[c]Icrides[/c]

In orbit around Icrides, Captain Vitaria peered over her instruments on the Landvættir, her flagship. She peered to teh wiry Isaiah as he hunched over his panel and clacked again and again on his keys. At first she thought not to speak, he always seemed busy and she rarely had time for his fast babble and technical talk. She preferred the words she wished to hear. ‘We’re ready to deploy’. After several more moments the clacking stopped and those words came.

“We’re ready to deploy.” Isaiah said.

Vitaria’s eyes slid over him, and she regarded those words carefully. “Do we expect hostility when we first meet?”

There was a pause. “We may be able to win without such effort, but we should still show a forceful contact.” Isaiah said.

Vitaria gazed over her map one last time. “Settle guns over one of their cities, do not fire except on my mark.” She began. “I’m going down too.”

“Captain?” Isaiah asked.

“Isaiah?” Vitaria asked back.

At that, Isaiah quieted down and did not press what he was wanting to say. He always knew when he could press and he could not. And more likely than not, he could not press. So he clacked again and the ship came to life. “Stone Wolves, prepare to go down to the surface. This world will be ours or the void’s.”

Vitaria turned with a jerk and wordlessly strode to her Bay. Her marines snapped to salute as their Captain passed them, she scoffed at their display. “We’re readying for war not awards, get to work.” Vitaria ordered. The marines broke rank and went back to their duties as they always expected to do. This Captain was only slightly more lenient than the twins. And even slightly was a relief to many but not much of one. Without more fanfare Vitaria boarded with her marines and the drop ship took off.

Entry was shaky but swift and easy. And they came to the largest city on the face of Icrides. Vitaria was right, this was their capital and her show of force drew out the largest seven B’aiak. THey glared down at the marines and their Captain with contempt and one eye each. This was not a friendly meeting and Vitaria guessed what they were about to say.

“You respass upon sacred ground. Leave this world or be crushed.” The center B’aiak said.
“If you make demands of me I’d know your name.” Vitaria cut back curtly.

“Without sharing yours?”

Vitaria held her head up higher. “Vitaria.”

“King Aukmaar.” Aukmaar said. “And this is your final warning.”

Vitaria looked to the marines next to her on either side. “No, this is your final warning.”

Kng Aukmaar growled. “You threaten a King, you die.” And he charged Vitaria.

She deftly slid to her side sending the large king careening passed her and collapsing in his bid to overcorrect, she was already bringing her chainsword down onto his back, slicing through flesh and bone and more until Aukmaar the king of Icrides was two in separate halves pooled in his own wounds. His body crumpled and went still.

“The king is dead! The king is dead!” Drekil hollered from his place among the other council rulers.

“And now, so are you.” Vitaria said and with that she sent the signal, somewhere in the distance blasts rocked the world where they could feel but not see. A city was gone, turned to glass under the Landvættir’s bombardment. B’aiak looked panicked as they heard each blast. Then they grew enraged as reality sank in for each of them. They were under attack and it was time to fight for their lives.

The first strikes had landed and the first deaths had come to teh people of Icrides. War had started.

---

Elysian Warp Gate
Sol System
Segmentum Solar

The stars were distant points of light in the blackness of the void. Around the ridged flanks of the silently gliding ship, around its spiny turrets and heavy ventral blocks, the darkness seemed welcoming, like the arms of a long-lost mother spreading out to embrace her wayward children after many years apart.

Yet these sons of the cold night were not returning home. Perhaps, in their nomads’ hearts, they suspected that the vast and trackless outer dark had always been their ancestral land, and only a brief and cruel jest of life had let them and their many fallen brothers be born on a blasted and hallowed rock. Perhaps their eagerness was not merely that of young conquerors rearing to wet their blades, but something deeper and less understood. Be that as it may, in that hour none of them felt that they were coming back to something, but rather foraying out, issuing forth from a too-long closed gate at the order of their master.

The Ninth Legion was riding to war.

Ahead of their small yet redoubtable expeditionary fleet, the battle barge Mortifex swept majestically towards the ominous roil of the Elysian Gate, its flanks bearing the same numeral that marked every Reviled’s pauldron. Long and angular, it was a sword thrust out into the galaxy, not gleaming gold like the Master of Mankind’s own destrier, but dark like the dread of starless nights. At its sides came the flock of its sister-ships, cruisers and destroyers that carried reserve complements of Astartes. Umbra Ferox, Silent Blade, Achaeron were their names, and many others of suchlike grim portent. In their wake, like scavengers, trailed clumsy transports, supply hulks, forge-ships, all that had been judged necessary to make war for long decades.

Poised on the edge of material space, the dark ships prepared to cross into the truly unknown.

---

A dense penumbra hung over the strategium of the Mortifex, sparsely pierced by the electric shimmer of devices and the spectral haze of the central hololith. For perhaps the first time since their inception, the Reviled had a new, gleaming and polished space all to themselves, rather than rusty and cavernous landships, bloodstained transports or dirty and ragged tents, but the sight of it must have been uncongenial to them. The same murky pall that filled the halls and corridors of all their vessels covered even its best and greatest as they stood by the edge of the command podium, resting their hands on the smooth iron bar of the guardrail. No other soul breathed in the chamber, for the Legion’s command had anomalously set up in a separate place from the bridge proper, connected to them only by vox relay.

It was a risky luxury, but the warriors of the Ninth ill suffered the company of the unaugmented. They did not suffer the affliction of their lineage and were forever outsiders to the brotherhood.

Of the necessities of the Great Crusade, sharing their habitations with those not of the blood was the only one that truly galled the sons of the ice wastes. Still, they would endure.

But this sufferance was not at present demanded of the Legion Master and his two faithful hands. Time and many past battles had left their mark on them, but yet they seemed inexhaustible. Here was Osorin Skorr, ever the elder brother to all. Though his rank was the most exalted and his call of victories among the longest, he wore no trophies on his person, no ornaments save the marks of station and the eagle’s plume upon his helmet, which seemed to shine even now that it had so little light to reflect. The only plunder he allowed himself to bear was purely functional, and hung now at his belt in the stead of his old chainblade - a long power sword with a recurve tip, taken from the bloody hand of one of Kalagann’s last knez. Even the traces of execration, which insidiously sapped his forces, were hidden, with mechanical organs fashioned by the adepts of Mars to replace his failing ones invisibly beneath his plate.

Here was Tevr Nyrid, the first blade. The years had left more visible marks on him, and on his left side both the arm and the leg below the knee were skeletal black iron. Of the three, he was the most restless. The polished skull that lay over his helmet had long not been renewed, and like with all the most dedicated fighters of the legion, the wait before the beginning of the Crusade had been agony as he felt the apex of his skill slip away day by day in pointless inaction. He was old enough to even fear that he might succumb to the inner rot before he saw battle again, and the word to muster had been an immeasurable relief. He, too, had taken up a new weapon since the last days of Unity, the silvery edge of Lunar make glimmering as a remote companion to Skorr’s feather.

Here also was Tzosh Ghaal, the imperturbable healer. He alone seemed strangely rejuvenated, difficult as it was to say under his sealed armour. His prosthetic arm was gone, as if by miracle, and no other deformities had appeared in its stead. By contrast, large opaque tanks were fastened alongside his power pack, and tubes of various sizes ran from them to several custom-made ports on his warplate. The largest snaked over his shoulder and fastened to his visor, the breathing beneath it audibly heavy and dense.

