man that had once fought alongside said Thunder Warriors. He narrowed his eye in response to the words.

“False progenitors?” Wolfgang found himself asking, finally earning Zaid’s full attention for the first time since he arrived at the fight pit. He had known the man long enough to recognize hesitancy. There was a pause in the Astartes’ response. The warrior nodded their helmet as if agreeing on something internal, or perhaps requesting permission to speak on a subject.

“I speak of their Primarchs. They are not correct. I witnessed the death of the Eleventh Cataegis Primarch in Indoi. It was a worthy death that has been seared into my brain, but he perished all the same.” Zaid spoke as if in a strange trance. His voice lowered to a dangerous level of seriousness, one that he hadn’t thought possible given the Astartes’ stoic nature. He spoke as if he had seen the ‘correct’ version. As if the ‘correct’ ones couldn’t die.

“Primarch Vladorios. I read the reports after the Siege of Protosia Agras. They still haven’t filled the vacancy left by his death.” The Lord-Commander responded. He was keenly aware of the tactical loss of the Eleventh Primarch. A warrior-general that could not be replaced, raised up from their gene-stock by the Emperor to lead. Wolfgang felt that they would never find someone worthy of that title again.

“They won’t be able to. They never will. Their flawed creation led to the circumstances they’re currently experiencing. Only one of their flawed progenitors has earned their title.” Wolfgang listened closely. His age may have muddled his perception, but war had kept his senses sharp. Zaid had spoken dangerously. The reports now confirmed his suspicions with the Cataegis growing ever smaller, more elite, and more desperate.

“Aeternus. The closest you’ll find to something true of their title.” Zaid finished, turning his attention away from Wolfgang to the fight pit. A pair of Astartes from the Thirteenth and the Third were facing off. The Cataegis were cheering them on, hooting and hollering to rouse their bloodthirst. Crucias couldn’t help but agree with Zaid’s statement. The First Primarch of the First Legio Cataegis was a legend. Many of his men told stories about ‘the Emperor’s Blade’ and ‘the Champion of Unity’.

“The Lord of the God-Slayers.” The Lord-Commander replied. A constant topic that never ceased to falter. Some had even gone to such lengths as to call him the ‘Lightning Bearer’ or ‘Throneslayer’. The warrior that never escaped attention, no matter which side of Terra he fought on. A legend. A myth. He would relish in the destruction that the First Primarch would bring as part of his command.

“May He live to see Unity.” Zaid said with as much fondness as he could. Wolfgang shared the opinion of the Legion Master. A warrior of that stature falling in the most crucial moments of Unity would cause inexplicable waves of morale loss. He wagered that was how the Eleventh Legio felt with the loss of their own Primarch.

The cackling of a Bronze Scorpion earned their attention. The two that wrestled in the fighting pit were already separated. The warrior from the Third was on the ground with a bleeding nose and several bruises across their face. His opponent offered a hand, hefting their genekin onto their feet and pulling them into a brotherly embrace. The two parted as a fresh round started. Wolfgang, finally, pulled a lho-stick from his coat’s pocket and ignited it with his free hand.

“Orders have come down from the Sigillite. Two companies are to depart from your Legio to assist in the invasion of Ouran with the Seventeenth Legio. Scribe-Intendent Yarrish will have the details for your captains.” Wolfgang stated, then inhaled a long drag from the stick in his fingers. He knew the details had already been relayed to the Astartes. A swift expel saw a plume of white smoke gather in the air before him. He breathed out in relief after an eternity of huffing recycled tank air.

“Raamiz and Alim have already been dispatched with two hundred of our Indoi veterans. The Seventeeth will learn well under those two.” Zaid responded swiftly to no surprise. The two watched as the boastful warrior from the Thirteenth continuously laid the warrior from the Third flat over and over. Each time, the gray sentinel would last longer and longer until the two were on equal footing. The Thunder Warriors were screaming advice, cheering, roaring, and groaning over the claiming of their fight pit. Some had already started to depart after watching the Astartes with distaste. Zaid continued to speak, “and the others?”

“The Cataegis will rendezvous at the Urshic Front with the rest of the Thunder Legions. You, alone, will be fighting without them for the rest of the Eurasian Front. A sight I thought I’d never see. The Third, as well, will remain behind to recruit, train, and suppress whenever necessary.” The smaller man said without enthusiasm. The quip had been noted by the acute ears of the Astartes. If it had drawn ire from the Astartes, then it was hidden beneath Zaid’s helmet or muttered under clenched teeth.

“You don’t wish to see the Thunder Warriors leave.” The Space Marine stated in a neutral tone. Crucias rubbed his stubble in contemplation. He had known Zaid for longer than most and knew when he was trying to pry for information. Wolfgang was a tough man to crack, but he would allow it once.

“I’ve watched them ever since I was a young mercenary. Another hive-dredge with an autogun, leather carapace, and a dream of Unity. Forty years later, married with several troops of my own, and I still watch them push Unity with all of their heart. There will never be warriors like the best of them.” Crucias responded, heaving in another drag from his swiftly burning lho-stick. The embers fell quickly onto the tiled rockrete beneath their feet. He flicked the stick in the same spot, squishing it with his foot and extinguishing what remained.

“I’ll continue to watch them so long as I live and breathe Unity. Even after I’ve perished, I know my children will look up to you in the same way I looked up to the Thunder Warriors in pursuit of Unity.” The Lord-Commander continued to speak, earning himself another sideward glance from the helmeted genewarrior. He fully understood what he spoke of. The logistics told him everything that he needed to know.

The fight pit by this point had started to disperse as the warrior from the Third managed to flatten out the cocksure Scorpion. Their fight earned plentiful praise from the Cataegis and a small applaud from the Astartes. Men and women of mortal status had watched on from different vantage points, drawn in by the clamor of the geneknights. Night had already threatened to turn the smoggy day into endless dusk, ushering commanders and sergeants to push their troops into gear.

“Your sentimentality will be the end of you. Consider retiring, old man, and serve the Emperor in a better capacity.” Zaid declared, turning away from Wolfgang to meet with the remainder of his Astartes. The joking amongst their number began sooner than the Legion Master’s bickering, pointing out flaws in their combat stance and lackadaisical demeanor. A roar of laughter boomed from their genewrought lungs, disappearing into the quickly descending night.

Crucias watched the Astartes leave and pulled out the shattered medal, stained in the blood of insurrectionists. He felt no sympathy for them, relishing in the death of those that would stomp on his dream. He wondered if they felt they had achieved anything with their demise, much the way that he thought his own death would. Wolfgang wasn’t a man to worry about such a thing. Without a doubt, his children would simply take the reins of command just as he once did through vim and vigor. The older warrior chuckled to himself as he slowly walked back to his command tank.

“Even in death, I’ll still serve.” He finally said, chucking aside the medal into the closest storm drain. The night continued on as it had for several days with rumbling tanks, the stomping of a thousand patrolling feet, and the heavy thumping of overworked manufactorums.

“Too damn quiet these days.” The voice scratched at Venik’s senses, a rasping noise pushed out of throat coarse with the dust of war, as all of them were these days.

“I believe you spent the first month complaining about the guns.” Captain Venik Lorn of the Inferallti Hussars briefly turned his eyes from the press of the observation port to regard his Seneschal, Trent Mavon, with a glare that would have been withering had he the energy for it.

In truth, Trent wasn’t wrong. The first month of the campaign had been an awful quagmire, the Urshite Barbarians had been well dug in across a defensive line which stretched from their old border with their Nordyc allies to the salt blasted wastes of Arabah. The bombardment of the heavy guns, both their own and the enemy, had become a constant twisted melody that had left twice as many soldiers deaf as it had slain. The weight of the war had been on the Imperium’s side however, and as they pushed on against the enemy they’d broken their supply lines. Cut off from their own internal supply lines as well as any trade they’d have with their equally twisted allies to the South East, the Ursh Army had run out of ammunition and the heavy guns to fire them.

Against a less desperate, less savage, foe that might have been the end of it, a general collapse followed by a gruelling but rapid route. But Ursh did not fight with steel and powder (as the older hands in the regiment called it) alone. They fought with tooth, claw and worst of all, sorcery. All along the line, enemy redoubts which had been silenced were suddenly full of the groans of dead men, rag clad shambling horrors pulled to life by whatever wicked sorcery the enemy had at their disposal. Venik’s grandfather had told him of something similar once, a horror story from the Battle of Memphos. He’d dismissed it as the ramblings of an old soldier but now he knew them to be true.

The carefully maintained battle line of the Imperium had splintered, a cohesive front becoming islands of order amid a broiling sea of the living dead, and much worse besides. As the dead had risen, Ursh had disgorged its horrors. Mutants, not all of human origin and other such beasts left to roam wild in the wake of the retreating Barbarians. Some of the lesser experienced Regiments had broken completely in those initial days. At least on this front, the Imperial Army had been stripped back to the men who had started it all, the loyal and disciplined legions that the Emperor had first relied on. Venik would have thought it poetic if he wasn’t one of the poor fools stuck in the middle of it. His eyes returned to the viewport, scanning over the wasteland beyond.

“What are we down to, Mav?” The Inferallti were an old regiment, predating the Imperium by centuries, discipline and respect for their code and rank were more important than survival to many, but with just the two of them present and the desperation creeping in, a little indeference had crept into their mannerisms. Venik wasn’t even supposed to be in charge of so many men, a mere Captain, he was simply the highest ranked officer left within any functional range.

“Last count? We won’t be running out of packs anytime soon if we keep siphoning the transports.” It hadn’t been an easy decision, but their fusils needed the recharge and there’d been no order to retreat despite the rout of most of the line, so they’d made do. So far Venik had avoided giving the order to drain them dry, leaving some hope for a last ditch breakout attempt should they need it. “Solid slugs is another matter, already cutting the allowance on each of the heavy guns to a third, they’ll only last a few more weeks at that. Plasma we’ve got a good day left.” They were some sobering figures, if any hint of alcohol wasn’t already on even tighter rations.

“Keep the guns from firing then unless ordered, let's keep them for the big one.” Venik sighed, stepping away from his viewing port. They’d been fortunate enough to have captured the fortified border town the remainder of their regiment was now housed within just before the disaster had started, Venik had turned the central mayoral manor, or whatever the people had called it, into his command post. The viewing port consisted of a slightly more fortified window. “Same with the plasma guns, store them here, we can hand them out if we need them.”

“Is that a big push or a big ‘get the hell out’ Sir?”

“Hells if I know.” He didn’t clarify that in truth he’d just meant whatever foul day would eventually come rolling round to sweep them away. He regarded his compatriot, who had been a broad man once, not fat, but certainly built more like a square than anything else. Now, much like the rest of the regiment, he’d been hollowed out with hunger and desperation. When Venik caught his own reflection he barely recognised the ghost of a man he saw, draped in a white and red uniform he’d taken great pride in. Most of the regiment still did, but there was only so much polishing of buttons you could put your mind to when every shadow seemed to hide a mutant monster intent on eating your guts.

“Captain! Transmission from the Chemhounds!” Sergeant Iona Dane practically surged into the room with a certain energy that even the surrounding nightmare hadn’t dimmed. He worked his limited comms operation. Sometimes he forgot how young she was, and it was harder to tell these days, youthful cheeks haven sunken against the sharp bones of her face, but she still managed something close to her bubbly personality of their first deployment, and that was mostly why he’d found her a place in his command operation, a reminder they were all still human.

“Go on Sergeant.” The Chemhounds were the only regiment they still had contact with that were positioned further into seized territory than they had been, having been tasked with knocking out an enemy supply depo just as the nightmare had begun. It wouldn’t be news of the relief force finally being deployed to aid them, but it still could be key.

“Not good news, Sir, Major Grenham is sending his final transmission, he wishes you good hunting.” Almost perfectly timed with the explanation, a shockwave of noise and force rippled out from the far distance, a huge column of smoke and debris immediately visible from beyond the horizon. Even the infatigable Dane took a moment to continue, “He…Uh….They…their defences were overrun, reports a greater horde than before.” It sounded like the last grasp of a man consigned to fate, and it was, but Grenham hadn’t been a man of fancy, and so Venik knew the greater meaning behind it.

“Frak, Sergeant get back out on the comm, all hands to arms.” While the explosion in the distance had stunned her, the young woman, hair the same colour of rust as that which now lingered on her uniform gilding, nodded with determination and rushed from the room. “Trent, get those guns rolling, plasmas are weapons free.

“But Sir, you sa-”

“This is it, Trent, this is the big one.” He said with more authority and determination than he felt, pulling his own fusil from the wall and placing his helm over his own emaciated features. The HUD display failed to crackle to life, so with a manual hiss he pulled the visor to half open. “It’s been good serving with you.” He paused at the doorway to speak those words, to a man who before all this he’d barely tolerated.

“You did a good job, Sir. We bled the bastards.”

“That we did.”

---

Another crack from his fusil shook his form as he fired, the familiar ache in his shoulder now a persistent howl as he continued to fight on.

“Hussars!” Venik yelled as the weapon whirred in his hands, respooling the charge before it could disgorge into another spine mouthed mutant rushing from the now shattered gate of the town.

“By Blood!” The yell of the men around him came back strained, but with no lack of pride for themselves and venom for their foes.

“Inferallti!” The Captain yelled again, dispensing of his weapon as it jammed on the final click of its power pack, instead drawing his powered sabre from its sheathe. He didn’t have time to resolve the issue before they’d be on him.

“By Fire!” The cry came back even as Venik drew the sabre down, His muscles screamed at him almost as much as the gibbering horror before, but at least that one shut up once he put the blade through its face. All along the line, holding the set of built up defences they’d erected behind the gates and walls of the town his men were making the same decision, to keep firing or to draw arms until they could pull back to the next line. A haphazard volley of fusil fire let him know many were still able to maintain their prized weapons and despite himself he found some pride in that.

“Hold Hussars! This is the Emperor's dirt, give not an inch of it back we haven’t bled on!” He roared again, through lungs that would much rather be anywhere else but in this quagmire of a blasted wasteland.

A garbled voice sounded upon Venik’s vox, a harsh voice barking at the Captain of the Hussars in a cold and terrifying tone, “This is Lieutenant Jonuas of the Steel Sentinels, to whom am I connected to?” The roar of engines could be heard in the background, almost loud enough to drown out the voice that tried to speak to Venik.

The voice came as a surprise to the Captain at a time when he very much didn't need one, almost throwing his latest parry of a gibbering monsters lashing blade-tongue off, but he rallied and with another slash of his weapon ensured his survival for the next moment. Despite the almost garbled nature of the communication he couldn't quite keep the desperate hope out of his voice as he replied. “This is Captain Venik of the Inferallti Hussars, we currently hold the town of Tzbeck, under heavy assault.” Venik had to pause to throw himself behind cover as a deluge of acidic spit erupted from a particularly foul looking mutant, throwing himself behind a set of sandbags which fizzled and popped with disconcerting bubbling in the aftermath. “The Chemdogs were ahead of us at Alpha Depo, we're the point of the spear now Lieutenant.” Some of the men had taken to giving these new Astartes warriors more prestigious honorifics, but in the heat of the moment the Captain reverted to the only detail he knew. “We'll hold, that's what Inferallti do.”

