"Warriors of the Imperium, each and every one of us carry the Emperor's light within us. We shall not withhold that light while Chaos's enemies on this world see their lines crumble and their innocents slaughtered!"

- Excerpt from Lieutenant Titus's speech on the eve of commencement of hostilities

Day 6, Before Dawn

Titus's Cabin

Righteous Contempt Habitation Deck

The living space of an Ultramarine Battle-Brother - especially on campaign - was a cramped and spartan affair. Per the Chapter's most ancient customs dating back to the golden days of the Great Crusade, Ultramarines were to eschew personal luxury as a reminder of their duties and that the collective glories of the Legion - now Chapter - and Ultramar were of greater importance. Normally, it consisted of a bulkhead-mounted foldable rack, some storage cabinets, enough standing room for three Primaris Marines, and nothing more. The convention differed slightly for those in leadership roles as their living spaces often doubled as offices. The simple cot was exchanged for a day bed, there was an office desk plus a round table respectively for administrative work and receiving visitors. Finally, a private wash place, even if those assigned to such quarters rarely used them due to the blessings of post-human Astartes physiology. Finally, the bulkheads had modular mounting points that allowed for a mixture of bookcases and a personal cogitator.

Titus had opted for both upon assuming command, as well as arranging for a standalone station for purified drinking water and the required storage space for cutlery. Finally, there was a small cupboard where wine and glasses of varying sizes stored. Titus rarely drank, as the wine was more of a tool for receiving visitors, especially mortals such as the Cadian General and his own command staff.

Today was one of those rare cases.

Unlike the sons of Russ, the Ultramarines had no tradition of brewing nor distilling their own spirits. Instead, fortified ceremonial wine tended to be commissioned by a designated captain on behalf of the Chapter as a whole - typically to mark major events and important anniversaries - with the surplus sold in markets across Ultramar for reasonable rates and exported to the wider Imperium for more exorbitant sums. While strong by mortal standards, they were not intentionally brewn to bypass an Astartes' Oolitic Kidney. Instead, their appeal came from their rich taste - both overt and subtle - designed to stimulate an Astartes's senses, and certainly overwhelm a mortal's. For an Ultramarine, to partake in commemorative wine was to be reminded of their duties and that they fought for the peace and prosperity of Ultramar. For certain Battle-Brothers, the wine may carry deeper and more personal meanings such as commemorating a fallen Brother or a shameful reminder of a world they couldn't save. Thus, Titus found himself sampling a twenty-year vintage that had been commissioned to commemorate the defence of the Fortress of Hera against the vile Tyranids of Hive Fleet Behemoth. He sat in his desk as he swirled an Astartes-sized glass containing the magenta liquid and sighed - the soothing aromas not enough to distract Titus from his burdens.

Idleness, stagnation, indecision - Titus thus castigated himself. He and his senior staff had done their best to keep the troops occupied. The body needed training, the mind needed honing, and the machine needed tending. Cadian infantry and Kasrkin had adapted and overcame, occasionally cordoning off multiple sectors of the ship for elaborate urban warfare exercises. Unfortunately the same could not be said of the armoured corps and artillery. There was simply no space onboard for the vehicle crews to do anything but drive tight circles, and Titus wasn't going to wantonly blasting away at open ocean in the middle of a warzone the Imperium currently had no part in. Thus the 482nd Armoured and the 576th Artillery had to make do with tabletop training, theoretical exercises, and jerry-rigged simulators. The training value of those tended to plateau sooner rather than later, for Titus knew nothing could top the cerebral rush of feeling the roar of an engine beneath one's boots or hearing the whistling of shells and rockets as they hurtled towards their targets. Titus was no Techmarine, but he imagined the Machine Spirits of the 482nd's vehicles and the 576th's guns were like Macraggian hounds - chomping at the bits and pulling away at their chains, barking and growling, hungering for prey.

And he had no way to sate them, no outlet for them to vent their pent-up fury.

