MarshalSolgriev

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

A Fate Beheld

After the Fall of Sanctii

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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.

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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.

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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.”

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Credits: I Legio Cataegis/Primarch Aeternus @MarshalSolgriev , I Legio Astartes/Legion Mistress Vairya @grimely

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

Yndonesic Respite

After the Fall of Sanctii

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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.

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

The War for Indoi

-Before the Battle of Ouran-

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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.

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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.

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

The Unification of Abyssna

-Before the Battle of Nordyc, Before the Battle of Ouran-

---

---

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)

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

The Shattering of Kaspia

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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.

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

The Slaughter of Sanctii

Aftermath

---

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just so, General, just so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

The Slaughter of Sanctii

Carnage

---

---

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

Nero.

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

Victorius Nero.

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

Captain Victorius Nero.

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

Captain Victorius Nero, Commander of the Second Cadre.

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

Nero.

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

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

Brother.

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

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

Slaughter of Sanctii

High Hell And Beyond

---

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Varlet, you continue to impress.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Trooper Raum alright?” Stavin asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stavin threw hand signals to Aeternus, on his right.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yaroslav stopped a moment and pulled in close to Stavin

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

From Ashes We Rise : The Imperium Is Born

The Slaughter of Sanctii

Descent Into Massacre

---

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The breach had been conquered.

---

Elsewhere, within Sanctii

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

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

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

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

Stavin put them to his own eyes.

“God above!” He whispered.

“Do you see it?” Severina asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...Fifteen minutes at most!”

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’d we learn, Raum?” He asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

Sanctii

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

From Ashes We Rise: The Galaxy At Large

The Umbral Jihad

-Thiry-Four Years After Arrival-

---

---

Lances of graviton beams pierced through the shields of a nearby cruiser, scything through the ablative plating with ease. The vessel began to collide inward as graviton particles permeated throughout the interior of the warship. Metal crunched, snapped, and twisted until an explosion ultimately declared the death of thousands. Those starfaring vessels that watched their comrade suffer catastrophe turned away in a retreat. To the surprise of the attackers, those ships were swift in their withdrawal despite the impressive size of the defenders. Several bastions of metal, wide enough to fit on a continent and long enough to cover an ocean, successfully ran away with their engines burning at maximum capacity. The silvery-green rays of malevolent energy failed to reach their targets, falling short of their intended targets. Resigned to a slow slaughter, the carriers of such weapons followed after in sluggish pursuit.

A behemoth of immeasurable proportion hunted the fleeing prey through the void. The being was incomparable in shape to those of its class with long stretches of reinforced metal, swathes of weapon mounts, and a spear-shaped battering ram on the prow. Six great antennas extended on the bottom and top of the warship, reaching out into the abyss to grasp star streams with elongated talons. Thirteen voidsails dotted both sides of the vessel’s edge, emphasizing the size and boosting engine capacity for maximum speed. Despite the irrelevance of fabric in space, innumerable amounts of banners with the Pandjoran symbol of a sword and dusken sun whipped across the titan’s hull. The prow of the vessel, although fitted with a fearsome spear, dragged downwards into the darkness like a scythe into fresh meat. Disgustingly, both sides of the ‘scythe’ were sharpened to monomolecular edges.

Within the gargantuan holds of this behemoth, the Pandjoran clans scrambled with every absence of oneness in their minds. Telemetry data was secured, transferred, and forwarded to the correct stations. Munitions platforms were refueled with synthetic graviton-density capsules. Legions of duskborn warriors and their lesser non-Pandjoran mamluk readied their weapons with malevolent intent. Hafiz ambled through the corridors with their censers high and their litanies loud. Menials chaotically dashed with secular purposes, wandering the vast halls of the warship to fulfill obscure duties. The chaos on this vessel was only a fraction of the discord felt throughout the Umbral Armada. It was felt more thoroughly on the command bridge of the titan as voidsman coordinated concise instructions out to an expansive fleet.

A singular being of supreme purpose observed from the command throne. They wore the continuously evolving Pandjoran-pattern powered armor with a magnificent serpent silk hood drawn over their head. Talon-tipped gauntlets frustratingly tapped against the arms of the throne. Glaring, orange eyes with serpentine pupils stared out at every soul on the bridge from within their cowl. Beneath the shroud, the deity’s expression was difficult to read, yet it radiated an aura of distaste. The bickerings of the bridge ground to a halt as the voxmaster slowly approached the being. The ever-observing orbs focused entirely on the mortal as it awaited recognition.

“Malik Zaphariel, Umbral King of Pandjoras, the request for a response from the Krakkarin System Alliance has been approved after their last attempted assault. They refused to submit a subject, noting it was only for the ‘commander of the invading empire’.” The voxmaster, a Bahamutian voidsman, bowed their heavily augmented head towards the Malik of Pandjoras. His orange eyes momentarily disappeared into the darkness, closed to seemingly meditate on the issue. In truth, he had grown tired of this mess. Wordlessly, he waved one of his talon-tipped gauntlets towards the voxmaster, submitting to the communications with Krakkarins.

Seconds passed before the hololithic table at the center of the ornate bridge burst to life with an ethereal display. Several humans appeared in digitalized format, obscured by the capabilities of a short-range transmission on a holographic projector. All of them wore bulky armor with hefty pauldrons, long tabards, and militarized respirators over their jaws. A slurry of augmentations dotted their complexions from mechanical eyes to temple-implanted datafeeders. Each aspired to machine supremacy in one way or another, yet every member of their transmission appeared old and stubborn. A consistent wheezing in the background confirmed their overwhelming reliance on millennia-old augmentations to support their ailing bodies. The first one began to speak, an elder man with a brand of a cross burnt into his forehead flesh.

“You seem to have won out in our last engagement, but we refuse to back down and submit to the likes of the Star Sultanate! Your original messenger affirmed our fears, spared us the dance of feigned diplomacy, and awakened our battle song! We will not negotiate terms with the duskborn, unless it is in regards to a full surrender and subsequent retreat from our systems!” His voice was heavily synthesized between age, augmentation, and general garbled communications over vox. Despite that fact, he displayed a fierce stance of ferocious pride and stubbornness. Every passing second the man made an aggressive swing of the arm or a deepening of his furrowed brows to emphasize a point.

“We’ve already discussed this, Governor-Commander Alexos. The actions of Emir Saladin Gallos were delinquent. Our Star Sultanate has no wish to stomp out your culture nor does it wish to override the millennia-old traditions of your worlds. You know the reason I am calling is for a ceasefire on both sides of the conflict. Without fear of retaliation from both sides, we can settle our differences on neutral ground without-” Zaphariel ibn Varranis began to speak in a calm tone, gently explaining the situation to the Governor-Commander as he had before. He locked eyes with the hologram, ensuring that his intentions were displayed with confidence. Alexos, however, had different plans and abruptly interrupted the Malik of Pandjoras.

“It is futile, Malik! We will not be treated as more minor lifeforms in your rigorous class system! We won’t be pawns in a play for supremacy during the birth of a young stellar empire! We have survived for millennia without aid, supremacy, and atrocity! Your vassal revealed the darkest truths of the Illuminated Star Sultanate of Pandjoras and we have found it wanting. Let this be the last communication between us, belligerent cur.” Governor-Commander Alexos spat every word with the fury of a thousand and one ancients. If his mouth had been free of a respirator, then Zaphariel rationalized that spittle would be flying across the screen. A slam of a nearby terminal on the other side of the transmission was the knife in the heart of their negotiations. The connection ended as abruptly as it had begun. A long sigh escaped the lips of the dusken deity.

The bridge of the Umbral Armada’s flagship, the Dawn of Pandjoras, was deathly silent. Each voidsman had turned away from their meticulous work to either listen or watch the response from their prophet-king with a vested interest. Some held a silent fury for the insults delivered, while others gleefully awaited the given orders to march upon the System Alliance’s worlds. The voxmaster swiveled from the hololithic table’s cogitator to the seated form of their supreme ruler. They only found saddened, frustrated eyes in the darkness of the serpent silk hood.