Shortly after the first garbled voice sounded, another quickly joined in. “This Lieutenant Amutiel of the eighth legion. We are closing in on your position! Hold fi-” The word was cut off as a loud thud of meat meeting metal and an unearth screech echoed through the vox, before the voice continued “- Damn that was a big bastard! Hold firm, reinforcements are on route!”

There was no response to Venik after the eighth had promised aid, minutes passed. Precious minutes of more desperate holding, fighting and dying. There was little else the Inferallti Hussars could do but held they did, rallying and fighting with the strength and tenacity of the damned. Yet, the screeching of engines could distantly be heard even amongst the roar and pitch of battle, growing quickly as a singular transport surged towards the town - bearing the symbol of nothing more than a shield housing a human skull in it. It became apparent that this was the sigil the Steel Sentinels had taken up - Protectors of Humanity. The transport raced to where the fighting was worst, kicking up dust all around as eleven superhumans poured out. The bark of volkite sounded, vaporizing mutants as the Sentinels of Steel rushed into combat. Three of them ran forwards with crackling power swords cleaving through what they could, reinforcing the mortal men that they swore to protect.

One of the Sentinels strode towards Captain Venik, standing next to the sandbags that he had taken cover behind, casually deflecting shots with his shield, speaking with the voice of Lieutenant Jonuas, “Report, captain.”

The arrival of the second transport was not as professional as the first. In part this was due to the makeshift plow that had been wielded to the front with the intention of charging through obstructions with the the minimum of slow down; In fairness to the somewhat unorthodox addition, judging by the various splatters that painted it, it had achieved its purpose with gusto.

Instead of a legion sigil, a metallic VIII had been wielded in a mark of ownership. Underneath the symbol was a message spray painted in bright, chemical blue that read ‘Nihil nos prohibere potest.’

The fact that there appeared to be some kind of unrecognizable, mutated abomination that had somehow gotten lodged in the treads and was still screaming as its mass was being ground up had put the painted motto to the test, having caused them to be a bit slower in arriving but arriving all the same.

Three marines left the transport… alongside a squad of what could only be auxiliaries. At a glance they were human, wearing proper uniforms and armor… but a closer look revealed the variety of grown but unnatural horns… the cybernetic replacements for limbs… moth wings on at least one woman. And the marine leading the group seemed to have a crocodile tail sticking out the back of his armor.

A burst of volkite finally shut the mutant in the treads up, as well as cleared the jam at the same time as the voice of Lieutenant Amutiel came from the leading marine with animal tail. “Sorry we took so long. What’s the situation?”

There were twelve Astartes with him, and almost thirty warriors of his own blood, Theadon Red stared at the middle of a ring of bikes, at several of his own trucks, and the vox unit inside of it. He only heard broken static. There were so many times they had tried to fix this and for the months that his men had been deep within side of Ursh’s central plains, he had only been fighting, he had left the Imperial Palace and went straight to his men. He hated leaving so soon after awakening his friends eyes to some of the problems, and he knew his time was soon, that is why he kept bringing more of the young bloods with him. They were smart, and stable, they were almost perfect, only time would let them grow.

Then the static went away to clarity, “Send a message to Aeternus… Codes Zeta Delta Niner Epsilon Twelve Thirty-Seven Urshis, I hope to see you again brother before this war ends, but for now… I will be riding off to those who need help in the south.”

With that, one of the human soldiers was sending the messages, and he grouped his hands together as he blew into them, letting them crack as dust came from his hands, and he looked across the wastelands of Ursh. Their methods felt useless here, there are many in this part of this world, he has destroyed, he has felt as if it is a never-ending horde that comes from nowhere. He feels it wearing on him, he feels as if he will be the first to go if none have gone yet, he has grown tired, and he feels the changed genetics changing within him. He knows some of his men feel it as well, those that are tempered like him, they knew they have felt different, and they have become the remaining officers of his legion, as well as the new bloods. He knows his time is short, but he will live it, and he smiled, the transmission is sent. It was at that moment, that he heard static, and there was a voice. It was close, and imperial.

After a moment, he stared at the radio with his men, it was some Captain Venik, he dismounted his steel coated bike, and walked up to the vox set, reaching down as he gripped it with his bare hands, he clicked it as he raised it to his head.

“This is Theadon Red of the Nightbringers, if you are near Tzbeck, we are almost twenty minutes away… hold against these heathens, we will bring them the night.”

Action was the only response from the Space Marines attached to the Nightbringers’ Primarch, the ceramite clad warriors mounting in silence as they made ready for the ride to war. Far across the battlefield, their gene-siblings betrayed no sign of their watchful purpose as they kept an eye upon Aeternus. All knew their duty.

The arrival of not one but two of the Emperor’s new legions was enough to raise the spirits of even the embattled Hussars, although it was a bitter, ash choked cry at that. Venik was, in truth, stunned for the moment. A moment that almost cost him his life as a stray shot from a surviving mutant rebounded off the barricade before he could duck back into cover, addressing the approaching marines of differing regalia. “My Lords, the Hussars thank you for your fortunate timing, we’ve managed to hold here, but the last regiment forward of us just went dark, they’ve got us completely surrounded and I reckon we’re only facing the vanguard.” He didn’t have much time to think, but that was probably a good thing, before his mind caught up to point out how ‘wrong’ the fluid motion of such hulking forms in armour were that strode before him. As yet another voice crackled over the comms, Venik repeated the report, and began to feel a stirring of that most dangerous of emotions, hope.

The current attack had lulled with the arrival of the first wave of Astartes, shattering the surge of the initial mutant assault, even if there was no doubt still large numbers of them loose in the general compound. For a time that remained so, until a figure in shapeless robes appeared in the blasted remains of what had once been a gate. Few noticed at first, focused as they were on the matter of their imminent survival. That began to change, however, as the dustbound wind began to sound like a chorus of whispers, all resounding from that one source.

“Damn it, all fire on the gate!” Venik turned from his conversation, rising up to fire a short burst of rounds at the anonymous figure, the ozone tang in the air a sign that had become all too familiar to the Hussars of late. “Wyrd!” he yelled out a further time, as more and more of the men responded to the call and acted in kind.

Then, reality was unmade.

The human figure was not impervious to the fire, shots and las bolts struck home, searing robe and flesh with a crack of fire, but each injury only seemed to reveal the fire within, and with that, something burst into reality. Elongated limbs, ending in claws, seemed to pull themselves out of and through the chanting figure, a spattering of feathers eventually materialising into great beating wings. A beak the size of a man tore through what had been an obscured face, and with a burst of fire and viscera, the much larger creature emerged into reality through the now immolated remains. The Bird-Thing towered above the gate, and with its first cry, a wave of eldritch fire bathed over the ruins of the town. Men caught out of cover, and many within, were set alight, stone itself running in rivers, sand and dust blazed into glass in instant.

Venik was thrown back, cast aside as if a feather despite the great distance between him and the epicentre. Beaten, but alive, he continued to fire from the ground, even as the monster strode towards the barricade, a gibbering tide of Urshite mutants in its wake.

Unmoved by the abomination’s revelation, the captain of the Steel Sentinels squad raised his shield and pointed his sword to the sky. He bellowed an order loud enough for all his brothers to hear, “Sentinels! Let these mutants and wyrds die upon our feet! Protect the Hussars with your very lives and whoever should bring me the head of the abomination’s head shall die side by side with the Emperor!”

“In death, we protect!,” came the warcry of his brethren as the Astartes pushed to meet the oncoming border of mutants. Many of them abandoned their Volkite weaponry in favor of the power swords and whatever pistol they had available. They crashed into the wave as an unmoving line, severing limb from body and ripping apart the inhuman with all the ferocity that they could muster. All them were veterans from Nordyc and the sight of such a beast did little to sway them - wyrds would all die the same death regardless.

Had the situation not been so dire and the battle ongoing, Lieutenant Konrad Amutiel would have informed the besieged defenders of additional information that would have almost certainly improved morale… alas, that news would have to wait.
Much like their counterparts in the Sentinals, this was not the first time that Konrad or his squad had faced down a supernatural horror; While its nature was clearly different then that of the entity they encountered in the depths of Hive Houston, the unnatural aura of terror and feeling of fundamental wrongness that it produced suggested a similar origin of some kind. The seemingly shared resistance to ranged fire was considered further proof in Konrad’s mind.

This information and a plan of action was processed at inhumanly fast speeds, as the Sentinels made their charge Konrad barked orders of his own; In part to his squad, but mostly for the benefit of the humans actively still alive and fighting. “The bird is resistant to ranged attacks! Don’t waste ammo on it, focus on its supporting soldiers while the Astartes bring it down! Brothers with me! Wandering, on my back!”

As the squads abhuman auxiliaries began to open fire on the Urshite mutated monsters, the woman with the moth wings ran up and leapt upon Konrad’s back, using his tail as a stepping stone in order to leap up and wrap her arms around his neck for dear life as she closed her eyes and started a meditative focus.

Konrad let out a sharp whistle as he heft a power axe in his hands, beginning the charge towards the overgrown witch bird as his two brothers joined him. Wandering’s own magical abilities would need some time to manifest, but he felt like their chances were a lot greater with her presence then without all the same: Also gave him a good reason not to turn his back on the enemy.

The mutant tide crashed against the Astartes with the force of a tidal crash, twisted flesh and claw breaking against armour and discipline with a force that would break lesser men. Many of the Hussars continued to go down, their lives sold bravely in the name of an Imperium they would never see, all to shield their Astartes compatriots from just a little of the weight of the attack.

As the monstrous creature advanced, it brought chaos in its wake. Each swing of its talons or beat of its massive wings sent shockwaves of force that knocked men from their feet and tore chunks of the barricades apart. Its eldritch fire lashed out again and again, incinerating anything caught in its path. A single roar from its gaping beak reverberated through the battlefield, shattering morale and forcing many of the beleaguered Hussars to falter.
But Venik refused to let his men fall to despair. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he grabbed the nearest Hussar by the arm and pulled him up. "Hold the line! Hold, damn you! The Emperor’s finest fight with us!"

Despite the combined might of the Imperial forces, the witch-thing would not die easily. It lashed out with unholy fury, its claws tearing through power armor and its fire scorching even the genetically enhanced flesh of the Astartes. But the warriors of the Emperor fought on, undeterred by their mounting wounds.
Its avian head twisted unnaturally, black eyes glittering with intelligence that mocked all mortal comprehension. The creature spread its great wings, each feather shimmering and shifting like liquid stained glass, and unleashed a second deafening cry. The air itself seemed to shimmer with unnatural heat, warping light and sound.

The advancing Astartes held their line, unflinching, their swords and shields raised in defiance. Yet the daemon raised one claw-like hand, talons twitching in arcane gestures, and an aura of malevolent energy coalesced around it. The whispers that had permeated the air earlier grew louder, clawing into the minds of all who heard them. The warp-thing spoke a word in a language older than the stars, a word that bent the fabric of the world like a hammer striking molten steel.

The frontmost Steel Sentinels staggered mid-charge. One of them dropped his power sword and clawed at his helm as if his skull were on fire. His brothers turned briefly to assist him, but too late: his body convulsed violently, his armor cracking and buckling as the sorcery took hold. The marine's armor burst open, revealing skin that had begun to bubble and twist like wax in a flame. His enhanced musculature bulged grotesquely, the fibers pulling apart only to reform into pulsing, shapeless lumps. Fingers fused together into gnarled, useless stumps. The marine let out a howl—not of pain, but of sheer terror—before his face collapsed inward, becoming an eyeless, toothless mass of flesh.

All around him, other Astartes began to falter. The same unholy power coursed through the battlefield like an invisible wave. Another marine dropped to his knees, vomiting black bile as his helmet split apart, revealing a head that had begun to sprout dozens of eyestalks, each rolling madly in different directions. One by one, the afflicted warriors were overtaken, their gene-forged forms reduced to writhing heaps of flesh, bone, and twitching nerves. Their power armor, designed to withstand the horrors of war, was nothing before the warping energies of the enemy. The air shimmered with kaleidoscopic colors, and tendrils of sorcerous energy lashed out, striking the ground and erupting into horrific mutations wherever they touched. A nearby sandbag emplacement dissolved into writhing flesh, mouths and eyes opening across its surface to scream and stare at the beleaguered Hussars.

Yet, even amidst the chaos, Captain Venik screamed over the vox, rallying his men. “Hold the line! By blood and fire, hold!” His voice cracked with raw desperation, but it was enough to steel the hearts of the remaining Hussars. Despite the creeping terror, their fusils barked out defiantly, each shot aimed at the daemon and its gibbering horde.

“Brother?!” came the horrified words of one of the Sentinels, watching his brothers become reduced to little more than meat and metal. Stoic and unrelenting men had become nothing more than dribbling monsters turned against the Astartes or horrid masses that screamed in guttural agony, still aware of their surroundings. Two of them had become little more than the mutated monsters they found against, barreling towards their former brothers in a mindless frenzy. The untouched steeled themselves, remembering the horrors of Nordyc, and raised their swords once more.
Lieutenant Jounas barked orders into the vox, brandishing his blade as he slammed one of the mutated forms of his former brother away, “Leave them! Cousins, Venik, thin the horde! Brothers, bring the witch-monster down!”

Unrelenting, Jounas surged forwards with whatever remained of his brothers, cutting through maddened men who threw themselves to the creature's aid once more. The Steel Sentinels had known the horrors of those who used this horrid sorcery, this would not deter them from claiming victory in His name. Blue fire clung to their forms, only servicing to make them appear as daemons given an unholy visage as they barrelled towards their foe. Shield in hand, the Astartes leapt at the beast using his own bodyweight and momentum as a weapon. The contact was violent as claws defensively cut through armour and and the cracking of a skull reverberated.
Jounas caught himself on the landing, having staggered the creature enough for his brothers to charge at it with swords flashing. If they were to die, they would sell themselves to bring the monstrosity down.

As the trio of the 8th and their passenger charged through the chaos of the battlefield, the sensor array that allowed Konrad to see the current heart rate of his squad (and thus if they were still alive or not) started to make… horrible noises. Tragios’ readings… stopped being human. That was honestly the best way that he could word the absolute mess of data he was receiving from his squad mate of fourteen different hive liberations and numerous minor skirmishes in between. He didn’t know what was happening to him and it was only the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to save him if he stopped to try was what kept him going without looking back.

The power axe swung with measured force, more intent on knocking things out of the way rather than commit to a full swing and risk throwing Wandering off his back. Follow up blows from Zygane or the hail of deadly fire from the abhumans keeping their distance who were overwatching the legionaries tended to prevent anything bowled over from righting itself right away.

Dodging the poor wretches who were once Sentinels, Wandering’s light finally fully manifested, creating a bubble around the remaining duo and Wandering herself as they charged towards the heart of the magical madness. Of the foes that entered the bubble, the ordinary were unchanged… but those enhanced or ‘blessed’ by the vilest of witchcraft found themselves… faltering. Their enhancements suddenly being contested in a fight they weren’t expecting. That moment of contest was normally ended via gunfire or a power weapon smashing into them.

