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Event Name: Unveiling of technical readouts for the Wolfram Battle Tank and accompanying modified variants, derived from the STC fragment of a 'modular battle tank' captured by the Imperial Star League during the liberation of Nova Borilia

Location: Datastream broadcast originating from Mars, Sol System, Sector Solar, Segmentum Solar

Date: Initial broadcast started 1.773.850.M30

Parties Involved: Technical readouts drafted by Cult Mechanicum Artisans, aided by tactical and strategic input from Wolfram of Parrisan and the Imperial Star League.

The following is a series of technical readouts and pertinent information regarding the Wolfram Modular Battle Tank, and its accompanying Cult Mechanicum-approved variant models, the designs of which have been influenced with military tactical and strategic input provided by the machine's namesake Primarch, Wolfram of Parrisan, and the Astartes Legion responsible for the recovery of the STC fragment, the Imperial Star League.

Note: All production models of the Wolfram Modular Battle Tank incorporate the following: Internal Crew Comms Equipment, External Vox-relay Comms Equipment, Smokescreen Launchers, and a Manually-Operated Searchlight. Let it also be known that the Cult Mechanicum has authorized the Rite of Field Adaption, permitting damaged or unsupportable weaponry to be temporarily replaced with an available alternative resembling one found in a variant model, until a functional version of the original armament can be supplied.

















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The jets of Apaosha screamed Sekhmetara’s rage into the heavens as the ancient jetbike sped its master towards her target. Currents of air which would have torn even an Astartes from the saddle pulled at her like the gentle kiss of a sunset breeze, her connection to the hallowed piece of technology more complete than even the neural links could explain. When they fought, they hunted together, she and the raging spirit within the machine.

It’s fury bled into her in mechanical code, updates across the flicking light of her iris-display that were both a functional purpose and an urge to fight and kill. It’s fuel cells would never tire, the ammunition stored within its modified hurricane bolter chambers barely even touched. It yearned to kill and it took the will of a Primarch for Sekhmetara to not lose herself within it. She wondered if this is what her brother felt when the ancestors of their family whispered from the Throne of his Questoris warsuit. She expected this was more direct, more akin to the battle of wills between a Princeps and a God-Machine. The thought gave her some additional respect for the mortals who wrestled with such forces.

There was nothing left in the sky to kill, yet. As each centre of rebellion had been dealt with, first with the scalpel like precision the Tears of Dawn preferred to implement in their compliance campaigns, and later with the brutal hammer blow of a full Astartes assault upon those who continued to resist, the enemy’s ability to project force outside of the cities loyal to them had plummeted. The last bastion of the enemy, Aulpollriax, had survived alone due to the blanketing void shields extended over it. The centre of the rebellion on the planet, the most extreme examples of the rebels’ mysterious technology allowed them to hunker down while the rest of their alliance burned. Perhaps the enemy still had aeronautical assets to spend, but for now they remained grounded and shielded. Most Imperial commanders would have done the same, rather than expend their forces uselessly to fight for a world they surely knew they had lost.

Bombardment, starvation, mutiny. Any would bring about the eventual fall of the city, but Sekhmetara did not have the time or the patience for such things on this occasion. The presence of Daena imposed upon her the will of the Emperor that the conflict be finished swiftly, their attentions were required elsewhere. The heart would have to be cut out, and swiftly.

Apaosha slowed to a halt in the sky, hovering in place as Sekhmetara beheld her target. Aulpollriax lacked the vast scale of some of the Imperium’s hive cities, but it was certainly still an impressive hub of humanity. The second largest on the planet after the Capital, the main spire of its starport raised high, even above her, into the atmosphere where smaller stellar craft would have once been able to dock. She mused that this was likely how the first elements of this interstellar benefactor had brought their means of rebellion to Praxia. Local agents, still loyal to the ruling elite of Praxia and thus the Imperium by extension had several significant holdouts in the high-spire, one avenue of approach they would use. The fighting would be brutal and fought at close confines even for the warriors of the Astartes. It would be a grinding advance to burn Aulpollriax down from within. It was but one of the prongs of attack, the other would be the storm that crashed against the city from without. The shield could stop bombardment, but it could not stop a Spartan Assault Tank.

“Sire, the Ultis-Solis is in position, your wrath is prepared.” The words of Ulven Tern, the mortal who currently helmed her flagship’s voice crackled in her ear, distortion brought about by the combination of distance and void-to-air transmission did little to dampen the pleasing message, her response breathed out in an instant.

“Very well, open the vox-link, broadcast on all channels.”

“At your desire,”

There was no telltale sign to denote that anything had changed, but as she remained suspended in place in the skies of Praxia, Sekhmetara’s voice reached out. Her words directly transmitted to all the Imperial forces gathering for this final push, nor obscured from the enemy as most military transmissions would be. Many would be listening below, from within the shimmer of their unhallowed shield. Let them.

“Sons and Daughters of the Imperium, people of Praxia, today a new dawn rises. Treason had sundered your planet from the majesty of the great purpose, but now you are reborn, remade, in fire and fury. The last of those who reject the one, Imperial truth, will today learn their final folly.” The address was short, she had little affection for any of this blasted world any longer, but those who had martialed to join the Imperial effort to restore compliance would fight all the more harder knowing their actions were recognised, if only passingly, by the demigods who bestrode their world. She allowed the pauses to extend a moment longer, before speaking her final refrain.

“Begin.”

For an infinitesimally small span of time, a new host of suns were born in the sky of Praxia, bright hot points of light searing in the sky. She could feel the rush of air, superheated atmosphere fleeing in waves from the wrath of the heavens, even if she was far from their touch. Less than a second later, and the lance battery fire split the sky before her. The columns of bright force struck the Praxian shield with an even brighter explosion of light and heat than their own nature. Force rippled across the suddenly fully visible skein of the shield as it distributed the force desperately across it. The continual motes of light from each impact were brighter than the true Sun, and there were many, many more of them. The lance fire would not break the shield, it was perhaps the weapon the shield was most suited to protect its inhabitants from. Destruction was not the aim, however. With the sky a bright hot sea of energy, the interference as blinding to the auspex network of the city as the light would be blinding to the naked eye, the sudden surge of land and void formations to begin the two pronged assault was entirely obscured from the inhabitants of Aulpollriax. They would of course know an attack was coming, and would prepare, but firing blind against a blade as finely honed as a Legion was a doomed effort. With cold fury, Sekmetara watched the final strike of her campaign begin.

There had been time for deliberation around the strategium. Time for suggestions and arguments, hot-headed bouts of anger and coldly calculated statistics. But that time had ended the moment Sekhmetara had begun her transmission. In the void above Aulpollriax, the heavens strobed in hues of reds and blues. Laser battery fire crisscrossed between the ponderously still giants of the Serpents fleet and the citadel of the spaceport punctuated every so often by searing strikes from lance turrets. Debris from both sides spun away between the behemoth voidships and their foe as both sides struck home scouring armor plates and arcane mechanisms from the hulls of the other, and began to burn brightly as they plummeted toward Praxia below . Between it all were the streaks of engine plumes and the yellow-orange death balls as Imperial assault craft made the perilous hop from the safety of their larger homes to the starport’s citadel.

Assault craft plied the void in silence, surrounded by weapons fire and the debris of the battle taking place around them, their continued existence owed only to the skill of their pilots and dumb luck as they closed the gap to the loyalist held landing bays that still remained in the starport’s citadel. Though not all crafts were so lucky. Pilots, overwhelmed by the mass amount of debris and the crossfire of the two sides found their skill lacking as, task saturated as they were, their flights came to sudden ends as they slammed into debris at astounding speed, the end of their existences marked by tiny flashes of light as their engines went critical and devoured the craft whole. Others found to no real fault of their own that their hand had come up empty, laser battery fire tearing into them and their occupants as easily as tin cans as gun-servitors and traitor crews tried desperately to cripple the massive ships pouring fire into the starport.

Through it all, Nelchitl waited. She passed the time with praise and prayer taken from the scrolling text of Isabis and whispered in His name, both gauntleted hands pressed against her chest in the sign of the Aquila as she spoke only loud enough for Him to hear.

Her devotions complete, the Emerald Priestess opened her eyes and took in the troop compartment of the Thunderhawk in an instant. Red battle lights cast an eerie glow across the forms of a squad of Astartes in the gloom, each still as they no doubt readied themselves with battle routines or talked silently with their trusted Sisters. Here she knew, were warriors sure of purpose and true in faith. Here she knew were Astartes of the Imperium, tempered in the fires of countless conflicts and honed sharp by the Emperor’s hands. Here were her Serpents, stood atop a mountain of corpses and yet baying for more. Pride and excitement filled the Scion of the Seventeenth as she imagined the glories to come once they were within the starport. Who would distinguish themselves as no other? Who would lead the most of the traitor scum to their graves? Who would be noticed in the eyes of the Emperor Himself this day?

Her reverie was interrupted as the Thunderhawk shuddered violently, Nelchitl even in her armored bulk being jostled as the craft seemed to fight to remain flying.

“We’ve taken a hit, damage is extensive. We will not make the landing site Sire.” the voice of the pilot rang in her ears as the Thunderhawk began to shake, rattling free items that had been strapped down for flight and shaking loose bundles of cabling throughout the cabin.

“Anywhere on the Citadel will do.” came Nelchitl’s simple answer as she pulled up a tactical display of the crippled assault craft’s flight path. She scowled as the trajectory line kept moving sporadically before her expression dulled entirely as she followed the line to its end. She opened a vox link back to the Solstice’s End as quickly as she could and spoke hurriedly, “My Thunderhawk is hit, we shall not make the citadel. Ensure that my Serpents tak--” the line went dead, the troop cabin around Nelchitl buckling and breaking as the Thunderhawk slammed into the armored side of the citadel and the world came to a crushing end.

Far away from the chaos of the Serpent’s assault, a line of bare steel glinted in the sun. It was perhaps quite the most impressive amassing of armor Praxia would ever see, a line of tanks stretching to the horizon on each side, all kicking up a great plume of dust behind them.

At the center of the formation, the giant, boxy form of a Gorgon assault transport pushed aside everything unlucky enough to stand in the way of the Legion’s assault. A practiced eye could tell that despite sharing the hull shape of an Imperialis Militia vehicle, the armament was decidedly non-standard, replacing the twin stubbers on each side of the operator’s tower with lascannons instead. On the side of the vehicle, the name was scrawled in white chalk - Inevitability. At the helm, 2nd Army Group Praetor, Johann Kohl, stared with disinterest at the hive which jutted from the landscape like the finger of an uncouth oath.

Inside the transport bay, forty Lancers of the First Company of the 2nd Army Group, the Bandits, checked weapons. They were loaded down with non-standard equipment, rad grenades, customized bolters, power spears, chainswords. Each of them was a hardbitten veteran, many of them having served with Kohl since Terra, since…

He closed his eyes. He could still see the burning banners of Unification in his mind’s eyes, clear as day, still smell the gene-enhanced, rich, coppery scent of the blood of the warriors of that time. This would be like that, but less. Every day would be less than that, but, this one...

“Vulf.” Kohl said, “Vox those locals and tell them to get back in formation, or I’ll fire on them. They’ll hit the exterior edge of the bombardment zone if they keep rushing ahead like that.”

Optio Vulf, helmetless, his revenant-like face exposed to the wind and sun, smiled with the half of his face that still could. He relayed the order, and the local elements slowed down, passing between the files of Serpent Spartans and Pact Rhinos. “Should’ve just fired. If they were worth a damn we wouldn’t have to help our gene-aunt with her group project.”

...This day could be the best he’d had in a long time. He smiled, a predatory, cat-like grin. “Forget the fodder. We were made to fight, and to win, and that’s just what we’ll do.”

“The raptor flies, Praetor.” Vulf responded.

“And where it lands, it owns.” Kohl finished the old oath of the Lightnings.

He keyed a vox-link to Sekhmetara’s flagship, which the praetor knew would be relayed to the Dawn’s primarch. “Ground elements reporting. We’re reaching the final maneuver point. We’ll be in place when the bombardment ceases.”
As her sisters fought battles, Daena waged a war. The angelic Primarch brooded from within the confines of her flagship’s bridge, surrounded by the full complement of her bodyguard. Each woman was in their full battledress, the Astartes complementing their power armor with jetpacks disguised under artfully sculpted wings to match their gene-mistress. They watched the massive holoscreens intently as the combined assault continued, a bridge officer dutifully reporting on the most critical of updates.

“Lady Sekhmetara’s assault is on schedule, my lady. Lance bombardment on target, Aulpollriax sensors and augur arrays blinded within expected tolerance thresholds. The void war is proceeding as projected, Lady Nelchitl is leading the va-” The officer stopped mid sentence, professional demeanor for a moment threatening to flag. “We have lost the signal of Lady Nelchitl’s Thunderhawk. The Serpents are continuing the attack. Praetor Kohl’s armor advancing swiftly to the edge of safe ground.”

The Angel sat hunched over in her throne, both hands grasping the haft of her mighty spear as her eyes flicked over the runes intermeshed with and behind the signatures of the Serpents and the Pact. Groundside, the situation was chaotic in the extreme, nearly a hundred different regiment markers glaring back at her - but the only similarity between that screen and the one depicting the void was the familiar sigil of the Doomsayers. Dividing her forces into four wings, Daena did what she and her daughters did best - compensate for the weaknesses of their siblings.

Across the face of Praxia and within the ranks of the Legion, junior Doomsayers took up garrison positions at cities and hives emptied of their guardians for this final assault forming the first wing. Serpents, Tears, and Auxilia alike had been tasked with ensuring the Compliance of reconquered and always loyal populaces both but now their Primarchs had called them to war. With the neophytes now drained from her own ranks, one startling fact united every Astartes that the Angel intended to send marching into war: a raptor stamped upon the plate of their knee.

Forming the second wing, a detachment of Revenants had volunteered to assist Nelchitl’s assault troopers in the taking of the spaceport, the deathseekers providing the only fire support that could move swiftly enough for the Serpents to not simply leave behind. Their vessels followed almost languidly behind those of their sisters, a second wave that the station’s gunners could not prioritize with the XVIIth upon them. Slow and ponderous assault boats, far more vulnerable than a swift Thunderhawk or a boarding torpedo, they were able to press their way through the clouds of debris but were easy pickings for the gunner who was not fixated on the far faster deliverers of death. Daena watched unblinkingly as runes winked out, each one representing the true and total loss of tens of her daughters.

Thankfully few such losses were yet to occur on the outskirts of the hive, though all knew that would swiftly change. The Primarch’s eyes lingered in recognition upon the standards of her household regiments, formations of the Astra Militarum that had been with her since her discovery - if not fighting alongside her Legion before that. The mechanized Golden Hegera and the cybersteed riding ranks of the Tupelov Lancers easily kept pace behind the advance screen of the Pact’s tanks, the Auxilia more than happy to let the Astartes form the tip of the spear. Following behind, the disciplined footsoldiers of the Geno Five-Two Chilliad and Kushtun Naganda would be tasked with the brutal and inglorious work of securing what areas of the hive the Astartes overlooked.

Only then did she turn to look upon the runes of her third wing. The demigods travelled within the center of the miles spanning formation - for if the Pact was the tip of the spear, the Doomsayers were its heart. Land Raiders and Mastodons travelled swiftly behind the tanks of their brothers, each containing Terran veterans. Daena’s lip tugged slightly at that thought, the woman realizing that the Astartes racing alongside the Pacts weren’t simply born upon the Throneworld but had fought in the last wars on its surface right alongside the Xth. The Legion Mistress herself commanded the force from within the massive bulk of a battlescarred Mastodon decorated with her personal heraldry. It was a simple symbol, but a curious one, depicting a massive bird of prey swooping down as if to attack, a broken lightning bolt clutched in its talons.

But for all of its strength, the forces Daena had already deployed paled in comparison to the might of what she held in reserve. The Primarch herself commanded the fourth wing, its Astartes waiting patiently for the order to commence operations.

“My lady, do we proceed with the battleplan? Lady Nel-” Asha began to ask, stopping at the sight of her Primarch’s raised hand.