The three brothers looked up at the high armaglas observation window and the unquiet, strange-coloured fabric of the Immaterium beyond. Staring at it for too long was painful even to their transhuman eyes.

“I do not like this,” Nyrid said slowly, “Giving ourselves to the mercy of the wyrd is not something that should be done. All these warlocks we have on board, astropaths and navigators and other devilry, we can kill anytime if something in them turns ill. But when we dive into this madness, our survival will be out of our hands. It troubles me.”

“It is not so unlike a flight in a Stormbird,” offered Skorr, “There too our lives depend on our enemies’ valour and not our own.”

“The formless wyrd is like no other enemy,” Nyrid shook his head, “We may as well be crushed by an avalanche as by its coils. An accident is an ignoble end.”

Ghaal said nothing as the rift in realspace steadily grew to fill the entire window view. Then there was a shudder, and though nothing had visibly changed, all of them knew that there was nothing more to be seen anywhere around the ship. For a moment, it was as though they had many thousands of eyes, extruding at every angle from the battle barge’s hull, and witnessed the nauseating churn of unnameable colours, whose vorticous spinning was growing more restless by the moment.

But what was a moment anymore?

_{Ililgaak… Nukaalugaj…}

“Did you hear this?” Ghaal asked quietly between the heavy drafts of his respirator, cocking his tube-studded helmet to the side.

“Something, perhaps.” Skorr’s voice was careful, the quiet rasp of augmentic lungs controlled like an expectant chainsword, “You, Tevr?”

“No, I have not heard,” the blade-champion shook his deathly visor, “But some words suddenly came into my mind. I thought how it would be if someone called me little brother in the old tongue.”

“Nukaalugaj…” the Legion Master enunciated every sound of the word in the whistling language of their ancestors. He added, pensively, “But it is a strange thought. We are no one’s little brothers anymore.”

_{Uvaguk… Sagvigsuk ilaanni…}

This time, Nyrid’s skull-face snapped alert. He looked to his brothers for confirmation, and saw that Skorr rested a hand on the grip of his sword, while Ghaal was braced as if expecting an assault.

“An illusion of the wyrd!” he called out, his voice echoing strangely from the metal walls of the strategium, “It is stirring words in our minds. Look away from it!”

Skorr nodded and extended a hand towards the command panel on the edge of the hololith table, seeking the switch that would close the observation window. He moved with an odd, incongruous-looking wary focus, as if he were balancing on a tightrope above a yawning abyss rather than reaching for something less than a step away.

_{Iluitchuk… Kasungaruk ilivsik…}

Then the ship lurched.

There was no sound to herald it, no thunderous crash, not even a change in the nameless patterns that flowed outside the window. One moment the Mortifex seemed unshakable in its monolithic mass, and the next it was staggering like an ancient wooden galley on a stormy sea, pitching from side to side in oppressively total silence.

The three Astartes were almost thrown from their feet, only their sheer armoured bulk holding them upright. The guardrail crumpled and deformed in their powerful grips, sheer metal taking on the appearance of wrung cloth in a matter of moments. A dizzying and unnatural weightlessness had come over them, not the lightness of zero-gravity, but a disorientation in their own nerves, almost like a sea-sickness magnified a thousandfold so that it might stagger even their superhuman constitution.

Dropping to one knee, Skorr managed to reach the panel and lower the heavy adamantium blinders over the observation window with a flick, though he knew it was pointless. The invisible perverting power of the Warp had surely penetrated the ship. He felt a sickly force coursing through his body, a contortion of muscles bending in ways they ought not to, and was obscurely aware that he should thank his already corroded frame for giving it little purchase. Even so, he felt ill, more than he ever had since his memories of his new life began. His ruined stomach was twisting into knots, his skin constricted the flesh beneath, what bones still remained intact in him vibrated agonisingly. Only his head remained clear, and he held it tall, slowly rising back to his feet with a terrible effort.

He saw that next to him, Nyrid was doubled over, both hands crushing the guardrail as he struggled with all his strength not to succumb, and could hear the sickly rasp of his breathing. To his other side, Ghaal was on his hands and knees, fighting to remain stable closer to the ground. Several of his tubes had snapped loose from their ports, and pressurised streams of a poisonously bright green vapour were escaping from them.

Exerting all his strength to master his own movements, the Spitefather reached back to the control panel and pressed the button of alarm, then that of the shipwide intercom.

“Brother Reviled,” his voice carried through hundreds of loudspeakers and vox-nodes, strained with effort but resonant and even, “The turbulence of the wyrd is confounding us. Hold fast and keep your strength! Only death can stop us!”

This was, after all, an enemy they would have to fight with their own forces.

---

When the alarm sirens began to ring, Captain Synor Chrol had been deep in the Mortifex’ vehicle hangars. Even back on Terra, his Blade-Breakers had often taken on the role of the legion’s techno-shamans, gathering to themselves the brothers most dexterous in repairing engines, quelling their spirits and feeding their burning thirst. Thus, when the greater disposition of the expeditionary fleet had begun to form, it was only natural that they would be the ones chosen to liaise with their fellow tenders of machines among those not of the blood. Those were for the most part the armoured regiment of the Timaini Cragrunners, the cyborg soldiers who had fought alongside the Ninth against the monstrosities of Kalagann and traded rites of friendship after that glorious battle, as well as their new allies the magi of Mars. Spending so much time around outsiders might have irked some Reviled, but Chrol felt a kinship for those two peoples, who like him took the machine into themselves.

He stood in the dim light of distant lumens, deliberately kept at half-strength to only partially light the great vault, in the very middle of the hangar’s width, on the partition line between the bleak-green columns of Legion Rhinos and the teal ones of Cragrunner battle tanks. Both stretched to either side in scores, and the disembarkation order of such a mighty force was a fine balance he had been grappling with since they had set sail for the Elysian Gate.

At his side were a squad of his veterans, the jangling panoply of shattered enemy weapons upon their armour only a little less imposing than his own. Aiding him across the aisle were the Timaini Commander Sandar-Naiman with his own staff, in their pale blue rubbery bodysuits with tapering masks and dark visors, and Magos Inrech Ferriak, his massive form draped in the black and crimson robes of the Mondus Gamma forge temple.

“The fourth columns should be moving around the perimeter while-” Sandar-Naiman was saying, keeping a concealed eye on the bulging cyst of the integrated data-node on his left forearm, before the mournful whine of the alarm had cut him off. In a moment, angry red light lit up in the dusky space above them like distant bonfires.

Chrol heard the Spitefather say something over the vox network, but crackling interference swallowed half the words. He glanced interrogatively at Ferriak, who shrugged with three pairs of arms.

“Problematic Warp translation,” was all the magos managed to blurt out in his cavernous voice before the ship quaked.

It was not a mere shuddering vibration, nor a listing of the great vessel to one side, for such notions had little meaning in the void. Rather, it was as though the metallic floor under their feet had momentarily turned fluid and rippled, raising them up and immediately pulling them down again. Chrol reflexively sent out a neural command to engage the magnetic clamps in the soles of his boots, but to his surprise he found that it gave him no more stability, the sensation of being tossed around by waves still coursing through his bones.

He fell to one knee with a rattle of trophies, his veteran squad collapsing after him. Astonishingly, the Cragrunners appeared far less dramatically struck, with only a few having lost their footing and the others stumbling as if dazed. Ferriak, braced on his four thick, arachnoid pistoned legs, was almost unaffected, looking at the others with confusion writ on the few organic scraps of his face.

