Serpentine whispers echoed across the labyrinthine corridors of the Gorgon's Manacles, offering temptations in an unintelligible tongue that only Pyotr could hear. He forced himself to ignore them as he guided Sixth Claw to their destination.

"You are sure our breachcraft was undetected?" Retrigan asked over their private vox-link where the other members of the Claw could not hear.

"Yes," Pyotr said. He had crafted three scrapcode viruses for this mission, each one housed in the injectors affixed to his mechatendrils. The first had come in two parts; the initial one that lurked within the pre-recorded vox-message that had been transmitted to the ship and fool Lavitor Fabrinus. In doing so, it allowed the insidious code to seep into their auspex readings and mask Sixth Claw's approach. With the virus now hidden and interwoven into the cruiser's systems, a link was forged between it and its secondary code that Pyotr had injected into their craft during their procession. Activating it forced the Gorgon's Manacles to lower its void shields for no more than a fraction of a second—long enough for Sixth Claw to bypass the defenses, but not long enough to be detected on any auguries. The maneuver had required what bordered on perfection in terms of execution and timing. A feat that Pyotr had almost failed to accomplish due to his… distracted state.

"And what if you do not know this chapter master as well as you think and he is truly still aboard?" Retrigan continued. Once, Pyotr would have assumed his brother was doubting him and intentionally seeking out flaws in his plans. Now, however, he knew that the once-raptor was simply being thorough in his contention.

"I do," Pyotr said simply. "He was always meant to uncover that message to be a recording. From there, it was only a matter of laying out a more obvious scent for the mongrel to sniff."

Retrigan grunted in acknowledgement. Pyotr knew that Lavitor Fabrinus would not be able to resist making landfall if he believed that the lord discordant had done the same. All it required was a weak auspex-slaver nestled inside one of the warband's decoy drop pods and the tech-marine would come to his own conclusions.

"And our craft? Someone is going to come upon it soon enough."

"Yes," Pyotr agreed. "Which is why we should hurry." He switched the vox-channel then to the one that included the entire Claw and interrupted a conversation between Anras and Gyrthemar about the validity of exsanguination versus visual deprivation as terror tactics.

"Double time," Pyotr reported and five Night Lords adorned in gray armor quickened their pace onward.

It had taken some convincing for Pyotr to get Zasharr to both prepare his body for the mechadendrite installations, as well as the borrowing of yet more Ferric Sentry armor, but he had managed to do so in the end—likely at the cost of further damage to their alliance.

Forks and crossroads in the corridors passed them by with scant additional appearance from any other living being beyond the occasional serf or servitor.

"Do you even know where it is we're going?" Taresh asked.

"Yes," Pyotr replied, and it was mostly true. While he knew the pattern of the ship, he had never been aboard the Manacles personally and knew nothing of the tenebro-maze corridors within. He did not need to, however, as he navigated on far more primal, accursed senses.

"My lords!" A shrill voice abruptly rang out, stopping the Night Lords in their tracks. A round of sighs and annoyed grunts buzzed over the private vox as they turned to address who had called to them.

A diminutive woman in red robes stood before them. Pyotr initially mistook her for some form of adept of the Mechanicum, but quickly found her to possess no augmentation, nor were her robes truly that of the design of the tech cult, but of a pattern meant to only imitate them. That struck the lord discordant as horribly inefficient and needlessly confusing. Regardless, this was nothing more than a serf. A high-ranking one, perhaps, based on the garment, but just a serf nonetheless.

Taresh stepped forth to take point yet again. "What is it? The eve of battle is upon us, your presence is a distraction."

The woman did not flinch or beg like those of her station aboard the Savory Wound might have done, but instead bowed her head reverently. "Of course, my lords. That is why I speak. I offer my services to whatever you may need to better prepare you for what is to come."

"That will not be necessary."

"But," she lifted her eyes to look at them once more, "you do not even have your sanctified robes of the chapter."

"They wear robes? To battle?" Gyrthemar asked incredulously through the privacy of the Claw's vox-link.

"Yes," Pyotr responded. "Depending on their rank and pedigree." Which Sixth Claw would appear to be within the confines of as a result of Pyotr's trio of servo-limbs.

"That is what we are going to retrieve," Taresh replied without pause.

The serf furrowed her brow and glanced over her shoulder into the depths of the corridor beyond. "In… the bowels of the ship?"