“Two-hundred worlds brought into the fold through peaceful integration, accepting circumstances, and limitless aid. Not a single world has rebelled against Sultanate rule in the history of our birth. Nearly a thousand warships patrol every corner of our governed space. All nearly forsaken for the ambitions of a single man.” The Malik of Pandjoras stated aloud. He knew well that Saladin Gallos had been an absurdly ambitious individual. To what extent did he think he’d gain from such an underhanded ploy such as this? The thoughts rattled around in his mind for longer than he would’ve liked. He turned to address Shipmaster Sahir, who patiently stood beside him with his hands royally clasped behind. “Did he think I wouldn’t notice? Is he a fool? Over a million souls have pledged their service to me and I have not betrayed their expectations once. Hundreds of thousands of hassan, scattered to the edges of known space and he tried to venture out past our journey?”

The disbelief was evident on the thirty-year-old ruler’s face, twisted only by minor disgust and mental exhaustion. Sahir had watched for the past fourteen years as Zaphariel grew into a proper padishah, yet even he was surprised at the sudden breach of confidence. Something toiled from within him as the gargantuan deity struggled to handle obvious betrayal. He carefully selected the next words as he spoke them. “It was betrayal, my Malik, simple and clean. Ambitious fools are surprisingly common on our planet, yet you managed to weed out the majority of them. Only one more remains. There is no question about the punishment that he should face. If fate is fortunate, then he will perish in the conflict with Governor-Commander Alexos.” Sahir responded with a neutral tone just as he had previously on separate occasions. It earned a simple nod from the Malik of Pandjoras, supplemented by a raised talon in the air.

“An intentional mistake, my friend, for I knew his daughter would reel in his ambitious tendencies. I was mistaken to think that Saladin cared for his daughter. Upon the apex of Pandjoras’ greatest achievement, I battled with myself for thirteen days and thirteen nights about Saladin Gallos’ fate. Ultimately, I chose a bloodless option to allow Miska a life with her father. Now, we pay the price for a decision I should’ve made two decades ago.” Zaphariel explained with a hint of mortal compassion playing on his lips. The thought of Miska brought a coolness to his frustration, easing the temper that threatened to flair were it not for his oneness. A spark of fury, however, wormed through his speech. “His demise, however, is correct. I will feed his skull to Falak and let his body nurture a hibernaculum for her offspring in the bowels of this warship.”

Shipmaster Sahir felt his throat tighten in fear. The Malik of Pandjoras never feigned punishments throughout the Sultanate. In this instance, the man that was known as Saladin Gallos ceased to exist. He shared a look with the voxmaster, who replied with a simple nod and began to relay fresh orders to different conduits. Some of the voidsman had turned away in fear at the thought of their bodies being used as void serpent fertilizer. Others cracked small, sadistic smiles for the fate of a betrayer in their stellar empire. The former ashen raider, however, dismissed any notion of persuading Zaphariel from his actions. Instead, Sahir turned to the next discussion with a direction transition from the original.

“Understood, Malik Zaphariel, your will shall be done. There is another matter besides the fate of Saladin Gallos. We are now in open war with the Krakkarin System Alliance. They’ve chosen to fight a war of attrition from their fifteen worlds spread across three sectors. As you know, we’ve stationed blockades at every orbital dock, Empyrean lane, and sector edge. The hassan have exercised restraint in bringing each world to their knees, awaiting your final order to execute their clade orders.” Sahir pointedly spoke with a dataslate in one hand and the other behind his back. He glared over the specific information meticulously scrubbed, translated, and presented through the Umbral Armada. It was widely known, even to the Malik, that the Pandjoran legions were prepared to fight an overt war if necessary. Only a simple matter of execution was required to begin the process. He didn’t wait long for a reply from the dusken deity. It appeared that Zaphariel had already decided before their conversation began.

“Execute the leadership on every world, every fleet and every army save for their homeworld. No matter the fact that it was our failure that resulted in this war, Pandjoran blood has been shed for a misunderstanding on a minute level. We have no use for an obstinate culture to survive in the Sultanate. Unleash the legions upon Krakkaris Prime, dismiss Sultan Tassassar of the First Conclave, and ready a vox-wide transmission to the planet. If we can avoid a complete genocide, then I would rather gamble the chance to force an old dog to prostrate instead. If the populace refuses,” The Malik of Pandjoras stated without a hint of remorse, aware of the orders that he had issued. He watched voidsman scurry to transmit fresh communications on top of the previous ones. Zaphariel noticed a glint of anticipation in some of their eyes as if a fire had been lit in the duskenborn. His next words felt like the fanning of a flame as he spoke them. “Then cull them into compliance. It is time to announce the Umbral Jihad.”

As if promethium had been ignited, a thousand and one different actions took place in seconds. An umbral jihad had been announced across the Sultanate. The young stellar empire had never waged war on a supreme scale as the old world wars of the cataclysm. Now that one had been announced, the thousand and one skirmishes with xenos raiders and minor rebellions were coming to fruition. Posts, largely ceremonial in value, were activated in the Armada and prepared for large-scale conflict planet-side. Vehicles of war, fashioned from Bahamutian tech and reversed-engineered machines from vassals, were brought out of stagnation to fight. The Lessons of Hassan, ceremoniously sung by the skull-masked hafiz, switched to the Lessons of Dusk and anointed fresh recruits with the Tears of Pandjoras. Overt war was a rare thing in their culture, yet the Pandjorans were ready to deliver death if necessary.

Malik Zaphariel watched the command bridge become a blur of activity for a moment longer before standing. Shipmaster Sahir bowed his head in respect, then supplanted the place where his master had sat seconds before. There was no ceremonious call to attention, nor were instruments played as the Malik of Pandjoras departed. The heavy cloak of a grave burden clung to the dusken deity’s shoulders as he entered into the ship-wide maglev. As the doors closed, locking away his view from the command bridge, the prophet-king allowed himself a tiny, devious smile. Saladin Gallos had been a thorn in his side for twenty years and the Sultanate hadn’t participated in any great wars. His orchestration of fate had been perfect. All it took was a slight push from one of his many agents to rile the Nazim into action. He felt the want to laugh in celebration of the fruits of his labor, but he stifled his expressions for a mask of grim neutrality. Everything had gone just as planned, the same as it had before and after every single event.

---

Krakkarin Prime. A wasteland of a planet that spun around a pair of stars slowly combining in a death spiral. Poisonously green lakes dotted the surface in sporadic patches, while huge clumps of civilization blotted the sky with black clouds. A choking, orange landscape poked out from wherever the Krakkarin populace was least established. Devoid of verdant life, Krakkarin remained a testament to mankind’s willpower to harness the harsh mistress known as nature. Several space stations with a plethora of miniature dry docks orbited around the black-orange sphere in slow circles. Warships of small to medium caliber docked with these, refitting their bombardment cannons and point defense silos in a rush to meet the oncoming invaders. A trio of moons lingered around the world, each covered in a mess of dotted civilizations and surface-to-space defense weapons. They had been prepared for war from the start of their existence as if the universe plotted against them.

The outriders of the Sultanate fleet emerged from the Empyrean with tendrils of lilac licking off their scarred plating. Daunting frigates with scythe-like prows ventured into firing proximity of Krakkarin. Ballistic salvos from the Krakkarin fleet, the point-defense stations, and the horrendously armed moons bellowed death into the void. Pointed slugs the size of armored vehicles raced across the abyss in a race to welcome annihilation. The Pandjoran warships met the attack with reinforced shields, boosted by the psionics of Urahlian seers and Bahamutian repulsor-barriers. Farflung fighter-sized bullets bit into the protective shells, each threatening to buckle under the sheer amount of firepower absorbed. One of the Pandjoran frigates’ lost its shielding, buckling under the intense wave of the preliminary attacks. Piercing ammunition punctured hull-plating to such effect that the frigate began to crumple, resulting in a short explosion of cataclysmic energy. Krakkarins cheered over the general vox as they scored first blood against the invading forces of the Star Sultanate.

