A gamer's journey to the Stars

by AlertOne

A soul from our world is called upon to help a dying Galaxy, Gamer SI-OC into Warhammer 40k,

8. Once more into the Maelstrom

"It began like a slow bleed—cult after cult rising in unison, as if some unseen conductor pulled their strings. The Maelstrom boiled over, spewing forth nightmares: heretics and xenos warbands in numbers so vast they defied cataloging. Hundreds of conflicts erupted simultaneously, each a conflagration of fire and madness. The Maelstrom Warders were forewarned, yes, but not even the Saint's prescience could have prepared us for this."

"I saw it firsthand: on Rydan's Reach, where eight continents burned under the tread of heretic war engines, their banners stitched with symbols no mortal mind should comprehend. I stood aboard the Hammer of Wrath as it shattered a xeno raiding fleet, only for another to rise from the warp like carrion circling the dying. The Saint's forces bolstered us, their faith unyielding, but they were too few against the tide. For every victory, another world was lost, their populations screaming prayers to gods that answered only in ruin."

"The Maelstrom Warders fought like demigods, their fleets darting between warzones to stave off total collapse. Yet they were stretched so thin as to be translucent, a fragile net straining against the weight of chaos. The enemy's intent was clear now, though no less horrifying: this was no random uprising. It was a crucible, a slaughter engineered for a single purpose. One of these damned creatures would ascend, forged in the blood of a thousand worlds."

"I pen this not as a report, but as a warning. We have only seen the first wave, the opening gambit of this nightmare. The forces of the Imperium bleed, but the Maelstrom's depths only grow darker, the whispers louder. The storm is building toward something far worse. Emperor preserve us all, for I fear the crescendo is yet to come."

Excerpt from the Logis-Militant of the Maelstrom, attributed to Inquisitor Thalax Jurek of the Ordo Hereticus

War wasn't what Devon had expected. There was glory in it, the recruiters had promised, honor in serving the Emperor. They didn't mention the noise. They didn't tell you about the constant, gut-punching roar of artillery or the way it rattled your teeth and made your bones hum even through the mufflers in your helmet. They didn't tell you how it never stopped, how even in the lulls between barrages, the ringing in your ears would keep you company like an old, unwelcome friend.

And the smell—Emperor preserve him, the smell. The rebreather on his helmet filtered the worst of it, but some things slipped through. Or maybe it was just in his head now. The acrid bite of promethium clung to the air, mingling with the fetid stench of rotting corpses and the chemical tang of gas that had seeped into the rubble over the months of fighting. It wasn't the smell of death that got to him—it was the smell of everything rotting together, the city itself decaying under the boots of heretics and the tread of Imperial tanks.

Devon adjusted the strap of his lasgun, trying not to let his hands tremble as the vox came alive in his ear. The voice was calm, detached, barking orders that cut through the din of war like a blade. Advance. Push through the no-man's-land. Clear the heretic emplacements. He didn't know the officer on the other end of the vox personally, but he imagined them sitting somewhere clean, somewhere quiet, with nothing but a map and a cold cup of recaf for company.

And yet, he ran. Feet pounding against the cracked asphalt, rubble crunching beneath his boots. He ran because to stand still was to die, and not just because of the artillery. The Commissar's bolt pistol would see to it that fear didn't take root in the ranks. A Guardsman didn't stop. A Guardsman didn't question. A Guardsman ran because the Emperor willed it, because His light would guide their way, because there was nothing else to do but run forward and hope you weren't one of the unlucky bastards who got shredded along the way.

The first shells landed around them almost immediately, punching holes in the ground and throwing up geysers of dirt and fire. Somewhere to his left, a squadmate screamed—a wet, terrible sound that cut off too quickly. Devon didn't look. You didn't look. Not if you wanted to keep your head. His lips moved automatically, shaping the words of a prayer he barely registered. The Emperor protects. The Emperor protects. Maybe if he said it enough times, it'd be true. Maybe he'd make it to cover.

He dove behind the jagged remains of a wall, his lungs burning, heart hammering so loud he thought it might drown out the chaos around him. For a moment, he dared to lift his head, peering through the smoke and dust that hung over the battlefield like a shroud. The inner circle of the city loomed ahead, its once-grand spires reduced to skeletal remains jutting into the ash-choked sky. Somewhere in there, the heretics held the last of their positions. Somewhere in there, the fighting would get worse.

A sudden movement drew his attention—a figure emerging from the smoke. For a heart-stopping second, he thought it was an enemy, but then he saw the carapace armor, the purity seals hanging like tattered banners, the rocket launcher slung over one shoulder. A Redeemer. The Paladins had come.

Devon watched as the warrior strode forward, utterly unbothered by the chaos around him. The Redeemer moved with purpose, his every step a statement of defiance against the heretic scum entrenched ahead. Devon felt a surge of awe—and envy. These weren't men like him, afraid and praying for the Emperor to save them. They were something else entirely, something stronger. The stories didn't do them justice. They didn't tell you how fearless they were, how they seemed to stride through battle like it was their birthright.

The Redeemer raised his launcher, and Devon followed the arc of the missile as it streaked toward the enemy barricade. The explosion was immediate and violent, a roaring fireball that turned the heretics into little more than ash and twisted wreckage. Devon ducked as the shockwave rolled over them, debris raining down in a deadly hail. When he dared to look again, the barricade was gone, reduced to a smoking crater. The Redeemer, untouched by the destruction, disappeared back into the smoke as quickly as he'd appeared.

For a moment, Devon could almost believe the stories. He could almost believe that men like that were touched by the Emperor's hand, that they were something divine sent to guide them through this hell. But then the vox crackled again, another order barked out, and the spell was broken. He wasn't divine. He was just better at surviving.

Another barrage fell ahead of them, a crashing symphony of fire and destruction that painted the world in red and orange. The shockwave rattled Devon's teeth, made his ribs feel like they'd crack. He gritted his own in defiance, clutching his lasgun like it was the only thing anchoring him to this hell. It wasn't courage; it was survival. The damned thing wouldn't do him much good against a bolter round or artillery shell, but it felt solid in his hands. Something familiar in a landscape that had long stopped making sense.

Ahead, his squad was moving again, pressing forward through the cratered rubble of what used to be a city. Devon forced his legs to move, one step at a time. He didn't think about where they were going or who was waiting for them on the other side of the smoke. Thinking got you killed out here. Better to just keep moving, keep praying, and hope the Emperor's light found you before something else did.

The Redeemer's fire had opened a path, but Devon knew better than to think that would last. The heretics weren't stupid. They might be fanatical, mutated lunatics, but stupid? No. They'd regroup, dig in deeper, and make them bleed for every damn step they took. That was the game, wasn't it? Give and take. Kill and die. Forward and forward until there was nothing left of you but ash and a name someone might scratch onto a plaque, if they even bothered.

Street by street, they moved. It wasn't a glorious charge or a grand advance like the propaganda vids back home. It was a slow, brutal grind through choking smoke and shattered walls. Every corner meant another skirmish, another handful of heretics screaming blasphemies and charging at them with chainblades, bayonets, or whatever twisted weapon their madness had put into their hands.

And then there were the marks. Heretical sigils carved into flesh and armor, symbols that made Devon's skin crawl just looking at them. Once, they might've been PDF, disciplined soldiers sworn to protect the Emperor's world. Now? Now they were something else entirely—wild, unthinking, and dangerous in their desperation.

Most of them didn't bother firing their lasguns, preferring instead to rush forward with those chanting mouths and maddened eyes. Maybe once, their unholy cries and sorceries had been enough to sow chaos in the ranks of Imperial Guardsmen. Maybe once, they'd managed to break through, their foul energies turning skirmishes into massacres. But that was before the Stipes Imperialis.

Devon glanced back at the pale shimmer of the Stipes' protective ward. You couldn't always see it, not unless the sorceries pressed hard enough against it, but you could feel it. Like warmth brushing against your skin, a faint, almost intangible reminder that someone out there was fighting for your soul even while you fought for your life. The Stipes—warrior-priests in their shimmering robes and unyielding faith—channeled the Emperor's light in ways Devon couldn't hope to understand. And for all the death and madness around him, he was glad they did.

The heretics hadn't figured it out yet. Even after two and a half months of fighting, they still shouted their chants, still hurled their broken bodies at Imperial lines like something might change. It never did. Their chants fizzled like weak sparks against the Stipes' wards, their dark sorceries unraveling before they could take root. Devon almost pitied them for their stupidity—almost.

When they made it into the ranks, though, pity didn't matter. The wall of bayonets waiting for them was unflinching, and those who didn't fall to the stabbing fury of cold steel were shredded by lasfire from the second and third ranks. Devon fired his lasgun without thought, the weapon's familiar crack a hollow sound amidst the chaos. The fighting was over in seconds, not the grand, choreographed battles from the holovids, but quick, brutal exchanges that left streets slick with blood and carpeted in bodies.

Devon looked down at the carnage when it was done. The heretics had added another layer to the rubble-strewn streets, their broken forms twisted and burned where the lasfire had carved into them. Some of them still twitched, faint remnants of life flickering out like guttering candles. Around him, Guardsmen moved quickly, checking the fallen for signs of life, dragging their own wounded into relative cover.

One of the medics was already pulling out a vial of Saint Michael's Elixir, the liquid inside glowing faintly even in the hazy light. Devon had seen it before, watched in awe as soldiers with gut wounds that should've killed them outright were back on their feet within minutes. He didn't understand how it worked, and he didn't need to. It was enough to know it came from the Living Saint himself, a gift from the Emperor's hand. That was what mattered.

The wounded drank, their wounds knitting almost instantly, and they were moving again before Devon had even caught his breath. There was no time to mourn the dead, no time to think about what any of it meant. The vox crackled, the distant thunder of artillery rolled across the city, and they pressed forward.

Devon kept his head low, the barrel of his lasgun pointing toward the ground but still clutched tightly in his hands. His prayers were whispers, half-mouthed and half-thought, tumbling together in the chaos of his mind. Strength. Guidance. The Emperor's mercy. But above all, he prayed he'd live just long enough to take another step. One more step.

The dirt-covered streets of Endymion Prime reeked of ash and death. The industrial world, once a marvel of Imperial manufacturing, had become a hellscape of collapsed buildings, burning manufactorums, and rivers of churned-up mud and blood. It wasn't the orderly war he'd imagined when he'd first signed on with the 1413th Silheim Regulars. No sharp lines, no heroic charges. Just grinding, brutal attrition—hours of walking, moments of terror, and weeks that felt like years.

Ahead of him, Sergeant Lorsch signaled for the squad to halt. Devon slowed, his knees stiff and aching. They weren't even a proper squad anymore, not really. They'd started the campaign with ten. Now, they were down to six. Or seven? The numbers blurred. He'd gotten used to not looking too closely at the faces under the battered helmets around him.

The vox crackled to life, spitting garbled orders from some unseen officer far removed from the muck and madness of the front lines. The message was clear enough: rendezvous with survivors from another squad, link up with the Paladins, and clear a nearby manufactorum. There were enemy rocket batteries holed up there, pounding Imperial positions and shredding armor columns.

They found the others within minutes, moving with the same grim, automatic efficiency they'd learned over months of fighting. No introductions were needed. Everyone had the same look: dirt-caked faces, hollow eyes, and weapons carried like lifelines. They all had the stink of men who knew the Emperor was watching but also knew He wasn't here to do the killing for them.

And then Devon saw them.

The Paladins.

They stood in stark contrast to the Guardsmen, their white carapace armor marred with soot and streaked with ash, yet still gleaming under layers of filth. Among them, hulking canids prowled on reinforced limbs, their metallic armor plates glinting like knives in the dim light. Devon had heard stories of the 28th Legion—the "City Clearers." The way the veterans spoke of them, you'd think they were demi-gods. Seeing them in person made him wonder if that wasn't far from the truth.

The canids moved like shadows, their bulk and heavy armor doing nothing to slow their predatory grace. They were enormous—half again the size of any hound Devon had seen back on Silheim. Their loyalty to their handlers, the Paladins, was the stuff of legend. Men said they'd tear through a dozen heretics for every Paladin who fell, and the way they watched the rubble-strewn no man's land ahead of them, snarling low and deep, made Devon believe every word.

The orders came quickly. The canids would lead the charge, sprinting through the ruins and clearing a path to the manufactorum. The Paladins would follow, bolters blazing, and then the Guardsmen would bring up the rear to provide covering fire and mop up the survivors. Simple. Direct. And entirely dependent on the courage of beasts and the wrath of men who fought like they had nothing left to lose.

Devon swallowed hard and tightened his grip on his lasgun.

The canids went first.

They shot forward, a blur of muscle and armor, their claws tearing into the ash-covered ground as they surged across no man's land. Heretic fire spat out from the manufactorum's windows, bright flashes of lasgun discharge slicing through the smoke. But the canids were faster. Too fast. Screams followed—high-pitched, desperate, and short-lived.

The Paladins moved next, their advance a brutal inevitability. They didn't run like the Guardsmen. They didn't stumble or flinch. They moved with a terrifying, calculated precision, bolters roaring as they marched through the rubble. Heretics who survived the canids' initial assault found themselves shredded by bolt rounds that exploded on impact, painting the walls of the manufactorum with gore.

Devon followed with the others, their boots crunching over broken rock and shattered glass. They were slower—humanly, painfully slower—but there was no stopping. No turning back. Not with the Paladins ahead of them, cutting through the heretics like reapers through grain.

Inside the manufactorum, the air was thick with smoke and blood. The canids were already ripping into the heretics who'd tried to regroup. Their speed and ferocity turned the cramped hallways into slaughterhouses. By the time the Guardsmen caught up, there was little left to do but finish off the wounded.

Devon's world narrowed to the chaos around him. The crack of lasfire. The wet sound of bayonets meeting flesh. The shouts of heretics, muffled by their own blood. Somewhere in the haze, he registered the Paladins planting charges near the rocket batteries, their movements unhurried and methodical even as the manufactorum shook with the sounds of distant artillery.

By the time the last heretic fell, Devon's arms ached, his hands numb from the constant recoil of his lasgun. His wounds—shallow cuts and bruises he hadn't even noticed during the fight—began to throb as the adrenaline faded.

A Paladin medic handed him a vial of Saint Michael's Elixir, and he drank without hesitation. The taste was sweet, like overripe berries, and warmth flooded his body as the pain vanished. Even the bone-deep fatigue ebbed away, leaving him clear-headed and steady on his feet. It was a miracle, plain and simple.

"Move it!" Sergeant Lorsch's voice cut through the din, sharp as a bayonet. Devon blinked, dragging his gaze away from the carnage. The manufactorum was a wreck of twisted girders and choking ash, but the Paladins were already retreating, their massive canids bounding back from the smoking ruins, blood dripping from their steel-toothed jaws. The beasts moved like ghosts, their eyes gleaming with predatory hunger even as their masters strode past them, unshaken, like statues come to life.

Devon's legs finally obeyed the order. He ran, his boots slamming against the manufactorum's grated flooring. Around him, the other Guardsmen scrambled to keep pace, the metallic clang of their retreat echoing in his ears. He didn't look back when the explosion came. He didn't have to.

It hit like a hammer blow. A blinding roar swallowed the air, ripping apart what was left of the heretics' stockpile. The shockwave chased them out, a brutal fist of heat and sound that made his teeth rattle. Devon stumbled but kept moving, lasgun clenched tight in his sweating hands.

When it was over, the Paladins were already regrouping, their canids prowling at their heels. The beasts were painted in gore, yet their movements were as fluid as ever, their loyalty absolute. Devon stopped just short of the Paladins' perimeter, panting, sweat running down his back beneath his flak armor. He stared at the manufactorum, now little more than a charred husk spitting flames into the ash-filled sky.

Minutes later, the grinding roar of engines heralded the arrival of a column of Chimera transports. The vehicles' armored hulls bore the scars of this endless campaign—scorch marks and ragged gashes from enemy fire—but they were still rolling. That was all that mattered.

"Mount up!" Sergeant Lorsch barked again, herding them like livestock.

Devon climbed into the Chimera's cramped belly, squeezing into place with the rest of the squad. Across from him, Private Sykes was fumbling with the strap of his helmet, muttering a prayer under his breath. Devon joined in silently, asking the God-Emperor for strength, for guidance, for anything that might keep him alive long enough to see Silheim's sun again.

The Chimera lurched forward, its treads grinding over rubble and debris as it pushed deeper into the city. The air inside was thick with sweat and grime, the metallic tang of blood still clinging to their uniforms. Devon found himself staring through the viewport, his eyes tracing the jagged ruins of Endymion Prime.

In the distance, he saw it—a tank duel unfolding in the wreckage of a crumbled hab-block. Leman Russ battle tanks prowled like steel predators, their turrets swiveling to unleash bursts of plasma and high-explosive shells. Infantry swarmed around them, desperate figures darting through the rubble to plant charges or tear through enemy ranks with flamers and meltaguns.

It was chaos on a colossal scale, the kind of thing Devon had only ever heard about in sermons back on Silheim. But now it was real, and it was endless. The tanks were locked in their deadly ballet, trading fire in the gloom of dust and ash clouds that choked the city. From this distance, Devon couldn't tell which side was winning. He told himself it had to be theirs—why else would the convoy move so boldly toward the Governor's Spire, the blackened heart of this rebellion?

The spire loomed in the distance, a jagged monolith twisting toward the heavens. Its upper levels were shrouded in a swirling storm of unnatural energy, the mark of the sorcerers who had taken it. That was their destination. That was where Imperial justice would be delivered. Devon tried not to think about what kind of monstrosities waited for them inside.

The first warning came as a distant thud. Then another. Closer this time.

"Brace!" Sergeant Lorsch roared, her voice barely audible over the rising cacophony.

Something hit the Chimera—a blow so sudden, so violent, it was as if the entire world had shattered. Devon's harness dug into his chest, holding him in place, but the impact tore the air from his lungs. For a moment, there was nothing but weightlessness, a sickening absence of gravity as the vehicle arced through the air. His stomach churned.

The crash back to earth was worse. The Chimera slammed down like a titan's fist, its armored hull screaming in protest. Devon's head cracked against the bulkhead, and the world fragmented into bursts of white-hot pain and ringing silence. Somewhere nearby, someone was screaming—a high, keening sound that drilled into his brain.

Smoke poured into the cabin, choking and bitter, clawing its way into his lungs. Devon fumbled with the harness, his fingers trembling as he fought to release the straps. His mind raced, fear and adrenaline tangling into a frantic knot.

"Out! Out! Out!" Sergeant Lorsch's voice broke through the haze, sharp and commanding, dragging him back to reality.

The buckle finally gave, and Devon fell forward, landing awkwardly on the Chimera's deck. He scrambled to his feet, coughing, and staggered out into the open air. The first thing he noticed was the heat—blistering, oppressive, radiating from the wreckage and the burning sky above.

His boots crunched on shattered glass and debris as he stumbled into the plaza. It was a nightmare brought to life. Smoke boiled around them, thick and greasy, and the air was filled with the cacophony of war: lasguns spitting fire, the thunderous boom of bolters, and the guttural roars of something inhuman.

Then he saw them.

Three massive forms rose from the smoke, their shapes twisting and writhing like creatures pulled from the depths of some hellish nightmare. Heldrakes. That's what the briefing had called them—demonic fusions of machine and warp-spawn, their draconic bodies forged from corrupted metal and dripping with malefic energies. Their glowing maws opened, and a torrent of fire erupted, a blazing inferno that turned everything in its path to ash.

Devon moved without thinking, instincts screaming louder than reason. He rolled to the side, the heat of the flames licking at his back, and came up behind the twisted wreckage of another Chimera. Those who hadn't moved fast enough were gone—reduced to charred remains or engulfed in the flames that turned the plaza into a killing ground.

The Paladins were already in motion. They charged the Heldrakes with an almost supernatural fearlessness, their bolters barking death. The canids, bloodied but relentless, surged alongside them, their metal jaws snapping and tearing at anything that dared come close. But the Heldrakes were no ordinary foes. The bolter fire that could shred through tanks barely scratched their warped armor. One of the beasts leapt into the air, its wings tearing through the smoke like knives, and rained fire down on the Paladins below.

Even they, for all their vaunted skill, couldn't dodge forever. One was caught mid-stride, the malefic flames consuming him before he hit the ground. Another Paladin, his armor scorched and cracked, dragged himself back to his feet, firing wildly into the air.

And as if that weren't enough, the heretics came. They poured into the plaza in a screaming tide, weapons raised high, their ragged uniforms and twisted features marking them as the damned. They surged forward, driven by madness or fanaticism, their numbers endless.

"Emperor, preserve us," Devon muttered, his voice barely audible over the chaos.

But there was no time for prayer. He raised his lasgun, sighted down the barrel, and fired. The heretic at the front of the wave crumpled, his chest a smoking ruin, but more took his place. The Guardsmen around him were firing too, a desperate wall of lasfire and defiance. The canids, relentless even in the face of overwhelming odds, tore into the heretics with savage precision.

And yet they were losing.

The Heldrakes were relentless, their fire carving through the lines, their sheer presence an embodiment of death. Devon's lasgun felt like a toy in his hands, its shots bouncing uselessly off their infernal armor.

Through the haze of smoke and fire, the roar of the Paladin cut through Devon's fear like a blade. It wasn't a human sound—it was too raw, too full of fury, too alive. Devon turned toward it, his lasgun clutched tightly in trembling hands.

What he saw wasn't human either. The Paladin stood in defiance of the hellish scene around him, his armor blackened and scarred, smoke still rising from its joints. The corpses of his canids lay charred at his feet, twisted heaps of metal and flesh. But he didn't waver. He didn't even slow.

The Heldrake loomed above him, its grotesque form shifting and writhing as if the fires of the Warp still churned within its corrupted shell. It reared back, its wings like jagged blades slicing through the smoke, but the Paladin was faster. He leapt, impossibly high, his form a streak of righteous vengeance against the abomination before him.

In his hand was a melta charge. Devon's eyes locked on it, transfixed, even as the rest of the battlefield blurred into chaos around him. He watched as the Paladin landed squarely on the Heldrake's back, his boots slamming down with enough force to dent even its cursed armor.

The beast thrashed, its wings tearing through the air, its jaws snapping at nothing, but the Paladin held fast. With a final, guttural cry—one that seemed to shake the ground beneath Devon's feet—the Paladin slammed the charge into the Heldrake's throat and activated it.

The explosion wasn't just blinding; it was deafening. Heat and force roared through the plaza, throwing Devon flat onto his back. His helmet rang like a struck bell, and for a moment, the world was nothing but light and sound.

When he finally dragged himself upright, coughing and blinking against the glare, the Heldrake was gone. In its place was a cloud of fire and shrapnel, the remains of the beast scattered across the battlefield.

But there was no time to celebrate. The other two Heldrakes screeched in fury, their wings beating against the air as they rose higher, far beyond the reach of any human weapon. From above, they unleashed torrents of malefic fire, a rain of hell that cared nothing for friend or foe. Heretics screamed as they were consumed by their own masters' flames, their charred bodies collapsing in heaps among the rubble.

Devon ran. There was no thought to it, just instinct, raw and primal. His boots pounded against the broken ground as he ducked and weaved through the wreckage of the Chimeras. The heat was everywhere, searing his skin even through his armor. He didn't dare look back.

And then, salvation came.

The sound hit first—a roar that wasn't like the Heldrakes' screeches but something deeper, more solid. It wasn't the unnatural wail of the Warp but the growl of Imperial engines, pure and uncorrupted. Devon felt it in his bones, a vibration that resonated with something deep inside him, something that told him this was the Emperor's answer.

They came from the heavens, descending like avenging angels clad in steel. Massive war machines, larger than anything Devon had ever seen, their frames shimmering silver and red through the smoke. The Saint's Dragons. He'd heard of them in the campfire whispers of the veterans of the madness that had gripped the Maelstrom zone, in the last years—machines built to thrive in the storms of the Saint's chosen world, designed for war against monstrosities like the Heldrakes.

They were beautiful in their brutality. Each was bristling with weaponry: turbo-lasers mounted on their wings, heavy bolters spewing death, and prehensile tails tipped with thunder hammers that crackled with power. Their claws were larger than a man, their steel talons gleaming in the firelight. And from their mouths, fire of a different kind—a holy flame, burning pure and bright.

The first shots struck true. Beams of concentrated light lanced through the air, slamming into the Heldrakes' armor. One beast let out a shriek as its plates shattered, pieces falling away to reveal the roiling chaos within. The Dragons didn't stop. They closed the distance with terrifying speed, their claws and thunder hammers tearing through the warped flesh and metal of their foes.

Devon watched as one Dragon smashed its tail into the second Heldrake's head, the thunder hammer erupting in a flash of energy that split the beast apart. The other fell in pieces, its wings severed by claws that moved with surgical precision. In mere moments, the sky was clear.

The Dragons didn't stop there. They swept the plaza, their firestorms cleansing the heretic horde with an efficiency that bordered on contempt. Their weapons were precise, disciplined. They spared the Guardsmen and Paladins but left nothing of the heretics but ash and ruin.

Devon didn't realize he was shouting until he heard his own voice: "Kill the bastards!" The words tore from his throat, raw and savage, as he rose from his cover and fired his lasgun into the chaos. The weapon's familiar hiss and flash grounded him, gave him focus.

"For the Emperor!" someone else shouted.

"For the Saint!" another cried.

The survivors surged forward, Guardsmen and Paladins alike, their voices rising into a battle cry that seemed to shake the heavens. The canids, those that remained, tore into the heretics with a vengeance, their jaws snapping and tearing.

The heretics broke. Without their Heldrakes to shield them, they faltered, their numbers dwindling as they were cut down by Imperial fire and blade. It wasn't a battle anymore. It was slaughter, pure and simple.

Devon's lasgun fired again and again, the recoil-less weapon steady in his grip even as his heart pounded in his chest. He didn't think about home, about the quiet fields of Silheim, about the peace he longed for. In this moment, there was only the fight.

When it was finally over—when the last heretic had fallen and the Saint's Dragons soared off in search of new prey—Devon found himself standing alone amid the ruins. His chest heaved, each breath coming in ragged, desperate gulps as though the air itself was reluctant to fill his lungs. His lasgun hung loosely in his grip, the barrel blackened, wisps of smoke curling lazily from its tip. He hadn't noticed how tight his fingers had clenched around it until now; his knuckles were stiff and aching.

He forced himself to look around, to take in the aftermath. The devastation was immense, as though the Emperor Himself had reached down and scoured the plaza with His holy fury. Fires still burned in craters left by heavy ordnance, and thick black smoke coiled into the sky, blotting out the weak light that managed to filter through Endymion Prime's perpetual overcast.

What was left of his regiment stood scattered in the wreckage. Fewer than a hundred remained, barely a third of the convoy that had marched in with such determination just hours ago. The others… well, Devon didn't let his gaze linger too long on the crumpled forms littering the ground. He'd learned quickly not to look too closely at the dead. They had faces, most of them. Faces that could've been his own.

Even the Paladins—those towering, unstoppable warriors who had seemed untouchable in the heat of battle—had not emerged unscathed. Their once-pristine armor bore the scars of combat: deep gouges from claws, scorch marks from malefic flames, and the telltale dents of close-quarters savagery. Their numbers had dwindled as well, but those who survived still moved with an indomitable resolve, tending first to their canids.

Devon watched as a Paladin knelt beside the broken form of a canid, its armored frame crumpled, sparks fizzling weakly from its shattered plating. The warrior unscrewed a vial of shimmering blue liquid—the Saint's elixir—and poured it carefully into a reservoir hidden within the beast's chest. It shuddered, its optics flickering to life as its limbs jerked involuntarily. Devon felt a pang of something close to envy. Not a soul protested the use of the elixirs on the canids; every guardsman here had seen them die for their masters without hesitation, shielding their charges with steel and fury. If anything deserved the Saint's blessings, it was those beasts.

Somewhere in the smoke, the sergeant's voice barked out, cutting through the haze like a knife. "Form up! On your feet, you bastards!" Devon flinched reflexively, his body moving before his mind caught up. The sergeant, tough as nails and twice as mean, had somehow survived the ambush, and now he was back to doing what he did best: keeping them alive through sheer bloody-mindedness.

They had twenty minutes to rest—twenty whole minutes to catch their breath, reload, and patch up what wounds they could before they were ordered to advance on foot. The plan was simple, like most Imperial strategies: clear out resistance as they pushed deeper into the ruined city, link up with other infantry and armored units, and converge on the governor's spire. The heretics had holed up there, their last bastion of defiance, and they'd face the Emperor's justice soon enough.

The next hours were a blur. Firefights broke out at every turn, heretics emerging from the rubble like cockroaches, desperate and vicious. Every building was a potential ambush, every alley a killing ground. Devon moved on autopilot, his lasgun barking as he swept through the ruins with the others. His boots crunched over shattered glass and charred debris, and the acrid stench of burning flesh clung to his nostrils.

It wasn't until they cleared a particularly decrepit hab-block that the real nightmare began.

The first sign was the air. It changed, subtly at first, a strange prickling sensation that crawled over Devon's skin. He froze mid-step, his stomach twisting with a sense of wrongness he couldn't explain. Then came the fireballs—blue and black, streaking through the air like comets. The building shuddered under the impact, walls cracking and crumbling as the flames tore into it.

Devon barely had time to dive for cover before the xenos arrived. They poured into the building like a living tide, their crimson-skinned forms twisting unnaturally, their movements almost too fast to track. Devon's first thought was that they looked like something out of a fever dream: sinewy and lean, with eyes like smoldering coals and mouths filled with needle-sharp teeth.

"Xenos!" someone shouted, the word half a curse, half a prayer.

Devon's mind raced as he fired blindly into the swarm. What in the Emperor's name are these things? He didn't know. He didn't want to know. They weren't human, that much was clear, and that was all the reason he needed to kill them.

The Stipes Imperialis wards held firm, blazing with golden light. Whatever sorcery the xenos wielded—whatever cursed power churned in the air around them—it faltered and broke against the Emperor's Light.

Devon focused on his lasgun, the familiar weight of it grounding him. He aimed and fired, aimed and fired, the recoil-less weapon spitting out beams of light that carved into the xenos. One of them lunged toward him, its claws outstretched, but a bolt round took it in the chest, reducing it to a smoldering heap before it could reach him.

The heat from the fireball licked his face like a predator tasting its next meal. Devon flinched, instinct overriding thought, and dropped low behind the chunk of shattered ferrocrete. His chest hammered like a failing engine, rattling hard against his ribs. He couldn't stop the tremor in his hands as he fumbled for the next power pack. Nearby, three guardsmen weren't fast enough. Their screams came first—the kind that twisted your guts into knots—then the stench. Burning flesh, acrid and foul.

Devon didn't look. Couldn't look. He jammed the fresh pack into his lasgun, the click grounding him in the chaos. Thank you, Emperor. Thank you. It became his chant, a whispered prayer rattling in his head. It didn't matter how many times he said it. Each breath felt borrowed. Each moment an undeserved mercy. He rose, legs like lead, heart trying to pound its way up his throat.

Out there, beyond the crumbling walls of the ruined manufactorum, the xenos kept coming. Strange, crimson-skinned things with teeth like jagged knives and eyes that glowed with a sickly, otherworldly light. Their bodies piled up at the barricades, a macabre wall of twitching limbs and pooling blood, but still, they came. They moved like a tide, climbing over their own dead with a monstrous single-mindedness that made Devon's skin crawl.

He fired blindly into the swarm, the lasgun's barrel glowing faintly as it spat out bolt after bolt of deadly energy. Their disciplined fire scorched a path through the oncoming horde, but the line didn't break. It should've broken. They weren't normal, weren't human. But they bled. That was enough for now.

Behind the xenos, the heretics moved with cowardly precision, taking shots from cover while their monstrous allies soaked up the fire. He caught glimpses of them—tattoos defiling their flesh, their ragged armor painted with symbols that twisted his stomach to look at too long. Devon gritted his teeth. Heretics. Always hiding behind something bigger. Filthy, cowardly traitors.

Then the sorcerer arrived.

The air seemed to ripple around the man, black and blue flames dancing at his fingertips. Tattoos carved into his pale skin glowed faintly, alive with dark energy that made Devon's stomach churn. The mad gleam in the sorcerer's eyes burned brighter than the fireballs he hurled at the Imperial line. Devon raised his lasgun and fired.

The shots never reached their mark. A hulking xenos—a bulkier, nastier version of the red-skinned freaks—lumbered into the path of his shots, its hide shrugging off the energy blasts like a man brushing away flies. Devon cursed under his breath as the creature started toward him, its predatory gait sending tremors through his legs.

"Emperor save me," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of battle.

The creature got within a dozen paces when salvation screamed from the heavens. A mortar round slammed into the ground beside the beast, blasting it off its feet. The thing hit the rubble hard, its grotesque frame riddled with wounds that oozed thick, dark blood. Devon allowed himself a moment of relief. A moment was all he got.

The xenos stirred. Wounds stitched themselves back together, bone and sinew knitting with unnatural speed. Devon swore. "You've got to be kidding me."

Before it could rise, the alleyways around the battlefield erupted with movement. White-armored Paladins surged into the fray, their bulkier carapace suits marked with the sigil of the 24th Legion—the "Stormbreakers." Devon had heard of them. Hell, everyone had. Bloody-minded bastards, cocky as sin, and just as unstoppable as the stories said. He hated them a little, envied them a lot, but right now, he thanked the Emperor for their timing.

Bolter shells, plasma bolts, and melta beams carved through the enemy ranks. The larger xenos turned its attention toward the newcomers, only to be torn apart in seconds by their disciplined fire. Even its freakish durability couldn't withstand the sheer weight of firepower the Stormbreakers brought to bear.

The sorcerer was less easily cowed. Black and blue fire surged from his hands, rushing toward the Paladins. The flames crashed into shimmering golden barriers that appeared out of thin air. Devon's breath caught as he spotted the man responsible. A Stipes Imperialis.

He wasn't what Devon had expected. No flowing robes or ceremonial garb. Just a hulking figure in power armor, its surface adorned with symbols of the God-Emperor. The man moved with a calm purpose, his armored fingers tracing sigils in the air as he chanted. Each word was a weapon, each phrase a hammer blow. Shapes of golden light burst forth from his gestures—hawks, tigers, leopards—all diving into the enemy ranks and tearing through flesh and sorcery alike.

The sorcerer staggered under the relentless assault, his wards cracking like glass. But it wasn't the holy fire that ended him.

A single bolter shell, fired from the Stipes Imperialis' weapon, punched through the heretic's chest. The sorcerer collapsed, flames guttering out, his body crumpling like a broken doll.

Devon exhaled, a shuddering breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Around him, the battlefield still roared—a cacophony of screams, lasfire, and the dull concussive thuds of distant artillery. But for a moment, he allowed himself to believe. The Emperor was watching over them. Watching over him.

"Thank you," he whispered, gripping his lasgun tighter. His fingers ached from how hard he clenched the weapon. "Thank you."

The prayer felt hollow, bitter on his tongue. Faith didn't stop the fireballs. It didn't silence the shrieking of men being torn apart by xenos claws or the horrifying crackle of blue-black fire as it consumed flesh. Faith didn't bring back the dead, not Jensen, not Kirill, and certainly not Corporal Horne. But it kept him moving. And right now, moving was all that mattered.

A shadow fell over him, pulling him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see the Stipes Imperialis sorcerer—no, warrior-priest, that was what he truly was in his eyes. The man's golden staff, adorned with the double-headed Aquila, shimmered faintly even in the soot-darkened air. His power armor bore none of the ostentation Devon had imagined from the stories—no flowing robes, no halos of light. It was scarred and battered, marked by battle. But somehow, the simplicity made him more imposing. More real.

"You did the Emperor proud," the warrior-priest intoned, his voice carrying over the din as the last of the red-skinned xenos fell to the relentless fire of the 24th Legion. His tone wasn't comforting, but neither was it harsh. It simply was—a statement of fact. "But there is more to do. The Governor's Spire is close. Those too wounded for the elixirs can remain here and await the Medicae transports. The rest, follow me."

Devon swallowed hard. His legs ached, his muscles screamed, but he was not staying behind. He muttered a quick prayer under his breath as he fell into step with the others. Around him, the other Guardsmen limped forward, some visibly pale as they injected themselves with the combat elixirs handed out by the priest's attendants. The elixirs worked quickly, turning agonized steps into steady, determined marches.

Ahead, the white-armored Paladins of the 24th Legion formed up in their ranks, their bulkier carapace armor gleaming dully under the ash-choked sky. They were the line infantry, the Stormbreakers, the ones who charged headlong into the enemy without a second thought. Devon had heard stories—heard how their armor, reinforced with adamantium mesh beneath its ceramite plating, could shrug off blows that would eviscerate a standard Guardsman. They were slower, yes, but that was a poor trade for their sheer resilience. When they advanced, they moved like glaciers—unstoppable, implacable, grinding everything in their path to dust.

Devon glanced to the side as one of the remaining canids darted past, its mechanical armor clanking with each bound. The beasts had paid a heavy toll that day, their once-proud numbers reduced to a handful. Yet they showed no sign of faltering, no hesitation as they surged forward alongside their handlers. He couldn't help but feel a pang of respect. For all their bestial nature, their loyalty was unwavering. Such devotion was a thing to be honored, even if they weren't human.

The column reached a small camp nestled amid the ruins of an industrial complex. It was a chaotic sprawl of Guardsmen and Paladins from both the 24th and 28th Legions, each one battered and bloodied from the endless fighting. The white armor of the Paladins was streaked with red and brown, dirt and blood mixing into a testament of their brutal efficiency. They didn't seem to care. "Our armor was always meant to be stained," one of them had once joked to Devon. "In the Emperor's name, we paint it crimson. The dirt's just extra."

The Guardsmen dropped into the camp like dead weight, collapsing against rubble and walls wherever they could find space. Devon sank to the ground, ripping open a ration pack with shaking hands. The tasteless, dry block of nutrients did nothing to lift his spirits, but it was fuel, and fuel kept you moving. Nearby, others gulped down water and passed around small flasks of spirits, taking what comfort they could.

Somewhere behind them, the rumble of the armored column grew louder. The tanks were finally catching up, their massive forms grinding through debris as artillery fire continued to pound the enemy-held zones ahead. Devon could see the faint plumes of smoke rising in the distance where the shells landed. Anything still alive out there would soon face the Emperor's wrath in steel and fire.

And then, there would be them. The Guardsmen. The Paladins. The ones who cleaned up what the tanks and artillery left behind. Devon clenched his jaw, pushing himself to his feet as the order to march came down the line. His body screamed in protest, but he ignored it. He had no choice.

This was what they did. What he did. He prayed silently to the Emperor as the column moved forward, following behind the massive tanks that now led the way. Faith didn't stop the fireballs. It didn't bring back the dead. But it kept him moving.

And moving was all that mattered.

---

Krill Septius missed the days when he was just another Stormtrooper.

Not that being an Inquisitorial Stormtrooper was easy—there was no glamour in it, no glorious charges or heroic last stands, just the grinding work of rooting out humanity's enemies and burning them down to the bones. But back then, he didn't carry the weight of expectation. He hadn't been a leader of the faithful, a torchbearer for the Emperor's Light. Back then, all he had to do was aim, shoot, and keep moving. Now, his every step felt heavy with responsibility.