"Yes," Taresh countered in a tone that suggested she was the one being inane. "The blood of heretics sullied them on Exodus Station. The fires of the engine's great and holy machine spirit will have purified them once more."

The woman nodded slowly. "I… Yes, my lords, of course." Taresh moved to walk past the human, the rest of Sixth Claw following his lead. They did not make it far before the serf spoke up once again. "But– Forgive me, my lords, but why would it take over two weeks for you to cleanse your robes?"

Taresh glanced over his shoulder at her. "It was a lot of blood."

The serf stared at him, then her eyes flickered over each member of Sixth Claw, in turn. Her gaze lingered on Pyotr specifically as she took in each one of his mechadendrite arms. A seed of understanding seemed to be blossoming in her mind that was betrayed by her facial ticks. She didn't have all the information and couldn't come to a direct conclusion yet, but Pyotr could see that something was beginning to feel off to her.

"Perhaps I could fetch them for you, my lords, and have them sent up to the hangar before you depart," she stated.

"Unnecessary," Taresh replied.

"Please, it is my duty to serve you. I… I must insist."

The serf scurried ahead of them once more, eyeing them as she passed the squad of Astartes. Red eye lenses slowly turned to meet one another and communicate with silent glances. Before she had fully taken the lead again, the crack of a flail head caved her skull in completely, spattering dark blood against the walls and Sixth Claw's armor.

The pitiful creature stumbled and impotently opened and closed her mouth like a gaping fish, but in seconds she stumbled and collapsed to the deck, twitching as her lifeblood pooled out and spread across the cool metal.

"There," Gyrthemar proclaimed. "Problem solved."

"I was handling it," Taresh said with an edge of irritation.

Gyrthemar shrugged. "Your methods were taking too long."

"I was going to convince her to leave."

"Yes," Anras began coolly. "Our brother, Taresh, is rather clever. I daresay he would fit in quite well amongst the Alpha Legion." There was a bite to those words beyond the jesting that was impossible to decipher.

"This is better," Gyrthemar insisted. "Now there is no risk of her alerting anyone of our presence."

"Yes, how ingenious, brother," Retrigan chimed in. "I imagine, then, that you already have a plan as to what we do about the body."

Gyrthemar's lack of response was answer enough.

"Cease this," Pyotr said before another round of argumentation could arise. "We do not have the time for it." Begrudgingly, the members of Sixth Claw nodded in agreement. Together, they edged their way around the growing pool of blood to avoid staining their boots and leaving prints before continuing on their way with additional alacrity.

Cai was the first to die.

They left the thunderhawk and were met with a din of battle cries, bolter fire, and horrified wails and screams. Flayed and dismembered corpses hung from power lines, windows, archways, and anywhere else that made them visible. Those who had not suffered such a fate cowered indoors, daring not risk getting involved in the fray of battle.

Artemis looked down the desecrated main street of Equinox Secundus. Rubble and collapsed buildings cluttered the terrain alongside the dark blue shells of drop pods that had both blossomed to allow marauding Night Lords to do their gruesome work, or remained closed as they were never intended to do more than serve as decoys.

Screeching raptors flew overhead, trailing lines of dark, burning smog from their jump packs, landing on walls and clinging to them with claws and talons as they scuttled forward before blasting off yet again in search of their prey. Brutal warriors in crimson thundered ahead, roaring out animalistic cries in veneration to their Blood God. Artemis thought she could see their leader, the one she'd heard several Astartes refer to as the 'mad apothecary,' bellowing commands, his chainsword held aloft.

Then Artemis spotted the enemy.

Scores of Astartes in gray marched down the street in organized units, taking defensive positions and waiting for the enemy to come to them. When they inevitably did, Artemis and her squad had no choice but to follow suit.

The opening volley of bolter fire did little to the transhuman warriors, but a good third of the human cultists that Artemis and the others had now been branded as fell. She watched as Ciaphas, the pale boy with the quick smile, was blown apart, his legs and torso landing in two entirely different directions.

Screams of pain and terror rose around Artemis, but she couldn't help but ignore them. They felt so dull, so distant. All she could do was watch the carnage, her arms limp at her side. She watched as a squad of Ferric Sentries lept from behind a barrier of rubble and began thundering their way towards Cult Squad One now that they'd crossed some imaginary line. It would only be a matter of moments before they were in range to take aim and–

Something slammed into Artemis from behind, forcing her to her knees and up against a slab of rockcrete cover.