Until the arriving frigates returned fire with the malevolent force of a newborn god. Prow-mounted gravitic lances erupted in short, controlled bursts that pierced the shields of an archaic civilization. Outlying defense stations, corvettes, and lesser frigates were promptly destroyed in the counterattack. Each graviton lance delivered mayhem on every successful target, forcing hull plates and bulwarks to crunch in upon themselves in twisted death. On the upper platings of the Pandjoran frigates, ballistic hatches slid open to launch a plethora of devastating missiles screaming into space. As slow and lumbering as torpedoes, each payload would’ve been destroyed if launched at the beginning of combat; however, the Krakkarin fleet was now wounded by the initial graviton lances. To the surprise of the defenders, those screaming projectiles smashed into unshielded defenses. Moon-based turrets, military space stations, and blockading vessels disappeared in blossoms of eerily green-tinged plumes. Despite the initial victory against the Pandjorans, the System Alliance suddenly realized their folly.

As the frigates pressed forward with their annihilation, another wave from the Umbral Armada emerged in close proximity around the planet. Each came as a devastating cluster of warships primed for annihilation. Where one set would come from the system’s southward position, the next would come from the northward, and then the eastward, and so on until the arrival of the Sultanate’s most prestigious vessel. The Dawn of Pandjoras cut through the Empyrean like a leviathan being born from the myths of ages past. Aided by a trio of heavy cruisers, the dreadnought lumbered from the southward position with its myriad weapons of destruction ready to devastate. The Krakkarin war fleet, however, had been decimated by the outriders of the Sultanate. Proud warships that had seen the birth of their civilization drifted into the void as crumbled wrecks or burnt husks. Pandjoran voidships patrolled nearby, adhering to the will of the Malik and refraining from orbital bombardments. The heavier vessels drifted closer on perpetual motion, adjusting with maneuverable thrusters to deliver a thousand and one transports unto Krakkarin. The first part of the invasion had begun as fat-bellied dropships, heavy haulers, and titanic transports descended upon the black-orange regions of the wasteland planet.

The vox-channels of the System Alliance were flooded with panic as the first Pandjorans landed in their wastelands. Strings of encrypted messages rapidly reached every Krakkarin commander who could listen. Orders were rushed, defenses were mustered, and the disparate cities were ready to combat the invaders. Nothing had prepared them for what came next as the vox-channels were decyphered, broken, and opened for the Sultanate to speak into. The warm, soothing tone of the Malik of Pandjoras pierced through the divided channels.

+’I am the Malik of Pandjoras, Zaphariel ibn Varranis, and I have come to your world to right the wrongs of your leaders. We did not want to fight a war and usher in chaos across the System Alliance, but your leaders have forsaken you. Many Karrakin will die for the sake of stubbornness; however, the Sultanate will show clemency to those who are willing to live. For thirteen days and thirteen nights, the duskborn will not invade your cities or descend upon your armies. You may come to us and we will welcome you with open arms as friends, allies, and comrades seeking a greater future together. Join us in our pursuit of destiny! Glory unto Pandjoras!’+ His voice was the most solemn it had ever been, filled with duty and grief. Each word was spoken with the weight of a king’s promise, emphasizing the righteousness and compassion of the Sultanate’s actions. The vox-channels exploded in a flurry of activity as the message reached all edges of Krakkarin Prime. A thousand and one different opinions were hurled between laypeople, governors, and persons of order. Encrypted transmissions saw the most diversity as many commanders dangerously lingered on the verge of desertion. Worst of all was the grave violation of rights executed by Governor-Commander Alexos, who silenced all transmissions with a final grim order.

+’Kill every single member of the Sultanate that you greet. If you wish to join their side, then strap a bomb to your body and run into their camps. We will not surrender, we will not withdraw, and we will not bow to the Pandjorans. Should any of the populace show signs of resistance, then execute as you see fit.’+ The words were as morally draining as they were disappointing. Crisp silence blanked the vox-channels in an oppressive film.

For thirteen days and thirteen nights, not a single soul escaped from the entrenched cities of the Krakkarin System Alliance.

---

Zaphariel observed the affair from a nearby cluster of rocks far from the citadel-city of Karthos. He had watched the city that Governor-Commander Alexo commanded the entirety of the System Alliance from for fourteen cycles. Shrieks and shouts of rebellion filled the silence of the passing days as Krakkarins rose in defiance of their ineffective leaders. Their insurrections were short-lived as Krakkarin ballistics were turned on the people they swore to protect. The Malik of Pandjoras could taste the fear of the Alliance commanders as they hid within the safety of their metallic castle. None had dared to confront his legions of duskborn in the time they had given, yet the same was true that no one had managed to reach the safety of the Sultanate forces to escape the carnage. He briefly considered on the tenth day to send the hassan to finish the task, yet Zaphariel was firm in his conviction to allow his enemies their grace period.

A period of time that had passed. The Malik of Pandjoras turned away from the burgeoning, triple-layer walls of Karthos and towards the legions of warriors that hailed from the dusken world. Thousands of duskborn awaited his words, clad in the powered armor of their homeworld and armed with the weapons that could slaughter void serpents. Harvester dropships, heavily altered to fulfill new roles in the Sultanate, hovered nearby with macro-graviton pulsars and wing-mounted missile racks. Bulky, armored vehicles on low-intensity gravity shunts waited far behind the walls of infantry with insidiously large gravitic cannons. Immortals, warriors in enormous juggernaut warsuits, lumbered over the regular infantry with heavy monomolecular lances and body-sized claws with graviton-spraying talons. Noble hafiz with skull-shaped masks in midnight blue robes walked through the formations with censers spilling Pandjoran incense in one hand and serpent tooth scimitars in the other. Urahalian warseers quietly mediated amongst their number in dusken shrouds, each gripping runes in their talon-tipped gauntlets. At the edges of their legion, the serpent-tamers calmed their vicious ophidians with soothing songs of the penumbral planet. Finally, the most fearsome of all, the great serpent Falak coiled nearby with her eyes lingering on Zaphariel.

One of the duskborn approached him. A warrior in Pandjoran-powered armor, serpent silk shroud, and a half-skull helmet. As the distance was closed, the soldier offered a respectful salaam and a bowing of their head. A monomolecular blade swung from a sheathe on his left waist and a graviton pistol hung from a holster on his right side. Zaphariel returned the gesture with his own, dipping his head forward to receive the genuflection. The warrior rose once more, straightening his posture in the presence of his liege.

“Malik Zaphariel, the First Conclave is prepared to fight when you are ready. The rest of the legions have confirmed their readiness across Krakkarin. If we should need it, then the Umbral Armada has loaded a thousand and one shells to fight should you request it. The Conclaves will not fail you, my Umbral King.” The man’s voice was rough and solemn, leaving little room for pleasantry outside of his dialogue with Zaphariel. The dusken deity felt a commanding aura from the warrior, born from a lifetime of war and doctrine. He smiled beneath the hood of his dusken shroud, forcing some discomfort from the warrior-leader.

“You’ve grown up well, Tassassar, I can smell the fragrance of Neu Maccos in your blood. Emir Tayyeb has raised a strong son to lead in the Umbral Armada. No doubt, you feel you’re on the verge of greatness here,” Zaphariel responded in a soothing tone, each word laced with dripping honey. The reverberations spilled out of his tongue, echoing the sentence several times over. Tassassar appeared to visibly relax and hungrily await each word spoken by the Malik. He cursed his inability to completely control his serpent’s song. Nevertheless, he pressed on. “However, you will have to forgive me for stealing away that glory to lead our people. One day, I will compensate you for the fables told today. You and your sister both will receive what is rightfully yours.”

A moment passed as Tassassar processed the words, awkwardly adjusting his stance to deal with the sudden influx of emotion. Zaphariel was certain that he had been mesmerized before the Tuturian properly replied to him. “There… is no issue with this, my Malik. The honor of my sister joining hands with House Varranis as your wife is more than enough. You would continue to honor me by watching over her. Now, shall we drown them in dusk?” Tassassar managed to finally respond, bowing his head to the overwhelming form of the Umbral King. As he moved out of his genuflection, Zaphariel nodded his head in affirmation. Wordlessly, the half-skull helmet of the Sultan turned towards a group of kneeling duskborn behind him. He raised his talon-tipped gauntlet into the sky and swung it downwards in a chopping motion.