Furthermore, despite his efforts at gathering more information on this world, he was now at a standstill. Should he and the Imperium remain neutral in the face of this petty planetary war? If he did intervene, who should he support? How will this affect the planet's future and that of the wider Imperium? He had more theoreticals than earlier that week, but he also had practicals he cannot afford to wrongly choose. With his Strike Force cut off from the wider Imperium, they were the Imperium in its entirety, and Titus now directly represented his Primarch and his Emperor. Any costly mistake will be ones his fragment of the Imperium could never recover from. This additional burden weighed heavily on his soul, even if he did share it with come confidants. He thought back to his captaincy, wondering if he was slowly stumbling into making the same mistakes as before.

He shook his head. No, he was more than open on Strike Force Trajan's current predicament. Even the lowliest serf and Cadian whiteshield knew that they were stranded on this world, and that everyone must carry on with their duties regardless. Titus led by example, continuing to train and to fill out routine reports that had no hope of being transmitted off-world. Although he wondered if the latter was a fool's errand…

A chime from the chronometer on his desk caught Titus's attention. The dawn service at the chapel would soon start. He drank the rest of the wine in a swift gulp and headed out.

Chapel

As Titus approached the chapel doors, he noticed the Judiciar on duty was a familiar face. Vespasius has once been Talasa's squad leader before its disbandment. Since then, he had traded his outspoken litanies for the pitch-black armour and vow of silence of a Judiciar - a necessary step on the path to taking his place in the chaplaincy. Titus greeted Vespasius warmly, who responded with a firm handshake and a nod before guiding him inside.

To call the Battle-Barge's place of worship and spirituality a simple 'chapel' was something of a misnomer. Back on Titus's homeworld of Tarentus, a place of worship the size of this chapel would have been considered a particularly large parish church. Its bulkheads were lined with stained glass displays of the Chapter's past battles - from Calth to Macragge and beyond - and memorials to past heroes who died while the Righteous Contempt was their home away from home. Reclusiarch Varnus's serf assistants darted to and fro, lighting and re-lighting candles, polishing the various bronzework, and generally ensured the chapel's cleanliness. They were proud of their work, for they perceived it as directly serving the Primarch and The Emperor Himself. Vespasius led Titus down the aisle between the pews and came to the front row, where the remainder of Command Squad Damocles had already gathered. There were enough pews to sit an entire company, but only slightly over half was filled. It was a sad reminder of how overstretched the Chapter was.

The service itself was just about what Titus expected. It was far from his place to tell Varnus what to preach, but the Reclusiarch had a good understanding of their predicament. 'Vigilance' was the key word of the sermon. Vigilance against the Xeno, the Heretic, the Daemon, even in the face of despair and the eternal enemy that lay within mankind's psyche - boredom. The sermon appeared to have been well-received by the Battle-Brothers present, and after he gave his benedictions the Astartes began to file out to resume their duties for the day.

"Damocles, Brother Frontius, Brother Chaledus, I would like all of you to remain here for a moment," Varnus called out as Titus was beginning to stand up. "There is something we need to discuss."

As if on que, Vespasius shut and barred the chapel doors. It was clear the Reclusiarch had no appetite for visitors or interruptions.

"Is it about the dream, Honoured Reclusiarch?" Veteran Sergeant Gadriel was the first to speak up. When Titus had been given command of Strike Force Trajan, he had hand-picked Gadriel due to the blood they had shed together during the Recidious campaign. In the five months since, Gadriel had since proven himself to be a wise counselor as well as a peerless warrior that Titus always knew him as. To hear someone as level-headed as Gadriel speaking of dreams in such hushed tones came as a surprise to Titus.

"Indeed, Brother. I have been taking confessionals all night from our Brothers and even the Cadians. The Ministorum priests were overwhelmed by the sheer volume of guardsmen with identical nightmares," Varnus's reply set Titus even more on edge. "Strangely, the Cadians have had…different dreams. They all found themselves back Cadia during the Fall, even those who had not been born at the time. From what I understand, nobody onboard has been spared from these dreams, for the Priests of Mars and the Chapter Serfs have also been plagued by their own nightmares. This omen…I do not like it."

Titus grimaced as he pondered the implications of all this. Was Chaos beginning to work its way into the listless minds of mortals and Astartes alike?