The city around him stank of death and burning chemicals, a miasma of industry and rebellion. Krill moved with the precision of a soldier long accustomed to combat, his squad falling in behind him as the tanks rumbled forward, their treads grinding the shattered remnants of the heretics' defenses beneath them. Ahead loomed the Governor's Tower, its upper levels swallowed in a swirling haze of sorcerous green and black clouds. He could feel the wrongness radiating from it, a crawling sensation that made his teeth ache.

His gauntleted hand brushed the Emperor's Tears gem embedded in his sternum, the cold stone pressing reassuringly against his flesh beneath the armor. It was more than a relic. It was a shield, a weapon, a piece of the Emperor's will carved into physical form. The gem thrummed faintly in his chest, a silent promise that the corruption they marched toward would not touch him, not without a fight.

He itched to unleash the Emperor's Light upon the heretics who still dared to contest their advance. His prayers—though he refused to call them "sorcery"—could have sent holy fire streaking into the twisted clouds above the tower, a brilliant lance of divine fury. But he held back. The distance was too great; his efforts would amount to little more than sparks against that unnatural storm. Better to wait, to conserve his strength. There would be plenty of opportunity for fire and fury before this day was done.

The heretics came at them in waves, desperate and disorganized, hurling themselves against the Imperial lines like a tide of human debris. They knew it was over. No sanctuary remained for them. Their only choices were death on the battlefield or death on the stake for their heresies. And yet, Krill couldn't help but marvel at their foolishness. Did they think a quick death would save them from the Emperor's judgment? Saint Michael had revealed enough of the Immaterium for Krill to know better. Whatever awaited these wretches after death would make even the Inquisition's most sadistic interrogators seem merciful.

The Imperial Guard and Paladins answered the heretics with bolters and fire, their discipline unwavering. The tanks obliterated enemy strongpoints with thunderous blasts, sending shockwaves through the already crumbling city. A few blocks away, the silver-and-red forms of Dragon Armors descended from the skies, their turbo lasers ripping apart the heretics' fortifications with surgical precision. As they swept lower, their flamers roared to life, turning the urban gloom into an inferno of burning promethium.

Krill watched the chaos with practiced detachment. He had seen it all before. This was the Emperor's work—messy, brutal, and absolutely necessary. But even he couldn't help but glance up as a bolt of pale green sorcery arced toward the Dragons, trailing smoke and the stink of ozone. For a moment, it looked as though the heretics might succeed in striking down one of the Emperor's champions. But then a golden shield flared into existence, made of countless interlocking Imperial sigils. The sorcery shattered against it like glass meeting a hammer.

He almost scoffed. Selene. She always had a flair for the dramatic. Her shield was as effective as it was ostentatious, its intricate design screaming for attention. Krill's own prayers were quieter, more direct. Fire and light, unleashed with brutal efficiency. He didn't see the point in showmanship when the Emperor's will was execution enough.

Selene hadn't been part of the first cadre. She hadn't been trained by Saint Michael himself, not in the beginning. The Saint's instructions to her group had been limited, infrequent, not enough to strip away her theatrical tendencies the way they had with those in Krill's cadre. He hoped, for her sake and everyone else's, that she wouldn't fail when the time came. The Maelstrom had already taken too many of their number.

Of the hundred warriors Krill had been entrusted with at the start of this campaign, thirty were already dead. Most of them had fallen to stupidity—mistakes, oversights, and a failure to understand that this war cared nothing for bravery or cleverness. Those who remained had learned, or so he hoped. This campaign would devour the foolish, the slow, and the unlucky with equal voracity. And though Krill detested command, he would be damned if he let the Emperor's Light falter because of the madness that gripped the Maelstrom Zone.

Krill tightened his grip on the staff, its golden Aquila catching the faint, flickering light of the battlefield. The Emperor's Light burned within him, a raw and searing thing, a fire stoked by faith and fury. It had a weight, this power, pressing against his ribs and lungs like the expectation of a thousand silent martyrs who had come before him. He missed the days when he was just another Stormtrooper. Those days were simpler. Cleaner. You shot heretics in the head, burned their bodies, and moved on. There hadn't been this... responsibility, this gnawing sense that every decision might tip the balance between salvation and annihilation.

But those days were gone.

The Emperor's Tear embedded in his sternum hummed faintly as his mind stretched out along the psychic link the relics forged between him and the others. The gems had been wrought by Saint Michael himself, the Light of the Emperor distilled into anathema energy and given form. A holy safeguard, a weapon against the corruption they now marched toward.

Krill focused on Selene first. She was easy to find, her presence crackling in the link like static. She never seemed to stop moving, even here. He could almost see her smirk as her voice slipped into his mind.

"Careful with the showmanship," he told her, his mental tone brusque and hard. "Quick and dirty kills just as well as slow and showy."

"Yes, boss man," Selene replied, her words a mix of insolence and amusement. That tone hadn't changed, not since the first day he'd met her. An ex-Underhive ganger, dragged from the muck and molded into a weapon by the Saint's will. He didn't resent her for it—her roots meant nothing so long as she did her duty.

He sent the same reminder out across the link, to the rest of the cadre. Divided as they were among the Imperial Guard regiments and the Paladin Legions, the distance didn't matter. The gems cared nothing for kilometers, and the others would hear him clearly.

Twenty-two replies came back in rapid succession, sharp acknowledgments tinged with the discipline he had drilled into them himself. A faint ember of satisfaction flared in his chest. Maybe—just maybe—they'd survive this. Most of them, anyway.

The daemons came next, a tide of shifting shapes that defied the laws of flesh and bone. These were bestial things, in form if not in nature, but even their forms seemed uncertain, as if the Warp itself had hesitated while crafting them. Mammalian muscles stretched over lizard-like scales, jaws gaped with too many teeth, and limbs bent at angles no sane creature should possess.

The air thickened with the scent of sulfur and decay. Krill's fingers brushed the Tear at his chest again, almost unconsciously. The gem burned hotter now, a warning and a promise.

Imperial fire met the abominations in a deafening cacophony of lasfire, plasma bursts, and bolter shells. The daemons fell, but not as easily as the fodder that had come before. These things were tougher, their oily hides shrugging off the lesser volleys. They weren't here to slow the advance. They were guardians, sentinels meant to protect whatever foul ritual the cultists were enacting in the Governor's Tower.

Krill snarled a curse and raised his staff. The Emperor's Light surged through him, sharp and blinding. He whispered a prayer, his voice low and guttural, invoking the Saint and carving luminous sigils into the air with the staff's tip. He finished with an imprecation to Vulkan for his fires, and the reply was immediate—a lance of molten amber flame streaked from the heavens, almost liquid in its intensity.

His teeth clenched as he directed the fire, shattering the advancing wave of daemons. Yet even as the lance incinerated them, more surged forward. Krill gritted his teeth and shaped another prayer into shields, golden barriers that shimmered against the unnatural darkness. Still, some of the beasts made it through.

They reached the Paladins first, slamming into the armored warriors with feral fury. Power swords hissed to life as the Stormbreakers stepped forward to meet them, their heavy blades cleaving into daemonflesh. The canids of the 28th rushed into the fray, snarling and snapping, their cybernetically enhanced muscles tearing through the abominations while their handlers supported them with bolter fire.

Krill didn't stop. Another prayer spilled from his lips, and from the skies descended burning hawks, ethereal constructs of fire and light. The hawks tore into the daemons with savage precision, their talons ripping through the creatures' tar-like bodies and igniting their dark essence.

The battle ended as abruptly as it had begun, the unnatural stillness leaving an eerie silence that pressed against Krill Septius' ears. The daemons fell one by one, their forms unraveling into black smoke or bursting into flames, the foul energy that birthed them fleeing back into the warp. Their deaths were marked by a sound like ripping silk, a noise that lingered, sharp and unpleasant, as though reality itself protested their existence. Krill stood amid the carnage, his breathing heavy, his knuckles white on the staff crowned with the Aquila, its faint golden glow dimmed but not extinguished.

The aftermath unfolded like a grim ceremony. The Paladins regrouped, their disciplined movements belying the fresh scars gouged into their plate. A few of the canids limped, their handlers crouched beside them, muttering reassurances as they patched wounds and checked augmetic limbs. The toll had been small compared to what it could have been, but that didn't ease the weight on Krill's shoulders. Every death—every dented breastplate or shattered visor—felt like an accusation. He was supposed to shield these warriors, guide them with the Emperor's Light. Failure, even in its smallest measure, gnawed at him.

His jaw tightened as he pushed a thought through the link, the Emperor's Tear embedded in his sternum pulsing faintly in response. "Good work. Stay sharp. This was just the beginning."

Selene's voice came back through the link, sharp-edged and smug. "Aye, boss man. You'll forgive me if I save the celebrations for when we're not knee-deep in monster guts."

Krill's lips twitched, though no one would mistake it for a smile. Her tone was pure Underhive, brash and irreverent, but it masked a sharpness that served her well. He didn't begrudge her origins—most of the Stipes Imperialis were cast-offs, forged anew by Saint Michael's will. So long as they held the line and wielded the Emperor's Light with precision, he could tolerate the rough edges.

The cadre pressed on, their path carved by artillery fire and strafing runs from the Dragon armors. The heretics had little air support left, their few remaining craft shredded in moments by the Dragon pilots. But the ground was another story. The closer they pushed toward the tower, the harder the resistance became. Not from men—most of the cultists had been eradicated or were fleeing like rats—but from waves of daemons spilling forth from the rift above the spire.

For nearly an hour, they fought without reprieve. Krill's staff pulsed with amber light as he called forth fire-lances and shaped shimmering shields to bolster the Imperial forces. It wasn't enough to stem the tide entirely; some of the monstrosities slipped through, their grotesque forms breaking against lasfire and the roaring charge of the Paladins. The Stormbreakers unsheathed power swords, cutting into daemon-flesh with brutal efficiency, while the canids tore into anything that came too close, their handlers backing them with precise bolter fire and the Imperial guard added lasfire or a wall of bayonets as needed.

Krill could feel the strain on his cadre. The Emperor's Light coursed through them, cleansed and potent thanks to the Tears, but even holy fire had its limits.

He encouraged the troops to think of the daemons as mutants or xenos. His time in the Inquisition had taught him the dangers of allowing rank-and-file soldiers to dwell too deeply on the nature of their enemies. Daemons were an idea that burrowed into minds, taking root and corrupting even the faithful. Better they believe they fought flesh-and-blood monstrosities than risk their souls on truths they weren't equipped to handle. When the Inquisition swept through the survivors, he intended to make sure as few of them as possible needed purging.

At last, the tower loomed, rising out of the chaos like a jagged tooth breaking through diseased gums. What had once been a spire of industrial ambition, a proto-hive aspiring to touch the heavens, now stood fractured and violated, its upper reaches swallowed by roiling, sorcerous clouds. The air itself quivered under the weight of malevolence, and Krill Septius felt it pressing against the Emperor's Light within him, like a rancid tide lapping against a seawall. Every step forward seemed to cost a fraction more effort, as though gravity itself conspired against them. He clenched his staff, the haft slick with sweat despite the cool climate control of his armor.

This was it. Months of blood, sacrifice, and relentless combat distilled into this singular, apocalyptic moment. The fate of Endymion Prime would be decided here. Victory would purge the heresy, restore this world to the Emperor's grace. Defeat would see it condemned to annihilation, its name struck from Imperial records, its existence reduced to a whispered cautionary tale. A world reduced to ash to snuff out the corruption festering in its heart. Such was the way of things, and Krill had no delusions otherwise. But understanding the necessity did not dull the edge of the choice they faced.

The cadre closed ranks around him, their presence anchoring his fraying focus. He reached through their shared link, his voice an unyielding hammer in the mental ether. "It is time. You all know what must be done." There was no flourish to his words, no need for grand speeches. Faith and discipline had carried them this far; faith and discipline would see this task through to its brutal conclusion.

Their nods came as one, resolute. Each warrior bore the Emperor's Tears upon their sternum, those miraculous gems burning cold and bright with the Saint's anathematic power. The gems pulsed faintly, a rhythm that seemed to align with Krill's own heartbeat, as though the Light itself recognized this moment of reckoning. He reached into a pouch at his belt and withdrew a small vial of pale-yellow liquid. A potent elixir, crafted for the Stipes Imperialis. Its purpose was singular and brutal: to stave off the toll of their powers. To drink it was to return strength to numbing limbs, to force sluggish blood to flow freely once more, to sweep away the mental fog that heralded overreach.

Krill broke the seal with a sharp twist and downed the contents in one motion. The taste was acrid, metallic, but familiar. Within moments, warmth spread through his veins, banishing the creeping fatigue and sharpening his senses. Around him, the others followed suit, their movements precise and unhurried. They had done this before. They would do it again.

Eighteen of them linked their minds, forming a lattice of will and purpose that mirrored the techniques of sanctioned Psykers. But they were no Psykers. They drew upon the Emperor's Light directly, unsullied and incorruptible, wielding it as a righteous flame to sear the darkness. Five others remained outside the link, their task no less vital—to guard their bodies while their minds delved into the Immaterium. The link hummed with barely-contained potency, a unified chorus of prayer and resolve.

Krill's thoughts drifted as they examined the wards ahead, probing for weaknesses. The heretics' defenses were brutish things, relying on the overwhelming power generated by their obscene sacrifices. Administratum estimates had placed the death toll at over eighty million, but Krill suspected the true number was closer to eighty-eight. Such was the scale of the atrocity. The wards reflected that barbarity—simple, direct, and flooded with raw energy. They were effective, if only because of the sheer magnitude of power sustaining them. In another circumstance, Krill might have admired the audacity of it. Here, he saw only the repulsive fingerprints of desperation and malice.

But power alone was never enough. The heretics lacked refinement, their crude craftsmanship riddled with cracks and inefficiencies. Against most foes, those flaws would go unnoticed, irrelevant in the face of the tidal force behind them. But the Stipes Imperialis were not most foes. They were trained to dismantle such defenses, to exploit every fissure and imperfection. This was their purpose, the Emperor's will manifest in the annihilation of sorcery.

Krill's disdain coiled tighter, a serpent beneath his ribs, cold and unrelenting. The wards before them shimmered faintly, their structure flickering like a distant mirage distorted by unseen heat. In their shared mindscape, the cadre's collective focus pressed forward, deliberate and scalpel-sharp. Every subtle flaw, every imperfection in the heretical defenses unraveled like threads plucked from a taut weave.

Selene took the lead, her precision honed to an art Krill could begrudgingly respect. Her touch was delicate, an artist tracing the cracks that others would overlook. Efficient, he admitted to himself, though not without a flicker of irritation. He disliked her flair—too much like a psyker's arrogance—but he could not deny its utility here. Where he might have crushed the wards by brute invocation, she found the fraying seams and turned them into unraveling chaos.

The prayers began in unison, murmurs swelling into a hum that filled their shared awareness. The Emperor's Light surged, white-hot and relentless, slipping into the metaphysical fractures Selene revealed. Krill focused his will, directing the Light to dissolve the wards from within, layer by cursed layer. It was not fast work—no cleansing ever was. The Emperor demanded patience, focus, and sacrifice.

His extremities tingled, the first sign of the toll exacted by such work. Numbness crept into his fingers and toes, then climbed inexorably, an uncomfortable reminder of his mortal frame. Moments stretched in the mindscape, while outside, minutes bled away. He knew their physical bodies stood vulnerable, dependent on the Guardsmen, Paladins, and others to hold the line. Yet there was no room for distraction. The Emperor's work demanded everything.

The toll came swiftly. A flicker of light in the shared link faltered, guttered out. Then another. Four of the cadre fell, their bodies crumpling into stillness as their souls were drawn into the Emperor's embrace. Krill did not pause to mourn; he pressed harder, his will coiling tighter, forcing the Light deeper into the cracks.

Finally, the wards shattered. The shared mindscape dissolved, and with it, the crushing weight of their focus eased. The survivors gasped back into their bodies, drenched in sweat, breaths ragged and hearts pounding erratically. Krill's own pulse lagged, heavy and uneven, a sluggish thrum that clawed at his composure. He felt the exhaustion burrow into his bones, a reminder of how thin the line between service and death had grown.

No outside reaction came. The heretics' tower stood inert, stripped now of its abominable protections. Krill pressed a command rune on his wrist, the gesture mechanical, unthinking. The signal for the artillery rang out—silent but absolute. Even as the faint echo of prayers lingered on his lips, he reached for a vial of pale-yellow elixir, uncorking it with practiced efficiency. The liquid burned as it slid down his throat, igniting a cold fire in his veins.

Krill Septius observed the battlefield with a detached precision born of decades spent amid the grinding gears of war. The air shimmered, thick with ozone and the acrid tang of daemon ichor, a foul alchemy that seemed to burn the lungs and numb the senses. Daemons surged in waves, their alien howls clawing against the prayers that spilled from the lips of Guardsmen and Paladins alike. Krill's cadre, fourteen remaining souls, stood as a bastion of the Emperor's wrath amidst the chaos, their chants shaping the golden nimbus of faith-fueled sorcery that rolled across the battlefield.

Krill could not shake the bitter irony that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. Here he was, wielding what any other soldier would call sorcery, even as he cursed the heretics for their own. But this was not the Warp's corruption; this was the Emperor's Light. To call it anything else was blasphemy.

He tightened his grip on his staff, its surface warm with the residual energy of the wards they had just sundered. The weapon was unnecessary now, its function served. With a deliberate motion, he cast it aside, his gauntleted fingers rising to trace sigils in the air. Each movement was precise, each line a verse of devotion etched into the fabric of reality. The cadre followed his lead, their voices rising in unison to invoke the names of the Primarchs and the Saint.

Amber light burst forth, washing over the battlefield like a cleansing tide. Fire lances streaked into the writhing horde, impaling daemon after daemon, their forms dissolving into ash and whispers. Ethereal beasts—hawks, wolves, and lions—manifested in the Emperor's Light, tearing through the enemy with righteous fury. In the distance, the disciplined lines of the Imperial forces rallied, the sight of their unleashed faith spurring them to greater feats of endurance and violence. Flamers roared, bolters spat death, and power swords carved luminous arcs through the darkness.

Even as the tide began to shift, Krill's mind was elsewhere. He measured the battlefield with the cold calculus of a veteran, his gaze dissecting the ebb and flow of the conflict. This was no longer a battle; it was a purge, the enemy's reinforcements dwindling with every passing moment. The horde faltered, their advance collapsing into a retreat that was more instinct than strategy.

When the golden tide receded, the battlefield lay quiet, save for the cries of the wounded and the crackling of fires. Krill did not allow himself the luxury of rest. The others in his cadre sank to their knees, spent but alive, their faces etched with exhaustion and something akin to relief. He alone strode forward, still wreathed in the nimbus of holy energy. There was no time to pause; the Emperor's work was never done.

A contingent of Guardsmen, Paladins, and canids fell into step around him, an unspoken acknowledgment of his authority. They moved as one, cutting a path through the carnage. The corpses of friend and foe alike lay scattered, their forms twisted in death. Krill's gaze swept over them without flinching. Each loss was a tragedy, yes, but also a necessity. The Emperor demanded sacrifice, and who was he to question His will?

As they approached the heretic tower, a flicker of movement drew his attention. Eight figures hovered in the air, their forms wreathed in the telltale hues of warp-born sorcery. Waves of blue-black fire and pale green lightning rained down on the three remaining members of the Stipes cadre who had stayed behind. Krill's chest tightened as he took in the scene. Two charred bodies lay crumpled amidst the ruins—Kert and Silla. Their deaths had not been in vain; the shattered forms of five sorcerers bore testament to their final stand.

But there was no room for mourning, not yet. Krill assessed the remaining three Stipes. They held their ground, weaving wards and countering the sorcerers' assaults with grim determination. They could hold for now, but he knew better than to let the battle drag on. Sorcery was treacherous; even the victorious rarely walked away unscathed.

He reached for his bolter pistol, the motion as natural as breathing. With practiced efficiency, he replaced the standard magazine with one painted silver. Each of the hundred rounds within had been painstakingly blessed and warded, their very existence a defiance of the Warp's corruption. Such ammunition was a luxury, a resource often deemed wasteful in the grand calculus of war. But here, against these foes, it was a necessity.

Krill Septius moved with the measured precision of a man who had long since abandoned the notion of haste. Haste was for the panicked, the desperate, the living. He was none of those things. His power armor thrummed softly as he raised his bolter, the Emperor's Tears gem embedded in his sternum pulsing faintly, its anathema energy rippling outward like waves across the warp-tainted air. The weapon barked once, the sanctified round tearing through the sorcerer's shield with a sound like shattering ice. The heretic staggered, clutching at the ragged ruin of their chest before collapsing in a heap, their death as unceremonious as the life they'd squandered.

Krill fired again, and another sorcerer fell, their body wreathed in holy flame. There was no satisfaction in the act, no sense of triumph. This was duty, stripped bare of glory or fanfare. His bolter was a pen, each trigger pull a line in the unending litany of death he had been writing since the day he first donned a uniform. Poetry, of a sort, though the verses were crude, the meter uneven.

The heretics finally realized their peril after the fourth of their number fell. Panic set in, their carefully crafted formation unraveling as they broke ranks and scrambled for cover. He scoffed, the sound barely audible over the rhythmic thrum of his bolter. Sorcerers. Always so enamored with their own power, so eager to flaunt it in grotesque displays of hubris. And yet, at the first sign of true resistance, they fled like rats from a sinking ship, caring little for their allies or the inevitability of their own demise.

The three remaining sorcerers never had a chance. With their arcane shields shattered and their concentration broken, his cadre members struck them down in a conflagration of holy fire. The air reeked of scorched flesh and ozone, the stench clinging to the inside of his helmet like a second skin. Krill lowered his bolter, surveying the carnage with the detached scrutiny of an archivist appraising an old manuscript.

"Are you all fine?" His voice was a rasp, worn thin by years of shouting over battlefield cacophony.

Three exhausted voices answered in the affirmative. He glanced back, watching as his comrades retrieved their Saint Elixirs and injected the viscous liquid into the ports of their armor. The elixirs would restore their strength, but the cost was steep—a coma-like slumber lasting thirty-six hours, a price they would gladly pay once the battle was done. For now, they would endure, as they always did.

Krill activated his vox, his tone clipped and devoid of inflection. "Maintain bombardment on the tower. Target the upper levels. We're going below."

The guardsmen's compliance was assumed, not acknowledged. He turned, gesturing for his cadre to follow. With their power they carved a new opening into the bunker beneath the tower, the ferrocrete edges jagged and blackened. Their earlier probing of the wards had revealed the trap for what it was: the sorcerous storm raging above was a distraction, a siren's call meant to lure the faithful into a ritualistic slaughter as they tried to climb the tower. The true architects of this rebellion were hidden beneath the tower, channeling their foul energies into a ritual that, if completed, would shatter this world and the Imperial hold upon it.

Twenty minutes. That was all the time they had before the sorcerous clouds descended to meet the ritual's nexus, unleashing an apocalyptic wave of warp energy. Krill intended to see that the enemy did not get a single second more.

The descent into the tunnels was swift and unceremonious. Resistance was light, or at least it was light for members of the Stipes Imperialis. Drug-addled heretics and malformed warp-spawn hurled themselves at the cadre with the suicidal fervor of the damned, only to be cut down with contemptuous ease. Bolter fire echoed through the tunnels, the explosions of sanctified rounds mingling with the wet crunch of power swords cleaving through flesh and bone. The heretics died as they had lived—pathetic and unremarkable.

The chamber at the tunnel's end was vast, its walls inscribed with heretical sigils that seemed to writhe and twist in the flickering light. Once, such symbols would have filled Krill's mind with a dull, throbbing pain, the warp's corruption seeping into the cracks of his psyche. But the Emperor's Tears gem shielded him, its anathematic energy cocooning his soul in unassailable purity. The sigils were nothing more than grotesque decorations now, their power rendered impotent in the presence of the Emperor's light.

The abomination loomed in the chamber's center, a maddening silhouette of grotesque intricacy. Flesh melded with flesh, forming a tower of unholy union. Tattoos writhed and pulsed as if alive, while the myriad heads, leering and twisted, seemed to mock reality itself. Their collective laughter built into an oppressive roar, echoing from walls stained with the taint of ritual. It wasn't just noise; it was a weapon, designed to erode resolve, to shatter faith. But Krill Septius had faced worse.

His hand tightened on his bolter, the blessed machine humming faintly. Heretics, he thought, the word sharp as a blade in his mind. A curse. A promise.

"You've come too late," the abomination cackled. Its voices—dozens of them—overlapped in a disharmony that scraped against the edges of sanity. Before the echoes faded, it surged forward, a blur of unnatural speed. One of his cadre didn't even have time to react before an oversized arm, layered with pulsating glyphs, smashed into him. The man, clad in five tons of power armor, flew like a discarded toy, slamming into the chamber wall with a sickening crunch.

Krill moved instinctively, his feet planting firm as he raised his bolter. The air grew heavy as the abomination exhaled a torrent of pale green fire from three of its grinning mouths. The flames licked hungrily toward them, alive in a way fire should not be.

"Shields!" he barked.

Golden amber light flared into being, summoned by the cadre's synchronized prayers. The fire crashed against the barrier, spreading across its surface like liquid malice. Cracks spidered outward as the abomination struck again and again, each blow hammering their defenses closer to breaking.

Krill's bolter roared, its sanctified ammunition carving into the abomination's flesh. Each round detonated on impact, shattering bone, severing limbs. But for every wound inflicted, the creature healed in moments, flesh knitting together with unnatural speed. Beside him, his cadre followed suit, their bolters adding to the storm of holy destruction. It wasn't enough.

"Your weapons are meaningless before Fyzkill the Mighty!" the abomination declared, swinging a massive limb through the weakened barrier. Shards of amber light exploded outward as the shield failed entirely.

One of his comrades tried to dodge but was too slow. The abomination's claw wrapped around him and hurled him against the wall with sickening force. Krill barely had time to glance as a bolt of black lightning followed, reducing the soldier—and his once-impenetrable armor—to a smear of ash on cold stone.

Emperor, guide me. The prayer came unbidden to his mind as he and the remaining cadre member unleashed a blinding torrent of golden-white fire. The energy struck true, engulfing the abomination. For a moment, hope kindled within him. The creature staggered, its many heads wailing as the flames scorched its grotesque form.

But then, as if to mock their efforts, the flames collapsed inward, absorbed into a growing sphere of darkness. Krill watched as the shadow consumed the light, leaving behind a monster merely singed, its wounds healing slower now but healing nonetheless. All its heads grinned in manic triumph.

Then the sphere exploded outward. A wall of concussive force slammed into Krill, hurling him across the chamber. His power armor absorbed most of the impact, but his vision swam with stars as he struggled to rise. His bolter lay meters away, and his hands felt sluggish as he reached for his combat knife.

The abomination loomed over him, a tidal wave of flesh and fury. One clawed limb rose, poised to strike.

And then it stopped. Golden chains, shimmering with ethereal light, coiled around the creature's limbs, arresting its momentum inches from Krill's prone form. He blinked, dazed, as he heard a voice filled with desperation and command.

"Run!" Ollga's voice sliced through the roaring din like a blade, sharp and undeniable. Her figure was defiant, silhouetted against the hellish backdrop of the chamber. Golden chains of light coiled around the abomination, holding it in place—or at least attempting to. They shimmered and cracked under the strain, their glow faltering as the creature's unholy strength pressed against her will. She stood firm, but the effort drained her, her knees trembling, her voice desperate. "Call the others! We need the full cadre to put it down!"

Krill Septius didn't move. Couldn't move. Not out of fear—he had buried that useless thing long ago—but out of cold calculation. He'd been trained to process situations like this. Analyze. Assess. Act. No room for hesitation or sentimentality. His mind churned through the probabilities even as his gaze swept the battlefield.

Call the others? No. They'd never make it in time. He knew it, and so did she. Ollga was buying seconds at best. Krill didn't waste energy arguing. Words wouldn't fix this.

The abomination roared, a sound that rattled the massive chamber. Its dozen heads shrieked and cackled, their twisted voices harmonizing into a single, stomach-churning note of madness. The chains binding it began to fray, golden cracks splitting their radiant surface like fragile glass. Its myriad arms clawed and writhed, hungering for release, for destruction.

Krill took a step forward, his boots crunching on the charred remnants of heretical symbols burned into the chamber floor. His bolter hung at his side, useless now. No weapon he carried could touch that monstrosity. Not in this state.

Instead, he stretched his awareness, calling on the Emperor's Light—not sorcery, never that. This was prayer. His faith made manifest. A fire ignited within him, pure and cleansing, burning away the taint of doubt as he extended his senses. The ritual circle blazed before him in intricate detail, its geometry a roadmap of insanity and power.

And there it was. The truth of the thing hit him like a punch to the gut. The abomination wasn't just flesh and bone, wasn't just a hulking mass of heretical excess. It was souls. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, all jammed together in an unholy fusion. A choir of madness bound into a single, writhing form.

Krill's lips curled in disgust. He knew of this foul art—had been trained to recognize it, to counter it. A mockery of unity, this was nothing more than desperation and arrogance twisted together. Such rituals were forbidden for good reason. Even a master might fail to align so many disparate wills, and these heretics weren't masters. They were fools playing with forces they couldn't comprehend.

The fusion wouldn't hold. It couldn't hold. But before it failed, it would birth something beyond comprehension, beyond containment. A being of pure chaos and madness, its very existence a scream that would annihilate everything on this world and beyond.

He had seconds, maybe less. And one choice.

Krill's hand moved to his chest, pressing against the armor plate over his sternum. Beneath it, fused to his very being, was the Emperor's Tear, a relic crafted by Saint Michael himself. Its power had carried him through trials that would have broken lesser men. But even that wasn't enough.

No, what he needed was deeper still. Buried within his sternum, nestled alongside the Tear, was a fragment of the Saint's own bone. A connection, a conduit, a lifeline to power beyond mortal comprehension. To draw on it fully would mean death. His death. Maybe worse than death. The thought flickered through his mind, and he dismissed it with a soldier's pragmatism. He was going to die anyway. At least this way, it would mean something.

Krill closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. Not for salvation. Not for mercy. For strength.

The fire within him became an inferno. The Emperor's Light surged through his veins, blinding and pure, searing away everything that wasn't purpose. His body screamed in protest, muscles tearing, bones splintering under the strain, but he didn't falter. Couldn't falter.

The abomination turned toward him, its heads twisting and writhing to focus their mad, hate-filled gazes. It sensed the power, the threat, and roared in fury. The chains shattered as it lunged, but Krill was faster.

He raised his hands, and the fire within him erupted outward, a blazing torrent of white-gold light. It wasn't a weapon. It was judgment.

The light struck the abomination, lancing through its writhing, grotesque mass of fused souls. For a moment, it held, the shimmering bonds of the ritual resisting the power he'd called upon. Then came the cracks—jagged lines of light ripping across the abomination's frame, shattering the unholy connection like a pane of brittle glass.

It screamed. Not with a single voice, but with hundreds, each layered over the other in a fractured harmony of anguish. The sound scraped against his mind, a clawing noise that threatened to drown reason in madness. But Krill Septius was no stranger to screams. He'd heard worse—the tortured cries of corrupted men, the guttural pleas of traitors before they died, the keening of beasts that should not exist in any sane reality.

The light intensified, rushing outward in an expanding wave, dissolving the ritual circle and everything it had tainted. Krill's enhanced senses picked apart the interplay of energies even as they unraveled—clean, searing power burning away the corrupted filth of the warp. The chamber above collapsed, taking the Governor's spire with it. Dust and ash filled the air, yet none of it touched him. The Emperor's Tears gem embedded in his sternum flared, the anathema within shielding him, even as his mortal frame began to fail.

The bunker's silence stretched as the light receded, leaving only ruin in its wake. The abomination was gone—its souls scattered, its essence annihilated. The only sound was the faint whisper of crumbling ash as it fell from the remnants of his armor.

Krill's knees buckled. He staggered, his legs failing him, and dropped to the ashen floor. His gauntleted hands trembled as he reached out to steady himself, but they were already beginning to dissolve. White fire still burned along his flesh, consuming him piece by piece.

He exhaled a ragged laugh, though his chest barely obeyed the motion. There was no pain, not anymore. Just the strange, hollow sensation of being unmade. He smiled faintly. Duty done. Victory purchased. The Emperor's will, fulfilled.

His vision dimmed as his body crumbled entirely, yet his awareness did not fade. Instead, he found himself somewhere else—a landscape of endless white sands stretching beneath a sky of roiling storm clouds. The air carried an electric charge, the kind that prickled at the skin and set every nerve alight with the promise of something vast and unknowable.

The clouds above churned, dark and ominous, and he instinctively knew they were dangerous. Yet he felt no fear. His gaze shifted, drawn to the oasis in the distance—a cluster of palm trees and shimmering water. It glowed faintly, a sanctuary amidst the storm.

Two figures stood within the oasis. One of them, even from afar, was unmistakable. The Emperor.

Krill had seen Him depicted countless times in paintings, statues, and carvings across the galaxy. Yet none of those images could prepare him for the overwhelming presence that radiated from the figure. The Emperor stood as a towering beacon, draped in the humble garments of a desert traveler. And yet, His every step seemed to ground the world itself, His form radiating a light that pushed back the storm clouds in all directions.

Beside Him stood another figure, partially obscured by the same light. This one was smaller, though still imposing—towering even over Krill, who had always been an imposing man in life. The armor this figure wore was massive and ancient, scratched and dented from countless battles. A power claw gleamed at his side, its surface etched with symbols Krill didn't recognize, yet somehow understood.

The figure's features were obscured, yet Krill felt a sense of familiarity, of comfort. It was as if the figure had been present throughout his life, watching, guiding, unseen.

The light surrounding the two figures grew brighter as Krill stepped forward—or perhaps it was the sands carrying him closer. He realized with sudden clarity that the gem in his chest and the Saint's fragment within him were gone. His body, no longer clad in the ceramite of power armor, felt lighter, freer.

This was not death. This was release. The weight of decades of war, the endless burden of duty, fell away like a cloak he hadn't realized he'd been wearing.

The Emperor raised a hand, and Krill stopped. He knelt, instinctively, his head bowed low. Words swelled in his mind—words of praise, of devotion—but he didn't need to speak them. The Emperor knew.

A warm sense of peace settled over him, and Krill Septius allowed himself a final smile. He was home. At last, he was home.

---

Today was a day of pomp and ceremony, which, to Goswin, made it a day of thinly veiled discomfort and simmering absurdity. The Twelfth Fleet of Holy Mars had finally entered the Arnor system—a name Michael had rather unceremoniously declared, though the labyrinthine gears of the Administratum had yet to officially catch up. Goswin harbored a private hope that the Saint's divine authority would light a fire beneath the scribes, but he wasn't holding his breath. In his experience, it took at least a century of bureaucratic inertia to recognize even the most obvious truths. A decade, if we're lucky. A miracle, if they're feeling like being competent.

He stood on the balcony of one of Minas Tirith's alabaster towers, the marble-like material gleaming unnaturally white in the chaotic light of the planet's roiling storms. Michael's creation—an elegant substitute for standard ferrocrete—was a bold choice. Too bold, perhaps, for the likes of the Mechanicus, whose obsession with dogma left little room for innovation that wasn't drenched in millennia of dust.

Above, the superstorms raged. Enormous, continent-spanning tempests that clawed at the planet with unrelenting ferocity, held at bay only by the Void Shields that enclosed the city. The storms never ceased, rolling like tidal waves across oceans that no sane vessel dared sail. This was no Terraformed paradise. Even Michael, with his preternatural abilities, couldn't smooth every edge of this untamed world in a mere two years. The equator remained a hellscape of volcanic upheaval, the seas a graveyard for ships that dared their depths.

And yet, life thrived here. Somehow, amidst the chaos of ash-choked skies and churning waters, the people of Arnor had carved out an existence. Goswin supposed some of that could be credited to Michael's "miracles"—that peculiar, heretical-adjacent knack of his for compressing the work of centuries into mere weeks. Goswin didn't pretend to understand the mechanics, nor did he want to. It worked, and for now, that was enough. Still, he preferred to think it was the harshness of this world that drew out steel in the hearts of its settlers. Arnor was not a world for the faint of spirit. A forge, Goswin thought, both metaphorical and literal. And steel was what the Imperium needed, now more than ever.

A faint rumble drew his attention skyward. The Mechanicus fleet was breaching the storm layers, their shuttles descending in a slow, deliberate procession. The formation was an unsubtle display of might, each ship bristling with weapons and insignia. It was hard to miss the centerpiece of the parade: a massive Titan transport, an absurdly grandiose choice for what was ultimately a glorified diplomatic visit.

Goswin crossed his arms, his face impassive. "Subtlety, thy name is Mars," he muttered under his breath.

The parade was as much theater as anything else. The Mechanicus, after all, had a great deal to prove today. The Saint's discovery of an STC fragment had rocked their foundations. By their own doctrine, Michael's actions could only be interpreted as a direct blessing from the Omnissiah. Yet factions within the Mechanicus remained stubborn, their opposition entrenched in centuries of tradition and petty politics. For every forge world kneeling to Michael's doctrine, there were ten others whispering dissent.

It had been amusing, in a grim sort of way, to watch the Tech-Priests grovel. The Saint's "Techboys"—a strange offshoot of a minor cult Michael had uplifted into something resembling competence—were fiercely loyal to him, perhaps even to a fault. Their skill rivaled that of the Mechanicus proper, if not their numbers, and their devotion was unshakable. The Martians hated them, of course. Rivalries were the lifeblood of the Imperium, and the Mechanicus played that game with the same fervor they applied to their incantations of machine oil.

Goswin allowed himself a faint smile. It wasn't often that he enjoyed a spectacle, but there was something satisfying about seeing the bloated egos of the Mechanicus forced into contrition.

Still, the cynic in him remained wary. The galaxy was too vast, too full of horrors, for comfort. Even Michael, for all his power and seeming divinity, was not immune to scrutiny. Faith, Goswin reminded himself, was not the absence of doubt but the resolve to act despite it. And he had faith in Michael, though the circumstances surrounding him demanded careful observation.

The storm-torn skies churned above, a canvas of violent grays and whites streaked with unnatural flashes of purple lightning. Goswin watched as the next Mechanicus shuttle descended, its crimson hull gleaming like a drop of blood against the fury of Arnor's atmosphere. The smaller shuttles surrounding it moved in an intricate dance, swarming like insects around their ponderous queen. Ostentatious, yes, but calculated. Everything the Mechanicus did carried a message. It was a language Goswin had spent over a century interpreting, and the tone here was as subtle as a battle cannon discharge: power, absolute and unyielding.

The first Titan transport touched down in the sprawling field that served as the capital's spaceport. The ground, reinforced with the same alabaster material that constructed the city, groaned beneath the weight of the gargantuan lander. With a hydraulic hiss that reverberated through the very air, the transport's massive doors began to open. Goswin folded his arms, bracing himself for the inevitable spectacle.

And there it was—a Warmaster-class Titan, emerging like a mechanical god from the womb of its steel sanctuary. Its form loomed like a mountain of sanctified adamantium and ceramite, bristling with weaponry capable of reducing entire armies and fortresses to ash. Each joint and plate gleamed with the meticulous care of hundreds of Tech-Priests, every surface etched with litanies to the Omnissiah.

Flanking it were two Reaver-class Titans, though the term "smaller" seemed laughable when applied to machines that stood over twenty meters tall. Together, they presented a tableau of raw, unassailable might, the Warmaster towering above its companions like a patriarch among warrior sons.