“Nelchitl will succeed. As will Sekhmetara. We continue as planned,” Daena said softly, turning her head at last to the glaring green countdown chrono rapidly approaching zero. It was a daring, audacious, and some would say stupid plan, one that required every element of the combined force to perform as expected, when expected. But it would win the war in a day if it worked, bypassing the need to brutally fight the height of the spire.

“This is one she would’ve thought of,” the Primarch mused to herself, letting her mind drift on the influence of her Mithran sibling as the chrono continued racing towards its end.

-- Years Prior, The Ultis-Solis--

They had told Sekhmetara she had waited longer than any Primarch before her, and perhaps longer still than any who would come after her. The gathering of her legion had taken many long years, returning to Terra to meet their Gene-Sire. She did not begrudge this, her years upon Terra had been full of promise and adventure. She had shared the experience with two sisters, ones she had little hope would remain cordial without her presence, and the reason the delay had brought her pride. The Astartes legion who bore her genetic lineage were deployed across the galaxy, often in the vanguard of larger legion fleets, secretly strewn among worlds marked for compliance and invasion. They were the Emperor’s hidden blade, and had been named for their numeral. While she studied how she would become a part of her father’s realm, she had seen in them the traits of her abilities. They had her guile, her commitment to the hunt. She would have to teach them her glory.

The process of their union had been a joyous, but strenuous, one. Her legion might have inherited certain aspects of her abilities, but their war was not her war. Sekhmetara would not hide in the shadows, while her daughters had made their home there, laying the groundwork for others to take the glory, or fighting in gruelling guerilla warfare. She had resolved to bring those aspects into her vision of a Legion fighting in her name, but where before they had been the vanguard of other Legions, now they would herald the sweeping strike of her own. Her daughters were joyful, in their own muted way, to meet their primarch, but she had sensed their concern for the future. It galled her, a little, that they were not more grateful for the brighter tomorrow she would bring them, but she was determined to convince them. In their own way, they were determined to convince her in turn.

The halls of the Gloriana, recently renamed The Ultis-Solis in honour of the rediscovered Primarch, were bare and functional. This had been a craft befitting its legion, functional and utilitarian. Sekhmetara, with her study of voidwar over the recent years, already wished to pursue a tactical approach without such grand and ponderous ships. Her plans for the vessel were much grander than simply the largest ship in her fleet, but to transplant all the trappings of holding court to the stars. For now, however, it remained in its utilitarian state, especially as they delved further into its winding depths.

“Before we move further, Sire...This has remained hidden, from the others, from those few who even know that the Twentieth Legion has been active in your absence.” Elosha Turna, Librarian, had been the one who had informed Sekhmetara of the secret she was about to be shown, something that even the grim natured Terran scions of her blood had been determined to hide from their peers. They might not have the same desire for glory and recognition as her, but Sekhmetara could taste their shame, they had some idea of what honour might be.

“I am prepared, Daughter.” Sekhmetara breathed the words, barely more than a whisper, studying the features of the Astartes beside her. She had been born with the pale skin of Terra’s northern climate and could never be mistaken for a biological relation of any Mithran, but as with all her daughters, she found herself gazing back at eyes that were almost mirrors of her own. With a nod, the Librarian stepped forwards, the doorway sliding open with a pneumatic hiss.

The room beyond held no light but two sputtering orbs of gold, dripping like liquid through the air. No sooner had the doorway opened than there was a surge of motion in the dark, before there was the telltale sound of chains snapping taut, pulled to the limit of their exertion. To mortal humans the shape would have been obscured in the shadows cast from the light of the hallway behind them, but Astartes and Primarch regarded their subject with ease. Shorn of armour, the transhuman physiology of the Space Marines was still impressive, so beyond humanity they towered above them alone. The astartes before them, for they could be nothing else, seemed to strain even these impressive forms. Taught skin pulled tight over musculature that seemed to threaten to rupture free, the talons of her fingers ending in short claws extending from twisted nailbeds. The source of the light before was apparent. Dripping from empty eye sockets, the thin trail of golden light seared itself into the skin of the chained astartes, running down burned channels of scar tissue before dripping to the metallic floor with an ionised hiss.

Unphased by the rush of motion towards her, Sekhmetara spoke to her companion as they examined the sight. “What has done this to her?” Her voice was little more than a whisper, her attention entirely placed upon the straining figure.

“It is a curse our Legion suffers from, a rage that overcomes us in the pursuit of the hunt then...We do not know what strikes the mind of those who suffer, but there is a great rage, a need for blood...and then our eyes burn away, whatever is summoned from within us destroys our vision.” The Librarian spoke with a collective shame, even as Sekhmetara moved towards the chained figure. As the Primarch drew closer, the enraged thrashing of chains seemed to ease, the growls building from within the Astartes fading into bestial pants as Sekhmetara drew one hand and placed it on her cheek. The sizzling heat of her tears was enough to sting even the flesh of a Primarch, but she held in place.

“It is my blood.” Sekhmetara spoke finally, a tone of both sadness and familial pride touching her words, before she stood, her eyes blazing with the same golden light, in far greater intensity, turning upon the librarian behind her. “No longer will the Legion put down their affected sisters, they bear the blessing of my gifts, and I will find use for them.”

--The Present, Praxia--

As the ground and atmospheric assaults began, the Tears of Dawn themselves prepared to enter the engagement wholesale. Behind the sweeping advance of the local militia, Imperial Army and Pact of the Lance heavy vehicles which made up the onrushing Imperial assault, the swift forms of the Tears of Dawn Skyseeker squadrons surged into life. As the initial wave took the brunt of whatever fire the city was able to marshal under the bombardment, the gravbikes made up the distance in a few moments, before soaring over and around the slower moving formations. The moment the bombardment broke, they soared past the Pact’s vehicles, no small amount of competitive Astartes jibes blurting across the vox in the protest. In this, the final moment of the charge, the Skyseekers took on the role of the bombardment, underslung plasma cannons unleashing a surge of superheated fire, striking the shield in a thousand smaller motes of light than the more dramatic surge of the orbital bombardment of the moment prior. In the next moment they swept through the shield itself, slowing only momentarily, fractionally, so that the rapidly moving jetbikes might not activate the defensive capabilities of the technological marvel. The skyseekers crashed into the entrenched positions of the enemy like a shining wave of orange and gold, ebbing and flowing against the fortifications, power blade and lance stealing kills while they weaved to avoid the same. Each moment the foe was held in place was another moment closer to the columns of the Imperial forces being brought to bear within the city.

Sekhmetara watched this and more from on high, through the distant shapes of her physical vision and in the abstract sense through the tactical data streaming from the roaring body of her machine to her. She did not dismiss them, that would be to suggest her mind could ever abandon the recollection of such detail, but for now it changed nothing. Steadily she banked through the air towards much larger shapes rushing through the traumatised air towards the city. Beside the hulking frames of the airborne Cestus Assault Rams, even the figure of a primarch astride her warbike appeared small. Unlike the rest of the Tears of Dawn present, these vehicles did not bear the heraldry of the wider legion but instead the dominant black of the first company, roaring through the air like the ominous clouds of a storm.

“Unleash my wrath.” She spoke over the vox, now simply to the pilots of these craft, before they echoed back; “Your Eyes Upon Us, Sire.” As one, the squadron of craft banked, pulling down into a terminal dive towards the city, engines powering down as the vast bulk of the craft yawed downwards. Heavy, ponderous shapes for aircraft, they quickly began to draw what fire the enemy could manage to bring given the escalating warfare on two fronts. The trajectory of the craft, already looking like they had been downed, had them on course for nothing of tactical note within the city, falling downwards to likely crash among the residential districts of the urban sprawl. The city did not have air support to spare to make sure already defeated enemies wouldn’t impact with force.

Thus, unaware, the last free people of Praxia watched as doom fell towards them.

The Serpent’s assault was scattered and disorganized. Few of the assault craft had made the relative safety of the Loyalist held hangars and as vox reports of hundreds of separated squads of Astartes and Auxilia alike filtered through the command structure of the void assault the success of the strike seemed to hang in the balance, tilting steadily towards failure with every passing moment. The Auxilia command structure did its best to salvage the grim situation. Human operators relayed orders to dozens of units to reorganize the remnants of the assault into coherent formations and press them on to new objectives from where they had unexpectedly made entry. And for a brief time, the efforts of the Tactical Officers seemed to be working, but moods soon darkened as it became clear that for every success these attempts found there were twice as many failures as understrength squads and fireteams of Auxilia came up against defended strongpoints or the traitor forces in number.

The Serpent’s command structure seemed to fair far better than its mortal counterparts, though the condition of their forces on the citadel itself were equally as deficient. Where squads of Serpents found themselves cut off from the main assault they went to work quickly and without need for prompts or confirmations from higher. The injured and dead were left in their harnesses or in their many pieces wherever their craft had made their final entries into the citadel and those fit to fight had made no small show in their presence in these areas of the firmly traitor controlled citadel. Bolter and chainsword harrowing the arrival of death and destruction as groups of Astartes two or three strong stormed muster positions, ammo depots, and strongpoints at random throughout the citadel.

The individual actions of the Serpents scattered throughout the citadel on their own served no greater purpose than to cause death and destruction in the wider scheme of the action, but where dozens of unorganized and haphazard assaults were being tracked and relayed by tactical officers a clear picture was beginning to form in the mind of Captain Mayalen. The Second Company commander stood above the bustle of the strategium, clumsily tapping the fingers of her newly fitted augmetic arm atop the guard rail as she reconciled with the sudden loss of contact with her Primarch and the crushing weight of total command over the shattered assault that it had suddenly heaped upon her.

“Tactical, inform our cut-off squads to press the fight, there will be no withdrawal for them until organized forces can advance from the loyalist sections of the citadel. They must continue their mayhem, by any means.” she stated cooly as her psychotraining guided her emotions away from the great ache in her chest and toward the math of war that could win them the citadel.

Without needing to even consult the data available to her she knew that for every squad of Auxilia pinned at a strongpoint or pushing through a hall a number two or three times that was sent to halt or destroy them by the traitors, and for every two or three of her own Sisters engaged within the citadels winding corridors and chambers, a number five or ten times as many were sent to eliminate them. For these were the required victory conditions required by the mathematics of war, the tactics of numbers that no doubt guided the traitor defense of the citadel were the same as those employed by humanity since the earliest days of warfare, for overwhelming numbers ensured victory, and even now in the age of voidships and Astartes, tanks and Titans, the math had changed little.

She watched as the grim numbers of war were tallied and tolled on the scrolling data slates and in the clipped vox chatter and attempted hails from the strategium beneath her to the scattered and engaged forces in the citadel and painted the grim picture in her mind..

Entire Auxilia companies were being annihilated within the sprawling citadel of the space elevator, and she choked down bile as it became evident that for all the fury that her sisters could bring to the foe they too were fairing only slightly better than their mortal counterparts. Cut off from the rest of their forces, injured and outnumbered there was only so much that even an Astartes could hope to accomplish.

But Mayalen knew that their sacrifices were not in vain. Runes and symbols shifted across the live scans of the citadel as mass reinforcements were diverted to deal with the unexpected appearances of so many forces outside of the expected loyalist assault routes, and where these forces were moved from Tactical staff were quick to flood what forces they could muster to take advantage of the weakened positions. Before her, she could see the victory conditions sliding into place, each death of the cutoff Astartes and mortal Auxilia like a piece of some grand scheme falling rapidly into place.

The Pact complement hit the defenses of the city second, falling like the sledgehammer of an angry god. Fellblades crushed pillboxes under tread while the smaller, sleeker forms of Predators and Vindicators hunted enemy armor, destroying them with vicious, nigh point-blank exchanges of assaults. The Pact were the smallest of the four compliments of Astartes present, but the violence they inflicted with their armored vehicles was breathtaking. Buildings fell, filling the streets with rockcrete powder, forcing anyone not in a rebreather to stumble around in coughing confusion.

The Legionaries however, had no such issue. Pact infantry advanced behind their rhinos, gunning down the confused defenders with remorseless single-taps, the bolt-rockets painting the streets and alleys red with each thunderous shot. Auxilia pressed in behind, bayoneting the wounded and throwing grenades into the windows of any building the Astartes did not deign to clear. The civilian death toll mounted, but no man was willing to risk a woman or child suicide running them with a satchel charge, or smashing into them with a car bomb, or any of the many other tactics humanity turned to when they were desperate.

And at the head of this merciless advance, Inevitability parted the arterial through-ways with the stately dignity of an M2 wet navy battleship cutting through the rough seas of a storm, the Gorgon easily pushing aside burned out Praxian transports and crushing civilian groundcars.

“Tac net’s alive.” Vulf said, “I think our gene-aunt’s Thunderhawk crashed. I can’t see it on auspex.”

“Which one?” Kohl asked, his voice calm as if discussing the weather.

“Cuamani.” Vulf rasped. “The Serpent’s mother.”

“Ah, the amazon.” Kohl said, “Well. They’re all in the citadel, correct? The spaceport?”

“Aye praetor.”

“No concern of ours then.” Kohl said, curtly. “A primarch is easily capable of surviving such a thing. There’ll be time to find her after we crush this rabble. Drop the hatch here. I think it’s time for the Gunslingers to hunt.”

The gorgon came to a crushing halt, stopping in front of a strip-commercia that was blistering the vehicle’s paint with autogun fire. The heavy front prow of the assault transport slammed down, two tons of ferro-steel making a noise like a church bell. The violence that erupted from the front of the vehicle was breathtaking, ten Astartes at a time firing full auto from the hip as they piled out, killing and maiming every rebel under their guns by sheer weight of fire. The lascannons, at maximum depression aboard the Inevitability’s command tower, plugged beam after beam of bright energy, detonating heavy weapons before they could fire, vaporizing men even with glancing hits.

Kohl and Vulf jumped down the back, both of them armed with spear and chainsword, landing on the rockrete below. They stormed the building, feral grins on their faces as their blades met flesh, rending, decapitating, bisecting men with vicious strikes that no human could hope to counter. Their armor was washed red, this defence outpost the unlucky target of the most violent and warlike of the Tenth Legion.

In total, the strip-commercia rebels, one hundred and sixty all told, had been killed to a man, viciously and inhumanely. The action had taken about three minutes. The Gunslingers, the elite close assault infantry of the Pact’s 2nd army group, took a few more minutes to drive rebar stakes into the rubble with the heads of the rebel officers and non-commissioned officers of the outpost driven upon them, and then they were back aboard Inevitability, on the prowl for the next rebel strongpoint.

Aboard the Redemption, Daena and her court continued to stare at the hololith depicting the battle above and below. The Pact and the Tears worked well together, that none could contest. Doomsayer elements traveling behind the armored curtain of the two forces came well under the estimates on their meticulous time tables, sheer brutality having not been adequately factored into the grim arithmetic of war.

Mastodons ground to a halt and became makeshift command centers as Land Raiders flushed out those who had survived or who had been overlooked by the Lancers. Astartes fanned out to hold the ground that had been taken, presenting a hard target in advance of the encroaching mortal Auxilia. Slowly but surely, the forces of the Imperium tightened their noose about the hive’s ground level, thunderous fire masking the sound of millions of marching feet. What batteries ringed the walls were either already ablaze or firing down upon the Astartes, leaving the comparatively soft targets of unaugmented infantry to slowly filter inside.

The women gathered around their Primarch freely muttered to each other, the Angel having little regard for keeping her daughters quiet. Especially not those who would fight alongside her when the time came.

“Swift,” an Arcana said in a commending tone, her gaze locked on the icons of the Legion Mistress’ forces and the shadowy doubles that showed where they had been projected to be at this stage of the assault.

Bloody,” another corrected, gesturing towards the locations of the Pact’s advance. “You don’t clear residential and commercial areas that quickly while keeping the fight clean,” the second Arcana chided.

“It will win the battle, will it not?” the first retorted.

“But will it win the peace?”

Daena ignored the debate between her daughters, her attention already turning from the victories on Praxia itself. Instead she, and those more senior Doomsayers who knew best their mother’s moods and priorities, were focusing entirely upon the orbital citadel. Within that structure there were no swift advances, no beating time tables, no easy victories. Sigils of Serpents and Solar Auxilia winked out with a startling regularity, initial beachheads repulsed and destroyed.
Where the breachers had failed, the Revenants who followed in their wake were already doomed. Resigned - even moreso than the rest of their grim order - to death against the forces which had already annihilated the first teams of Astartes, they unleashed the most ruinous weapons of the Legion to bellow their defiance.