The war began in earnest after that singular gesture from the Sultan of the First Conclave. A thousand and one voices speaking the harsh language of the dusken world rallied Zaphariel’s legion into a controlled frenzy. Louder than ever before, the hafiz began to guide the warriors of Pandjoras in a fervent song of the Void Valley. The mamluk responded in crude Pandjoran, clearly inexperienced with the tongue of the umbral planet. Harvester dropships lifted high into the air, retaining a moderate altitude to defend the advancing Conclave from arcing artillery. Hovering tanks in the far back began to anchor themselves with a mixture of gravity tethers and serpent-hunting hooks. Graviton cannons were pointed to the sky charging with a thousand and one particle-cells. The serpent-tamers whispered an incoherent dialect of Pandjoran mixed with ophidian hisses, coaxing them into a hunting mania. The duskborn warriors clumped together in tight squads stalking behind the larger packs of mamluk.

Karthos did not wait for the First Conclave to close the distance. As if the citadel-city had awoken from a deep slumber, the rigid thumping of artillery and the harsh snap of ballistics echoed throughout the wastelands of Krakkarin. Enormous, blocky vehicles with two sets of wings emerged from within the city. Racks of missiles, heavy cannons, and quad-barrel turrets turned their attention to the Sultanate’s invading forces. Heavy machines on fat treads sallied out of the gates with their topside cannons aimed at the duskborn. A plethora of men in dense, slow-moving armor lumbered in tandem with the machines. Multibarreled weapons were carried by these warriors, their armor bolstering their height and strength several times over. The blast of a horn blared across Karthos as the first battle began.

Zaphariel observed the arcing shells flying through the sky from unseen artillery. He smiled as the harvester dropships unleashed a responsive payload from their missile racks to intercept. The missiles collided with the artillery, cascading plumes of explosives across the sky in wide swathes. His serpentine eyes turned towards the battle on the ground as the mamluk and duskborn evaded salvos of ballistic death. A crew of lumbering Krakkarin’s sprinted towards the exposed flank of a wandering squad. They were quickly intercepted by duskborn in similarly large powered armor, torn to shreds by monomolecular claws and spears of enormous proportions. The first of the System Alliance’s tanks exploded in a gout of flames as a gravitic cannon pierced through the primitive hull with ease. Void serpents hunted through rock, stone, and metal on ethereal leashes, diving into tanks and bunkers alike to feast. The Malik of Pandjoras could see the tides of war churn ever in their favor as the System Alliance’s soldiers began to retreat, withdraw, or surrender. He clicked his tongue in disappointment. His eyes turned away from the battle to rest upon the leviathan form of Falak.

“Go and hunt. Return to me when you are finished feasting.” He stated with a commanding voice, walking forward to place a talon-tipped gauntlet on Falak’s head. Even now, he could see his bodily proportions changing as a single fist was as large as the elder serpent’s eye. Her scales pulsated beneath his touch, reacting in an unfathomable form. The great serpent of the void pulled away from his touch, diving through the soil of Krakkarin to hunt. Her form disappeared, lost beneath a thousand and one grains of blasted dirt. To his surprise, Falak reemerged at the edge of the city to bite into one of the heavy hovercraft of the System Alliance. The behemoth machine was pulled into the far-off wasteland, exploding into a great, nuclear plume. Unphased by the actions of his pet monstrosity, the Malik of Pandjoras ambled down towards the quickly falling city of Karthos.

Duskborn unleashed waves of gravitic bullets into the Sultanate’s enemies, reinforced by the enhanced stubbers of the mamluk and the overwhelming defense of the Pandjoran juggernauts. Overhead, the harvester dropships vented fury into densely packed artillery formations with macro pulsars. The gravity tanks, satisfied with their initial engine kills, had begun to drift forward to acquire a new firing position. As a stalemate began to fester at the eastward gates, Zaphariel emerged from the seams of reality with tendrils of dark lilac lightning coursing off of his dusken shroud. Each step of the dusken deity was as light as a grain of black sand and launched him several meters closer. The malevolent guns of the Krakkarin’s attempted to target the dusken deity to no avail. He danced across the wastelands with each hypnotizing lunge, clawing through flesh and metal in microseconds during the macabre caper. Monomolecular talons pierced the tank hull, ripping apart tread as easily as he tore through sinew. The First Conclave watched in awe as their Malik murdered his way through Karthos’ defenses with inhuman ease, despite wearing the powered armor of Pandjoras. The phantom form of the prophet-king settled by the closed gates of the citadel-city. Their Umbral King breathed in once, gathering the wisps of unreality around him.

“E҉x҉i҉t҉i҉u҉m҉”

The gate crumpled as the words of reality began to fester through the ethereal veil. Metal as thick as an elder serpent's body was long began to crunch within itself. The threads of the world answered his call in ways unfathomable. The destruction of the crumbling portal halted as the bolts began to crack and warp. Zaphariel closed his eyes in disappointment, hiding the planet from his view for a solitary moment. Oneness surrounded him in a silent web of concentration. As he opened his serpentine eyes, the Malik of Pandjoras pulled a strange blade from a scabbard dangling off his right side. A beautiful, curved blade with a monomolecular edge hummed with power at the press of a Pandjoran rune. The dusken deity raised the blade and swiped downwards in a slow, curving arc. The barrier shattered into several blocks with the precise, inhuman strikes of the prophet-king. A thousand and one cheers in the Pandjoran tongue echoed behind him as they rushed forward. Despite the victory, he felt despondent regarding his abilities. Never working when mustered, but always performing against his will. He ambled forward into Karthos as the blade was sheathed once more.

Although he had broken apart their gate like the crashing waves of an umbral tide, Zaphariel knew that victory was still a short way off. Duskborn poured into the city with their mamluk allies at the forefront. Warriors ranging from different worlds across the Sultanate, like the long-eared Idratharians, bestial-faced Monolokians, or the lizard-people Zteklokians. They fought with the fiery and fire of one hailing from Pandjoras and more. The Malik of Pandjoras grinned at the surprising efforts of the mamluk and began to reconsider their role in Pandjoran culture. An unnerving stomp drew his attention away from the flooding duskborn. The duskclad juggernauts walked in a half-circle before him, each bearing their weapon in a defensive pose to shield him. Their impressive size was a boon to the Sultanate, but they were easily dwarfed by his inhuman height.

The Malik of Pandjoras softly laughed, forcing their lumbering forms to regard him with inquisitive looks beneath the plating. Zaphariel raised a hand to halt their oncoming question as he adjusted himself. “I apologize, good friends! You honor me with your endurance, but I do not require protection. Go, protect your less armored brothers and sisters. Your Malik of Pandjoras will be fine.” His voice was surprisingly energetic, regardless of the self-imposed defeat from moments ago. He could feel them strain the warsuits to kneel in an attempt to honor him, yet the Umbral King laid a hand on one of their pauldrons. A single look from beneath his shroud was enough to invigorate their leviathan physiques. The one that he had touched raised the monomolecular lance into the air, ushering in a fresh charge through Karthos.

As the last of the first wave passed into the citadel-city, Zaphariel turned his attention to the tallest structure around. The Malik rationalized that Karthos wasn’t a hive city, yet understood the universal importance of a spire. A great, jagged shape that cut the clouds and loomed over everything that it deemed ‘lesser’. One such building existed within these walls, yet it paled in comparison to the towering heights of Idrathar III or Pandjoras’ gravity palaces. A stout, flat-roofed tower made of staunch-white concrete rose like a finger over Karthos. Weapon emplacements belched torrents of bullets from heavy weapons off parapet-balconies. The dusken deity narrowed his eyes to hone in on a motionless transport at the top of the tower, clearly used in the most dire of circumstances. Defensible, utilitarian, and as ugly as the badlands that it lorded over. He knew without a second thought that the Governor-Commander hid at the peak of it.