“Captain, do you hear them?” rasped Ulgar, the youngest of his squad, “These voices…”

Chrol shook his head. He did not hear any voices, indeed he could barely hear his brother close by. He focused on the parts of himself he felt as the firmest, those melded with the power of the machine - his hands, the joints of his legs, the innards of his chest. Forcing his lips into obedience, he whispered an incantation to the spirits of iron, calling on them to lend him their might. Slowly, painstakingly, the cogs of his joints ground to renewed life. Though an impossible nausea he ought not have been feeling weighed him down, he rose, standing stiff upon hardened metal.

With another effort, he forced himself to look around. The vehicles were still aligned in their columns, and relief filled him as he saw that each of them had not budged by a millimeter from where it was fastened to the hangar floor. Then his eye fell on Ulgar, and he froze with an emotion he had not felt in a long time. Not fear, for he knew none, but the revulsion for unnatural things,  known to all those who had fought in Nordyc and Ursh.

The younger legionnaire had cast off his helmet and looked up at Chrol from his knees. His face was wasting from within, diminishing with astonishing speed. It was as though Chrol saw a time-lapsed sequence of degeneration play out, but there was no artificial acceleration in his sight. Flesh and muscle under Ulgar's skin withered and seemed to evaporate. His right eye followed suit, shrivelling like that of a dried corpse and vanishing in a wisp of greasy smoke. Scars swelled up where there had been none. Within scant seconds, the Astartes’ face was reduced to a hideous rictus mask.

“The voices… They are the malediction,” he choked out, and Chrol thought that he was looking into the face of death itself.

---

Maggak stumbled along the corridor, gripping the wall to steady himself. Wherever his fingers touched, oozing stains of thick dark rot were left on the metal. The pain that shot through his hand at every contact did not bother him. It was the wet, sucking sensation he felt every time he leaned on it and pushed forward, as though he were plunging his palm into a swamp, and the knowledge that this marshy filth was nothing but the decomposing fabric of his own body. He would gladly have gone without this, but his feet were so damnably unsteady. The floor beneath him jumped like an ice-crawler rolling over rocky ground, and he swore he could feel his bones slipping around his body as they were jarred out of place.

He was not alone in his obstinate crawling advance. Many warriors were forging onward ahead and behind him, a haphazard jumble of insignas and trophy patterns from many different companies. Some were Bone Walkers like him, but along the way they had been joined by legionnaires from the Excoriators, the Blood Mark, the Hecatombion and almost every other brotherhood on board the Mortifex. He saw a few Astartes in jagged off-white armour in a design he did not recognise, and disgust filled him as he realised that it was not battle-plate at all. These were afflicted whose stigmata had been inflamed by the wyrd beyond anything he had ever seen, their misshapen growths of bone sprouting like plates over their skin and imprisoning them in a carapace of their own tissue. They staggered forward unsteadily, and Maggak winced, knowing that the pain he felt was nothing compared to the torment of his plagued brothers.

Compared to them, he was lucky, though the invisible radiation of this evil dimension was scourging his body hideously. Wounds had opened on their own all over his body, skin parting as if sliced and torn, and immediately turned necrotic, suppurating pus and the sticky sludge of decomposition. He felt the interior of his armour slick with corruption and spit out the foulness that clogged his throat. The floor of the corridor was slick and reeking, as many of the Reviled retched and vomited thick black bile, spewing it through the grilles of their helmets when they were not fast enough to remove them. Most of them were covered in putrid wounds like Maggak; others had been suddenly afflicted, spurs and spikes of bone growing through their flesh; others yet wore withered and skull-like countenances, as if they had aged by centuries in moments. Strangely, he noted, few of them had already been blighted enough to wear limbs or organs of metal.

The diseased throng was pushing into a narrow hall at the meeting point of two curving corridors, both of which were clogged with advancing Reviled. There, a third passage led into the sanctum of the Navigator. The reasoning that drove the crowd was hasty and simple: if the hoary mutant was the one who had taken them into the realm of the wyrd, killing him would return the ship to material space and end this unnatural epidemic.

Heavy reinforced doors had slid closed to bar that threshold now. With so many savage fighters before them, even unarmed, they would normally not have held for long. But each of the legionnaires was debilitated, unable to stand firmly upon a surface that shifted in defiance of every other sense.

They moved like the waves, the massed scores of them leaning first back, then pitching forward, slamming into the door like a battering ram. Maggak limped into the packed hallway and found himself swept into this oscillating rhythm. Back. Forward. Crash.

Amid the pain and delirium, he felt himself move in perfect unison with his brothers, many and multifariously wracked bodies with a single invincible will, and his ruined lips smiled.

---

Ymorag closed his eyes, shutting away the sight of the chamber. Its walls and corners seemed to churn and swim as if he were submerged in troubled water, and the disorientation was distracting him from his purpose. From the moment he had heard Skorr’s warning over the intercom, he had understood there was a danger on the battle barge that only he could avert, and it was a task which would take all of his focus.

Blindly, but with the ease of long practice, he removed the gauntlet from his left hand. With the right he drew the combat knife of the legion, wrought in a design peculiar to the Ninth - an elongated blade, curving in a fashion reminiscent of a falcata. In the hands of a lesser human, it could indeed have served as a veritable sword. It was a pattern useful for many things, be it killing, scraping bone, flensing skin, cutting open entrails.

The Captain of the Harrowers pressed the tip of the knife to that of his left index finger and drew it in a shallow cut.

In the days of the Unification Wars, most of the Ninth Legion’s recruits had been drawn from the Dronemaw tribe of the Antarctic ice desert, a large and prosperous willing vassal of the Emperor. Not so Ymorag. He was one of the last sons of an ancient and fading tribe, which had at one point been tributary of the Dronemaw, but whose bloodlines had vanished altogether during his own lifetime, definitively mingling with those of their overlords. The tribe’s name was forgotten, but its traditions had borne a wealth of old wisdom from the dark age, which even as a youth he had learned avidly and committed to memory.

Tevr Nyrid had been teaching him the rites and practices that would keep the spirit of the legion alive, but Ymorag knew certain things that even his mentor did not.

With the blood dripping from his finger, he began to trace a line of symbols across his spiked breastplate, renewing the cut when his Larraman cells hastened to scab it over. The iterators of the New Truth would have scowled at what he was doing, but this knowledge had protected his ancestors from the perils of sorcery through long and dark years, and he knew for certain that it would help him now.

Once the line was complete, he let his finger clot, and began to breathe deeply. There would be no immediate relief. While he was assured that the talismanic symbols would shield him from the deadly currents of the wyrd, like in all things much would also depend on his own strength of will. He inhaled, held in his breath for a precisely measured moment and exhaled, letting the rhythm of his body lull him into a meditative quiet. Nausea and the taste of rot mounted in his throat, but he paid them no mind, directing his full concentration upon the act of drawing in fresh air. Little by little, the bilious knot receded, and when he was entirely confident in his mastery over himself, he opened his eyes.

His chamber was as it ought to have been, an austere cube of metallic walls hung with grim trophies and crude tribal amulets. An extinguished brazier stood on a low stone block in the centre. Two Astartes of his company, Irayar and Tugalik, stood by the door across from him. They were still struggling through the rite he had just performed, the lines of bloody sigils across their chests incomplete. Ymorag crossed over in a few cautious steps and aided them in drawing the signs of warding, giving them a moment to focus their breath afterwards.