Phosphex and rad missiles seared the corridors through which those doomed women strode, the rebels who had so valiantly slew the Serpents forced back and back and back. Poison seeped through the armor of their killers even as they fled, the victory bitter. Though some had cheated death this day by unleashing the most horrid of weaponry, reclaiming the beachhead that their sister Legion had lost, each knew that they had cut their lifespans by decades in a matter of seconds. Not all were so lucky, even the might of mankind’s darkest days was not enough to overpower the grinding weight of numbers which the defenders brought to bear. Entire sections of the bastion lay silent as the grave, the attackers having been slain with their opponents perishing to the vile toxins they had used as reward for their victory.

The story was far different where the Serpents still stood, their initial advance soon reinforced by luckier Revenants. The cruel glow of volkite and power weapons lit their hunting grounds, their jetpacks roaring as they undertook the unforgiving work of linking together pockets of Solar Auxilia. With the Serpents providing constant pressure on the rebel forces, the Revenants were free to cut through their lines to break encirclements around their mortal allies. Though their runes flashed out at a terrifying pace, they succeeded more often than not, scattered Imperial pockets slowly turning into united fronts pressing into rebel lines.

“While victory seems assured, perhaps we should delay?” Asha asked her Primarch with a glance towards the chrono, the Praetor Primus following her overriding directive to keep the woman alive. “Without Lady Nelchitl in command, the assault on the citadel has been slowed beyond tolerance limits. I do not think its command center will be taken in time for ou-”

“Nelchitl will succeed,” Daena said simply, her grip on her force spear so tight her knuckles were slowly turning white. “We follow the plan.” Irisless eyes scanned over the hololith as she spoke, her attention shifting with supernatural speed to each vanishing rune of a dead Doomsayer. When she spoke again, it was almost a whisper, an afterthought so minor that only the smallest fraction of her attention could be devoted to it.

“Ready the drop pods.”

---

With force that rippled through the ground even over the destructive might of war, the obsidian craft of the Tears of Dawn First company struck the city. In several seemingly random locations, the heavy ceramite craft plowed through the spires of the city, shattering residential and commercial towers with crushing force. The assault rams ploughed through and down like a knife, the ceramite unchanging beneath the force of impact and collision. Mortal humans within would have been pulverised, even power armoured astartes would suffer under such force.

When the plummeting fall of the craft finally came to a halt as their momentum was spent, their hulls still steamed with the heat of their sudden plummet. Far from the combat lines of either side, the front facing exit hatches clanged open with force. The surge of motion from within was immediate, with vicious snarls, loping figures leapt from the stricken transports. In modified power armour, powered lightning claws flickered to life in the place of gauntlets and weaponry. The armour of each bore the scars of their dramatic crash, but none seemed phased, heads snapping back and forth as they regarded the area they found themselves in, panting, bestial breaths from the voxgrill’s of their helms. Their helmets were the most remarkably different from the norm of the Tears of Dawn, their visages shaped like bestial monsters from Mithra, and most notably, with no visible sign of eye lenses.

The pack, for they seemed barely more than animals, fanned out in a protective measure of their craft, in a manner that was tactical but barely restrained, practically snapping at each other in the moment. A few seconds passed, before the heavy tread of footsteps followed them from the Assault ram, the bulky form of a First Company terminator advancing into the space cleared by these unusual marines.

Icari” The metallic voice of the terminator drew the attention of the savage killers for a moment, “Hunt in her name” With the command, there was a collective snarl of recognition, before they swept away, no longer a pack, each a murderer assigned to their own hunt, a tide of obsidian clad destruction.

-------------

“Sire, the Icari have been deployed, landings were not ideal, but remain within acceptable proximity to their targets.” The report reached Sekh’s cortex as she raced over the streets of the city as it began to burn. Even a primarch, cut off as she was deep in the city, could be overwhelmed if she remained in place for more than a few moments. She had ‘fallen’ with one of the assault rams, it’s powerless plunging form concealing the even deadlier target of the primarch and her craft attached to its hull until the final moments. Those of her daughters affected by the overpowering blessing of her bloodline, their eyes burned out and their minds turned to madness, were little use as traditional soldiers, but she had found a way to wield them. She alone could place a psychic command within their minds, a simple one, a hunt, a kill, but they were more effective than any simple missile. Working with her infiltration teams who had infiltrated the city long prior to the siege, she had personally picked out targets for each of them. Civilian leaders, monuments of unity, anything the people could hold to in their time of defiance. She would see them slaughtered and brought low. Of course, her sister’s legions could not fight alongside them, but that was where her legion’s history as saboteurs came in handy. They had long fought entirely beneath the notice of the others; now they even had the distraction of the rest of the legion to aid them.

That was not her target, though, while her chosen daughters vented her fury in darkness, her place was always the light.

With a scream of jets, she banked around another street, a surging motion approaching the churning form of the Pact’s Gorgon. With an artistry which belied the scope of her form, Sekhmetara leapt, the datalinks between her and her steed retreating from her in a fast enough separation that it registered as pain even across her enhanced form. Apaosha banked around, the jetbike still hovering in the air around its Mistress as she now stood atop the Pact’s vehicle, her vox link to those within opening up.

“Having fun are we?” She spoke with an amused tone, despite the ever present fury of her wrath burning with her chest, honing that emotion into a fine blade so that she might retain the aura of her diplomatic self. “My Daughters have made contact with the largest remaining loyalist holdout on the ground,” As Sekhmetara spoke, Apaosha provided the information to the Pact, the machine spirit of the ancient vehicle streaming the information faster than most of the Imperium’s current technology. The location in question was a large complex previously occupied by one of the many great noble houses that had remained loyal to the Imperium, now converted into a militarised holdout that seemed to have kept the rebels at bay. “I hope that isn’t too much of a detour?” There was mischief to her tone, a grim humour which might even seem strange coming from a primarch to simply an astartes, but her blood was up, and Sekhmetara could resist no joys, be they in blood or speech.

Forty one guns were pointed at the Primarch of the Tears when she landed aboard Inevitability, all except Praetor Kohl’s.

“Stand down.” He said to his men, looking at them with a disdain that was civilized for his breed of Astartes. He looked back up to Sekhmetara, and grinned, the smile as sharp as a knife’s monomolecular edge. “Fun enough. Mortals only give so much amusement, but… we make do. Don’t we, Vulf?”

“Aye.” Vulf said, through his mangled face.

Kohl watched the data flood the Gorgon’s simple cogitators, marveling at how the jetbike seemed to effortlessly overpower the troop carrier’s datafeeds. He’d have to speak to a priest about updating Inevitability’s cogitation suite; it was clearly not up to task for his personal vehicle.

“Dearest aunt, I think we could make an exception, just for you of course.” Kohl purred, flexing his fingers. “Vulf, if you’d be so kind? Redirect Inevitability to these new coordinates. And… vox anything escorting us to do the same. Keep whoever’s hunting out there hunting though.”

The Gorgon swayed, turning to the new heading Sekhmetara had provided it. Everyone except Kohl, Vulf, and presumably the Tears of Dawn’s Primarch had to brace as the boat-like vehicle went hard to starboard. The smaller vehicles, a platoon of Predators and a company of Rhinos, carrying Auxilia and Pact alike, swerved to follow.

“We’ll be there in minutes, dearest Aunt.” Kohl said, looking up at the radiant, golden brilliance of Sekhmetara. “You’re welcome to ride with us, though, you may wish to move inside the command tower instead of… standing atop. It is more comfortable.”

Sekhmetara let out a short laugh at the suggestion, detaching her helm from its maglocked place upon her waist and setting it over her features. Designed in the style of the Mark IV Maximus helms her legion favoured, it differed only in the gilded laurels, shining gold, which cross the top of it.

“I will be comfortable enough where I am, they can try to strike me down if they dare.”

With the intercession of the Doomsayers, the situation on the citadel evolved rapidly. Solar Auxilia joined their forces where they could, pressing further through the innards of the citadel as the carrion call of securing their victory beckoned them ever onwards. Serpent squads, hard pressed to make movements just minutes before, moved through the miasma of the Revenants destruction as they cleared entire subsections of the citadel with rad missiles and other weapons of humanity's darkest ages. The steadfast warriors of the Emperor pressed further past the smoke of still burning phosphex at crackling barricades and through the haze of deadly radclouds that filled silent and unmoving strongpoints, all but sentry guns standing in the way of the Serpents’ relentless push toward the command center as they used the sacrifices of their cousins to the fullest.

The armored form of a Third Company Serpent stalked through the aftermath of a phosphex strike with cold silence, stopping only to regard the black armor of a Doomsayer slumped against a bulkhead. The daughter of the Emperor’s Angel lay unmoving, the black paint of her armor burnt away in several places where their own strikes must have come back to bite them. She turned her gaze in disgust at the use of such terrible weapons and keyed her vox, the line crackling with distortion and ghost signals as she silenced yet another rad alarm from her suit's sensors.

“The Doomsayers have ensured our victory, Mayalen, and they pay a high price,” she paused as she took in the sight of her own injured Serpents stood around her, “Though I am unsure as yet for which of us the butcher’s bill is highest.” she let loose the mic and waited, the strange noises of the interference scratching at her mind as she attempted to filter out the aftereffects of the weapons at use in the citadel. The line crackled to life and a far clearer response rang through her ears than she had expected from the Solstice’s End.

“The traitors make for their final stand in central control, mass withdrawals across the citadel. Advance at once and link with the Fifth, they remain mostly intact. Yaotl, your forces will combine for the final assault, the citadel will rest in the hands of the Serpent’s within the hour.”

The Captain of the Third Company turned to regard the form of the Doomsayer once more, noticing the forms of several more still Revenant’s littered amongst the room behind her before turning to the Serpent’s gathered around her, “We take central control, now for the Serpent, forever for the Fifth Sun.” she stated, the ever present animation of the Serpent’s absent as they fell in solemnly behind their Captain.

As soon as the chrono on the bridge hololith passed a certain mark, the Emperor’s Angel stood from her throne, pounding her spear upon the deck. “They will succeed. We make our move as planned,” she announces, passing her weapon to a small robed creature to place her helmet upon her head. Her daughters follow suit, the Doomsayers’ faces obscured by ceramite battleplate as the hisses of atmospheric seals engaged. The armored forms take their leave of the bridge, the same images on the bridge’s hololithic screens now overlaid inside of Daena’s helm. With a blink click as she made her way through her vessel’s corridors, the orbital citadel was focused in her field of view.

The momentum of the Revenants had been exhausted in their charges, the majority of those who had breached the fortress now dead, dying, or attempting to save themselves from joining the former two categories. Those still in fighting condition were forced to slow their onslaught and put away their most noxious weaponry, now charged with ensuring that the mortal auxilia completed their own goals in time.

But time was slipping away. Daena and her closest oracles had spent the hours before battle parsing the strands of life and death to divine their course of action, and they had decided upon a bold plan. Too bold, perhaps, but the surviving Doomsayers aboard the station knew what their mistress required of them. With a grim determination, they brought themselves forward to form a battle line with the Serpents to strike at the heart of the citadel.

All of this was nothing more than blueprints and blinking runes to their Primarch, Daena forcing herself to think of them as nothing more. The time for grief was later. Another blink click and the citadel was banished from her overlay, the woman having walked more or less on autopilot from the bridge to the great hangar bay. Yet another blink click brought the overlay back, this time of the massed ground forces assaulting the hive’s base.

There was precious little the rebels could do to harm her daughters there - mostly because the Pact had slaughtered them before the Doomsayers even came into range of their guns. What advantages their strange weaponry gave them, it was of precious little utility when the fighting was up close and personal. Pact armor shot gaping holes in fortified rebel positions, Doomsayer infantry dismounting to purge those who were lucky enough to survive but foolish enough to remain. Volkite barrels glowed and chainswords roared within the depths of the hive, the terror of the Imperium at war brought in full to Praxia.

It was a way of war that the Pact and the Doomsayers were well practiced in, a return to the subjugations of centuries past, before their Primarchs were discovered. Brothers and sisters in arms, and just as frequently siblings in truth, the two Legions had perfected the art of doing far more than breaking the enemy’s might. They were here to break the rebel’s soul, to put the fear of the day’s carnage into their very bones and ensure that they would never rise again. Such was distasteful to Daena, but she was never the sort to permit distaste to override more practical considerations. Praxia had rebelled once. It would not be permitted to do so again.

Massacre and slaughter followed in the wake of the blinking runes of the Doomsayers, the massed forces of the Imperial Army crashing down to flush out those who had survived the first two crashing waves of Astartes. Hidden among them, sheltered within the charging steeds of the Tupelov Lancers, her own scientists and engineers - free of the dogma and superstitions of Mars - busied themselves looting the field, claiming the most intact examples of the strange weapons the rebels had used during the short conflict. This was the true victory as far as the Angel was concerned, for the war against Praxia was sure to end this day. It was the war against their benefactors that concerned her far, far more.

She was about to blink click the overlay away and see to her own contribution to the day, until she noticed her Legion Mistress’s Mastodon peel away from its assigned assault lane and turn to follow Kohl’s Gorgon. The gleaming rune of Sekhmetara herself atop the vehicle was explanation enough for Daena, the Primarch deciding to let Vairya follow her own judgement. If her gene-sister was there, it may prove to be the thickest of the fighting.

But such concerns were not on her mind as the chrono at the corner of her vision turned red as it neared zero. Blinking the overlays away for good at last, Daena found her standing face to face with the open hold of a drop pod, her personal guard arrayed around their own. The next three words would seal their fates - glorious victory, or ignominious death. Scanning the souls of her daughters, the fates swirling about them all read the same - an explosive end, trapped within the confines of their drop pods. There was still time to abort, to redefine the battle plan and increase their odds of survival.

One conviction drove her decision, a belief she refused to give up on. The Serpents would succeed. Nelchitl would succeed. She gave the order.

“Board.” One hundred armored forms ducked into their drop pods, settling themselves into the crash couches and securing their arms inside of impact gel reservoirs.

“Secure.” Legion serfs and mechanics swarmed over the pods, the final checks and seals performed. Armored doors slammed shut, sinking the Astartes into darkness as their harnesses were triple checked.

The chrono continued racing down, the angry red runes finally approaching 0:00:00.

“Launch.”

Hard rounds and exotic energy beams laced the air of an intersection ahead of the advancing Serpents, a group of battered Solar Auxilia holding the corner that led toward the source of the onslaught and exchanging fire with little result as the Serpents approached.

“Lieutenant,” came the harsh voice of Captain Yaotl through her voxgrill as she came to a halt just a few meters from the wall of fire streaming past the corner of the hallway, “report yourself.”

A Solar Auxilia pulled himself from an auspex device and turned to regard the voice stiffening as he registered the hulking form of the Captain of the Third stopped just a few steps before him. He keyed something internally and his own vox grill came to life, “Sub-Lieutenant Kaczmarek, 3rd Saturnyne Rams, Lord.” he motioned back at the hall just behind him with a wave of his hand as he spoke, “I’ve sent two squads to search out a path of less resistance, but have lost contact with both Lord. I fear the only way to our prize is straight up the throat of that fire.”

Yaotl scrutinized the Sub-Lieutenant as he spoke while at the same time shifting through internal layouts of the citadel, the many ongoing engagements highlighted in angrily blinking runes and data readouts. She nodded once to Kaczmarek and placed a gauntleted hand on his shoulder, “My Sisters will take the worst of this, though I expect you and yours close on our heels.” she smiled, the action lost behind her helmet as she noticed that Kaczmarek had not cowed away at her gesture, instead straightening considerably as she spoke.

With a shake of his head that was almost lost under the humans void helm he responded with an assured certainty that carried through his vox grill, “These Rams are yours to command Lord, anywhere and anytime.”

“Very good. We’ve a citadel to claim then.” the Serpent responded as she took her hand from the mortals shoulder and stepped out into the passageway. Instantly her armored form was awash with weapons fire, hard rounds sparking as they broke upon her ceramite form and energy weapons scouring shallow marks into the turquoise outer layer of her power armor.