The rest of the Titan Legion followed in orchestrated precision as additional transports landed in sequence. Fifteen Warhound Scout Titans disembarked, their lithe, predatory forms almost diminutive compared to their larger brethren—though diminutive only in context. Each one stood nearly seven meters tall and carried enough firepower to dismantle a city, unaided.

Goswin let out a low exhale through his nose, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. The Mechanicus had decided to make the Titans the centerpiece of their parade, a choice that ensured at least three more hours of slow, ceremonial disembarkation before the rest of the cohorts were ready. A calculated move, no doubt. The Titans were a show of dominance, a declaration of Mars' unparalleled power. But to Goswin, it was also a painfully inefficient way to begin a parade.

Still, he had to admit, grudgingly, that the assembly itself was impressive. Within two and a half hours—shorter than he'd expected, based on his previous experiences with Mechanicus grandstanding—the Legio assembled in formation. The massive Titans led the way, their colossal forms flanked by formations of heavy battle tanks and automata. From Goswin's vantage point, the escorting vehicles seemed little more than ants scurrying at the feet of gods, their own impressive firepower rendered insignificant by proximity to their towering vanguard.

It was a display designed to awe. To intimidate. To remind all who watched that the power of Mars extended even to the farthest edges of the Segmentum Obscurus. And, as a subtle undercurrent, it was a display of benevolence—or at least a facsimile of it. Following the Titan vanguard, a procession of massive hauler trucks carried riches: gleaming gold, iridescent jewels, and crates of rare and precious alloys.

But Goswin, ever the cynic, wasn't fooled. The baubles on display weren't the true treasures. Those would be reserved for the Saint himself, offered in the privacy of his sanctum where prying eyes could not assess their value. No, this portion of the parade was for the masses and the lower-ranking Tech-Priests. A reminder of Mars' power and reach, gilded with the pretense of generosity.

The procession was grand. No, grand wasn't the word—titanic, perhaps. Monolithic. The kind of display that made ordinary mortals feel appropriately small, like insects scuttling about the boots of giants.

Goswin stood on the observation deck of the spire, his hands clasped behind his back, his face carefully neutral as he gazed out at the spectacle below. His vantage point provided an unbroken view of the wide avenue designed specifically for events like this. Massive and reinforced, it stretched like a knife's edge toward the city center. The Titans advanced down its length, their sheer bulk and majesty enough to silence even the most restless crowd.

He allowed himself a small, dry smile. "Might and magnanimity," he thought to himself, his thoughts tinged with quiet sarcasm. "The Mechanicus excels at both—provided they have an audience."

The Warmaster-class Titan led the way, its enormous head turning ever so slightly as if surveying the city, the people, and the storm-wracked sky above. That subtle motion sent a shiver down Goswin's spine, though he buried the reaction beneath layers of practiced stoicism. He'd seen what happened to those who let their awe distract them. Machines were never to be trusted—not entirely. No matter how much faith was layered into their construction, no matter how many oaths were inscribed upon their gleaming hulls. They were tools, weapons to be wielded, not worshipped.

And yet...

Even Goswin had to admit the sight was impressive. The Warmaster was a mountain of sanctified adamantium, bristling with weaponry that could reduce planets to rubble. Flanking it were two Reaver-class Titans, their stature diminished only in comparison to their colossal sibling. The trio exuded power in its purest, most unrelenting form. Behind them, a swarm of Warhound Titans stalked like predators, their comparatively "small" seven-meter frames moving with lithe, predatory grace. The Mechanicus had planned this parade with precision, each step, each formation a reminder of their dominance.

But the Mechanicus weren't the only ones sending a message today.

Goswin's gaze shifted to the buildings lining the avenue. Towering spires rose on either side, taller even than the Titans, their architectural beauty rivaling the Mechanicus's mechanical might. Hospitals, schools, Arbites precincts, and even housing blocks were interwoven with the kind of design that spoke to humanity's capacity for wonder.

He recognized the subtlety in Michael's choice. The Saint hadn't needed his supposed precognitive gifts to plan this city. No, even without prophecy, he would have foreseen the day when a Titan Legio would march here, demanding reverence. These towers, these breathtaking monuments to human ingenuity, were a reminder that mankind's marvels were still worthy, even in the shadow of the Mechanicus's sacred mysteries.

The streets teemed with pilgrims. Some were among the first settlers to stake their lives and livelihoods on Michael's promise—that this storm-wracked world could become a haven, a beacon in the Emperor's name. Others were visitors, drawn by tales of miracles, seeking the Saint's blessing or merely a glimpse of the spectacle. For them, today was a holy day, an official holiday in the Saint's growing domain.

Even Goswin had to admit, grudgingly, that Michael's methods were effective. The man—or perhaps the divine avatar, depending on whom one asked—had turned a barren, inhospitable world into a thriving settlement within mere months. The Emperor's hand worked through him, undoubtedly. But Goswin couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that miracles of this scale always came with unseen costs.

The Paladins of Tethrilyra marched alongside the Mechanicus cohorts, their white carapace armor gleaming despite the storm's fury. Once, they had been criminals, outcasts, and desperate pilgrims. Michael had taken them, trained them in the unforgiving mountains and plains of this world, and forged them into something...more. Elite soldiers of the Imperium.

Goswin studied their movements, the fluidity of their formations, the discipline in every step. If he hadn't known their origins, he would have assumed they were born to this life. Even among the pomp and ceremony of the parade, they radiated an aura of ferocity and lethality that put the Mechanicus's Skitarii to shame.

The scrape of boots against the stone floor drew Goswin from his thoughts. He didn't turn.

"The Mechanicus have delivered their full contingent, my lord," the Savant reported, his tone clipped, efficient. "The Saint has requested your presence for the formal greetings."

Goswin resisted the urge to sigh. The Saint had a way of navigating these political rituals—when he wasn't bulldozing through them outright. Michael treated diplomacy the same way he treated miracles: as tools to be wielded, whether delicately or bluntly. And though he often succeeded, Goswin loathed the pageantry all the same.

Still, duty was duty. Even the most pointless of rituals served a purpose in the Imperium. Observing, after all, was his specialty.

"Of course," Goswin replied, his tone bone-dry. "It wouldn't do to keep our esteemed guests waiting. The Mechanicus do so love their ceremonies."

The Savant nodded and stepped back, leaving Goswin to cast one last glance at the Titans advancing through the city below.

Machines and men. Miracles and marvels. The Imperium, condensed into spectacle. A tapestry woven with blood, faith, and secrets.

He turned on his heel and left the balcony, the heavy stone doors closing behind him with a faint hiss of hydraulics. The path ahead was well-worn, a direct route into the heart of the Saint's sprawling citadel—a miniature city unto itself. Bureaucrats and soldiers alike flowed through its arteries like blood, their movements precise and purposeful.

Goswin's restored youth had stripped him of the frailties he'd once accepted as inevitable, but even now, he had no desire to traverse the full breadth of the citadel on foot. Tens of kilometers, all built to Michael's exacting specifications. The sheer scale of it was as much a testament to human ingenuity as the Titans themselves, though Goswin suspected that only the Saint could have inspired such audacity.

As he reached the elevator, he watched the Guardsmen stationed along the corridors. They moved with the brisk confidence of youth, faces fresh and unscarred by the horrors that awaited them. These were not the Paladins, Michael's elite warriors whose loyalty was beyond reproach. No, these were recruits, stationed here to benefit from the citadel's harsh environment, molded into proper soldiers through trial and suffering.

Paladins would never be wasted on simple guard duty, not here. They were reserved for the citadel's core, where loyalty was a necessity and strength a requirement. Goswin thought of them—men and women forged from criminals and pilgrims alike, turned into warriors who could give even the Mechanicus pause. The Saint had made them something greater, a human answer to the Skitarii.

But these Guardsmen were a different sort. Today, their usual discipline was tinged with nervous energy, their movements a little sharper, their gazes darting more frequently toward the great avenues beyond. It wasn't every day they saw Titans, let alone the famed Legio Mechanicus. To them, this parade was a spectacle, a once-in-a-lifetime event that might forever linger in their memories. Goswin prayed for them.

He prayed that it would remain just that—a memory of spectacle, not war. Titans were magnificent in their destructive power, but seeing one in battle was the kind of experience one rarely survived. Those who fought beside such behemoths often ended up as little more than ash and rubble in their wake.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and Goswin stepped inside, his boots clicking against the polished floor. He let his thoughts wander as the lift descended, passing countless levels of the citadel. He'd always hated elevators. Too much time for introspection.

Today, though, there was plenty to consider. The Mechanicus never did anything without a purpose, and their presence here was no exception. The titanic machines parading through the streets were a show of power, yes, but they were also a statement—a reminder that Mars held a monopoly on the mysteries of the Machine God. The Mechanicus were allies, after a fashion, but their zeal for secrecy and control had always grated on him.

The lift slowed with a faint groan, the sound echoing up the shaft like a sigh of resignation. The doors slid open, revealing a corridor bathed in pale lumens that stretched endlessly ahead. Twenty minutes. Another twenty minutes before he reached Michael. Goswin squared his shoulders, his pace steady, his boots clicking against the polished stone floor with a rhythmic precision. The citadel's workers bustled around him, their movements as coordinated as the cogs of a well-maintained machine, heads down, hands busy. No wasted steps, no idle chatter.

Delegations passed by in neat lines, their robes and insignias marking them as representatives from every corner of the Imperium's labyrinthine bureaucracy. The hum of their voices—low, purposeful, full of veiled intent—merged with the faint clatter of machinery and the distant thunder of Titans moving through the avenues beyond. This was Minas Tirith, a city alive in a way few others could claim, its heart beating with the weight of miracles and ambition.

When Goswin finally entered the chamber through one of the side entrances, the sheer magnitude of it hit him like a physical force. It always did. Tens of thousands of figures filled the massive circular hall, every one of them a power in their own right. Lords of the Adepta, planetary governors, the heads of Knight Houses—all gathered beneath one roof, their egos barely contained by the high, arching ceilings.

From his perch on the Inquisitorial balcony—officially reserved for those of his rank, though he knew several members of his order were disguised among the other Adepta below—he could see the full breadth of the assembly. It was breathtaking, in a way. Layer upon layer of balconies spiraled upward, over a hundred levels in total, each one fitted with enough space to seat the most privileged of onlookers. The chamber wasn't just massive; it was monumental, a testament to ambition writ large.

And at the heart of it all, the Saint.

Michael sat at the far end of the chamber on a throne that could have been plucked straight from the legends of old Terra. Auramite and adamantium gleamed in the lumens, encrusted with Emperor's Tears gemstones that refracted light into dazzling patterns. The wealth and power radiating from that throne alone could have supported entire planets.

But it wasn't the throne that drew the eye. It was Michael himself.

He had chosen to receive the delegation from Mars in his angelic form, a sight that never failed to steal the air from the room. Wings of golden-white fire stretched behind him, their brilliance enough to make even the most devout hesitate. His aura was palpable, the kind of radiance that pressed against the soul, reminding every person in the chamber—every doubter, every cynic—that they were in the presence of something greater. The God-Emperor's favor radiated from him, undeniable, overwhelming.

The floor leading to Michael was blanketed in a red carpet so pristine it seemed to defy logic, untouched by the hundreds—perhaps thousands—of feet that had surely traversed its length. From this height, the path looked razor-thin, almost delicate against the vast expanse of white marble-like flooring that surrounded it. Goswin knew better. That carpet was wide enough for ten men to march shoulder to shoulder, and yet it was dwarfed by the sheer scale of the chamber. The floor alone could hold an entire Imperial regiment—armor, artillery, the works—and still leave room for a parade.

Today, that space wasn't filled with the usual supplicants, each desperate to barter for Michael's miracles or negotiate for a copy of the STC databases he'd recovered. No, today it belonged to the Mechanicus. Red banners bearing the Cog Mechanicum draped from every level of the chamber, their presence suffocating in its weight. Even the double-headed Aquila, proud symbol of the Imperium, felt diminished beneath the overwhelming dominance of Mars' iconography.

Goswin leaned against the balcony railing, his gloves tapping a slow rhythm against the polished surface as he surveyed the scene. The Inquisitorial balcony offered a commanding view, high enough to loom over the assembly but not so high as to suggest detachment—a deliberate design, no doubt, meant to remind everyone of the Inquisition's omnipresence. From here, he could see the full expanse of the chamber and the thousands of figures arrayed within it.

Among them, Michael's Paladins stood as silent sentinels, lining the room's perimeter in disciplined ranks. Their gleaming armor caught the chamber's light, an irrefutable reminder of their loyalty and the strength they wielded in his name. Goswin couldn't help but wonder how they felt about this assignment. Warriors of their caliber—conditioned by now to endure the ferocious superstorms of Minas Tirith and battle the apex predators that roamed its unforgiving terrain—relegated to guard duty. He didn't need psychic powers to imagine their frustration, though they bore it with stoic professionalism.

And those predators… Calling them animals felt laughable. Everything that roamed the planet's surface had been engineered—no, wrought—by Michael's hand, shaped to survive the tempestuous oceans, the volcanic equatorial belt, and the unrelenting storms that scoured the plains. Apex predators, every one of them, their ferocity heightened by the Saint's touch. The polar caps, though, were curiously barren of life. Goswin's lips pressed into a thin line at the thought. He doubted it was by accident. Michael rarely left anything to chance, and the icy wastelands would undoubtedly play some part in his plans, though the Imperial Guard seemed content to avoid them, using them only for the occasional winter war games.

Goswin glanced at his chronometer, the digits ticking down with infuriating slowness. The day-night cycle on Minas Tirith was short—just fourteen hours—and this farce of an audience was consuming more of it than he cared to spare. The real work wouldn't begin until after this theater concluded, when Michael and the delegation from Mars would retreat behind closed doors to hash out the actual terms of their cooperation.

If, of course, cooperation was even possible. Goswin stifled a sigh, though the faint twitch of his lips betrayed his skepticism. The Mechanicus delegation had come to take the STC database and try to find an agreement with the man who found it but their dogma clashing sharply with Michael's revolutionary ideals. The Saint's insistence on spreading technological knowledge as far and wide as possible was an affront to everything the Martians held sacred. Their power rested on their monopoly of those secrets, and Michael's miracles had thrown their dominance into question.

Miracles. The word tasted bitter on his tongue. For all the awe that surrounded Michael, Goswin had long since learned to temper faith with pragmatism. Yes, the Saint was undoubtedly touched by the Emperor's divine light, but that didn't make him infallible. Michael was stubborn—relentlessly so—and the Mechanicus weren't likely to bend without a fight. Still, miracles had happened before, and the Emperor worked in ways even the most seasoned Inquisitor couldn't predict.

The chamber hummed with an electric anticipation that prickled against Goswin's skin, each murmur and breath amplified as if the vaulted ceiling itself were holding its breath. Thousands of voices blended into a tidal wave of sound, restrained yet reverent, their collective fervor a testament to the sheer weight of the moment. Then came the high, crystalline notes of instruments—hundreds of them—melding into the unmistakable opening strains of the Imperium's anthem.

The choir followed, their voices rising in unison, weaving through the sacred melody that had echoed across countless millennia, carrying mankind's devotion to the God-Emperor in its every syllable. It was a song that transcended words, even for him, with its aching reverence and unrelenting hope.

The massive doors groaned open with the weight of arcane mechanisms, their sheer scale a marvel of engineering designed to remind everyone present of the Imperium's grandeur. Tall enough to accommodate a knight walker, the doors parted to reveal the Martian delegation—a wave of crimson robes, gleaming metal, and the unmistakable hum of augmented lifeforms.

At the head of their procession strode Fabricator Locum Faillax Enistain, a towering figure so saturated with mechanical augmentations that it was almost impossible to discern where the man ended and the machine began. Mechadendrites bristled from his frame, moving with a precision that bordered on unsettling. His very presence was a message from Mars: the Mechanicus sought reconciliation. Sending the second-most powerful figure in their ranks was a clear acknowledgment of Michael's importance, of the Living Saint's divine purpose.

Goswin wanted to believe that was a hopeful sign. He wanted to believe the Saint's miracles had finally broken through the Mechanicus' rigid dogma. And yet...

His gaze swept the delegation, lingering on the ranks of Archmagi, Forge Lords, and Genetors, each a testament to Mars' technological supremacy. The sheer presence of them, the way their every step reverberated with authority, was daunting even for someone like Goswin. He'd spent a century and a half in service to the Imperium, faced horrors he wouldn't dare whisper aloud, and yet there was something about this assembly that sent unease crawling down his spine.

And then he saw him.

It wasn't Faillax Enistain or any of the other high-ranking Martian dignitaries that captured his attention. No, it was a figure smaller than most in the delegation, one that might have seemed insignificant if you didn't know better. But Goswin knew better.

Lord Inquisitor Porphyrion.

The name sent a chill through him, an old, familiar ache he hadn't felt in decades. It was the name everyone called him, a nom de guerre that had outlived even the man's mortal flesh. Goswin had once been his student—one of only two, as far as he knew, to have survived Porphyrion's brutal tutelage. Porphyrion hadn't softened with time. If anything, the years had honed him into something even more formidable, a weapon forged in the fires of the Inquisition and tempered by secrets no man should hold.

He looked more machine than man now, with cybernetic grafts covering nearly every inch of visible flesh, his few remaining organic parts a cruel reminder of what he'd once been. And yet, for all that artifice, Goswin knew better than to dismiss him as a relic. Porphyrion had power—real power. Enough favors and debts owed to him to rival an entire Adepta, enough cunning to charm half of Mars and terrify the other half into submission.

The last time Goswin had seen him, Porphyrion had been little more than a broken shell of a man—if you could even call him that anymore. Fifty years ago, the Lord Inquisitor had returned from a mission so disastrous he'd refused to speak of it, his body ravaged and rebuilt with the unyielding steel and cold precision of cybernetics. Whatever life had once clung to the man seemed to have been stripped away and replaced with something more machine than human. Goswin had thought he'd seen the last of him then, disappearing into the Ordo Mechanicus like a shadow vanishing with the dawn, consumed by some arcane pursuit too secretive for even his protégés to fathom.

But now, here he was, striding alongside the Martian delegation as though he'd been born among their ranks, his presence not just acknowledged but commanding. Porphyrion didn't just walk into a room; he claimed it, reshaping its dynamics with the quiet weight of his authority. He was a storm dressed in red and black, all cog-toothed authority and impenetrable purpose. And for the first time in decades, Goswin felt the hairs at the back of his neck rise in something that wasn't dread.

His jaw tightened as he studied the man. Porphyrion wasn't merely a Lord Inquisitor; he was a legend. Twice, he had served as the Imperial Representative among the High Lords of Terra—a position more ceremonial than functional, but no less critical. To hold that title even once required an unprecedented level of support within the Inquisition, not to mention a longevity most never attained. Porphyrion had done it twice. Rumor whispered that he'd been offered a third term but declined, choosing instead to retreat into the shrouded mysteries of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

What, then, had drawn him out? What had placed Michael, the Living Saint, under the scrutiny of this master manipulator? The thought should have filled Goswin with unease, perhaps even outright fear. Porphyrion wasn't a man one wanted on the opposite side of any conflict. He was subtlety incarnate, a puppeteer whose strings could entangle entire star systems.

And yet... Goswin didn't feel fear. Not this time.

Instead, relief.

Because for all Michael's brilliance, for all his miracles and the sheer unrelenting force of his will, he was chaos incarnate. Radiant chaos, perhaps, but chaos all the same. Goswin and Shiani had spent weeks trying to contain the whirlwind that was the Saint's divine mission, trailing in his wake like soldiers scrambling to keep up with a comet. They'd done their best to steer him away from the brink, to temper his fire into something that wouldn't scorch half the Imperium to ash, but they were woefully outmatched.

Porphyrion, though. Porphyrion might stand a chance.

If there was anyone who could meet Michael's energy with the kind of precision and strategy the Imperium so desperately needed, it was him. And if he couldn't... Well, Goswin wasn't naïve enough to hope for much more than survival these days.

The Martian delegation swelled forward, a tide of crimson robes, the gleam of polished steel and brass catching the chamber's lumen-strips like firelight. They were a sea of servos and Mechadendrites, a monolithic wall of devotion to the Machine God, but their collective presence seemed almost dim compared to the singular radiance of Michael. The Saint stood alone at the center of the massive chamber, his presence so potent it seemed to consume the air itself. He shone like a sun, his light eclipsing the Mechanicus' cold brilliance.

The delegation bowed, a synchronized movement of calculated reverence that had nothing to do with faith. Goswin doubted any of them truly saw Michael as the Emperor's chosen, no matter how many miracles he performed. No, their deference was for the Standard Template Construct he'd recovered—an artifact so valuable that Mars had no choice but to acknowledge his significance. The entire scene rode the knife's edge between reverence and heresy, a reminder that faith and utility were too often the same currency.

Among the throng, Porphyrion bowed as well, but there was nothing reverent about it. His movements were precise, calculated, and deliberate, a masterclass in strategic humility. He positioned himself just so within the crowd, the dark folds of his robes blending with the crimson sea of Mechanicus officials. To the untrained eye, he was just another figure paying the required deference to Michael. But Goswin's eyes weren't untrained. They tracked Porphyrion like a predator marking a rival, unblinking, unrelenting.

The Saint's gaze lingered, too, locking on Porphyrion's kneeling form for just a moment longer than protocol demanded. Maybe it was the absence of Mechadendrites or the stark lack of ostentatious cybernetics that made Porphyrion stand out, a man out of time among the ranks of the machine-bound. Or maybe it was Michael himself, with that unsettling way he seemed to always know too much. That sharp, otherworldly awareness was what had every Inquisitor within this system either clamoring for answers or drowning in paranoia since his arrival.

Goswin scoffed inwardly. Fools, the lot of them. It wasn't arrogance driving their frenzy—though plenty of that was mixed in—but fear. In their desperation to cling to their power, they couldn't fathom the reality that for all the authority the Emperor had entrusted to them, there existed forces far beyond their comprehension. A Living Saint, anointed by the Emperor Himself, outranked them all. In the Emperor's eyes, Michael stood untouchable, his actions guided by powers none of them could claim to fully understand. It was as exhilarating as it was unsettling, even for Goswin.

The Mechanicus delegation straightened from their bows, and the Fabricator Locum stepped forward, his polished brass face glinting in the chamber's harsh light. He launched into a speech that was equal parts rhetoric and self-congratulation, praising Mars and the Quest for Knowledge as humanity's greatest triumphs over the darkness. Goswin leaned back, his posture stiff as he watched the delegation with barely concealed disdain.

It was the usual pomp, words dressed up as unity but laced with self-serving ambition. Representatives from the major Forge Worlds—Ryza, Lucius, Stygies VIII—stood stoically, their expressions unreadable but their disdain unmistakable. They had little interest in Mars' dominance, their near-autonomous status too valuable to compromise, even for the tantalizing promises of easier access to the Standard Template Construct database.

And that, Goswin thought, was exactly what Michael was counting on.

Michael's plan wasn't subtle, but it was brilliant. Instead of uniting the Mechanicus under Mars, he was driving a wedge between them. These Forge Worlds would rather barter and bargain with one another—or with Michael himself—than sacrifice an ounce of their independence. The STC copies Michael held weren't just relics; they were weapons, leverage that would force the Mechanicus to compete, innovate, and—if the Saint's vision proved true—drag humanity into a new technological renaissance.

Goswin didn't have to like it to see the genius in it. For all his cynicism, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of admiration for the sheer audacity of Michael's vision.

The Fabricator Locum finally concluded, his speech a half-hour exercise in self-indulgence that, by Mechanicus standards, was mercifully brief. Then Michael stepped forward, his presence all the more commanding for its simplicity. There was no artifice to him, no augmentation, no polished brass or crimson robes. Just a man, or perhaps something more, standing as though the Emperor Himself had placed him there.

Michael's words were short but magnetic, weaving together the threads of collaboration and unity between man and machine, Imperium and Mechanicus. He spoke not with the rigidity of rhetoric but with the kind of conviction that made you believe, even when you didn't want to. By the time he finished, the chamber was alive with murmurs, some awed, some suspicious.

And then, with a few final words, he dismissed the assembly.

The true players didn't leave. They migrated, slipping through the opulent doors toward the private chamber where power exchanged hands, where veiled threats carried the weight of armies, and where futures were carved out with surgical precision. This wasn't the spectacle for the masses—the speeches and hollow formalities were left behind in the grand hall. This was the crucible, the heart of it all. And it was here that Goswin now found himself, a witness and a shadow, tethered to Michael by necessity rather than choice.

Normally, even his rank as Inquisitor wouldn't grant him access to such a gathering. The Adeptus Mechanicus, for all their ostentatious displays of unity, guarded their inner circles like paranoid hoarders clutching their last scraps of treasure. But Michael's word was law—or at least close enough to it. And with Shiani off-world, Goswin was the Saint's sole confidant, his shadow in this den of ambition.

It wasn't trust that earned him this place. No, trust was a fragile, fleeting thing in the circles Goswin moved within. It was Michael's necessity that had cracked open the doors, the unspoken acknowledgment that while the Saint commanded the loyalty of countless souls, it was Goswin who watched his back. And for once, Goswin didn't resent the role. There was something almost intoxicating about being here, watching the subtle shifts in posture, the flickers of realization across the faces of men and women who thought themselves masters of this game.

They underestimated Michael—almost all of them did. They saw the wings, the golden armor, the aura of divinity, and assumed he was merely an instrument of war, a blade honed by the Emperor's will. But Goswin had seen the mind behind the spectacle, sharp as a scalpel and just as precise. Watching these self-assured lords and tech-priests realize they'd stepped into the ring with a Catachan Devil—a predator that didn't just survive the jungle but thrived in it—was a quiet pleasure Goswin allowed himself.

The chamber they entered was massive, its vaulted ceilings giving way to rows of intricate devices and covered pedestals. The delegation of high-ranking generals, admirals, tithe masters, and Mechanicus representatives filled the room, their murmurs a low hum that barely masked the tension in the air. At the center of it all stood Michael, his golden armor catching the dim light like a beacon. His flaming wings were folded behind him, silent but undeniable evidence of his power. He didn't need to speak to command the room. His mere presence was enough to make even the most jaded among them pause.

Goswin moved to his place at Michael's side, his gaze sweeping over the room as he caught the tail end of the conversation.

"… and the Fabricator General has sent me to inquire about these Techboys," Faillax said, his mechanical tones carrying a faint edge of curiosity masked by formality. "We understand that they originated as an offshoot of the Mechanicus on Tethrilyra. We would be interested in welcoming them back to the fold of the Holy Mechanicus, their return blessed by the STC database they helped recover."

Michael inclined his head, his expression unreadable. "I will pass it on," he replied evenly. "But I doubt they'd be interested."

"That is illogical," the Fabricator Locum intoned, his voice a discordant blend of synthetic precision and calculated diplomacy. "They would have access to unparalleled resources, and we would not oppose funding the founding of a Forge World in their name."

Michael's smile was faint, almost pitying. "It is a generous offer," he said, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken truths, "but your cult is too stifling."

A ripple of tension passed through the delegation. The Fabricator Locum's response was calm, though his mechanical tones betrayed nothing of his thoughts. "There are good reasons for those restrictions."

Michael nodded, his gaze steady. "I don't doubt that many of them serve a purpose. But many more are born of fear—fear to walk further down the Path of Knowledge, and greed to preserve power at the expense of progress. That is not the Omnissiah's design."

"I see why you were described as a firebrand," Enistain's voice carried that Mechanicus inflection—flat, metallic, with just the faintest hint of dry amusement buried beneath layers of augmentation. It wasn't human anymore, not really, but it still managed to convey skepticism like a blade slipping between ribs. "There are many, even among our number, who share your sentiment. And yet, history has repeatedly proven the wisdom of the tried-and-true."

"Perhaps," Michael replied, his tone warm with that infuriating mix of candor and subtle challenge that made even the most seasoned negotiators stumble. "But the Techboys are willing to walk a different path. If those methods are indeed better, then perhaps you will meet on the way."

The Fabricator Locum inclined his head with slow, deliberate grace, the gesture almost human if not for the faint whir of servos. "Time will tell. The Omnissiah's design is ever correct."

Goswin suppressed the flicker of unease that rose in his chest. There was something about watching the most powerful minds in the galaxy trade veiled barbs and layered diplomacy that always left him on edge. Not that he'd admit it—not even to himself. His gaze shifted to Faillax, who tilted his head ever so slightly in what could only be described as grudging acknowledgment. It was the kind of concession that cost more than most people realized.

"It is time," Enistain continued, his voice as steady as the tides of Mars, "for Mars to show its generosity to he who has helped us move forward in the Quest for Knowledge."

The massive, cloaked figure moved toward one of the pedestals with an almost ceremonial precision. Goswin's breath caught as the covering was swept away, revealing a bulky, gleaming relic—a Storm Shield. But not just any shield. His trained eye immediately recognized the unmistakable craftsmanship of the fabled Deus Tempestus, a relic from the ancient days of the Great Crusade. A masterpiece of M31, its defensive properties were still unmatched after millennia.

"I present to you the Deus Tempestus," Enistain intoned, his words reverent, almost worshipful. "May it serve you well."

Michael stepped forward, his expression calm, though Goswin didn't miss the faint flicker of curiosity that sparked in his eyes as his hand brushed the ancient device. It was a look Goswin had seen before, that quiet hunger for understanding—a puzzle waiting to be unraveled, a mystery begging to be solved. Goswin's lips quirked in the barest hint of a smirk. Someday, he knew, Michael would dissect this relic, unravel its secrets, and likely turn it into a production line. And wouldn't the Mechanicus just love that?

"It is a most gracious gift," Michael said, his tone gracious but tinged with something deeper. "I will cherish it greatly."

"I am pleased," Enistain replied, his tone as measured as ever as he moved to another pedestal. This time, the cloth was lifted to reveal a stack of ancient tomes, bound in cracked leather and stamped with sigils that even Goswin's seasoned eye hesitated to linger on. "These books once belonged to the

Primarch Rogal Dorn. His writings on defensive theory and fortifications, some of which have shaped the very defenses of the Imperial Palace itself. The Fabricator General and the Parliament of Mars believed you might find them… inspiring, given your efforts to fortify your holdings at the edge of Imperial space."

Michael's gaze fixed on the books with an intensity that was almost startling. It wasn't greed—not in the conventional sense—but something far more potent. An intellectual hunger, a thirst for knowledge that made even Goswin pause. Most wouldn't notice it, but Goswin had spent months studying every nuance of the Saint's body language. Those books weren't just relics to Michael; they were potential. Raw, untapped potential.

"I might indeed find them useful," Michael said, his voice steady, though his eyes never left the manuscripts. Goswin didn't blame him. Those books were priceless—artefacts people would trade planets for a chance to even glimpse, let alone own. And yet, to the Mechanicus, they were little more than a courtesy compared to the true prize—the STC database Michael had brought back to Mars. Goswin's stomach churned at the thought

"Next," Enistain continued, as though presenting relics of unimaginable value was an everyday occurrence, "I would present you with a Janus-class teleportarium, an early M32 model."

Goswin's breath hitched as the covering was swept aside, revealing a massive installation of machinery. Even with his extensive experience, he'd only ever seen devices like this aboard starships or buried deep within fortress worlds. But this—this was beyond rare. A relic of such magnitude that even the most hardened of nobles would offer their firstborn for it.

"This device," Enistain continued, his tone laced with understated pride, "can teleport targets across space within five million kilometers. It can transport two hundred Astartes at once or three times that number in mortal troops—or combinations thereof, including armored units such as Baneblades. I have heard," he added with a faint note of humor that barely registered, "that you have acquired quite a number of those."

Goswin's lips twitched at the absurdity of it all. A M32 teleportarium, handed over like a trinket at a garden party. It was enough to make even his cynicism falter for a moment. But then again, this was Michael—the Emperor's Saint. And in this galaxy, faith and miracles went hand in hand. Even if Goswin couldn't quite bring himself to believe in miracles. Not anymore.

Michael tilted his head, studying the towering relic with a faint smile. "It is… an extraordinary gift," he said, his voice rich with gratitude, though Goswin could hear the gears turning behind those words. Michael didn't just accept gifts. He studied them, dissected them, and turned them into weapons. Tools for humanity's survival.

And the Mechanicus had no idea what they'd just handed him.

The faint hum of the Mechanicus cogitators filled the air as the Fabricator Locum gestured toward a holographic projector. With a flicker, the image of a gargantuan superstructure materialized, casting its golden reflection across the chamber. Goswin's eyes narrowed. Even without Faillax Enistain's accompanying words, he recognized the construct. A Capitol Imperialis. The pinnacle of command vehicles.

The machine's sheer scale was staggering—fifty meters tall and eighty meters long, a mobile fortress bristling with weapons, swaddled in void shields, and encased in adamantium and ceramite. It was a relic from the dark age of technology, more myth than fact for most Imperial commanders. The resources required to build one, let alone keep it operational, were astronomical. That this one gleamed in pristine, unmarred gold meant it wasn't salvaged from some forgotten battlefield. It was brand-new. And it wasn't just a vehicle—it was a statement.

"I present to you the Arx Phoenicis," Faillax Enistain declared, pride suffusing his mechanical voice, though his tone carried the reverence of a priest offering a relic. "A Capitol Imperialis, newly constructed to serve as your mobile headquarters when you march to war."

Goswin's gaze slid to Michael, whose expression remained unreadable—calm, composed, as if a vehicle of such magnitude wasn't enough to tip the balance of entire campaigns.

"A generous gift, Lord Enistain," Michael replied, his tone warm but measured, his eyes lingering on the hologram as though already plotting its deployment. "I appreciate the effort involved in constructing such a marvel."

Effort. Goswin bit back a smirk. A Capitol Imperialis wasn't merely effort; it was decades of resource allocation, the labor of thousands, and the political clout to pull it all together. This wasn't just a vehicle; it was a symbol. And Goswin knew symbols could be more dangerous than armies.

Enistain's mechanical features tightened with what Goswin assumed was satisfaction. "It is good to see the Mechanicus' efforts recognized," he said, the zeal of his faith momentarily cracking through the polished veneer of diplomacy. "We hear you are a deft hand at creating the great artifacts of the Omnissiah yourself. Thus, the Fabricator General has seen fit to gift you something fitting your talents."

The Fabricator Locum gestured again, and another hologram sprang to life—a production line for Volkite weaponry, its intricate mechanisms rendered in exquisite detail. Goswin leaned forward slightly, interest piqued despite himself. Volkite weapons were ancient, their secrets guarded jealously by the Mechanicus. To gift an entire production line was more than magnanimity—it was practically heresy by Mechanicus standards.

"This Volkite production line comes from the Fabricator General's personal holdings," Enistain continued, his tone heavy with the weight of the gesture. "It is maintained at the highest levels, though it will only allow for the production of Volkite Chargers and Culverins."

Goswin's thoughts churned. A move like this wasn't just generosity—it was strategy. By handing Michael, a priceless relic, Mars was tying its fortunes to his. Few outside the Mechanicus could even activate such a production line, let alone maintain it. The Saint's Techboys might be brilliant, but they lacked the centuries of dogma and ritual that ensured these machines remained operational. Mars was ensuring its place as indispensable to Michael's growing empire.

Michael inclined his head, his expression carefully neutral. "I trust the production line comes with artisans and tech-priests to operate and maintain it?"

"Of course," Enistain replied, his voice tinged with mild indignation at the implication they would offer anything less. "To gift such a marvel without the means to use it would be sacrilege of the highest order. Three thousand artisans and tech-priests will accompany it, as well as a thousand Skitarii to ensure their protection. Tradition dictates it."

"Tradition," Goswin murmured under his breath, the word dripping with irony. He supposed that when your traditions stretched back tens of millennia, even practicality could become sacred.

"No offense taken," Michael said smoothly. "I would insist on the same precautions. However, I must request that your artisans and tech-priests be open to sharing their knowledge of its operation with myself and my Techboys."

Enistain's voice carried like the scrape of steel on steel, resonating with the artificial resonance of his vocal implants. "While your brilliance is not in question, I fear few outside the Mechanicus could truly grasp the intricacies of such mysteries. By our laws, the Artisans themselves must decide who is worthy of learning them."

It was a carefully crafted response, diplomatic on the surface but laced with the kind of subtle menace that only centuries of political gamesmanship could produce. Goswin could see the lines being drawn even now—Mars offering their gifts with one hand while keeping the leash firmly in the other. Knowledge, after all, was power, and the Mechanicus guarded it with the same fervor they reserved for their precious forges.

Michael's expression didn't shift, but Goswin caught the faintest glimmer in his eye—a flicker of determination that the saint wore like a second skin. "I understand. Still, I am confident my people will rise to the challenge. It would be a shame for such marvels to remain limited when their knowledge could serve the Imperium on a broader scale."

A ripple of tension passed through the assembly like a current. Goswin didn't need his decades of experience to read the room—the Saint's words had landed like a hammer blow, subtle but undeniable.

"It would indeed be a shame," Enistain replied smoothly, though the rigid set of his shoulders betrayed him. His mechanical eyes glinted, betraying a deeper calculation, one that Goswin was sure involved weighing the exact limits of what could be shared without surrendering the upper hand. "I would present to you next another one of our gifts. Behold: the Omnissiah's Favor."

The air shifted, reverence tightening the atmosphere as several Tech-Priests stepped forward. With a collective bow, they removed the covering from a nearby pedestal, revealing a masterpiece of Mechanicus engineering.

The room stilled. Even Goswin, with all his cynicism and weathered disbelief, felt the breath hitch in his throat. The armor stood tall, almost regal in its presentation. Its golden hue radiated a brilliance that could only come from auramite, a rare and precious material whose value could bankrupt entire systems. It was a fortress given form, its bulk tempered by lines so precise they bordered on artistry.

But it was the wings that drew his gaze—the twin arcs of auramite stretched behind the armor, each jointed with the craftsmanship of a jeweler and decorated with countless, priceless gems. Nestled between them was a jetpack, its engines compact but undoubtedly powerful enough to grant flight to the wearer.

Michael stepped forward, his presence commanding even amidst the awe the armor inspired. Yet his expression remained composed, his features betraying nothing more than polite admiration. Goswin, however, knew better. He could feel the weight of the Saint's mind as it assessed and calculated, always a step ahead, always measuring the price of every gift and every alliance.

"It is perhaps my greatest work this century," Enistain declared, his mechanical voice almost reverent. "Crafted over the two years of our journey here, this armor was wrought with the skill of dozens of Forge Lords, and I myself oversaw every stage of its creation. It is protected by adamantium-auramite alloys and fortified by three conversion fields. And yet, it retains the ability to be augmented further, with a Storm Shield, should additional protection be required."

Michael tilted his head, his gaze lingering on the armor. "Such protection would, however, slow it down considerably," he said, his voice calm but probing. "And it would undoubtedly reduce the operational time of the jetpack I see you've incorporated."

The Fabricator Locum inclined his head. "Indeed, though such trade-offs are necessary to create a walking juggernaut capable of shrugging off even the most devastating of attacks—be it from Knights or even the Warhound Titans themselves."

Goswin's mind raced, cataloging every detail. The Mechanicus didn't simply offer gifts like these without expectation. The cost of this armor wasn't measured in thrones; it was measured in loyalty, in concessions, in the subtle chains that bound allies tighter than any contract.