“Come, we must see to him,” he spoke, and without a word they followed him through the door.

Beyond was a narrower, bare room, in some eerie ways similar to a cell. There, seated cross-legged on the ground in a plain robe, was Nuvor, the Reviled twice-cursed - once with the affliction that was common to them all, and twice with the touch of the psychic.

On Terra, Nuvor had fought alongside a fellow psyker, Esargon of the Eighteenth Legion, and the advice of his cousin had done much to strengthen his fraying mind. It was plain, however, that now this tempered resolve was all that kept him from a horrifying collapse. The muscles of his ashen-pale face were painfully drawn, his skin slick with sweat, and a terrible corpse-green glow burned in his eyes.

He raised his face, and Ymorag’s hand unwillingly gripped his knife, as if expecting his brother to transform into something horrible at any moment.

“See it…” Nuvor spat out, every word a herculean struggle, “Cannot… Hold…”

His eyes rolled back in his head, their whites veined with sickly colour, and his lips twitched. He tried to clench his teeth, but his mouth seemed to move despite himself, as if raving in the grip of a fever.

“Kasangaruk…” he spat in the old tongue, “Ilivsik..”

Then epileptic shivers began to shake his body, and as bloody froth dripped from the corners of his mouth, he began to speak in a language none of them had ever heard.

“A curse!” snapped Tugalik, “If he finishes it, we are all dead!”

The two legionnaires sprang forward and heaved up Nuvor’s spasming body. Tugalik closed a gauntleted hand around his jaw, which continued to grind and shake despite the steel grip restraining it.

“The wyrd is consuming him,” Ymorag spoke in a firm voice, “There is only one way we can stop this. When a witch-child was born to the tribes, before casting it out our ancestors carried out the Silencing.”

Nuvor stiffened at the words, and the Captain laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You are not a mere witch-worm, brother. You will still fight with us.”

Despite the tremors coursing through him, the psyker managed a nod that almost looked solemn. Ymorag turned and stepped back into his own chamber, the two Harrowers half-supporting, half-dragging Nuvor along behind him.

The Captain cast a splash of prometheum into the brazier and lit it with a gout from an ornate hand flamer that rested on two iron hooks at the stone pediment's side. The fire leapt high with a crackle and immediately began a strange and hypnotic dance despite the stillness of the air. Ymorag thought he saw faces of the dead leering at him among the flames, but he looked away from them, holding the blade of his knife over their lapping tongues.

Once he felt that the metal was incandescent, he motioned for his warriors to approach with their charge. Nuvor had regained some control over his body in presence of the fire, no doubt remembering the words of his pyromancer battle-brother with new force, and stepped up almost on his own, standing fast as the red-hot knife was raised to his face.

“May your eyes be dark and the endless night your home,” Ymorag intoned, and thrust the blade into Nuvor’s eye-socket, deftly cutting away the eyeball and plucking it out. A groan rose from the psyker’s clenched lips at the terrible pain, but he did not flinch, not even when his second eye was blinded in the same manner.

“May your tongue be stilled and silence your dominion,” the Captain continued. Tugalik held the psyker’s jaw open, and Irayar stretched out his tongue. With a stroke, Ymorag severed it, the searing metal cauterising the wound even as it cut.

He cast the eyes and tongue into the fire and spoke the final formula, “May your spirit fold upon itself like strongest steel, driving all evil from you.”

The three Harrowers staggered as their own sight was suddenly snatched from the physical confines of the chamber and somewhere else, somewhere that was in no place. It seemed to them that they stood in a great cavern, dimly lit by phosphorescent growths, coarse and damp stone underfoot. Tunnels branched out in every direction, some large, some narrow, some high up out of reach. They heard Nuvor’s breathing, and knew that they saw what he now saw in his darkened mind. They felt another presence as well, lurking out of sight - something vast, dark and terrible, but which their hearts somehow knew was also benevolent and guiding. The sensation filled them with a bitter, longing ache, and the vision faded.

They stood once more in the chamber onboard the battle barge. The fire had gone out. Nuvor was kneeling before them, and despite his mutilation, his features had a firm, determined cast whose like the Captain had not seen in years. A new inner strength was building in the psyker, and even the poisonous breath of the wyrd seemed to recede before it.

Ymorag cut a long slice in his left palm with the cooled knife and rested it on Nuvor’s forehead, crimson rivulets running down his skin and dripping into his hollow sockets.

“You shall be Tuk-Nayag, the Dream Eater,” Ymorag spoke, and his warriors smote their chests in salute, “May our enemies’ fear be your sustenance.”

---

???
Ultima Segmentum

When the expeditionary fleet emerged into the Materium, it seemed to those on board that no time had passed, or rather an indefinable length of it. Chrono-pieces on the ships had been unsettled by the violent translation, but none showed that more than two weeks had elapsed. It was as though the battlegroup had collectively stepped out from a period of feverish nescience, where days and hours had blended together, and steadily found its footing in the world of the real once again.

Almost miraculously, no ships had been lost, the route through the warp gate a solid one despite the harrowing journey. Even more astonishingly, not a single one of the Ninth's Astartes had perished. Some were crippled by the stigmata that had so suddenly manifested, but not irretrievably, and indeed many saw their wounds quickly fade once they had returned to realspace, as though they had been nothing but the fruit of nightmare. There had however been a number of deaths among the naval crews and menials, some trampled by the Reviled in the disorder, others found already rigid by their fellows, masks of lethal fright frozen on their faces. It was weeks before the fleet's Navigator dared step out from his sanctum, but for the time his services were not needed.

Ahead, just within reach, a stellar system gleamed brightly against the sable cloak of the void. Already, remote auspex sweeps were returning signs of habitation, light orbital devices, trails of interplanetary traversal. Prey.

The Reviled had grappled with the perils of the Warp and come out victorious. Now, new foes awaited the bite of their blades.

The Scouring of Adaravax

Arriving in the system first was the pride of the 501st Expeditionary fleet, Dead of Night, a fierce Vengeance-Class Grand Cruiser plated in stone gray and matte blue-gray of the XIVth Legion. The void around the great vessel burst open with the entry of several escorts, support craft, and reinforcements. The edge of the system lit up with the violet hues of the empyrean as the 501st began to move further into the system. The fleet had picked up the remnants of an ancient distress signal from the 2nd planet in this system, a rocky world kept warm by the red giant at its heart.

Aboard the bridge of the Dead of Night, Red Star Chapter Master Agafon waited with barely held patience for the initial auspex sweeps to be completed. The bridge of the ship was a buzz with chatter, movement, and excitement. Beside Agafon stood Celera Tryon, Ship Mistress of the Dead of Night. As well as General Rasbutin of the Urshan Tundra Fighters, the militarum contingent accompanying the chapter and the expeditionary fleet. Initial scans were coming in and the trio were discussing initial plans for how best to approach the world. The signal was centuries old by this point, and yet long range scans indicate active human presence.

“By the Emperor!” Agafon bellowed out, his thick accent giving the impression of anger. “I’m surprised that ancient signal yielded something.” His thick brown beard, clean and well maintained. A scar along his cheek making his smile seem cruel despite the jovial tone in his voice.

“Aye Lord, I didn’t think we’d find much here.” Celera said, bringing up the newest suite of scans and info to the central holo display for them to see. “And it seems to be considerable. A dozen hab complexes with human life signs across the planet, it appears as though there had been more but…” Her tone seemed concerned, her fingers moving across the dataslate in her hand as she double checked the scans before pushing them to the front. “We seem to have an issue.”