"That Daemon-infested city, and that landmass covered in darkness…It must mean the taint of Chaos is worming its way into this world! We must act, and quickly!" Brother Chairon interjected. He was another of Titus's hand-picked elite for his Command Squad, both for his fighting spirit and for his intuition - one that had been burned into his soul by the horrors he had witnessed on Calth as a child. Chairon's interjection drastically altered the theoretical Titus was building in his mind.

"I have been consulting the Emperor's Tarot ever since we crashed on this world. At first the cards fail to deliver any signs," Chaledus said. "But now? Now the cards are urging us to march forth. Still, it is not clear where to just yet. That dream, no…that vision may be the clue we needed."

"The neurological phenomenon known as 'dreams' typically have rational, physiological roots, namely the imbalance of humours. However, the statistical anomaly of the exact same neurological phenomon ocurring across multiple individuals necessitates the formulation of a new hypothesis. One that factors in the involvement of the preternatural," Frontius said. "This Unit has cross-referenced the contours of the dark landmass with the Strike Force's cartography results in addition to data harvested from the local Datascape which the natives call 'The Orbal Net'. The landmass is a one-hundred percent matches to that of the nation-state of Erebonia. Analysis of the six spots of light are ongoing."

Titus was deep in thought. On the surface, the contents of the dream seemed so obvious. Instead of working with the dominant power that was Erebonia, Titus must go to war against them. Still…

"And what about those voices? Who could they have belonged to?" Sergeant Gadriel then turned his attention to Titus. "Brother, you had confided in us about hearing a voice shortly after our victory against thrice-damned Imurah…"

"Indeed I have, Brother Gadriel. I also said at the time it was that voice which returned me to the realm of consciousness and restored my strength," Titus nodded. "That voice and the one from our collective dream…it was one and the same."

The assembled Battle-Brothers looked on at Titus in stunned silence, with Chaledus looked especially lost in thought.

"The Tarot working again," Chaledus muttered. "…that voice…could it be?"

Titus knew exactly what the Librarian was getting at, and he shook his head in objection.

"Brothers, I dare not presume anything," Titus said. "What we do know is that everyone has had nightmares and that every Astartes heard those voices. This may very well be a lure by the Arch-Enemy rather than…"

"Your humility and caution do you credit, Brother, but we cannot discount that possibility. Our forces have been miraculously spared any major harm during that void battle, we have no way of leaving this world, and now the visions," Varnus said. "Brothers, I will say this plainly: I believe with great conviction that the Emperor is guiding us onto a path and urging us to take our first steps. To assauge your concerns about potential deception from the Arch-Enemy, I will speak with the Ministorum confessors to arrange a full week of fasting and prayer among ourselves. Perhaps The Emperor can show us a more definitive sign during this time."

The sign that the Imperium sought arrived barely an hour later. Titus had been urgently summoned to the Vox Chapel. There, he found Frontius and two other Techmarines performing a purification rite on a Vox terminal. Meanwhile, the Cadian Vox operator on duty was praying fervently while clutching an aquila pendant. A Ministorum priest attended to her, muttering catechisms that he then had her repeat.

"What is going on here, Brothers?" Titus asked.

"This Vox operator was on duty when she intercepted a transmission from far to the northwest - in a location known as Crossbell," Frontius paused his part in the ritual and replied. Titus nodded - he was personally familiar with the unusual occurence of Vox transmissions glancing off of a world's ionosphere and ending up far from their intended recipient. "A recording has been made available for you to review. It is stored locally because This Unit dares not let its taint spread."

The last statement raised major alarm bells in Titus's mind. A quarantined piece of data most likely meant Chaos corruption was at play.

"Would you like to listen?" Frontius offered Titus the Vox station's headset. Titus nodded and held it close to his ear, steeling his mind for whatever may come next.

"Beginning playback."

"This is Second Lieutenant Noel Seeker requesting any available support to grid…" The transmission was broken up by static before continuing, but no static could hide the tearful desperation in her voice. "Send troops, tanks, bomb this place to dust, anything! Those fucking Erebonian bastards have gone insane! Sweet Aidios, here they come again! Hold the line! We can't let them get…"

A long string of gunfire followed the speech, which was itself drowned out by an almost incoherent roar in the background.