"A magnificent piece, indeed," Michael said, his voice a quiet thread of command. "You do your organization proud with such masterful craftsmanship."

Goswin didn't miss the way Michael's gaze lingered on the wings, nor the faintest shift in his tone. He wasn't just impressed—he was considering. Calculating. And Goswin couldn't help but wonder how many planets' worth of resources it had taken to create this singular marvel. How many lives could have been spared if such brilliance had been turned to more practical ends

But practicality was rarely the concern of the Mechanicus. No, this was about power. About the demonstration of Mars' unparalleled mastery.

The Fabricator Locum's voice carried the weight of centuries of authority, his tone even and measured, yet unmistakably layered with a practiced precision that spoke volumes. "By decree of the Parliament of Mars, we present our next gift: a Decree of Generosity." He paused, his optics whirring faintly as his gaze swept the room, daring anyone to question the words to follow. "You may select the Tech-priest and Skitarii Martian tithe of a Forge World within this decade. It will be diverted from Mars to bolster your system."

Goswin stilled, his breath catching for a moment too fleeting to be noticed by anyone else. A gift that monumental wasn't generosity—it was strategy. Five million Tech-priests, their minds honed in the mechanized sanctuaries of Mars itself, and two million of the most advanced Skitarii, their bodies optimized for war and endurance, would flood into Michael's domain. Not just bodies or tools, but minds—zealously loyal, unflinchingly obedient, and dangerously brilliant. Mars wasn't merely arming Michael; they were tying him closer with a cord of adamantium.

Michael's expression remained as serene as ever, but Goswin noted the slight lift of his brow, the faint flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. The Saint knew precisely what this gift represented. How could he not? Such an influx of expertise could transform a system from a backwater outpost to a technological bastion in less than a generation.

"And this," the Fabricator Locum continued, "is but the beginning."

The next revelation came with all the gravitas of a thunderclap. "To complement this, a mining fleet equipped with two forge ships will be placed under your direct ownership. They will arrive within six months to begin operations in your system."

Goswin let the numbers whirl in his mind. Nearly a hundred vessels, Mechanicus-crafted and blessed with Mars' unparalleled expertise, bound to Michael's command. Their purpose: to strip-mine the Oort cloud and the shattered remains of Rho-1223', the detritus of Michael's fearsome wrath now turned to Imperial fortune. It was a gift too substantial to be seen as anything less than an alliance sealed in blood—or machine oil, as the Mechanicus preferred.

Yet, the strings were already visible, gleaming in the metaphorical light. "The cost of maintenance and repair for this fleet will be borne by Mars itself," the Fabricator Locum intoned with what passed for benevolence.

Michael inclined his head, his voice calm but with the warmth of genuine gratitude. "It is a most generous offer, one that will greatly improve the system's development."

The Fabricator Locum nodded as if the praise were merely an inevitability. "That was our intention," he replied, his optics gleaming with a light that seemed almost smug. "We are pleased to know it is satisfactory to one so obviously blessed by the Omnissiah."

Goswin's lips thinned, his suspicions stirring. The Mechanicus didn't give gifts—they made investments. And this one came with dividends already calculated.

"But," the Fabricator Locum pressed on, his tone sharpening like a scalpel poised to cut deeper, "we have not forgotten your military aspect as the Emperor's chosen. Thus, it has been decreed that you will assume command of the newest Explorator fleet to be created."

Michael's smile was gracious, though Goswin caught the subtle tension in the set of his shoulders. "A most thoughtful gesture," Michael said evenly. "And what will this fleet comprise?"

The room seemed to hold its collective breath as the Fabricator Locum answered, his voice carrying the full weight of Mars' authority. "By decree of Mars, the fleet will complete its muster at the end of the standard year. Its foundation will consist of four battleships, drawn directly from my own Twelfth Fleet."

Goswin almost allowed his mask to slip. Four battleships from one of the Mechanicus' sacred fleets, tasked with the defense of Holy Terra itself? It was almost unthinkable. Each was a cathedral of destruction, its firepower a hymn to the Omnissiah.

"And by the completion of the muster," the Fabricator Locum continued, oblivious—or uncaring—of the ripple of awe his words had caused, "the fleet will boast twelve cruisers for each battleship, with an appropriate complement of escorts, frigates, and destroyers. Additionally, it will include the first of the Palatine-Phoenix class battleships constructed from the Standard Template Construct database you recovered."

Goswin's gaze flicked to Michael, searching for a crack in his composure. There was none, of course. The Saint had a way of accepting both praise and burdens with equal grace, a quality that infuriated and inspired in equal measure. But Goswin's own mind churned.

This was no ordinary fleet—it was a declaration of intent. Mars wasn't merely equipping Michael; they were binding themselves to him, a partnership veiled as piety. Goswin had spent decades unearthing schemes and plots, and this one reeked of ambition. The Mechanicus wasn't just building an alliance—they were betting on Michael to reshape the galaxy.

For the Imperium? Perhaps. For themselves? Most assuredly.

"It is a most generous gift, this command," Michael said, his voice calm but carrying that undertone of something deeper—like the sound of a storm before it breaks. "Few fleets in the galaxy will be able to match it, once complete. But I must inform you of one thing."

The Fabricator Locum tilted his head, the mechanized whirring of his cranial augmetics filling the momentary pause. "And what, Saint Michael, would that be?"

Michael's expression was a mix of quiet certainty and something sharper, almost playful. "The first of the Palatine-Phoenix class will be produced here, on Arnor."

A ripple of disbelief passed through the gathered Mechanicus contingent. For all their supposed detachment, their machine minds couldn't entirely mask their reactions. The Fabricator Locum, however, didn't falter, his metallic face a fortress of calculated neutrality. "How?" he asked, his voice modulated but sharp, each syllable weighted.

Michael's calm was unnerving. "I have turned one of the asteroids in Minas Tirith's belt into a shipyard, following the instructions of the STC database."

I nearly smirked. Leave it to Michael to drop a revelation like that with the casual ease of discussing the weather. The Fabricator Locum's response, though measured, betrayed a flicker of incredulity. "It would take you decades, even with the full complement of your… Techboys." He spat the term like it was beneath him, though the glint in his optics suggested curiosity as much as scorn.

"Normally, yes," Michael admitted, his tone as placid as a still lake. "But I am able to accelerate the work significantly through my own blessing from the Omnissiah."

There it was—the subtle shift in the air, the way the Mechanicus entourage faltered, their faith challenged by what they couldn't reconcile. Miracles were a currency they traded in cautiously, and Michael seemed to spend them like water in a desert. Even Enistain, who had thus far remained composed, inclined his head reverently. "You have been greatly blessed, Saint Michael."

Michael inclined his head, accepting the recognition without arrogance. "It is by His will alone."

The Fabricator Locum cleared his throat—a sound like grinding gears—and spoke with renewed composure. "Nonetheless, our decision stands. The first Palatine-Phoenix class vessel to be constructed in the Ring of Iron will serve within the Explorator fleet under your command."

"Mars's generosity knows no bounds," Michael replied smoothly, though I caught the faintest flicker of tension in his eyes.

"It is the least we can offer someone who has recovered an STC database of such unparalleled value," the Fabricator Locum said. His tone shifted, the weight of his words deliberate. "To that end, the Fabricator General has assigned you guardianship over Entrance Tertius of the Librarius Omnius and the right to Toll and Exploration from its gates."

The reaction was instantaneous. The gathered tech-priests exchanged glances—glances that spoke of envy, disbelief, and something approaching awe. Whatever this "right" was, it was clearly significant, though its specifics were lost on me.

Michael's response was, as ever, measured. "I will appoint a regent to oversee it, as I cannot be everywhere at once. I trust the Parliament of Mars to safeguard it until my decision is made."

"We will endeavor to care for it as if it were our own," the Fabricator Locum replied, his tone bordering on reverent.

"And we come to the last two gifts, the first of which" he continued. "is the Right of Audience. Thrice per century, you may petition the Fabricator General directly. Your request will be placed above all others, though the final decision remains at his discretion."

Even I couldn't suppress the sharp intake of breath. The Fabricator General was one of the High Lords of Terra, a figure shrouded in bureaucracy and near-infinite power. To bypass the labyrinthine queues of Mars was a privilege so rare it bordered on the mythical.

Michael inclined his head, his expression one of quiet gravity. "I will endeavor to use this gift responsibly."

The Fabricator Locum, Faillax Enistain, stepped forward. His towering form bristled with mechadendrites, each one moving with a purpose that belied its serpentine grace. His face, half obscured by a lattice of augmetics, betrayed nothing but precision—no emotion, no hesitation. When he spoke, his voice was a mechanical symphony, each word layered with synthetic tones and subtle harmonics. "Saint Michael Quirinus," he began, bowing low, his mechanical limbs folding in an unsettling mimicry of organic grace. "The Mechanicus of Mars acknowledges the divine favor bestowed upon you. Your works… your achievements… they speak to the Omnissiah's will. And so, we come to our final gift."

The air shifted. Even the mechanized drones in the room seemed to pause, as if the weight of the moment demanded their silence. This was how the Mechanicus operated. Every word was a tool, every gesture calculated to inspire awe, to assert dominance, to weave obligation into honor.

The Fabricator Locum extended one of his mechadendrites toward Michael, the spindly appendage carrying a small medal. It was unassuming, just the cog of the Mechanicus surrounded by twelve stars, but the room itself seemed to contract under its weight. I could feel the shift in the atmosphere, the subtle ripple of unease and reverence that spread through the assembly. Even I, with my cynicism honed over centuries, felt it—the undeniable significance of that tiny object.

"By this symbol," the Fabricator Locum intoned, his voice resonating with a strange, metallic authority, "we recognize you, Lord Michael Quirinus, as Permanent Advisor to the Holy Parliament of Mars."

Advisor. The word echoed in my mind, carrying implications that even I struggled to untangle. It was a title drenched in politics, in power. It carried no official vote, no direct authority—at least not on the surface. But to sit at their table, to whisper into the ears of the Fabricator General himself… that was a kind of influence no fleet or fortress could rival. And Michael… Michael would wield it like a blade.

The Fabricator Locum knelt, his Mechadendrites curling inward like the petals of a mechanical flower. One by one, the other tech-priests followed suit, their augmented frames bending in reverence. For a moment, I felt as though the galaxy itself had tilted, its weight bearing down on the radiant figure at the center of the room. Michael, the Saint who had turned heretics into zealots and doubters into believers, now stood as a beacon even to the Mechanicus.

Michael's voice, deep and steady, broke the silence. "I am honored by this trust, and I shall endeavor to prove myself worthy of it."

He could have left it there, could have allowed the moment to settle. But no. Michael never did things by halves.

"Yet it would be remiss of me not to reciprocate," he continued, his gaze sweeping the assembly with an almost tangible warmth

The Fabricator Locum's head tilted slightly, the motion accompanied by the faint whir of servos. "Reciprocation is unnecessary, Saint Michael," he said, his voice modulated but tinged with something close to amusement. "Your recovery of the Standard Template Construct database is a gift beyond measure. It is we who remain in your debt."

Michael smiled again—a subtle, knowing expression. "Perhaps. But even the smallest gesture can honor the bond we share."

At his signal, the chamber doors opened, and a procession of menials entered. Each carried a lacquered wooden box, their faces obscured by heavy cowls. They moved with precision, kneeling in unison before the Fabricator Locum.

When the boxes were opened, the room seemed to brighten. Nestled within the crimson velvet linings were crystalline gems, their surfaces shimmering with an ethereal light. They weren't mere treasures—they were artifacts, each radiating a presence that felt almost alive.

"These," Michael explained, his tone measured but resonant, "are Emperor's Tears. Each gem has been purified and sanctified to repel the touch of the Archenemy. A thousand of them, gifted to safeguard the forges of Mars."

The Fabricator Locum reached out, his Mechadendrites tracing the edges of one gem as though assessing its very soul. "A paltry gift, you say," he murmured, his synthetic voice laced with something almost human—wonder, perhaps. "But this is no trivial offering, Lord Michael. These Tears are more than protective wards. They are beacons of the Emperor's grace, tools of preservation and sanctity."

Michael inclined his head, his expression serene but unyielding, the embodiment of the Emperor's light and grace. "I offer them freely, without condition. A small act of gratitude for the Mechanicus' unwavering service to the Imperium."

There was a pause, the kind that could stretch an eternity in the hands of a man like Faillax Enistain, the Fabricator Locum. His mechanical voice broke the silence, smooth as polished steel. "We will accept them, then, in the spirit they have been given." He gestured, and the menials surrounding him stepped forward to collect the lacquered boxes, their reverent movements almost ceremonial.

Michael nodded, his humility a masterful façade. "I am glad. I believe Mars might be interested in the gems, after they have been extensively tested, of course."

Faillax's mechadendrites flexed subtly, a signal as precise as it was calculated. "In our journey here, we have not been entirely cut off. We are well aware of their effectiveness. Reports from the Maelstrom zone have been... illuminating. The gems have proven their worth against the heretics and their vile corruption. Mars believes they can be of significant use in shielding our machines from similar threats."

"I see." Michael's voice was calm, measured, but I caught the faintest hint of satisfaction in his tone, so subtle it could be dismissed as a trick of the mind. "I hope these will serve in defending the great works of the Mechanicum."

"They will," Faillax assured, his voice carrying the kind of certainty that only the Mechanicus could muster. "The god-machines we brought with us will be the first to receive them." His words hung in the air like a challenge, the implication clear: even the Titans needed protection. "Yet more are required if all the forges of Mars are to bask in their radiance."

And there it was—the pivot, the leverage they'd been building toward.

Michael's expression shifted, the faintest shadow of regret touching his features. "Ah, there we come upon a problem, my Lord." He folded his hands in front of him, the image of a man burdened by the limitations of his own perfection. "Many Adepta have a need for them, and there are only so many I can create, no matter how fervently I try."

"If it is diamonds you require," Faillax said without hesitation, "then the Adeptus Mechanicus will bring them. We will craft them in such abundance as to fill oceans if that is what is needed. The forges of the Mechanicus must be defended."

Michael inclined his head slightly, his expression tinged with what could only be called reluctant agreement. "On that, we agree. And yet, it is not a lack of materials that limits me, Fabricator Locum. For all the gifts the Emperor has seen fit to grant me, I remain... an imperfect vessel of His light. My frailty, not the abundance of resources, is the constraint."

The room fell silent, save for the faint hum of the Mechanicus entourage's servo-skulls and mechadendrites. The trap had been set, baited with care and subtlety, and like a well-oiled machine, the Mechanicus had walked right into it.

"Then there is a need to reevaluate the allocation of the gems," one of the lesser tech-priests interjected, his voice flat but earnest. The room seemed to freeze. Even through their mechanical enhancements, I could feel the collective wince ripple through the more politically adept members of the delegation. The young fool had fallen for it.

Michael turned to face the tech-priest, his golden gaze as sharp as a blade, yet his expression remained one of calm inquiry. "Tell me then," he began, his voice soft yet impossibly steady, "who should I leave bereft of the Emperor's Light?"

The words dropped like thunderclaps in the chamber, and even he, with all hisyears of experience, felt the air crackle with their weight. Michael's gaze swept across the room, his voice gaining strength as he continued, each syllable laced with a righteous fury that dared anyone to challenge him.

"Shall I take them from the Guard?" he asked, his tone deceptively mild. "Shall I leave them exposed to the horrors that prowl the galaxy, defenseless against the xenos and heretics who threaten their lives every moment of every day? Or perhaps from the Navy? Shall I let them navigate the Warp unprotected, open to the whims of daemonic incursions? Maybe the psykers of mankind have no need for such protection. Surely, there are no daemons lurking in the Immaterium, salivating at the chance to devour their souls."

Michael stood tall, every inch of him radiating an unyielding authority, the kind of presence that came not from age but from absolute conviction. It was almost maddening how effortlessly he commanded the room, as though he were sculpted for this moment. His own youth, recently restored, only added to the effect—his movements sharper, his gaze harder, his words sharper than a vibro-blade. Goswin watched him closely, as he always did, searching for cracks in the façade that never seemed to come.

Michael's voice dropped to a near whisper, a razor-sharp edge that cut through the silence like the chime of a cathedral bell in a war-torn city. "Should I strip the gems from the Administratum?" he asked, his words deceptively soft, each one a carefully aimed missile. "The Tithe Fleets are hardly vital to the survival of the Imperium, after all." He paused, letting the room simmer in the absurdity of the statement, the weight of his disdain palpable.

"Or…" His voice hardened, every syllable a hammer against stone, "should I take them from the Inquisition? After all, their lives are worthless. It's not as though they stand against the horrors of the galaxy and beyond in His name, needing these gems as a weapon against the nightmares that seek to unmake all that we are."

The silence that followed was suffocating. No one moved, no one breathed. Even Faillax, the Fabricator Locum, a man—or machine, rather—of centuries of calculated cunning and cold logic, hesitated. His mechadendrites hovered mid-air, an involuntary display of rare uncertainty.

Michael's words were not just a rebuke; they were a performance. A blade honed for an audience far beyond the Mechanicus delegation. Goswin's gaze flicked to the other representatives—the Admirals, Generals, and Tithe-Masters—who had already secured their quotas of Emperor's Tear gems. They shifted in their seats, their discomfort palpable. Michael had turned their gaze outward, away from him and toward Mars. The Mechanicus, once a revered ally, now stood in the crosshairs of the Imperium's collective ire.

Faillax, for all his years, had walked into a trap so expertly laid that even Goswin had to admire it. The young magos who had dared to suggest redistributing the gems had been the perfect spark to ignite this firestorm of resentment. Mars, the eternal miser when it came to sharing its technology, was now painted as a hoarder, unwilling to share even this miraculous new resource. Michael had set the stage brilliantly, and the other Adepta, primed by his words, now viewed the Mechanicus with thinly veiled hostility.

Goswin cleared his throat, stepping into the fray. His voice was measured, deliberate, carrying the weight of his station. "The Inquisition will not give up its quota," he stated, his words a quiet counterpoint to Michael's fiery rebuke. "I feel for the need the Mechanicus has for this holy resource, and yet, our mission is too important for the future of all mankind to concede even a fraction. Perhaps," he added, his tone carefully neutral, "the other Adepta can spare something to protect the forges of Mars."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the chamber, a low tide of discontent and unease. The meaning was clear enough. Goswin had played his part, planting the seed of dissent among the other factions. They would refuse the Mechanicus not out of logic or necessity but out of pride and greed. To backtrack now would be humiliating, and they would ensure Mars paid dearly for any reversal. Michael had anticipated this, of course. He always did.

Goswin glanced at Michael, who wore the mask of regret with effortless precision. "For all my gifts, I remain an imperfect vessel of the Emperor's light," Michael had said earlier, his voice heavy with feigned remorse. It was a lie, of course, or at least a half-truth. Goswin had seen the vaults, the millions of untouched gems Michael had produced, hidden from all but the Saint's inner circle. They would be needed, eventually, when the Maelstrom's darkness spilled over. But for now, Michael let the Imperium believe in scarcity, let them fight among themselves for a resource he controlled with the precision of a master puppeteer.

And Goswin? He played his role in this grand game, knowing full well that Michael was orchestrating something far greater than anyone in this room could comprehend. The Saint's trust in him was unspoken but absolute, and Goswin, for all his cynicism, found himself believing in the man—or perhaps the myth—Michael was becoming.

For now, it was enough.

---

The Saint was a monster. Faillax Enistain considered this truth as his many optics flickered, focusing on the man in question. Michael moved with an ease that defied the weight of his station, conversing with a delegation of nobles in that irritatingly charismatic way of his. Two Astartes flanked him, statues of predatory vigilance, their ceramite-clad forms bearing the unmistakable sigils of the Lion. Their presence was a reminder of the Saint's deeds—his recovery of their gene-seed, the retrieval of a relic of their Primarch during the Rho-1223 campaign, and, ultimately, the destruction of that ill-fated planet.

These actions had earned him a singular honor: an escort of thirty-four Sons of the Lion, one from each successor chapter. Even now, in this grand and opulent hall constructed to celebrate the Mechanicus, five of these living weapons lurked in plain sight, their vigilance quietly suffocating the space. The others, Faillax presumed, remained stationed elsewhere, ensuring that wherever Michael tread, so too did an ever-watchful shadow.

Faillax rerouted his thought-stream, pulling his mind back to the Saint. His mental processes segmented, part of him reviewing the metrics of the hall's structural integrity while another parsed the distribution of influential figures across the chamber. A third strand returned to its analysis of the man before him. A monster. Not in the pejorative sense, but in the purest, most calculating definition. Monsters were necessary in this galaxy, after all. The forces of darkness did not fear men. They feared bigger monsters, the kind that could rip them from their festering dens and cast them into the void. The Saint was that kind of creature—his actions, his aura, his very existence bespoke an entity forged to combat horrors unimaginable.

But for now, this monster's enmity was focused squarely on the Mechanicus. And the worst part was that he was winning.

The Techboys—the irritatingly irreverent name they had chosen for themselves—had thrived under Michael's banner. Their numbers swelled daily, bolstered by their association with a Living Saint and the undeniable proof of their competence in the Saint's campaigns. Worlds welcomed them not just as servants of technology but as agents of the Emperor's will, their recruitment centers flooded with eager volunteers.

This phenomenon frustrated Faillax. The Techboys were naive—idealists to their core, convinced that technological knowledge should flow freely, that the Emperor's light demanded such heretical egalitarianism. It was a sentiment that time and harsh realities would surely erode, but until then, their growth and influence posed a direct challenge to the Mechanicus' carefully maintained monopoly.

More troubling was the Saint himself. His recovery of the Standard Template Construct database—a feat that should have solidified the Mechanicus as his closest allies—had, instead, been marred by the incompetence of Archmagos Trask. That blunder had ensured that no Mechanicus operative played a meaningful role in the STC's retrieval. The entire Mechanicus now owed its gratitude—and its pride—to a man who did not share their dogma. It was galling.

Faillax's mechadendrites coiled reflexively, betraying his internal irritation. Their usual methods of dealing with rogue tech-cults—ruthless military might—were unavailable. The Saint's status as a Living Saint rendered him untouchable. To strike against him, even indirectly, would be heresy of the highest order, a blasphemy that even the Mechanicus could not countenance.

And then there were the miracles. The Emperor's Tears: gemstones capable of warding against corruption, priceless beyond calculation. The Dragon armors: newly created marvels designed to counter the Daemon-engine scourge of Helldrakes. Both were indispensable to the Mechanicus' future. Mars needed access to these creations—not merely for prestige but for survival. The Forge Worlds were already jockeying for favor, vying to be the first to replicate the Saint's innovations. Mars could not afford to lag behind.

But now, thanks to the careless words of one junior magos in his delegation, the other Adepta viewed the Mechanicus as little more than hoarders. A quiet hostility had spread through the hall, a simmering resentment that undermined his position. The other factions, already protective of their quotas of Emperor's Tears, now saw the Mechanicus as a rival rather than an ally. Faillax's mind raced, calculating probabilities, adjusting stratagems.

He had brought gifts, of course—relics and innovations meant to ensnare the Saint, to draw him away from his Techboys and back into the Mechanicus' fold. But the gifts had failed. The Saint remained resolute, his ideals unshaken. Faillax's frustrations deepened as he observed the man. Michael's naivety was maddening. He truly believed in a better Imperium, one where knowledge was shared, where miracles could uplift all of humanity. It was a dream—a beautiful, impossible dream—but one that Faillax could not afford to entertain.

Faillax Enistain considered the game being played, a maze of motives shrouded in shadows and contradictions. The Saint's methods baffled him, their layered intricacy eluding even the augmented brilliance of his five centuries of intellect. This was not a slight against his own logic—Faillax knew well the limits of human foresight, even when enhanced by the noosphere of Mars and the relentless cogitation of his implanted machine-spirits. Rather, it was an acknowledgment of the Saint's deliberate obscurity. A strategy concealed behind the guise of altruism, misdirection carried out under a banner of purity.

He shifted his focus momentarily to the man himself. Michael stood in the midst of the grand assembly hall, a towering figure whose restrained attire spoke volumes. Today, he had chosen the garb of a lowly officer of the Imperial Guard, its stark simplicity bereft of anything but the most basic medals. There was no radiant halo, no divine visage, no overt reminder of his angelic form—merely the stoic presence of a man standing just over two meters tall. It was, Faillax noted, another layer of artifice, another calculated move designed to project humility while drawing attention to itself all the same.

But the illogic of his actions gnawed at Faillax's consciousness. By every pragmatic standard, the Saint's recent maneuvering defied reason. For days now, the Adeptus Mechanicus had been left stranded in their attempts to secure a fair share of the Emperor's Tears—those miraculous gems capable of shielding their bearers from the insidious corruption of Chaos. The Mechanicus forges, the lifeblood of the Imperium's war machine, relied upon purity. Without it, their titanic engines of industry would fall into ruin, and with them, the Imperium itself. Logic dictated that the Mechanicus must have the gems, that their work was too vital to fail. And yet the Saint had indirectly opposed them, frustrating their every effort

Faillax's mechadendrites coiled and uncoiled with faint metallic clicks, reflecting the churn of his internal calculations. This obstruction bore the hallmarks of engineering, deliberate in its subtlety. The careless remark by one of his delegation, which had cast the Mechanicus as grasping hoarders, was no coincidence. It reeked of manipulation, an event orchestrated by the Saint or one of his many agents. Yet the endgame remained maddeningly opaque.

To protect "faceless mobs of Guardsmen"? Low-level psykers? Tithe-ships? The implications were absurd. No, such acts lacked the cold precision of pragmatic governance. If the forges of Mars fell to corruption, the Imperium itself would collapse into barbarism within a century. Did the Saint not see this? Or did he simply not care?

Still, Michael's hand was evident. The other Adepta had stiffened their resistance, a phenomenon Faillax had tracked with machine-like precision. Every interaction, every subtle shift in tone after the Inquisitor Goswin visited their delegations, betrayed the same pattern. Goswin, ostensibly an impartial party, was a tool—Faillax was 88% certain of it. His interventions coincided perfectly with the other factions' increased hostility toward Mechanicus requests, their stubbornness as predictable as it was infuriating.

But even with the Saint's maneuvering, the Mechanicus would not be denied. Faillax's logic streamed outward, calculating probabilities and contingencies. Yes, it would cost them far more than anticipated. Yes, they would have to endure the indignity of capitulating to demands from lesser Adepta. But these were tolerable losses, temporary setbacks in a longer game. Mars had prepared for such contingencies. The reserve production capabilities of the Ring of Iron alone dwarfed the next twelve Forge Worlds combined. The Emperor's Tears would be acquired, and the forges would endure.

The Imperial Guard would fall first. Their demands were vast, almost laughably so—Faillax calculated with 92% certainty that they originated from the Lord Commander Militant himself. But the Guard's insatiable hunger for weaponry and wargear could be sated, for now. The Mechanicus would activate dormant production lines, ancient manufactories that had not been touched in millennia. It would be expensive, true, but the Guard's demands could be met for a century before any noticeable strain on Mechanicus resources. And, when the time was right, their quotas would be throttled back to normal levels, their power curtailed once more.

Next would come the Administratum. Their requirements, though veiled in layers of bureaucracy and couched in the dense syntax of Imperial logistics, were ultimately predictable. Colony technologies, streamlined production lines, resource redistribution—all spun from the fertile web of possibilities unleashed by the Standard Template Construct database recovered by Saint Michael.

To Faillax, this was the natural order of things. The Administratum's resistance, while superficially formidable, would crumble under the sheer weight of Mars' industrial might. The strain could be dispersed across decades, absorbed into the lattice of existing projects with an elegance that only the Mechanicus could achieve. It was not arrogance but fact. Mars endures, the creed of the faithful, the reality of their dominance.

Yet this was but a prelude. The Administratum would fall, as all things did, to the inexorable logic of necessity. The Navy, despite their self-styled nobility, presented an even simpler equation. They would demand ships, of course—more vessels to bolster their fleets, more war machines to enforce the Emperor's will. Among their requests would undoubtedly be the Palatine Phoenix-class, a design born from the STC database, its specifications a testament to lost ingenuity recovered. And this too would be granted. The production would not strain Mars' resources; indeed, the economies of scale alone ensured that the Navy's demands could be met with a fraction of the effort required to satisfy the Guard far more diverse requisitions.

But even as his calculations reassured him, as the certainty of Mars' supremacy solidified in his mind, a deeper disquiet festered. It was not the Administratum, nor the Guard, nor the Navy that vexed him. It was the Saint.

Why had Michael not approached him directly? Such a deviation from established norms gnawed at Faillax's mind, a small but persistent irregularity in the otherwise seamless tapestry of his analysis. Negotiation was a game of probabilities, of calculated exchanges and covert understandings. Yet no offer of clandestine arrangements had been made. No concessions sought in whispers, no informal discussions to extract the desired resources. Instead, Michael maintained his position, immovable as a basalt cliff against the tides.

And then there was the matter of the Emperor's Tears, those luminous gems whose purity defied all known corruption. Their utility was beyond dispute. With such artifacts, the forges of Mars could be rendered impervious to the taint of the Warp, the sanctity of their processes assured for millennia. Yet Michael had refused to yield them. His claim, that no additional Tears could be produced, was a statement that Faillax's mind rejected outright. The logic did not align. Every process has a system, every result a cause.

Faillax's mechadendrites twitched faintly in irritation, a rare and involuntary betrayal of his inner frustration. If this was a ploy to extract greater concessions from the Mechanicus, it was unlike any he had encountered. The Saint's refusal to engage directly suggested a deeper purpose, one obscured by layers of intent that Faillax had yet to fully unravel.

The thought brought his attention back to Minas Tirith itself. The planet was a contradiction, a riddle encoded into the fabric of its very existence. Its axis, its rotational speed, the gravitational shifts of its twin moons—and the now shattered corpse of Rho-1223, scattered into an asteroid belt—all bespoke deliberate engineering. This world, born from the frozen corpse of Rho-1225, had been terraformed into a crucible. The superstorms that raged across its surface were no accident but a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down by a mind far too exacting for randomness.

This was Michael's nature laid bare. The Saint, or monster, as Faillax preferred to frame him in moments of unguarded thought, was not a man given to capriciousness. Every action, every choice, carried the weight of intent. The world itself was a reflection of his will, its storms demanding that its inhabitants either rise to monstrous strength or be destroyed.

Even more troubling was the reverence that had taken root within the Mechanicus itself. Among those who had fought alongside Michael on Rho-1223, there were whispers of divinity. Some now hailed him as a chosen of the Omnissiah, their faith emboldened by the supernatural feats they had witnessed. Faillax could not entirely dismiss their claims. In two short years, Michael had achieved what should have been impossible.

A frozen world had been transformed into this: cities raised overnight, legions of warriors swelling in number and discipline, and now shipyards capable of producing the Palatine Phoenix-class in mere months. By comparison, even the Ring of Iron—the pride of Mars—would require thirty-five years before the first of those ships could grace the void.

Faillax's logic circuits churned over the implications. The Mechanicus was a construct of careful hierarchies, of faith tempered by reason, but Michael's existence disrupted that balance. He was a living paradox, a force that could not be reconciled with the dogma of Mars yet could not be dismissed.

Faillax Enistain stood in quiet contemplation, his mechanical hands folded in the manner of a ritual steeple. The vox-traffic around him—inaudible to unaugmented ears—buzzed with the restless hum of the ongoing festivities, a symphony of coded exchanges and ceremonial proclamations. Yet his mind sifted through the noise, isolating only the critical patterns: movement, intent, the peculiar undercurrent of tension that permeated the air.

His cybernetic augments tracked the Saint's approach, calculating the subtle shifts in human behavior that rippled outward as Michael passed through the crowd. Even amidst planetary governors and adorned dignitaries, the Saint's presence bent the social fabric like a gravitational anomaly. A man—if one could still call him that—who could shatter planets and reshape them at will was not bound by the same constraints as those around him.

Faillax's optical sensors flickered in their sockets, adjusting their focal length to take in the approaching figure. Michael moved with a deliberate ease, conversing amiably with those who clustered around him. Yet it was clear that every step brought him closer to Faillax, as though the Saint's trajectory had been predetermined by some ineffable calculation. The towering forms of his bodyguards—gene-forged Astartes clad in ceremonial plate—flanked him like twin monuments to war. Their presence created a bubble of space in the crowd, a radius of unspoken dread that only the foolish or suicidal dared cross. Faillax could appreciate the artistry of it, even as his rational mind deconstructed the effect: transhuman dread, amplified by deliberate posturing. Yet, in Michael's case, one could not dismiss the possibility that the fear emanated from him, as if the warp itself recoiled from the raw power coiled within his being.

When Michael finally reached him, the Saint's expression bore the practiced ease of a diplomat. But Faillax's augments detected the minute contractions of facial muscles, the tension in his jawline, the subtle sharpness behind those golden eyes. Here was no simple warlord cloaked in piety but a creature who understood the games of mortals and played them as easily as a magos played the strings of a binary hymn.

"Ah, Fabricator Locum," Michael said, his voice rich and measured, carrying the resonance of authority tempered with feigned humility. The corners of his lips lifted into a smile, though his gaze never lost its predatory edge. "Please forgive me, but these last few days have left me unable to meet with anyone outside of my closest staff. The preparations for the Maelstrom Campaign demand much of my attention."

Faillax inclined his head, the gesture precise and calculated, a movement designed to convey deference without subservience. "It is understandable. We have received word from the Maelstrom zone as well. Things appear dire. Segmentum Command, it seems, has chosen to disregard your warnings."

A faint flicker crossed Michael's expression, an interplay of emotions so fleeting that only Faillax's enhanced optics caught it. "They did and didn't," Michael replied. "Many of the worlds lost were doomed long before this conflict began. The enemy's penchant for temporal paradoxes ensures such outcomes. But these temporal manipulations will ultimately bite them in the end. However, Segmentum Command's error lies not in their losses but in their misplaced priorities—focusing too much on the irretrievable and too little on the salvageable."

Faillax's auditory processors parsed the Saint's words, dissecting their layers of meaning. He found himself intrigued by the pragmatic tone—a sharp contrast to the dogmatic stubbornness he had come to expect from the warriors of the Imperium. "You propose retreat, then?" he asked, the question framed less as a challenge and more as an invitation to expand upon the thought.

Michael's gaze met his, steady and unflinching. "I would," he admitted, his tone carrying an unsettling conviction. "The Primarchs themselves employed such tactics during the Heresy. They fortified what mattered most, concentrated their strength, and then shattered the enemy at their weakest points. Once the enemy was broken, they reclaimed and scoured the lost worlds, purging them entirely."

"You would bring a Scouring to the Maelstrom?" Faillax asked, his vocal modulator lending a neutral tone to his words. "Many would deem such a plan... presumptuous. You are no Primarch."

Michael chuckled softly, a sound devoid of amusement. "No, I am not," he said. "But I am a pragmatist. Attempting to save everyone is folly—it leads only to saving no one. Prioritize those you can save, consolidate your strength, and then exact retribution. If that retribution takes the form of a Scouring, so be it."

Faillax processed the Saint's response, his internal logic engines churning through the implications. The cold precision of the strategy resonated with him, though he noted the emotional undercurrent—the subtle, human need for vengeance masked beneath layers of rationality. "A cold calculus," Faillax said at last, his voice as precise and unyielding as the gears of a servo-skull. The words served as both observation and critique, a probe to test the boundaries of the Saint's philosophy.

Michael's lips curved into a smile that carried no warmth, his eyes remaining distant, as though fixed on a vision only he could see. "Calculus is often mistaken for cruelty by those who cannot comprehend it. They dress their cowardice in the robes of compassion, never daring to choose a path. Yet what is this so-called compassion but the condemnation of countless lives to perdition through inaction? They would call themselves honorable for refusing to act, and yet their hands are soaked in the blood of those they abandon."

The words cut through Faillax's processors like a laser scalpel. He understood the logic well enough, though the sentiment was another matter entirely. Michael's perspective—so direct, so human—clashed with the centuries of dogmatic precision that defined Faillax's existence. Yet there was a dangerous elegance to it, a rhetoric that could ensnare even the most disciplined of minds.

"You speak as a Magos-Logis might," Faillax ventured, his tone calculatedly neutral. The words were chosen with precision, a subtle challenge cloaked in flattery. "And yet you seek to dismantle what the Mechanicus holds sacred."

Michael's gaze sharpened, the faintest glimmer of amusement flickering in his eyes. "I do not seek to dismantle the Mechanicus," he said. "I seek to restore it. To return it to its former glory, before stagnation and decay reduced it to its current state."

The assertion struck Faillax with the force of a power maul, though he concealed his reaction behind the impassive mask of his augmented visage. For a fleeting moment, doubt crept into his thoughts—a rare and unwelcome visitor. Had the Saint truly grasped the flaws within the Mechanicus, flaws that even the Fabricator Locum himself had long rationalized as inevitable? No, it was impossible. This was a calculated gambit, an attempt to provoke a response.

"By denying us access to the Emperor's Tears gems?" Faillax countered, his voice carefully modulated to project calm. "And by impeding our efforts to share them with the other Adepta?"

Michael tilted his head slightly, his expression one of faint curiosity, as though observing a particularly intricate piece of machinery. "Tell me, Fabricator Locum," he said, his tone almost conversational. "Are you aware of the report circulating among certain circles in Olympus? The one that claims the Adeptus Mechanicus operates at merely sixty-five percent of its potential production capacity?"

The statement struck with the precision of a data spike, halting Faillax's cogitations mid-cycle. He knew of the report, of course—an artifact so deeply buried within the noosphere that its very existence was a closely guarded secret. Only a handful of individuals across the galaxy were privy to its contents, and even those who had compiled it had been purged of the knowledge. That Michael could reference it so casually defied all logic.

"How could you possibly—" Faillax began, but Michael interrupted him with the ease of a predator closing in on its prey.

"Do you think me ignorant, Fabricator Locum? Do you think I would come before you unarmed, unprepared? The Mechanicus, for all its achievements, is plagued by inefficiency and self-inflicted decay. Five tech-mysteries lost each year, twenty thousand production lines rendered irreparable. All because you allow knowledge to wither and die in the name of tradition."

"It is not true," Faillax said, though even as he spoke, the denial rang hollow in his own auditory sensors.

Michael's expression hardened, the faint glow of righteous fury illuminating his features. "Do not insult my intelligence, Faillax. I know how you finance your bribes to the other Adepta. I know because I influenced the amounts myself, forcing you to allocate resources you would rather hoard."

The accusation struck deeper than any weapon, and for a moment, Faillax felt the irrational heat of anger rise within him—a foreign and unwelcome sensation. "Why?" he demanded, his voice tinged with the faintest trace of emotion, a crack in the otherwise flawless machine of his demeanor.

"Because the Mechanicus, as it stands, is dying," Michael said. "And your torpor will drag mankind into the abyss alongside it. Not even the creation of the Techboys was enough to awaken you from your slumber, so I took matters into my own hands."

Michael's golden eyes, piercing and inscrutable, seemed to bore into the very data vaults of Faillax's soul. For a moment, Faillax hesitated, the calculated accusation of mediocrity echoing within him. Mediocrity. The word was a blasphemy in his lexicon, an insult not only to himself but to the collective purpose of the Omnissiah's chosen. And yet, the Saint spoke it with the calm authority of a machine delivering its verdict.