A plethora of shadows ducked and weaved in sparse groups around him. Zaphariel could keenly feel the presence of the hassan even as they spread out to slaughter. One squad remained in proximity to his form, protecting against anything that could harm him. Regardless of the frustration, the Malik of Pandjoras felt a sense of pride that every duskborn would so valiantly rally to his side. He flashed a toothy grin in their direction, unnerving those bound to the shadows of Krakkarin. Perhaps, after having been easily noticed, the hassan disappeared to execute a different mission. The thoughts left him as the sounds of battle reignited once more. New firefights had cropped up as the First Conclave pushed through Karthos’ concrete labyrinth. The dusken deity leaped from his position, eschewing the observative stance he had taken to view the battlefield.

As his armored feet landed on top of a concrete building, he stared into it with his eyes narrowing. Serpentine pupils adjusted to see radiant heat signatures within. Unsurprisingly, he only saw the dim warmth of dead bodies filled with plentiful wounds. He had known that the quest to liberate Karthos was altogether vanity, yet the dusken deity had hoped to achieve some form of forgiveness for his actions. Zaphariel released the razor-sharp focus of his orange eyes and turned to the closest alcove below him. Duskborn warriors fiercely battled the grey-armored Krakkarin militants. Pandjoran monomolecular weapons ferociously tore into human flesh, easily piercing through the System Alliance carapace. Bursts of gravitic bullets warped the wounds inflicted on the Krakkarin’s, forcing them to their knees or crumpling their body from within. It was a scene that was playing across the entirety of Karthos as the war waged on. Artillery no longer filled their ears with shrieking shells, nor did their hovering behemoths harass the Pandjoran assailants. The Malik of Pandjoras wondered if there was even a point to his intervention as he deftly leaped to the next building. Each step brought him closer to the ugly Krakkarin spire.

---

Governor-Commander Alexos worriedly observed the battlefield from the uppermost balcony hanging over the spire. The Krakkarin military spat death onto a tide of black-orange warriors from the Sultanate, each Pandjoran corpse quickly replaced with another in an unending torrent. Other abhumans mingled into the mess of their enemies, such as disgusting beastmen and inhumanly tall individuals with gangly limbs. His eyes scanned the city in a desperate attempt to locate the rest of the System Alliance forces. It was a vain effort as the Sultanate was swiftly sweeping through the defenses they had prepared during the grace period. He hadn’t expected their frontal gate, the very symbol of their ingenious defenses, to crumple at the hands of the Malik. Sweat beaded down his forehead as the situation appeared grim.

Alexos slammed his fists against the parapet, threatening to crack the stone beneath his powered gauntlets. Anger burned in him as a festering wound in a dying body. Everything was displeasing to him, even the people who had lived in Karthos were disappointing. He turned away from the despairing sight of the siege towards the gaggle of officers surrounding a hololithic table. An image of Krakkarin rose as a digital entity in real space. His ears picked up their discussion as he approached.

“... And Mundas Ire has already fallen to the Sultanate. Commander Yavros was reported as deceased at the time of their assault. No doubt it was the work of the legendary Pandjoran hassans. Seventy-five percent of Karthos’ zones have already been lost to their advance as well. We need to start looking at an exit stra-” One of the officers, a tall man with a thin beard and slicked black hair, had been speaking at a rapid pace to the rest of the group. As the final words left his mouth, Alexos closed the distance and delivered a fierce punch to the officer’s face. The man fell backward onto his back, clutching the wound on his face from the strength-enhanced punch of the Governor-Commander. His place at the table was quickly replaced by the assailant.

“There will be no retreat or exit strategy. We cannot lose to an empire of sandborn savages from the furthest reaches of space. The System Alliance has prevailed for five thousand years even when the void storms began to darken our nights. We are the last bastion of humanity left in the universe. Falling here would mean the demise of humankind as it was.” Alexos’ face was bright red, darkened with furious emotions emphasized by the brooding tone in his voice. The officers listened with a mixture of awe and fear as their leader silenced the dissenter. The Governor-Commander straightened himself out and pointed toward the bottom of the spire on the hololithic map. “It is time we unleashed the witches of the wastelands upon the invaders. If they cannot win out against the Sultanate, then we will resort to the nuclear payload from our ancestors.”

Each of the officers began to pale at the thought of the things that had been kept locked away since the darkest nights. Creatures of legend, monsters of folktale, and beings of malevolence were sealed in a cell of impossible creation below the spire. The men and women in the room cautiously looked at each other with desperate eyes. Alexos, of them all, held the darkest expression as he rationalized the release of cataclysmic beings upon Krakkarin. He knew it was the price for victory, yet he wasn’t certain how it would ultimately turn out.

An explosion rocked the core of the spire, turning their attention away from the discussion and toward the source of destruction. Alexos hurriedly walked out onto one of the three balconies, staring down at the mass of Pandjoras below. Heavily armored warriors in impossibly large plating charged through a mess of Krakkarin infantry, pulverizing those in their way into a fine paste. As they closed the distance between themselves and the spire gates, a hot blast of volcanic hatred vented down upon their lumbering forms. The Sultanate’s heavy infantry screamed out in agony as their bodies disappeared in flashes of bright orange. A temporary retreat was sounded on the invader’s side. Black-orange dots ran away with their abhuman allies covering in vain. The Governor-Commander grew a smile on his lips as their most advanced warsuits stepped out onto the battlefield. Leviathan suits of metal on quadruple legs with a living pilot at the center bore a pair of huge armaments on either side of the cockpit. Five of them sallied out from the spire, unleashing waves of destruction into the most dense group of duskborn.

Satisfied, Alexos turned back toward the officers with a relieved look on his face. A small chuckle bubbled up from their group, easing the rising tension that had begun to spread like a virus. One by one, they all returned to the hololithic table to begin their war planning anew. A vox-shriek from a nearby console pulled their attention away. The console was interacted with by one of their guards, armed with a powered saber and holstered slugthrower. After several seconds of discussion, the sentinel turned to address the officers.

“One of the frontline commanders is coming, Commander Alexos, how would you like to proceed?” His voice was muffled by a vox-filter built into a square helmet. Crimson lenses settled on the squat, frustrated form of the Governor-Commander.

“And deprive our frontlines of a necessary officer? Hardly. Deny access to the commander and inform them to return to the battle with haste. We cannot spare any more time or resources than we are currently expending.” The response was swift, uttered in a fraction of a second after the guard had inquired. The soldier respectfully nodded before leaning back down to the console with a vox-device pressed to his throat. As he completed the request, the guard returned to sentinel duty by the ascender leading up to their conference room. “Now, as I was beginning to say about the witches in the-”

The portal into the chamber exploded outwards with both of the doors flying off of their sliding hinges. Each guard attempted to turn towards the assailant, yet lost their heads in mere seconds of the attack. Vitae gushed from their bodies as a dark shadow began to push through the room. Officers reached down to grab their holstered weapons. The first of their number was picked up with blinding speed and flung through one of the open-air balconies. The second was torn in half by a claw-like weapon that vivisected their body in milliseconds. The third and fourth scrambled to pull the hololithic table up as cover, but their assailant had kicked the furniture against them with such force that their bodies were pasted against the walls. The final officer, reeling from Alexos’ punch, struggled to pull his weapon free. A swift, precise kick to the stomach was enough to render them unconscious. All that remained was the Governor-Commander.

He raised his fists with malice, arcs of electricity dancing across the enhancing gauntlets of his warsuit. The shadowy thing began to meld out of the chaos, swathed in Pandjoran-pattern powered armor and dusken shroud alike. Talon-tipped gauntlets dripped with fresh ichor from the defeated Krakkarins, while a small grin flashed beneath a dark hood. Their size was absurd as they towered above him as a monolithic deity of old Karthos. Alexos knew without a doubt that the Malik of Pandjoras had invaded his chambers to slice open his throat. Strangely, the dusken entity waited for him to act first.

