"I am the hammer.
I am the right hand of the Emperor
The instrument of His will;
The gauntlet about His fist;
The tip of His spear;
The edge of His sword."
The Stormraven gunship jerked violently as it weaved through the air; down, down towards the habspires of the doomed hive-world – down towards the foe.
It bothered him not.
There was a name to this world, but he knew it not. It had a purpose, a tithe owed to the Imperium of Man, but he knew it not. There were people, untold billions, who lived in its towering city-spires – but he knew them not. And they knew not of him, or of his battle brothers. Such was their fate.
He was the grey doom, the silent ghost of death that descended in the darkest hour; a silvery ray of light against the daemon hordes, one that was never meant to be seen by the eyes of the bystander. He was a weapon with a singular purpose, an Astartes of the 666th Chapter.
He was the Grey Knight.
The gunship jerked again.
A silent sigh. Something did bother him; it was always thus before battle, in that dread calm before diving into the storm.
Explosions pierced through the deafening scream of the engines; bolter shots pattered against the exterior plating as their pilot took them in.
It was not fear. Never fear; he had been stripped of that weakness, as of many others, by his training. Those who faced horrors beyond even His Angels of Death to defeat could know no fear – the smallest shred would be their death. The Hammer of the Emperor could not afford to flinch as it landed the blow, not even a little.
No fear. No hesitation. No remorse.
And yet, in those moments before battle that seemed to stretch on for hours, something gnawed at him still. A thousand times he'd fought, facing the worst filth that was spewed forth from the Warp – battle was his home. And still the wait unsettled him.
Seeking comfort in its familiarity, his ceramite-clad fingers clenched the handle of the Nemesis halberd tighter.
He looked up from his lap, the faint whining of the Terminator armour's servos lost in the Stormraven's roar. The featureless, plain helmets of his battle-brothers greeted his gaze, piercing out from beneath an identical mask.
No, not identical; each carried its own nicks and notches, dents left behind by their daemonic foes that wove a tale whose entirety only the Machine Spirit of the armour itself knew. Each Terminator suit was a relic, passed down from warrior to warrior; to be allowed to don it was an honour earned by bloodshed. Each an intricate tapestry telling of the deeds of unsung heroes that the Imperium would never know. Heroes that guarded it in the Emperor's stead, hoping for nothing in return but the honour of being laid down in the crypts of Titan, their names etched into the great basalt alongside those of countless fallen battle-brothers.
Every name on the basalt wall was a hero's name. Not a single one would be recognizable to an outsider's gaze.
Another jolt, this time stronger, as the Stormraven altered course abruptly.
One of the towering figures rose, a shield on his right shoulder separating him from the rest. Personal heraldry was a right earned, as all things among the Grey Knights, with blood and sacrifice. Not a single Justicar was there who had earned the right to lead his battle-brothers into battle without giving even more of themselves than the rest.
"Battle-brothers," The Justicar's voice cut through the engines, the inbuilt vox communicators of their armour as natural to each and every Terminator as their own hearing.
For the thousandth time, each and every detail of the Stormraven's interior etched itself into the Grey Knight's mind. Their bare, utilitarian surroundings; his battle-brothers, their poses steadfast and tense - familiar and comforting even from beneath the unrelenting shells of their armour. A familiarity won through wars upon wars fought alongside the only family he now remembered.
"Prepare to disembark."
With a whoosh, the landing craft's doors shot open.