Grand Marshal Vastutin stood by the window, his enormous great coat hanging heavily from narrow shoulders. A servo-skull hovered dutifully just behind his shoulder, its tiny stylus poised to scribe upon a roll of parchment clutched tentatively in its slender digits. He gazed out across the grey stretch of sea toward the distant shores of Osdia, as if hoping somehow to observe from afar, and with his own eyes, the glorious triumph of the Imperial forces – the final victory he so fervently craved.

In the other corner of the room, the senior officers huddled in silence – all generals and field marshals. All wearing pristine, high-collared uniforms with chests decked full of glittering medals. All straight-backed, chins jutting proudly. Captain Lukharin positioned himself in the seemingly vast empty space between the officers and the Grand Marshal, his peaked cap tucked neatly under one arm and a data-slate held firmly in his hand. He glanced down and saw his vague reflection in the polished marble floor.

'Stavangard is the key to Osdia – the key to Zalheim,' said the Grand Marshal without turning.

The servo-skull's stylus scratched at the parchment.

'It is there that the war will be won or lost, as I have said all along. The enemy must not retake the city – they must be denied at all costs. Therefore, I have planned a great counter-stroke to turn the traitors and their xenos masters on their heels. A battle group is being assembled as we speak. Our mighty armoured formations shall break the encirclement from the south west and secure Stavangard, thus tearing the heart from the enemy's defence. When you return to Stavangard, captain,' the Grand Marshal turned to address Lukharin, his hands clasped behind his back beneath his great coat, 'tell Field Marshal Ghrukov that VII Battle Group shall yet be relieved and that my hopes, and indeed the hopes of the Imperium, are with him and all those who hold the city in the name of the Emperor.'

Every person present made the sign of the Aquila.

'Grand Marshal,' said Lukharin, 'Field Marshal Ghrukov gave me the order to inform you of the situation. With your permission, I should like to deliver my report.'

The Grand Marshal threw a glance at his command staff. 'Of course, captain,' he said, inclining his head.

Lukharin coughed politely into his fist, and remembered what General Grosygin had told him before he'd departed from Stavangard. Don't spare any details, Grosygin had said, tell him everything.

'Grand Marshal,' Lukharin began, 'VII Battle Group's current situation is untenable. We have been unable to effectively repulse the new enemy offensive in the western districts due primarily to their numerical superiority, but also due to the growing number of desertions and a lack of fuel and ammunition. Medical and food supplies are now critical, which, combined with the rapidly deteriorating weather conditions, has had a disastrous effect on combat efficiency. VII Battle Group is not receiving enough supplies by air to maintain a defensible position for a sustained period of time.' Lukharin held up his data-slate. 'I have here all the figures of the daily supply drops.'

A thick, choking silence descended upon all those present. The servo-skull stopped scribing and waited. The Grand Marshal twitched his nose.

'Kraven,' he said at length, 'is there an explanation for this?'

Air Marshal Kraven stepped forward, the stark blue of his Navy uniform marking him out from the other Guard officers around him.

'The current conditions at Stavangard are not ideal for such an operation, Grand Marshal,' said Kraven, 'but it is nothing that cannot be overcome. The number of aircraft sent out is increasing each day, thanks largely to the fleet's significant contributions.'

'But, Grand Marshal,' Lukharin interjected, 'for VII Battle Group, what is important is what we receive, not how many aircraft are sent out. We are not criticising the Navy – on the contrary, the heroism displayed by their pilots is truly exemplary – but the supplies we receive simply are not enough.'

'As Air Marshal Kraven assures us, Stavangard shall have its supplies,' said another officer, General Seneslau. 'VII Battle Group need only hold out until reinforcements arrive to relieve them.'

'Yes – yes, which will be soon, captain,' the Grand Marshal agreed, striding across to the enormous holo-display squatting behind Lukharin. 'Thus far, VII Battle Group has demonstrated unparalleled courage and strength, which is why it must not falter now.'

'I'm afraid I must emphasise the critical state of our position, Grand Marshal,' said Lukharin, feeling the conversation slipping from his grasp just as Grosygin had warned him. 'We simply cannot hold the enemy back – not only do they hold a numerical advantage, but they are also better equipped and better suited to fighting in the terrain. The rain, the mists, the flooding – it does not deter them-'

'Which is precisely why VII Battle Group was tasked with the capture of Stavangard, captain. Any other battle group would have crumbled under such tremendous strain. It is a testament to your prowess and your determination. VII Battle Group is a paragon of Imperial will.'

The Grand Marshal turned his gaze upon the holo-display, commanding the servitor – the vaguely human mass of flesh and circuitry mechanically enmeshed to the console – to bring up the situation map. A holographically-rendered eastern Osdia and the frontline materialised before Lukharin's eyes. Colourful symbols denoting Imperial unit formations stretched nearly two thousand kilometres from the banks of the Kule River in the north all the way to Drammenstad Hive in the south. The VII Battle Group was marked out clearly over Stavangard.

'Our enemies have made a desperate gamble, and it is an astonishing display of their arrogance that they believe they can crush VII Battle Group. Such a gross miscalculation of Imperial tenacity. It reminds us of the depraved, opportunist nature of the alien. Apply enough pressure, and their ability to formulate effective, coherent strategy breaks down entirely, like a cornered animal. This is their last roll of the die. They know that if they cannot break us at Stavangard, we shall roll them all the way back to Helstad.' The Grand Marshal leaned heavily on the holo-display, staring deep into it. The light from the projections cast a glow across the taut, leathery skin of his face, marking the lines of age etched around his eyes and mouth. 'I have already given instructions – Field Marshal Tushenko is assembling a battle group at Jydske. The Astartes Black Scorpions have pledged their support for the action.'

It was almost as if the Grand Marshal was talking to himself. Lukharin glanced over at the senior officers, observing their passivity as the Grand Marshal consigned VII Battle Group to oblivion, utterly disconnected from reality. He was deaf to Lukharin's report, deaf to the plight of the men and women of VII Battle Group. Such courage they had shown, such determination in the face of adversity. Never had they found cause to question their duty as they stormed through northern Osdia and all the way to the banks of the Danaelva, until now.

Now their strength is finally exhausted, now the obstacles are simply too great to overcome, they find themselves abandoned by the very people they were willing to lay down their lives for.

The Grand Marshal lived in a fantasy world of maps and symbols, and his command staff were all willingly complicit in perpetuating his false reality. Either they believed it themselves, or they merely pandered to him in the hope of earning his favour so that they might advance their own agendas.

And VII Battle Group was suffering for it – dying because of it. Lukharin imagined the command staff standing in this very chamber, gathered around the holo-display and watching on as the Imperial armies ground themselves relentlessly into the dirt.

Lukharin, as if waking from a dream, saw the people around him for who they truly were. It was not the Imperium they cared for, but their own self-interest. The soldiers fighting and dying out on the frontline – they were just statistics, just figures in a report, symbols on a map. They were nothing.

What hope for victory was there now?