"What is wrong with you?" Jep said with wild eyes. Around them, members of their squad occasionally took glimpses out from behind their own improvised fortifications and returned fire. It was entirely useless considering their weaponry and the foe that they faced.

"They need you!" Jep said, gesturing to the people who would soon be dead. "Do something!"

Artemis gaped at him. That ridiculous beard, those deep eyes, the wrinkles in his forehead caused by hard concentration and thought. In another life…

She tried to listen for the voice of her mother, like before. But there was nothing. Artemis couldn't even begin to think what the crone would have possibly said in this moment. Couldn't… She couldn't even remember what her mother's voice sounded like.

Her eyes found the ground as she turned her face away. "I can't do anything, Jep. Just let it happen."

He stared at her, jaw slack, as if he truly expected her to reveal some kind of miracle that she'd been hiding this entire time. But this wasn't the daemon incursion. She couldn't just bide time until the problem went away. Here, in this, they either died now from the crack of a bolter, or later from the methodical scalpels of their overlords. She preferred the bolter.

"You… you can't be…" Jep stammered, but a round of enemy fire cut him off. Chips of debris flew free from their defenses and more of them dropped dead. "Shit," he hissed. "Take cover!"

Artemis didn't listen. She lifted her head over the lip of her collapsed wall and prepared to meet her death with relief. Her eyes met the red glare of an Astartes. She couldn't see his face, but Artemis imagined his expression was just as cold as that of his helmet as he raised his boltgun and aimed it at her. Her own breathing suddenly became loud in her ears, augmented by the pumping of blood.

A rush of air inward. Bump-bump. A ragged push outwards. Bump-bump. She couldn't see the finger curling around the trigger, but she felt as if she could sense it—sense the tension of that armored digit as it efficiently and remorselessly prepared itself to cut the thread of her experience. All in less than a second.

There was a blur of deep blue, the gong of metal impacting metal, and suddenly her executioner was gone. Artemis's brow furrowed, her lips parting. The concentrated fire on their position suddenly abated as a deep cry of suffering rang out from across the battle. The enemy squad of Astartes looked to one another and took up a more defensive position. It didn't matter.

Slowly, more and more heads poked out from behind the battlements to watch as that blur returned. The ringing impact of bolt shells against metal and its resultant sparks appeared, but it wasn't enough to stop another member vanishing along with his abductor. The final three space marines began to quickly retreat, but a barbed tendril appeared from around a corner, spiking one through the thigh and pinning him to the rockcrete. The other two, distracted by his howl of pain, turned back towards their brother just in time to be engulfed by a gout of dark fire. They hardly made any noise before their bodies were reduced to charred slag.

The final warrior desperately attempted to free himself from his pinned position, but was unsuccessful as a predatory creature of metal and mutated flesh appeared from the shadows, stalking forward with its multi-limbed, lupine frame, drool dripping from its open maw. The Astartes hefted his bolter to fire at the helstalker, but a series of fleshy mandibles pierced his body in three locations before he could so much as line up the shot. The appendages flexed, and the Ferric Sentry's screams of pain were barely heard over the sound of ripping muscles and creaking armor as he was torn apart.

Tzimiti lowered its head and sniffed at the segmented corpse, cocking its head curiously and pawing at the disconnected hunks as if expecting them to rise and keep the game going. Artemis blinked slowly, her mouth hanging even more ajar. She had not expected Pyotr's beast to be on the front lines, as well. At least, not without its master. And yet, here it was, the lord discordant nowhere to be found. That was… That was something she could use, wasn't it?

No. There's no point, a whimpering voice within her murmured. Black tendrils within her chest crawled outwards and clenched. Artemis felt herself wither, but then looked at those around her. They stared at the daemon engine with a mix of awe and predominantly fear.
She couldn't do this for herself. She didn't have the will left for it. Artemis had given up, but… but her men, they hadn't yet. She could still do this for them… Couldn't she?

"We follow the beast!" Artemis called out. Heads turned to face her. "Its both our shield and our sword! Stay out of its way, but stick close!"
It wasn't much of a chance, she acknowledged. Artemis was pretty sure that the thing could decide to turn on them and view them as prey at any moment, but it was a better option than the raptors and berzerkers. It would have to do.

Tzimiti lifted its head from the ground, evidently bored when the corpse that was missing its leg and half its torso did not rise, and began to scan the battlefield. Artemis slid over the top of her cover and made for the nearest wall in order to somewhat safely follow after the horrid machine. She didn't turn back to see if anyone was following her.
But she knew that they were.