The abominations themselves outright hissed and seemed to try and back away, as if being in that light caused them pain that they wanted to avoid. It was enough to take advantage of the opening that the Sentinels had created, rushing through the gap with weapons drawn back to slam into the body of the stunned avian. Konrad slowed for just a moment to allow his brother to charge past, allowing Wandering to let go and land on the ground in relative safety so that he was free to throw his full strength and body weight into his blows as he leapt and tried for the bird’s head!
He missed the neck. Despite the stun that Jounas had managed to cause with the crack to its head, a flare of magic caught the axe blade in mid air and brought the blow to a sudden stop. Rather then try and yank the axe free, Konrad let it go, pulling his knife from its sheath with one hand while the other lunged to grab it by the beak, squeezing it as tightly as possible to cause pain and yank it forward as he started to shank his secondary blade into its inhumanly noodly neck in a violent frenzy.

From the outside it must have looked sloppy, but the reality was that whatever the damn witch bird was made of was stupidly tough and the only way to actually do damage was to jack hammer the knife blade into the same spot again and again until it broke through what he could only think of as flesh and muscle and got into the throat proper… and which point he could start sawing.

It wasn’t just letting this happen. It’s head struggled against his grip hard, while it tried to make use of its limbs to try and dislodge him… only for Zygane and the surviving Sentinels to step in, striking, hacking and doing everything in their power to prevent the damn thing from being able to defend itself with either its vile magics or physical body.

With a final roar from Konrad, the blade parted enough monstrous flesh to allow him the ability to physically rip the bird’s vile head off with a horrible tearing of its remaining flesh and muscle. The body began to burn away with an iridescent light, almost as if watching paper fall away in flame.
The Astartes of the nineteenth legion took a moment to breathe, despite their transhuman strength and endurance the beast had been a worthy foe for them. Jounas looked back to where he had seen his brothers transform, seeing the Hussars and Captain Venik capable enough to deal with the horror from beyond. His attention returned to Konrad, a roiling anger coming from within as he sheathed his sword and wiped iridescent blood from his visor. The lieutenant stomped towards his cousin, momentarily casting a horrid gaze upon the witch-pet of the eighth.

“I told you to deal with the abominations,” came a growl from the officer of the Sentinels. The anger was restrained, unwilling for the mortals they swore to protect to hear disunity, “We had the witch-thing handled, and you chased glory while abandoning good men to potential death.”
Jounas looked at Wandering once more, a snarl curled before he became accusatory towards his cousins, “You brought that cretin with you, had you not, the abomination may have not manifested and taken five of my brothers. Kill it now before it summons yet more horrors.”

Konrad for his part was panting, happy to hold his new trophy even as he turned to look at Jounas… and blinked in confusion. “No you didn’t.” He answered earnestly. “I never heard any order from you to focus on the horde. In fairness, we still did assign most of our people to aid the defenders, so only us four came to fight the bir-” The corpse began to disintegrate? Alongside the head of the creature in his hands “...bird thing.”

At the venom thrown Wandering’s way, Konrad’s eyes narrowed and his tone grew sharp. “It seems your memory has been bewitched, Cousin. Because I remember quite clearly that it was an enemy combatant that summoned these entities. If your memory has been compromised, then I suggest you take the time to confirm what is reality and what isn’t before someone gets hurt. ” Konrad eased up as he added “I’m sure between the rest of your brothers, my remaining brother and everyone left, clean up should be over before the rest of our legions task force arrives.”

Jounas leaned closer to his cousin, hand on the hilt of his blade as Konrad spoke, “Your pet is an abhuman witch. Nordyc showed us the taint in their hearts and if you will not do it then WE will. I suggest you reevaluate your priorities, Eighth”

His brothers stepped forwards, one butting a hand to the lieutenant’s breast plate to separate the two before the situation grew dire. However, it did not stop one from speaking, “The Lieutenant is right, cousin, witches cannot be trusted and your psyker did little but feed the sorcery with her presence.”
Konrad briefly glanced over his shoulder, taking some comfort in the fact that Zygane had stepped up, quietly picking up Wandering and transporting her back towards safer company as the situation grew tense. Removing the moth from the fire would hopefully help things calm down… but Konrad was never the sort to let those he cared for be insulted or degraded out of hand.

His scaly tail slammed into the ground, kicking up dust as he felt the anger raising. “Her name is Wandering Mind… and she is the reason myself and a number of my brothers survived our campaigns in Mercia. Because supernatural shit doesn’t just come from Nordyc. In fact, what I’m sure you’ve failed to notice but we didn’t was the fact that her aura weakened and harmed those calling upon dark powers of their own. Maybe not much, but enough to give an opening for a quick and easy kill.”

“I fully credit her for the fact that I only lost one of my brothers this day instead of so much more… and I know for a fact that had you and yours brought someone like her to help you this day, a lot of your brothers might still be alive, cousin.”
“That is out of line,” the one who had his hand against Jounas stated, ensuring that his lieutenant would not attack such a comment. The Sentinel spoke once more, “They died valiantly. Now go, before you cause further issues.”

Jounas pulled away from his brother with those closing remarks, stalking away from the Astartes before moving back towards Captain Venik.
For his part, Konrad… actually looked awkward for a moment. “Yeah that… that was too far. I’m sorry.” If the apology was accepted or not would be another thing, but it was given in the earnesty of someone who knows they said something stupid in a moment of anger.
Regardless, there was still work that needed to be done. And the good captain needed to be informed that more reinforcements and a proper supply convoy were on route.

---

---

He swung the long, black blade in his hand to his left, eviscerating a warrior in heavy armor. The exosuit attached to the man crumpled within, depressurizing and crushing them into pink mist. His other arm swept right, ejecting lethal shells that burst another target into a great inferno of azure flame. The blocky armament attached to his wrist clunked, affirming his suspicions that no ammunition remained. He had expected as much, this was a grueling conflict with the end nearly in sight. An end that he’d deliberate over once the bastion-commander was slain.

More enemies rapidly approached him from further down the dark halls of Ghorak’bhal, the shield-citadel of Ursh’s western approach. They were clad in black power armor, buttressed with spikes and engraved with sorcerous runes. Whatever remained of their helmets were fused together with the flesh beneath, recreating a monstrosity spoken of in old Terran nightmares. Horns jutted out across their scalp, maws dripping with ichor dominated their jaws, and fiendish red scales decorated what skin would’ve remained. Their visage would have given normal men pause, perhaps even cause to retreat. He felt no such fear from these creatures. He had already annihilated hundreds of them.

And he was not alone in that task. His successors, adorn in the black-yellow of the First Legio Cataegis, followed in tight squads of four. Their instruments of carnage disintegrated what few scraps of Urshite warrior escaped his ruthless carnage. Mixed amongst their number, taller and bulkier, the true knights of the Cataegis reaved wildly into the Urshite assistants with palpable fury. He shared their enthusiasm, beyond what they could understand, but a deity must be slain today. He could not linger on the pitiful beings that sold their souls for pittance.

A being awaited him at the far end of the throne-chamber. Sat upon a jagged seat of blackened metal and fleshy scraps, the citadel-lord of Ghorak’bhal barked orders with his ragged voice. Unnaturally elongated limbs flung out to press new commands upon the frothing warriors at his quickly diminishing disposal. Alabaster skin, tight enough to reveal malformed bone beneath, peaked out beneath a helmet-crown made of witch-metal and ramshackle technology. His desecrated robe-armor swung with every shift of his body, partially threatening to slip off if he moved too much. That was the ‘god’ that he had come to slay. It brought him little joy to eviscerate such a pitiful warrior. If he could be called one.

He refused to tarry any longer than he needed to. His left gauntlet hefted the enormous, black blade into a two-handed grip. His form lowered into a precise strike, turning the point of his monstrous weapon dead-on to the citadel-lord. All the muscles in his legs bunched together in anticipation as explosive adrenal cocktails spilled through his body. As a bullet fired from the Emperor himself, he sprinted forward across the throne-chamber. The being that called itself a ‘god’ screamed out in protest, attempting to will the powers of the Empyrean against his inevitable doom. The wyrd would not protect him this day as the sprinting warrior lunged into the air, twisting the blade into a downward diagonal pierce.

The air itself was cut clean as the power field of the blade ignited the oxygen around it. A film of crimson erupted into realspace around the edges of the greatsword, drawing the attention of the warriors within the throne-chamber. The citadel-lord raised his hands in defiance only to be engulfed by the full length of the weapon. Flesh rapidly disintegrated as the powerfield ate through armor and skin. No howls of pain rose up from the quickly dissipating warlord. In seconds, the husk of the Urshite commander was tossed by the Primarch of the God-Slayers. He turned to the remainder of their forces, only for the rest of the Legio Cataegis and Legio Astartes to murder what remained.

As the last of their numbers fell dead to the scrap metal tiles of the throne-chamber, Aeternus turned to witness the ongoing carnage outside. The remainder of the Excertus Imperialis that survived the siege of Sanctii encircled the wide walls of Ghorak’bhal. Cobbled streets of shattered metal were clogged with the dead, Urshite and Imperial alike. Hulking genewarriors in unflinching black-yellow ceramite hunted in synchronized squads, systematically annihilating whatever non-Imperial forces they came across. Flames as high as the spires of Franc licked the sky above as pyres burnt the unwanted dead and ate away the livelihoods of the Urshite survivors. Already the banner of the Raptor was beginning to fly from makeshift poles at the edges of the outer walls. Cheers, screams, shouts, and cries were mixed into the cacophony of war spreading throughout western Ursh.

Where the Urshite menace had once filled this hall of defiance, now his brethren and his successors were filling in from across the bastion-network. Mortals were beginning to rendezvous to their position, their faces marked with wounds and scars from the conflict. He would await their request any longer. Aeternus Rex raised Apocrpyha, the black blade of Akkad’s last warrior-king, towards the ceiling of the bastion.

“Ghorak’bhal has fallen! Raptor Imperialis!”

The reception was as expected. The mortals raised their weapons high into the air, screaming for joy and gritting their teeth in relief. His brethren of the Legio Cataegis slammed their bloodied gauntlets against their chests in salute, cackling madly beneath their knightly helmets. Only the Astartes seemed statuesque in their response, perhaps already probing their internal communications for the next fight. His time fighting alongside them had informed him much of their inhumanity. He wondered if this was what the Emperor’s next genewarriors were meant to be: emotionless and tactical. The thought wandered away from him as he descended the steps of the Urshic scrap-throne.

A trio of warriors, one from the Cataegis,one from the Astartes, and an officer of the Excertus Imperialis approached him. It had become a necessary part of their operations as he often fought away from Mistress Vairya and the Auxilia. Their communications were broken and separated between their legions, no doubt encrypted to a degree that he would find incomprehensible.

“Forward our victory to Mistress Vairya. The post-battle brief will be in the throne-chamber.” Aeternus stated briefly to the Astartes, then continued with the Thunder Warrior and the Auxilia officer. “All squads on hunter-killer operations until we leave in twenty-four hours for the western trenches.” The officer offered a swift salute before disappearing into the quickly dispersing crowd of genewarriors and mortals. Only the Thunder Warrior remained with his gauntlet firmly locked against his chest.

Aeternus narrowed his eyes at the lack of response and sudden stillness of the warrior. One of his blacked gauntlets rested on the pommel of the diamantine dagger; however, the warrior finally responded in a low voice. “Captain Caligula hasn’t responded in an hour, Lord Primarch. Captain Nero and Captain Tiberius, though, have reported success in the western and eastern quadrants of the citadel.” The response made his heart suddenly drop.

“Where was his last reported position and at what time?” His voice came out in a mix of a growl and a groan like a wounded lion. He couldn’t hold back the thin veil of anxiety that plagued his mind. Caligula had been having repeated episodes since the Fall of Sanctii. Perhaps it was a loss of communications in that specific quadrant that caused his tardiness.

“The communications bunkers, Lord Primarch.”

And his heart sank further.

---

The bunker was a charnel house.

Agama Zur was the last person alive in the room, a rather grim distinction considering the number of dead genewarriors and scribes. His double hearts pumped a potent cocktail of painkillers and coagulants through his ruined body, clotting what ought to be fatal severing of blood vessels while removing the haze of agony from his mind. There was a dull recognition that he would not survive these wounds, but he put that out of mind as he positioned what remained of his body against the sealed door, his one remaining arm gripping a blood slickened chainsword. He did not know whose blood it was, not that it mattered.

Because though he may be the last person which still drew breath, that said nothing of the monster he was staring down.

With a smile on his lips the Astarte, plucked from the deep valleys of the Himalazias as a boy, stared down his death.

It towered above Agama Zur as a deity of destruction and death. Violence screamed across the yellow warplate of the monster as it had rampaged through the bunker. Streaks of blood trickled warmly off of the plating, while fresh entrails and bits of battered flesh dangled from blackened gauntlets. A bloodstained cape of fur bellowed behind the beast, swelling its shadow on the rockrete walls. A mangled claw of rage gripped the long handle of an archaic axe, serrated for maximum desecration. Its head was a slanted helmet with a blood-slicked plume, battered beyond former recognition. No lenses filled the gap in the eyeslits, yet a pair of crazed eyes watched from beneath.

Behind it was unabashed chaos. Consoles, cogitators, terminals, and more were shattered into nothingness by the horrific thing. Projection screens and auto-scribes were torn from their mounts to the stained tiles of the bunker. Vaguely humanoid shapes scattered across the floor in a morbid display of aggression, some more brutalized than others. Towering warriors in black-yellow armor were shattered, cleaved open, and construed into entrail nests beyond their slumbering forms. Glowglobes above the monster rabidly flickered in their chaotic state of activation.

It growled at him. It snarled. It snapped. It screamed out in defiance as it swung the long handled axe across the space above the Astartes’ head. Rockrete melted beneath the sheer strength of the creature. The attack was the same one that had laid low the inhabitants of the chamber. It could not see what was truly in front of it. The monster slashed at whatever it could manage to strike, but each stroke was as eviscerating as the last. A bulky vox-emitter exploded as it was lacerated, exploding out into a crescendo of sparks and debris.

It coughed out words as if a toddler was trying to speak for the first time. Each word was as guttural as the snarls of the creature. The language that it spoke was a disgusting mixture of older tongues merged into one. Every utterance was filled with unmistaken venom.

“UNITY.” It howled out to the nothingness away from Agama.

“Master! These WRETCHED Urshites! I offer them! Raptor Imperialis!” It snapped out, punching into the corpse of another yellow-plated warrior. The force of the blow tore out another chunk of reinforced metal. The monster tossed it to another side of the room, tearing off more rockrete from the quickly deteriorating bunker.

“Master! You BETRAY us! URSHITES, smaller and weaker, in our armor of the RAPTOR!” It cried out, descending into morbid sobbing before roaring again into fresh madness. The being turned away from Agama, coming to blows with whatever furniture still stood in the creature’s way. It swung the axe in one hand, effortlessly decimating the metal desks and slaving-stations of the bunker.