'Almost' being the operative word, which had been enough for Frontius to work with.

"This Unit will now play a copy of the recording that had been cleansed of excessive noise."

It wasn't a whole lot different, but now Titus was able to make out the sounds of more gunfire in the background and prayers of desperate men and women directed towards this "Aidios". Judging by all the Vox-intercerpts gathered so far, "She" seemed to be the sole deity worshipped in the local pagan religion, but matters of faith would have to wait. Soon, he was near the end of the recording once more. Aside from the familiar long string of gunfire, he heard a faint voice belonging to the same Second Lieutenant Seeker mumbling: "Oh Aidios, help me get out of this. Mom, Fran, I love you both so much. You have no idea how…"

Then came the roar in greater clarity, cutting off Seeker's desperate mumbling. It was a battle cry, one warriors of the Imperium knew far, far too well…

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!"

"Continue the cleansing and quarantine this recording. I have no more need of it," Titus grit his teeth as he took off the headset. "Have you informed the Reclusiarch yet?"

"Indeed, Brother. He is preparing the rites of war at this very moment." Frontius nodded. "It seems the Omnissiah has finally shown the way forward."

"...and who our enemy will be. I will gather the War Council post haste," Titus remarked before turning to give Frontius his orders. "In the meantime, prepare a Thunderhawk for a supply drop. I shall send an itemized list shortly. Our Brothers on recce duty will require ample explosives…"

Noon, Day 7, Ruan

Alan Richard sat against the dining room corner and stared at the entrance door as he slowly tucked into a tin of fish. He was a very tired man, and he had been that way since the day the Imperial Stallion began flying from Ruan's flagpoles. Even before the Liberl Royal Army had made their begrudging retreat to Zeiss, Richard had been forming and then running resistance cells in the occupied parts of Liberl. Gunrunning from Calvard, daring acts of sabotage, and more mundane but no less important work of gathering intelligence. All of it had been to soften the ground for an eventual Liberlian counterattack. Yet as weeks turned into months, that counteroffensive never materialized. In the meantime, cell after cell in Bose, Rolent, and even Grancel began to go dark. He had read the reports - of homes and businesses seized at gunpoint, of mass executions of those who dared to show their loyalty to their own land, of the purges targetting Bracers who were unable or unwilling to escape the Erebonian occupation, of entire families being broken up with the children being forcibly deported to Erebonia, and even of press gangs rounding up able bodied Liberlian citizens. It was clear that Erebonia had been consolidating its new holdings with an iron fist, and that whoever had replaced Osborne was an even more ruthless bastard than he had been. The Imperial Intelligence Division and the Railway Military Police had been steadily trickling into Ruan with the clear intent of snuffing out the resistance cells there. If they had already made it to Ruan, the the situation in Bose, Rolent, and Grancel were much, much worse.

Richard pressed on despite the increasing amounts of horror stories landing on his desk. He could not and would not stop, not until either Liberl was freed or he was buried in a shallow grave with a bullet in the back of his head. He didn't know what drove him on anymore. Whether it was his love for the Liberl, the sheer spite he felt towards the Erebonian occupation, or the desperate need to atone for his mistakes from four years ago.

Heh…four years ago.

Late at night, he'd often stay up to ponder how differently this war could have turned out, and how Liberl could have been better prepared.

Refuse to yield Haken Gate when the Erebonians first began their attack…

Begin fortifying the Krone Mountains and the Grancel Region as soon as Erebonia annexed Crossbell…

Implement at least some of the policies I had put forward…

Make sure the coup succeeded…

It was a notion Richard began to more frequently entertain, and it scared him. Yet it all seemed so rational. By defeating Cassius's daughter, he would have taught Liberl a valuable lesson on the pitfalls of idealism versus hard strength. Liberl would carry that lesson forward through the years and fortify herself, not relying on miracles or blind hopes in the goodwill of men. In turn, instead of depending on the Schwarzer scion's naive desperate gamble, Liberl would have been able to stand on her own against Jormungandr…

He shook his head. Despair and desperation did strange things to one's mind. Fantasizing about how he could have won did nothing to help him keep the flames of hope burning in occupied Liberl, nor would it help him solve a mystery that had reared its head a week ago.