Without missing a beat the rest of Yaotl’s Serpents stepped into the hall with her, bolters and volkite responding to the fire from the traitors as the armored Astartes advanced down the hall. At first there was little reprieve from the intensity of the fire, and several of Yaotl’s group fell as lucky shots found weakened armor or the heavier xenos weapons simply passed through them. But soon the incoming fire began to lessen as the Serpent’s own weapons began to find home among the reinforced bunkers at the end of the hall.

She watched with satisfaction as mass reactive rounds turned the silhouettes of the traitors in the bunkers to clouds of meat as the Serpent's advanced and volkite beams setting figures alight from within as they disappeared in bright flashes of ashe and flame. In moments they were on the bunkers and the ranged combat quickly shifted from barking bolters to revving chainswords, the brutality of war at such close quarters coming to the front as the Astartes fanned out through the small bunker complex leaving eviscerated corpses and limbs haphazardly in their wake.

“The entry is ours.” Yaotl voxed back to the Solstice’s End and waited as her Serpent’s took neat positions along the massive blast door that led to the citadel's central control.

There was a hiss of static and the strange whispers from the earlier interference returned before the voice of Mayalen once more overpowered them, “The Fifth have taken their entry points as well Yaotl, they send squads to reinforce you as we speak, hold until they reach you.” the line dropped for a moment and the ghostly interference returned stronger than before for a few moments until once again Mayalen’s voice rang in her helmet, “The citadel must be taken as quickly as you can,” there was the sound of commotion and frantic yelled messages in the background of the vox as something changed on the bridge of the Solstice’s End, “Belay that Yaotl, the Doomsayer’s launch for Praxia, you must silence those guns.” the nuance of her fellow Company Commanders voice was lost in the vox but Yaotl heard the urgency in the words of her sister as if she had been standing right next to her.

“Understood.” she replied as she turned to her Astartes, a pallid bunch of survivors and walking wounded arrayed before the blast doors. From behind her the unit of Saturnyne Rams leapt over the barricades and began to take positions at either side of the door, Sub-Lieutenant Kaczmarek stopping beside her as his unit prepared to make entry, “Thought we’d missed the end there Lord.”

“Quite the contrary Lieutenant, you’re just on time.”

As if to punctuate her words the massive blast doors began to yawn open, their ancient mechanisms creaking ponderously as the ceramite doors were pulled apart. Not waiting for the doors to open completely, the Serpents were already flowing into the control center, bolters barking as the Astartes picked their targets and began to seize the room.

Yaotl followed in behind her company, the Rams close at her heels as lasrifle’s began to spit across the control center and up towards it’s many tiered terraces above them.

“Lieutenant, clear the ground floor, my Serpent’s will take the terraces.” she called over an open vox as she moved to a large stairwell leading to the next level.

The fighting was quick and surprisingly easy. What little resistance was within the control center was made up of nothing more than tech adepts and traitor leaders too cowardly to die with their men at the outer defenses; she abhorred the sight of them as they had attempted to surrender or offered shaky and broken resistance before her Serpent’s and had directed their culling to the last.

Now, stood before a console at the highest terrace of the control room Yaotl regarded the blinking runes before her as she keyed in a number of controls. As she finished one of the runes blinked out, replaced by a scrolling diagnostic text that ended in a single pulsing word, ++Offline++.

Across the increasingly disparate fronts of the fighting the conflict only grew in intensity. The rebels may have lacked the superhuman capacity for war-making that the Legions and their primarchs possessed, but they had become more than a rabble of discontents. The city did not offer the easy sweeping victories of the earlier War for Second Compliance, they had grown hardened by the months of campaign and weeks of siege. Carefully managed withdrawals from the crushing blow of the Astartes assault were laiden with traps, or supported by overlapping fire. While the initial surge of assault had swept through the beleaguered defences on the ground, the longer the fighting lasted, the more the enemy’s strange technology and entrenched position would tell on the Legions, and whatever was true on the ground, was true many times over within the space port.

One previously minor factor began to play its role, however, in the favour of the invaders. As the eyes of the rebels turned outwards to face the oncoming storm of the Imperium’s wrath, the blade at their back began to bite. Those who had waited under the yoke of the turncoats, listening to encrypted orders passed subtly through the avenues opened by both the Tears’ hidden operatives and the civilian network of Isabis’ agents for their moment to strike. Some surged into action with the efficiency and good sense of any organised guerilla militia, but with some notable exceptions. The Serpents and Doomsayers in particular, in the closed confines of the space port, played witness to actions which seemed to make little sense. Manic crowds of loyalists, wearing a kaleidoscope of colour, crashed into fortified rebel positions, favouring the cut and thrust of melee combat when use of ranged weapons would have been far more likely to preserve their weaker mortal forms. They died in great numbers, only successful in their attacks through audacity and the press of the Astartes assault from the other direction. Strangest of all,those who were lamed and crippled, crashing down to the metallic deck of their atriums and hallways seemed to laugh in ecstasy in their few short moments of life, a cackle of delight as their life force sputtered away.

None of this was witnessed by the grinding motion of the Gorgon and her escorts, to the Pact and Sekhmetara the fighting was fierce but within expected parameters. The loyalists they encountered fought as would be expected of those seeking to earn redemption for their people in the eyes of the Primarch, bold and with fierce determination, but no suicidal love of pain and death. They contributed little to the success of the spearhead assault; in truth, the rebel forces within the Hive had the benefit of esoteric technology and entrenched positions. Down on the ground, the battle would be won beneath the grinding tread of the Gorgon and the elegant rage of Sekhmetara.

Some of her siblings had a dedicated preference towards killing up close or from range, she simply valued the hunt. Sekhmetara weaved across the top of the Gorgon, perfectly accounting for the motion of the vast vehicle even as she avoided fire atop it. Even the advanced weapons of the enemy would struggle to pierce her artificer plate, or the shimmering skein of her halofield, but that did not mean she would allow them to touch her. As she moved, the gauntlet of her left arm spat death back at the foe, the twin volkite weapon within turning the foe to superheated corpses with each flick of her digits. While she was a huntress at heart, she did not allow it to consume her, still retaining contact and command with those about her.

“My Daughters’ agents have organised a time for our arrival at the loyalist holdout, let us try to be on time, I do not think they will appreciate holding the door open for us.” Her voice crackled, sonorous even with the metallic tang of Imperial vox traffic. “Do not slow her tread on my behalf.”

“Loyalist holdout…” Kohl purred to himself, as much a predatory cat as his aunt riding atop his war machine. He eyed his auspex, and turned the vehicle to the new bearing. He grasped the lever dictating engine power on the Gorgon’s command console, and cranked it to maximum. The vehicle kicked to life, it’s original stately pace redoubled by mechanical effort. “How loyalist can they be, surrounded by traitorous filth, I wonder?”

Vulf, to his right, smiled his ghoul’s grimace. “I haven’t much trust for any crunchie, let alone the ones on this rock.”

“Well, best hope these… loyalists, stay on their best behavior.” Kohl said, pausing his speech to let the Gorgon smash aside a tanker truck, “It would not be the first time we’ve sanctioned Imperial assets.”

The predator squadron, the three of them left to the ad-hoc formation, spread out in front of the Gorgon, lashing heavy bolter and stubber fire into any pockets of resistance that came into view as the task force made their mad dash to the position Sekhmetara had provided. The lead predator was not familiar to the veteran Lancers, a newbie ride commanded by recent influx, a dour, humorless sergeant named Skole. Dour as he was, he clearly valued his machine, replacing the standard, single barrel heavy bolters with rotary-barrel designs allegedly sourced from their sister legion, the Daughters of Iron.

His predator cut a swathe through mortal resistance, burping long streams of tracer fire into rubble and flesh, turning it all into reddish-grey paste. Kohl was impressed by the display, and made a mental note to see if his gene-sisters could provide more of their technological gifts to his own machine.

Kohl voxed to Sekhmetara, atop the Gorgon, knowing full well the question he asked would seal the fate of whoever resided in the position they were to arrive at.

“Dearest aunt, answer me this.” Kohl said, “My Optio and I are curious. This… ‘Loyalist’ position. What will be the rules of engagement when we arrive?”

“Do as I do, nephews. Wear a pretty smile, but never drop your spear.” The grin the primach wore as she spoke could be heard in her tone over the vox as the tank company moved into position, the gleaming golden figure of the Mithran Primach riding the motion of her grandborne steed with as much ease as she did her own jetbike, the ancient device hovering close, spitting death with its cycling hurricane bolter even as its Mistress watched the approaching holdout with anticipation.

Daena loathed war. She understood this made her an oddity among her siblings, and her reaction to this simple feeling made her odder still. When battle became truly inevitable, lives were her measure of success and currency both. Her goal was always to reduce the bloody cost of the butcher’s bill for all swept up into the maelstrom of conflict, not merely those under her command. Privately, she knew this was a hindrance for her Legion, her daughters prevented from ever truly specializing for a given situation. Yet at the same time, when she put forth her call for one hundred volunteers for her most recent gambit, she had been flooded with responses.

The Angel busied herself with these thoughts as she and her flight of drop pods flew towards Praxia below, a pleasant distraction from the possibility of annihilation. Despite this, her breathing stopped as soon as they entered within range of the station’s main battery, time slowing to a crawl as she examined the runes of each craft she had dragged with her on this suicidal quest. If the Serpents had succeeded, they would be in no danger, her and her companions effortlessly entering the world’s atmosphere. If.

It was only after the buffeting began, the first jealous caress of the place she aimed to conquer, that her breathing resumed. Daena trusted her sister’s Legion, but even a delay in the plan would have led to disaster up to the death of her entire strike force. But such a fate had been defied, and now the next danger neared.

Far beneath them, but rapidly approaching, the void shields of Praxia’s last rebel hive perpetually flickered under orbital and ground bombardment. Drop pods under the strain of reentry traveled far too fast to pass through them under any degree of safety, but that was never the plan. Her engineers had called her insane when she had explained, and then spent days without sleep to modify the drop pods in ways pious technicians may have found blasphemous. Engines were overtuned near to burn out, the blasting caps on the doors enhanced, and the cogitators governing the internal gyroscopes enhanced.

Even so, it was unclear if it would be enough. Each of Daena’s volunteers knew where this ride may end and agreed to follow her regardless. And as the war torn spires of the hive neared, the time to put that trust to the test had finally arrived. The vox crackled to life, and the Primarch gave her orders.

“Burn.” Crash couches and harnesses activated at the sudden shift in acceleration as the engines of the drop pods activated, slowing their calamitous descent enough to render the platforms stable.

“Breach.” Explosive bolts blew doors off of their hinges, the blown free debris swiftly falling to detonate against the iridescent energies of the shield below.

“Jump.” One hundred jump packs activated in unison as the Doomsayers fell from their mounts, swiftly departing the metal shells that they had traveled in. Accompanying them was a single pair of wings buffeting the ozone-tinged air, Daena looking in approval. Their overtaxed engines having performed their duty, the drop pods followed after their doors, crashing against the void shield with another acrid tang of energy.

“To the spire,” was all the Primarch had to order as she and her daughters slowly finished their descent, passing through the field like a knife through butter.

The Angels of Death had arrived.

Sekhmetara watched the corona of fire that heralded the Doomsayers choice of entry with what could only be described as a primal joy. Here was the glory of war, and it shone brightly with her sister’s addition to it.

She had but a moment to appreciate the daring of the Doomsayers before turning back to her own matters. Despite the forces of the Imperium pressing in across the Hive, rebel elements were continuing to focus considerable effort against the loyalist holdout in their midst. She could understand wishing to punish dissidence in a time of crisis, but this seemed beyond the otherwise logical process of the rebel strategy. Logical in all but their decision to deny her.

The armoured spearpoint that was the Pact’s advanced was too much for rebels to hold against at the best of times, with their attention focused inward the astartes armour rolled over them like the tide, fortified positions and infantry both ground to nothing beneath armoured tracks even autocannon and bolter fire pulped them from afar. The loyalist holdout, an estate of some grandeur indeed, was shrouded by a smaller version of the void shield which protected the Hive itself. Writ small, it was far hardier in its concentration, keeping forces from being able to cross the barrier so long as it held under the force of attack. Seemingly it had held over the previous months. As Sekhmetara’s impromptu command vehicle pulled close to the complex’s gate, she paused to speak briefly into her personal vox.

“Sister, ring the bell.”

“You make months of clandestine work sound so simple, most-beloved.” The soft tones of Isabis answered, but no matter her teasing, she complied, whatever contact she had within the sub-dome proved true, and a portion of the void shield began to slide upwards. As it did so, the grand gate to the complex began to open, wide enough for even the vast astartes armour to plough through. The space beyond had no doubt been an aristocratic estate of great scope, such wide-spanning gardens the height of luxury in the urban sprawl. While the shield held out the outside world, the interior had not entirely survived the transition into siege. Footmen in gold-marked armour arrayed in preparation for battle, and many plinths that had once no doubt held sculpture now bore gun emplacements, ready to repel invaders when the shield would eventually fall.

Sekhmetara watched all around her as the tanks ground on, the Pact no doubt paying even less heed for preserving the beauty of the gardens than the current occupants. Even through her helm, she could smell something overly sweet wafting in the air, and the gleaming gold of the militia’s armour brought her back to a time before she knew she was a chosen scion of the Master of Mankind. All the same, the shield closed behind them, sealing them in with their apparent allies. As her personal ride drove close to the central building of the estate itself, Sekhmetara leapt from the roof of the vehicle, landing with an impossible softness before the stone steps which stretched upwards, the entrance flanked by two more golden guardians. They could have been astartes, these two were large enough, and could not be natural humans, their features hidden behind leonine masks. As she climbed the steps, the pair fell to kneel before her, the door swinging open before she had even drawn close. As Sekhmetara drew close, their voices carried softly towards her.

Prayer

It was not the first, nor would it be the last, mortals would respond to the presence of a primarch in such a way, and she swept past them without comment or reference. She checked her speed only slightly, and barely visibly from a mortal perspective, just enough to give her entourage of Pact Astartes enough time to disembark and catch up with her before she process too far from them, the increasingly cloying sweetness of the air putting the Primarch on edge in an all too familiar manner.

Daena flew and her spear sang, swift death following behind her. It was for this that she was born and bred, and it was this that she now exulted in, free of the lies and trappings of the studious bureaucrat she so dearly wished she were.

The defenders of the spire were wholly unprepared from an assault so far uphive, having planned and fortified against a grinding siege that would have slowly made its way from the lower levels. Such wasteful bloodletting was distasteful to the Angel, and so she refused to accept it, her and her chosen daughters cutting a swathe through what paltry forces opposed them.

Mansions and gardens were filled with the roar of jumppack engines as the Doomsayers went about their business, any who dared oppose them cut down where they stood for their temerity. Still, these were not the brutal killers of the Pact or the ecstatic hunters of the Tears, nor even the pitiless scourges of Terra among her own daughters. Their art was death, but they were instruments of Daena’s will, and brooked no distraction from. As such, those among the rebel elite wise enough to remain inside of their mansions were left unharmed, the Angel and her daughters soaring onward to enact their judgment.

Resistance finally grew stiffer as they approached their goal, the council chambers where the leaders of the rebellion had planned their last stand. The swift advance of the Doomsayers finally slowed as they came upon the first of the gun placements provided to defend them, tall figures in baroque power armor manning the makeshift battlements. Daena reflexively whispered the name of one of her daughters as she fell, the woman simply gone from the waist up.

“It will cost us what it will. On my order,” she announced to her remaining force, blink clicked runes showing their acknowledgement.
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The Second Compliance of Praxia
Aulpollriax


“I…. See now…. We die for your perfection.”

The man no longer squirmed in her grip, beyond the natural response to the strain her grasp placed upon his mortal form. The golden mask set upon his features hid the majority of his expression from her, but his eyes shone with a mad delight as his focus sat unwaveringly upon her. The rest of them lay slaughtered around her. They could have been his closest friends, spouses, children even, yet he held only adoration for the one who had brought destruction upon them. The thought sickened her as much as the pleasant yet foul stench that arose from the bodies of the gene-enhanced guardians who had sought to stop her in her retribution. As her spear had cut through them the fluids that had spurted from the monstrously large beings could hardly be described as blood, a mixture of fragrance and effluence pumped from where arteries should have been.