“Bring me UNITY!” It managed to croak out in a final sob. As if awoken from a trance, the monster snapped towards him like a creature alerted to its prey. The heavy footfall of its greaves were reinforced by the dropping of its axe. The serrated edge of the weapon dragged across the metallic floor, bisecting flesh, armor, and debris with sickening ease. It understood with surprising grace that it had one last thing to eviscerate in the bunker. One more ‘Urshite’.

“Come, bold thunderbolt,” Zur managed to cry, revving his chainsword as he held it in front of the ruin of his torso, the grip of his remaining hand firmer than any dying man’s ought to be. “Come, show me Unity!” he taunted, his gaze clear and his voice strong, bringing his blade into an upward guard. “Come, death!”

His legs were a mangled mess of flesh and bone and shattered armor plates, never would he walk again. His left arm ended in ragged strands of meat at the elbow, never would he stand in the battle line again. The Raptor upon his breast was shattered, never would he see his master again.

Yet in his hand was his sword, and upon his head was his helm, and within his hearts beat the battle-fury. Songs ought to be sung of his defiance, of how he was the last to die. The village ought to burn his flesh to the heavens and write his tale upon his bones. Children ought to grow up wishing to be as bold and true as Agama Zur, who died at his post.

So many oughts. But the Legion did not practice these ways. Perhaps if he died gloriously enough they would. It was a cheering thought for him to have, for himself and the nine others in his squad who had already fallen to Caligula.

He sang of them as he made ready to sell his death dearly, back still to the door. Of how Morde had been the first to fall, throwing herself in front of a scribe. Julibu and Xerkon, distracting him as the mortals fled to sound the alarm. Lathimate and Chilon, who had intervened when his arm was struck. Galagon and Ylvrel, who had sealed the bunker and their dooms. Vercin and Kaisa, whose bodies even now cooled before him.

Agama Zur knew that he could not put this dog down, but by the Master of the Lines he would delay him with every breath left in his lungs.

The monster that Caligula had become hefted the axe into a two-handed grip at last. His breathing had become ragged with effort and pain. Each step the warrior took was echoed by a convoluted mixture of sobs, growls, and snarls that dehumanized him more. He raised the axe far above his head for a downward cleave of Agama’s skull.

“Die well, URSHITE.” Caligula uttered with a mouth full of snarl and slobber. Instinctually, the Thunder Warrior thumbed the activation rune on the axe and ignited the powerfield on the weapon’s edge. The full breadth of the charnel house was revealed in the blue afterglow of the armament. He screamed out wildly as the powered tool came down towards the dismembered Astartes. Both of them screamed out for death as it came, sword raised to meet axe in a clash that was fated to end in oblivion.

But Agama Zur’s death never came. On an instinct honed to perfection, Caligula suddenly jerked backwards mid-swing of his axe. A crimson, plasmic powerfield cut through the bunker just nearest to the Cataegis. The dark blade that the field wrapped around nearly cut into the warplate of the transformed monster. He snarled in response, howling in rage at the sudden resistance against him. The weapon suddenly turned downwards and tore out the last of the rockrete preventing its entry.

Chaos engulfed the communications bunker once more as a flurry of activity ignited around the shattered Astartes. An enormous warrior in black warplate burst through the wreckage where the blade had struck through. They wasted no time in intercepting Caligula with their enormous greatsword. The powerfield around the weapon exploded as it collided with the monster’s axe. A crescendo of sparks and destruction sent debris scattering across the ground in their deathlocked duel.

“Assist the Astartes! I will handle Caligula!” Primarch Aeternus roared out to several figures that materialized behind him. A single Thunder Warrior, a trio of Astartes, and several mortal medicae personnel had followed him through Ghorak’bhal. The reception of his order was immediate as the Thunder Warrior leaned down to Agama and pulled him by his warplate’s collar out of the bunker. The sight of the two embattled Cataegis was still visible to him as he was removed.

He could see that it was a clash of titans. The best of the Thunder Warriors fought tooth and nail in the smallest confined spaces possible for their relative size. A fist was thrown, connected, and then replied with a pommel strike to the skull. A kick was registered, received, and responded to with a headbutt. Axe continually connected with the full breadth of the Primarch’s greatsword, then was used as leverage to push the Thunder Warrior further back into the bunker. The blade was kept close to his body in a chaotic sword dance, regularly used to defend as it was to attack. Caligula kept pace with the warlord of his Legio, switching between over-aggressive attacks to calculated strikes with his free appendages.

In the midst of their dance, Agama saw a flash of silver emerge from a sheathe on the Primarch’s belt. A diamanite dagger was drawn, curved in specific ways for a specific function. A ceremonial tool and a dangerous weapon. The fighting continued as Aeternus’ adjusted his fighting stance to incorporate the addition of the dagger. His greatsword was used for distancing and defending, while the dagger was used for striking in short bursts. Caligula was already beginning to falter from the relentless attack. An opening was beginning to form, but the Primarch needed more time.

Agama Zur’s war-song ended for but a moment as he was jerked away from the battlefield, his still whirring chainsword skittering upon the bunker floor as he was evacuated to the medicae. Stubborn, irrational pride took root in his mind at his death being so rudely refused, but at the sight of duel between Aeternus and Caligula he found a new purpose for himself, one grander than pointless defiance. He sang anew as the greatest of the God-Slayers turned their blades against another, of mighty deeds and fell foes, and the heroes who had overcome them all.

The last thought that crossed his mind as the chems began to flood his body was that this was a worthy death.

As Agama Zur’s consciousness faded into the black, the two Thunder Warriors continued to fight desperately in brutal close combat. A parry was met with a feint. A slam from a hilt was replied to with a skillful dodge. The two danced on a stage of war, compiled of history and gore. The more monstrous of the pair, however, was beginning to falter. The chemicals that forced his system to plunge into madness were beginning to drain out through the slobbering howls he made; however, it was madness that continued to ensure his survival.

Perhaps it was the Astartes’ swift egress out of the bunker, or perhaps it was simply a matter of martial prowess that ultimately concluded the duel. Aeternus managed to slip the greatsword betwixt Caligula’s arm and the handle of his axe. Using the moment of a previous feint, the primarch forced his renowned blade downward in a shattering blow to the other Cataegis’ weapon. The poweraxe exploded into pieces of metal, rendering the powerfield kinetics and effectively disarming the warrior. It did little to halt the ceaseless madness within the warriors’ mind, but it forced the warrior to hesitate for a fraction of a second.

A fraction of a second was all that a Primarch needed. As the axe was rendered useless, Aeternus dropped his greatsword and forced the maddened warrior into a fierce embrace with his newly-freed arm. The more veteran of the two swung the other onto the floor, slamming the Himalazian knight flat on his powerback and opening up the warrior’s gorget for a proper attack. There was no indication of hesitation as the silver dagger was snaked up and forced down into the neck of the rampaging Thunder Warrior.

Caligula gasped out in pain. The madness seeped from his mind as fresh agony began to coarse through his neck. He gurgled out as foamy blood began to bubble up around the warrior’s lips. Enraged eyes broke free of their curse as death lingered on the horizon. Only the wounded whimpers of a dying man reached up to Aeternus, who stared down at his old friend through his black helmet.

“Worry not, brother, Unity awaits us. You did the Emperor’s will and served him as his most trusted.” The Primarch of the First Legio softly said to the warrior beneath him. The words calmed Caligula, enough to force his whimpers down to dying moans. His eyes looked up to the Primarch pleadingly. Aeternus simply nodded in response, “I will meet you there, old friend.”

The Thunder Warrior closed his eyes, either having accepted the Primarch’s words or having finally perished from his wounds. Their nightmare was at an end, passing wordlessly in a bunker filled with the dead of those afflicted by Caligula’s rampage. Aeternus forced himself upright, withdrawing the dagger from his friend’s neck and resheathing it at his side. He reached down, reclaiming Apocrypha and rested it against his pauldron. With one of his hands free of a dagger, the Primarch pulled Caligula’s corpse up and brought it with him out of the bunker proper.

A myriad of organized chaos was exploding out of the hallway that he had entered from. The medicae were desperately patching up the fallen Astartes, while further reinforcements from within the citadel were beginning to congest the arterial passages. Some of the Astartes awaited, patiently, as Aeternus’ passed through the egress, yet other Thunder Warriors had already gathered frantically braying for their leader. To the warriors of his legion, the Primarch gifted the fallen form of Caligula. To the warriors of the future, he gifted his presence.

“Alert Mistress Vairya that the situation has been handled. Tell her to meet me in the throne room for a full debrief.” The Primarch said to the Astartes, his voice lacking the vim it typically contained. He didn’t wait for their response, marching off with the rest of the Thunder Warriors. They had a body to bury, alongside countless others.

The legionnaires of the Ist did not reply, standing as ceramite statues as Aeternus and his brothers passed them by, making the lesser gene-warriors seem like mere men when compared to their predecessors. The Primarch’s message was conveyed nonetheless, the Astartes blink clicking it to the Legion Mistress as they remained in a tight cordon around the medicae. They moved only after the Thunder Warriors had gone, a squad fanning out to remove their dead from the ruin of the bunker.

---

The Legion Mistress of the Ist still wore the same unadorned ceramite armor that she had been in the first time Aeternus had met her, she and those few surviving Astartes who been part of the initial creation in the bowels of the Himalazias retaining a severe austerity. She walked, almost mechanically, before the Primarch, and then stopped, armor locking her joints into place as she reported. Her face, as ever, was obscured by her helm as she spoke.

“I was summoned.”

The throne room of Ghorak’bhal had already started to see a change in atmosphere since the Imperial victory over the citadel. Banners of the Raptor were unfurled between pillars, cursed effigies had been utterly wiped, and witch-metal was either entirely removed or replaced with rune-marked effigies from the Sigilite’s arsenal. No darkness remained of the Urshite citadel-lord, save for the reinforced ferrocrete structure itself stained with residue of the wyrd. The throne of the chamber had been removed, deconstructed, and smelted into slag in exchange for a hololithic table. Several cogitators hooked to unseen power units chugged nearby the new implement, filling an otherwise quiet room with droning noise. Mostly empty of inhabitants, only a bare few scribes and a tall, black armored figure remained.

Outside, through the view ports in the citadel, the Urshite wastes accumulated fresh snow from green-tinged clouds overhead. The crack of lightning occupied the boom of thunder further into mainland Ursh, while a thick smog rose up from dozens of Excertus Imperialis vehicles idling for their next campaign. The citadel stretched for untold miles, either as a complete structure or as sporadic improvements. Even from here, Aeternus could see the imperial yellow of new banners rising over the ruins of the defeated compound. He turned away from the port towards the Legion Mistress.

“You were,” He stated frankly. Softly, the Primarch reached his gauntlets up and pulled the black helmet from his head. His dark features peaked out from beneath, accompanied by fresh wounds and crisscrossed scars from Sanctii. A crop of raven hair woven into a warrior’s knot hid behind him, flanked by recently shaved sides. Dark eyes stared down at the Astartes. For conversations such as these, Aeternus preferred to speak on a personal level with little impediment from outside forces or to suffer mixed reception from his vox-grilles. The Thunder Warrior cradled the helmet under his left arm, while he gestured to the hololithic table to his right. He continued, “there are two matters we must discuss. Remove your helmet and we will begin.”

His words were spoken without the usual lion-esque growl to them, either due his fatigue or an intentional change for the conversation-to-be-had. His tone was neither commanding, nor pleading. It was neither inviting, nor repulsing. It shared no kindness, nor held loathing. It bore no enmity, nor did it boast amity. His voice was bare, nearly as emotionless as the Legion Mistress before him.

Vairya Kurus was well used to things which she did not understand. Born and raised within the hidden laboratories of the Biotechnical Division, her entire life had consisted of things beyond her ken both before and after her ascension. In all that time, she had simply accepted such things. Her creators did not require her understanding, only her obedience.

But this man was not one of them. He was at best her peer, and at worst… Such thoughts she did not grant herself the liberty of reflecting on. Instead, she considered a far more innocent indulgence.

“Why? Verbal communication is neither enhanced nor hindered by the presence of my helm; my armor reports that my vox-grille is operating normally. You may consume food if you require it but my own nutritional needs are of no concern at the moment.”

“Then Malcador never taught you some of the early cultures that existed in the Himalazians during your inception.” Aeternus responded, a disappointed look crossing his wartorn facial features and filtering into his voice. He turned away, walking the small distance from the viewport of the citadel to the hololithic table that awaited them. What few scribes remained in the throne room slipped away as the two began to speak. The glowglobe chandeliers flickered above their heads as they spoke.

“It was customary to remove one’s helmet when speaking one-on-one. The mortal men of the Eagle Tribe used to think it was to lower one’s defense and allow the spirits to connect in order to understand one another on a cosmic level.” The Primarch reached the hololithic table first, resting the palm of his gauntlets along the edge of the freshly fabricated metal. A flat, spinning image of Terra’s landscape painted in blue light made up the center of the hololith. The Raptor was present in almost every province and continued to grow into the Eurasian continent. He continued, “in truth, though they did not know, it was so that both parties could read each other’s intent by watching each other’s facial features. Eye twitches, perspiration, lip trembles, breathing patterns, and more. It allowed them to be more honest, more personal, and more confident in their negotiations with other tribes. I’ve since adopted it and spread it throughout my Legion to remind them of their humanity.”

“It is this kind of conversation that I wish to have. Consider it a lesson from First Legion to First Legion.” Aeternus said, turning his head away from the hololith to the stoic form of the Legion Mistress.

The Legion Mistress did not say the obvious, that she did not wish for Aeternus to read her intent. Honesty and personableness were not just irrelevant but antithetical to her task with them. These things were true, and she had no reason to indulge his request, and yet… The Primarch’s words held wisdom.

Wisdom more vital to her and hers than she would wish to be known.

She said nothing, the hiss of air as her helmet unsealed was the only reply. A pale face stared back at Aeternus, eyes sunk so deep into her cheeks that her features seemed to be coiling in upon themselves to escape the light of the world. When she spoke, it was with a far softer voice than he had heard before, free now of the augmentation of vox grill.

“Your Legion is more successful than the others at remembering who they are,” she stated, simply. It was neither condemnation nor praise, merely fact.

“It was a lesson the Emperor taught me long ago. That we,” He gestured with one of his blackened gauntlets, motioning between himself and her. His tone turned gentle as he reminisced on his times with their Master, offering a small smile over his broken face. When she removed her helmet, the Primarch locked eyes with her as he switched his view from the Astartes’ helmet to her face proper. It was not a challenge from the Primarch, but a proverbial opening of the soul. He continued, “are still human, regardless of what we’ve experienced or what we’ve become.”

The Primarch of the First lost his small smile as he shifted away from the sweet reminisce of the early days of the Unification Wars. Aeternus kept his eyes level with Mistress Vairya. The holomap flickered near them as battles across Ursh were tracked, each displaying a steady push across the heartland. Each Raptor that flew into existence would’ve drawn his attention were it not for what he must speak.