Everyone in Ruan had seen that shooting star and felt the ground shake as the massive tidal wave had slammed into the city's waterfront. Since then, unidentified airships began to buzz all over Liberl. They roared like ferocious predatory beasts and zipped through the sky with speed that no airship could match. His own sources in what was left of Ruan's hospitality sector informed him that the Erebonians were spooked. Not only were the airships armed to the teeth, but they could fly circles around Erebonia's mightiest airships while the Imperial Air Fleet could do nought but flounder in place. Not only that, but sailors reported seeing a gigantic blue floating fortress off the coast of Ruan festooned with cannons. It seemed to radiate power and menace, and whoever resided within had made no effort to make themselves known nor to make any diplomatic overtures. They clearly were not Erebonians, but their true identities evaded even Alan Richard.

Yet they were only tangentially related to the mystery. Roughly two days after the mysterious shooting star, Richard began to receive reports of strange hulking figures stalking Ruan's sewers and outskirts. Sometimes, resistance fighters on watch at night would even see the same hulking figures clambering up Ruan's walls for seemingly no purpose except to prove that they could. Then there were the acts of vandalism. A ripped wire fence here, a broken wall there, and a random act of arson here. On top of all that, both Erebonian patrols and resistance scouts began to report being stalked by unknown contacts and even the odd floating skull. Alan Richard didn't believe in ghost stories, but It was telling that even he - no doubt the subject of many Intelligence Division and RMP manhunts - also began to feel like he was being watched. No…no just feel like…thanks to his swordsman training, he would actually sense that he was being watched - by beings that felt more like something rather than someone. It set him on edge even more than when he first started the Liberlian resistance or when he got word that the RMP had sent one of their elites to Ruan.

Lieutenant Colonel Victor Helstrom had been one of the Railway Military Police's founding members. He had begun his career as an officer of the Heimdallr Military Police and had built a reputation for his skills as a detective. Said repution had caught the eye of none other than Chancellor Osborne himself who had arranged for Helstrom's transfer to the burgeoning RMP. He had distinguished himself during both the Erebonian Civil War and its aftermath - first by combat action against the Noble Alliance malcontents, then by hunting down the alliance's remnants. During Operation Birdcage, he and his men had been instrumental in capturing the arch-terrorist Lloyd Bannings. Just like his superior Claire Riedveldt, he was a rising star in the force, and the occupation of Liberl gave him even more opportunities to practice his skills in hunting down Erebonia's enemies. Alan Richard was sure he had met his match when Helstrom had arrived in Ruan. He figured he need to play his cards right to preserve the resistance cells in Ruan and to not become one of Helstrom's victims himself.

Then the problem solved itself. Two weeks after Helstrom's arrival - and five days after the mysterious shooting star - a patrol had discovered his headless corpse floating in Ruan's southern harbour. Before the occupation authorities could even announce crackdowns and curfews, yet another murder had been discovered - this time a Major of the Intelligence Division.

Richard felt his fork hit metal and saw that he had finished his impromptu lunch. By this midday meal, the grisly headcount had already reached ten. All field-grade officers, all middle management with access to a lot of information and enough authority to hobble the local Erebonian chain of command with their deaths. It would mean more crackdowns that would make life even more difficult for the citizenry, especially those poor brave souls who were associated with the resistance.

Then his fork hit the floor.

Perhaps it was the midday wine he had allowed himself, or perhaps it was a trick of his sleep-deprived brain, but a hunch hit him with the force of a Rhinocider - a hunch that would tie these phenomena together.

There is a third party probing Ruan.

No, it wasn't Calvard nor any powers sympathetic to Liberl. They had already committed to supporting his little resistance movement. This was some yet-unknown party, and more likely than not it was connected to those mysterious airships and that strange floating fortress.

A series of knocks echoed from his door. After all, this was the office of R A Research, and business was still booming. This pattern told Richard that it was Kanone Almathea, having returned from her dead drop. He opened the door for her, and that was when he saw she was absolutely spooked.