“And what exactly do the scans show ?” General Rasbutin inclined his head with curiosity as the hololithic display shifted to show the incoming planetary scans. Thick crimson masses below the planet’s crust showed teeming swarms of non-human life easily numbering in the tens of millions.”By the void, what are those things?” The old general sputtered, not quite sure what to make of the readings.

“Unsure just yet. Initial scans show subterranean tunnels and chambers that run deep beneath the mining hubs. They seem to be lined with a thick metallic coating that obscures auspex readings deeper down.” Celera stated calmly as she continued to go over the reports and readings. “We’ll need to get on the surface to gather more information on what we will be dealing with, I fear.” She looked over to Agafon who had remained silent, observing the hololith and listening to the Ship Mistress.

“We will attempt to establish communication with the inhabited mining hubs, if we can learn what they know then we will save time. Deploy scout craft to the surface to gather more info on these tunnel structures and those overtaken mining hubs.” He said, jovial tone gone and replaced with stern authority as he set the plan in motion.”If we can establish a line to the humans down there, offer them the mercy of the Emperor, beloved by all, if they refuse then they will be fuel for the fire that burns this planet.” His voice thick with resolve as he slowly began to take his leave of the bridge. “I shall make further preparations among my marines, forward all subterranean scans to my quarters Ship Mistress.”

“Aye Lord, as you command.” Celera whipped the bridge into a frenzy as orders were given and sent down the chain of command with haste as the astartes left to prepare.

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The surface of Adarax was a craggy landscape of dull browns, grays, and reds. The earth was so rich with iron and other metals in some places that glimmering seams of it could be seen with the naked eye in the distant mountains and valleys that filled the horizon. In the distance stood the last large scale mining hub on the planet, known as Bastion to the locals, which had stood against the Vulgare since they arrived on the planet. According to the locals, they were giant bugs capable of chewing through metal and rock that arrived in a storm of meteors one night barely a century ago and have been a problem ever since. Pushed from the mining hubs that acted as home for millenia, the Vulgare have made their homes in the old mining facilities and chewed away at the processed metals for their hives and tunnels. They were all too happy to accept the assistance of the 501st Expeditionary Fleet in dealing with the giant insects in exchange for joining the fledgling Imperium.

The thunderhawk rumbled and shook as it entered the atmosphere in a blaze of fire, loaded with astartes prepped and geared The first team with the honor of going into the tunnels was led by sergeant Szymon, a younger lad with long brown hair and a rare youthful charm that is rarely seen amongst the XIVth, who’d shown his metal during the Ceres campaigns. Now he led a squad of 20 battle-brothers through Bastion’s densely packed hab blocks as they marched towards the lower levels. The humans here were strong, though malnourished and crammed too densely for the intended population limits of these mining hubs. Scrawny mortals backed into narrow spaces and ramshackle homes as the heavily armored giants of the XIVth walked through, whispers followed behind them as their heavy ceramite treading gave the illusion that they’d not be overheard.

‘They’re massive, are they really human?’

‘Surely they are robots of some kind right?’

‘No no, they move too well for robots. They must be monsters’

“A far cry from the folks on Terra.” Uriah called over the squad vox, cut off from the ears of the Bastion’s residents.

“You’re not wrong brother, but they are Imperial citizens now. If we’re lucky, they’ll bulk up with some food in their bellies and fill the Legion’s ranks.” Szymon replied as he led them onto the heavy elevator that would lower them down into the mines. It had been sealed for a decade and they’d be the first to go down.

“You really think they’re worth it? Can’t say I’m impressed sergeant.” Uriah rebutted as he checks his bolter with the rest of the squad, luckily they had a few specialists with melta guns at the ready. They weren’t sure just how durable these insects would be.

“Neither were we before we were plucked from the streets of Ursh.” The bulkhead sealing off the mineshaft began to open, the old servos for the door crunching and straining from years of disuse, rust and age. The squad lined the edges and prepared themselves, bolters over the side and lights flashing on into the dark maw opening before them. “It’ll be like running through the catacombs of the old city brothers, just with bigger bugs.” Szymon continued.

“Bah, those catacomb crawlers were nothing to be afraid of. You really think these bugs will be any worse?” Buris asked, the jovial tone in his voice lacking any fear for the bugs down here.

“The Vulgare are about 10 times bigger than any catacomb crawler, and if the auspex are right, as heavily armored as we are.” The sergeant clarified, pulling the lever to start lowering the squad of Astartes down the mine shaft. It was empty, thankfully, but what should have been a rock shaft was lined with thick strands of thick steel fiber coated the walls all the way down as the astartes swept their lights from side to side.

The elevator reached the bottom floor, a large natural cavern sprawled out before them. The walls and ceiling had long since been coated in the wet shimmering metallic strands they’d seen on the way down. Without needing a command, three astartes begin to perform auspex sweeps of the material and the cave around them while the others set a perimeter. Sergeant Szymon took point at the opening of the largest tunnel that seemed to run further down into the planet’s crust. Kneeling down at the threshold of the tunnel, he noticed the metallic webbing was on the floor going down the tunnel as well, but the cavern space had been left bare grey stone. He looked it over with some curiosity. Why would these bugs not cover the floor in the cavern? They certainly didn’t lack materials to use for it, he went to touch it when the ground began to shake violently from the direction of another tunnel to the west. Another curious marine had touched the metal flooring at the threshold of that tunnel. The echo of skittering and clicking metal reverberated down the tunnel and to the squad of astartes.

“Everyon! Form defensive lines, get those melta guns primed and ready to fire.” Szymon called out, running towards the tunnel as he began to coordinate his team. The skittering grew louder and harsher, an endless cacophony of metal on metal sounding like a machine ripping itself apart, echoed up the shaft as glints of light from their lumens started to reflect back to them. Segmented plates of metal overlapping down the length of creatures that must have been atleast 10 feet long and twice as wide as the average astartes.Their mouths were a mess of rock crushing mandibles around a mouth full of razor sharp teeth, thick and keen and approaching rapidly.

Bolter fire barked like a storm crashing down beneath the earth as the XIVth unleashed living hell on the oncoming stream of bugs. As bolter fire struck its mark, metal plates dented, cracked, and broke off with enough abuse, but the creatures were resilient. Many still pushing forward if the strike failed to kill outright

In collaboration with @MarshalSolgriev

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The voidship drifted listlessly through the warp, moving through stars and planets like a boat navigating the open ocean. This vessel was neither mighty nor was it imposing. It was one meant for the better part of discretion as it hunted the stars for its quarry - a predator tracking ever distant prey that limped away into the vastness of a galaxy. Tech-adepts, crew, and servicemen alike stalked the halls in their mundane day-to-day tasks - but the helm was very much alive with the silence of those who were true hunters. Vaunted gene-warriors overlooked the pilots and the Captain-Commander of this specific vessel. None of them knew the true nature of their prey and none of them would likely ever know their prey proper.

The black-clad Stygian Talons were the true commanders of this vessel, The Embers of Night, carrying the full authority of the Emperor behind them as His Custodians. Though small in number, their air was enough to ensure compliance of any who would question their goals.

Standing over a holo-table was the frame of Amalasuntha, silently going over what data they had collected from their martian expedition before Deep Winter had made its escape into the void. She recalled the brief engagement of those hereteks that had chosen to side with the abomination, as bloody as it was, there was no contest. Regardless, the machine had eluded them once more. Amalasuntha had spent too much time on Terra and it had gathered enough resources to avoid the other terrors of the Sol system.