“One of my warriors, Caligula, Captain of the First Clade, perished today after killing many people. Seven Astartes died, three surviving the encounter with one in dire straits. Fifteen adepts were caught in the crossfire. I’ve already sent the mortal remains back to the Himalazians to be honored as heroes.” He finally started to speak after a second of silence, his tone losing its lion’s roar. The Primarch was hurt behind his visage in a way few could harm him. The loss of Caligula fell on him hard, yet the loss of so many innocents hit him harder. Aeternus never turned away from the Legion Mistress as he spoke, yet he was aware that she already knew of this event.

“I cannot bring them back, Vairya, but you are owed. An apology for now and a request for later.” Aeternus approached an uncomfortable distance given their difference in sizes, then stopped short to bring his fist to his chestplate in salute. He bowed his head in remorse. He felt no sting for this action. It was one he had done many times before. She was not the first wronged by the volatile actions of his Thunder Warriors. They were legion once. In those first days, he couldn’t remember how many he’d put down or apologies he offered. This was unlike any of those others. Caestus had murdered warriors of their future, the ones that would surpass them.

“I am sorry, Vairya,” His voice was low, yet his words refrained from attracting pity. His tone was soft, yet his timbre was stalwart. His soul was bare, yet his spirit was resolute. He was many things in that moment, but the emotion that rang true the most was honesty. Aeternus continued, “you have the rights to what you desire with us. Simply ask it and we will deliver. I will deliver.”

The Legion Mistress’ face was mostly still, but only mostly. Microexpressions skittered across her features, the warrior having never been trained to keep herself truly expressionless. What she felt was simply muted, and what she felt at that moment was confusion. Her soul was bared too in that instant, at least as much it may be for one so isolated and guarded from her own humanity.

Her soul practically shouted why are you doing this while the iron edge of her conditioning and the immense weight of her office forced her lips to say something else. “Ten Astartes were defeated by only one of your warriors. An entire squad, powerless to stop him, forced to buy time with their lives. This is unacceptable.”

“You will train us, spar with us, so that we might learn how to fight against Thunder Warriors, and such a loss does not occur again.”

“It will be done.” Aeternus’ response was swift. There was no hesitancy in the decision as if it were something he had already considered long before their conversation. He knew exactly what she asked for, his eyes unafraid of the potential truth. The Primarch of the First Legion was no fool, but he was the most stout and loyal of his siblings. Before moving away from Vairya, Rex banged his fist against the Raptor on his chest as an affirmation as much as it was a salute. Shortly, he returned to his side of the hololithic table and gestured for her to join him.

Vairya stood for a moment, as if unsure how to answer, before returning the martial salute in turn. “I can think of none better to teach me how to slay a god.”

“Now,” Aeternus continued unabated, speaking furthermore without his helmet in a more natural tone dancing on the edge of his lion’s roar. One of his armored fingers pressed a rune, spinning the hologram of Ursh to a vertical overlay. Several new entries dotted the vast trenchlines of the battlefield, each represented by the Raptor and crossed-thunderbolt of the Cataegis. Every Legion from the God-Slayers to the Radiant Spears were converging from across Terra to end Kalagann’s empire. Their assault lines were displayed as aggressive arrows of yellow, mixed with Auxilia blue and Astartes grey. He continued, “let’s return to executing the Emperor’s will.”

---

---

The Urshic Homeland was aflame. In her southeastern regions, the Raptor ignited the Asiatic Dustfields from the captured regions of the Xeric Tribes. To her southwestern regions, the Master of the Lines tore fresh wounds in her citadels from frequent sieges. In her southern regions, the Imperium built endless waves of trenches from the bottom of the Himalazians to the eight-pointed fortress-hives of the Evenkian Plains. The warriors of the Emperor drove further and further into her great lands with ruthless efficiency. She could wait no longer for her people to suffer. Kalagann’s horrors, locked behind sorcery and citadel, were unleashed enmasse to deal with the encroaching Empire.

Across the Urshic Front, the stalwart warriors of the Imperium saw them as they came. Dreaded volkhv, empowering the brave Urshite knights with powers from the wyrd through the Primordial Tongue, tore skin from bone. Burgeoning war migou, painted in the tainted blood of their patron deities, clobbered vehicle and genewarrior alike. Terrifying vukodlak, beast-warriors that bore the potent powered armor of Ursh, slaughtered auxilia in hundreds. Horrifying todorats, warriors fused to their warplate and deformed into four-legged abominations, cleaved into myriad trenches. Each was as devastating as the last; however, only one breed of monstrosity existed amongst Kalagann’s menagerie that triumphed over their terrors.

The zmaj. A red-scaled reptilian mount with huge, widespread wings that breathed wyrd-infused flames from its maw. As large as a heavy tank and as long as a sub-orbital naval vessel, the zmaj dominates wartorn Terra. They were few, far, and utterly furious. Wherever they appeared on the battlefield, they bore hundreds of dead from their breath alone. Regular munitions could not punch through their hide, nor could the sanctified magicks of the Sigilites break their manifestation. They were blood and fire. Only the generals beneath Kalagann and those trusted vityaz with the favor of the gods could ride upon them.

Though they were manifest in reality, conjured from bone, blood, and vitae, they hailed from within Kalagann’s domain. If there were a place that bore them from the wyrd, tore them from the womb of reality, then they could be silenced forever. Such a place would be forsaken, locked in dark magicks, and ruined by the pollution of the wyrd. Such a location would be hidden through the volkhv, away from the prying eyes of the Urshic populace and for the express viewage of Kalagann and his ensemble.

And yet it did exist.

---

The Sibir Ice Plains were desolate of life. Rolling hills of snow were accompanied by great towers of frigid ice. Snowfall with flakes as sharp as daggers cut through the snapping wind, dicing smaller chunks of frost into thinner variants of cube. Where the weather didn’t blanket the plains, dangerous sleet expanded out in every direction for countless, uninterrupted miles. Just as the sky above was tinged with the sickly Terran atmosphere, so too were the iced plains a sickening hue of grey-green. Vague symbols of the wyrd, either from the ancient peoples of Terra or the recent inhabitants of the last millenia, were inscribed sporadically across the fields. Ruins were the only waymakers through the perilous, cold wasteland. Great communes of corroded metal, crumbling towers of frozen brick, and dilapidated skeletal monuments made up those few structures dotted throughout the plain.

None would dare to cross such a wasteland on foot or by vehicle. The temperature, the uneven split of sleet-ice, and the raging winds were enough to discourage most from attempting ventures through this region. Not even the Nordyc barbarians of Maulland Sen would dare to venture through Sibir. The only feasible way through the ice plains was through air, if one dared to risk catastrophic engine failure. And today, of all days, was not the day to fly through Northern Ursh. A maelstrom had formed off the former coast of plains, twisting the already frigid wind into a lightning hellscape of grey-green tint.

And yet something did dare to cross the Sibir through the air. A fat-bellied Stormbird painted in the hues of the Himalazian Imperium blew through the dagger-sharp hail. Roaring engines burned what little ice attempted to form on the edge of the aircraft’s hull, while reinforced metal blunted the maelstrom’s vicious weaponry. Within the depths of the assault bay, fifty-odd individuals in hulking, powered armor awaited. Each was strapped to their crash seats, segregated down the middle of the bay by their affiliation. One side was the yellow-black Thunder Warriors of the God-Slayers. The other side consisted of the gray Astartes of the Steel Sentinels. Only a pair of warriors remained out of their seats, save for the pilots at the front of the gunship.

The first was a gigantic swordsman in all black, bearing a winged helmet and hefting a dark greatsword against his left pauldron. One of his gauntlets gripped the vehicle rails in the bay for balance, while the other carefully balanced his weapon of war. His powerpack was decorated with a silver-skulled object at the top, while a billowing cape of white fur settled behind him. A strange, wrist-mounted armament was bound to the warrior’s right hand, covered in sigilic runes of the Sigilite’s secretive order.

The other was Arturas, praetorate of the nineteenth legion with armor mired in scratches and dents that he had earned while fighting the Imperium’s enemies. His armor wore these marks like a badge of pride, a reminder to the horrors that he and his brothers have faced in Nordyc, and now Ursh. A sword remained sheathed by his side, but in his left he held a shield with the Raptor Imperialis, painted golden but stained in unwashed blood from the continuous battle against the Urshites. The Praetorate looked over his brothers, noting their rigidly focused disposition.

+‘We are approaching the DZ, Primarch, at least as far out as we can go given the Sigilite’s orders. You and the rest of the Legio, as previously discussed, will have to leg it from there. All of the other Stormbirds are reporting success in the theater. No engagements from the targets yet.’+ The pilot, a woman with a raspy voice, said over the Stormbird’s internal voxhailer. Instinctively, the inhabitants began to routinely check their weapons on an automatic cycle. Thunder Warriors bristled in their restraints, feverishly thumbing their melee weapon’s activation runes or clearing the chamber of their bolters. Astartes merely watched their counterparts in cold silence, checking their plasma or volkite-based weaponry before stowing them.

“Understood,” Primarch Aeternus replied dryly. His voice, even filtered through a greathelm, was a lion’s roar of a noise. Devoid of the typical restraints of post-humanity, his tone was as loud as it was heroic. He cocked his head to the Astartes next to him and continued to speak, “are you prepared?”

“Indeed, honoured Aeternus. The nineteenth is more than honoured to serve alongside you, we had long chafed under the command of Ushotan when we were first deployed to Nordyc,” Arturas spoke, lightly tuning his head to acknowledge the Primarch. His voice was calmed, yet firm, as he looked to the fabled God-Slayer with a look of admiration. The Praetorate refocused away from the admiration and pride that swelled within, speaking again, “I am unfamiliar with the beasts that we are hunting, do they bear resemblance to some of the abominations of Nordyc?”

“Primarch Ushotan is a difficult warrior,” Aeternus replied with a small smile breaking on his lips, he was fond of speaking about the other Primarchs. He’d never forget the many, many arguments they’d had over the years since the start of the Unification. There were times that he missed the simplicity of Ushotan’s strategies or his more direct method of communication. He wondered if Valdor and him still sparred between conflicts. The God-Slayer continued, “but he is fiercely loyal and a stalwart soldier. My siblings would call him brash and arrogant, but he achieved much in the early years of the Unification.”

“You have my thanks for being more lively than the First Legio Astartes. They are a difficult sort, but they will grow from our guidance soon enough.” He added onto his previous comment. His time spent with the First Legio had been filled with plentiful growing pains, yet he endeavored to see them become the very Legio that would replace the God-Slayers.

“Disregard my sentimentality. The creatures that we face are called zmaj, large flying creatures used as aerial mounts for the Urshic generals and their more favored warriors. They appear as such,” the Primarch replied to his question, calmly fishing out a dataslate from one of his many leather pouches and offering it to Arturas. He was hit with the sudden realization of how stark the difference in their size was. Ignoring the thought, he continued, “and have been slain several times by our forces. Primarch Bodiciia of the Second Legio Cataegis made several notes on their biology after many encounters.”

The Stormbird rocked slightly as it drew closer to the maelstrom, each of its vectored engines firing at full throttle to account for the turbulence. The armed prow dipped through the atmosphere, splitting ice and hail in a downward plow through it all. Converging towards the deployment zone, the Stormbird already felt the damage of Sibir’s storms upon her hull as several dents and deep gashes cut through her paint.

The master of the nineteenth looked around the interior for a moment, listening to creaks and scratches the ice made against the hull. Far was it that he would feel fear for their safety, but concern was a certainty for the astartes, untrusting of the northern blizzards. From his previous campaign, he had known some to be a cover from those who would wish to hide their movements or deny assets. Arturas would make his concerns known, with a suspicious voice, “This blizzard is strong, it makes me wonder if it was conjured by sorcerers and wyrds.”

“The storms of Sibir, according to the Sigilite, are a byproduct of the Urshic witch-minds and Terra’s ailing deathsong.” The First Primarch responded. Concern from an Astartes was a welcome sign. It meant that they had experienced the taste of the wyrd, the brilliance of war, and the depths of slaughter. They were grown knights, matured by battle. He nodded approvingly. Already, he liked these warriors more than previous Astartes he had encountered.

The lights in the cabin switched from soft yellow to alarming red. A long acknowledging tone warned Aeternus of exactly what he needed to know. They were beginning combat descent, rapidly plummeting into dangerous altitudes as all Stormbirds did in their dives. The bay rattled loudly, threatening to shake the genewarriors from their restraints and toss them from the ramp egress. Pict-screens awoke from their slumber, replicating a hazy view of the outside from within the gunship.

+’Entering final descent, prepare for- What on Terra are those!?’+ The pilot had begun to pleasantly announce their landing before several objects entered their view. At first, they appeared as tiny dots of black inside of the raging maelstrom. Easy to mistake for rubble sucked up by the rampaging storm. They quickly grew larger until they formed a proper image for the pilots and their genewarrior occupants. They were a swarm of leathery, red-skinned beasts on thin wings of scales. More than anything ever previously discussed, they were legion. The swarm came upon them like a storm of sinew and muscle.

+‘Prepare for an emergency landing!’+ The woman said with no small amount of desperation in her voice over the voxhailers. The swarm split into several smaller groups, each spiralling towards the relative location of their brethren gunships. As they spun down towards the sleet-covered fields of Sibir, explosions rocked the air from far-off detonations. The myriad weapons of the Stormbird activated. Lascannons struck out with vicious, red beams, autocannons spun on axial mounts, and rockets unfurled from their wing-locked racks. Every shot from the ship saw the beasts scatter as their numbers thinned, yet they prevailed over any kind of material logic. Already, scant numbers of the swarm were attaching themselves to the aircraft to rip into the hull.

“God-Slayers!” Primarch Aeternus roared, releasing his grip on the vehicle rail and moving towards the ramp with his greatsword ready. The Thunder Warriors echoed his movements, unlocking themselves from their crash seats and preparing their weapons for immediate use. Myriad helmets were slipped onto heads, covering their rough features in the glories of Old Terra. Knightly helmets with single- or dual-lenses activated, further lighting the bay in a crimson glower.

“In glory, we slay!” They cried back as klaxons began to ring throughout the Stormbird. Each one of the Himalazian knights started to twitch as their bodies were flooded with the mind-altering cocktails from their augmentations.

“This is no longer an excursion. Prepare to jump, Knights of the Nineteenth!” The Primarch commanded, his lungs full of vigor and his body adjusting to the combat drugs filtering through unseen bionics.

“In Death, We Protect,” came the call of the Sentinels, disciplined and stoic unlike the Thunder Warriors so eager to spill blood on the battlefield. Each of them holding either a Volkite or plasma rifle, sparking with an unseen hatred that was ready to kill in His name. They looked around as they stood, ready for nightmarish creatures to break into the bay. Each of them were ready to fight and die, but it remained unseen as the savage God-Slayers who hyped themselves as berserkers of old.

Arturas for his part, looked amongst his brothers before speaking to them in a soft order, “Harric, if the Stormbird remains downed, stay with the pilot until rescue arrives. Monitor our movements, get to us once you can.”