Thankfully their overlords had bled as mortal men, and the creeping taint had been washed clear with a deluge of human ichor. He was the last, or at least, the last that mattered. The warriors of the Pact who had accompanied her yet roamed the halls of the estate, pumping bolter rounds into any remaining Praxians they found. They had responded as swiftly and without question to her commands as if their own Primach had ordered them to do so. That was a praise she would sing to their gene sire once the killing was done.

“You die because you shun the Emperor’s Truth, and cower behind false gods.” Sekhmetara snarled, her armoured grip squeezing around the man’s throat. Something popped within the mortal’s throat, but through a gargle of blood and bone he still spoke.

“You are promised, child of the Serpent’s Nest, The galaxy shall walk in your golden light and know only His perfection.” Even as she brought him pain and suffering beyond which his body could come back from, he did not waver.

“Bask in my Light then. My future is my own.” She witnessed the reflection of her own blazing gaze in the shine of the golden mask the man wore a moment before the heat and fury of her eyes struck him. That was too much even for faith to press beyond and the man screamed and shrieked as the mask began to melt to his features. She could have annihilated him in a moment, but she had enough control of her gifts to allow him to live for the first moments as flesh and metal became one. Even through his shrieks, he gibered about prophecy. That earned him a final death, the solar fury of her eyes increasing to blast flesh from bone, leaving only the gold clad skull which she shook free of the charred corpse. Hot sizzling blood still dripped and hissed from her war plate. Most of the enemy had not been armoured, had practically lined up to be torn apart by her in some form of twisted worship.

As she turned to climb the filigree stairs which made up the far end of the chamber, her footsteps left pools of the substance. The heat exuded from her form refused to allow the tangy liquid to clot and slow, running down her armour in trickling waterfalls as she steadily climbed the decorative stairs. At the summit a marble throne dominated the far wall, the pristine white stone decorated with gold leaf and rising up into a huge frieze. The artistic depiction was beautiful and horrific all the same, human figures depicted writhing with serpents, all surrounding a vast semi-human face which glared from above the back of the throne, the exposed tongue of the collosal visage forming the back of the throne itself. She had not witnessed so perfect a depiction since she had last looked upon her father, her plated fingers reaching up to brush the elevated cheekbones of the sculpture. In truth it wasn’t her father that bore the most resemblance. With careful consideration, she decided it could have been herself, if she had stripped some of her own femininity away. The true brother she had never had.

She knew not what compelled her, but she turned her back to the vast face, looking upon the miasma of slaughter she had left through the room. Her eyes still roared with burning fury, and as she refused to dim the psychic power rushing through her, the deep brown mane of her hair ignited as well turning white then bursting into the fiery locks which denoted the fullest extent of her potential. Then she took the throne, pressing herself into the groove of the tongue with ease. When the High Priest, or whatever ridiculous title he had used, had been sat upon it he had been utterly engulfed, a ridiculous pawn upon a vast throne. She rested within the alcove as if it had been made for her, the width of her hips perfectly held without tightness, the armrests aligned so that the fingers of her hands just draped over the edge. The full length of her height placed her head right at the cusp of the tongue-ridge, so that she appeared framed by the frieze without any of her being obscured. She allowed the image of poised perfection to exist a moment longer before she lent forwards, one elbow resting on her right knee. The image of a conqueror who had seized the throne, rather than the queen it had been crafted for.

”All wings reporting, Encarmine Protocol targets eliminated, Sire.”

The voice crackled in her ear, not as pristine as the audio of her helmet, but she had removed it long before.

“Received, begin retrieval of the Icari.” While she felt a sense of pride for how swiftly her daughters had reacted to the paradigm shift of their deployment, she would wait for true praise. The call of slaughter was upon her, the taste of iron in her mouth and to wax lyrically in his moment would have drip too much of her blood lust into her words.

”Your Eyes Upon Us, Sire.”

She turned the charred skull in her left hand over, regarding the ashen bone held together by the previously molten metal now hardened across its skeletal features, before setting it upon the left armrest of the throne. She shut her eyes, steadying her breathing as the song of conquest still rang in her ears, the pool of blood seeping from her armoured boots growing as it began to run back down the stairs, channels of the slick substance, still refusing to curdle and clot, interrupting the gold and white perfection of the climb to where she sat.

”Your sister approaches”

The voice was Isabis, no doubt monitoring the motion of the Primarchs aside from the military operation. Sekhmetara had no doubt which of her gene-siblings she meant. She did not reply to her adopted mortal sibling, instead simply relaying the message to the Pact securing the compound. There was little chance Daena could be mistaken for any other oncoming aerial blip, but it still seemed reasonable to warn them and alert them to her permission for her sister to join her. She was, afterall, in overall command.

Sekhmetara did not move from the throne, but she did open her eyes, regarding the slaughter one further time before resting on the embossed doorway from which her sister would shortly arrive.

Daena had flown with the haste that only rage could proffer. The plan had been simple - Sekhmetara was to relieve and join forces with the loyalists in the spire, and from there fight upwards, splitting the attention of the hive’s defenders yet another time. With threats from above and below, the decapitation strike would catch them outmaneuvered and out of position. Yet that was not what had happened.

Instead she had found her strike force flanked by reinforcements sent from lower in the spire, the very elements that Sekhmetara and the loyalists were to have tied down. Her only support in that chaotic killing field were the misbegotten and murderous daughters of the Tears, women who seemed to have little understanding of who or what they fought for considering the trail of death they left behind them.

The cost for their victory was far greater than it ought to have been due to this deviation from the plans, and each fallen Doomsayer weighed upon the Angel’s heart as she approached the gutted palace. Her rage, vague and unfocused as it was, already began to cool as she examined the charnel field the Tears had made of the loyalist compound. It had clearly been a slaughter - for the most part, and the sight of the only corpses that had seemed to proffer resistance caused her lips to curl into a sneer of disgust at their warped and inhuman forms.

At last she arrived at her sister’s taken throne, the Angel brushing aside the errant desire to bow before her. Still, she could not but admit that Sekhmetara was sitting where she belonged. Even if that place was surrounded by gore. Calming herself, she remained assured that there must be a reason for such apparent madness. Her sister would not act so otherwise. “What occasioned such foulness, beloved of my heart?”

“The foulness festered here long before our arrival, Sister.” Sekhmetara rested back into the throne as she spoke, straightening back up to perfectly fill the frame of the throne, her hands resting along its edges as she beheld Daena, her eyes focused once more. “This was a cleansing, one that my daughters will complete before we are done here. “ The righteous fury which surged through her had yet to fade, her eyes burning with an intensity which settled on Daena, even if she was not the true focus of the Primach’s ire.

“I have not spoken to you of such things, but you were not the first of our siblings I met. Our father brought Sarghaul and his Lurkers to Mithra. I have spoken of the overlords of my home, the Empire of the Scale, who I drove from Mithra’s surface.” Her attention drifted from Daena as she recounted the tale, a new truth matched with a familiar tale. Her armoured gauntlet lifted the gold-clad skull of the priest up to her own features, the charred icon of her handiwork staring back at her.

“It was not I who threw down the halls of my childhood, who burned the estates of the Empire upon Thotha and vented its environment to the void, only then choking the flames of its destruction..” With a dismissive flick of her fingers, the skull clattered from her grasp, trailing down the stairs to rest beside where Daena stood. “I was present, I knew the necessity, but it was the Lurkers who fought those battles with me, not the people of my home. They wept and raged against the purging, for many we were fighting to free Thotha of the Empire, but our Father had shown me the necessity of it.” Finally, Sekhmetara stood. The fury boiling within her faded, but did not cease, as she descended the steps, the stone, softened by the heat of her, cracking beneath her golden tread.

“Father spoke to me of the beings in the Warp, Xenos creatures more dangerous than any we fight within realspace. They covert humanity, seek the worship of our masses so they might dominate our reality as well. The Imperial Truth is both our cause and our weapon against them. On a thousand worlds you may find cults and hidden enclaves like these.” With a wave of her hand, Sekhmetara motioned to the reliefs along the walls, the works of foul perfection that detailed the entire estate. “That is why Father needs weapons such as the Lurkers. His own monsters, to hunt the tyrants of Old Night.” Finally, her features settled once more on Daena in full, at last with the warmth of expression usually reserved for her, a sad, knowing smile on Sekhmetara’s full lips.

“I am sorry for the loss of your daughters, Stars of my sky, but this cult of Serpents must be put to the pyre, lest they spread among those who claim to be our subjects, not one may escape, and to that task my daughters can be his monsters as well as our brother’s get.”

Were it anyone else who said such things, Daena would have scoffed. The pagan rites of mystery cults and Warp whisperers were dangerous, it was true, she had had lifetimes dealing with them - but this was beyond the pale. If Sekhmetara insisted upon it however, and if she went so far as to claim that the Lurkers were part of Father’s design…

“Very well, Sun of my days, I shall take you upon your word,” the Angel said after a few moments, her wings wilting at the statement. “A full accounting can wait, there are more pressing issues to deal with,” she continued on, attempting to retain the thread of conversation lest she be swept away by her sister’s zeal. It was more difficult than she would like to admit. “But.”

Pulling herself up to her full height, she locked eyes with her enthroned sister. Things might have been simple to Sekhmetara, but these revelations - if she did accept them as truth - only made things far more complicated. “Sekhmetara. If these,” she said with a wave at the carnage around them, “were our loyal functionaries, worthy of death by your hand, then what does that make the rebels?”

“A traitor is a traitor.” As the Mithran primach spoke, her hand came to rest on her sister’s shoulder, the contact felt through the second skin of their ceramite plate. She remembered well, the time before, when she had not known these lessons herself. When she had walked the shattered halls of her home and questioned the justice of her father’s will. Dissent was still dissent, heresy was still heresy. Only the Imperial Truth could strike the centre, the narrow understanding of reality upon which the Imperium could survive.

“What we do here will seed this world for a thousand generations of humanity that might live in peace and prosperity. I am the Unconquered Sun of Mithra, and I will burn away the cancer buried in our father’s realm.” Sekhmetara’s voice was quiet despite her fervor, whispered words of intimate belief to her sister, even as heat and power radiated from her, only dipping as she came upon the one topic she knew would be painful. “My daughters report to me that you encountered my first company, I sense rage and indignity in you sister, speak your piece that I might quell your concerns.”

Daena turned her face away from her sun as it tried to embrace her, wings shrouding her form. Such breezy statements, so certain and filled with conviction, were easy things for Sekhmetara. They had never come easily to her. “Their treason is our failure. If there was any left upon our worlds who followed such foolishness, then it speaks to our inability to root them. To think that such were placed so high says even worse. What use is a conquest without ensuring the Truth is firmly placed in power? What benefit is so hollow a victory?”

Now she overcame her fretfulness, facing her sister full on, eyes gleaming with the light of her genegift. “You are a hunter, o greatest of stars. And you unleashed your hounds. Tell me. Are these wayward souls to be cowed, or prey to be run down?”

“As we do with any failure sister, in our father’s work. We bring Truth to falsehoods, we correct them. Words have failed. It is time for fire and fury.”
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Lauder The Tired One

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Rahken System
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Mithra Sub-System
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The Moon of Thotha
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Pre-Compliance


"He wishes to speak with her? Now? Alone!?" The unbridled sense of pain in Kvasi's youthful voice crashed across the relative silence of the night, the artificial cool air of Thotha’s habitation domes washing around those few present on the balcony.

“Peace, Nephew, I am sure he will speak with you in time. Matters are moving swiftly.” Iroah Khafre’s hand closed around the younger man’s shoulder, a tone laced with sympathy, but with no real conviction as to the truth of the situation. Below them, motes of light interrupted the deep blue of Night, the sky above dominated by the shade-wreathed enormity of the planet Mithra.

“I am his Son, Uncle, she is-”

“A daughter as much as Isabis, and a child as much as you, I understand your pain, nephew, but do not let it poison you. We must be unified or we will break. Go now, your mother will need your aid if we are to ride this night.” The man’s tone grew sterner as Kvasi’s protest bordered on spiteful, the almost alabaster grey of his long braids catching the light of the Night even as the dark coal of his skin did not. Even in advancing age, Iroah was still of athletic bearing, and the force of his gentle steering was enough to have Kvasi moving, even if it was willingly. Then the older man passed on, heading towards the far rim of the oval balcony.

Sitting upon the cusp itself was the individual he sought. Legs dangling into the plummeting drop to the streets below, even at her lowered position the unnatural scope of her was evident. Almost a decade had passed since the bondsmen of House Khafre had found a unique child in the wilderness of their hunting-domes, surviving where any other infant would have been swift prey to the horrors kept for sport among the biomes. Already she towered over any other adult, let alone a normal human of her own age, a woman grown and more in mind and body. She was terrifying, not in the way of cheap stories but in the epics of old, a being forged for nothing but greatness.

“Sekhmetara, what mysteries do you see out there?” Iroah spoke as he moved to stand beside her, one hand resting on her bare shoulder as they both took in the view, the nightscape of the small settlement gathered around the Khafre estate, and then, beyond its walls, the arid grasslands maintained by the ancient technology which brought life to the moon. The misunderstood gifts of ancient gods, much like the girl studying them.

“Many, uncle. The sand and dirt, the stars.” A year previously she had explained her theories at to the workings of the domes to him on a night both much alike and utterly different to this one. He had not understood, and the idea of her simply being able to unwork such an ancient mystery should have been laughable, but for whatever reason he had believed her immediately. If only the High Priests of the Empire could see pass their own hubris as House Khafre had, recent events need not have played out.

“I wish you had more time to ponder them, Child, but your father has asked for you.” His fingers squeezed once more at her shoulder before releasing, the subtly darker note of his own fingers barely able to dent the musculature of the impossible being. Only the elders, such as he, of the household could ever call her something so familiar these days. He was aware she allowed it out of familiar respect and little more. To call her a child would suggest she had anything to learn from her elders any longer. He believed it a kindness she allowed them, and little more. The thought of her unbridled by such, in a future when he and all who had raised her were no more, filled him with hope and dread and equal measure. Mithra would thrive or die at her whim. Perhaps both.

“Not Kvasi? There is not much time, surely he wishes to speak to his heir, I can-”

“Do not play stupid, Child, it is an act none can believe of you anymore. Tonight is the start of your destiny, allow an old man his right to set you upon it.” Iroah would not have raised the girl as his elder brother had, that was their one great argument, and he disagreed further still with what was to come, but his brother was the next Enkosi Kakhulu, not humble Iroah, and what was the duty of such a title if not to shape destiny? There was a glower of golden eyes, finally turned his way from the landscape, but they softened, as if remembering who and what he was, a sparkling kindness that he hoped would never dim, no matter his brother’s plans. With a rustle of the silks which clad the supernatural woman, she stood, crouching to allow Iroah to put his arms around her in an even and warm embrace.

“No matter what he says, child, remember, your fate is your own, you do not owe us anything.”

“I owe you all my life, Home-of-my-love, all that I am.”

“You were a gift, Sekhmetara, never a duty.” With the soft words spoken between them, Iroah released his adoptive niece, smiling to her as he stepped backwards, even as his heart broke at the look in her eyes. His words had been unheeded, and so his brother’s would be. The gods save them all. “Go, hurry, our enemies will not wait to give us all moments of peace.”

The false-winds which she had unravelled the year before swept around Sekhmetara as she left her uncle to the view she had been contemplating, although not for long, she knew he would shortly head to the Hall of Ukuqalisa as the steeds of the House were awoken from their sacred slumber. She had unravelled the complexity of that process years before, but had kept the knowledge to herself. She preferred the stories the Mithrans told themselves of their greatest weapons.

Even though her strides were greater than any other human she had met, she still hurried to reach her adoptive father’s study, knowing well that any spent moment was a waste. The enemies of House Khafre, the loyal sycophants of the High Priests were closing in, the window of action was narrowing if House Khafre was to decide the terms of engagement.