A hand gently went to her side, the side in which he had wounded her and yet she still wondered why she had been spared when Aeternus had been so willing to kill her comrades. The Hawk refused to believe it was sentimentality as a true warrior would have finished her in the moment that she had lost consciousness. She lacked the understanding of his motives in that battle, yet, she knew pondering such thoughts meant nothing and she knew to push them to the side, especially as she noticed the vessel’s Captain-Commander approaching her.

“My lady,” he said, folding his arms behind his back, “What resources would you have me prepare for you for when we transition into real space?”

“Nothing but my dropship and the assault craft, captain-commander.”

“Are you certain? If you would be going into battle I-”

“Do not question me,” her words carried a deadly weight to them, causing the mortal man to gulp down a primal fear that flashed in that moment. He silently bowed his head and walked off to make the preparations elsewhere on the bridge. Truly, Amalasuntha had not meant to actually scare the man - perhaps she had simply been used to dealing with the Categis while they had still lived. They had always needed a firmer hand to stay in line, even before they had lost their minds to their imperfections.

The Hawk continued to monitor the data on the holo-table, looking over what resources she still had since Arrarat. Quite the sum of Custodians had fallen and she had not wished to send a requisition to Him or Malcador for further of her kin. Instead, she had gotten something far more useful than anyone one Custodian - an asset that she was sure would spell the end to Deep Winter and her forces for good.

The asset sat below in the armouring hall alone. None of the Custodians walked amongst the unimportant servants that busied themselves here, carrying supplies and fresh ammunition from other parts of the warship. They paid the asset as much mind as they did the genecrafted children of the Emperor, yet their curiosity was their downfall. The thing was not a Custodes nor was it one of the Space Marines of the Legio Astartes. It wore warplate akin to the Master of Mankind’s guardians, but it was imperceptively shorter than their number. Unlike their perfected masters, this one was garnished in chains, hexagrammic wards, strange symbols, and trinkets of a forgotten age. Auramite as dark as the void was trimmed with gilded aurum, embellished with silent skulls. Their left pauldron harbored the shaven cranium of a malformed reptilian, while the right beheld their allegiance to the one known as Malcador the Sigilite - A great I with eye at the center. Its great helmet was reminiscent of ancient Terran knighthood, clad with unfurled wings and topped with a crown and modified to mirror the Custodian guardianhood.

It moved as if suddenly called by an invisible, maleficent power from beyond. The mortal servants urgently abandoned their curiosity, returning to their duties with a new sense of exigency. The asset reached down and hefted a greatsword into his right gauntlet, easing it against his right pauldron in a single move. A chain dangled between the wielder’s wrist and the pommel of their sword, forever linking the two. It was a weapon of dark majesty with a blade of obsidian and a crossguard of avian wings. A skull veered out where the shaft met the crossguard, hiding an unknown power within.

The asset crossed the bay in a few simple strides, their pristine, augmetic left hand hissing as they moved. A bulky armament sat atop the wrist of the asset, similar in appearance to the boltweapon of a guardian spear albeit with two barrels. An inaudible command passed through the weapon, forcing it to load fresh rounds from an unknown feed. Satisfied with the test, the asset maneuvered through the bulkheads.

The knight did not garnish glances from the Custodes as he walked out onto the command deck. They knew everything around them as studious protectors of the Emperor, even as He commanded them to fight afield. The knight was already known to them, yet only one knew the truth of the being within. It quietly stopped short of the holo-table, cautiously stepping aside for the mortals to pass around them.

“Shield-Captain,” it- no, he finally spoke after several long hours. His voice was a deep lion’s roar, booming and prideful. His tone spoke of an aeon of history, steeped in wars unwritten and battles unsung. It spoke for a legion of dead warriors. He brought his augmetic, left hand to his chest in salute. The symbol of a forgotten legion met his fist.

“Knight-Errant Arthur ready for deployment,” the knight, Arthur, growled out through his voxgrilles. Whatever the man had once been, whoever the man had once been, there was nothing but the Knight-Errant that remained. He radiated an aura of a legend in its prime, a myth in its creation, and a song in its crescendo.

The shield-captain did not move her head to respond, merely moving a hand to tap the holo-screen. She did not need to regard myth or legend, certainly not when there was prey to dive upon. Flickering with older information, the holo-table danced back to the Siege of Sanctii, long before the Martian expedition, and longer before the abomination had void-craft. It had been a time of unity, untold scores of Imperial forces had died against its wall and a token of custodes had given their lives far inside them.

“I am sure you are familiar with this battle, Knight-Errant,” Amalasuntha spoke in a firm tone, speaking to the living legend as she would any of the lessers upon the Embers of Night. The statement, further, was not a question. She knew what he knew, saw what he saw, felt what he had felt at that time. Finally, her eyes turned to look at the armor of the individual who flanked her, studying him in nanoseconds before continuing. As much as she knew, however, there were facts that she could not have been aware of nor did she know his true knowledge of their quarry.

“What do you know of the true nature of this battle? What was the primary goal?” She half-asked, as the holo-table danced with simulations of the battle as told by remembrancers and cobbled together from pict devices.

“The eradication of the abominable intelligence, the recovery of Dark Age technology within Sanctii, and compliance with Unity,” the Knight-Errant responded promptly. That battle flashed before his eyes in nanoseconds. Thousands of men and women loyal to the Master of the Lines had perished. Many of his own died, thinning the warriors available to him at that time. It had been the beginning of the end for his long-dead comrades. He moved around the holo-table, his gauntlets guiding him across the holographic battlefield.

“The battle was won after the ‘machine-god’ had left, but not before it let loose a horde of vat-grown, biomechanical monstrosities on the Emperor’s legions,” Arthur finished as he recalled the last of the battle. He still felt the cut of their claws to this day. It was lesser in comparison to the stabs of another, greater warrior than they had been. He continued to speak, “my assumption was that it had fled beyond the orbit aboard the voidship that the Sanctiians had in their arsenal.”

To the Knight-Errant, it was a spoken truth. They had not witnessed the capitulation of the cruiser at the hands of Second Legio Astartes, nor the unending dance that the Black Hawk and Deep Winter shared across the void. The only thing that the ancient warrior knew was the decimation of Ursh and the slaughter of Mount Ararat. The void was beyond his knowledge.

“An interesting theory when official accounts tell of the machine’s death,” the Black Hawk commented, as she motioned the Battle of Sanctii away from the holo-table.

“Official accounts matter little to the Sigilite,” the Knight-Errant knowingly responded. His left hand, a sophisticated simulacrum of an actual gauntlet, intentionally moved to the center of the table. A new sigil unlike Malcador’s own displayed itself on the back of the augment. An ‘I’ with a skull in the middle.

A smile would have crossed her face had she not been focused on the mission. Her expression remained unchanged as she continued, “The Abomination has fled the Sol system entirely, eluding us from Luna to Mars and beyond. We have scarce information as to where it is trying to run to, but a few scant options from our interrogations of Martian defectors.”

Six planets arrayed themselves on the table, various data streams following as Amalsuntha went to explain each one as it entered the display.

Carthae was an unremarkable mining colony on the edge of settled space. Sparse population, extensive industrial infrastructure, and little strategic value would make it the sort of place an abominable intelligence could occupy for decades before anyone noticed.