“As you command, Arturas” came the swift answer of the last Sentinel in the vessel, putting a fist over his chest in acknowledgment. The Stormbird rocked as the monstrosities continued to eat at it, a horrible sound of a roar and a cacophony of sirens blared through the innards. Engine failure, the plummeting of their ship was evident before the screeching of the hull as a red maw crashed through the walls of the bay only for it to be met by a blast of volkite. Their roars and howls were more than just the blizzard now.

+‘Brace!’+

The screech of metal against blanketed snow and ice filled the interior, the force causing the Astartes to adjust themselves briefly to maintain balance with the mag-locked boots. There was a moment before the ramp to the Stormbird dropped, revealing the frigid cold and violent winds of the blizzard that would have chilled men in an instant. Howls from surviving horrors crept along the winds as warriors raised their weapons ready to doggedly fight against the chaos that surrounded them.

There was no waiting for the Thunder Warriors. There was only Unity. Before the Stormbird had even come to a complete stop, the Cataegis had led the way. Aeternus’ pushed forward with a mighty heave out the back of the gunship. The First Legio followed after him, each quelling their bloodthirst and madness to prepare for an inadequate landing. Greaves skid across broken sleet and ice, while white fur cloaks snapped in the freezing winds filled with the burning breath of foul abominations. The momentum of the skidding warriors granted them a miraculous boost of speed, their warforms sprinting out further than they projected.

Wordlessly, Aeternus and a pair of heavily armed Thunder Warriors turned around while the rest began the long trek into the sleet-bound hellscape. Their greaves came to a skidding halt as their weapons opened up on the back of the Stormbird. The Primarch’s wrist-mounted archeotech weapon, a destroyer’s volkite culverin, and a genewarrior’s bolter splattered the myriad reptilians across the gunship. Each shot from the Cataegis’ warlord saw one of the flying abominations burst into cobalt flame, rendering their mortal material into ethereal shreds.

+‘Send out an alert to Imperial Command. Be airborne by the time we finish with the target location. Raptor Imperialis.’+ Aeternus’ spoke into his helmet to the pilot, their cabin ringing with the piercing roar of the Primarch’s voice. The last of the smaller reptilians had been annihilated between himself and his more sane warriors, offering some respite for the crew. He turned around, leading the last two of the Cataegis away from the Stormbird as the Nineteenth caught up with him. His helmet-mounted auspex detected their intended target in the direction of the maelstrom.

“The edge of the maelstrom,” the Primarch pointed out with his plasma-wreathed greatsword. The storm of Sibir roared ahead of them, fronted only by the rushing form of twenty-odd Cataegis in yellow-black warplate. The skies above them was a mess of fury, blood, and explosives as other gunships aided one-another in a deadly firefight. Perhaps it was their luck that they were preoccupied with other, fiercer assailants in the sky around their hunting ground. He continued mid-sprint, “the target location is within a breath of it. We will brave the storm.”

His words weren’t a command. They were a fact. The maelstrom loomed over them just as the great swarm of red-skinned reptiles did. Massive chunks of debris, dagger-sharp hail, and piercing wind made up the edge of the storm. Whatever awaited them on their auspex, it was hidden beneath the uplifted sleet and snow flying into the sky.

A gust of wind blew ice into the air, the crystals seeming to hang in place for an instant before being lost in the swirl, so far above the heads of the marching genewarriors as to be invisible. There, nestled high within the clouds of the swirling maelstrom, another Stormbird circled. Its complement and crew were to the last Astartes of the First Legion, each one a veteran of Sanctii. Few indeed were the number of that band, granted the right to bear a shattered wall upon their pauldron and bearing relics wrenched from the deepest foundries of the city they had murdered.

No record of this flight existed, no transponder reported their location, and the crew ignored the calls for aid from its downed sister craft. Their vessel flew through that profane and terrible air seeming to flicker in and out of existence, skipping along the skein of reality, for it too was equipped with artifacts which were rarely seen since the fall of Old Night. All remained silent, their composure unbreakable as the Stormbird and pieces of themselves temporarily ceased to be.

All knew the seriousness of their errand, and all wished it would never be asked of them to commit to the deed, for they were tasked to hunt something far more deadly than a zmaj.

The Sentinels, save one, wordlessly stalked behind the larger Thunder Warriors, keeping their weapons held high for any of those beasts that hawkishly flew around the gunships. Occasionally, they fired bouts of volkite at a monster that dared begin to come after the strike force. There was only the briefest amount of lag as the Cataegis and his gene-spawn moved faster than the Astartes that reinforced them. Sat sheathed, were their power swords, wanting to spill the blood of horrors and being restrained from their purpose.

Arturas for his part led them, ready to slay any of the fabled zmaj that got too close to his brothers, or the Primarch. The master of the nineteenth was eager to prove himself to Aeternus, speaking into the vox as they bounded through frost and blizzard, “Honoured Aeternus, if these beasts are able to down a gunship such as ours, they may yet prove to be a fine hunt.”

“Your honorifics are appreciated, Arturas,” the Primarch responded, flexing his right wrist and injecting fresh munitions into the armament. The whirring sensation of his warplate feeding the device crawled down his right arm through his powerpack. His hud displayed a pleasant, green rune that confirmed that it was ready to dispense. He satisfied the system by precisely unloading into a nearby flock, drenching their bodies in cobalt flames. He continued unflinchingly, “but we are warriors of equal peerage. You owe me no such respect. We shall murder these beasts, claim our dues, and raise the Raptor over Sibir. Glory in the name of the Emperor!”

The task force bounded faster than any normal man could comprehend, covering the path toward the maelstrom in what seemed mere moments. Thunder Warrior and Astartes working in tandem, God-Slayer and Sentinel willing to die side by side to further His plan. As they approached the maelstrom, a force appeared as shadows within the snow - sent to halt this invading force of Imperial might. Techno-barbarians surged forwards firing their myriad weapons into Imperial ranks, met with a return volley of plasma and Volkite that cut them down in droves.

Those that reached the task force were met with a savagery matched as the God-Slayers were finally let loose to do their duty. Melee weapons clashed , guns barked, men howled in frenzy as those willing to lay down their lives did so to further their own causes. Then, the wyrmlings came, swarming the task force from all round, appearing as shades from the maelstrom. They proved little more than annoyances, maddened beasts who were predictable, yet when they came in grounds so thick that one was indistinguishable from another was when horror came. A Sentinel was mobbed, beasts clinging and ripping into his armor and dragged down as he desperately clutched a grenade to sell his life dearly.

The God-Slayers drove apart the techno-barbarians with might worthy of their name. None faltered under the assault from within the storm. Each one was met by the mind shattering strength that the Cataegis summoned. They were echoed by the Sentinels, swift in their strikes and precise in their slashes. A power sword cut through skin, a bolter tore apart a torso, a fist broke open a skull, and many such cases echoed across the sleek fields of Sibir. It was an appetiser before the main meal for the Thunder Warriors and their Astartes genekin. The wyrmlings screeched, gathering around them as vultures to dine upon a feast. As the techno-barbarians died, it dawned upon them that they were sent for a singular purpose.

“Ignore the barbarians. They are a feast for the spawnlings.” Aeternus’ remarked, realizing with surprising quickness of the trap that they had sprang. He should’ve dawned upon it at first contact. None of the warriors from Sibir bore armor. Their flesh was bare, save for hideous runes that were carved into their skin. Few of them were armed with any amount of lethality. An autogun in one’s hand, a power weapon in another, or a wyrd-weapon in the hands of a modestly sized barbarian. Each did little to prove equal combatants, yet they slowed their progress all the same.

“There,” the Primarch’s auspex pinged as he slew another techno-barbarian. His greatsword was drenched in the blood of Sibir, equal parts mortal and wyrd. He pointed the lengthy blade into the distance as his legs brought him forward. Aeternus’ had not faltered once in his sprint, similar to the rest of the genewarriors around him. One or two of his Cataegis, in the throes of their bloodthirst, stopped to brutalize a wyrmling before catching up with the tailing Sentinels. His voice growled as he continued, “the lair finally reveals itself.”

The truth of their destination had begun to form through the winds of the maelstrom. A large structure, built brick by brick from unknown materials in an age that has since passed. Towers, as tall as hive spires, rose up from lengthy parapets and curtain walls. Banners of black, bitten to shreds by frost, whipped in the storm’s mighty winds. A keep of black stone stood at the center of the assembly, cornered by the leviathan towers. Great statues of grotesque figures adorn in ritualistic armor stood vigilant along the length of the bastion. A moat of sleet, ice, and frozen blood pooled up around the exterior of it. Headache-inducing wards, written in the preposterous magics of the Urshic wyrd, were present on every face visible to the Imperial task force. All bore the passage of time, each separate extension of the structure in a state of disrepair. Swarms of the crimson wyrmling flooded out of the towers, while braying barbarians devoid of protective garment guided them with wyrd-flame and witch-horns.

“Kill the wyrm-handlers, ensure that they cannot command the horrors!” Arturas ordered, surging forth with all that he could muster to keep pace with the honored Primarch. A volley of fire began to pepper the fortress, knocking errant stone loose or destroying cover of the barbarian witches. The Sentinels moved towards the center of the formation, sticking close so that no wyrmling swarm would isolate them, focusing best they could to rush down the handlers before they could direct the horrid cretins to destroy them.

The First Son of the Nineteenth looked to Aeternus as they ran, crunching snow and bone beneath them, his voice was carried by the frigid cold, “Honoured Aeternus, if you could, have your gene-children cover our advance, we may be able to kill the will the wyrds before they can truly direct the monsters.”

“It shall be done.” The Lord of the First responded, adjusting his weight to compensate for a sudden stop of his dead-sprint. The weight of his warplate and the force of his physiology nearly saw a nearby selection of rubble disappear into nothingness. Aeternus utilized this momentum for a horizontal slash of his obsidian greatsword, unleashing a wave of searing, crimson energy into a collection of techno-barbarians. With the closest opponents decimated, the Primarch began shouting out his orders without restrain.

+‘God-Slayers! The Steel Sentinels have given us the honor of slaking your thirst! Cover their advance, slay, and eviscerate these miserable curs!’+ Aeternus’ shouted across the interlegionary voxnet, co-linked together with the Steel Sentinels for ease of access. The Thunder Warriors responded as anticipated with howls, roars, and cries of violence. Where they had been surging headstrong towards the keep, the Cataegis now stood stalwart and steady against the whelps of Sibir. Steel Sentinels, engaging in sustained suppression actions, were replaced with the violent carnage of the First Legio’s brutal annihilation. Their efforts were rewarded with reinvigorated attention from the endless swarm of crimson wyrmling and their witch-bound defenders.

As the Categis and his progeny did their bloody work, the nineteenth formed a line whilst continuing to pepper the fortress to keep the handlers from casting their dark magics. However, it was only plasma bolts striking the structure - their blasts chewing away at the ancient stone that made the haunted structure. The others knelt, alongside each other and began to retrieve what explosives they had. A silent conversation was held before they agreed, three taking up melta-charges as the battle raged. A wyrmling was bisected in front of them, slowly the God-Slayers advanced.

One of the Sentinels looked to his brothers, speaking as sternly as he was nonchalant, “Have you accounted for wind speed?”

“I have,” a quick reply came, annoyed at his brother’s question.

“Will you miss?” the same brother asked, arming his melta-charge and reeling back his arm as he awaited the command from Arturas.

“If I recall at the Battle of Red Frost, Gregor, you threw an unarmed grenade at some fool’s head,” came the sharp rebuttal as he did the same.

“Yet, I did not miss,” Gregor commented, as Arturas called for silence amongst the normally stoic Sentinels. While having the moment to chat, each of them had calculated and prepared for their throw - an impressive distance for throwing a hefty melta-charge. As the Praetorate raised his sword, each of the marines stepped and spun, throwing their charges as frisbees across the battlefield overhead the God-Slayers and their foes. There was a moment where the Astartes watched in bated breath before they saw it, the melta-charges landed amongst the Urshite sorcerers - one being impacted in the head by one of them.

A concussive shockwave surged upwards as the charges went off in unity, obliterating the wyrds and causing substantial damage to the entrance of the fortress. Wordlessly, the Sentinels stomped forwards through ice and snow and turned their weapons back onto the enemies in front of them to join the God-Slayers as the ravenous horde began to scatter, mindless and unchecked by their Urshite masters and in fear of the massive shockwave that had sounded over the battlefield.

“I did not miss,” Gregor’s brother commented as he shot a beast with his volkite rifle, deflagrating it.

+'Honoured Aeternus, the handlers are dead. We may continue.'+ came Arturas’ voice over the vox as the Sentinels began their bounding leaps forwards once more.

The Thunder Warriors had nearly completed their work by the time the Astartes had finished theirs. The techno-barbarians of Sibir, while hardy and plentiful, couldn’t handle the sheer brutality of the combined forces. It was a match made of steel, blood and violence. A pathway of corpses in various conditions was paved for the Sentinels to follow. Their ferocity was less than Ushotan’s carnage, yet their handiwork was Cataegis through and through. Most of the carcasses' skulls had been crushed, either during the attack or posthumously as a macabre reminder of their savagery. Regardless of their enemies' fallen bodies, the courtyard leading into the castle proper had been cleared of the most devious opponents. The servants of the Urshic rune-men hid in dark corners, under destroyed parapets, or near wyrmling corpses out of sight from the post-humans.

“Your warriors are legendary, Arturas,” Aeternus noted as the two met at the forefront of the keep, drawing Apocrypha from a berserker with twisted mutations across their back. A single activation of the greatsword saw the tainted blood immediately sear off. Similar scenes were played out across the courtyard, the Cataegis efficiently killing with their melee weapons to conserve their ammunition. Their steady demeanor was a queer reminder of the God-Slayers reputation. The Primarch continued, “we will now assault the keep-”

Before the Primarch could speak, a screeching roar as loud as howling titans from the mountains of unreality filled their ears. Some of the gene soldiers fell to their knees from the sheer pitch of the scream, Astartes and Cataegis alike. Those unhelmeted were afflicted the worst as blood started to dribble out of their visible orifices. It was a maddening sound, blending reality and the wyrd together in an instrumental song of uncontained rage. The screaming halted after several seconds of madness.

“... We must hurry. Split your squads to assault the towers, rig the structure for demolition with thermonuclear charges, and relink afterwards for the keep assault.” Aeternus finally spoke after several seconds had passed, ensuring the pseudo-wyrd phenomena had passed. He felt a trickle of blood pool around his ear, yet his body felt wholly unaffected by the ordeal. Through the interlegionary voxnet, he assigned structures to assault to the majority of the Cataegis. Four remained with him, each a veteran of Sanctii with wargear and personalizations to prove. If he was correct, then the keep proper would hold the thing that the Sigilite had been worried about.