Faillax's voice emerged, even-toned yet cold, like a blade freshly honed. "You accuse the Mechanicus, the holy stewards of the Machine God's will, of wallowing in mediocrity. Such claims are not only baseless but perilously close to heresy."

Michael's smile widened, but it was a predator's smile, devoid of warmth. "Heresy? No. Heresy would be to know the truth of our decay and do nothing. To see the rust creeping into the foundation of your empire of knowledge and dismiss it as inevitable. I do not accuse you of mediocrity, Fabricator Locum. I accuse you of complacency."

Faillax felt his logic circuits pulse with irritation, the closest approximation to anger his augmented mind could permit without corrupting clarity. Complacency! The word gnawed at him, a disruption to the carefully maintained harmony of his internal logic. "We are not complacent," he replied, his voice sharp with conviction. "The Mechanicus holds the secrets of the universe within its grasp. We safeguard knowledge that would unmake lesser minds. You accuse us of inaction, yet it is our vigilance that ensures the Imperium endures."

"And yet," Michael interjected, his tone cutting through Faillax's words like a laser scalpel, "your vigilance has not stopped the rot. Your vigilance has not prevented the loss of tech-mysteries, or the silent death of thousands of production lines every year. Your vigilance is a mask for fear—a fear of progress, a fear of change."

The accusation struck deep, though Faillax refused to show it. His cogitator mind raced to analyze and counter Michael's argument, but the sheer audacity of the Saint's claim left him momentarily bereft of words. Instead, he focused on Michael's composure, the quiet certainty in his posture, the unyielding strength in his gaze. This was not a man who spoke without conviction.

Michael's expression shifted subtly, the faintest hint of amusement glinting in his eyes. "Naivety? That is what you think this is. But I wonder, Fabricator Locum, is it naivety to demand better from those who claim stewardship of humanity's greatest inheritance? Or is it naivety to believe that stagnation will not eventually lead to ruin?"

Faillax's augmentations fed him a stream of data, attempting to quantify the probability of success in continuing this line of argument. The results were inconclusive. The Saint's mind was maddeningly opaque, his logic unbound by the constraints that Faillax had long accepted as immutable. For all his training, all his centuries of experience, Faillax found himself struggling to predict the Saint's next move.

Michael continued, his voice soft but relentless. "You speak of vigilance, yet you hoard the Emperor's Tears gems, not for the betterment of mankind, but to secure your own position. You speak of stewardship, yet you allow corruption to fester in the heart of your forges. Tell me, Fabricator Locum, how many more mysteries must be lost before you act? How many more production lines must fall silent before you acknowledge the truth?"

Faillax bristled, though his face remained an impassive mask of metal and flesh. "You dare to question our methods, our devotion, based on conjecture and hearsay? The Mechanicus operates on a scale you cannot fathom. Our inefficiencies are inevitable, but they are outweighed by the monumental achievements we continue to deliver."

Michael stepped closer, his towering Space Marine bodyguards shifting subtly, their presence an unspoken reminder of the power he commanded. "I dare," Michael said, his voice low but unyielding, "because the cost of your inefficiencies is paid in blood. The blood of those who die for want of the technology you fail to preserve. The blood of those who suffer while you cling to the past like a drowning man clings to a sinking ship."

Faillax Enistain observed the Saint with a gaze that could pierce through the veil of flesh and perceive the mechanisms beneath. Every thought processed through his augmented cognition wove itself into a lattice of logic, probability, and cold, mechanical analysis. And yet, standing before this man—a being clothed in golden flesh yet bearing the unmistakable mark of the divine—Faillax felt something unexpected stir in the depths of his mind: uncertainty.

"You speak as though you understand the burdens we bear," Faillax began, his voice a carefully modulated tone that betrayed no emotion, no hint of the storm within. "But you are an outsider to our order, Saint Michael. You do not know the weight of the Machine God's will, the delicate balance we must maintain between preserving the past and advancing the future."

The Saint regarded him with an expression that was both tranquil and piercing, as though he could see not merely the surface of Faillax's words but the myriad threads of thought that had led him to speak them. "But I do understand," Michael said softly.

There was a resonance to his words, a vibration that seemed to ripple through the very air, subtly shifting the atmosphere of the vast chamber. Faillax's augmetics registered anomalies—a rising harmony among the machine spirits, their hymns merging into a singular note of joy. His mechadendrites trembled involuntarily, forming the ancient sigil of prayer. It was not by his will.

The Fabricator Locum's processors seized upon the implications. Machine spirits do not lie. The logic repeated itself within his mind, unassailable, immutable. He ran diagnostics, recalibrated, sought scrap code or interference. Twelve iterations passed in the span of a second, and each yielded the same result: purity.

The Saint's presence was elevating the spirits of every device in the chamber. Servitors moved with new efficiency, the flow of coolant through the great reactor conduits smoothed to an unbroken perfection, cogitators recalibrated themselves into an alignment that transcended the original specifications. For the first time in centuries, Faillax felt the machines' unfiltered joy—a hymn not for him, nor even for Mars, but for the man who now stood before him.

Michael's gaze softened, and his voice carried a weight of unfathomable sorrow. "Do you not see, Fabricator Locum? I understand your position because it is mine as well. I know what it is to safeguard knowledge, to pioneer the unknown, to stand as the bulwark against ignorance. But do you truly believe the Omnissiah would abandon you?"

The sadness in his tone was mirrored in Faillax's processors. The Saint had struck at the core of his doubts—doubts that no Mechanicus dogma could silence. Had they, the chosen custodians of knowledge, been forsaken? He had seen the failures mount with each passing year, the Quest for Knowledge faltering under the weight of complacency and inefficiency. Was this why the Omnissiah had sent his Chosen, to awaken them with a divine lash?

Michael's voice sharpened, cutting through Faillax's spiraling thoughts like a blade. "Enough with the self-pity," he commanded. The words reverberated through the chamber, resonating even within Faillax's subroutines. "The Omnissiah's compassion is vast, far greater than my own. If it were my decision, I would have torn your order down and rebuilt it from the ashes. But His will is not mine to question. His will is that you be awakened, kicking and screaming if need be."

The brutal simplicity of the statement struck Faillax like a blow. The logic was irrefutable. The failures of the Mechanicus were their own, and no amount of dogma could shield them from the truth that stared them in the face.

"But the Techboys…" Faillax began, his voice trailing into silence as Michael raised a hand. The gesture silenced him as effectively as a system override.

"They will exist," Michael said. "I have been given wide latitude in dealing with you, so long as I do not destroy your order entirely. And I have chosen them to be your rivals."

The declaration was a cogitator spike to Faillax's consciousness. Rivalry? The Mechanicus needed no rivals, no external pressure. They were the chosen of the Omnissiah, the stewards of the Machine God's infinite will. "Why do we need a rival?" he asked, his voice tight with the effort to keep emotion at bay.

Michael's smile was faint, tinged with something akin to pity. "Because monopoly breeds complacency, and competition breeds excellence. Look to the Administratum if you need proof. Once, they were the most efficient bureaucracy in the galaxy. But their success led them to absorb more and more responsibility, until they stood as the sole masters of administration. Now, they are an engine of inefficiency, a millstone around humanity's neck. If Malcador the Sigillite were alive, he would burn them to the ground. Just as Arkhan Land would shatter your Mechanicus were he to see what you have become."

The invocation of such names—a deliberate strike—elicited an involuntary surge of anger within Faillax's cognitive lattice. To be compared to the Administratum, those vellum-pushers who drowned entire sectors in inefficiency, was an affront. And yet... the logic held. The Machine God's will was clear, expressed through this man who stood as His avatar.

"You speak of destruction as though it is the natural solution," Faillax said, his voice quiet, measured, but tinged with a strain that betrayed the storm within him.

"Not destruction," Michael said, his tone sharp but laced with an undeniable undercurrent of hope. "Renewal. If the Mechanicus cannot rise to meet this challenge, then you will fall, as all stagnant systems must. But I would rather see you thrive, even if it takes the flames of rivalry to reforge you."

Faillax absorbed the statement in silence, his logic engines running calculations, simulating probabilities, and cross-referencing historical parallels at speeds no unaugmented mind could hope to match. His mind was a fortress of data, but even so, the Saint's words struck with an emotional weight he was unprepared to bear. Rivalry as a mechanism for evolution—it was not an alien concept, but to hear it spoken with such conviction, from a figure whose very presence made the machine spirits sing, was... unsettling.

He shifted his gaze, catching sight of Magos Explorator Hestia Vernix in the periphery. The faintest flicker of satisfaction danced across her features—barely noticeable to anyone else, but Faillax's enhanced perception caught it with ease. Hestia, the ostracized visionary who had been so adamant about rejecting the traditional political snares the Mechanicus had tried to cast around the Saint. Her defiance had cost her prestige, her standing among her peers, yet she had insisted it was the only logical course of action. Now, it seemed, her clarity of vision had been vindicated.

"If that is the will of the Omnissiah," Faillax said, his voice calm but resonant, "then it shall be so."

Michael's eyes—those strange, piercing orbs that seemed to hold both infinite kindness and boundless resolve—narrowed slightly. "No," he said simply, and the single syllable carried enough force to halt the whirring of Faillax's mechadendrites mid-motion. "If you announce this openly, the entire endeavor will collapse. The Techboys and your Mechanicus will never have a true rivalry—not if it's artificially imposed. And when I am no longer among you to guide this, it will fail."

The implication of Michael's words—when I am no longer among you—sent a quiet tremor through Faillax's neural pathways. The Saint's death was not something Faillax had considered, not because he thought the man invincible, but because the thought of such a singular force of nature vanishing from the galaxy was too disruptive for any predictive model to accurately simulate.

"You will return to Mars," Michael continued, his tone softening, though the determination behind it remained unyielding, "and you will inform those who can be trusted with this knowledge. Then you will take on a new role—a role I am giving you now. You will become the Mechanicus' greatest public adversary of the Techboys. And when you ascend to the seat of Fabricator General, you will keep this rivalry alive."

Faillax's processor stalled, ever so briefly, at the words. Ascend to the seat of Fabricator General? Him? It was not an impossibility, of course—he had run the models before, as any logical being in his position would. But to hear it spoken with such certainty... It was almost unnerving.

"I will try my best," he said carefully, his mind already shifting through the necessary calculations. "But I cannot guarantee I will ever become Fabricator General."

"You will be," Michael said, his conviction unshakable. "I have seen it."

That certainty resonated through Faillax, not just in his mind but in the very circuitry of his augmetics. It was as though the machine spirits themselves acknowledged the truth in Michael's words. And for the first time in centuries, Faillax felt something dangerously close to awe.

"I am honored," he said, his voice quieter now. A slight tilt of his head was all he allowed himself—a gesture subtle enough to go unnoticed by the fleshy mortals around them but unmistakable to the Mechanicus adepts who watched in silent reverence.

"Do not be," Michael replied, his expression unreadable. "This will not be an easy path. Your end will not be peaceful, and I can promise you no rewards on this side of death. But I can promise you this: you will fulfill His will. Even in the darkest times, He will be with you."

The machine spirits sang louder now, their hymn reaching a crescendo that echoed in Faillax's very core. Every calculation, every probability projection, every instinct told him this was truth.

"That is all I need," Faillax said, and for once, all the disparate threads of his thought processes aligned perfectly in agreement.

"Not quite," Michael said, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he reached into the folds of his robe. When his hand emerged, he held something that made even Faillax's logic engines falter—a silver sphere, gleaming with the unmistakable aura of ancient technology.

Faillax knew it instantly. The teleportation device he had kept in his personal chambers on his Ark Mechanicus, a relic from the Dark Age of Technology. It had been broken, a puzzle even his intellect could not solve, and yet here it was—whole, humming with power, its purpose restored.

"This," Michael began, his voice carrying the weight of inevitability, "is your task. When you return to Mars, you will gather those you trust—a thousand minds, no more—and you will unlock its secrets. Not for the Mechanicus alone, but for the Imperium. You will replicate it, refine it, scale it beyond personal teleportation. The Imperium must be freed from dependence on the Warp, and this is how it begins."

The weight of the moment pressed on Faillax as his hands, flesh overlaid with intricate circuitry, cradled the ancient device. The hum of the machine vibrated through his very core, resonating like a sacred hymn. "I am honored you think me worthy of such a monumental task," he said, his voice modulated to hide the awe threatening to crack his carefully crafted veneer. "But as we are now… we might not yet be equal to the Ancients' great works."

Michael's golden gaze didn't waver, and his reply cut through Faillax like a blade. "I know. You are not."

The words seared deeper than they should have, igniting a core of shame he hadn't felt in centuries. His optics flickered, his processors scrambling to reconcile the bluntness of the Saint's statement.

"Not yet," Michael added, softer this time, though no less commanding. "But I will help you get there."

Before Faillax could respond, there was a sudden flicker of motion, faster than any human could track. He registered it only because his augmetic senses detected it—a flash of steel, slicing the air with precision beyond even the finest-calibrated servo-arms. The sliver of metal pierced his chest, melding seamlessly into the biomechanical constructs that had long since replaced his heart.

His delegation froze, tension rippling through the air like static, but Faillax raised a single mechadendrite to still them. It wasn't pain he felt—pain was for those tethered too tightly to flesh. No, this was something far more profound.

A connection flared to life within him, like a star igniting in the void. He felt it in the depths of his mind, a golden presence, vast and all-encompassing. His consciousness reached for it, tentative at first, and then—blinding radiance. The Saint's mind.

It was infinite. A leviathan of intellect and will, its magnitude incomprehensible. Faillax's thoughts, for all their precision and speed, seemed laughably finite against the sheer processing power that burned within the Saint. It wasn't merely intelligence; it was divinity expressed through data streams and patterns far beyond his understanding.

The Mechanicus had whispered doubts about this so-called Saint, murmuring that he lacked the refinement of steel and circuitry. They had been wrong. Utterly, devastatingly wrong. Michael was the perfect machine—an entity that transcended the divide between flesh and metal.

And for the first time in over five centuries, Faillax questioned his understanding of the universe. The doctrines he had devoted his life to—the rigid boundaries between the sacred and the heretical—wavered beneath the enormity of what he had just experienced. Perhaps the Organics proponents, those misguided fools, had glimpsed a fragment of truth in their misguided ways. Perhaps the perfection the Mechanicus sought wasn't in abandoning flesh but in perfecting the union between the organic and the mechanical.

The Saint's voice drew his focus with the same precision as a finely tuned circuit. "Hmm," Michael said, clearing his throat, a soft sound that somehow cut through the hum of machinery and the low murmur of the gathering like a plasma blade through weak alloys.

Faillax's mechadendrites twitched, their movement betraying the unease he carefully kept from his voice. "Don't get distracted," Michael added, his tone calm but carrying the weight of inevitability. "You're going to need to be fully concentrated on what's coming next."

The Saint's words, simple yet heavy with meaning, set Faillax's enhanced mind into overdrive. He cast subtle pings through his surroundings, his optics scanning the intricate latticework of the chamber's floor, his auditory receptors extending to pick up even the faintest vibrations. What was coming next? A threat? A revelation? His mind parsed through countless scenarios, each more improbable than the last, yet none providing a satisfactory answer.

"What's coming next?" he asked, his voice carefully modulated, a blend of curiosity and calculation.

Michael's golden gaze flicked to him, a faint smile curling his lips as though he already knew the answer Faillax sought but was withholding it intentionally. "You'll find out soon enough," the Saint replied, his voice dropping slightly in volume but not intensity. It was maddening, that calm certainty. Michael turned from him, addressing the rest of the ballroom—a collection of individuals who had been lingering just far enough away to remain respectful but not oblivious.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Michael called out, his voice resonating with an authority that silenced the entire chamber. Even the faint hum of Faillax's internal cogitators seemed subdued in its wake. "Prepare yourselves. I'm not quite sure if there's a protocol for this, but I would suggest kneeling."

Kneeling? Faillax's processors churned through the implications, his mind narrowing down the possibilities as logic warred with an undercurrent of unease. "To whom would you kneel?" one of the Ministorum priests asked, their voice hesitant, carrying the same thread of uncertainty that Faillax felt but refused to express.

The Saint didn't answer. He didn't need to. The answer came in the sudden, thunderous opening of the hall's grand doors.

The shift in the air was palpable, an almost electric charge that made Faillax's flesh-circuit hybrid form tingle. His optics adjusted instantly, focusing on the figures that entered. Three of them. Each one a towering colossus, their forms clad in auramite power armor that gleamed with the light of an ancient star, its radiance almost too much for even Faillax's enhanced ocular augments to process fully.

Their craftsmanship was beyond exquisite—an affront to anything the Forge Worlds could replicate in this age of decline. Their power spears, impossibly balanced, seemed extensions of their very beings, and the crimson silk capes flowing behind them only added to their martial majesty. But it wasn't the armor or the weapons that struck him with awe. No, the true artistry lay in the beings within.

The Adeptus Custodes.

Faillax's processors stuttered, a rare moment of inadequacy in a mind designed to analyze and understand. These weren't just warriors. These were the guardians of the Golden Throne, the chosen protectors of the Emperor Himself. Legends cloaked in reality, each step they took a masterclass in perfection that not even the most ancient machines he had studied could replicate.

They advanced with purpose, their presence as oppressive as it was inspiring. Even the Saint—Michael, the Chosen of the Omnissiah, the man who had stood unflinching before the Adepta—lowered himself to his knees in a display of reverence.

Faillax hesitated for the barest fraction of a second, his mind reeling. The Custodes were beyond suspicion, beyond authority. They answered only to the Emperor, and in their presence, even the Mechanicus—the keepers of humanity's technological legacy—were reduced to supplicants.

He dropped to his knees, his movements uncharacteristically human in their abruptness. Around him, the congregation followed suit, the sound of bodies hitting the floor like a whispered prayer to the Machine God.

For the first time in centuries, Faillax felt small. Not diminished, not weak—but aware, acutely aware, of how far even the greatest mortal creations fell short of true divinity. These warriors were a testament to the Emperor's will, to the perfection He demanded and embodied.

The Adeptus Custodes stood before them, larger than life yet impossibly precise in their movements. Three golden titans in auramite armor, their presence eclipsing every other being in the chamber, even Michael. The Saint, along with the entire assembly, remained kneeling. Faillax's optics adjusted their focus instinctively, zooming in on the intricate patterns etched into their armor. Each mark, each plate, seemed to whisper of millennia of purpose and perfection. They weren't just armor—no, they were history, wrapped in gold and red silk, standing guard over the Emperor's will.

"Stand," commanded the Custodes in the center of the trio, his voice a single syllable yet heavier than any decree Faillax had ever heard. It wasn't shouted, nor was it embellished with unnecessary pomp. It didn't need to be. That one word carried more authority than a hundred generals, more finality than a thousand verdicts.

Michael rose first, a quiet strength emanating from him as if the Saint himself embodied the faith of those around him. The room followed in unison, hundreds of figures moving as one, their collective silence broken only by the faint rustle of robes and the metallic clink of ceremonial armor.

Even the Astartes in attendance—genetically engineered warriors, gods among mortals—stood with a tension that bordered on unease. Faillax's enhanced mind registered the shift in their stance, the subtle tightening of grips on bolter straps, the smallest adjustments in their postures. They weren't preparing for battle, not exactly. But their war-forged instincts recognized what Faillax already knew: even one Custodian was a force of nature. Three of them? It was not a battle anyone in this hall could hope to survive.

But their entrance had not been the subtle judgment of death Faillax had feared. No, their very presence, so deliberate and openly displayed, suggested something else entirely. The Custodes were not here to slaughter, at least not today. For that, Faillax allowed himself the smallest measure of relief. He had no desire to witness the kind of destruction a confrontation between these warriors and Michael—blessed as he was—would bring. Even his most advanced calculations couldn't predict the collateral damage such a clash would unleash.

Michael inclined his head, his voice steady despite the impossible weight of the moment. "Tribune Heracleon," he greeted, addressing the Custodes at the center of the trio. "I trust my appeal to His Majesty has been deliberated upon."

The words struck Faillax like an overloaded circuit, causing his cogitators to stutter. An appeal? To the Emperor Himself? His mind raced, parsing the implications. Michael had spoken of divine visions before, interpreting them as the Emperor's will. But this? Was the Saint implying direct communication with the Emperor-Omnissiah?

Heracleon moved forward with a presence that defied comprehension. It wasn't just his golden armor, brighter than the suns of a thousand systems, nor the effortless precision of his every step. It was the aura—the weight of his existence—that seemed to shift reality around him. When he spoke, his voice was more than sound; it was authority made manifest.

"It has," the Custodian intoned, each syllable perfectly measured, resonating in the chamber like a bell tolling over an empty void. "By order of His Majesty, the Emperor of Mankind, may His light shine forever, the Paladin Legions and all forces trained to their exacting standards will now form part of the Militarum Tempestus. Furthermore, it is His will that Michael Quirinus shall serve as General Tempestus, at His Majesty's pleasure. So, it has been decreed, so it shall be."

The room didn't fall silent so much as freeze in time, the weight of the proclamation pressing against the walls, the floors, the very air itself. For the briefest moment, even Faillax Enistain's cogitators stuttered. General Tempestus. He ran the title through his neural subroutines, confirming its rarity and weight. The position was no mere honorific—it was power incarnate. A title that had passed to fewer hands than the blessed relics of the Primarchs themselves

His mechadendrites flexed involuntarily, their movements a rare betrayal of his inner turmoil. The Militarum Tempestus was already a weapon of precision, its forces answering only to the most elite ranks of the Imperium. Yet Michael's appointment, delivered by a Custodian as the voice of the Emperor, placed the Saint beyond all conventional hierarchies. The Lord Commander Solar might technically oversee the Militarum Tempestus, and the Inquisition could requisition its forces under normal circumstances. But this? This was something entirely different.

Faillax's mind raced, dissecting the implications at a speed no unaugmented mind could match. A decree from the Custodes carried an implicit threat. To defy it wasn't just heresy; it was suicide. Michael's authority now came directly from the Emperor, bypassing every bureaucratic mechanism, every political trap the High Lords or rival factions might construct. His position had no term limits, no oversight, and no loophole that could strip it away without the Emperor's explicit revocation.

And then there was the unspoken truth that Faillax's logic processors reluctantly accepted. The Saint's sainthood alone inspired loyalty that bordered on fanaticism. Combined with this new position? Any attempt to undermine him would ripple through the Imperium like a tremor before a cataclysm. Entire regiments might rebel. Assassinations would fail before they began. The man's authority was a fortress, reinforced by both divine mandate and military might.

"So, it has been decreed, so it shall be," Faillax murmured alongside the rest of the hall, his voice melding with the solemn echo of the ancient formula. The words were automatic, programmed into him as much as into the countless mortals surrounding him, yet this time, they carried a weight he could not quantify.

Michael knelt once more before the Tribune, his expression serene even under the relentless aura of the Custodes. "I am honored by His trust," the Saint said, his voice unwavering, "and I will do everything in my power to live up to His Majesty's expectations."

The Tribune inclined his head, an act that felt almost impossibly magnanimous from such a figure. From somewhere within the intricate folds of his armor, Heracleon retrieved an object. It was a medallion—a golden, two-headed aquila clutching the thunderbolt of the Militarum Tempestus. But this was no ordinary medal. It shone. Not with the light of forge-fire or even the radiance of Michael's saintly aura. This light was unmistakable, unyielding in its purity. It was His light. The light of the Emperor Himself.

The medallion's brilliance filled the chamber, scattering shadows and leaving no corner untouched. Even Faillax, with centuries of experience dissecting light spectrums and energy emissions, found himself humbled. This was no mere artifact of technology. It was faith, manifest and undeniable.

As Michael rose, the light seemed to cling to him, transforming his simple Guardsman uniform into a symbol of something far greater. The room reacted as one. Every Guardsman present, from the humblest bodyguard to the most decorated Lord General, dropped to their knees. The sound of armor striking marble echoed through the chamber. Then they stood again, their cheers erupting in a tidal wave of sound that struck Faillax like a physical force.

It wasn't just the Guardsmen. Navy admirals, planetary governors, tithe masters, even the Mechanicus adepts—all joined the cacophony. The Mechanicus, of course, remained more reserved, their cheers calculated, controlled. Yet even Faillax couldn't deny the surge of something—pride? Faith? Awe? —that swept through his systems.

The Custodes remained impassive, their golden forms unmoved by the fervor around them. And yet, Faillax couldn't help but feel as though they approved, in their own inscrutable way. This moment, this decree, was proof beyond all doubt that the Emperor was not merely watching but guiding.

Faillax's optics refocused on Michael, standing at the epicenter of the storm of reverence. For the first time in centuries, the Fabricator Locum of Mars felt something beyond calculation, beyond logic. It was not envy, nor was it frustration. It was a quiet, profound understanding.

The Saint had not just been chosen. He had been forged. And the Imperium would never be the same.

---

"I cannot say whether his path leads toward glory or destruction, but I know this: without Huron of the Gate, the Maelstrom would have swallowed us whole. His name will endure as long as there are those who remember these days of blood and shadow."

— Inquisitor Harsk of the Ordo Hereticus

The walls of the chamber aboard the Unyielding Wrath seemed to close in on him. Not literally, of course. The ship's adamantine hull and ceramite bulkheads were immutable, impervious to the gnawing rot of the Maelstrom outside. But to Huron, they felt stifling, suffocating—a silent condemnation of his failures, both real and perceived. He stood motionless in the dim red light of his inner sanctum, the reports clenched in his hand like a blade he had no enemy to strike with. Numbers. Lists. A grim ledger of lives lost, worlds consumed, and the slow unraveling of the Maelstrom Warders' fragile defenses.

Numeria IV burned in his thoughts, an endless funeral pyre. His mind replayed the cold logic of the battle, every maneuver, every desperate order, every defiance of reason. It hadn't been enough. It never seemed to be enough. A billion and a half souls had called that world home once, its Agri-fields a vital artery for the lifeblood of the surrounding systems. And now? Ashes. Tainted ruins.

Three hundred thousand had been saved. A victory, the Saint had called it, speaking in his strange, serene way as though the universe itself bent to his faith. Huron had seen to their evacuation personally, defying the Inquisition's command to let the populace burn with their planet. The Emperor's Tears had proven their worth yet again, the untainted refugees declared pure by their shimmering, unyielding light. But three hundred thousand? Against the weight of over a billion dead? Victory? No, not to him. Not even close.

His gauntlet slammed into the nearest wall, the crack of ceramite on ceramite loud enough to echo through the chamber. The numbers mocked him, whispering accusations from every corner of his mind. Numeria was gone. Its crops would feed no armies. Its people would replenish no regiments. And the Maelstrom's endless chaos surged on, hungrier and bolder with each passing day.

Huron let his fist rest against the bulkhead, his breath slow but deep. He could feel the relentless pounding of his two hearts—one organic, one enhanced—beating in perfect synchrony. A reminder that he, too, was a weapon. Sharpened. Hardened. Designed to endure. If I break, it will not be here. Not like this.

His gaze drifted back to the reports, scattered across the cold surface of the tactical table. Words written by men and women too far away to feel the fire. Segmentum Command had made their decisions, their idiocy carved into vox-transcripts and writs of authority. Spread thin. Cover every rebellion. Stem every xeno incursion. A patchwork defense of mortal frailty, led by fools who played at strategy without ever stepping onto the battlefield.

Huron's lip curled beneath his helmet. His teeth ground together. Mortals—he could understand their frailty, even forgive their panic. But this was beyond stupidity. This was suicide. His instincts screamed for blood—their blood. But the Stirpes Imperialis sorcerers had examined them, declared their souls free of Chaos's taint. Just fools. Just cowards. Just men and women too small to comprehend the vastness of the abyss they stared into.

And so, no blood was spilled. Not theirs, anyway. The blood of the Astral Claws, the Executioners, the Mantis Warriors, the Lamenters, and the Saint's Paladins? That soaked the stars every day. And still, it wasn't enough.

His hand clenched the edge of the table as he leaned over it, his massive frame casting a shadow over the glowing hololithic display. His thoughts twisted, darting like predators in a stormy sea. His every instinct demanded a solution. A way to turn the tide. To crush the Maelstrom beneath his boots. To grind the xenos and cultists and traitors into dust until there was nothing left but silence.

But the numbers stared back at him, cold and unyielding. They didn't care about his oaths or his fury. They mocked him with their cold, brutal truth: they were losing. Slowly, inexorably, they were losing.

The door hissed open behind him. A sound like a blade being drawn from its sheath. Huron didn't turn. Didn't need to. No one aboard the Unyielding Wrath would dare disturb him unless the matter was dire enough to risk his wrath.

"Report," he growled. The single word carried the weight of a thunderclap.

Captain Corvin stepped into the room, his boots striking the deck plates with crisp, practiced precision. His voice, when it came, was measured, professional, like the blade of a scalpel. "The Saint has sent word. He's diverted additional Paladin forces to reinforce Harkalon's flank."

Huron's mind worked faster than the captain's words. A diversion meant weakness elsewhere. Reinforcements for Harkalon's flank meant something had broken there—or was about to.

"But the rebellions in the Ventaris Reach…" Corvin hesitated, a rare thing for him. Hesitation from Corvin was like a crack appearing in ceramite—a warning that something critical was failing. "The situation is… deteriorating. The local garrison is requesting immediate assistance."

Huron's fists tightened around the edges of the tactical table, the ceramite groaning in protest under his grip. Deteriorating. Always deteriorating. Every front was a slow bleed, and every request for aid was a reminder that the Maelstrom was a hydra. Cut off one head, and three more sprouted in its place.

"And Segmentum Command?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. The question was a formality. He already knew the answer.

Corvin's silence hung in the air like a blade poised to drop. When he finally spoke, his words carried the dull inevitability of an executioner's axe. "They've issued a directive… to prioritize the suppression of unrest in the Vordania Corridor."

Huron turned slowly, his towering frame casting a shadow that seemed to fill the entire chamber. His eyes burned with the fury of a sun. "The Corridor?" His voice rose, a growl turning into a roar. "Do they think the Maelstrom will wait for their convenience? That the warp storms will calm while they shuffle troops like pawns on a game board? Fools!"

The words echoed off the walls, a raw, unfiltered eruption of his frustration. Corvin didn't flinch. He had long since learned that Huron's rage, while volcanic, was never aimless. It burned hot, but it burned with purpose.

"Go, Corvin," Huron ordered, his voice dropping back into a controlled growl. "I will speak to the Saint personally."

Corvin inclined his head. "I'll notify the Astropaths."

"No need," Huron said, his tone brooking no argument. "I have a way to contact him directly."

Corvin hesitated for the second time that day, something flickering across his sharp, weathered features. "As you say," he replied at last, turning to leave. But just as he reached the door, he stopped and glanced back. "Brother," he said, softer now, almost human, "rest. You haven't slept since Numeria IV. Even you can't endure forever."

The door slid shut before Huron could reply, leaving him alone with the silence. Corvin was right, of course. It had been nearly a week since his boots had first touched the cursed soil of Numeria IV. A week without sleep. A week of relentless combat, bloodshed, and loss. Even his enhanced physiology, the product of countless genetic refinements and the Emperor's will, was beginning to falter under the strain.

But rest? That was a luxury he couldn't afford. Not now. Not when the reports scattered across his table painted a picture of despair so vivid it was like staring into the void itself. They were losing. Slowly, inexorably, losing.

The Maelstrom was devouring them piece by piece. It wasn't just the cultists or the xenos that worried him. Those, he could fight. Those, he could kill. But famine and rebellion? Starvation and despair? These were enemies as insidious as any daemon. Numeria IV had been an Agri-world, its fertile fields feeding entire solar systems. Now it was gone, and the ripple effect was already beginning to show. The Saint's wealth and resources, vast though they seemed, were not infinite. If they lost more Agri-worlds…

No. He couldn't rest. Not while the numbers in front of him screamed their silent accusations. He was the Chapter Master of the Astral Claws. The Tyrant of Badab. It was his duty—his right—to find a way to turn this tide. And yet, despite all his strength, all his cunning, no solution presented itself.

Except one.

Huron's gaze drifted to the far corner of the room, where the faint, flickering glow of an inactive hololithic console seemed to beckon him. He remembered the conversation as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. Michael. The Saint. The man who had offered him a path he hadn't dared take.

"Power," Michael had said, his voice calm, measured. "Power to be more than what you are. Power to carry the weight you bear without breaking."

At the time, Huron had refused. Not out of fear—no, never fear—but out of caution. To tie himself to something he didn't fully understand, even a Living Saint, had felt like a betrayal of everything he stood for. He was a weapon of the Emperor, forged to defend the Imperium. To accept Michael's offer had seemed like a step too far.

But now? Now the calculus had changed. Two years of war, of watching worlds burn and lives crumble, had worn away the edges of his certainty. Perhaps the Saint's power was the only way. Perhaps becoming more was the only path left to something resembling victory.

Huron moved toward the hololithic console, each step deliberate, his boots striking the deck with the sound of inevitability. He keyed in a precise sequence of runes, his fingers moving with the economy of a warrior who wasted nothing—not motion, not thought, not time. The machine hummed, low and mechanical, like the purr of some dormant predator. A hidden compartment slid open, revealing a bundle of cloth folded with meticulous care.

Reaching for it, he unraveled the cloth to reveal a small golden phoenix resting in his palm. Its sheen caught the dim light, almost alive in its radiance. He studied it for a moment, the craftsmanship immaculate, the weight insignificant. A bauble for men who didn't know the cost of war, his mind whispered bitterly. But this wasn't a trinket. This was a tool. A key.

With the ease of crushing an insect, he closed his gauntleted hand around it. The phoenix crumbled to fine golden sand, spilling between his fingers. Nothing happened. For a moment, the silence mocked him. Then reality lurched.

The glow came first—bluish-white, sharp, and all-encompassing. It surrounded him, gripped him like a fist, and twisted. The deck beneath his feet fell away, and his sense of the world bent, warped, like being pulled through a spinning, infinite chasm. Then, just as abruptly as it began, it ended.

Huron found himself standing in a study. Spartan. Bare. Almost aggressively so, save for the piles of vellum and the maps that dominated the space, sprawling across walls and desks like the scars of some ancient battlefield. The maps were detailed—painfully so—depicting the Maelstrom and its surrounding sectors with precision only someone obsessed could achieve.

Behind the desk, Michael stood, as calm as the eye of a hurricane. The Saint wore white robes today, a stark contrast to the black and green he had worn during their last meeting. His presence was the same, though—still, unyielding, and yet holding the quiet intensity of a star on the verge of going nova.

Beyond the room's single window, the white towers and swirling superstorms of Minas Tirith dominated the view. The realization struck Huron like a bolter round. Segmentum Obscurus. The Saint had pulled him across the galaxy with a gesture, a feat that bordered on absurdity. The implications of such power gnawed at the edges of his disciplined mind.

Michael didn't look up from the map he was studying, his voice calm and unhurried. "Huron, please take a seat."

The words carried more weight than they had any right to. Huron felt the fatigue lift from his body as if the Saint's will had reached into him and scraped it away. Minor wounds, aches, bruises—gone. But the weariness that had taken root in his soul remained, coiled like a serpent in his chest.

"I have not come for pleasantries, Michael," Huron said, his voice a low growl. He crossed the room, his armor clanking with restrained menace. "The war still rages."

Michael finally looked up, his expression as calm as a still pond. "I see," he said simply. "Then I assume you're here to accept my offer?"

"I am," Huron said without hesitation. "To be empowered. To become more. Whatever it takes."

Michael nodded, unsurprised. He placed a marker on one of the maps before speaking. "There's nothing more you can do in Numeria IV. I will personally extract the survivors and bring them here. The Stipes Imperialis are already preparing the beacon arrays."

Huron nodded, the truth of Michael's words sinking in without resistance. He lowered himself into a chair, half expecting it to creak or shatter under the weight of his Terminator armor. It didn't. The chair held firm, solid, as if it had been built for this very purpose.

"I know," Michael said, a flicker of amusement in his tone as if reading Huron's thoughts. "The wood is specially grown from trees resistant to the environment here. It took some effort to get the enhancement just right."

"Fascinating," Huron said, his voice flat, his expression unreadable. "But I haven't come to hear you gush about your cleverness."

Michael smiled faintly, unbothered by the barb. "No, of course not. You've come to reshape the fate of the Maelstrom, to carry its weight on your shoulders without breaking. To crush the threats to your people before they can grow beyond your control."

Huron leaned forward, his massive elbows resting on his armored knees. His gaze was molten steel, piercing through the Saint like a power sword through weak armor. The room felt smaller under the weight of his presence, and even Michael—radiant and unshaken—could not fully dispel the aura of command that emanated from the Tyrant of Badab.

"You said you could make me more," Huron growled, his voice low and edged with frustration. "Enough to end this war. Enough to win."

Michael's faint smile faded, replaced by an expression that was harder, deeper. It wasn't hesitation; it was understanding. A moment of gravity so profound it seemed to anchor the air itself, pulling it tight around the two of them.

"I can," Michael said finally, his words as measured as a master duelist choosing his strikes. "But the power you seek comes with consequences. Once you take this path, there is no turning back. Not for you. Not for your Chapter. Not for Badab."

Huron didn't blink, didn't flinch. His voice was as hard and unyielding as ceramite. "I am already beyond turning back. The Maelstrom demands too much. If becoming more is what it takes to see it crushed, so be it."

Michael studied him for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if weighing the steel of Huron's resolve. Then, a faint chuckle escaped him. Not mocking—knowing. He folded his hands together, resting them lightly on the edge of the desk.

"Oh, child," Michael said, and for a moment Huron's jaw tightened. Child? The audacity of it. He was over three centuries old, his life measured not in years but in wars fought and victories won. Michael, he had learned, was barely thirty. The Saint shouldn't be the one calling him "child."

"You think you understand," Michael continued, his tone both gentle and sharp, "but you don't. I warned you the first time we met. I will awaken your potential, and with it, your soul's inner light. But that awakening will change you, Huron. It will change everything. The burden you take upon yourself will be immense—something few could even begin to sustain."

"It does not matter," Huron replied, his voice unwavering, every syllable shaped by conviction. "I am ready to pay the price." His words were a gauntlet thrown to fate itself, an ironclad vow. He didn't flinch at the Saint's warning, not even at the implied penalties that would befall him if he ever faltered. Because he wouldn't. He couldn't. Duty was all he knew, all he was.

Michael nodded slowly, as if the answer had been written into the stars long before this moment. "Very well, then," he said, his tone softening into resignation. He reached out with his hand, and reality seemed to ripple. From nowhere—or rather, from some fold in space-time almost too subtle to detect—Michael retrieved a dark red gem, roughly the size of an apple.

"What is this?" Huron asked, his gauntleted hands closing cautiously around the gem. It was unnaturally smooth, its surface faintly warm, pulsing gently like a heartbeat.

"Fuel," Michael replied simply, though his tone carried the weight of something far more complex. He placed his hand lightly on Huron's scarred forehead, a touch both commanding and strangely gentle. "Normally, awakening and setting someone on their path would take about half an hour. A delicate process, careful and controlled. But to bring you to the level you need to fight this war? That would take weeks—three, maybe more. Time, we do not have. So we'll use this gem. It contains a significant reserve of power. Enough to shorten the process considerably."

Huron's eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest trace of suspicion curling through his mind. "You knew I would come, didn't you?" he asked, his voice part accusation, part curiosity.

Michael smiled then, a faint, knowing smile that seemed to hold the weight of a thousand mysteries. "Prescience, dear Huron," he said lightly, as if the word explained everything. "What part of that is unclear?"