“You’re a fool, Malik! You cannot simply walk into the spire and leave with your life! Do you court death with your vain wishes for your blasted homeworld? Can you not fathom the hopelessness of your forces against the might of the Krakkarin System Alliance!?” Alexos spit out as he lunged forward with his right fist raised to strike the Malik of Pandjoras. He watched as the Pandjoran easily evaded the attack, walking past him without an ounce of fear. As the Governor-Commander turned to fight back, he realized that his right forearm was gone. Cut perfectly at the elbow, vitae bubbled up and spilled out of the wound with urgency. The Krakkarin fell to his knees as pain overwhelmed his senses. His eyes turned away from the injury to the dusken deity with eternal hatred. The prophet-king uttered a small laugh as he looked down on Alexos.

“For someone who thinks they are a player in the great game, I’m surprised you didn’t realize how you merely played as a pawn. Thanks to you, Alexos, you’ve given the Pandjorans an endless supply of confidence for millennia to come. Any future war that we wage will be done so with ease. Thanks to you, I can finally remove a venomless serpent from my conquest of the stars. There is much that I have to thank you for, dear enemy,” Zaphariel finally spoke, each word graced with an increasing smile that quickly grew into an unnervingly toothy grin. He stepped forward towards the kneeling form of Alexos, who tried to shuffle backward on shambling limbs. There was some part of him deep down that enjoyed watching his prey scuttle in fear. Effortlessly, he lifted the man by his armpits as he walked out onto the balcony. Now face to face, the Malik of Pandjoras could discern every disgusting feature on his imperfect edifice. “But one of the best things you could’ve for me was given plentiful justification to enact every part of this war. As we close this chapter, my friend, I will unleash your witches and cut them down before my Pandjorans. They will weep tears of gratitude and wipe your culture from the annals of history. Your people will become nothing but cosmic dust in our great quest for the Star Serpent.”

Held aloft in his arms like a child, Alexos began to hyperventilate and sob. His eyes screamed for mercy in their wet stare. Each sob caused his body to struggle in his claws, yet Alexos still managed to slip out a string of meaningless words. “S-Saladin was right! You’re a monster in human skin! You are the bane of your people! You will usher in darkness upon the galaxy for millennia to come! You are a daemon given mortal form!” The words caused something to stir inside of the Malik of Pandjoras. He had never truly considered the last words of his enemies, yet these expressions filled his soul with an indescribable emotion. For a moment, it appeared as if the Umbral King would spare the enemy that he had fought against. A small puddle of hope began to formulate inside of the Governor-Commander.

Zaphariel snapped back to him with a sad smile, both of his serpentine eyes lingering on the shivering form of the Governor-Commander.. “Indeed, dear Alexos, but with minor adjustments. I will drown the galaxy in a dusk that allows the brightest souls to illuminate it. A new dawn will rise over Pandjoras to free her from the vestiges of darkness eons after I have perished. If becoming a serpent in human skin is what it takes, then I would gladly wear umbral scales to welcome my ideal future. Destiny is within my grasp and I will mold it to my will for my people. Now, my friend, your time has come to drown in dusk.” He replied with a confidence that broke through his perpetual masquerade. Each word was spoken without alteration, allowing his foe to witness his true convictions without shame. A simple toss saw the Governor-Commander of the Krakkarin System Alliance drop from the top of the spire. His screams echoed throughout Karthos as a macabre durge. Many of the warriors fighting in the city turned towards the source with peaked interest. Those closest to the spire witnessed Alexos erupt into a pile of gore as the ground met his plummeting body. No sooner had the lord of the world been defeated did the disparate forces slowly surrender to the might of Pandjoras.

The Malik of Pandjoras breathed in deeply at the serene scene of his enemies surrendering en masse. Their war for Krakkarin was swiftly closing in with satisfactory casualties on the side of the Sultanate. For their first war in nearly a century, Zaphariel considered the quasi-experiment complete as he turned away from the balcony. One test yet remained to be completed. One final push to truly usher destiny’s vestiges into his claws. One last atrocity on Krakkarin to fully deliver the remnants of independence to the Umbral King. As he closed the distance to the hololithic table, his movements began to grow slow and hesitant. Did he truly wish to unleash those supposed witches upon the Pandjorans and Krakkarins? Was it necessary to orchestrate the great quest for destiny? What was the point of the journey if it meant betraying his people? Each thought raced through his head as the hologram of the cells beneath the spire spun before him.

“Glory,” Zaphariel ibn Varranis said with a grim frown, pressing one of the runes on the table to activate the cells. The hologram began to blink red with several activation warnings spreading across the display. A thousand and one vocal tones erupted from nearby vox-relays of their impending doom. Another statement appeared before the eyes of the Malik, demanding affirmation of his actions. Without any further hesitation, he pressed the rune once more to accept the demise of those closest to the spire. The inner workings of the spire began to rattle as the horrors of the Old Night were unleashed. He lashed out at the table with a talon, permanently enabling the unlocking procedures. One foot followed the next as Zaphariel grabbed hold of the unconscious officer. A tool that he would use as a scapegoat for his actions. He turned back to view the table as he entered the ascender, glimpsing the blinking runes in holographic tint. “Unto Pandjoras.”

---

The Dawn of Pandjoras was awash with celebration. Banners of freshly woven serpent silk hung from walls with new tales etched within. Instruments of the two hundred worlds blared in different sections of the ship, echoing into a beautiful orchestra of majestic nature. Men and women frolicked in Pandjoran dances, celebrating their survival and fulfilling promises of future endeavors. Duskborn warriors enjoyed the fruits of their labor on mulled serpent blood and lavish meats from across the Sultanate. The myriad mamluk abhumans mingled together with their legionnaire counterparts, happily discussing the next pivotal moments of their life outside of the First Conclave. Hafiz wandered the black sand-covered halls with delightful scents pouring from their censers, and boastful words of victory spilled from their skeleton masks. Menials that had supported the offenses reveled in the glory of new accolades, gloating about different parts of the invasion they had assisted. Even amongst these numbers, there were still more that relished the once-in-a-century accomplishments. Those officers, commanders, and higher-ranked officials who succeeded at Karthos gathered in the largest section of the warship: the Palace of the Malik.

A wide, oval-shaped chamber as wide as thirty harvester dropships and as tall as thirteen elder void serpents rested at the center of the dreadnought. Divided only by the entrances and a small alcove for a bed chamber, the Palace of the Malik was a lavish replica of a gravity palace. Everything was hued in marvelous orange, midnight blue, vibrant purple, and abyssal black. A thousand and one serpent-sculpted glow globes mounted the gravitic stone walls, while wide rugs of ornately decorated serpent silk blanketed the tiled floors. Great pillars rose to support the chamber, chiseled with every tale told on the umbral world. Marvelous murals dotted the walls, each depicting the greatest achievements of the Sultanate in superb detail. Dusken chairs, meditative pillows, and low tables in resplendent glory lined the room in sparse clumps. A graviton particle fountain, carved in a reproduction of the Valley of the Void, lingered at the near center of the room. Built around the fountain was a table beyond imagination, inscribed with the prophetic tale of the Umbral King. Slick cogitators hummed beneath it as orange holograms danced across the decorated surface. Thirteen ornate seats with effigies of the Houses surrounded the table with a final seat replaced by a gorgeous facsimile of the Varranian Throne.

Upon this throne, Zaphariel ibn Varranis happily watched the joy of his people indulge in the lavishness of victory. The great Sultans of House Tuturan and Korvaix drank with one another, pledging oaths of friendship and mending ancient grudges. Mamluk commanders marveled at the sheer size, scale, and majesty of the chamber they’d been permitted to enter. The Hakims of the Hafiz, their spiritual hierarchs and hierophants, meditated closest to the tiny graviton rivers that flowed through the Palace. The immortals, those warriors that wore juggernaut warsuits, loudly laughed with one another as they engaged in martial challenges. Envoys from recently joined cultures across the Sultanate relished the peace and joy they felt in the chamber. Many and more of the highest profiles from the empire wafted through to enjoy the extravagances of the Malik. Mingled into the mix of attendees were twelve of his wives, each dressed in a mixture of House color and Sultanate decor. To his imperceivable joy, even some of the Emir had journeyed to the expanses of space to revel. Of note, however, the dusken deity spied the grown form of Miska al-Gallos in attendance with the prestigious Emir Saladin. Their arrival heralded the beginning of many celebratory nights.