It took the Astartes a touch longer to recuperate from the unnatural screech than their older counterparts. Despite their experience at Nordyc, such power from the immaterium was a harsh thing to resist in full. After all, beasts were easy to kill, the otherworldly magics were harder to survive even with their gene-forged might. Gradually, however, they had gotten their bearings and heard the Cataegis’ order. The Sentinels steeled themselves, checking their ammo and equipment as they began to hold position so that none would be able to enter the keep.

The leader of the Steel Sentinels lagged behind his brethren, sheathing his power sword for a brief moment. The God-Slayers had proven themselves much more honourable than Ushotan’s savage dogs, not that Aeternus’ honour was ever in question. Arturas looked upon the great Primarch that had led them here, speaking softly with a fist over his chest out of respect, “Honoured Aeternus, good hunting.”

“You honor me with this hunt, brother,” Aeternus responded, echoing the salute with his own against the Raptor on his chestplate. He had planted the greatsword into the ground to do so, giving his full respect to one of his many gene-descendants. If it had been any other genewarrior, then he would’ve expected a fight to dive deep into the realms of madness for the final kill. To give up such a slay spoke much about Arturas’ nature and that of his Legio. He cracked a smile beneath his helmet, knowing the future was in good hands. He continued, “but you will be joining me with four brothers stalwart against witches. ”

He was not the only one who felt that way. The Cataegis around him holstered their weapons and slammed their fists against their chest in salute. Warriors that had survived since the dawn of the Unification Wars, each a soldier worth hundreds of men with the martial knowledge of a hundred more. They turned away from Arturas as their Primarch pulled the blade from the Sibir snow, leaving a wide cleft in the frozen ground. Their forms stopped short of the keep, awaiting for the Sentinels to join them in the final part of their hunt.

While unseen, a smile crept across each Sentinel’s face though their demeanors all showed as they gladly stomped towards the Thunder Warriors. Arturas, for his part, could do little to contain the joy that he felt from being respected by such an honored legion such as the God-Slayers. He redrew his sword and followed into the breach knowing that he could die happily should the time come. The same could be said for any of his brothers, each drawing their swords and shields as they entered the confined space of the ancient fortress.

---

The keep was everything expected of a den built to house witch-minds, techo-barbarians, and their filthy servants within. Bodies, stripped of flesh, hung from the walls in morbid decoration of the entrance hall. Entrails wavered down from the cadavers like banners to unknown, vengeful gods. Streams of frozen blood filled the lines between the tiled floors. Braziers of witch-fire cast an eerie, lilac light throughout the fortress’ length. Chandeliers of bone with scraps of sinew slowly dripped fresh ichor down onto the Imperials. Just as Sibir had been devoid of life, so too was their main sacrilegious monastery of gore. At first glance, it appeared as if all the inhabitants had participated in the defense of the fortress. As they stepped further in, under arches of shattered brick and pulsing runes, they realized that that was an incorrect statement.

At the center of the keep, a circular room opened up with the maelstrom peering down into the fortress. At the center of that was a spiral staircase built for something larger than any of the previous inhabitants. Not even the genewarriors were large enough to fill the width of the steps. It was in this room that a thrumming had begun, pillars in each corner vibrating with the telltale sign of the wyrd. The Cataegis grit their teeth together, fervently fighting off the mind-tricks of the witch-cults with their superior genealogy. Their Primarch led on, discomforted but largely unaffected by the breadth of the wyrd. The Imperials pushed onward down, down, and further into the warm depths of the Urshic citadel.

Each step down into the abyss was a step into a new, hotter climate. Each step further was another spike to the brain from the magicks at work further in. The Urshic runes were growing more frequent, larger, and more desperate as they pressed on. Whispers had since begun to leak into their ears, speaking of their greatest fears and their greatest achievements. Even at these depths, the Primarch had begun to feel a firmer touch from the void. He felt his mind reject with every ounce of his being, yet the wyrd was stronger here than it had ever been before. It was as if the realm of souls and the realm of the living conjoined in unholy matrimony at this direct point.

‘False, fake, replacement, old tool, dying pawn, betrayed, naive, cancerous…’ their words went on as malevolent whispers. Images were forced into his brain of mighty beings, taller and stronger than he was. They were myriad in appearance. One was a bloodthirsty woman, just shy of his own height. Another was a man with scales, fire exuding from his jaw. Another was a woman with golden, burning eyes. Another was a pair of women forced into one, axes in both hands. Thousands of genewarriors followed them into stars unknown, across lands unseen, and against forces he couldn’t possibly comprehend. The voices laughed, ridiculing him with specters from an uncertain future. Aeternus denied them with every further step into the darkness of Sibir.

The sound of a breathing, living thing broke the dreadful silence forced on him by the wyrd. His warriors awoke from their stupor in tandem with the Primarch, their myriad weapons ready for the greatest confrontation of their lives. Aeternus’ witnessed the creature first before the rest of his genewarriors. It sat at the center of an impossibly wide chamber, stretching out miles and miles beyond the lengths of the keep above. The beast itself was enormous with tens of heads, each a crimson-scaled twin with a forest of horns swirling alongside their toothy maws. A great, serpentine body with a plethora of fat extremities made up the base body of the being. Hundreds of chains hooked the thing down onto a platform of black bricks, each engraved with an Urshic rune of humming power. It groaned as wyrmling were pushed from an unseen orifice, crying into reality and beginning an immediate skyward ascent.

As if sensing new life for the first time in eons, it rose its myriad heads from the platform and began to screech once more into the chamber. It was something that he had never experienced before as the creature’s shriek nearly flipped reality around them. Aeternus’ felt his soul try to crawl out of his skin as the beast’s roar willed the realm of souls as it did the realm of life. The Cataegis behind him were great warriors, yet this was beyond what they had faced before. One perished immediately under the psionic force, his body crumpling into itself like a crushed vehicle. Blood squirted out of the warplate, streaming down the stairs in a waterfall of vitae. Two Sentinels clutched their helms, and screamed horribly as they felt their minds liquify, only to be mercifully put to death by their brothers. Their deaths awoke the creature as it entered a snapping frenzy, violently pulling the chains that held it. A plethora of volkhv, the damned priests of Ursh, attempted to calm the creature with wyrd-influenced prayers. It only served to anger the creature as the servants of the Emperor descended into the chamber.



+‘The Mother of Zmaj has been found. The God-Slayers are engaging now. Raptor Imperialis!’+ The Primarch quickly stated into the voxnet, hoping in vain that their communications still worked in this quasi-realm. He waited no longer for any tricks of the wyrd. Aeternus took a step back on the steps and flung himself into the pit from a higher step. He descended towards the creature with Apocrypha activated, his brethren already beginning a ranged offense with their hard won weaponry from Sanctii. A vortex rifle unloaded a ear-splitting miniature blackhole, a disintegration carbine unleashed a eye-watering beam of black-red death, and a plasmic chaingun vomited searing doom into the chaos below.

“Sentinels!” Arturas called, raising his sword high as he readied his shield for a forward assault upon the ten-headed monstrosity. They readied themselves, bearing pistols and swords, ready for a glorious death fighting the wyrd-spawn. Their master pointed his blade not to the savage beast ahead of them, but once more to the sorcerers. Hatred coursed through their veins at the sight of them, and their call came when Arturas bellowed his orders, “Destroy the witch-priests! Crush them, make them suffer!”

A warcry of “Destroy the horrors of Old Night,” sounded as the Astartes rushed forwards after Aeternus, spreading themselves to deal with wyrds and witches that influenced the murderous beast-spawn. Initially, the Steel Sentinels achieved impressive progress, slamming into the sorcerers with a savagery matched only by the Categis. One was cut in two, another had his upper half blown apart by a plasma shot. The gene-warriors of the Nineteenth held nothing back, but the wyrds, few they may be, held otherworldly power at their fingertips. With a flick of the wrist, reality warped around one of the battle-brothers and soon merely fell over with dust spilling from an empty husk. The witch that did so was brutalized before it could wield these powers again, but others cast their magics - some mundane and survivable such as lighting or throwing objects, yet they would not chance these.

The Steel Sentinels had known well the powers of these psykers, Nordyc had taught them well that swift action was the only solution that would lead to their survival. Moving at the fastest their gene-wrought might could allow them, they endured what they could and slaughtered all they could reach. Arturas drove his blade into a witch and threw the corpse into another before leaping to confirm the death. “For Emperor and Imperium!” he roared as the battle raged.

As the Sentinels fought with blade and bolter, the God-Slayers did as their name implied. God slaying. Their stalwart Astartes allies had chosen to exterminate the witch-minds of Ursh, allowing them to focus on the very thing that they were made for. The Cataegis, the few that remained, threw down their heavy armaments and leapt from the stairwell with their blades drawn. Each bore a paragon blade, humming with unstable powerfields and screaming from their technological degradation. Their bodies hurled through the air like a boulder tossed from a far flung giant. They soon joined their Primarch, stabbing into the scale-flesh of the mighty zmaj queen.

The Primarch of the God-Slayers had been ahead of them by mere seconds, activating Apocrypha and descending into the zmaj with a two-handed grip. The chains that bound it to the platform stopped the creature from outright annihilating him, their heads snapping wildly in every direction regardless of foe or ally. The crimson-edged blade cut deep into the back of the creature, tearing through scale and sinew with disgusting ease. Plasma plunged into the beast, forcing it into a deadly frenzy. The addition of the other God-Slayers only heightened this state of being.

Whatever lethargy or restraint it had before, the Mother of Zmaj tore from its restraints in a fury. Enormous chunks of meat laden with warped scale were ripped from the creature’s body, waterfalls of black blood ejecting from the wounds. The stink of the wyrd rose up as the being was free of whatever arcane means that had bound it. A violent spray of black energy poured from its many mouths against anything and everything moved. Urshic sorcerers and their myriad slaves disappeared in the beams of wyrd, reduced to skeleton remains and sloughs of molten sinew. Fortunately, the structure held as the Urshic runes absorbed the energy wherever it impacted on the stone, redirecting it to an unknown destination. Its unstoppable rampage wouldn’t remain as Aeternus sprinted across the length of its body with Apocrypha dragging against its spine.

“Glory to Unity! Glory to the Emperor! Glory to Mankind!” Aeternus roared, the lion returning to his throat with booming pride. He leapt from his sprint, colliding with one of its many serpentine necks. His teeth grit as he dragged Apocrypha against the hardest of its scales, lopping one of the ten from its unearthly body. The decapitated head fell from its root, floundering onto the platform in a spray of midnight ichor. Each of the Cataegis were following his example, beginning their grizzly business of decapitating. Their armor was drenched in a hue of night, resembling their Primarch in all but his winged helmet and apocalyptic greatsword.

The last of the wyrds cried out in pain as one of the Astartes grabbed him and crushed his head like a grape between teeth. Yet, they could not relish this small victory as they had been forced to scatter as the beast’s breath threatened to smite them. Whilst the God-Slayers had been living up to their namesake, the Steel Sentinels switched their tactics, now that the monster had broken free of its bindings. Each of them grabbed their plasma or volkite and began to whittle in the creature’s legs. Arturas and five others ran forth, hacking at the legs of the warp-beast before diving out of the way as it thrashed and stomped.

The Mother of Zmaj reeled as it was stabbed, shot, and butchered all across its abnormal body. It twisted in the grasp of the genwarriors, defending with tooth and claw. Nothing was spared in its efforts to survive the assault of the Imperium. Urshic servants died beneath its claws, the cadavers of the sorcerers were mulched, and the knights of the Himalazians were struck by tooth. Its tail flailed, slamming one of the Steel Sentinels into the wall, flatlining their life before another Cataegis was swallowed whole by an unseen head. It refused to die here.

It would be denied this wish for survival. Aeternus regarded his fallen warrior briefly before tearing another one of its pulsating heads from its billowing necks. The creature screamed in agony as it thrashed beneath his grip. One of the two remaining veterans sliced through another neck before falling from the beast’s body. The other stabbed over and over in the same spot, beginning to lose control of their motor functions to the geneflaw and throbbing bloodlust. They had survived for decades, he wasn’t surprised that they had joined him for one more suicidal fight. It was their duty. It was what made them God-Slayers. The warrior on the ground, Valatarn, landed beside the Steel Sentinels, joining them in their hit-and-run strikes.

He, alone, must end this fight. Its wings beat against the ground uselessly as Aeternus hefted Apocrypha once more. Another head was cut from the leviathan greatsword, torn cleanly as bile sprayed out of its pulsing wounds. Two more of the creature’s vile heads remained, each desperately fighting against fate in a twisting, writhing motion. Aeternus steadied himself with his right hand firmly planted in one of its many neckholes, readying another strike from Apocrypha; however, his attack would never come. The final Thunder Warrior on the zmaj snapped from his stupor, throwing himself onto the second head in a fit of suicidal bravery. His geneson wrapped his arms around the neck, tightening his embrace to crush the being’s sinew. Warplate buckled, bile spewed, and myriad claws cut into the Cataegis as he pulled off the zmaj’s neck in a sickening twist of inhuman might. The genewarrior was slingshot by one of the creature’s claws, tearing the final of two heads from a string of sinew.

The action shook Aeternus from the Mother of Zmaj, dropping him down onto the platform below. His instincts kicked in, flattening out and catching himself in a rolling vault. The Primarch returned to proper warform and raised his gaze up to the quickly stabilizing red-scaled creature. Its wings beat like a wicked heart of malevolence, pushing the Astartes and Cataegis away in a torrent of superheated wind. A screech of psionic energy filtered through the air as it cried out in anguish.

And then it spoke in a voice that defied all logic. It was a herald of change, discord, stagnation, and rage. It had no natural vocal cords to speak the tongue of man, yet it spoke their words all the same. It spoke in the mortal plane and whispered in the immaterial plane. The things it said differed to each of them, yet it held the same tone as if it repeated the same utterance. It was sanity denied, crushing through the mental barrier of the genewarriors with unexplainable ease. It lowered its gaze to Aeternus and spoke, calmly as if they had not fought for their lives.

“Savior, sacrifice, and sword stand before me, o mighty wind of war. I pity you, o murderer mine. The darkness of the future shall not be mine. I thank you, o redeemer mine. My suffering shall cease, and I go now to my rest. I exalt you, o champion mine. Dragon-slayer, wish-fulfiller, age-ender. You fight for a far green country you shall never see. Gaze instead upon the holy mountain, where man’s salvation was laid to rest.”

The Astartes, each of them, whatever words they were hearing were evident to maddening from what Aeternus could see. Not even the knightly Arturas was spared as they all began clutching the sides of their helmets and began to scream, unable to comprehend the words the beast spoke. Some fell to their knees crying denial to whatever riddles the Mother of Zmaj spoke to them. Others cried as if they were no longer gene-warriors but mere children snapped back to reality, years of mental indoctrination shattered within a few stark words. The Steel Sentinels, these children, were brought to near psychological destruction despite the horrors endured in Nordyc.

Arturas thrashed his head, decrying the words that he heard, “Monster! Warp-taint! Silence yourself! Silence! Silence! We shall endure! Humanity will be united in His name!”

“Silence,” the mother of monsters whispered, and all noise in its nest - its death chamber - ceased, even as genewarriors and cult-priests continued to scream and writhe all without the slightest hint of noise.