She had never spent much time in her father’s study, none of them were truely barred from the room, it was simply a sanctuary few intruded upon. Unlike the Great Hall where most decisions were formerly made, it was sparsely decorated, albeit exquisitely so. A carven desk of true wood upon a raised dais of marble steps, the four corners of the chamber framed by burning braziers of white gold. When she entered, she came to a halt at the bottom of the small series of steps, as her father rose from his chair to pace around his desk. He was not particularly tall for a Mithran noble, but the dias was raised enough that with her at it’s foot his head still cleared her own.

“Good, you have arrived expeditiously.” There was always a fire to Inkosi Khafre’s words, the Heir Presumptive to the house as a whole with the advanced age of the current patriarch, even in the quiet of his own company, but when speaking with her, or her siblings, there was a kinder warmth of that flame. “We do not have long, Sekhmetara, our enemy will seek you more than they even seek to crush our household.”

“Then they shall fall. The Priests are wrong, and those who follow them are weak.” The golden sparks of her eyes lit with determination as she spoke, but flickered lower as her adoptive father shook his head with something approaching a sad smile.

“Perhaps, I am sure we would reap a great number of them, but more is at stake here than simply the ambitions of our house over those who would bring us low. I cannot risk my children out of love, and I cannot risk you out of fate.” Even with feet of distance between them, he could feel the form of his daughter tense, impossibly powerful muscles screaming rage at the anticipated order.

“You cannot keep me from fighting with you.”

“I can, and I will. Any father would be proud to ride with you to war, and out of love, any father would wish to keep his daughter from harm. But I am not any father, and you are certainly not any daughter.” Despite the evident sadness in his tone, there was steel to Inkosi’s words, more than prepared for the temper of his divine daughter as her tensed form rose to its full height, growing closer to rivalling him despite the advantage of high ground. “Had Kvasi or Isabis earned the ire of the Priests, I would have them fight, we would ride together and perhaps we might even win, a full scale war may trap us upon this moon, but unifying the Great Houses would be a noble undertaking of their lives, they would be known as some of the greatest heroes of our history. The Khafre name would be secure for a thousand years, perhaps more, perhaps less.” When he continued, his words had lost some of their warmth, but none of their fire. “To risk such for you? I cannot abide such a waste.”

“Father…I..”

“When I found you, Sekhmetara, it was the most auspicious day of all my days, but it was also one of pain. I knew then that the great destiny I had planned for the children of my blood was no more. I had a higher purpose, a greater fate to forge.” Sekhmetara searched his features for any sense of exaggeration, of a hint that he spoke with hindsight, and found only the raw emotion of truth, a crushing cocktail of hope and regret. “I knew my Son would be nothing, my daughter, nothing, to what you would be, what you must be.”

She had, of course, known for as long as she was aware of other humans, that she was marked for more, but to hear the man who had raised her dismiss her siblings so still blazed through her like scalding steam, made worse by the truth of it.

“Take them with you, leave them here to fight and die with me in glory, it is a fate worthy of them, but either way, my bondsmen will take you to the planet, that you might bring all Mithra to heel. And when you are done, you will find a way to the return to the stars that brought you to us, make the gods themselves weep at your feet. Do you understand, Sekhmetara? Anything else is not worthy of you, not worthy of the name we have given you.” FInally he descended the stairs, placing both his hands upon her shoulders, leaning to do so, in a motion which inclined Sekhmetara to kneel in respect, but as the motion began, his voice returned.

“No, Sekhmetara. Never again will you kneel, to gods, or kings.”
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The Massacre of Nyr

Event: The Great Massacre of Nyr Tempus -
Location: NG 31-20 (Nyr Prime) - Nyridian Gulf
Date: M30.868
Parties Involved: XIII Legion, XIII Primarch, Insurrectionists of Nyr Tempus,
___________________________________________________________________________

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[...INITIALIZING DATA CURATED VAULT I.D. 8879-AE-8813…]
[...AUTHENTICATING ACCESS LEVEL ‘PRIMUS’...]
[...COMMUNICATING WITH COGITATOR I.D. ZIV-0013…]
[...COMMENCING DATA PACKET DISPLAY…]
[...DROWN IN DUSK…]


The bolter lightly barked in his ceramite gauntlets as the dusken power armor automatically adjusted for imminent recoil. Muzzle flashes illuminated the alcoves he strode through in slow, deliberate bursts. Seventy-five caliber casings expended out the side of his weapon, cognitive runes accurately tracking the remaining rounds in the armament. Each bullet ejected was a mortal - a traitor - exploded into visceral paint against shattered rockrete. A local augury scan confirmed the presence of more fleeing mortals in the vicinity. The built-in voxcaster within his helmet confirmed enemy movement through tapped vox traffic. Each stomp of his armor brought a sickening crunch over roads choked with mutilated cadavers. Every tap of his mailed finger saw the methodical execution of one more speck in this planet’s populace.
Fleeing silhouettes, traced by sight and augur, leapt around the corner away from himself and his brothers behind him. His footfall lacked urgency, the eventuality of catching up to the group was preordained. The architecture of their doomed home loomed overhead in the form of skyward citadels and monolithic cathedrals stretching across the span of a continent. The sky itself, he noted, was a sickening emerald after the first phospex bombs detonated mid-atmosphere. It was only a matter of time before their victory was assured, he thought to himself, before the traitors were purged.
As if guided by providence, he caught up with the fleeing mortals before they could dive into another building. His squad required no orders, for their bolters answered the final verdict of the Imperium. His gunmetal instrument of death echoed the stentorian roar of his fellow Astartes’, unleashing a trio of short bursts into the crowd. Many of them fell to their flurry, but one remained with both of their hands raised against the tide. Projectiles hung in the air as if wrapped by an incorporeal blanket. He felt his teeth clench at the abomination that stood before him, disguised in the skin of humanity.
“Aberrant psyker.” His words flew from his mouth in disgust. An umbral gauntlet fell to his left side to clutch at the handle of an intricate blade wrapped in an ornate sheath. Adrenaline cocktails filtered through his veins as his body lurched forward with the impossible speed of a gene-warrior. The traitor before him attempted to turn their malevolent gaze upon his brothers; however, it would never come to pass. With his bolter magnetically locked to his right leg, his dusken fist met the frail form of the mortal. Bones shattered beneath his might, screams stained his auditorial modules, and blood sprayed into the air as the figure was battered upon. Thumbing the activation rune of the sword, he cut into the rogue with a brilliant-blue blade. The traitor, vivisected, fell into the mass of ichor formed by its former allies.
+’Squad Zakariah reports successful target elimination of enemy groups thirty-seven through forty-one. Moving to regroup with Squads Yusef and Hazem. Squad Zakariah further reports an additional aberrant kill.’+ He began to speak, moving to the member of his squad with a bulky nuncio-vox attached to his powerpack. The remainder of the gene-warriors stalked through the alcove, scouting the nearby building and confirming the deaths of the mortal ichor-pit. A green rune acknowledged the request before a voice spoke back to him.
+’Legion Command confirms, Sergeant Zakariah. Begin routine purgation protocols of sectors thirteen-alpha with Sergeants Yusef and Hazem.’+ The tentative tone of a vox-operator from the Legion spoke with a monotone, matter-of-fact voice that was shortly followed by Zakariah’s affirmative click.
“We move.” Sergeant Zakariah shouted, the rest of the nine Astartes beginning to coalesce around him in response to his recall. No further words were required as his unit moved back through the alcove into the main thoroughfare of the city. His lenses scanned the scenery before him as one of his brethren began to commune with the augury scanner’s machine spirit on their powerpack. The nearby heavy grumble of a Spartan Assault Tank crushed the rockrete of the metropolis underneath, while the screaming of atmospheric ordinance erupted portions of the city along its furthest edge. To Zakariah’s right, the Astartes of another squad flung limp mortals out onto the shattered boulevard. The crack of bolter rounds confirmed their final deaths in eruptive ichor.
“Another aberrant, Sergeant, should we be anticipating more in Nyr Tempus?” The filtered, vox-grilled voice of an Astartes called out behind him. Ghassan, one of the first few to adorn a shroud from the Primarch’s homeworld, stalked forward to stand next to Zakariah. An umbral bolter with a chain-bayonet idly sat in his Mark III armored palms. His stance was gaudy, his bronze armor reflecting the light of Nyr as a charcoal robe complimented his armored form. Clothes to be grabbed by an enemy, he thought to himself.
“You can read the metrics yourself, Ghassan. The entirety of the Gulf is infested with mutants. It is why we purge this place.” Zakariah hissed to the other Astartes, bile building in his throat at the thought of Nyr’s condemned population. The powersword was sheathed as he idled, the bolter properly returning to his hands from his right leg. A red, runic meter counted half a magazine left in his armament. Fifteen rounds left to deliver the Emperor of Mankind’s justice.
“As the Emperor wills it, Sergeant.” Ghassan coldly replied as the Astartes with the augur scanner began to move ahead of the group. His gaze turned as an inferno ignited to their left, a corpse pile stacked as tall as a carnosaur furiously burned with the help of several despoilers hefting flamers. Billows of smoke rose across the metropolis in carefully designated areas followed by the stench of seared skin. The screams of mortals had faded to whimpers as the sky grew crimson with further orbital assaults. The squad moved on.

A cry born from the heavens boomed across the metropolis as an avalanche of rockrete disintegrated under a lance of blinding, volcanic destruction. The land rumbled in seismic earthquakes as a towering shape slowly strided towards the last bastion of resistance in Nyr Tempus. Their destructive intent honed in on a single, fortified tower that scraped the sky surrounded by a wall with eightfold bastions. Potent voidshields licked the air as a new film wrapped over the hole punched through by the lumbering colossal. An innumerable number of wall-mounted turrets spat angrily at the sky, land, and sea in desperate defense. The air perforated around the top of the Nyrian tower, an iridescent streak of magenta lightning arced through the atmosphere in protest of its fate.
“Fury upon those that would defy the Custos Honoris. Wrath, preordained, befall their walls!” A male voice roared out from a highly ornate, modified throne seated in the midst of a wide chamber overlooking the battle. A swarm of cords connected a mature man with aging, dark hair to the basilius throne. With the exception of the elder, a squad of augmented individuals maintained vigilance over their respective consoles. Each attached themselves to their enormous cogitators, actively pressing runes and tracking invisible data through ethereal cords of information.
+FURY UPON THOSE THAT WOULD DEFY THE CUSTOS HONORIS. WRATH, PREORDAINED, BEFALL THEIR WALLS!+ The leviathan at the forefront of a mechanical pack echoed in a guttural voice that boomed through the titanic mask of knight-like visage. Enormous, red and gold banners whipped against the Nyridian wind from the gargantuan shoulders. The symbol of a cog encircled a black triangle overlapped by a yellow, horned skull with an arrow defining its allegiance. One titanic arm was a single, monstrous barrel with a myriad of rails spontaneously connected to it. The other arm was a six-barreled amalgamation of elephantine proportions. A pair of rocket pods dotted with twenty armament-filled holes attached to the palatine shoulders of the titan. Around the metal behemoth’s legs, several of its metallic kin scurried in different sizes and armaments.
Warhorns klaxoned in defiance as the golden, scarlet giant and its lesser kin broke into a dauntless stride. Clouds of adamantine-tipped rockets ignited from the back of the metallic horde to burst against the tower’s shields in incandescent blooms of promethium. The force fields flickered long enough for a malevolent rain of orbital fire to utterly demolish the foundations beneath the Nyrian bastion. The scarlet deities crisscrossed their acrimonious munitions in a scissoring slaughter, timed perfectly for support from the void.
“Grandmaster Vlendig, tracking anomalous fulmination at the precipice of the enemy fortification! With permission, calibrating void shields for contact in several seconds. Preparing mass stabilizers for contact, recording the probability of crew death at 41.094 percent.” One of the individuals in the chamber repeated as probabilities were tested, counted, and theorized for possible outcome. An audible grinding sound echoed across the room as the old man grinded metallic teeth together in anger; however, he relented with a single nod. The gatling blaster died to a halt as several barriers fortified around the exterior of the Custos Honoris.
Thousands of Nyrians cried for vengeance in their mourning wails, hatred then venting in the form of one last arc from the monolithic citadel’s crowning armament. Energies from the Immaterium sundered the air in an ear-splitting crack. Chloric fulmination struck out into the void to rupture the Imperial starships in orbit. Reality grew pregnant with anticipation as the vessels above splintered, cracking with vicious snaps of shattered hulls. Explosive detonations from immense storehouses painted the sky a brilliant crimson, momentarily enlightening the entirety of Nyr Tempus with a miniature sun. The surface inhaled a terrible gale as wind was cast across several continents, ushering horrendous typhoons onto the shores of the Nyrians. A short apocalypse overcame the invaders, retribution delivered by the extinguished natives.

“Eastward! Let none of them live!” Zakariah roared as a torrent of bloody rain crashed against his armor. The power sword slashed left, dismembering a mortal with the powerfield active. Its azure corona burned through the ramshackle carapace of the Nyrian, slicing through bone and sinew in a single slash. In his right hand the bolter violently barked a hailstorm of bullets, eviscerating hordes of the stubborn defenders into ichor pools. A red rune chimed annoyingly as the Sergeant unleashed hell on the shattered buttress of Nyr Tempus. Reload, reload, reload, I know!, he thought to himself as the next traitor died to his blade.
“Sergeant Zakariah! They’re congregating at a ramshackle starport on the end of the city walls! I have faith that these are their final guardians.” The voice of Ghassan spoke, his voice enhanced through his helmet’s vox-caster. An empty magazine from the Astartes’ bolter dropped onto the plascrete. A fist claimed the life of a nearby mortal while Ghassan’s powerpack supplied his next reload. He flanked the Sergeant alongside five other Astartes, two of their number falling to the uncontrollable might of the aberrants.
+’Yusef, Hazem, converge on my location.’+ Zakariah spoke, the vox traffic blaring with a thousand different voices reciting the same thing on a loop. Orbital assets had been lost, Legio Honorum’s god-engines were stunned, and half of the city was underwater. All of their auxilia had died in the Nyrian apocalypse. Luckily, affirmative clicks from the other Sergeants had confirmed the order. A small salvation in a tide of misfortune, he thought as his stride brought him into the next tower.
The Nyrians scattered in throngs of stinking flesh, his Astartes clearing a small bastion with concentrated salvos of bolter fire. His sword impaled the closest, armed dissident before they could summon their unnatural strength. Zakariah deactivated the powerfield, ripping the entrails from the mortal as he removed his blade. His armored foot stood over the chest of the frail figure, crushing their embers of life with his footfall. The Sergeant planted his blade into a prone Nyrian, utilizing the time to swiftly reload his bolter. His eyes coldy watched the internal augur display fizzle with distortion in an attempt to realign itself with local scanners.
“Brother Aziz I- damnation.” The sergeant had begun to speak out to a fallen member of the squad, quickly remembering that the legionnaire had passed away several moments ago. His crimson gazed attention turned to the scarlet tempest outside the doorway that followed the next series of battlements. His augury feed continued to crackle with distortion. It was ignored as Zakariah led his squad out onto the walls once more.
A flight of stairs momentarily halted their sprint as several hooded mortals barred their path. One of them was hunched over on the ground, clutching at rapidly growing mutations spreading across their body. The other two directed their attention to the oncoming space marines with lightning enveloping their charred hands. As the two functioning guardians began to initiate their attack, a length of azure, feathered tentacle slammed into them. Their silhouettes disappeared into the dark waves below with agonizing cries.
An ignoble mess of flesh, tentacle, and feather coalesced into living form before the Astartes. What could be considered a cross between a mouth and a beak screamed agony and hatred in equal amounts. The thing leapt at the first of Zakariah’s squad to begin firing their bolter. It landed on the superhuman with a sickening crunch of bone and ceramite, outright killing one of his squadmates with unnatural speed. Sevenfold bolter rounds exploded uselessly against the hide of the abomination as the legionnaires composed themselves seconds later.
“Split the beast! Ghassan, Odai, and Rayan with me! Suheil, Rahim, Othman, and Iyad on supporting fire.” The orders flew from the lips of the sergeant as he charged forward with the power sword activated. Ichor-rain sizzled off the azure forcefield of the blade. The former Astartes charged into close combat with their chain-bayonets revving to life. The latter Astartes backpedaled to deliver sharp, precise shots of their bolters. Each legionnaire activated the magnet properties of their greaves to avoid being flung.
The creature responded as a beast normally would, flailing about in every direction with a swarm of extremities. Adamantinum-tipped bullets burst chunks of flesh in vital joints, while a flurry of metal teeth bit into the abomination’s flesh. Howls of human voices and bestial screeches emitted from various orifices on it’s hide. New extremities grew as the beast’s hide was culled in lumps, impaling a bronze-hued legionnaire. A roar of pain groaned from within the helmet of the superhuman as he was speared with a cerulean tentacle. The Astartes gripped the impaling tentacle with a gauntlet, claiming a fragmentation grenade from a belt pouch.
Glory in death, fury for the Emperor!” The marine roared as he further impaled himself along the length of the tentacle. A hand primed the grenade as he closed the distance with the abomination, while the other held himself to the creature’s hide. The Astartes scattered as the legionnaire detonated the grenade. A shockwave of force and a spray of fragmented metal exploded on the battlement. The warrior and the beast disappeared into the waves below in a shower of ichor and explosives.
“Glory to you, Odai.” Zakariah said in a grim tone, the crimson lenses reflecting the demise of the marine. He turned to regard the rest of his squad. Five remained of the original nine: Ghassan, Rayan, Suheil, Rahim, and himself. Each member was battered, bloodied, and stained in the tempest of the Nyridian apocalypse; however, Ghassan’s robes remained impervious to the weather. The sergeant disregarded the cloth with a pained look under his helmet before moving up the once guarded stairs.