"Were you followed?" He asked as he quickly shut the door, feeling an unusually strong breeze blowing inside as he did so.

"N-no, sir. The job went off without a hitch," To her credit, it took Kanone less than a second to regain her composure. Aside from the shaking hand holding a letter, that is. "But…but I found this note. Somebody knows about our dead drops."

Richard took a look at the paper, and a pit began to form in his stomach. The lettering was large, blocky, and done in all capitals. Whoever wrote it must have cared little for subtlety, and the entire statement read like a threat.

COLONEL RICHARD. I HAVE BUSINESS WITH YOU. WILL COME TO TALK.

"Greetings." A new voice piped up.

Dropping the mysterious note, Richard whipped around and his hand instinctively went for his sword - only to feel something strong and heavy press down on his left shoulder. His eyes registered what was holding him down but they did not understand. Not did they comprehend the thing looking down at him and Kanone.

"I come in peace. There is no need to brandish that…needle at me." A scarred face spoke as it looked down at Richard with an unreadable expression. But a man's face should not be that large or that wide, nor should the supposedly-human body that hosted the human-like face be three-arge tall. Then there was the hand…a human's hands should not be so large that each individual finger were the size of a truncheon, nor should a hand exert enough force to so casually pin a grown adult the height and weight of one Alan Richard to the floor.

"Who are you? How did you get in here?" Kanone whipped out her pistol and pointed it at the "man" with the speed of a trained professional. Yet Richard could tell she was simply compensating for the initial shock both Richard and herself had experienced.

That, and the man was even faster. A blue blur and a weight being lifted off of his shoulder was all Richard saw and felt before the pistol was snatched out of Kanone's hand. He took a brief disinterested look at the weapon before letting it drop to the floor.

"Colonel Richard and Captain Almathea, I presume?" The man asked calmly, seemingly unbothered by the little episode with the pistol. Now that the initial shock had worn off - and that Richard had become something of a captive observer - he could see the man was dressed head-to-toe in a strange blue armour. Steam seeped out from somewhere on his back while a thick hooded cloak wrapped around his shoulders. A strange visor hid his eyes from view, and Richard's own eyes began to ache when he looked at the cloak. It seemed translucent, hovering between existence and non-existence…

Then there were the weapons. Richard could see a short sword and an obscenely large pistol fastened to the man's thigh and belt, plus an even more obscenely large rifle slung over his back. Size or not, the loadout was a familiar one to Richard.

Sniper and long-range reconnaissance. Probably trained to remain self-sufficient and hidden for extended periods of time. Some kind of Jaeger?

Richard saw no course of action but to simply nod. "I am Alan Richard, yes, but I have not been a Colonel for four years now. This is my assistant Kanone Almathea, and together..."

"...you are the brains behind the resistance movement in the occupied portions of Liberl in general and Ruan in particular," the mysterious interloper piped up, stunning Alan and Kanone with just how much he knew about them. It was clear that he belonged to Richard's hypothesized third party, and they've been doing their homework.

"N-name and rank, soldier," Kanone broke the pregnant silence. She couldn't help but gulp as she stared up at the interloper. "He gave you ours, so it's only fair that you return the courtesy."

"Hmm…yes, the spirit of quid pro quo. Very well, Captain. I shall entertain your request. I am Brother-Sergeant Scipius of the Ultramarines Second Company, leader of the Eliminator Squad which bears my name. That may not mean much at the moment, but it will in due time," said the man who called himself Scipius. "I have come to deliver a warning. There will be a cleansing sometime this evening. If your associates and the denizens of this city value your lives, you will stay off the streets tonight."

With that, Scipius disappeared from view in the blink of an eye. Richard and Almathea stared at where he had been in stunned silence, wondering if they both had experienced some collective hallucination. The sound of the front door slamming shook the two out of their reverie, and they scurried towards the basement, where an Orbal radio station lay hidden behind a false wall.

That had been no hallucination, and Richard felt dutybound to warn his subordinates in the resistance about the storm to come. Still, questions flooded his mind.

How did he appear and disappear out of thin air like that?

How will they pull off this… 'cleansing'?

Will they actually be Liberl's friend once the dust is settled?