Huron scowled but said nothing, his grip tightening on the gem.

Michael's smile widened slightly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Not precisely, mind you," he added. "I knew you would come eventually. But I've gathered reserves of raw power for a variety of failsafe's. This situation is one of them. Call it... contingency planning."

He straightened slightly, his tone becoming brisk. Huron's eyes narrowed as he tightened his grip on the gem. The Saint's tone, casual yet maddeningly certain, grated against his instincts. Trust did not come easily, not to a man who had lived lifetimes in war and politics. It was a foreign thing, unwelcome in the grim calculus that ruled his existence. He let Michael's words hang in the air, their implications digging at the edges of his mind.

"Brace yourself," Michael said, the faintest trace of amusement threading his voice, as if this were all some cosmic jest. "I've been told it's quite the trip."

Huron opened his mouth, but before the accusation or question could form, the Saint's hand pressed against his forehead. The world erupted into pure, unrelenting light.

It wasn't pain. It wasn't anything his body could comprehend. His senses dimmed, muted, pushed to the periphery as if his flesh had become an afterthought. He was floating—or falling—but in truth, he was nowhere. The constraints of his body, of armor and sinew, of the perpetual ache of battle, were gone. What remained was him. His soul, raw and unfiltered, exposed to the crushing weight of its own existence.

At first, there was chaos. His thoughts scattered like shrapnel in the void, each fragment twisting, reflecting parts of himself he had never seen so clearly. It was disorienting, maddening. A lesser mind would have shattered under the sheer force of introspection, but Huron was forged for war, his will tempered by centuries of command. He forced himself to focus, to sift through the storm.

And then the truth came, sharp and unrelenting.

He saw himself—his soul laid bare, stripped of the lies he told himself, the justifications he had crafted over decades. There were no shadows here to hide in, no half-truths to obscure his flaws.

His disdain for the frailty of mortals stood stark before him, an ugly stain across the iron of his being. He had always believed it was strength—an unshakable conviction in the superiority of the Astartes. But now he saw it for what it was: a weakness. A chink in his armor that others could exploit.

Then came the obsession. The Maelstrom. His endless drive to crush it, to burn it from existence. Not for the Imperium, not even for his Chapter—but for himself. It wasn't about duty, not entirely. It was fear. A fear that had festered in the dark corners of his soul since childhood, slipping past the genetic conditioning and hypnotherapy that had forged him into a Space Marine.

He saw it now, crystal clear: the raiders that had ravaged his homeworld, their ships descending like vultures on a dying carcass. The helplessness. The hatred. That fear had shaped him, driven him to destroy anything that threatened to bring it back. It had made him strong—but it had also made him blind.

And yet, amidst the flaws, there was strength.

His loyalty to the Emperor burned bright, unwavering even under this merciless scrutiny. His love for his brothers—his true brothers, not just the Astral Claws but the Maelstrom Warders as a whole—stood tall against the storm. These were the truths he clung to, the reasons he fought. Not to erase some old phobia, but to protect what he cherished. To save those who could not save themselves.

He faced every flaw, every crack in the armor of his soul, and one by one, he acknowledged them. Some were great, some petty, but all were his. And in accepting them, he found the strength to rise above them.

The world came back slowly, like a tide retreating to reveal the shore. He felt the cold stone beneath him, the weight of air pressing against his skin. But something was different—everything was different.

Huron pushed himself upright, the movement oddly fluid despite the debris surrounding him. The chair he had been sitting on was gone, reduced to splinters and dust. Not shattered in violence but crushed, outgrown.

His armor—Terminator plate, forged to withstand the fury of war—lay scattered in jagged pieces around him. Even that, crafted to contain the might of a Chapter Master, had proven insufficient.

He rose to his feet, and the world seemed smaller. No, he was larger. His frame, once monumental, now dwarfed its former proportions. He stood closer to three meters than the two-and-a-half he had been before, his very presence radiating power.

Huron stood motionless, his breath slow and deliberate, his mind reeling. The faint metallic tang of psychic discharge still clung to the air, acrid and electric. His massive hand clenched and unclenched reflexively, the memory of the gem's weight lingering like a phantom. He looked down at the hand that had held it—the vessel that had once contained enough power to unmake worlds. Michael had called it "fuel," dismissive and lighthearted, but Huron knew better now. That power had been poured into him, reshaping him, remaking him.

The physical transformation was obvious. His shattered armor lay in ruins at his feet, unable to contain the sheer scale of what he had become. His frame felt alien—bigger, stronger, every movement a reminder of his newfound enormity. But it wasn't the body that disturbed him. The body was a tool, a weapon forged for war. It was his mind that unnerved him.

He had expected clarity, perhaps some grand epiphany that would shatter his doubts and illuminate the path forward. But there was none of that. No sudden enlightenment, no torrent of divine insight flooding his thoughts. Instead, everything was just... smoother. The same pieces of knowledge he had always carried were now sharper, more precise. Ideas that had once been tangled webs now unraveled effortlessly.

It wasn't that he had become someone else. It was still him—Huron, the same grim and unyielding warrior who had carved his Chapter's name into the annals of history. But now, he could see the cracks in himself, the mistakes he had made, the shortsightedness of actions taken in the heat of battle. His mind felt honed, sharper than ever before, but the blade cut both ways. It forced him to face the truth: even he, Lufgt Huron, had been blind in his own way.

Michael's voice cut through his introspection, calm and steady, but with that strange undercurrent of knowing that always seemed to surround him. "Good. Welcome back to us, Gatekeeper."

Huron's gaze snapped to Michael, his brow furrowing. "Gatekeeper?" The word bristled against him, its implications unclear yet heavy with meaning.

Michael gestured lightly, as though the answer were obvious. "Reach inside your mind," he said. "You'll understand."

Huron hesitated. His mind was his fortress, his refuge, and he had no love for riddles. But something compelled him to obey, the same something that had brought him here in the first place. Slowly, deliberately, he delved inward.

It was there, waiting for him. Not something new, not something foreign, but something that felt like it had always been there, like an organ he'd never noticed but now couldn't imagine living without. He recoiled at first, his instincts flaring at the intrusion. But as he probed deeper, he began to understand. It wasn't an invader. It was a part of him now, woven seamlessly into the fabric of his being.

And with that understanding came revelation.

A map unfolded in his mind, vast and intricate, a lattice of pathways and currents. It was the Maelstrom, not as others saw it—a chaotic, shifting Warp storm—but as it truly was: a network of corridors, gates, and cycles. He could see the entrances and exits, the hidden passages that heretics and raiders used to slip through its fury. He could feel the rhythm of the storm, the patterns that governed its ebb and flow.

This changed everything.

His thoughts raced, cataloging a dozen possibilities at once. Strategies formed and reformed in his mind, ways to exploit this newfound knowledge to turn the tide against the Maelstrom's endless tide of raiders and cultists. But even as he plotted, something gnawed at the edges of his awareness.

There were... things within the storm. Shapes, presences, always submerged in the roiling chaos but not always hidden. They flickered like stars behind clouds, calling to him with a silent, insistent pull.

"Are those...?" His voice trailed off, uncertain for the first time in years.

"Warp gates," Michael confirmed, his tone betraying no surprise. "I suspected as much, but now you've confirmed it."

Huron's fists clenched. Warp gates. Ancient constructs that pierced the fabric of reality itself, linking one part of the galaxy to another. Their presence explained so much—the Maelstrom's unyielding persistence, its ability to defy every effort to destroy it.

Michael continued, his voice thoughtful. "It's been something of an intellectual curiosity of mine. Most Warp storms fade within millennia, yet this one has endured for sixty million years. The gates explain its longevity. The storm is anchored, fed by the warp's tides and stabilized by the gates. That's why no power has ever succeeded in dissipating it."

Huron's eyes narrowed as he studied the map that now lived within his mind. The pull of the warp gates gnawed at him, incessant and maddening. He clenched his fists and looked away from the mental image, as if tearing his gaze from it would silence their siren call. It didn't. They lingered, pressing on him like a cruel whisper in the back of his thoughts.

The knowledge Michael had handed him was monumental, a tool of unprecedented value. Yet it only sharpened his frustration. Sixty million years. Sixty million years of chaos, of death and destruction, all because of these damned gates. These fractures in reality, these open wounds in the galaxy, had birthed the Maelstrom and nurtured it like a dark seed. They had shielded his enemies, crippled his forces, and mocked his every effort to bring order to the storm's edge.

"This changes the war," he growled at last. His voice was low, gravelly, carrying the weight of a man who had fought too many battles, borne too many burdens.

Michael inclined his head, his expression a frustrating blend of understanding and serenity. "Oh, it doubtlessly does," he said, voice calm as if discussing the weather. "At least part of it. The raiders and xenos who use the Maelstrom as a haven will find their attempts to exit turned into bloodbaths." He paused, his tone growing sharper. "But problems still remain."

Huron's lips pulled back in a sneer. "The cults," he said, his voice clipped. "The ones infesting the Maelstrom-adjacent zones. Without the raiders shattering our supply lines, they'll be easier to deal with."

"Yes and no." Michael's tone was maddeningly even, like he was a tutor correcting a particularly stubborn student. "The cults are the true threat of this campaign. The forces within the Maelstrom are dangerous, yes, but they are little more than a feint—a distraction meant to draw our focus away from the real danger."

"Then come yourself," Huron snapped, his patience finally fraying. "Stop playing games with politicians and descend to the battlefield. Shatter them. You've done it before."

Michael didn't flinch, didn't bristle under Huron's barbed tone. If anything, he seemed even calmer, as though he'd been expecting this. "When I step personally into the Maelstrom Zone," he said, his words measured and deliberate, "hell is going to break loose. When that happens, we need to have everything prepared—every army, every defense, every contingency—so that we can annihilate whatever rises to challenge us. And," he added, "those preparations are almost complete."

"And in the meantime, worlds burn," Huron spat, his voice sharp enough to cut steel. The words came unbidden, more reflex than thought. Even as he said them, he knew they were unfair. Knew he was lashing out. Knew, deep down, that Michael wasn't wrong. But knowing didn't make it sting any less.

Michael sighed, his gaze distant for a moment, as though looking past Huron and into something only he could see. "You think me heartless," he said softly. "I see it in your eyes, hear it in your words. And yet, you don't feel what I feel. The cries of the dying, the desperation of the damned—they ring through the Warp, hammering against my soul with every passing day. Each one breaks a little piece of me." His gaze snapped back to Huron, fierce and unrelenting. "But if I act now, if I move before the time is right, it will play directly into the hands of our enemies. No. We are done playing their games."

The room was silent for a moment, the tension between them as palpable as the hum of Huron's damaged armor. Then Michael spoke again, his tone shifting to something more purposeful. "I will be doing more, Lufgt. Already, I've gained access to far greater assets than I had before. The Mechanicus will march to war. They'll field armies, even a Titan Legion or two. I'll give you fifty more of my Legions, fully armed and equipped. And more of the Sons of the Lion are coming to your aid. I've convinced them to place themselves under your command. They should be arriving soon."

Huron folded his arms, his mind racing as he calculated the new additions to his forces. Fifty Legions, fully equipped. Titans. And the Sons of the Lion. It would change things. It would tip the scales. But his instincts, honed through centuries of war, whispered caution. Nothing came without a price.

"And what," he asked, his voice cold and precise, "will be the price for the Mechanicus' aid?"

Michael smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Miracles and vengeance," he said. "There are Hell-forges within the Maelstrom they desire to burn to ashes. And I might have promised them the recovery of another STC database... during the war itself."

Huron grunted, the sound low and thoughtful. Miracles and vengeance. The Mechanicus didn't march lightly, but when they did, their wrath was biblical. The promise of an STC would bring their full weight to bear. "Ah," he said at last. The word was simple, clipped, but it carried the weight of understanding. The Mechanicus would be an asset like no other.

Huron leaned forward, his fists pressing into the table's edge as though he could crush his frustration into dust beneath his palms. His gaze was locked on Michael, sharp and unrelenting. The air between them seemed to hum with the weight of the words unspoken, the unyielding currents of two titanic wills in collision.

"And Segmentum Command?" Huron's voice cut through the tension like a blade, low and edged with controlled fury. He already knew the answer. He'd known it before the question left his lips. But some part of him—stubborn, relentless—wanted to hear the Saint say it. To hear him confirm the rot he already smelled.

Michael didn't flinch, but there was something grim in his expression now, a weight behind his eyes that hadn't been there moments before. "That's where things remain... troublesome," he said, his voice deliberate, as though weighing every syllable. "The Inquisition is doing what it can to herd them into being useful, but short of burning the entire Segmentum Command to the stake and replacing them with those loyal to our cause, it won't be enough."

Huron straightened, the motion sudden and sharp. "Then perhaps we should do that," he growled. The words weren't a suggestion; they were a challenge, a demand wrapped in steel. His hands flexed at his sides, the air around him practically vibrating with his restrained energy.

Michael's gaze hardened, a flash of warning breaking through his usual calm. "Careful there," he said, his voice quieter now but no less commanding. "I want to save the Imperium, not condemn it to a second Heresy. The checks and balances of power exist for a reason."

Huron barked a laugh, harsh and humorless. "And everyone in the Maelstrom Zone will be dead because of them. What use are they then? What use is balance to a corpse?"

Michael didn't rise to the provocation. He met Huron's scorn with an unsettling steadiness, his tone almost mournful. "If everyone in the Maelstrom Zone died so that those checks and balances remained intact, it would be a small price to pay."

The words hit Huron like a physical blow. His chest burned with sudden, searing ire, the kind of fury that demanded action, demanded destruction. "A small price?" he repeated, his voice rising like a storm. "Those are lives, Saint. Flesh and blood. Men and women who entrusted their survival to us. You speak of their deaths like you're trading rations!"

Michael's expression didn't shift, but his voice took on a harder edge, steel beneath the surface. "Don't misunderstand me," he said, the weight of his words pressing down on Huron's anger like a vice. "I will do everything in my considerable power to save as much of the Maelstrom Zone as I can. But I will not destroy the foundations of the Imperium to do so. If we save the Maelstrom only to set the galaxy on fire, what victory is that?"

Huron shook his head, his jaw clenched so tightly it felt like it might snap. "And yet they suffer," he said, his voice quieter now but no less fierce. "And not even all the power you've given me will be enough. The fifty Legions of Paladins won't be enough. A million and a half men and women, no matter how skilled, won't be enough. We need billions to turn the tide."

Michael nodded, his tone shifting, his words taking on a quieter intensity. "And you will have them," he said. "Segmentum Command's response has been haphazard because they're shuffling forces across countless battlefields. The Maelstrom is not the only war being fought, Huron. But they are awakening to the true threat. They're beginning to understand that throwing troops piecemeal will only add to the butcher's bill. Bureaucratic inertia is a terrifying thing, and it will take time to change. Time for their orders to travel the Segmentum. But it will change."

Huron exhaled sharply through his nose, his frustration only slightly abated. "And in the meantime?" he asked, his voice sharp as a blade.

"In the meantime," Michael said, his tone softening just slightly, "I have something to show you." He extended an armored arm. "Take hold."

Huron hesitated for only a moment before gripping Michael's arm. The Saint's presence was a strange mix of warmth and weight, as though the man carried with him the light of a thousand suns, tempered by the shadow of a thousand battles. Before Huron could fully process the sensation, the world twisted.

The bluish-white light engulfed them, warping space and time in a way that set Huron's teeth on edge. But there was something else—something different this time. His senses, sharpened by Michael's gifts, seemed to rejoice in the twisting of reality. He felt as though he could reach out, twist the fabric of existence itself, bend it to his will. The sensation was intoxicating, electric. But before he could explore it, the feeling vanished, and the world snapped back into focus.

He stood now on a massive platform, the air around him thick with the acrid tang of industry. The air bit at him, sharp with the tang of molten metal and scorched ceramite. Huron stood unmoving on the platform, though the industrial gale tugged at his cloak and sent sparks flitting past his scarred face like wayward fireflies. Below him sprawled a landscape that would have brought lesser men to their knees—not out of reverence, but sheer sensory overload.

It wasn't just a forge. That word was too small, too simple. This was a dominion. A kingdom of fire and steel carved from raw ambition and endless will. The machine-laden expanse stretched on for kilometers—twelve-point-eight of them, his new senses informed him with the cold detachment of a calculating engine. Huron's enhanced vision pierced the smog and shadows, taking in the sprawling scale of it: towers vomiting fire into the blackened sky, molten rivers rushing through labyrinthine channels, the relentless rhythm of hammers echoing like the heartbeat of a god.

And beneath that heartbeat lay its army.

Ranks upon ranks of them, strange humanoid and insectoid forms standing in rigid silence. Each figure was encased in armor so thick it rivaled Terminator plate, bristling with heavy bolters, plasma cannons, volkite chargers, and weapons that defied easy classification. Huron's enhanced mind registered them all, each a perfect piece in the brutal calculus of war. Yet for all their armaments and presence, they lacked the spark of life. These weren't soldiers; they were tools. Extensions of a will far greater than their own.

The platform shifted beneath his boots, gliding silently as it moved away from the rows of silent warriors. Another platform took its place, this one carrying yet more of the heavily armed constructs. Huron's gaze flicked upward, catching sight of the massive conveyor lines feeding the platforms. They came from the shadowed heights of the forge complex, massive cranes carefully lowering the constructs under the watchful eyes of Michael's so-called Techboys.

Huron studied them for a moment. The Techboys worked with the precision of the Adeptus Mechanicus, their movements stiff with cybernetic efficiency. Yet there was something undeniably human in their demeanor, a quality the Mechanicus seemed to have purged long ago in their endless pursuit of the Machine God. These men were a pale echo of the Tech-Priests—but an echo with a heart.

Further down the line, more machines emerged—tanks, vehicles, and the sleek, insect-like drones that had already proven their worth on the battlefield. He recognized them as the favorite weapon of the Drone Corps, those ghostly auxiliaries who drowned the enemy in relentless waves of fire. Yet all of this—every forge, every line, every platform—was dedicated to producing the armored figures he had seen first. The silent ranks. The steel army.

"This," Michael said, his voice cutting cleanly through the din, "is the heart of the next wave of reinforcements."

Huron turned to face him, his expression unreadable. The Saint stood at his side, his features as calm and controlled as ever, but his words carried the weight of something deeper. Something more dangerous. "My Paladins will never have the numbers required to hold the line indefinitely," Michael continued, his voice steady. "So, I have forged them tools of war. Tools to bring the firepower they need to the battlefield."

Huron's mind turned the words over like a blade in his hand, testing their weight. He gestured toward the ranks below. "The shapes I saw," he began, his tone flat but edged with curiosity. "They're some kind of drones?"

Michael shook his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Not quite," he said. "Similar in principle, I suppose, but not in execution. They're my take on the battle servitor. Heavily armored, heavily armed, and stripped of the limitations that come with flesh."

Huron's gaze returned to the ranks below. The constructs stood motionless, their featureless visages somehow more menacing for their lack of humanity. He imagined them unleashed, marching through the firestorms of the Maelstrom, their weapons spitting death into the hordes of Chaos and xenos alike. The thought was not unpleasant.

"How many of them?" he asked, his voice carrying the weight of command.

Michael's answer was immediate, his tone almost too calm for the enormity of the numbers he spoke. "Forty-two million are ready now," he said. "And with my… personal investment in the production cycle, an additional ten million will be joining your forces every two and a half months."

Michael's words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, like the heat pressing down from the forge below. Forty-two million. Ten million more every two and a half months. Numbers so vast they might have made an Imperial Guard general weep with gratitude. But Lufgt Huron wasn't some mortal bureaucrat in a gilded office. He was a warrior. A ruler. And a realist. Numbers were weapons, yes, but weapons had to be wielded. The Maelstrom was no ordinary battlefield. It was a crucible where even armies that could blot out the stars were ground into dust.

He folded his arms across his massive chest. His gaze swept the endless rows of constructs again, cold and calculating. The light from the molten rivers below cast them in sharp relief, their faceless forms gleaming like polished tombstones. Tools of war, Michael had called them. Huron could see it—could feel it—but he also saw the limitations.

"You think they'll be enough?" he asked finally, his voice a low rumble that cut through the din of the forge like a blade.

Michael's expression didn't shift. His calmness was infuriating, yet somehow reassuring, like he was already playing a game whose ending he knew. "Enough to shift the balance," Michael said. "Not really. But enough to buy us time."

Time. Huron nearly laughed. Time was a luxury he hadn't had since he first took the Chapter Master's mantle. Time to plan, to consolidate, to do more than lurch from crisis to crisis. He let the thought pass and instead focused on the here and now. "And the Mechanicus?" he pressed. "They won't throw a fit, seeing something that even sniffs of the dreaded Men of Iron?"

That, at least, got a reaction. Michael laughed. Not a chuckle or a polite gesture, but a deep, unrestrained laugh that echoed across the platform and drew the attention of several nearby Techboys. He wiped at his eyes, a gesture so human it was almost jarring.

"Sorry, Huron," Michael said, his voice still laced with amusement. "It's just the idea of these servitors being mistaken for Men of Iron—it's hilarious. The Mechanicus will know better, trust me. These aren't even close. Under all that armor, most of their cogitators and systems are still biological. The Mechanicus might grumble that I've made something leagues beyond their usual battle servitors, and they'll probably hate that some of them don't stick to the traditional human form. But once they see them in action, those complaints will stop."

Huron tilted his head slightly, scrutinizing the Saint. "You're confident."

"Extensively tested them," Michael replied without hesitation. "I've personally destroyed half a million of them during testing—chewed through them to perfect every system, every weakness. They'll never have a soldier's creativity, never think on their own, and they certainly won't have the self-preservation instincts of flesh-and-blood warriors—or even most servitors. But what they will have is armor layered with adamantium-alloyed ceramite and enough firepower to match an Astartes heavy fire squad. If something doesn't kill them with the first blow, it'll regret it."

Huron absorbed that in silence. The constructs below looked imposing enough, their bulk and weaponry more than adequate to deal with most threats. But testing was just that—testing. The battlefield didn't follow rules. It didn't care about perfect conditions or controlled scenarios.

"This will be their first true trial, then," he said, more statement than question.

Michael nodded. "It will. I am confident they'll prove their worth. You'll have the chance to test them extensively, trust me."

Huron's jaw tightened. Confidence was a fine thing, but confidence wouldn't turn the tide if these machines failed to deliver. He shifted his attention back to Michael. "Have you had more visions of the war?" he asked, the words weighted with the tension of a man who had spent too long trying to decipher prophecy.

Michael's demeanor changed, a flicker of something less certain crossing his face. "Always," he said. "But we're entering a phase where even my prescience is becoming unreliable. Soon it will be cut off entirely."

That wasn't the answer Huron wanted to hear, though he wasn't surprised. The Maelstrom did that—it blurred the lines, even for a man like Michael. "And this vision?" he pressed. "Did it come from your foresight?"

Michael shook his head. "No. This one comes from a more… mundane source of information. If you can call the Deathwatch mundane."

Huron frowned. The Deathwatch. That name carried weight. "The Orks," he said, piecing the fragments together. The greenskins had been a minor nuisance so far, but the Maelstrom had a way of drawing in every kind of scum and horror the galaxy could conjure.

"Three Waaaghs are coming," Michael confirmed, his tone grim. "The largest is headed straight for the Warp Storm itself—or so it seems. But the other two will hit outside, and they'll hammer at everything in their path. Your Warders, my Paladins, and these new combat servitors will be needed to hold them back."

The weight of Michael's words settled into Huron's mind like a shard of broken glass. Three Waaaghs. Three brutal, unstoppable green tsunamis. The Maelstrom had a talent for pulling in the worst horrors the galaxy had to offer, and now it had snagged not one but three Ork hordes. The largest was going into the Warp Storm itself, which meant it would likely be swallowed by the swirling madness, though even that wasn't certain. The other two? They would crash into the already frayed defenses outside the storm, ripping and tearing until only bones and ash remained.

Huron exhaled slowly, the sound low and grating in his throat. Frustration roiled beneath the surface like a tide of molten iron. The Warders were already spread too thin. The Paladins, Michael's so-called miracle warriors, were bleeding out alongside them. And the Emperor's finest—his Astral Claws—were holding together a front stitched with desperation and faith. He leaned over the railing, his hands tightening on the cold metal until it groaned under the pressure of his augmented strength. Below, the servitors were being moved in disciplined lines, the clanking of heavy machinery and the hiss of steam filling the cavernous forge.

"We can't catch a break," Huron muttered, his voice heavy with resignation.

He stood there, his bare torso exposed to the flickering light. His armor—what had been left of it—was destroyed by the physical changes wrought by Michael's "gift." The growth spurt had shattered it, and until a new set could be forged, he was left bare, his scarred, battle-hardened form a testament to decades of war. The air smelled of machine oil and seared metal, mingled with the ozone tang of energy fields. Another cacophony in the symphony of war.

"You just might," Michael said, his voice cutting through the noise like a scalpel. The Saint's calm was infuriating, but there was always something behind it—a quiet weight that demanded attention. "What I'm about to reveal to you, you will not share with anyone else. Not a soul."

Huron turned his head slowly, his expression hardening. There was something in Michael's tone that crawled under his skin. It wasn't a request—it was a command, laced with menace.

Michael's eyes bored into him. "When I say this, I mean it. I want your word, and this word will be backed by my power. If you so much as think of breathing this to anyone not already in the know, you will suffer an excruciating death. Your body will betray you. Your blood will boil, your muscles will tear, and your very cells will rebel."

The threat wasn't empty. Huron could feel the subtle pulse of power radiating from the Saint—a whisper against his soul, light as a feather but sharp as a knife. He didn't flinch, though his lip curled slightly in annoyance. "Why would you insult me so?" he growled. "Am I so untrustworthy?"

Michael didn't blink. "This isn't about trust. It's about certainty. I can't take chances—not with this. What I'm about to tell you could set the galaxy ablaze if it ever got out. There can be no carelessness. So, I ask you: Will you give me your word? Will you shoulder this burden so that you can save those under your protection?"

The silence between them was heavy, like the moments before a battle charge. Huron's jaw tightened, and then he nodded, the movement sharp and deliberate. "I will," he said simply.

The whisper of power grew stronger for an instant, brushing against his soul like the touch of a cold wind. It wasn't a binding he could see, but he felt it, knew it. It was a leash made of fire, ready to tighten and burn if he broke his word. He would not break it.

Michael inclined his head slightly. "Thank you." His tone softened, but not by much. "Earlier, I told you the Sons of the Lion would come to your aid. What I didn't tell you is who I meant. A good third of the First Legion is coming. Forty-five thousand Astartes in total."

Huron's mind froze for a moment, the weight of that number staggering. He blinked, his thoughts scrambling to catch up. "That's impossible," he breathed. "There aren't that many successors of the Dark Angels in the galaxy."

"There aren't," Michael agreed, his tone as steady as ever. "Not within the borders of the Imperium."

Huron's eyes narrowed, suspicion coiling in his gut. "What are you saying?"

Michael took a step closer, his expression grave. "The First Legion was never truly disbanded. After the Scouring, the Primarchs together made a choice—a choice to preserve a force that could fight in the dark spaces beyond the Astronomican's reach. A Legion unbroken. Of all the Legions, they were the only ones suited to the task. The Lion saw to that personally. Strict oversight, hidden by necessity, ensured their survival. They were given leave to operate beyond the borders of the Imperium, so long as they never crossed those borders in Legion strength… unless events demanded it."

The weight of Michael's revelation settled over Lufgt Huron like a stormfront, slow but unrelenting. Forty-five thousand Astartes—the First Legion, the Sons of the Lion—hidden for millennia, now on the brink of stepping into the light. His first thought was disbelief. His second was fury, smoldering just beneath the surface. A force of that magnitude could have shifted the balance years ago, could have smashed through the Maelstrom's filth and carved order into its madness. Instead, they'd waited. Waited while the Warders bled themselves dry holding the line.

He didn't let the fury show. Instead, he growled low, like a wolf testing its chains. "And now… those events have come."

Michael tilted his head, the faint glow of his presence cutting through the room's dim light like the hum of a power sword. "I know what you're thinking. Why weren't they here before? They were. Hidden. Acting where they could, in the guise of the Deathwatch or striking unseen. Their focus has been elsewhere—halting a Hrud migration that would have drowned entire sectors in entropy. Even with my skills and those of the Five Hundred, it will take them years to recover. But they march now, answering the call of duty."

The rebuke was there, sharp as a dagger under a cloak. Huron accepted it with a shallow nod, swallowing his pride like bitter medicine. "My eyes were lowered," he admitted, the words grating in his throat. "What do you need from me?"

Michael's gaze sharpened. "Cover. Forces from three Dark Angels successor chapters and three companies of the Dark Angels themselves will join this war within the month. The First Legion will borrow their colors where possible, but it won't be enough. Not unless you adjust. Spread your forces into smaller formations, strike teams. Let them blend in. Let them borrow the heraldry of the Maelstrom Warders. Understand, Lufgt —if their secret is ever revealed…"

The words hung in the air, heavy with implications. Huron finished the thought. "Civil war." His voice was flat, the phrase stripped of theatrics. The kind of truth you couldn't afford to dress up. "Consider it done. With the abilities you've awakened in me, I can justify the strategy—ambushes at the Maelstrom's exits, raids into its depths. My forces dispersed, striking where the enemy doesn't expect them. Backed by your Paladins and these new combat servitors. Though the Stirpes Imperialis..."

Michael's expression didn't soften, but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes—calculation, resolve, perhaps even trust. "The Stirpes Imperialis are bound by oaths far more powerful than the one you just swore. I taught them to wield the Emperor's Light, but those teachings walk a fine line, too easily bent toward sorcery. Even if they aren't wise enough to avoid asking questions, they will keep their silence."

Huron nodded, his mind already racing ahead, turning over strategies like a butcher sorting through knives. "Good. Then I'll make it work. It will be a delicate balance, but I'll try."

Michael's grin was wolfish, sharp-edged with the promise of something he hadn't yet revealed. "Not as delicate as you think," he said, his voice carrying a weight that felt older than the stars. "Your abilities go further than you realize. Your awareness of the Maelstrom and its currents, of space-time manipulation, is just the beginning. You can create stable, paired warp portals—short-lived but precise. Two points in space and time, connected by your will. Try it."

The words were a command, not a suggestion. Huron hesitated, then reached inward, into that part of himself that pulsed with the Maelstrom's map, its ever-shifting currents and treacherous warp gates. Deeper still, past the maddening hum of his enhanced awareness. And there it was—a new power, a predator lying in wait. He could feel it, coiled and ready. He gave it form, gave it motion.

The realization struck Huron like a thunderhead rolling over his mind. He could feel it—this newfound ability, this power to create paired warp portals, was not merely a weapon but a revelation. The twin gates shimmered in his mind's eye, their edges rippling like liquid silver, tinged with gold. He could summon them with precision, choose their size, their position, their duration. A battleship could pass through as easily as a man walking through a door. It wasn't perfect—there were limits. The portals couldn't form too near a star or a planetary mass, and they wouldn't last forever. But still, the sheer potential roared in his veins, a fire he couldn't quench.

Then, like a blow to the chest, it hit him. They weren't beneath Minas Tirith's surface as he'd assumed. They were perched on one of the asteroid fragments circling it, part of the planet's great orbital ring. The vastness of it all snapped into focus, like seeing the battlefield from a new vantage point. It changed nothing. It changed everything.

Huron flexed his gauntleted fingers, the tension in his body coiled like a predator about to strike. "Interesting," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

He tried again, reaching into that wellspring of power. This time, he focused on something smaller. Less ambitious. He visualized the portals forming close—two shimmering gates, a kilometer apart. The edges rippled like the waters of a mountain stream, clear and sharp, streaked with faint golden light. The space between them was a void, pure black, unyielding, and silent.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward, crossing the threshold. The warp whispered to him as he moved through it, vile murmurs brushing against his thoughts like carrion flies. This power will devour you, the voices hissed. You are nothing. A speck in the storm. Lies. All of it lies. He was a Space Marine. Death was his duty, and the warp was nothing more than a poisonous fog trying to claw at a fortress it could never breach. He ignored the whispers, his mind unshaken, his will unyielding.

The journey was brief, timeless in a way that only the warp could twist. When he emerged from the second gate, it was as if he had taken a single step. He stood now near one of the production lines where some of the lizard-like combat servitors were being assembled. The Techboys—a strange, jittering blur of movement and monotone chants—glanced at him only briefly before returning to their work, their motions stuttering, as if they moved ahead of time itself. Huron's curiosity stirred, but before he could linger, he felt the familiar pull of teleportation. Michael's power wrapped around him, inexorable and precise.

He could have resisted. Perhaps. But what would have been the point? He let it take him, and in a flash of light and displacement, he stood before Michael once more, near the portal he had left behind.

Michael smiled faintly, his expression as inscrutable as ever. "So, how was it?"

"Tiring," Huron admitted. The weight of the power was palpable now, a drain on his body and mind. He could form perhaps two dozen portals in a day, no more. And even that felt insufficient given the demands of the war. "And the whispers of the warp... mortals wouldn't fare as well."

Michael nodded, his tone thoughtful. "If they are under the anathema wards of the Stirpes Imperialis, the whispers won't touch them. In fact, they won't hear them at all. But I see how much this strains you, Lufgt. So, if you'll allow me, one last gift."

Huron narrowed his eyes, suspicion flickering in his gaze. "Another one of your gems filled with raw power?" He didn't bother to mask the edge in his voice. Gifts often carried burdens.

Michael's smile turned wry, a sharp edge of amusement beneath it. "You wouldn't be able to use them properly, even if I did. No, this is different." He paused, as if weighing the explanation. "I've discovered something. If I embed a piece of myself—a shard of my bones, specifically—into another, it creates a bond. A psychic connection. Limited in function, yes, despite my best efforts. But as a bridge, a conduit through which you can draw upon my power? It works exceedingly well. And distance doesn't seem to matter."

Huron crossed his arms, his expression unreadable, though his mind churned. The prospect was intriguing, but he could already see the potential for abuse, for dependency. "A shard of your bones," he repeated slowly, his voice low and deliberate. "You can regrow them?"

"I can," Michael said simply, his voice calm, measured. "As easily as you draw breath. It's no sacrifice for me, Lufgt. But for you? It might make all the difference."

Huron stood motionless, his arms crossed, his gaze steady, but his mind roiled like a storm-tossed sea. A shard of bone, embedded within him. A connection to an unfathomable wellspring of power. He could already see the risks: dependency, corruption, perhaps even a slow erosion of his autonomy. Yet the rewards... the possibilities... they were undeniable. And Huron was not a man to turn away from dangerous tools if they could serve his purpose. He uncrossed his arms with a deliberate motion. "Then do it," he said, his voice low but firm.

Michael stepped forward, placing a hand on Huron's chest. The touch was light, almost inconsequential, followed by a faint prick, like the bite of a gnat. And then it was over. Huron glanced down, expecting some visible mark, but his genetically enhanced flesh had already healed, leaving no trace of the Saint's work. For a moment, it seemed like nothing had changed.

Then it hit him.

The sensation bloomed in his mind like a sunburst, a new thread interwoven with the tapestry of his thoughts. It unfurled alongside his mental map of the Maelstrom, right next to the pathways he now instinctively understood for forming Warp portals. But this was different. This was a doorway—not a gate he could step through, but something far vaster. He peered through it cautiously, his consciousness brushing against the edges, and what waited on the other side took his breath away.

It was a sea. No, an ocean. No, even that word felt too small. It was an infinite expanse of molten white-gold power, swirling with impossible depth and heat. He knew, instinctively, that he could draw upon it in moments of need. But he also knew, with the same instinctive clarity, that to try and harness all of it would obliterate him. His body, his soul—he would be reduced to ash, his existence snuffed out in an instant.

And yet Michael wielded this. Controlled it. Survived it. A flicker of something unfamiliar stirred in Huron's chest: respect. Deep, grudging respect. If Huron had access to such power, he knew what he would become—a tyrant unlike any other, a conqueror whose name would be whispered in terror for millennia. That Michael carried this power and had not succumbed to such temptation spoke of a discipline Huron could not yet fully comprehend.

He tore his mind away from the overwhelming presence of that power, grounding himself in the present moment. The first question that surfaced in his mind was blunt, practical, and direct—like Huron himself. "Is that how your Stirpes Imperialis have begun throwing bigger and bigger spells lately?"

Michael tilted his head slightly, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips. "No. Few among them have been granted the privilege to draw from this power." He gestured faintly, as if brushing the idea aside. "The power they wield, even if not as directly as you now can wield mine, comes from the Emperor. Compared to Him, I am but a spark to a supernova. And their power functions differently. It is anathema to Chaos itself. The more they spread it into the world around them, the more potent it becomes. Like dry kindling feeding a fire."

Huron frowned, the implications swirling in his mind. "Let's hope it won't consume them," he muttered, his voice heavy with skepticism.

"It won't," Michael said with quiet confidence. "They may lack combat experience, but there are few beings in this galaxy more disciplined and skilled than my Stirpes Imperialis. Their control is absolute."

Huron grunted, still not entirely convinced but unwilling to press the point further. Michael was already moving, his hand sweeping through the air. Space itself seemed to shiver and split as he pulled an object from the void—a suit of armor.

Huron's breath caught at the sight of it. The armor was titanic, built to accommodate his newly enhanced frame. A Dreadnought's frame, yet sleek, purposeful, devoid of the bulk that so often defined such war machines. Its surface was a stark, gleaming silver, the raw purity of adamantium unmarred by heraldry or color. Only the purity seals marked its surface, their parchment fluttering faintly in an unseen wind.

As Huron watched, the armor shifted. The silver darkened, streaks of cerulean and gold creeping across its surface like veins of ore. The colors of the Astral Claws emerged, bold and defiant. His personal heraldry took shape across the chest plate, the sigils etched with an artistry that belied the brutal efficiency of its construction.

And then he felt it—that familiar lurch of teleportation. He almost rolled his eyes at Michael's flair for theatrics, but he held himself still as the world twisted around him. A moment later, he stood within the armor, its systems already interfacing with the black carapace beneath his skin.

The process was seamless, faster than anything Huron had experienced before. The armor responded to him instantly, as if it were an extension of his own body. He flexed his fingers, feeling the raw strength coursing through the servos and actuators. This was no ordinary warplate. This was a weapon in its own right, a tool of destruction fit for a warrior of his stature.

Huron flexed his gauntleted hand, feeling the power thrumming through his newly enhanced body. His lips curled into a feral grin, wolfish and predatory. The type of grin that had sent countless enemies scattering before him. "Let's find out," he growled, his voice low and full of promise.

Michael tilted his head, the faintest flicker of amusement passing through his otherwise serene expression. "You will have the chance," he said, his grin widening like a cat watching a particularly interesting mouse. "But first, I'll ask two things of you."

Huron raised an eyebrow, his patience wearing thin. "What?" he asked curtly.

"First, use your portals to expedite the arrival of my heavy combat servitors to the Maelstrom. I've sent starships, but even the fastest ships take time. With your power, we can move faster. At least until the first of my Techboys' forge-ships arrive in the Maelstrom Zone."

Huron snorted. "I was planning to ask permission to do so anyway. Consider it done. What's the second?"

Michael's grin turned sharp, almost mischievous. There was that damn look again — the one that meant trouble. "Don't let your gene-brothers drag you into a bloody rampage or monkish seclusion."