What awaited them was a brief overlook of the nearby battlements and a dreadful view of the destruction wrought by the Nyrians on their own planet. Zakariah noted the falling debris from orbit, the flooded boulevards, and standing titans outside the walls. From the point they stood, the sergeant’s augur returned to semi-functioning status. Many of the Legion still lived in separate areas of the metropolis with Yusef and Hazem’s squads converging nearby. A blinking rune on his visor alerted him to the proximity of their target - the improvised starport. He saw it now as his squad stood beside him on the battlements.
A circular area of the northern wall that stretched down into the watery depths of Nyr Prime acted as the landing pad. Several winged vehicles idled on the improvised zone with their reactors glowing hot from overuse. An enormous herd of tiny silhouettes gathered around to escape the self-imposed apocalypse. A row of figures stood outside of the massive group with streaks of lightning or las pushing back larger shadows. Several of the defending forms collapsed or disappeared in a shower of gore. Some of the horde behind them were caught by stray gunfire, spraying other individuals in ichor.
“It seems fair to assume that Yussef and Hazem are already engaged with the enemy, Zakariah. Shall we?” Ghassan spoke out as he watched the carnage unfold in the distance. The sergeant gave no reaction to the legionnaire, pressing forward with power sword and bolter in hand. The robed Astarets gave a short chuckle to the reaction before falling in line with Zakariah. The remaining legionnaires followed after him down similar staircases that they had crossed previously.
On the other side of the stairs awaited a litter of dead Nyrians lying in clumps of ichor. Holes the size of miniature craters pocketed their forms, while others had egregious wound-like fissures that tore some from stomach to shoulder. Fragments of metallic teeth remained embedded in their flesh, remnants of a chain weapon used by the Imperium. Empty bolt-round cases smoked nearby under the scarlet drizzle. Their display displayed probable times of activity before they could begin to speculate; however, the objects nearby would confirm their theories.
Armored forms lay butchered in a nearby bastion, ceramite sundered in several places by energy marks. The legionnaires swiftly moved into the tower with their bolters ready to claim the lives of more Nyrians. None came out to ambush them, however, as they fully entered the structure. The armaments of the marines lowered as they inspected the butchered Astartes. Their weapons lay nearby with similar discharged bolts rendering them useless.
“Unfortunately, these are some of Yussef’s warriors. The rest likely lay ahead.” The sergeant spoke with no emotion attached to his voice, stating aloud as the information flooded his lenses; however, Yussef was not among the number of dead legionnaires. He marched forward, internally marking the bastion as a point to return to once the campaign was over. The warriors behind him shifted to follow in his stead. A few of his squad murmured oaths of vengeance, while the rest remained silent in the face of distasteful death.
The sound of combat grew closer, their receptors picking up the difference between standard lasgun fire and the stentorian bark of bolters. Zakariah felt his blood boil as the end of the campaign awaited nearby. He slightly turned his head midwalk to regard the squad. “The target is nearby. Ready krak grenades. We will accomplish this genocide. No Nyrian shall live past this day.” The sergeant growled with his thumb playing with the activation rune of his power sword. A rustling of equipment echoed behind him as the legionnaires prepared their krak grenades.
Within moments of the auspex chiming the proximity of the target, they could see the first Astartes not attached to their squad that still lived. Members of Hazem’s squad backpedaled as lightning wreathed a covered corridor. A marine attempted to wade through the electricity with their bolter firing on automatic; however, they crumpled under the scorching arcs. The remainder took cover around the corners that formed the three-way passage. One of the superhumans acknowledged the arrival of Zakariah by patching into the squad-vox.
“Zakariah. Glad to see you’ve made it to the objective. Yussef… did not make it. The guardians present on their landing pad are powerful.” The soft tones of Hazem’s voice rang in Zakariah’s helmet. A small smile played across his cracked lips as he rushed forward to reunite with the other squad. Hazem momentarily maglocked the bolter to toss a fragmentation grenade around the corner. A hearty explosion resounded with the scream of several injured mortals.
“Unfortunate. We have no more time to deal with these mortals. Release the rest of your frag grenades and maneuver right. We’ll form the left flank. My squad still has krak grenades available.” The sergeant responded to the other, a short nod from Hazem confirming the plan without hesitation. There was a pause in suppressive fire as the other squad prepared their grenades. An internal timer synchronized with the rest of the gathered Astartes, their momentary rest used to refresh their weapons with fresh magazines.
The chronometers chimed. The grenades of Hazem’s squad sailed through the air as the legionnaires rushed through the alcove. Zakariah split left, Haseem split to the right. Both squads fired volleys of bolt rounds with furious prejudice, tactically picking off the aberrants as the grenades exploded. Several of the guardians attempted to shield themselves in shields of lightning, but their downfall came soon afterwards as the bolts ripped through the shieldings damaged by fragmentation. A handful disappeared in scissored crossfire, their bodies detonating in gore piles or exploding in showers of ichor.
Some guardians still survived, splitting their focus to deal with both squads at the same time; however, the squad sergeants had been prepared for this. Zakariah rushed from the left with the power sword wreathed in an azure corona, and Hazem rushed from the right with a power axe. The speed of their gamble saved them as the untrained aberrants speared arcs of lightning away from the sergeants. The duo's power weapons delved into slaughter, further reducing the number of traitors down to nil.
While the sergeants engaged in brutal melee, the rest of the legionnaires began their final task in the accursed world of Nyr Prime. Those civilians that had not successfully gained passage onto a shuttle were cut down in the form of scissoring bolt fire from the left and right flanks. A few of the Astartes on the left flank split from their slaughter to lob krak grenades with all of their superhuman strength. The anti-armor shells detonated against the hull of the transports, rupturing their bulwarks and sending them plummeting into the depths below.
The carnage continued for an hour as the Nyrians were cut down to nothing between bolter fire, chain-bayonet, and power weapons. No transport survived the slaughter, destroyed by the precise throws of krak grenades. Those within the ruptured transports had either died on detonation, dived into the murky waters, or crashed with the shuttles. The final aberrant was slain by a combination of sword and axe from Zakariah and Hazem, almost resulting in an abomination birthing from the destruction the Legion had wrought.
With the last Nyrian dead, the blood rain pittered to a slow drizzle across Tempus. The clouds shifted, dispersing into nothingness to reveal the destruction in the high atmosphere of Nyr Prime. Debris that hadn’t already fallen lingered as drifting hulks of warped metal in orbit. The god-engines moved once more in the eastern fringe of the city, resolving their failure by crushing the closest fortification with extreme prejudice. The tides calmed to a stir as oceanic water began the slow retreat out of the metropolis. All the damage remained, millions of cadavers either left in their plascrete tombs or swept into the waves.
“It seems we were successful, Zakariah. I’m getting vox-traffic from surviving vessels in orbit. Legion Command has passed down a rallying order in the middle of Tempus, after a thorough sweep of the battlements and outlying regions… the casualties are immense on the walls alone.” Sergeant Hazem spoke as the vox crackled in Zakariah’s ear. A veil had been lifted from the world itself, allowing the free travel of information as the internal augurs realigned. Static rose from a low pitch to a high as a feedback loop patched through the vox.
A thousand and one deathcries burst through the general and private vox alike with the myriad throes of auxilia, Nyrians, and Astartes. Distress cries, pleads, and ravings of dying warriors fed through the network as delayed transmission. Mortals hungry for salvation, no matter whose hand, screamed through wailing howls. It was nightmaric. It continued on a loop for several hours until communications were purged in their entirety.

Zakariah and Hazem clambered down the stairwell as part of their combined squad’s final patrol on the battlements, finding only cadavers and fallen brethren in their search for Nyrians. The remaining marines of his squad followed after him, same with the other sergeant next to him. Both squads had been forced to combine in preparation for further insurgents, although no ambush halted their investigations. Many members of the combined squad noted several locations of fallen brethren for later geneseed extraction, including Sergeant Yussef.
Now, however, Zakariah gazed out at an enormous throng of Astartes with the god-engines of Legio Honorum idling outside the walls of Tempus in the background. The mired boulevards of the metropolis remained slightly flooded despite the retreat of the crimson tides. Legion vehicles marked with streaks of scorched hulls and lengths of oceanic vegetation lingered nearby. The vast collection of bronze-hued entities harshly reflected the sunlight that beamed through the skies. The ruins of a great, monolithic obelisk formed small amounts of shade in the crater they gathered around.
In the midst of the warriors stood the last vestiges of the Legion hierarchy on Tempus, the forms of Chapter Commander Zameel and the Company Captains spoke with their helmets removed. Among their number, a few augmented mortals in the red and gold of the Legio listened. The metallic priests of Mars were included in the conversation, their Skitarii standing near the rest of the Astartes. Other than those, only a single mortal took the place as auxilia commander - a commander of no survivors. Already, the said mortal appeared far beyond their experience standing in the presence of the Emperor’s genewarriors. None of the Legion lieutenants numbered among them, those marines attending to their duties as company commanders.
As if summoning him from the aether, an Astartes with a MKII helmet topped by a snake motif approached Zakariah and Hazem as they finished their descent. “By Terra, it is good to see you both. I feared that most of the First Company had been lost to the Nyridian apocalypse.” The lieutenant spoke with an appreciative tone, the elegant charnabal saber hanging from his belt and his combi-plasma maglocked to his leg. His umbral robes - another shroud of dusk - licked at the wind against his armored form. The sergeants and the lieutenant converged to embrace, an appropriate cultural act from when they were Bronze Scorpions.
“It is good to return from the slaughter, Lieutenant Bakri. Many of us died, I have marked the locations for the apothecaries. Know that our combined squads saw the death of the final aberrants on Nyr Prime.” Zakariah spoke with triumph in his hearts, fully debriefing information to the warrior that was his superior. A midnight gauntlet slapped his pauldron in a congratulatory gesticulation, a warm smile pervading behind the helmet of Bakri.
“Do not let Zakariah lie to you, brother. It was half him and half myself that slew the final aberrant on this accursed world.” Hazem said with a chuckle before the trio were released from their embrace. The lieutenant momentarily gazed among the numbers of their squad, searching for a particular member of note. “Unfortunately, Yussef did not survive. He died on the platform attempting to halt any Nyridian escape.”
“I see.” There was a note of sadness in his voice before the lieutenant turned away from the arriving Astartes to gaze at the entirety of their forces. A gauntlet fell to the pommel of his snake engraved hilt, while his other gauntlet rested on his waist. “He will be honored in death by the accolades given to us by the Primarch. I’m certain of this.”
As Bakri was about to speak again, a green rune appeared on the display of each Astartes helmet. An alert chimed for the gathered marines to coalesce into a tight formation close to the Chapter Commander. Wordlessly, Zakariah and Hazem followed the lieutenant as they were led to the edge of the immense, shallow crater. Several vexillas were hoisted into the air with the Legion number imprinted upon the cloth surface. Several vox-units were strategically spread out amongst the legionnaires, save for the Skitarii horde. The Company Commanders divided into their respective cohorts while the Legio officials, Auxilia Commander, Mechanicum officials and Chapter Commander stood before the broken monument of Tempus.
Hear me, warriors of the Emperor, and hear me well! The genocide of the Nyridians is complete after many auspex scans, patrols, and hunts. We have succeeded in culling Nyr Prime of its traitorous blood! Glory to you that have survived, glory to the dead that fought to their last breath, and glory to the Emperor for our conquest! Glory to Auxilia Commander Akilah for her ability to survive where none else could. Glory to the Legio Honorum and Grandmaster Vlendig for their god-engines and the many citadels destroyed by their cannons. Glory to the Mechanicum for their vital operations in command. Glory to the Primarch!” The titanic roar of Zameel’s voice boomed across Tempus, echoed by a variety of vox-units and vox-casters that flung the words into orbit. A legion of raised fists saluted the Chapter Commander followed by cries of victory and celebration, repeating the final phrase of the Dusk Warden’s speech.
Zakariah’s voice felt his throat go hoarse after repeating ‘Glory to the Primarch’ several times over. His hearts leapt at the glory given to them by the Chapter Commander, and eventually the Primarch when he arrives on Nyr Prime. Hazem, Ghassan, and the rest of his troop had emulated him in varying degrees of voice tone. Other than knowing the Lieutenant was alive, it was the only scene that could grant him a small smile for his victory. His eyes watched as the Legio princeps gave bows before leaving with the Mechanicum entourage. As the group became fully Legion personnel, Zameel spoke once more in a powerful voice.
Soon, the Primarch will arrive to witness our victory and present accolades. Return to your duties, recover from your wounds, and bask in the company of your cohorts. There are many, many more wars in the stars and this is a brief respite before the slaughter begins again.” He finished before stepping away to speak with the reconvergence of the company commanders. The lieutenant returned to the side of Zakariah and Hazem as the survivors gathered in groups.
“If the Primarch would allow it, then I hope that our accolades will be presented on the mystical ‘Pandjoras’ instead of this flooded planet.” Bakri spoke with disgust for the world they had liberated. A few of their number nodded in agreement, especially Hazem and Ghassan. Zakariah chose not to voice his opinion as the retinue began to converse amongst themselves; however, their dwell time would never come to pass.
Dark shapes covered the sky as fresh vessels loomed overhead in large quantities, replacing the warships that had been lost in the siege. Smaller shapes had begun to descend in various waves, some as the bulk carriers that delivered titans and others as the gunships of the Legion. A fleet of large transporters glided down to different parts of Nyr Prime, while the gunships rapidly approached Tempus. One particular gunship flew down as a golden effigy of brilliance, the blade and dusk sun emboldened upon it’s hull.
Furiously, the Astartes of the Second Chapter moved in unison to prepare for the arrival of the incoming transports. No apothecaries attended their mass formation to work in the confines of the metropolis, but the company commanders began to coalesce their cohorts in stretched out lines. Zameel directed the preparations through the vox, setting locations and avenues for the gunships to settle down.
The Primarch had arrived.