A frontier agri-world with only a handful of population centers. Its automated harvest systems and isolated location would have provided ample computational resources while drawing little attention from the growing Imperium.

Khepris served as a modest shipyard during the Dark Age of Technology. Though never a major naval hub, its orbital docks and manufactoria could sustain a machine intelligence seeking to construct vessels in secret.

Originally settled as a scientific outpost cataloguing nearby stellar phenomena, Vandor's Rest possessed advanced research facilities but little military presence. It would offer knowledge, power, and, above all, obscurity.

Meridian's temperate climate and stable infrastructure made it little more than another forgotten colonial world. The very banality of such a planet is what would make it attractive to something intent on avoiding discovery.

Vion V was recorded only as an isolated industrial colony of little consequence during Old Night. Its mountainous continents and scattered manufactoria offered sufficient resources to sustain a machine intelligence, while its distance from the primary warp routes ensured it remained beneath the notice of all but the most determined searchers. We now know that assumption was disastrously incorrect.

Amalasuntha looked at the Knight-Errant fully and asked a single question, “Where do you believe that Deep Winter could have fled to?”

Red lenses stared down at the holographic replica of the stellar bodies. Their data streamed across his visor and reflected against his hidden eyes. He greedily digested the information within nanoseconds, something that he previously would’ve been incapable of. A gift and a curse as ever his life had been. He placed the greatsword down against the table and positioned his free gauntlet onto its edge.

“The abominable intelligence seeks a power that rivals the Emperor’s own indomitable strength. That eliminates Carthae, the agri-world, and Meridian. That leaves Khepris, Vandor’s Rest, and Vion V as targets for the machine to seek,” Arthur responded as his augmetic hand manipulated the holographic images. He knew that she had an answer to this riddle. The Knight-Errant decided to humor her instead. A minor punishment for a hidden wound from decades ago.

“Voidships take too long to fabricate and leave a large footprint, especially in conjunction with material shipping,” he continued with a slice at Khepris’ holographic shape. He communed with the machine spirit with an astonishing level of finesse as he connected dots across the system. He continued, “it would’ve left itself wide open to discovery without plentiful defenses. It’d need to flee before it’s plans came to fruition.”

“Vandor’s Rest would suffice if the abominable intelligence had significant time, materials, and personnel to produce results,” the Knight-Errant switched his focus to the scientific outpost without missing a beat. He similarly slashed through it with his gauntlet and spoke again, “perhaps if the machine had more time and access to the knowledge of the Empyrean, then it could’ve had a chance.”

The man held a hand over the holographic sphere of Vion 5. He narrowed his eyes at the planet as it danced in his metallic palm. A nagging sensation began to build up in his gullet like an itching intuition.

“Vion 5,” Arthur announced after a brief second of further analysis. “Scattered manufactorums with unknown levels of subterranean transportation have the possibility of supplying the machine intelligence with a plethora of hideaways, supplies, and bodies. I don’t doubt that it manufactured a false report of Vion 5 to intentionally hide its trail,” the Knight-Errant finished with a look at Amalasuntha.

“Very well, then,” the Black Hawk began with a small nod, “We shall adjust course to Vion 5.”

She touched the holo-table once more and allowed it to cycle to other, less relevant information such as the background of some known affiliates of the abomination. The custodian gave her orders to adjust heading to the captain all the while looking between Arthur and her other comrades. Adjusting herself, Amalasuntha took a more relaxed stance as for once she allowed herself idle conversation, speaking with an uncharacteristically soft and more feminine voice.

“I understand if this change requires more time for you to adjust to, Arthur,” Amalasuntha spoke, moving to take off her half-helm. Laying the piece on the table she gazed upon the warrior and examined him, for once looking truly human and without her typical menace. It was, perhaps, one of the only other times Arthur had seen her in this way, as an individual outside of His orders.

The change. He remained mute for several suffocating seconds, turning his helmeted gaze away from Amalasuntha to himself. The genealchemy of the Emperor’s darkest enclave had reforged him into a profound being after his promised death. Arthur was neither a member of a forgotten legion of warriors nor was he one of the vaunted Custodians of the Emperor. He remained both something in between and something completely different. The Knight-Errant realized it in the way he walked, spoke, and fought. Even now, opposite to his comrade of untold decades, he could measure the increased height he gained from before. Few were the traits that remained of his previous form, yet his indomitable spirit remained.

“Your worry is a kindness, Amalsuntha,” Arthur replied in a familiar way, echoing the few softer conversations they previously had. Notably, the Knight-Errant did not remove his helmet to join the Custodes in her moment of humanity. The reason spoke for itself as Custodes and mortals walked around him, unaware of the man that he had once been. He continued to speak, “the Captain-General ascertained my abilities before leaving Terra. You won’t find me lacking, Shield-Captain.”

Not that you ever would, Arthur chose not to say yet the jab could be felt along an unquantifiable, immeasurable wavelength between them. Although the Stygian Shield-Captain could not see it, she was certain that the warrior was grinning beneath his helmet.

“I’ve seen first hand what your blade can do,” the custodian responded as she turned away from the man, though keeping her eyes trained on him from the side. The Hawk could still feel the pain from their last encounter all too well. She wanted to say more, desiring to express more to Arthur but understanding that she could do little more than have the occasional moment between them. It seemed that despite all of it, the two could not have more than a fleeting moment to speak as equals.

She stifled an audible sigh.

“As long as you are capable, Arthur,” Amalasuntha said, flatly, before returning back to her more calculating and focused appearance - not wishing to dawdle on sentimentality. Knowing that the Knight-Errant would only wish to conduct His will to the best of his ability, she brought up the logistical make up of the Stygian Talons. “To supplement us, we have two gunships at our disposal, along with numerous Imperial Auxilia. Their commanders have been instructed to answer to your orders, but I will remind you that they are no gene-warriors. Use them at your discretion, otherwise, their purpose is so that we need not squander our own.”

She paused for a moment as the feed displayed the compliment available to the ship itself.

“That discretion is not absolute, however. Unlike before, the decision regarding where and when we commit ourselves to battle is mine. Should we encounter the abomination, or should circumstances be made that the Legio Custodes need to involve themselves, I alone will determine the manner of our engagement. Until that moment, the Auxilia is yours to do as you see fit.”

The Knight-Errant looked down to the holographic images laid atop the table. He read, memorized, and calculated their numbers and total possible tactics within seconds. Despite the fact that they were Excertus Imperialis, they were Solar Auxilia with veterancy in nearly every conflict from Terra to Sedna. None were of the Saturnyne genestock. They were not genewarriors of his lost era, but these men and women were the next best thing.

“They won’t be able to replace my Slayers, but I think they can handle the mantle,” Arthur finally replied after collating all of their data. The term lingered in the air between them for half a second. ‘Slayer’. A small infraction on his oath, yet not a complete disregard for his anonymity. Another reason that the two warriors danced around their relationship.

“What is your will, Amalasuntha? Shall we infiltrate into the populace together or will you remain aboard the Embers of Night?” He asked, fully removing his attention away from the tactical display to the Black Hawk. His question had an unusual tone to it. It asked knowing her answer, yet it offered her a chance to indulge. The Knight-Errant appeared to not be completely ignorant of the Custodes’ wants, despite the cold exterior he alluded to in the long trip.

“That is dependent upon the situation planetside, discretion will be the priority assuming nominal conditions,” she said matter of factly, as she attempted to pull what data they had in the bygone world.