Less than five minutes elapsed before the cruiser's alarm and warning lumens began their staccato rhythm. If it was a result of the breachcraft or the serf's corpse being discovered was irrelevant, their presence was now known.

"Dammit," Retrigan snapped.

"We're close," Pyotr said.

"I don't see how that matters now that the entire ship is aware that we're here."

"That is all they know," Pyotr countered. "They do not yet know our goals."

The lord discordant paused at an intersection, listening to the distant sound of mobilized bootfalls. His brothers paused with him, each raising weapons in preparation.

"I must reach the destination. Otherwise this was all for nothing."

"How do we make it happen?" Gyrthemar asked with a surprising amount of solidarity.

Pyotr nodded. "Night Lords, take to the shadows. Harry anyone attempting to pursue my path."

"And how long will you need?" Taresh asked.

Checking his helm's chronometer and feeling outwards with unnatural senses, Pyotr made a rapid calculation. "No more than ten minutes. Stay on the vox-channel and ready yourself for my word. We flee as soon as the command falls from my lips."

"A command to run away? A tad formal for us, don't you think?" Anras chuckled, but nodded along with the others.

One by one, Sixth Claw began to slink off down their own respective corridors, becoming one with the darkness that lurked within the recesses and ventilation tunnels and all things tenebrous and decrepit aboard the ship. This may have been the Ferric Sentries' vessel, but it was now home to the cowards and vermin of the VIIIth Legion. By the time any saw the glint of light reflecting off of their bared fangs, it would already be too late.

Once all his brothers had vanished, Pyotr continued on his way, making no effort to obscure himself any longer. He would have to rely on his brothers to protect him and hope none intended to use the opportunity to plant a knife between his shoulders as he did so.

The rest of his path forward was trivial. All that barred his way were the unprepared serfs, tech adepts, and menial servitors who fell quickly under the kiss of Pyotr's chainglaive and mechatendrils. All the same, the result was a trail of bodies leaking blood and oil that painted his boots carmine. It did not surprise Pyotr even slightly when the flashing lumens and blaring alarm abruptly cut out, filling the corridors with darkness and the eerie glow of emergency lighting coming online. The work of one of his brothers, he was sure.

"Preysight," Pyotr subvocalized into his helm. He let out a quiet, growling sigh when nothing happened.

Idiot, the lord discordant chastised himself as he began to blink through the retinal display options of his loaned helmet. He should have known better to assume a command like that would work on any armor outside the VIIIth legion. Moments later, his vision became awash in the monochrome hues of heat signatures as he continued onward.

His path inevitably led to a closed bulkhead door. It was reinforced beyond that of any other hatchway that he had passed. Beyond it, Pyotr could feel the pulsating power that tantalized him and filled his mouth with acidic hunger.

Experimentally, Pyotr tapped on the hatchway's control panel, only to be met with a demand for authorization. Closing his eyes, the lord discordant reached out and connected to the machine spirit within.

And was rebuffed.

Blinking, Pyotr felt a ghost of something tug at the corners of his lips. In his brief connection he understood the spirit on a surface level. It was proud and stubborn. It had one sacred task and that was to not let anyone without the proper merits enter, and it would sooner have its soul flayed line by line before it failed to uphold that duty. Under normal circumstances, it would have taken Pyotr weeks to break such a willful motive force.
But these were not normal circumstances.

A servo-arm twitched and slithered through the air before innocently nestling itself into an open port of the control panel. Pyotr then injected it with the second of his three techno-viruses and removed the mechatendril. At first, nothing occurred as his scrapcode began to infiltrate the system and begin its horrific work.

The first metamechanical cries of pain were a delight to the lord discordant as the panel's cogitator screen began to flicker and buzz. The cries morphed into pleas for mercy that became shrieks that penetrated the physical world as the panel began to spark and pop pitiably. In a matter of moments, the machine spirit had been rendered a whimpering animal at Pyotr's feet at the cost of one of his most potent scrapcode viruses. The delicious suffering it caused was worth it.

When he next tapped the panel, the bulkhead opened dutifully, revealing a grand stage for his vile orchestrations. He had one final techno-virus remaining in one of his mechatendrils. He had been saving it for this very moment. It would either be his greatest work yet, or doom his warband utterly.

Pyotr took a step inward and ventured to find out which.