Sergeant Zakariah and his squad remained kneeling amongst the grand formation set for the arrival of the Primarch. His squad was the first in a row of five other bands, the other sergeants in his company having recently risen to the rank after the butchery. Lieutenant Bakri knelt at the forefront of his cohort, signifying him as the commander. Immediately in front of him was Company Captain Abdul, ringed by his veterans, genuflecting as the rest of the enormous formation. This process repeated for miles from squads to companies to battalions and finally to the chapter command at the furthest stretch of the formation. The Chapter Master, Zameel, waited at the furthest end with his own cohort and the consuls present.
Despite his position staring at the ground, Zakariah watched through a cohort-wide shared pictview at the corner of his helmet. He was grateful to be able to properly view the arrival. The vexillarii stood as regal banners of conquest and victory, drastically spaced out over the stretch of their chapter. The titans of Legio Honorum stood vigilant outside the city as their lesser kin disappeared into the fat bellied bulk loaders. The surviving techpriests divided throughout the chapter with voxcasters and pict-recorders mounted on their back. It was a sight that made him shake with anticipation and excitement, emotions he’d thought were cut since beginning the conquest of Nyr Prime.
The sea wind snapped against their ceramite plating as the first gunship began its landing descent, lowering their flat-footed landing gear to reach for the hurriedly smoothed over rockrete. The ground threatened to give way as the ornate Thunderhawk completed landing procedures at the opposite end of the Chapter Master. A wide berth of a cleared, improvised landing pad allowed further room for several more of the winged machines to settle further from the formation. The first’s frontal ramp - emboldened with the Thirteenth’s insignia - dropped to the ground to allow it’s inhabitants to gaze out at Nyr.
The first warrior to step off was the draconian warrior that previously led the Thirteenth, Legion Master Zaid. A golden laurel topped his Mark II helmet, while a dusken tabard dangled with reinforced leather straps at the waist. A hefy chainaxe swayed from his left, while an old variant of a bolter with chain-bayonet was maglocked to his right leg. A raptor with four lightning bolts was inscribed on his right knee plate. His crimson lens stared defiantly out at Nyr Tempus’ destruction. Zakariah held fond memories of the elder warrior during their earliest campaigns.
The second was the cowled form of a consul wrapped in a heavy bundle of dusken robes, an enormous power sword hugging behind their waist. Only the gray eyes of the consul looked out at the gathered throng with admiration before they stepped forward to join the Legion Master.
Many more individuals stepped out in a vast array of personalized cataphractii terminator plating, their forms decorated with a plethora of Terran beasts across the armor. Each held a swaying scabbard with a power saber hidden within the decorated covering. Stormbolters remained in their grasp, lowered to the audience that awaited their arrival out of respect and safety.
Finally, the dusken deity that was their Primarch emerged from the interior with the majority of their features covered by a beautifully ornate robe the hue of the void. Extremely augmented artificer armor hugged their body to suit their lithe form. An incredibly ornate scabbard clung to the back of their waist, a twisted, alabaster hilt only revealing itself. Their claw-tipped gauntlets idly hovered by their waist as they walked. Vibrant, amber eyes with slitted pupils glanced between sections of the kneeling Astartes before returning to the Chapter Master at the end of the formation.
Zakariah felt his extremities weaken from the aura that the Primarch exuded, even from the distance they walked from. He desperately wished to raise his visor to admire and receive glory from the warrior-lord born from the Emperor’s labors. The sergeant clenched his fist in anticipation of the words that were going to be spoken. Twin hearts beat in rapid succession as their gene-father walked the grounds that he had personally conquered with his brethren. Unwarranted adulation coalesced in every beat of his heart for the Thirteenth Son. He could only guess whether his brothers felt the same.
As if to answer his prayer, the Scion spoke as he passed through the several mile-long formation. His words held a brilliant, alluring trill that drew the attention of even the most stalwart individual. The deity’s arms unfurled from his side like umbral wings stretched out in either direction.
“Raise your eyes. Did I not tell you all to treat me as a warrior the same as you when we all met on Terra? You’d honor me with your heartfelt kowtowing, however it is unnecessary in this situation. Your wishes for praise won’t be fulfilled today.” The primarch growled, speaking in a way that reflected their appreciation, disgust, and anger in equal amounts. Confusion filled Zakariah’s hearts at the words that were spoken. Those were not words of adulation, rewarding their efforts with praise. They were words said with deflection, jest, and vehemence. He felt the aura of the deity swiftly change as confusion reflected in the ranks of the Astartes.
The retinue of the Primarch split apart at the end of the formation to allow the warrior-king a swift march. Each footfall of the scion reverberated with a figurative shockwave of their frustrated emotions. Their orange orbs were furiously lit with the fires of malevolence, reflecting as significantly sharpened pupils that lingered on a single individual. Previously unfurled arms balled into fists as they returned to the Thirteenth Son’s sides. Only an aura of hatred emanated from the gene-son of the Emperor.
Zakariah lifted his gaze as the pictfeed was disrupted, several hundreds of Astartes mimicking his movement as the Primarch stormed towards the Chapter Master. Fear embedded itself into his psyche, an emotion that had been cut from his vocabulary for decades now. Sweat glistened on his skin as the events unraveled in front of the entirety of the Second Chapter. Despite his fear and anxiety, Zakariah felt unperturbed awe at the magnificence of their gene-father in rage. It was only the beginning of a long stretch of emotions that would entail his form.
You.” The Primarch spoke with every ounce of hatred that they could muster.
“Lord Zaphariel! We are humbled and honored! Why a-” The Chapter Master began to speak, wonder and confusion interwoven in his tone; however, the Astartes was cut off as a claw-tipped gauntlet grabbed Zameel by his armor’s gorge. Their leader was raised into the air as the rest of the formation froze in sheer shock at the action.
“You have no idea what you’ve done, yet you still prattle on expecting to be humbled with words of praise and glory. Utterly deplorable! Who sanctioned your actions on this world!? ” Primarch Zaphariel roared, demanding an explanation to be wrought forth from Zameel. Zakariah watched in horror as speculation coursed through his mind. Was it not you who ordered the scouring, Primarch? He thought to himself as the rest of his brethren remained frozen in fear. The first of their formation to stand were the Captains at the forefront, stifled in their standing forms as the question left the Primarch’s lips.
“How many hundreds of your brothers died from this assault alone!? How many auxilia died in the initial invasion!? How many god-engines were destroyed from your imperceivable large disregard for your hierarchy!?” The Thirteenth Son continued without stopping. The Chapter Master croaked in his grip, confusion and terror twisting his facial features. By this time, Zakariah watched several other Astartes begin to rise in surprise as Zameel managed to speak.
“We purged them as was necessary by the Emperor! An extension of your will, my Primarch!” The response came, the booming voice of Zameel echoing across the hollow city of Nyr Tempus. It was an answer that wasn’t accepted by the dusken deity. Zakariah watched as the Chapter Master was thrown several feet behind him, near the retinue that had arrived with the Primarch. Unable to fathom the situation, Zameel failed to orient himself for a cushioned landing and tumbled to the ground in disgrace.
“I brought fifty of the Nyrian worlds into compliance with a fraction of the forces committed against Prime and you dare say it was my will? Were you not present when we first spoke of this campaign? Did you not listen to my wishes when I expressed how our conquests must be operated? None of this was my will.” The Primarch approached with a storm of footfalls to stand before the recovering form of Zameel. Zakariah felt that the climax of the events was only just beginning as their gene-father stood over their Chapter Master.
“I understand now, Zameel. You’ve failed your legion. You’ve failed your Primarch. You’ve failed the countless men and women of the Imperium that could’ve properly been used. Your failure is irredeemable.” The color drained from the Chapter Master’s face as the words were spoken. It was echoed by the many surviving members of the Second Chapter, Zakariah included. If the Chapter Master was a failure, then by extension so too were the warriors in his command. He thought to himself. Some of his brethren sank to their knees, likely with the same thoughts.
Zakariah’s awe died as the Chapter Master was ridiculed by the berating of the Primarch, exhibiting none of the personality that he held on Terra. None from the Second Chapter dared to defend Zameel, who cowered from the warrior-lord by kneeling before him. The only member to move was one of Zaphariel’s retainers, the Legion Master Zaid. Archaic boots stepped next to the knelt Astartes, placing a calm hand on the bulking pauldron.
“My lord, I understand your anger and disappointment are immeasurable; however, Zameel successfully conquered Nyr Prime with diminished forces. That alone is worthy of accomplishment. I beg that you reconsider whatever punishment awaits him.” Zaid’s aged voice spoke through the helmet’s vox-grill, bowing his head towards the Primarch as he finished. The orange orbs of the scion scanned the genuflected Astartes with an impassive gaze, contemplation forming behind their eyes. Tension built up in the warriors of the Second Chapter, a token of redemption and hope from the Legion Master offered to their gene-father.
Silence permeated the world around the Primarch as they considered the proposition by the Legion Master. It lasted several seconds as a conclusion formulated in the unknowing thoughts of the Thirteenth Son. “... Then it shall be. Zaid has offered his neck for you, Zameel. If he had not intervened, then your life would be mine.” Zaphariel spoke, relieving every member of the Second Chapter of their tension and fear. Zakariah saw light shine in the eyes of Zameel, raising his gaze to the gene-father as they strided away.
The Astartes kept their full attention on the Primarch as he returned to the center of the formation. His visage turned to each corner of the gathered gene-warriors, the orange eyes dancing between the commanders of the Second Chapter. His lips parted to speak in such a way that his voice reverberated twice over, pulling the ears of his gene-children instinctively toward the nexus of the sound. Zakariah felt an unimaginable, irresistible draw to the Primarch as he spoke.
By my decree, as is my right as the Primarch of the Dusk Wardens, I recognized and ordain the creation of the Legiones Mamluk! You, of the Second Chapter, will recognize it as your home from this moment forward. Never shall you don the dusken robe of the Legion, never shall you operate in the umbral shades as a hassan, and never shall you hide from your wanton slaughter. You shall always wear the crimson robes of dawn, you shall always fight on the forefronts of your brothers, and you shall always exhibit the brutality you demonstrated on Nyr. This is your punishment. This is your honor. Prove your worth for the Legion in the Mamluk! ” Primarch Zaphariel finished, silence followed the decree of the Legiones Mamluk. Zakariah felt it was only the beginning of a long list of changes, but he felt satisfied. He felt impassioned to be the most glorious Mamluk to herald the arrival of the Dusk Wardens. He would prove himself worthy of the Primarch’s attention. He was the first to shout in triumph.
A howl of approval echoed through the chapter as Zakariah roared triumph above the rest of his brethren. His brethren realized the correctness of his action, raising fist and voice to the sky for the Primarch. The placid gaze of the Thirteenth Son shifted into a toothy grinned, joyful face as the Legion accepted their punishment with outlandish acceptance. Primarch Zaphariel strided through the throng of Astartes, ready to depart with his retinue. Chapter Master Zameel attempted to follow after the Scion, but he was forced to remain by the Legion Master. This action was noticed by the dusken deity, who turned to regard the dishonored warrior.
“You will forever bear this shame, Zameel. You will bear it as my personal executioner and the master of the Second Chapter. Never forget what was decreed here. Return to my side once this planet is properly resupplied for compliance. After that, we shall discuss things in a more private scenario - on Pandjoras.” Primarch Zaphariel spoke in a volume that could be heard over the cheering of the Astartes. The deity disappeared into the darkness of the ornate Thunderhawk, the ramp rolling up to be caught and sealed. Several moments passed as the gunship left with a swiftness that rivaled their arrival. Zakariah observed the promotion to personal executioner of the Chapter Master with awe. He realized he couldn’t have been prouder to be an Astartes of the Second Chapter. Glory to the Primarch… He thought to himself as he weeped tears of joy beneath his helmet.

The Primarch of the Dusk Wardens, Zaphariel, lightly tapped a claw-tipped gauntlet against the glass of the observatory on the Dirge of Dusk. It had been several hours since they returned to the Gloriana-class. Only himself, the consul, and the Legion Master Zaid remained in the chamber overlooking Nyr Prime. Lavish curtains decorated the edge of the glass, while dusken carpets and plush furniture surrounded their figures. It mattered little to the Scion, still adorned in power armor and a shroud of dusk. His cowl had long been pulled back to reveal the frustrated attributes of the deity.
“Are you certain about this, my lord?” The draconic warrior spoke first, a rumbling engine of a voice that filtered through the Mark II helmet. His attention had remained on the Primarch since they had returned from the surface, questions brimming from the bottom of his soul. He patiently awaited the answer from the Primarch, preparing his own counterarguments and suggestions for the Legion. He was their lord before I was, after all. Zaphariel thought to himself.
“Without a single doubt. This Legion requires a new tone. The Bronze Scorpions have passed on to become something different. Ensure the Legion is in full compliance by the time we reach Pandjoras. There will be no more chapters, battalions, or companies. No more commanders, sergeants, or legionnaires. It will be remolded from the bottom, starting with the Legiones Mamluk.” Zaphariel’s words were absolute, unquestionable. None of what he had said left room for argument. The knowledge necessary to recreate the Legion was passed onto the Legion Master. Great Conclaves as Chapters, Conclaves as Companies, Sultans as Chapter Masters, Emirs as Company Captains, the list went on. The entire organization was to be remade into a reflection of Pandjoran society. A society that paid absolute loyalty to him.
“It shall be as you say, my lord.” Zaid stated, promptly leaving with the required information to reshape the Legion. The previous Legion Master left the Primarch and the consul alone in the emptiness of the observatory. Silence overtook them for several moments before the Astartes finally spoke.
“...If you are unsatisfied with them, then perhaps you could launch cyclonic torpedoes on the planet?” The consul suggested with the mimicry of Zaphariel’s toothy grins plastered across his lips. A pair of gray eyes shifted their view from the planet to the Primarch before him, his armored legs bringing him to stand next to his gene-father. The scion of the Emperor gave no immediate response as he continued to stare at the myriad of warships gathering in orbit of Nyr Prime.
“It’d be a waste of everything we’d achieved today. Instead it’ll sit as a tribute to the change that the Thirteenth Legion will undergo. The hubris of the Second Sultan gave us the answer to the problem these Astartes had.” The Primarch mused, mulling over the thoughts before carefully picking the correct words to use. His eyes narrowed as he uttered the next statement. “They are supremely loyal to my Father over their own Primarch. This world is an example of how the Emperor wages war. Zameel spoke truthfully, stating that it was a directive from the Master of Mankind using my own will as an excuse. They all think like this.”
Doubt nestled freely in his mind as he conversed with the consul beside him. Zaphariel never feared a reproach from the Astartes for they acted one and the same. The warrior next to him was the closest in appearance and action to his own. He saw the smaller warrior as a figurative extension of himself, a cunning gene-son that had become the pinnacle of what he desired. The consul radiated with unblemished loyalty to him and schemed just as deviantly.
“The truth wouldn’t have been possible without you, Raamiz. Drown in the glory that your actions have brought. You will rise as one of the pillars that uphold the Wardens. The first of my High Hakim.” The orange orbs of the Primarch turned to address the consul known as Raamiz, but his eyes found him kneeling before him. A tinge of disgust crept up through his chest but it was quickly stifled under a layer of stubborn acceptance. He felt bile begin to bubble in his throat the memory of the kneeling Astartes on Nyr, their auras radiating with divine reverence.
“My supreme lord, I only did what you asked of me. It was your ingenious, glorious word that created the opportunity. My former Chapter Master presented a superb level of ease in manipulating. All he required was a push of confidence from his inner circle of consuls to perform. I will always follow you even if it results in my death, my gene-father.” Raamiz spoke in a sinister mixture of reverence and venom. His words were as sweet and soothing as honey. Every fiber in the Primarch’s body was demanded to discipline the consul for their tone; however, he soothed his malevolent disgust.
“Your loyalty is worth more than you know. You will be the beginning in making the Legion an unrivaled brotherhood of asasiyun, loyal unto death. You will be my first Hafiz, the High Hakim of the Order, and you will learn the word of the Old Man. This is the start in a long, drawn-out bleeding of the Legion. Be ready to train more Astartes like yourself. They will be absolutely necessary.” Zaphariel turned as he finished speaking to the knelt form of Raamiz, who silently trembled in an unexplainable emotion unknown to him. Wordlessly, the consul left after being dismissed with a plethora of new plans to execute. Once more, the Primarch was left alone in the observatory of the Dirge.
“...Father. Prove to me that this isn’t what you had born us for.” The Primarch spoke to none other than himself, reflecting the dull glow of his orange eyes in the reinforced glass. Nothingness answered his call into the void, a hollow echo of his voice bounced across the chamber until it fell into silence. The dusken deity scoffed as he removed himself from the observatory to attend his business as the Malik of Pandjoras.

[...SUNDER UMBRAL SANDS…]
[...SECURING AS ACCESS LEVEL ‘PRIMUS’...]
[...DISCONNECTING WITH COGITATOR I.D. ZIV-0013…]
[...SHUTTERING DATA PACKET DISPLAY…]
[...SEALING DATA CURATED VAULT I.D. 8879-AE-8813…]

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