Amalasuntha gazed upon the fragmented data for a few lingering moments longer before dismissing it with the back of her gauntlet. There was little value in dwelling upon conjecture. Whether the colony had endured, collapsed beneath its own weight, or simply vanished into the long annals of forgotten history mattered little until they laid eyes upon it themselves. Facts would present themselves soon enough.

The bridge carried on around her with its customary discipline. Officers quietly relayed updated headings throughout the vessel while servitors stalked between cogitator stations bearing fresh data-slates and replacement reels. The Embers of Night herself seemed almost eager, the subtle vibration beneath the deckplates changing as her plasma drives adjusted to their final approach.

"How long until translation?" Amalasuntha asked without lifting her eyes from the hololithic table.

The helmsmaster consulted the navigational display before responding.

"Less than an hour, Shield-Captain."

She gave a single nod.

"Inform the launch bays that all assault craft are to be brought to immediate readiness. Stormbirds will remain fueled and armed, with reconnaissance augurs calibrated before we achieve orbit. I want every pilot prepared to depart the moment I give the order."

"It shall be done."

The command spread through the vessel with practiced efficiency. Across the launch decks, Tech-Adepts awoke dormant machine spirits with whispered binharic hymns while Solar Auxilia crews inspected their equipment for what would likely be the final time before deployment. Ammunition was inventoried, vox frequencies confirmed, and engines coaxed into life beneath clouds of sacred incense. It was a familiar ritual, one repeated countless times across humanity's march through the stars, yet every warrior aboard understood that no amount of preparation could compensate for ignorance.

That, more than any enemy, was what awaited them on Vion 5.

Amalasuntha allowed herself one final glance at the fading records upon the holo-table before extinguishing them entirely.

"Whatever waits for us below," she said, more to herself than anyone else upon the bridge, "it has remained hidden since before Unity."

The bridge fell silent.

A resonant chime rolled throughout the vessel.

"Approaching translation point."

The stars beyond the armored viewing ports bent into impossible geometries before collapsing upon themselves as the Embers of Night tore free from the Immaterium. For the briefest of moments the bridge was awash in warning runes and status reports, only for them to settle as the ship's machine spirit confirmed a successful emergence into realspace.

"We have arrived, Shield-Captain," the auspex officer announced as fresh stellar cartography blossomed across the command deck. "The Vion System lies before us."

Amalasuntha stepped toward the newly formed hololithic display, emerald eyes settling upon the fourth planet circling its distant sun.

"Bring us into high anchor above Vion 5."

She rested one hand upon the edge of the holo-table, already considering the first steps of the investigation before the vessel had even entered orbit.

"Prepare the first landing contingent."

“In His name,” Knight-Errant Arthur responded alongside the other Auxilia. His augmetic fist was brought back to his chestplate in a familiar salute before beginning to leave the command deck. The warrior’s greatsword was hefted against his pauldron as he departed. He lingered a moment next to her before wordlessly moving forward into the bowels of the Embers of Night.

He marched through the ship with the presence of a wrathful guardian given purpose. A gaggle of mortals followed after him, adorned in the carapace voidsuits of the black and silver. Those men and women wore the livery of the Stygian Talons in the form of loinclothes, cloaks, waistcapes, and tabards. They moved behind him without fear through the hull, gripping their lasrifles with professional ease. Tech-adepts and ship servants made way for the warriors of their cause, dipping their heads as they passed.

A short drop from an ascender saw the Knight-Errant and his assembling Auxilia arrive at the hangars of Embers of Night. Organized chaos filled the bays from entrance to exit. Where typical deployments would have several lighters for troop transport, the Stygian Talons instead had been supplied with several Stormbirds for their operation. ‘Blessed’ by the forges of Mars and consecrated in the fires of the Solar Reclamation, their heavily armed hulls were painted in the black-silver livery alike their charges.

At the furthest end of the bay loomed the dark spirits of the Custodes gunships, both of their machine-spirits humming with anticipatory violence. Mortals scurried in great herds, arming and refueling each of the craft with the practised urgency of professionals. Martian machine priests and Saturnyne tech-supplicants performed their rites in hurried grace. Roof-mounted cranes descended from unseen controllers, loading greater explosives on the voidcraft. Formations of Auxilia, outside of the Knight-Errant’s retinue, positioned themselves behind their allocated craft at parade rest.

The Knight-Errant crossed the bay to the first Stormbird, whose engines had begun to spin in anticipation of their arrival. No formation of Auxilia awaited them like the other voidcraft. Only those that journeyed with him now would suffice for the task, though he doubted their presence was even necessary. Better to err on the side of caution than fall to hubris, he thought as the craft’s ramp lowered to welcome him in. Arthur allowed the mortals to storm up the ramp first, hefting their own personalized heavier armaments from a nearby depot. He turned his helmeted gaze to the furthest crafts in the bay, lingering on their majestic silver shine before ascending onto the Stormbird. There was work to be done and His will to be executed.

All that remained for him and the Auxilia was the call to action.

The hangar remained alive despite the stillness that had settled over those assembled within it. Mortals hurried from craft to craft in rehearsed motions, each aware that the next few minutes would decide whether the operation began with order or confusion. Tech-priests uttered binharic canticles over awakened machine-spirits as the last ammunition hoppers were sealed into place. Refueling lines hissed free from armored hulls and were hurriedly dragged aside while warning lumens washed the launch decks in alternating crimson and amber. Above them, immense blast doors groaned as ancient mechanisms stirred from dormancy, preparing to expose the cavernous bay to the emptiness beyond.

The vox crackled. For scarcely a heartbeat every movement within the bay ceased.

"Launch authorization granted."

There was no need for elaboration.

The first Stormbird's engines climbed from a restrained growl into a deafening roar, joined almost immediately by the remainder of the squadron until the entire launch deck trembled beneath their collective fury. Deck crews dispersed from beneath the gunships with practised haste, waving illuminated guidance batons through the haze of vaporized fuel as mag-clamps disengaged one after another. The machine-spirits answered eagerly, straining against their restraints like predators scenting blood.

Arthur remained motionless throughout the ritual, his greatsword resting across his shoulder as the assault ramp sealed behind the last of his Auxilia. Only when the launch cradle beneath the Stormbird lurched did he subtly widen his stance, preparing for departure alongside the warriors under his command.

One by one the Stormbirds surged into the void.

The Embers of Night relinquished them without ceremony, her armored prow opening like the jaws of some ancient beast as black-and-silver gunships poured forth into the darkness. The two Custodian gunships followed shortly thereafter, their greater mass and impossible grace standing apart from the more conventional assault craft. Their ancient engines burned with a cold brilliance as they settled into formation above the smaller vessels, watchful guardians to the coming descent.

Vion 5 steadily grew within the cockpit canopies.

At first it was little more than another world suspended against the endless black, but with every passing moment mountains emerged from indistinct shapes, continents revealed themselves beneath drifting cloud formations, and broad oceans reflected the light of the system's star. It appeared peaceful from orbit. Quiet. Forgotten.

The first tendrils of atmosphere reached out to meet the descending craft.

Heat began to dance across the armored viewports as the Stormbirds angled their noses downward, their machine-spirits roaring in triumph as they descended toward the world that had eluded Imperial scrutiny for generations. Within the troop compartment the red glow of embarkation lumens gave way to the harsh amber of atmospheric entry, bathing auramite, carapace and steel alike in a furnace-light.

Whatever awaited them below would soon cease to be conjecture.

The hunt, at long last, had reached Vion 5.