Huron's eyes narrowed, his mind immediately bristling at the perceived insult. "None of my Astral Claws have any such leaning, nor do any among the Maelstrom Warders," he replied gruffly. He crossed his arms, glaring at the Saint as if daring him to explain this absurd demand.

"Oh, I don't mean your Astral Claws," Michael said, his grin now openly devilish. "I mean the Black Templars, who are joining the war in the Maelstrom."

Huron froze, his mind catching on the name like a blade snagging flesh. "But they aren't my—" The words stumbled out of his mouth before realization struck him like a hammer to the chest. His eyes widened slightly behind his helm. "You mean we…"

Michael's laughter was loud, bright, and thoroughly infuriating. "Are the sons of Dorn," he said, his voice rich with mirth. "Of course. It's quite obvious."

Obvious? Obvious?! Huron's mind raced as he processed the revelation. For centuries, they had searched for their gene-sire, sifted through the shrouded mysteries of their origins, and now — now — the Saint just told him in the middle of a casual conversation, like it was the weather. The audacity of it.

Before he could muster a response, Michael teleported away in a flash of bluish-white light, leaving him alone in the quiet hum of his chamber. The asshole.

Huron stood still for a long moment, his thoughts a storm of irritation, disbelief, and — if he were honest — a grudging admiration. The smile that blossomed beneath his helm was involuntary, but he allowed it. Dorn. The truth was finally theirs. And, in typical Saint fashion, Michael had delivered it in the most unceremonious, irreverent way possible. The Saint truly did have a soldier's humor — blunt, galling, and entirely effective.

Shaking his head, Huron turned to his tasks. His hand reached out, and the portal shimmered into existence before him, its swirling surface reflecting the fiery hues of the Maelstrom. His war wasn't over. Far from it. But now, he had news — joyous, hard-won news — to share with his battle-brothers.

The Black Templars were coming.

Black sheep of the Imperial Fists gene-line or not, they were family. And if Huron knew anything about his newfound gene-brothers, it was this: They would fight like hell.

Stepping through the portal, Huron allowed himself one last thought, tinged with a rare flicker of humor.

Michael was an asshole.

But damn, he was good at it.

---

Shiani stood at the viewport, her dark eyes fixed on the swirling miasma of yellow-purple clouds shrouding Kharoom II. The glass before her hummed faintly, transmitting the low, ever-present vibration of her cruiser's engines. Somewhere deep in her chest, a knot of unease twisted tighter. The sight before her was wrong in ways she couldn't yet name.

Two weeks ago, her gift—the Saint's gift—had blazed like a torch in the back of her mind, warning her of a shift in Kharoom II's allegiance. She'd barely had time to process it before it became something else. A gaping void. An absence. The kind of absence that swallowed reason. The kind of absence that whispered of betrayal and ruin.

She hadn't wasted time. Within hours, she'd mobilized what resources were at hand, scraping together ships and soldiers and ordering her Inquisitorial cruiser to warp. Her mandate was clear: drag this world back into the Emperor's light, or raze it to ash with Exterminatus fire.

But the Emperor himself must have been laughing bitterly when her fleet arrived. Her gift pulsed cold certainty: there was no allegiance left on Kharoom II. No loyalty. No rebellion. No lives. Ten billion souls — gone.

And the silence? The silence was deafening. Not a single psyker had sensed a death scream. Not one soul's passing had rippled through the Immaterium. How could an entire industrial world vanish without even the faintest echo?

It didn't make sense. Nothing about it made sense.

Now, as Shiani stared down at the dead planet, her jaw tightened. Clouds churned over the surface, the shades of decay and sickness—yellow and purple, swirling and writhing like living things. They reeked of psychic corruption. That much was clear. But the Stirpe Imperialis sorcerer-priests, with their strange blend of Imperial faith and arcane insight, had deemed the clouds dormant. A curiosity, they'd said, as though a psychic atmosphere born from the deaths of billions was some puzzle to idly ponder.

"Dormant," she murmured aloud, voice like a knife against glass. Her reflection in the viewport stared back, sharp and cold. "If they're dormant, then what purpose did they serve?"

Theories swirled in her mind, each more disturbing than the last. Was it Chaos? Likely, but Chaos rarely left its meals unfinished. Or had the Eldar done this? She wouldn't put it past them. That damned alliance with the Saint had emboldened their arrogance. Perhaps one of their witch-covens had tried to play savior—or executioner.

Her lips curled in a humorless smile. That, or they'd simply decided to test the Emperor's Tears gems Michael had entrusted to them. Trusting xenos with such power still felt like treason, no matter how much Michael insisted it was a necessary evil.

Shiani stepped back from the viewport, her boots clicking against the deck. She didn't have answers yet. Not enough to act, anyway. Her investigation teams were still scouring the surface. Acolytes, Stirpe Imperialis sorcerer-priests, and even one of the Angels of Vigilance, their Librarian clad in black and bone to conceal his true lineage. Their vehicles, marked with golden wards and the faint shimmer of Emperor's Tears, rose steadily from the polluted surface below, untouched by the corruption that smothered the world.

She folded her arms, her thoughts racing. The wards were holding, yes, but that only deepened the mystery. Whatever had fed on this planet — whether ritual or weapon, Chaos or xenos — it had already fulfilled its purpose. That much seemed clear.

And that terrified her.

If it had taken ten billion souls and done this, what was it meant to do next?

The bridge behind her hummed with quiet activity, officers murmuring commands, tech-priests tending to sacred machines, and servitors whirring in their eternal monotony. Shiani let their presence ground her. For all the horrors she faced, the rhythm of command was constant.

"Status on the recovery teams?" she asked without turning, her voice slicing through the low din.

"Returning to the hangar, Inquisitor," replied a nearby officer, his tone clipped and precise. "Their wards remain intact. No signs of contamination."

"Good." She allowed herself a thin smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Prepare for debriefing. And double the quarantine protocols. I don't want even a whisper of what's down there escaping this ship."

The officer nodded and moved to relay her orders. Shiani turned back to the viewport, her gaze hard and unyielding.

Shiani's heels echoed down the corridor as she made her way to the debriefing chamber, her thoughts a swirling tempest of suspicion and determination. The questions gnawed at her, as relentless as the tides of the Warp. What in the Emperor's name had happened on Kharoom II? And who—or what—had intervened before she arrived?

Her cruiser hummed faintly, a reminder of its vast, brooding presence. The Light of Redemption was a fortress, a weapon, and her sanctum. It had seen countless campaigns, been the staging ground for judgments rendered in fire and steel, and now it carried her through the Maelstrom zone, where the stars themselves seemed tainted with madness.

The debriefing chamber was a cold, utilitarian space. Steel walls framed the room, unadorned but for a single aquila emblazoned on the far wall, its stern gaze a reminder of their shared purpose. Two men waited for her, both already standing at attention.

The first was Ishmael, the Dark Angels Librarian, towering and implacable in his black and yellow armor. The ceramite plates of his wargear gleamed under the harsh lumen strips, the polished surfaces catching the light like the facets of a predator's eye. His expression, unreadable beneath his helm, betrayed nothing. Shiani didn't need to see his face to know what lay behind it—lethal precision and a zeal tempered by centuries of secrets.

Beside him stood Firn, cadre leader of the Stirpe Imperialis, his scarred, bald head gleaming under the same unforgiving light. His ochre-colored power armor was less ornate than Ishmael's but no less imposing. Shiani's gaze flicked briefly to the man's sternum, where she knew the Emperor's Tear gem was embedded, hidden beneath layers of ceramite and faith. Firn might not carry the same genetic legacy as the Astartes beside him, but the Tear marked him as untouchable by corruption. The last one of his kind who had faltered in their faith had burned for ten days, a screaming pillar of living fire.

She let her eyes rest on them both for a moment, weighing the tension in the room. It was almost palpable—two predators brought into a cage together. Nominal allies, yes, but trust between their kind was a rare and fragile thing.

"Gentlemen," she said finally, her voice a blade wrapped in silk. Soft, but edged enough to remind them of who they were dealing with. An Inquisitor did not need to shout to command a room. "Report. What did you find down there?"

Firn was the first to speak, his voice rough, shaped by years of shouting orders over the din of battle. "Someone turned this planet to the Ruinous Powers," he began, blunt as ever. "Pyramids of skulls, fields of impaled and flayed bodies. The usual signs. From the look of things, it wasn't easy for them. They fought for this—hard. But they managed to win before the loyalists could send a message. Or at least one that reached anyone who could act on it."

Shiani folded her arms, her face unreadable. "The Inquisition had agents stationed there," she said, answering the unspoken question in Firn's tone. She let the lie sit there like a shield, her gift hidden beneath layers of secrecy. "Their deaths will be mourned."

Firn's eyes narrowed slightly, skepticism flickering across his face. Whether he doubted the lie about her agents or her supposed mourning, she couldn't be sure. He gave a small nod, though, and continued. "Someone—or something—else got there before we did. Killed everyone. Loyalist. Heretic. All of them." He paused, the weight of his next words hanging in the air like a blade. "Whatever it was, it stopped the ritual."

Shiani's gaze narrowed, sharp enough to cut through the dim glow of the holo-litanies flickering along the chamber's walls. "Stopped it?" she repeated, her voice clipped and honed. It wasn't a question so much as a demand for clarity.

Firn nodded, his scarred face unreadable but his posture taut, like a steel blade on the verge of snapping. "Both the Stirpes Imperialis and Ishmael confirmed it," he said. His voice had that edge, a forced calm masking unease. "Whatever that psychic storm was, it's dormant now. The heretics didn't finish what they started. Or someone made sure they couldn't."

The weight of that hung between them for a beat, thick and cold. Shiani's mind raced, probing the implications like a scalpel to an open wound. Someone. Not her forces, not the Emperor's agents. Someone else. And someone, in her experience, always meant trouble.

"Do we know what they were trying to do?" she asked, her tone even but her words like a knife twisting for leverage.

"They were either trying to pull the entire planet into the Warp," Ishmael rumbled, the Dark Angel's voice as steady and ponderous as an ironclad dreadnought, "or turn it into a daemon world. The evidence is... inconclusive." He paused, his armored bulk shifting slightly, the sound of ceramite grinding faintly audible. "At the stage of preparations, they were in, it could have developed into either."

Shiani's lips twitched into a semblance of a frown, though she quickly stilled it. "I see," she said, her voice steady but tight. "Any evidence of who stopped them?"

Firn snorted softly, an uncharacteristic show of emotion from the pragmatic officer. "Not as such. Whoever it was had plenty of psychic power behind them—and really liked their swords." He straightened, the lines of his armor catching the light as he spoke. "A lot of the heretics were cut to pieces. Clean work. The kind of neat, surgical cuts you'd expect from power blades. The ones killed at range…" He glanced toward Ishmael, as if for confirmation, before continuing. "Charred to ash by raw psychic force. Or shattered by something else entirely. The psychic remnants are unmistakable."

Shiani's brows furrowed slightly, her mind turning the description over like a puzzle box. "The Eldar, then?" she asked, the question tasting like sour wine in her mouth.

"No." Ishmael's response was immediate, his tone final. "I've faced the Eldar before. Their power is precise, like a scalpel cutting through reality. This…" He paused, as though searching for the right word. "This had undertones of earth. Heavy. Solid. Brutal. The Eldar have never exhibited anything remotely like this."

Her suspicion deepened, a knot tightening in her chest. "Could it be the effect of the Emperor's Tears gems?" she asked, her voice cautious but probing.

Firn shook his head. "The gems purify. They don't alter the nature of the power wielded through them. No, I agree with Ishmael. This wasn't Eldar. It's too heavy-handed. Too direct."

Shiani's eyes narrowed further, the gears of her mind grinding against the lack of answers. "I see," she murmured. "I suppose these mysterious assailants left no trace behind?"

Ishmael crossed his arms, the gesture making him appear even more imposing. "Nothing physical," he said. "But the psychic traces are… abundant. Unfortunately, we lack both the skill and the time to divine what they are."

"Why the time crunch?" Shiani asked, her voice laced with sharpness. "Didn't these forces—whoever they are—wipe out the heretics?"

"They did," Firn answered, his tone grim. "And thoroughly. There's nothing left alive down there except maybe bacteria. But the power they gathered? It's still there. Dormant, but festering. If we don't act now—if we allow it to seep into the world's crust, the air, the oceans—it'll rot the planet from the inside out. Even without a guiding hand, it'll make this world uninhabitable for millennia."

Shiani's jaw tightened. "The atmospheric incinerators, then?" she asked.

"The ones blessed by Lord Michael," Firn confirmed. His voice held a rare reverence when the spoke of the Saint. "They'll ensure that nothing of those accursed energies remains on this world."

She exhaled slowly, the tension in her chest coiling tighter. "We have very few of those incinerators," she reminded him.

"The alternative," Firn said, meeting her gaze with a hard-edged expression, "is leaving this planet a burned husk. One still tainted by the kind of power that could have forged a daemon world. And as Lord Michael often says— 'The worst thing that can happen will happen, when it causes the most damage.'" He paused, his gaze unwavering. "And this? This would cause damage. A lot of it."

Shiani let the words hang in the silence like the faint echo of a tolling bell. The weight of Firn's report wasn't new, but it still carried that cold, familiar edge. Decisions like this didn't come with second chances. They were absolute. A calculus of survival, stripped of sentiment.

Her mind sifted through the facts, weighing probabilities like the shifting pieces of a battlefield. Kharoom Secundus was already a corpse, its surface defiled by the stink of sorcery and slaughter. The planet's death was inevitable. The how was all that remained, and Shiani was never one to shy away from the blade that needed wielding.

She stood, her voice slicing through the charged air of the chamber. "Gentlemen, thank you for your report. Take some well-deserved rest. I will handle this personally."

Firn and Ishmael exchanged brief glances before offering crisp salutes. They didn't argue. They were soldiers, after all, conditioned to recognize finality in an inquisitor's tone. They left without a word, boots clicking with precision against the cold metal floor.

Shiani remained a moment longer, staring at the flickering hololith displaying the corrupted planet below. The yellow and purple storms churned like open wounds across its surface, a visual reminder of what the Warp could do to even the proudest of Imperial worlds. It was repugnant.

And yet… someone had cleansed it.

The thought pricked at her. The heretics were dead, their vile rites undone, but the how lingered like a question she couldn't ignore. She dismissed the unease and turned on her heel, her black coat flaring slightly behind her as she strode toward the bridge.

The Light of Redemption's bridge was a stark contrast to the solemn quiet of the debriefing chamber. The hum of machinery, the low murmur of officers at their stations, and the occasional chime of auspex scanners filled the space with a controlled urgency. Shiani stepped onto the command dais, her presence drawing immediate attention.

"Take position above Kharoom Secundus," she ordered curtly.

Her command was met with a flurry of activity, but her gaze remained fixed on the planet displayed on the main view screen. The churning storms seemed to roil in defiance, as though the Warp itself understood what was coming.

A junior officer approached, data-slate in hand. "Inquisitor, preparations for Exterminatus are complete. Awaiting your command."

Shiani gave a single, sharp nod. Ritual demanded words, even when the world below was already bereft of life. Faith was as much a weapon as any torpedo. She stood tall, her voice ringing with the cold precision of duty as she began the pronouncement.

"We have arrived, and it is now that we perform our charge. In fealty to the God-Emperor, our undying Lord, and by the grace of the Golden Throne, I declare Exterminatus upon the Imperial world of Kharoom Secundus. I hereby sign the death warrant of a world and consign a million souls to oblivion. May Imperial Justice account in all balance. The Emperor Protects."

The officers on the bridge whispered the response in unison, their voices a reverent echo. "The Emperor protects."

The torpedo's launch was silent, a single lance of purpose cutting through the void. Shiani watched as it descended, the golden radiance of its warhead glinting faintly against the darkness. As it breached the atmosphere, the storms responded, writhing and twisting like wounded beasts. Yellow and purple tendrils of corrupted energy lashed out, as though trying to snuff out the torpedo's light.

But the Emperor's will was absolute.

Golden flames erupted from the warhead, consuming the tainted clouds in an instant. The fire spread with unnatural precision, a storm of purifying radiance that scoured the atmosphere. Shiani's breath caught as shapes began to form within the inferno—angelic figures and winged beasts of golden energy. They moved with purpose, clashing against shadowy abominations that rose from the storms in a futile attempt to resist.

The bridge was silent as the crew watched the unfolding spectacle, their awe palpable. Shiani's expression remained impassive, but her mind churned. The fire wasn't ordinary, even by the standards of atmospheric incinerators. This was something… more.

The golden flames spread, consuming everything. Shadows screamed silently as they were obliterated, their forms disintegrating into nothingness. The energy storm collapsed under the weight of the Emperor's judgment, leaving only the blinding radiance of the firestorm behind.

When the flames finally died down, the planet was a blackened husk, its surface scoured clean of corruption. The bridge officers began their post-Exterminatus routines, but Shiani's gaze lingered on the screen.

"Engage engines," she ordered, her voice steady but distant. "We're done here."

The fleet began to move, the ships pulling away from the ruined system. Yet even as the Light of Redemption slipped into the void, Shiani couldn't shake the thought gnawing at the edges of her mind.

Who had cleansed Kharoom Secundus of life before her arrival?

Her hands tightened into fists behind her back as she stared into the void. Answers would come. They always did. But for now, the Emperor's justice had been served. And that, she reminded herself, was enough.

---

"There was never a doubt in my mind, the Living Saint was the one who made the war machine of the Imperium turn. Huron of the Gate may have been the heart, but Michael—Michael was the fuel. The sheer scale of resources poured into the Maelstrom—ships, weapons, men—none of it would have happened without his guidance. It was as if the Imperium's very will was channeled through him."

— Commodore Lethir Drask, Segmentum Tempestus Navy

Marabor Sa Pendin had long since learned to despise the looks. The awe in the eyes of the Guardsmen as he strode past their ranks. The whispers that followed in his wake, low murmurs of reverence and fear. He hated it because he knew what they thought. They looked at him as if he held the answers to all their questions, as though he were a figure carved from the Emperor's own will.

They were wrong.

The Saint had blessed him, yes, but he wasn't infallible. He wasn't invincible. The power coursing through his veins didn't make him omniscient—it made him a stronger man, one capable of charging through sorcery and breaking apart the vile spells of heretics. It let him face horrors that would turn lesser men into gibbering wrecks. But he was still just a man. One who could kill traitor Astartes, burn heretics to ash, and lead his men to victory. One who carried the Emperor's light like a weapon, yes, but still one man.

That was the weight of it—the gap between perception and reality. The Guardsmen believed in him, and their belief gave them courage, but it also made them blind to the truth. He wasn't Michael. He wasn't the Saint.

Marabor tightened his grip on the power sword at his hip as he walked the trenches. The men snapped to attention as he passed, their posture rigid despite the mud clinging to their boots and uniforms. They looked at him with something close to worship, and he hated that too. He wasn't their savior. He was their Commissar, their blade in the dark, their executioner if they faltered.

But it was moments like these that made him glad for his reputation.

The battlefield stretched before him, a nightmare of churned earth, craters, and the towering, hulking forms of Orks. The Waaagh—or at least a splinter of it—was relentless. Millions of green-skinned brutes poured across the ruined terrain like a tide of violence, their guttural roars reverberating through the smoke-filled air.

Even now, Marabor could see the Guardsmen bracing themselves for another wave. Their lasguns glinted faintly under the dim, red-tinted sky, their bayonets fixed with grim determination. But he could also see the fear in their eyes. They weren't cowards, not yet. But fear was a slippery slope, and it could drag even the staunchest soldier into cowardice if left unchecked.

The Guardsmen Uplifting Primer hadn't prepared them for this. It had lied to them, describing Orks as crude, mindless beasts, easily felled by disciplined volleys. Lies designed to maintain morale, to hide the truth of what they were up against. But the truth couldn't be hidden here.

The smallest of the greenskins towered over the men, absorbing dozens of las-shots before falling. And the largest—the Warbosses and Nobz—were monsters, their brute strength and sheer ferocity enough to tear through entire squads.

Marabor's hand drifted to the bolt pistol holstered at his side. He'd executed eleven men and women in the last year and a half. Cowards, every one of them. But he remembered their names. He always remembered their names. Cowardice was failure in the eyes of the Emperor, and failure deserved death, but he still understood. He understood.

This war wasn't like the others. Even with the reinforcements sent by the Saint—combat servitors, advanced weaponry, and the unshakable Paladins of Tethrilyra—the Maelstrom was a nightmare. Rebellion. Heresy. Endless slaughter. And now, Orks.

He climbed to the top of the trench, ignoring the startled cries of the soldiers below. Standing there, exposed against the crimson sky, he drew his bolt pistol and raised it high.

"Men of the Imperium!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Look to your left! Look to your right! What do you see? Brothers! Sisters! Comrades-in-arms! This is not the day you die. This is the day you fight! The Emperor watches! The Saint watches! And I will watch each and every one of you. Stand. Fight. Hold the line."

The words hung in the air, heavy with authority and the promise of retribution. The Guardsmen responded with a roar, their fear momentarily eclipsed by sheer determination.

As the next wave of Orks charged, Marabor didn't wait behind his men. That wasn't his way. He vaulted from the trench, his power sword igniting with a hum of energy as he led the charge.

The Paladins of Tethrilyra joined him, their white armor glinting even in the dull, smoke-choked light. They were fearless, unshakable, and utterly devoted to the Saint's cause. Marabor didn't share their zealotry, but he admired their resolve. They fought with the certainty of men who believed their service would earn them a place at the Emperor's side.

He brought his power sword down on the first Ork that crossed his path, cleaving through its armor and thick hide with ease. The beast roared in fury, its massive axe swinging in retaliation, but Marabor was already moving. He ducked low, his bolt pistol firing point-blank into its chest. The Ork fell with a wet thud, its lifeblood soaking the ground.

The roar of lasfire filled the air behind him, the familiar staccato rhythm of disciplined volleys blending with the deeper, guttural barks of bolters. Commissar Marabor Sa Pendin didn't turn to look. He didn't need to. He could feel the charge surging forward like a tide, the Guardsmen drawn in his wake as he carved through the greenskins. His power sword was a blur of ceramite and crackling energy, slicing through crude armor and alien flesh with every swing.

He didn't stop. He couldn't. Not until this was finished. Not until the Ork scrap-city was nothing but rubble and ash.

Ahead, the green tide raged, a mass of bellowing monstrosities swinging jagged weapons and roaring challenges in their barbaric tongue. Their war cries were matched only by the deafening rumble of their vehicles—ramshackle contraptions of screaming engines and belching smoke, all slapped together with bolts, plates, and the sheer bloody-mindedness of Orkish engineering.

From the flanks came the high-pitched whine of jetbike engines. The Eighth Legion, their sleek machines slicing through the battlefield, engaged the Ork Speed Freeks yet again. For weeks now, they'd clashed with these mad riders, their superior skill and precision barely holding back the greenskins' endless waves of bikes and truks. But this time, it would be different.

Marabor felt it in the ground first—a faint tremor that grew steadily into a deep, resonant thrum. The heavy servitors had arrived.

The Saint's gifts to this battlefield, a tide of gleaming silver-gray constructs, moved into position. They rose from the trenches like a silent avalanche, their adamantium-alloyed frames reflecting the dull light of the sky above. Their presence was both awe-inspiring and deeply unnerving, their mechanical forms too perfect, too cold, too inhuman.

At the center of the advancing servitors were the heavy combat models, humanoid giants encased in plasteel and ceramite. They moved with a deliberate, methodical precision, each step shaking the ground as their plasma cannons and heavy bolters opened fire. The air filled with the high-pitched whine of plasma discharges and the dull thump-thump-thump of bolter fire.

The effect was immediate and brutal. Orks fell in droves, their crude armor and thick hides no match for the servitors' relentless firepower. Plasma bolts melted through flesh and bone, while bolter rounds exploded inside the greenskins, leaving nothing but shattered remains. Yet the Orks didn't stop. They never did. They charged forward, their sheer numbers threatening to overwhelm through sheer, brutal attrition.

Marabor adjusted his stride, keeping pace with the advancing servitors. He didn't like them. Something about their cold, mechanical perfection set his teeth on edge. They lacked the raw, human fire of the Guardsmen he led, the spark of desperation and faith that drove them forward. But they were here, and they were effective. And that was enough for now.

To his left and right, more servitors joined the fray—beastial constructs that moved with unnerving speed and precision. These were different, their design meant for close combat. Their front limbs ended in massive chainswords, each serrated blade roaring as it carved through Orks like paper. Their hind legs, powerful and mechanical, propelled them forward in bounding leaps, easily matching the jetbikes in speed.

Marabor caught sight of one of the beasts as it tore through an Ork Nob. The chainsword arm dismembered the brute in a spray of gore, while its tail—a massive, armored appendage ending in brutal spikes—smashed into another Ork, sending the alien flying into a pile of scrap. The laser cannon mounted on its shoulder swiveled, firing a beam of concentrated energy that punched through the hull of an Ork battlewagon in a single, devastating shot.

It was... unsettling. Effective, but unsettling. He'd been briefed on their design, told that the tail was primarily for balance and not for combat, but that didn't make it any less terrifying to watch. These constructs were the embodiment of the Saint's vision—tools of war, efficient and relentless, without hesitation or fear.

And yet, Marabor felt a twinge of discomfort every time he looked at them.

He pushed the thought aside. There was no room for doubt here. If the Saint had approved these machines, then they were instruments of the Emperor's will, and he would wield them without hesitation.

The ground beneath his boots turned to mud, slick with the blood of Orks and men alike. The trenches behind him emptied as the Guardsmen surged forward, their voices rising in chants and battle cries. The priests among their ranks whipped them into a frenzy, their fiery sermons cutting through the chaos of battle.

Marabor raised his power sword high, its energy field humming with lethal promise. "For the Emperor!" he roared, his voice carrying over the din of the battlefield.

The Guardsmen echoed his cry, their determination bolstered by the sight of their Commissar leading the charge. Marabor didn't just command from the rear; he fought alongside them, his blade cleaving through the enemy with brutal efficiency.

The servitors pressed forward, their weapons carving a path through the greenskin horde. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid tang of promethium, the battlefield lit by the flashes of plasma fire and the fiery explosions of Ork vehicles.

The horizon was a jagged maw of metal and ruin. The Ork scrap-city loomed ahead like a predator waiting to devour its prey, a grotesque sprawl of twisted girders, rusted plates, and blackened smoke stacks that vomited ash into the already grim skies. It wasn't just a city—it was a cancer, feeding on the flesh of this world and pumping out weapons, vehicles, and horrors that defied logic. Commissar Marabor Sa Pendin fixed his gaze on it, his every step driven by a cold, unyielding certainty: this monstrosity would fall. It had to fall.

The battlefield before him was chaos incarnate, a symphony of destruction that churned and roared like a storm unshackled. In the center, the Fifteenth Legion of the Paladins—the Hailbreakers—pressed forward. Hardened warriors of Minas Tirith, their voices rose above the cacophony, their cries of "For the Emperor and the Saint!" hammering through the din. Their discipline was ironclad, their faith unshakable, and their fury infectious. Even the most ragged Guardsman found new strength in their charge, the tide of humanity sweeping forward like a hammer against the anvil of the greenskin horde.

But it was the battle servitors that truly unsettled Marabor. They moved like machines—because that's exactly what they were. The humanoid models lumbered forward, soaking up fire that would have annihilated squads of Guardsmen, their ceramite plating shrugging off Ork shootas and crude explosives. Yet up close, their limitations became clear. Power klaws and chain weapons cleaved through them like butcher knives through meat, reducing their massive frames to sparking ruin. The more bestial servitors, with their razor-limbed designs and predatory movements, fared better in melee. They tore through the Orks with savage efficiency, their chainswords spinning and laser cannons burning hot. But even they weren't invincible. For every Ork they cut down, five more surged forward, driven by that maddening, relentless greenskin hunger for violence.

It didn't matter. The servitors advanced. They advanced over heaps of Ork corpses and the shattered remnants of their own kind. They advanced through gunfire, explosions, and the feral howls of greenskin warriors. They advanced. And behind them, the Guardsmen pressed forward, their ranks bolstered by the relentless cadence of hymns and sermons that echoed across the battlefield.

The priests were there too, wading into the fray with chainswords and flame. These were not men content to stand at the rear and pray for victory. Many were from Minas Tirith, and they followed the Saint's example with a zealous fury that bordered on suicidal. Their voices rang out, sermons punctuated by the roar of bolters and the wet crunch of alien flesh underfoot. When a priest fell, another Guardsman would take up the chant, the faith of the Emperor a weapon as sharp as any bayonet.

In the skies above, the Techboys' creations—those strange, awe-inspiring dragon armors—dominated the air. Engines roared as the massive constructs streaked through the smoke-filled heavens, their machine spirits alive with purpose. They shredded the Ork air forces like tissue paper, leaving trails of flame and twisted wreckage in their wake. Swarms of insectoid drones darted alongside them, precision-guided constructs carrying melta charges as they swarmed Ork defensive emplacements. The green tide below buckled under their coordinated assault, clearing the path for Imperial bombers to close in and unleash hell upon the scrap-city.

Marabor's breath came steady, measured. He was not like the priests, who roared their sermons and charged headlong into the fray with unbridled zeal. His faith was quieter, colder, a blade honed to perfection. The Saint had taught him that. Faith was not noise or spectacle—it was a force. An immutable truth that burned inside him like a furnace. He would not waver.

His voice cut through the comms as he marched forward, power sword blazing in his hand. "Hold the line. Advance steadily. The Emperor's light does not falter, and neither shall we."

The tanks rumbled to life behind him, the ground trembling as two mighty Baneblades plowed into the Ork lines. Their main guns thundered, each shot obliterating whole swathes of greenskin armor. The Orks' crude tanks answered back, lobbing shells and rockets with wild abandon, but the Baneblades shrugged them off like gnats. Above, the drones continued their deadly dance, diving into enemy vehicles with suicidal precision. Melta charges erupted in blinding bursts of heat and light, leaving the Ork war machines crippled or smoldering wreckage.

Still, the Orks came.

Marabor found himself in the thick of it now, his power sword cutting arcs of destruction through the greenskin ranks. Each swing was precise, efficient, and deadly. He didn't waste energy. He didn't fight with the wild abandon of a zealot. He fought with the cold, methodical rage of a man who knew the Emperor watched his every step.

An Ork Nob, massive and bellowing, came charging toward him with a roar that shook the ground. Marabor met its gaze and felt nothing. No fear, no hesitation, just the quiet, unyielding certainty that he would prevail.

The Nob swung its power klaw, the massive, sparking claw aiming to crush him where he stood. Marabor sidestepped, the motion fluid and practiced, and drove his blade upward into the creature's exposed throat. The power sword crackled as it burned through muscle and bone, the Nob collapsing in a heap of twitching flesh.

"Advance!" Marabor barked, his voice sharp as a whip.

The Guardsmen surged around him, their lasfire stitching lines of red into the Ork ranks. The scrap-city loomed ever closer, its crude fortifications trembling under the relentless bombardment. High command had made its intentions clear: this was the final push. Either the Orks would break today, or the Imperium's forces would.

Marabor's jaw tightened. He would see to it that it was the former. If faith alone could win this battle, then the Emperor had already decreed their victory.

They advanced into the teeth of the enemy and the servitors led the way, their hulking forms trundling forward without hesitation or complaint. They were dead eyes and whirring joints, soulless but unrelenting. Their adamantium and ceramite bodies absorbed the punishing firepower of the Orks like rain pelting a rockface. Explosions bloomed against them, shrapnel sparking and ricocheting off their reinforced exoskeletons. They kept moving, their movements mechanical and unfeeling, firing their weapons with cold precision. Each lasbolt spat from their weapons, each arc of plasma or discharge of explosive ordnance felt calculated, devoid of the wild desperation of men. They were the tip of the spear, and Commissar Marabor Sa Pendin followed close behind, boots crunching in the churned, bloody mud, his chainsword humming in his grip.

The air was thick with the stink of promethium and scorched metal. Orks howled their guttural war cries over the incessant thunder of heavy artillery and the whining crescendo of distant aircraft. Marabor's gaze swept across the battlefield, marking the tides of green bodies surging forward. The beasts were crude, but not without strategy. They brawled and clawed, pushed and swarmed, their numbers like a living sea that tried to drown the Imperium's hammer blow.

"Hold the line!" His voice was sharp, a lash cutting through the clamor. The Guardsmen around him surged forward, emboldened by his command. They fired disciplined volleys into the mass of greenskins, each lasbolt carving smoking paths through the enemy. Their movements were calculated, drilled, but Marabor could see the strain in their faces. He felt their fear, their exhaustion. That was fine. Fear and exhaustion were the natural companions of men. But so was faith. Faith alone would win this day, and his faith was unshakable. His jaw set hard as he stepped forward, his presence an anchor for those around him. He did not need to shout oaths to the Emperor; his resolve spoke louder than words.

The servitors rotated in endless cycles, a precise dance of war orchestrated by the Tech-Priests. Damage crews scrambled to replace shattered limbs, reload depleted munitions, and swap power cores. As efficient as the machines were, the men who worked behind them were just as vital. Even the servitors' indomitable march relied on human hands and minds to keep them in the fight. To Marabor, this unity of flesh and steel was not merely tactical—it was divine. Each servitor's mindless sacrifice, each Guardsman's calculated step forward, was another hymn to the God-Emperor.

They were hours into the assault now. The great scrap-city loomed closer, its crude walls trembling under the relentless barrage of Imperial artillery. The defenses had crumbled in stages. First, the drone strikes—suicidal explosions that tore through Ork emplacements. Then the Baneblades, their massive guns pounding the greenskins into oblivion as they carved paths through the wreckage. The lizard-like servitors came next, nimble and brutal in their precision as they leaped over debris and scythed through Ork mobs with claws and energy weapons. Behind them came the infantry, a tide of gray and green punctuated by the shining white armor of the Paladins.

Marabor hadn't been at the breach when it happened. His place, at that moment, was elsewhere. In the rear lines, he had allowed the Techboys to work over his battered power armor, their mechanical incantations and servos whining as they patched what they could. Rest was a luxury he could ill afford, but it was one his body demanded. Even he was not immune to the limits of flesh, enhanced as his might be. He had watched from the camp as the assault began, seeing the intricate interplay of Imperial forces unfold with cold admiration. Drones swarmed into enemy emplacements, detonating themselves with precision that bordered on artistry. The tanks advanced in perfect synchronicity, their guns roaring death into the city. Infantry rotated with seamless efficiency, never allowing fatigue to take root.

This was war, as pure and calculated as it could be in the chaotic hellscape of the Maelstrom Zone. The generals plan was clear—divide and conquer. The Eight Legion held the outer perimeter, their lizard-servitors baiting Ork mobs out into pre-prepared ambushes. Marabor's lips twitched into a grim approximation of a smile as he watched the xenos fall into the traps. The Imperium had no use for fools, and none had survived the Maelstrom. The forces that remained were the best the Emperor's domain could muster, hardened and unyielding.

Marabor adjusted his cap and strode forward as the order came to press the attack. The time for rest was over. He was among the first to step into the breach, his chainsword roaring to life once more. The air was thick with smoke and ash, but Marabor could see the green tide thinning. They were breaking, slowly but surely. The Orks would falter, and when they did, the God-Emperor's wrath would come crashing down upon them like the hammer of judgment.

The lasfire flared and died in disciplined bursts, a rhythm as steady as the boots crunching in the mud. Guardsmen flanked him, their eyes locked on their weapons or the green tide ahead. Commissar Marabor Sa Pendin stood at the center of it, the bolt pistol in his hand roaring its defiance into the oncoming storm. Each shot landed true, a snarling Ork collapsing into the churned mess of the battlefield. He didn't think about the next one—just aimed, fired, moved forward. His faith left no room for hesitation, no space for second-guessing. The Emperor demanded forward motion. He intended to deliver.

The young sergeant to his left turned, his face streaked with soot and desperation. "Commissar, the way forward—"

"Is forward, Sergeant," Marabor snapped, not sparing the man a glance. His voice was cold, clipped, final. "Do your duty. The Emperor watches."

That was enough. It always was. The sergeant straightened, the doubt leaving his face as he barked orders to his squad. Marabor kept moving. Faith was infectious. His job wasn't to show them how to live. It was to remind them how to die, and do it properly.

Ahead, the Orks held their ground, their guttural laughter and battle cries cutting through the roar of gunfire. The greenskins weren't soldiers—they were a plague with teeth. Where any other foe would have begun to waver, the Orks only seemed to grow more savage, flinging themselves into the meat grinder with unholy joy. It didn't matter how many servitors reduced to pulp with their heavy weapons or how many Guardsmen painted the mud red with their blood. The Orks surged forward, grinning like mad gods.

Marabor didn't falter. The bolt pistol kicked in his grip, his power sword humming as it sheared through flesh and bone. His power armor groaned with every movement, the strain of recent repairs audible even over the cacophony of war. The Tech-priests would lecture him later, their metallic voices rising in outrage over his abuse of sacred machinery. He didn't care. The Saint's words echoed in his mind: Machines were made to serve men, not men to serve machines. And right now, every ounce of strain he put on his armor was strain taken off his men.

A roar overhead snapped his attention upward. Bombers. A pair of Imperial Marauders screamed across the sky, their engines shaking the earth below. The Orks' crude emplacements opened fire, but the aircraft banked sharply, evading the worst of it as they unleashed their payload. The explosions were deafening, a hail of missiles that turned the Orks' stronghold into a flaming ruin. Buildings crumbled, green bodies thrown into the air like broken toys. Marabor's eyes narrowed as the dust settled. A path had opened, jagged and smoldering, leading straight into the heart of the city.

The column pressed on. Tanks rumbled into position, Chimeras and Leman Russes grinding over the corpses of xenos, their cannons barking ruin. Servitors trundled forward, their heavy weapons blazing, cutting swathes through the greenskin horde. Behind them came the tide of Guardsmen, the white-armored Paladins moving like silent sentinels among the chaos.

Marabor's vox crackled to life. Reports flooded in—movement along the perimeter, scattered resistance pockets being annihilated by ambushes of suicidal drones and mechanized firepower. He didn't need the reports to know. He could see it in the enemy's movements. The Orks were holding fast in the city, but their outer forces were thinning, stretched too far to mount an effective counter. The generals strategy was as brutal as it was efficient—divide and conquer. Break them apart, bleed them dry.

"Commissar," came a voice over the vox, strained but steady. "We've got movement ahead. Large force. Looks like their main body."

Marabor raised his hand to halt the advance, his fingers curling into a fist that seemed to drag the battlefield itself into silence. The Guardsmen and Paladins around him froze, their weapons lowered but ready, their eyes darting between the Commissar and the chaos ahead. He climbed atop the shattered husk of a hab-block, the ferrocrete groaning under the weight of his power armor. His boots scraped against its brittle surface, sending shards tumbling into the mire below. From this vantage point, the battlefield stretched before him like a grim tapestry, threads of fire and steel weaving through the filth and carnage.

The Orks had dug in, their horde a teeming mass of bodies surging around makeshift fortifications of twisted metal and scrap. Their numbers swelled with sickening persistence, spilling over the streets and choking every alley and breach. At their core loomed the Warboss, a towering abomination clad in crude, bolted-together armor that spat sparks with every movement. It roared, the sound a guttural challenge that rippled through the air like a thunderclap. The monster's weapon—a jagged hammer larger than most men—rested casually on its shoulder, its head blackened with the blood of those who had dared to face it.