The Malik of Pandjoras rose from the throne with a thin smile on his lips. In the environment of his choosing, Zaphariel had long ago doffed the powered armor of war and instead donned the robes of his ascendancy. An exquisite, void-hued robe fashioned from elder serpent silk and embroidered with his prophecy in ocher colors fit his form. A midnight cloak hung from his shoulders, cascading down his body past regal gloves with talon-tipped rings and imperial balagha with metallic tips. A marigold laurel complimented a crown of eight horns split in even distances, decorated by thirteen, eye-shaped gems topped by a dusken halo lifted by a miniature gravity engine. All eyes turned to the immaculate form of the Sultanate’s Umbral King, pausing amid their conversations or activities to address the dusken deity.

“You all honor me with your attention, attendance, and time in joining our celebration against Krakkarin’s tyranny! I know many of you have traveled far from Pandjoras or further out towards the Serpent’s Tail. I hope that you have found your accommodations acceptable and your drinks filled.” Zaphariel momentarily paused as a brief chuckle erupted like a wave through the attending officials. His orange, serpentine eyes wandered over the crowd as they began to quiet themselves down once more. “As is the tradition of our dusken world, our celebration will last for thirteen days and thirteen nights. Ours is a tradition born from the lessons of the hassan, which encourage us to celebrate every occurrence in which survival is a question and not an answer. These days, we are allowed to drink deeply and express our gratitude to those who protected our lives. One of my favorite lessons that I learned growing up in the halls of Neu Alamut; however, I wish to personally honor those that made the Second Umbral Jihad as bloodless as possible.”

The immortals, who had once been indulging to their heart's delight, maneuvered away from the affairs and rose up to stand beside the throne. Each member was duskborn, donned in a dusken shroud and ornate bodysuits fit for celebratory events. One by one, the warriors claimed different boxes, chests, and storages of varying sizes and decorations. They returned to a tight-lined formation with gifts in each of their arms, outstretched for a recipient.

“What would a celebration be without gifts aplenty! I would honor those who journeyed far with boxes of jewelry, those who fought in the Sultanate with chests of trinkets, and those who claimed accolades from destiny with trunks of Pandjoras’ finest! Come forth, my beloved Pandjorans, and enjoy the fruits of your labor!” Zaphariel announced with a voice that reverberated several times over, willing reality into an uncontrollable frenzy. The attendees burst into an adorative fervor, proclaiming a thousand and one different promises of worship or oaths for the Umbral King. Each immortal stepped out into the throng of Pandjorans, delivering the gifts that their Malik had promised with determination and joy. Regardless of their joy, he observed every gift delivered with intense interest. Their emotions, their attitude, and their personalities were recorded deep within his mind for later usage. His lips curled further into a joyful smile as he reclaimed his throne once more with his head resting against one of his hands.

The gift-delivering process took the better part of the occasion as each box was a particular prize for a specific individual. Many received their physical award, offered a cheer in his name, and left after several minutes of conversation with other attendants. Others, primarily the Emir, received their present with a mixture of gratitude and confusion. They, and their attending heirs, remained behind as the guests slowly filtered out of the Palace. Slowly, as if understanding the gravity of the situation, those Emir that had arrived or their representatives began to find their seat at the great table. Of their number, the only Emir of name that arrived were Jerciho al-Nathaz, Saladin ibn Gallos, Azahar ibn Urahal, and Zarmira ibn Gallax. As the final guest was ushered out of the Palace, the immortals closed the entrances into the abode of the Malik. Zaphariel’s temperance changed as his warriors sealed away the chamber from the rest of the warship.

“It is good to see your faces. I’ve dreamt a thousand and one times of each moment we had spent together during the Unification. I will never forget what each of you has sacrificed to make our dreams a reality, nor will I forget the promises I made as a young sheik.” He spoke in a solemn tone, reminiscing on the memories of a younger Pandjoras. Zarmira warmly smiled, bowing her head in appreciation. Jericho tipped his head forward in gratitude. Azahar grinned and gestured in an archaic signaling language from Old Pandjoras. Saladin dapped his forehead with a piece of cloth, nodding his head in thanks. “It is my duty, however, to recognize those that have achieved much and more in our culture as the Malik of Pandjoras. Today, I wish to honor that duty for one who is present.”

His attention fell upon the heiress of House Gallos, Miska, who momentarily appeared stunned as the table turned towards her. To the throng of Emir and Sheiks, Miska was as ordinary as an aristocratic duskborn could be. Dusken skin with orange, serpentine eyes complimented soft and fierce facial features. Long, black braids decorated her scalp, while thin freckles darkened the minute Gallosian sigils inked across her cheeks. She donned a serpent silk robe in dawn hues, aided by a shoulder cape of umbral jakaal fur. Regardless of her status, Saladin’s heiress wore minimal jewelry other than a thin cluster of void pearls that covered the outer edge of her ears. The surprise passed as she closed her eyes, bowing her head in respect to the Malik of Pandjoras.

“Many of you are unaware of her feats and why this pertains to the Second Umbral Jihad. She has quelled a thousand and one minor houses across the Sultanate, integrated cultural aristocrats into the house system, and linked our journey through the Star Serpent at every step. Her achievements are many, but the mamluk are one of her greatest suggestions to appease the minor houses. Without her, the Umbral Armada would not be what it is today.” Zaphariel stated with a smile while reaching down to activate a Pandjoran rune on the ornate table. A hololithic display of her achievements in statistical form appeared before the gathered Houses of Pandjoras. Each entry was small, yet there was a sheer quantity to the work she had orchestrated across the Sultanate. Even Saladin, her father, gazed in awe at what his heiress had achieved. The dusken deity saw through the awe, though, and witnessed the beginnings of a bubbling rage. His smile grew ever so slightly wider.

“You honor me, dear fri- my Malik. Everything that I’ve done is in the name of the Illuminated Star Sultanate, Pandjoras, and you.” She bowed her head once more, dipping it towards the members of the table. Her voice was as soft as her face, yet each word was backed with purpose and determination. He noticed the intentional establishment of importance in her last words. Clever, he thought to himself, ever since the days you were a young child. Miska decidedly chose not to speak further, allowing the data to talk on her behalf. The Emir were pleased as they spoke amongst themselves, all except Saladin. The wobbling man fumed with frustration, clearly expressing an aura of betrayal. He wiggled out of his seat in an undignified rush of vexation, then turned towards his heiress with a raised finger.

“Traitor! You steal the glory that I had forged for our House! Do you have no shame, child of mine!? Do you feel-” Saladin ibn Gallos began to scream at the heiress of his House, each word spoken with a mixed tone of ferocity and disappointment. Miska, docile as she had been raised, lowered her head in controlled fear. She submitted to the verbal lashing from her House Emir, father, and guardian. An aura of imperceivable rage forced the man’s lips shut. He felt compelled to kneel, cower, and sing praise all at once. Whatever anger had smothered his soul was extinguished by overwhelming fear.

The source of the aura was found at the facsimile Varranian Throne. Zaphariel ibn Varranis stared with an intent to kill at the wobbling form of Saladin. Each of his orange, serpentine eyes glared unwaveringly down at his person. Every Emir, Sheikh, and Immortal in the Palace of the Malik began to uncontrollably flatten themselves into a bow or kneel. One of his claws flexed hard enough to crumble one of the arms of his throne. As the last members prostrated from his intense aura, the Malik of Pandjoras closed his eyes to enter oneness. A calmness slithered through the chamber, releasing those enthralled by the wordless spirit with gasping breaths and shaky limbs. Emir Saladin gripped the edge of the table with hazardous gasps as the dusken deity opened his eyes once more.