“Silence is reward for those who lie beneath you rotting. Silence is mine to enjoy and give, our final parting. Yet now you shall listen, so my death may come unburdened. Listen well death-dealer, o God-Slayer, and doom-bringer. Unloved son, you end your time by ending mine so cruelly. Son of wrath - son of woe, your duty now forgotten.”

He was thunderstruck. The Primarch couldn’t feel himself breathe as the Mother of Zmaj formed words from nothingness. He listened with ears he didn’t think could comprehend. He watched with eyes that threatened to burst into streams of blood. His soul danced on a thin line. Aeternus was split. He wanted to scream in defiance at a fate that wasn’t his. He wanted to accept the fate that he was given. Rex knew well that both of these things lived deep within him, but to be told so bluntly was a cruelty. One that he would answer. Only one thing existed above everything that formed himself.

“I am His warrior, His soldier, His weapon, His tool, and His God-Slayer. I accept my fate!” The curse that had kept him locked was broken. He would never be able to tell if it were the will of the monster at that moment, or his own willpower shattering the power of the wyrd. No matter how it manifested, his body moved forward with a burst of astonishing speed. His blackened gauntlet thumbed the activation rune, igniting Apocrypha and sweeping upward with the blade. The monster didn’t hesitate. She didn’t move a fraction of a centimeter. She accepted death with a smiling maw of razor sharp teeth. She haunted him.

The spell below Sibir was broken as her head fell cleanly from her neck. A single slice from Apocrypha was all that was required to fell the Mother of Zmaj. A seemingly endless waterfall of bile ichor splashed out over the ruined platform, covering the Primarch in a wash of draconic vitae. Aeternus could’ve moved away in a fraction of a second; however, he chose to remain. His foe confused him much as the wyrd typically did, yet there was a difference in this creature. He detested the emotion that she had invoked, but Rex acknowledged the dragon on some level. The Thunder Warrior languished no longer, sprinting away to the side of Arturas.

“Awaken, brother, the dragon is felled!” His voice boomed through the winged helmet, the lion’s roar returning to the fields of reality. He planted a hand on the pauldron of the Astartes, jostling him enough to ascertain the status of the warrior. It surprised him that he felt some level of concern. Perhaps it was the loss of Caligula that left him sentimental, or perhaps it was a true bond. He conjured his will into his voice and continued, “the Emperor demands you to awaken from madness!”

It took a few moments for reality to come back to Arturas, to come back to any of the gene-warriors that had been maddened by the zmaj. Arturas ripped his helm from his head and wretched, clearly shaken from the experience that they had shared. He breathed for a long few moments, trying to comprehend it all but wholly unable to. His head turned slightly towards Aeternus, unable to meet the Primarch’s eyes, his voice was hoarse and no more than a whisper, “Honoured Primarch, I am unfit to fight by your side. The power of the wyrd overtook me.”

The Primarch of the God-Slayers growled in response. These warriors, of such prowess that they were equals of the Cataegis, thought so low of themselves. He refused to allow this. Their fight with the mother of zmaj had been legendary, their stalwart resolve had been beyond satisfactory, and their stoic hearts had beat against the monsters of the Old Night. Aeternus’ grip fell from Arturas’ pauldron, instead hoisting the Astartes back up onto his feet proper. The crimson-lenses of his winged helmet glared down into the other warrior’s bare face.

“You are worthy, Astartes. You and yours fought as we had at the dawn of the Unification Wars. The power of the wyrd is strong, but you were stronger. Never doubt your courage and honor, Arturas, for you have both in abundance. Now,” Aeternus finished, his voice as stern as it was bold. He released the grip on the Astartes, leaning down to grab the discarded helmet of Arturas and placing it in his gauntlets. The Primarch turned towards the corpse of the mother of monsters and gestured, “gather your warriors and let’s haul our kill.”

“As you wish, honoured Aeternus,” Arturas spoke, glaring at the helmet with a deep stare, the black blood from the Primarch’s hands had smeared along half the visor. Putting his helm back on, he looked to his brothers, moving to help them back to their feet and recollect themselves now that the conflict was over. There would need to be the task of collecting the gene-seed from the fallen and cataloguing their memory so that the annals of history did not forget them or what they had done, or at least what the Sigilite would allow to be remembered. He stepped over to a fallen Sentinel, his armor was smoking from the psychic energies of the men he killed, their bodies only a mere meter away.

“Only his second campaign, poor Gregor. I’ll miss his jokes,” came the sorrow filled voice of a marine, stepping next to Arturas. He sheathed his sword as he looked the Praetorate up and down, noting the black mark over the visor before speaking, “They’ll call you the ‘Bloody Black Eye’ for that.”

Arturas did not laugh, only staring at the corpse before regarding the marines first comment, “At least his jokes never missed, Gallad.”

A brief grumble came from Gallad before the Steel Sentinels marked the location for apothecary retrieval and stalked off to carry their querry as the Primarch had requested.

The two God-Slayers that remained followed their Primarch, beginning the long task of butchering the mother of monsters and reclaiming the broken forms of their fellow genewarriors. The remaining forces of the Imperial operation began to funnel in from above, unmolested by the runes that had plagued their initial descent. Wounded were tended by medicae and apothecary alike, while unharmed warriors claimed the remains of their fallen. The Cataegis, in particular, started butchering with chainswords and chainfists. Only their Primarch started to emerge back up with the mother of zmaj’s head dripping in his right gauntlet.

---

The Stormbird awaited them as they finished their macabre task. The maelstrom that had haunted their dive through the clouds had long cleared away to a lousy overcast, the silent observers to the slaughter having fled with the storm. Freezing wind still beat against the myriad gunships lying inactive before the ruined citadel. Genewarriors hurried to and from the transports, carefully stealing away forbidden artifacts or chunks of zmaj flesh for the Sigilites to discern. The dull thud of bolter bark saw the last of the techno-barbarian inhabitants perish, followed shortly after by their dark servants and more pitifully malign beasts. Additional explosives were set out in the open, ready to be detonated for when they departed from the cabal-fortress.

Primarch Aeternus observed none of this as he awaited final departure from Sibir. The mother of zmaj’s primary head – the trophy that he had taken – waited nearby with a heavy shroud over its preserved form. For some reason, it felt like it was watching him. Behind him in the cargo hold were the shrouded bodies of his Thunder Warriors, those that had descended into the maddening depths with him. Their paragon blades held the dark cloth over their enormous forms, guarding their remains as much as preserving their peace. The rest of his retinue had joined him, each as weathered and beaten from the assault. Thankfully, they rejoiced in victory and talked loudly amongst themselves. It lightened his mood some, but his mind was affixed to different matters. They would soon leave this place for another battlefield as soon as the Sentinels rejoined them.

“We have finished collecting the progenoid glands from the fallen, honoured primarch,” came the voice of Arturas, walking up into the stormbird alongside what remained of his retinue. His voice carried a light twinge of sorrow, never was this line of duty without it for brothers always fell. Yet now, each of these Sentinels who had lived and preserved each bore a tooth from the Zmaj, each now carrying teeth from the monster. Arturas looked to Aeternus as he spoke to him, “It will certainly make a good trophy for you, should you have time to hang it for decoration.”

“I plan to graft it to my pauldron once it has been sanctified by the Sigilites. It was a foe worthy of such, but not the most difficult I’ve tackled.” Aeternus replied with a small smile breaking his cracked and scarred lips. Apocrypha, his one and only other trophy, rested against his left pauldron. He hefted the weapon slightly to emphasize what his most difficult kill had been. The Primarch then gestured to the other Astartes and continued, “your new trophies suit you and yours, almost like God-Slayers in your own right.”

The comment had become a sentiment felt across his Legio as the two intermingled, sharing the fights that they had experienced in the battle. Where once the two factions squared off in mutual silence, now they gathered as comrades of a campaign. If only this was a common scenario between the Astartes and Cataegis, Aeternus thought to himself.

“Once we return to the front for resupply, the First Legio will engage in a witch hunt. Where does the Emperor’s will bring you next, Arturas?” Aeternus asked, having only moments ago been informed of the God-Slayer’s next assignment. He was grateful to be given such a task, yet Rex would miss the company of the Sentinels and their Legion Master. The Primarch missed many things, his fellow warrior-leaders included. Arturas reminded him of Caligula in some ways. His gaze fell from the gathering warriors to rest on Arturas as he spoke.

“We are likely to be deployed to hunt whatever creatures of Old Night the Urshites plan to deploy. Alas, at this point, we are little more than reserves as our numbers dwindle to quick,” Arturas answered in a swift, yet saddened tone as he stepped past the Categis to the interior of the Stormbird. There was a sense of frustration in the Praetorate’s voice that only another gene warrior could gather, the source of which would become apparent soon enough. The Legion Master did a half-turn, speaking to Aeternus but not daring to look at him as he explained, “Our geneseed does not allow us to replenish as quickly as the other legions, honoured Aeternus. I fear that our usefulness will only go so far, and we can only deploy small strike forces where we can.”

Anger seemed to grow in his voice, not understanding the flaw, “I curse the fact only one of thirty aspirants would survive the implantation, less so the training to become one of us.”

He listened closely to the words of the younger genewarrior. His frustrations were visible enough to border on defiance of their Master, but Aeternus couldn’t help but feel the same irritation for his own Legion. The winged helmet of the Primarch fell on each of his warriors, reminding him of the long discussions he’d had with the Sigilite over their inherent geneflaw. To see that not even their descendants were free of it left a sour taste in his mouth.

“We were legion once. The God-Slayers numbered in the hundreds of thousands, the first to be deployed at the start of the Unification Wars. Every passing year I watched as the Thunder Warriors of my Legion split to become other members of different Cataegis. The Primarchs separated and so too did their reformed warriors. Then I watched the geneflaw covet their lives for a century, our numbers dwindling down to the point that you see now. These three-hundred odd knights are the last of their kind, unable to be replenished.” Primarch Aeternus spoke softly, his voice a low rumble over the humming engines of the Stormbird. He turned away from his warriors to the Legion Master next to him, planting a gauntlet on his pauldron.

“I do not speak this to garnish pity. I say this because our Master has a plan that far exceeds our limited vision as warriors of Unity. We use the gifts that He gives us to become the weapons of war that He wanted. If you are low in number, then you must exceed your quantity in quality. If you lack a legion, then become the head of the spear with knights unequalled. I’ve seen you Astartes in action. I know you can do this. For us,” Aeternus said, releasing the warrior’s pauldron and gesturing to the rest of the genewarriors inhabiting the Stormbird. Some caught their gaze and offered a salute before returning to speak with their equals. He continued with a dry smile, “it is the God-Slayer way. It is our only way. When the last of us perishes, I have no doubts that you will take up that mantle.”

“And so we shall, honoured Aeternus, if that is what you request of us. The Steel Sentinels shall be the foremost legion, no matter what we should face,” Arturas said, clearly inspired by encouragement of the venerable warrior. The sentinels all took their seats within the Stormbird, ready to deploy to wherever it was that their Emperor desired them to be. They would follow after the Categis’ footsteps and they would become a force beyond equal.

They would become God-Slayers.

The sun hung low on the horizon, barely a smudge through the northern clouds, casting a pallid orange glow across the endless expanse of frozen rock. Two massive figures trudged through the desolate wasteland, their silhouettes distorted by the mist of their own breath freezing instantly in the bitter air. Clad in battle-scarred ceramite and adorned with the insignia of the Steel Sentinels, they looked more like walking fortresses than men.

Gestan tightened his grip on the hilt of his weapon. His armor groaned under the strain of each step, frost clinging to the plate of their armour. Beside him, Callen marched in silence. The two had faced war, mutants, and worse, yet today, unease gnawed at their resolve.
Ahead of them loomed an isolated village, nestled precariously against a ridge of jagged cliffs. Thin trails of smoke curled upward from its crude huts, their roofs made from animal hides and scavenged metal. The place looked ancient, untouched by modernity. To Gestan, it looked cursed.

"The reports said this village survived under mutant rule for decades," Gestan growled, his voice a deep rumble filtered through his helm's vox-caster. "Their loyalty cannot be trusted."

Callen nodded, his voice softer but no less wary. "They were ruled. Not allied. There is a difference."
Gestan snorted. "The stench of corruption lingers long after the beast is slain. They may yet harbor sympathies. Or worse—secrets."
As they entered the outskirts of the village, the locals began to emerge from their shelters, their forms swaddled in layers of fur and patchwork cloth. Wide, wary eyes peered out from beneath hoods and masks, their faces streaked with ash and paint. The villagers did not speak, but the weight of their stares was palpable.

"Steel gods," an elder finally murmured, stepping forward. He was bent with age, his beard white as the snow beneath his feet. He carried a crude staff topped with the skull of some long-dead predator. "You have come at last."

Gestan's helm tilted slightly, the red lenses of his visor glinting ominously. "We are no gods, elder. We come seeking truth. Tell us—does mutant blood still flow in this village?"

The elder stiffened, his gnarled hands tightening on his staff. Around him, the villagers murmured nervously, their eyes darting between the marines and one another.

"Those who ruled us are gone," the elder said carefully. "The frost claimed what remained. We are but survivors now."
Callen placed a hand on Gestan’s shoulder. "If they had embraced the mutants in full, the signs would be obvious.”
Gestan hesitated, his grip tightening on his weapon. "Fear does not absolve guilt. It merely hides it."

A sudden wail broke the tense silence. A child, no more than six or seven, darted out from behind one of the huts, her tiny form swaddled in a fur cloak too large for her. She tripped and fell in the snow, a crude wooden doll tumbling from her hands. Gestan's helm snapped toward her, and the child froze, staring up at the towering sentinel with wide, tear-filled eyes.

The elder moved swiftly, placing himself between the child and the marines. "She is innocent," he said sharply. "A child of this frozen land, born long after the mutants fell."

Gestan’s gauntleted hand flexed, the steel fingers glinting menacingly. "Innocence is a fragile thing, elder. It is easily lost."
Callen stepped forward, kneeling to retrieve the child’s doll. He handed it back to her gently, his massive hand dwarfing the crude toy. "We do not come to harm your children," he said, his voice softer now. "But we must be certain. If there is any trace of mutant influence here, it must be purged."

The elder nodded gravely. "Then search, sentinel. You will find no corruption among us. Only the scars of what once was."
For hours, the marines combed through the village, their sensors scanning for traces of mutation, their eyes ever watchful for signs of deceit. They found none. What they did find were people clinging to life by the thinnest of threads—a community bound not by strength or ambition, but by sheer will to survive.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the snow in hues of violet and gold, Gestan and Callen regrouped at the village center. The elder awaited them, his breath visible in the freezing air.

"You have seen for yourselves," he said. "We are no threat to you. Nor to humanity. Will you judge us still?"

Gestan's gaze lingered on the villagers gathered behind the elder—their hollow cheeks, their trembling hands, their fearful eyes. He thought of the horrors he had seen, of Terra ravaged by the touch of the mutant. But here, there was only struggle. “Round up your daughters, the Emperor has purpose for them yet.”