“Enough.” The Malik of Pandjoras stated with a solemn tone, waving a hand over the holograms to clear the table. Each piece of data revolving around Miska disappeared, replaced with numerous different strings of information relating to Saladin. Chief amongst them was a log detailing the events that led up to the Krakkarin System Alliance’s call to war. A confession from the Warlord of Carnage, the officer who had unleashed the nightmare witches, spoke volumes of their first interaction with the Gallosian Emir. Several other cases of ushering minor house revolts, stealing away commerce from different planets, and inciting publications against the lessons of the hassan were provided. The man began to grow pale in fear at the sights before him.

“I have allowed you to live despite everything you have done for twenty years, Saladin. I respected you as one of the Great House Maliks and I valued you as a shrewd merchant-king of the umbral sands. I acquiesced to your demands at the Unification thrice fold, I observed every action you took against me in the great journey, and I allowed your survival for the sake of Miska.” Zaphariel spoke once more with a sad tone, hints of frustration were evident in his voice yet it was superseded by disappointment. One of his hands brushed against his face, slicking down the groomed beard growing along his lips and chin. He cast a look at Miska, who caught his stare and grimly nodded in acceptance. Satisfied, the Malik of Pandjoras continued. “No longer. You have forsaken your allegiance to me. Before the eyes of the Thirteen Houses, as is my privilege as the Malik of Pandjoras, I cast you from your position as Emir of House Gallos and forfeit your rights to life under the dusken sky. In your place, Emir Miska al-Gallos will lead the Great House forever more until the day of her death.”

Rage blinded the senses of former Emir Saladin ibn Gallos as a flush red washed over his face. He stood up with all the willpower that he could muster, gritting his teeth in huffing anger. A finger was pointed at the seated form of Zaphariel, words beginning to spill forth from his quivering lips. “You are a monstrosity born from the dusken sands! Everything you’ve achieved can only be described as mystic and wyrd! You must’ve formed a blood pact with Falak and gained powers unimaginable to aspire to such heights! I raised you, Sheik Zaphariel, and I know you! Whatever you are, whatever you may be, will bring about the damnation of Pandjoras! I swear upon a thousand and one grains of black sand that the fruit of your great quest will spoil and rot! Nothing will-” Saladin’s intense words were suddenly halted as blade slashed across his throat at lightning speed. He stumbled forward against the table, leaning upon it with his great weight. Panicked eyes regarded Zaphariel with anger, yet found that he hadn’t moved from his throne. The Pandjoran turned to his daughter, who had slid a monomolecular dagger back into a hidden sheath. A gurgle from his throat pushed out a puddle of blood onto his person as tears flooded his eyelids. Both of his orange eyes were closed to the world, forever shut to never achieve ambitious dreams again.

The Malik of Pandjoras observed with a mixture of interest and sorrow. He had intended to decapitate the Emir of Gallos himself, yet Miska had performed the deed faster than he had. His rage that had been felt before the events on Krakkarin fled away as grains of black sand in a gravity tempest. The other Emir remained stalwart after the incident, yet some of the representatives seemed shaken by the affair. Regardless, each would have to accept the actions before them. Zaphariel turned to one of the immortals, softly gesturing for them to handle the bleeding corpse of Saladin. They were swift in their task, carrying the carcass away and wiping the table clean of Pandjoran blood. No sooner had the immortals finished their tasks did Miska take the seat of her late father. She sat proudly amongst the Thirteen with her head held high. No doubt, he thought, she was prepared to do this.

“Bring his body back to Pandjoras to rest in Neu Alepp when the celebrations have concluded, Emir Miska. Ensure that his sarcophagus is sealed with black sand and a splash of liquid from the Valley of the Void.” Zaphariel commanded, responded only with a simple nod from Miska. Falak would grow hungry tonight as he had promised her the body of Saladin, yet it was a simple thing to feed the void wyrm. The remainder of those in the Palace of the Malik awaited the next words from the dusken deity. He wouldn’t disappoint them any further than they had been with the affair. “I will not threaten you with this fate, dear friends. What has occurred here was a consequence of my mercy and I will atone for that in my own ways. The first of which is renewing the pact of allegiance with House Gallos.”

“Miska al-Gallos, Emir of House Gallos, Shah of the Minor Houses, shall become my thirteenth and final wife. She will preside over all of her ilk as the First and Last. From this moment forward, all heiress’ of House Gallos will have a claim over this position so long as I live and after her demise.” His words were as soothing as they were dominating. A ripple of fresh smiles burst through the heavy atmosphere at the elated news. The final promise of the Unification had been fulfilled with Miska taking the last spot in his harem. Emir Zarmira shook her head in defeat, clearly wishing for a different outcome. Emir Azahar laughed loudly and joyfully at the sudden change of pace. Jericho nodded in approval, silent as ever. Miska beamed with controlled delight standing from her seat and offering a heartfelt bow in acceptance. Little did the other Emir know, Zaphariel and Miska had spoken of this for years in the shadows of her activities.

“With this conclusion and the Houses once again free of reckless ambition, the Sultanate will proceed forward to claim dominion over the Star Serpent. A hundred worlds remain on the charts of Old Pandjoras with the last two at the tip of the Serpent’s Tongue. Each world will be personally sought to and integrated into Pandjoras with my presence. House Gallos will remain here to cleanly quell the tides of war from the System Alliance as a show of good faith.” The Malik of Pandjoras demanded, spreading one of his hands out once more to clear the holographic displays. New worlds orbited in dense clusters above the table, loosely tangled together in the long stretch of space known as the Star Serpent. Names appeared over each system, each was then assigned a House to govern said territory. Sensing the end of their time in the Palace of the Malik, the House Emir and their representatives stood up from the chairs. Zaphariel continued with a toothy grin growing on his lips. “Now go and enjoy time away from administration and lordship! Drink deeply, eat heartily, and bask in the gifts you’ve been given. Glory unto Pandjoras!”

“Glory unto Pandjoras!” The room quaked with the universal phrase of the Sultanate. Each of the House Emir offered their thanks, bowing and walking out of the Palace with a mixture of emotions. Emir Zarmira had to be dragged from the table by her subordinates, feigning crying for more time in the presence of Zaphariel. Emir Jericho grasped forearms with the Malik, swearing new oaths and revealing new details on upcoming projects. Emir Azahar loudly professed small prophecies of victory, glory, and conquest in the Umbral King’s name as he left. Each of their responses filled the dusken deity’s heart with fragments of joy, erasing the frustration of Krakkarin’s campaign. Only Miska al-Gallos remained behind, refusing to speak until the last person in the chamber had left. A look from the prophet-king dismissed the immortals, who quickly left after a moment of silence.

“Finally, twenty years of scheming have concluded. Will you forgive me, Zaph? Another thirteen days and thirteen nights of his life and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I know you intended to claim his head, but I couldn’t let you accept that burden. His life… was my duty to take.” Her words were softer than his, more frail than Zaphariel’s soothing tongue. Despite Miska’s acceptance of Saladin’s fate, tears flowed freely from his orange eyes. A hand, light as silk and as large as her back, lightly touched her shoulder. The Malik of Pandjoras’ steps had been silent as falling sand as he moved from the throne to her side. She had never realized before how inhumanly quick he was. He kneeled beside her and brought the small woman into an embrace. The newly crowned Emir felt her entire body swathed in the dusken deity’s warmth.

“I will always forgive you, wife of mine, but will you forgive me for what I must do?” Zaphariel asked as he ran a hand down her braided hair, unimaginably comforting her beyond reality’s breath. Without another word, Miska serenely nodded in his arms. There was no hesitation in her actions as she, and most Pandjorans, submitted to their prophet-king. Satisfied with her response, he looked away from her shoulder and to one of his many serpent sculptures in the Palace. The hand that had delicately stroked her hair froze as he imagined wicked, fleshy talons as replacements. He clenched his digits into a fist, accepting the illusions, and continued to speak. Raw confidence spilled through his masquerade, each word reverberating with the echoing affirmation that reality shivered. “I am the monster of Saladin’s warnings, Miska, and I am going to drown this galaxy in dusk for Pandjoras.”