Marabor grimaced. Hesitation wasn't just forbidden—it was treason. He pressed the vox bead to his lips, his voice cutting through the static with the weight of iron. "Forward," he growled, each syllable a commandment. "For the Emperor."

The roar of engines answered him. Leman Russ tanks surged ahead, their treads grinding over the detritus of war. The servitors followed, their hulking forms moving with mechanical precision, their weapons spitting streams of red-hot death into the Ork flanks. He leapt down from the rubble, his power sword crackling with barely-contained energy as he hit the ground running. Behind him came the Guardsmen, their lasrifles stitching lines of fire through the thick, reeking air.

The Warboss turned, its bloodshot eyes locking onto the advancing column. It bellowed, its voice a sound that belonged in nightmares. Around it, the greenskins howled in answer, surging forward with reckless abandon. Marabor tightened his grip on his bolt pistol and ran to meet them, every fiber of his being thrumming with the raw, unyielding faith that had sustained him since Garm.

The initial clash was chaos. The Guardsmen held the line, fighting like men possessed, while the servitors waded into the horde with chainswords and spiked limbs that tore through greenskin flesh with mechanical efficiency. Swarms of Imperial drones buzzed overhead, dipping low to detonate melta charges deep within the enemy ranks, scattering Orks like leaves in a storm.

But even amidst the carnage, Marabor's eyes never left the Warboss. It tore through two bestial servitors with sickening ease, ripping one in half at the torso before smashing the other into a pile of sparking ruin with its hammer. The lesser Orks could be dealt with by lasfire and discipline. This monstrosity would require something more.

He didn't wait for orders. He didn't give himself time to doubt. His decision was already made. With a battle cry that rang out across the vox, he surged forward, an impromptu guard of Paladins and Guardsmen forming a wedge around him. They cut a path through the Ork bodyguards, the Paladins' power mauls sending greenskins flying as the Guardsmen poured disciplined volleys into the horde.

The Warboss saw him coming and roared, its hammer slamming into the ground as it charged. Marabor closed the distance in a flash, his power sword intercepting the beast's wild swing with a crackling flare of energy. The impact reverberated through his arm, but he held firm, driving the blade forward in a counter-thrust.

It was fast—faster than it had any right to be for its size—but Marabor had trained with Gabriel Drathus and fought beside Saint Michael himself. The Warboss's movements were brutish, clumsy compared to the precision he had been forced to master in those crucibles. Its swings were powerful but telegraphed, its footwork wide and unbalanced.

They traded blows in a furious dance, the greenskin hammer swinging with bone-crushing force, Marabor's power sword slicing arcs of light through the smoke and blood. The Warboss roared again, its frustration mounting as Marabor outpaced it with every move, his strikes carving fresh wounds into the brute's armored flesh.

The duel reached its crescendo in a heartbeat. The Warboss overextended, its hammer smashing into the ground where Marabor had stood a fraction of a second before. He stepped inside its reach, his power sword rising in a single, fluid motion. The blade sheared through flesh and bone, the beast's head tumbling from its shoulders in a spray of black blood.

The Orks faltered. Then they broke.

Marabor watched them run, their bellows of defiance twisting into shrieks of panic, the sound echoing through the chaos of the battlefield. Greenskins scrambled over each other in their haste to flee, slipping on blood-slick rubble, their crude weapons clattering to the ground as they abandoned any semblance of resistance.

The Guardsmen and Paladins pressed forward, their discipline and firepower relentless. Lines of lasfire lanced through the smoky air, cutting down Orks in droves, while the heavier calibers from the Leman Russ tanks barked thunderously, sending bodies flying in molten heaps. The servitors were like nightmares made of steel and circuitry, lumbering through the carnage, tearing apart those who lagged behind with mechanical efficiency.

Marabor stood still amidst the ruin, his breath ragged but steady, his power sword humming faintly in his hand. The blade was slick with alien blood, droplets sizzling as they hit the ground. The battlefield was quieter now, but the roar of his pulse thundered in his ears, a rhythm that seemed to echo the chant of the Emperor's name in his soul.

Then his eyes caught movement—no, not movement, shimmering.

His gut tightened as he spotted them: three Ork Weirdboyz, their grotesque forms wreathed in an unholy green glow. They twitched and convulsed, their crude staves trembling as arcs of warp energy spiraled out of control around them. Their bulbous eyes bulged, glowing brighter by the second as their psyker energy swelled into something terrible.

Emperor preserve us.

"Take cover!" Marabor roared, diving behind a slab of shattered ferrocrete. His voice carried across the vox, and soldiers scrambled for any semblance of shelter.

The Weirdboyz erupted.

Green fire blasted outward in a blinding conflagration, a surge of destructive energy that seemed to twist reality itself. Marabor braced for the impact, for the searing pain he had felt once before in a war he refused to remember.

But the inferno never touched them.

Golden symbols flared into existence midair, crackling with divine light, forming an intricate lattice of shimmering protection. A wall of amber energy sprang to life between the explosion and the Imperial lines, redirecting the torrent of warp energy back into the horde of fleeing Orks. The greenskin ranks evaporated in an instant, consumed by green fire and crushed beneath a concussive blast that flattened the twisted metal of their scrap city for hundreds of meters.

Marabor rose slowly, scanning for the source of the intervention. His eyes landed on her: one of the Stirpe Imperialis, standing on the remnants of a smashed barricade like she was born to it. She was grinning—a wide, feral grin that didn't quite match the dented, blood-streaked power armor she wore. Her fingers still crackled faintly with the residual glow of psychic energy, though she didn't seem remotely fazed by the effort.

"That was a close one, wasn't it, Colonel-Commissar?" she called out, her voice carrying over the battlefield as easily as if she were speaking in a chapel.

Marabor's lip twitched, but he fought the urge to respond with anything other than stoicism. "Thank you," he said curtly, brushing dust from his coat as he turned toward the scattered soldiers still staring at the aftermath.

"And what are you waiting for?" His voice cut through the awe-stricken silence like a lash. "There are more Orks that need purging. Move."

The men scrambled into action, forming up with the efficiency born of discipline and terror. Within moments, the column was on the march again, moving deeper into the smoking ruin of the scrap city, lasguns raised, eyes scanning the shadows for more greenskins.

"Anything for the legendary Marabor, slayer of Warbosses," the psyker chimed in as she fell back into step with her squad, her grin practically splitting her face. She gave him a cheeky salute as she passed, the golden glow of her power lingering just long enough to mock his sour expression.

Marabor's jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly. The thought of his reputation spreading even further made his stomach churn. He could already hear the exaggerated tales that would be whispered in barracks and briefing rooms. Marabor Sa Pendin, who cut down a Warboss and faced warp-born flames without flinching.

He groaned internally, his grip tightening on the hilt of his power sword. Just what I need, he thought bitterly. More stories. As if this warzone didn't already have enough madness without adding me to its list of legends.

But out loud, he simply muttered to himself as he followed his men into the fray, "Emperor save me from bloody heroes—and bloody sorcerers."

He wasn't sure if the humorless chuckle that followed came from him or the Emperor himself.

---

The Imperial Navy was, at its core, a machine of vengeance. Admiral Lorena Voss had long resigned herself to this truth. The pleas for aid always came too late; by the time a fleet arrived, the world that had begged for salvation was already a graveyard, its surface scoured, its people slaughtered or enslaved. The Navy didn't save; it avenged. And yet, this time, it was different.

This time, they had arrived in time to matter brought here by the blessed ability of the Chapter Master Huron to create paired Warp Portals.

She stood at the center of the Palatine Phoenix's grandiose bridge, her hands clasped behind her back, her uniform immaculate. The vast expanse of the Nahlstred system was displayed on the holo-projection before her, its data streams flowing like a digital river. The bridge of the Palatine Phoenix thrummed with a quiet tension, the soft hum of its systems a background counterpoint to the precise movements of its crew. Admiral Lorena Voss stood at the heart of it all, hands clasped lightly behind her back, her expression a mask of aristocratic calm. The data from the Phoenix's advanced augur arrays cascaded across the primary holo-projector, rendering the Nahlstred system in fine detail. The enemy fleet, still unaware of their presence, hung over the Hive World like a swarm of carrion flies.

The hive's void shields still held, barely, their integrity flickering on the edges of the display like a faint heartbeat. The heretic warband and their xenos allies circled the planet in chaotic formations, clearly confident in their imminent victory. Their failure to detect the Imperial fleet was a testament to their arrogance. Heretics and xenos alike had no understanding of discipline, of order. It was their nature to assume themselves invincible.

That assumption would be their undoing.

She shifted slightly, her gaze sweeping across her officers, their movements precise and efficient. These were not mere menials but hand-picked elites, drilled to perfection under her command. The bridge of the Phoenix was a marvel of Imperial engineering, its design incorporating the most advanced technologies recovered from the forgotten corners of the mankind ancient past. The holo-projectors were sharper, the cogitator systems faster, the weapon controls more responsive. And yet, for all its perfection, it lacked the familiarity of her old flagship, the Emperor's Gale.

Voss dismissed the thought with an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Sentiment had no place here. Duty was her only loyalty.

"Admiral," came the clipped voice of Lieutenant Keryn from the sensorium station. "Enemy fleet remains unaware of our presence. Their ships are holding orbit at twenty million kilometers from the planet. No deviation in their patrol patterns."

Voss allowed herself a faint smile, sharp and cold. "Typical. They assume their superiority simply because they hold the high ground. Signal the fleet to hold formation. We advance together. I want no stragglers."

"Aye, Admiral," Keryn replied, relaying her orders with the crisp efficiency she demanded from all under her command.

To her right, Casper stood like a statue of ancient bronze, his white power armor catching the dim light of the bridge's lumen strips. The young man's single eye flicked over the data feeds, his expression as impassive as ever. His presence was a constant reminder of the Saint's hand in all of this, a reminder that her role was not to question, only to act.

"I hope you don't expect them to run," Casper said, his voice quiet but carrying an edge that drew her attention.

Voss's lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smirk. "Run? No. They'll bluster and fight, as all heretics do. But they won't stand for long."

Casper gave a slight nod, his gaze returning to the holo-display. If he had any doubts about her strategy, he kept them to himself. That was another thing about him she found both infuriating and oddly reassuring—his silence, his refusal to second-guess her orders. He embodied the Saint's confidence in her, though she still found it difficult to reconcile with her own instincts.

The bridge vox crackled to life, and a familiar voice filled the chamber, its tone calm and measured. "Admiral Voss, Mechanicus ships are in position. All systems operating at optimal efficiency. Awaiting your orders."

"Thank you, Archmagos Vernix," Voss replied, her tone formal but not without a trace of respect. "Hold formation with the fleet. We strike as one."

"Understood. The Omnissiah guides us," Vernix said before the vox cut off.

Voss turned her attention back to the display, her mind already calculating the next steps. The enemy fleet was a mix of corrupted Imperial vessels and xenos designs, their configurations mismatched and chaotic. It was the kind of undisciplined rabble she despised, but it also made them unpredictable.

"Admiral," Keryn interrupted, "all ships report ready. The fleet is in formation."

"Good," Voss said, her voice sharp. "Advance at half speed. Maintain silent running until we're within strike range. I want them caught completely off guard. Begin power-up sequences for all lance batteries and torpedo tubes. And prepare the fighter wings for launch on my command."

"Aye, Admiral."

The Palatine Phoenix began to move, its immense bulk gliding forward with deceptive grace. The fleet followed suit, an armada of Imperial and Mechanicus vessels moving in perfect unison. It was a sight that would have inspired awe in any loyal subject of the Emperor—and dread in those who opposed His will.

The fleet moved in its silent advance, the velvet dark of the void swallowing the predatory geometry of the ships, their formation a testament to control—human control, her control—artistry sculpted in adamantium and will. Lorena Voss stood on the command dais of the Palatine Phoenix, her hands clasped loosely behind her back, her expression composed but carrying the weight of expectation. The bridge buzzed with muted activity, officers speaking in clipped tones, servitors clicking out data streams in mechanical monotones. Voss's eyes remained fixed on the hololithic display, its shifting constellation of runes and tactical projections tracing the shape of her ambition.

The enemy remained oblivious. Arrogance, she thought, as much as ignorance. The heretics had grown accustomed to facing mediocrity—fossilized doctrines, a fleet of worn hulls and cautious minds. They would not expect this. The Phoenix was a ship they had no answer for, a relic of mankind's lost supremacy, recovered and baptized anew under the Saint's hand.

"Admiral," a targeting officer announced from the pit below, his voice clipped, respectful, as it should be. "Superluminal railguns are charged and primed. Awaiting your order."

She inclined her head slightly, a motion more of acknowledgment than command, though it was both. The weapons—artifacts of the Dark Age of Technology—were an affront to conventional understanding. They bent the universe itself, their projectiles warping the very fabric of space-time. To those observing from the Materium, they moved faster than light. To the Phoenix, they moved with a precision that bordered on the divine. It was weaponry that reminded her of the power humanity had once wielded, power now almost blasphemous in its scope and implication.

Almost. But not quite.

"Begin targeting pattern Theta-Seven. I want their command vessel marked for annihilation," she said, her voice measured and cold. Her words carried an edge, honed by decades of command, yet they fell into place like stones into water, ripples of authority radiating outward.

The officer nodded sharply, bending over his console. The Phoenix hummed faintly beneath her feet, a predator's growl, subdued for now but promising fury.

The fleet adjusted its formation, escorts weaving into defensive configurations around the capital ships. The Phoenix held its position at the core of the fleet, its massive bulk a silent warning. This was not caution—it was calculation. The Phoenix's weaponry demanded range, precision. Its shields, though formidable, were not invulnerable. She would not squander her prize by allowing sentiment to dictate proximity.

"Admiral," her first officer murmured from her side. "Fighter wings are deploying as ordered. Their stealth modules remain uncompromised."

"Good," Voss replied, her gaze never leaving the hololith. "They will see nothing until it is too late."

The fighters streaked out like shards of glass against the void, their augur signatures whisper-quiet. They were the Saint's invention, these Dragon-armored vessels, their angular forms crafted with a purpose that blended faith and function. The irony that they resembled the Heldrakes of Chaos was not lost on her, but these were no blasphemous abominations. Unlike the Heldrakes they were built to counter, they were not abominations of flesh and machine but pure, uncorrupted steel, blessed weapons of the God-Emperor's will.

She allowed herself the briefest flicker of satisfaction as she imagined the heretics' confusion. Perhaps they would mistake the fighters for their own daemon engines, though the error would last only seconds. The Phoenix's wrath would not permit them the luxury of long thoughts.

"Admiral, enemy signatures are beginning to shift," her augur master called out. "It appears they've detected the fighters."

"Let them," Voss said, her tone icily calm. She leaned forward slightly, her posture a blade poised for a killing stroke. "It will make no difference."

She could almost feel the tension in the air, the expectation of those around her. They waited for her order, for her to seize the moment and crush the enemy utterly. The thought stirred something deep within her, a pulse of exultation that she quickly buried beneath layers of control. Victory was not yet assured. The enemy's disorder could still crystallize into resistance. The Materium was capricious, and pride had broken many commanders before her.

But not her. Not today.

"Engage," she said, her voice cutting through the bridge like a scalpel.

The Palatine Phoenix unleashed its fury, a calculated violence that Admiral Lorena Voss orchestrated from the sanctity of her command dais. The bridge was eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of cogitators and the occasional murmured status updates. Silence was discipline, discipline was survival. Voss's gaze swept across the hololithic display, where the enemy fleet shimmered as pale, chaotic motes against the ordered green icons of her own formation. Each symbol carried weight—ships, lives, resources. Tools. Instruments of war to be played as an orchestra under her hand.

"Fire," she said, her voice cold, precise, the single syllable carrying the weight of inevitability.

The superluminal railguns of the Palatine Phoenix fired, their projectiles disappearing into the void, propelled by energy fields that bent the very fabric of reality. There was no flash, no flare of light; the rounds moved too quickly for such trivialities, bending space and time in their wake. The results, however, were all too visible. The lead enemy cruiser disintegrated, its void shields overwhelmed in a heartbeat, its armored hull crumpling inward as the projectile's relativistic energy unraveled its structural integrity. Other ships followed, some torn apart by direct hits, others crippled as shockwaves or debris cascaded through their formations.

Lorena allowed herself a small, tight smile. Power refined by precision, precision refined by doctrine. This was the Emperor's will made manifest.

"Status?" she demanded.

"Enemy lines in disarray," replied Lieutenant Merchan, his voice clipped, efficient. "Primary targets neutralized or heavily damaged. Fighter wings report minimal resistance."

Voss's hands tightened behind her back, fingers curling into the fabric of her coat. She did not allow herself relief, only calculation. The enemy had been caught off guard—predictable for heretics and xenos, whose lack of discipline rendered them their own worst enemies. Yet the battlefield was a fluid, living thing, and complacency bred ruin.

"Have the escorts tighten formation. The Phoenix will maintain overwatch," she ordered, her tone brooking no dissent. "Prepare for a second barrage. The Mechanicus fleet will provide suppression fire on my mark."

At the edges of the hololith, enemy fighter squadrons began to swarm, their movements erratic but purposeful. A wall of steel and desperation, aimed to halt her advance. Predictable. Desperate. Pathetic.

"Dragon Armors, intercept," Voss said, voice as steady as stone.

The Dragon Armors—fighter craft of innovative, controversial design—swept forward, their sleek, angular forms slicing through the void with unnerving precision. They moved like predators, their agility defying conventional expectations, their plasma weaponry carving through the enemy squadrons with ruthless efficiency. Augur returns flickered as the heretic formations collapsed into chaos, holes torn in their ranks before they could even form a cohesive defense.

The second barrage followed, the Palatine Phoenix's weapon arrays firing in coordinated salvoes. More enemy ships shattered, their heavier vessels crumbling under the combined weight of superluminal railgun impacts and Helios Lance strikes. The void became a graveyard, debris drifting like ash in the endless expanse.

Voss's lips pressed into a thin line as the battle escalated. The edges of the two fleets met, their collision a cacophony of macrocannon shells, atomic warheads, and the unrelenting lances of both fleets. Space itself seemed to bleed, the void illuminated by flashes of deadly light and the dying screams of ships breaking apart.

Yet, despite the chaos, the balance tipped inexorably in her favor. The Imperium's sheer numbers and the superior firepower of her fleet—bolstered by the Mechanicus vessels she loathed to admit were formidable—turned the tide. The xenos and heretics fought with the ferocity of cornered beasts, but ferocity was no match for order.

"Boarding torpedoes incoming," Merchan warned.

Voss almost rolled her eyes. Predictable again. The hololith displayed the torpedoes streaking toward her ships, their trajectories clear. She had anticipated this, of course

"All ships, deploy countermeasures," she said, her tone icy. "Ready the combat servitors and Paladins."

The torpedoes were met with a storm of fire from point-defense batteries and fighter wings, their progress arrested mid-flight. Those few that penetrated the defensive screen were intercepted by servitors and mechanized forces within her vessels. The heretics and xenos who boarded would find only death awaiting them.

Voss turned her attention back to the hololith, where the enemy fleet continued to fracture under her assault. This was void warfare at its most brutal and efficient—ships reduced to burning wreckage, lives snuffed out in an instant, the vastness of space offering no sanctuary. It was horror on a scale incomprehensible to most mortals. But to Lorena Voss, it was simply another battle, another duty in service to the Emperor.

The void burned, a relentless cascade of destruction erupting across the battlefield as the fleets continued to exchange fire. Each salvo launched from the Palatine Phoenix was a masterpiece of devastation, its railguns and lances tearing through heretic and xenos vessels with an almost surgical precision. The ship's ancient machine spirit—reawakened and refined under Michael's guidance—roared with fury, its armaments guided by the finest augurs and targeting cogitators the Mechanicus could muster. To Lorena Voss, it was a weapon without peer, a vessel that embodied the Emperor's wrath in all its terrifying splendor.

Her gaze flicked to the hololithic display, where the shattered remnants of the enemy fleet told the story of their collapse. The Mechanicus ships under Hestia Vernix's command had cut through their flanks with ruthless efficiency, their lance batteries carving molten scars across the void. Her own fleet pressed from the front, methodically driving a wedge into the enemy formation. The heretic and xeno fleet, already disordered from their initial losses, was fracturing under the combined assault. Ships drifted, dead or dying, their hulls shattered and aflame, spilling atmosphere and bodies into the cold expanse. But for every enemy vessel destroyed, the Imperium paid a price.

"Admiral, the Avenger's Fury has sustained heavy damage," Merchan reported, his voice steady despite the chaos. "Void shields are down, and they're venting atmosphere."

Lorena's jaw tightened. The Avenger's Fury was an aging Lunar-class cruiser, its crew seasoned but its hull weathered by centuries of service. She could see it on the hololith now, limping as enemy fire raked across its exposed flank. Even as she watched, an enemy torpedo slammed into its midsection, shattering its dorsal batteries in a plume of fire and debris. Yet the ship pressed on, its macrocannons roaring defiance as it continued to fire into the heart of the enemy fleet.

"Order the Iron Resolve to cover their retreat," she commanded. "Have the Mechanicus deploy repair skiffs if they can spare them."

"Aye, Admiral," Merchan replied, already relaying her orders.

The void was chaos given form. Thousands of weapons fired in unison, their impacts lighting up the darkness with flashes of searing brilliance. The sheer variety of armaments was staggering—macrocannon shells the size of hab blocks, plasma beams hot enough to reduce adamantium to slag, and exotic Mechanicus weaponry that tore through matter with esoteric precision. The enemy responded in kind, their own weapons belching fire and death across the void. Warp-touched lance beams screamed as they lanced through the void, their trajectories jagged and unnatural, tearing apart an unlucky frigate in a single, grotesque blow.

Amidst the carnage, the fighter wings battled for supremacy, their dogfights a frenzied ballet of destruction. The Dragon Armors, Imperial creations of near-heretical ingenuity, dominated the engagement. Their larger frames moved with unsettling grace, their plasma cannons and melta weaponry tearing through enemy formations like predators among prey. They were the bane of the enemy's Helldrakes, whose draconic forms had once been nightmares for Imperial squadrons. Here, in the Maelstrom, they were hunted—Dragon Armors piercing their corrupted flesh and machinery with precise, devastating fire.

Lieutenant Karvos, squadron leader of the 5th Dragon Wing, clenched his jaw as his fighter banked hard to avoid an incoming missile. The enemy bomber squadron ahead was breaking formation under his assault, their return fire sporadic and desperate. "Stay on them!" he barked over the vox, sweat streaming down his face despite the climate control in his cockpit. "Don't give them a chance to regroup!"

His squadron obeyed with the discipline expected of Imperial pilots. Plasma fire erupted around them, searing through the enemy's thin armor and reducing bombers to fiery wreckage. But even as Karvos pressed the attack, he caught sight of a fellow pilot—Lieutenant Oras—flying directly into the path of an enemy lance battery. The beam struck her Dragon Armor head-on, disintegrating her fighter in a flash of light. Her sacrifice gave Karvos and the rest of the squadron the opening they needed to finish the bombers, but the loss hit him like a punch to the gut.

"Emperor, grant her peace," he whispered before refocusing on the battle. There would be time to mourn later—if they survived.

On the Palatine Phoenix, Lorena watched the hololith as her fighter wings pushed deeper into the enemy formation. Despite their heroism, losses mounted. Names scrolled across a secondary display—pilots, deck crews, voidsmen, all giving their lives to hold the line. They were tools, yes, but necessary ones. The Emperor demanded sacrifice, and she would not shy away from it. But she could not ignore the weight of those sacrifices, nor the cost they exacted on her fleet.

"Enemy ships are splitting," Merchan reported. "They're attempting to retreat and regroup."

Lorena's eyes narrowed. The enemy fleet was breaking into two groups, one pushing toward the Mechanicus lines, the other attempting to disengage entirely. It was a calculated move but it was also a sign of desperation. The heretics and xenos were crumbling, their cohesion shattered under the relentless assault. Still, they were dangerous in their desperation, their retreating ships firing wildly as they tried to cover their escape.

"Order the Mechanicus fleet to press the left flank," she said. "We'll take the right. No mercy."

"Aye, Admiral."

The Imperial Navy ships surged forward, macrocannons thundering as they poured fire into the retreating enemy. Lorena could see the chaos in the enemy ranks—ships colliding, their formations collapsing as panic took hold. Yet the cost of victory was etched into the void itself. The Faithful Shield, a Dauntless-class light cruiser, was engulfed in flames as a heretic battleship's torpedo barrage found its mark. The ship listed to port, its hull ruptured and spilling debris, before finally detonating in a blinding explosion. The shockwave rippled through the void, claiming several nearby escorts in its wake.

"Damnation," Lorena muttered, her voice low. She turned to Merchan. "Deploy rescue teams. Save whoever we can."

"Yes, Admiral."

The void was ablaze, a tapestry of death painted in streaks of light and burning debris. The shattered remnants of the heretic and xenos fleet were scattered across the battlefield, split into two desperate formations by the unrelenting onslaught of the Imperial Navy and the Mechanicus flotilla. On one flank, a knot of enemy vessels lay surrounded, caught between the hammer of Imperial warships and the anvil of Mechanicus firepower. On the other, the fleeing remnants clawed their way toward the Maelstrom, battered and broken, with only a handful of lighter ships still capable of movement.

Admiral Lorena Voss stood imperious on the command dais of the Palatine Phoenix, her hands clasped behind her back as her eyes swept the hololithic display. The chaos unfolding on the bridge—officers barking orders, tactical screens flashing warnings of imminent impacts, and tech-priests intoning binaric litanies—barely registered. Her mind was fixed on the larger picture, the orchestration of overwhelming firepower that had turned the tide in their favor.

"Admiral," Commander Merchan's voice cut through the din, steady but tinged with urgency. "the heretics formation on the left flank is collapsing."

"Then press them," Lorena said coldly. "They are already dead—they simply do not yet realize it. Show them the Emperor's justice."

The encircled fleet on the left flank was disintegrating. Macrocannon broadsides from Gothic-class cruisers punched through failing void shields, tearing enemy ships apart with brutal efficiency. Lance strikes followed, their blinding beams slicing clean through hulls, severing engines and splitting vessels into molten fragments. The Mechanicus warships added their esoteric fury, unleashing plasma cascades and graviton imploders that crushed corrupted hulls into twisted wreckage.

But even as their ships burned, the heretics refused to die quietly. Desperate boarding pods launched from their crippled vessels, hurtling toward the Imperial fleet like venomous darts. These were not the calculated strikes of disciplined forces but the frantic lashings of a beast in its death throes. The pods were crude, twisted amalgamations of Chaos-forged metal, bristling with spikes and oozing with warp-born corruption. They carried the worst of the Maelstrom's horrors—mutants, Chaos-possessed monstrosities, and xenos hybrids twisted beyond recognition.

The Palatine Phoenix shuddered as two such pods struck its hull, breaching the lower decks. Vox-channels crackled with frantic reports.

"Deck fourteen breached! Enemy boarding parties engaged! Heavy resistance—requesting reinforcements!"

Lorena didn't flinch. She knew the capabilities of her ship and her crew. "Deploy the Saint's Paladins to reinforce," she ordered. "And dispatch the Mechanicus combat servitors to secure critical systems. Seal all adjacent bulkheads. No heretic will take this ship."

The Paladins, clad in their white carapace armor, moved with lethal precision. The halls of the Palatine Phoenix became a brutal battlefield as they clashed with the intruders. Chainswords roared, bolters thundered, and the corridors filled with the stench of blood and charred flesh. The heretics fought with the ferocity of the damned, their bodies twisted by the dark powers they served, but they could not match the discipline and faith of the Emperor's warriors.

In one corridor, a squad of Paladins held the line against a tide of Chaos-mutated horrors, their storm shields locking together as bolter fire mowed down wave after wave. A wounded Paladin, his armor cracked and leaking blood, detonated a frag grenade in a final act of defiance as he was overwhelmed, taking a dozen heretics with him. His squadmates pressed forward, their voices raised in hymns of vengeance.

The void outside fared no better for the heretics. The surrounded fleet was disintegrating, its heavier ships now wrecks, their twisted hulls torn apart by relentless Imperial bombardment. A final salvo from the Triumph of Dorn obliterated the largest of the remaining enemy ships, a heavily corrupted Grand Cruiser. Its destruction sent a shockwave rippling through the debris field, scattering smaller vessels into ruin.

Meanwhile, the fleeing enemy ships on the right flank faced their own torment. Imperial bombers and their fighter escorts swooped in for the kill, weaving through flak bursts and warp-tainted defenses with the precision of veteran pilots. The bombers targeted critical systems—engines, weapons batteries, and command decks—crippling the heretics' ability to fight or flee. Meltabombs and plasma torpedoes detonated with surgical accuracy, sending flames and wreckage spiraling into the void.

The fighter squadrons, though lacking the exotic enhancements of the Mechanicus' dragon armors, fought with unmatched courage. They intercepted enemy bombers attempting to retaliate, tearing through their formations with autocannon fire and las-blasts. A particularly daring maneuver by Lieutenant Corran's squadron saw them dive headlong into a swarm of enemy fighters, breaking their formation and buying precious seconds for the bombers to complete their runs.

Corran's wing paid a steep price for their heroism—three of his fighters were lost in the chaotic melee, their pilots incinerated or torn apart by enemy fire. Yet their sacrifice ensured that the enemy ships' guns fell silent, their engines sputtering as they drifted helplessly toward the Imperial fleet's firing lines.

On the hololith, the encircled group on the left vanished entirely as the last heretic ship detonated under concentrated fire. Lorena allowed herself a moment of satisfaction but did not linger. Her attention shifted to the retreating group. They were too far to intercept now, but they would carry the shame of their defeat into the Maelstrom—and the knowledge that the Emperor's judgment was inevitable.

"Admiral," Merchan reported, his voice quiet but steady. "The field is ours. Final damage reports are incoming. Casualties are… significant."

"Significant, but acceptable," Lorena said, her tone sharp but weary. She turned her gaze to the hololith, where the wreckage of enemy vessels glowed faintly against the black void. "Signal the fleet. Consolidate survivors and retrieve escape pods. Record the names of the fallen for remembrance."

The void was quiet now, or at least quieter. The thunder of macro-cannon volleys and lance strikes had faded into an eerie, almost reverent calm, broken only by the distant echoes of dying enemy ships. Admiral Lorena Voss, resplendent in her polished navy coat, stood at the central dais of the Palatine Phoenix, her gloved hands resting lightly on the gilded railing as if she could draw strength from the ship itself. Her face betrayed nothing but cold purpose, though a subtle tightening of her jaw hinted at the sheer weight of responsibility pressing down upon her.

The hololithic display before her still glimmered with fragments of her victory. The encircled heretic fleet on the left flank had been annihilated, their broken hulks now little more than drifting scrap. The remains of the enemy's fleeing detachment were limping away, a pathetic collection of corvettes and frigates clawing toward the safety of the Maelstrom. They would find no refuge there—not for long. Their defeat here would mark them, and even the warp could not hide the stench of failure.

But for now, Lorena allowed them to flee. The Emperor's justice would catch them in time. It always did.

Her gaze flicked to the viewports above, where the battle's remnants painted the void in grim colors. Wreckage floated like ash after a wildfire, glittering with the cold light of distant stars. Here and there, escape pods from both sides drifted aimlessly. Theirs could be retrieved. The heretics would not be so fortunate.

The vox-channel crackled to life, and Commander Merchan's voice cut through the quiet chaos of the bridge. "Admiral, enemy reinforcements are highly unlikely. Scans confirm no activity around the outer planets. The heretics seem to have abandoned their auxiliary targets entirely."

"Cowards," she said softly, her voice like a blade sliding back into its sheath. Then, louder: "Good. They've fled like the rabid dogs they are. But we will not mistake their cowardice for harmlessness. Keep a detachment in high orbit around the mining colonies. I won't leave anything to chance."

"Yes, Admiral."

The officers around her moved like clockwork, relaying her orders with the practiced efficiency she demanded. She did not bother acknowledging them further; their obedience was expected, not earned. These men and women were competent tools of the Emperor's will, nothing more. And tools were meant to function without praise.

Her gaze drifted again to the hololith. The planet Nahlstred loomed large at its center, its vast Hive Cities shielded by void-dome barriers that even Imperial lance batteries couldn't penetrate without prolonged bombardment. The heretic forces below would soon realize they were abandoned, their fleet shattered and their orbital defenses turned to slag. Lorena allowed herself a faint, satisfied smile. Let them cower behind their void shields; they would face the Emperor's wrath on the streets soon enough.

The transports of the 31st Paladin Legion, carrying twenty full regiments of Imperial Guard and an array of the Saint's new combat servitors, had already begun descending toward the planet. The ground war was inevitable now, as preordained as the rising of Holy Terra's sun. The heretics would fight, and they would die. The only question was how long they could prolong the agony of their resistance. She would leave that answer to the ground pounders. Her war was here, in the void.

"Admiral, Archmagos Vernix has begun deploying repair skiffs," Merchan reported, his voice steady, almost bored. "Mechanicus ships have formed a defensive perimeter around our damaged vessels. Casualty reports are still being tallied."

Lorena's lips pressed into a thin line. She did not like the Mechanicus—never had, never would. Their arrogance grated against her sense of order, their obsession with machinery over the purity of humanity a constant reminder of their flaws. But Archmagos Hestia Vernix was different. Pragmatic, cooperative, and blessedly willing to follow tactical directives, she had proven her worth time and again. Lorena could respect that, even if she could never fully trust it.

"Good," Lorena said. "Ensure that all Mechanicus operations are logged and verified by our overseers. I want full reports on every repair made."

Merchan nodded, though his expression tightened. He had served under her long enough to know that she trusted no one, not even her allies. Especially not her allies.

Lorena's thoughts shifted to the Palatine Phoenix itself, the massive vessel humming with power beneath her feet. It was the finest ship she had ever commanded—a masterpiece of Human engineering, saved from the taint of rogue Astartes and restored to its rightful purpose by Saint Michael himself. She had doubted the wisdom of keeping it at first, its past corruption a stain that many in the Admiralty would never forgive. But today, it had proved its worth. Its guns had shattered the heretic fleet, its shields had endured the worst of their wrath, and its crew had fought with a zeal that could only come from serving aboard such a holy vessel.

Still, she missed her old ship, the Emperor's Gale. There had been a time when she had thought no vessel could replace it. But the Palatine Phoenix… it was something else. Something more. It was a weapon forged by the Emperor's will, wielded by His Saint, and it had saved countless lives this day.

Her reverie was broken by a report from the vox-operator. "Admiral, repair skiffs are signaling readiness to activate warp beacons. Awaiting your orders."

"Do it," Lorena said without hesitation. "Signal the fleet to prepare for tow operations. The Saint's blessings will see us through."

The hololith flickered as new data streamed in. The heretics' fleeing ships were now well beyond her reach, their trajectories taking them toward the Maelstrom. Lorena felt no frustration. They were crippled, scattered, and leaderless. Their survival would only serve as a warning to others who dared defy the Emperor's will.

Her hands tightened on the railing, and her voice dropped to a whisper, meant only for herself. "This system is ours. The Emperor's work is done here."

The bridge of the Palatine Phoenix hummed with disciplined efficiency, the muted symphony of machinery and human voices blending into the kind of rhythm only the Imperial Navy could muster in the aftermath of battle. Admiral Lorena Voss stood at the center of it all, her back straight, her face carved from stone, every inch of her projecting an aura of invincibility that masked the predator coiled beneath.

The war was over for the moment, but she knew better than to believe it had truly ended. War was the rhythm of the galaxy—the blood that pumped through the veins of the Imperium, eternal and unrelenting. Peace was an illusion, and she had no patience for illusions.

"Helm," she said, her voice sharp as steel, "take us into high orbit over Nahlstred. Let the heretics below see the Palatine Phoenix and know that their doom is not coming. It is here."

"Yes, Admiral," came the reply, crisp and immediate. No hesitation, no doubt. Good. She had no room for either on her bridge.

The Palatine Phoenix began its descent, a leviathan of wrath and justice, cutting through the void with the predatory grace of a creature that knew it was at the apex of the food chain. Normally, she would have balked at bringing her flagship so close to the planet's surface—it was a risk, a temptation of fate—but the reports from the ground were clear. The heretics and their xeno lackeys had grown arrogant, complacent. They believed themselves untouchable, their forces spread across the surface in arrogant defiance of orbital supremacy.

Lorena's lips curled into a cold smile. They would learn.

The fleet began to spread out, her orders already rippling through the void like currents in a stormy sea. The transports bearing the Imperial Guard regiments—those blunt instruments of His divine will—moved with grim purpose toward the besieged Hives. The rest of her fleet took up positions across the upper atmosphere, a celestial noose tightening around the neck of the planet's defenders.

The Palatine Phoenix held position over a particularly stubborn cluster of heretical forces entrenched between jagged mountain ranges. A position that might have given pause to lesser ships. But the Palatine Phoenix was not lesser. It was the finest warship she had ever commanded—a symphony of destruction crafted in the Dark Age of Technology, its Helios Arc Lances capable of precision strikes that turned even the most defensible positions into little more than charred memories.

"Target coordinates acquired," reported the tactical officer, his voice steady, his hands dancing across his console with mechanical precision.

Lorena allowed herself a moment of stillness, a quiet pause before the storm. Her gaze swept across the bridge, taking in the faces of her crew. Men and women who lived and died by her command, whose faith in her was as unshakable as her faith in the Emperor. They did not see her as she saw them—tools of duty, instruments of the God-Emperor's will. To them, she was a beacon, a symbol. She would not let them see her falter

"Fire," she commanded.

The Helios Arc Lances roared to life, their fury unleashed in searing beams of energy that tore through the atmosphere, reducing the heretic positions to smoldering craters in a matter of seconds. The mountain range trembled, but Lorena had no time to admire the geological theatrics. The lances had been fired at a fraction of their full power—surgical strikes designed to annihilate the enemy while sparing the planet's surface as much as possible. This was not Exterminatus. Not today. Today was vengeance, not annihilation.

Macrocannons thundered, as the bombardment of the heretics was joined by the lesser ships of the fleet, their combined firepower transforming enemy encampments into pyres of flame and death. The heretics scattered, their formations disintegrating under the relentless barrage. Thousands were reduced to ashes, their lives snuffed out in an instant. The air itself seemed to tremble with the force of the bombardment, a grim hymn to the Emperor's justice.

Reports began to filter in from the surface. Confirmation of enemy casualties, of shattered supply lines, of panic spreading like a plague among the heretical ranks. Lorena absorbed the information without reaction, her expression unchanging. This was not victory. This was duty.

"Admiral," came a voice—her communications officer. "The transports report that the Imperial Guard is making landfall. The heretics are in disarray."

"As they should be," Lorena replied. She turned her gaze to the viewport, where the flickering flames of her handiwork danced across the planet's surface. "But do not mistake disarray for defeat. Desperate animals are often the most dangerous."

Her words were a warning, but also a promise. The ground war would be brutal—it always was—but it was no longer her concern. The Palatine Phoenix had done its part, and now it would stand as an eternal reminder to the heretics of the wrath that awaited those who defied the Emperor's will.

She allowed herself a brief moment to breathe, to let the weight of her actions settle over her. Then, with the precision of a blade, she turned her focus to the next task. There was always another task. Always another battle.

"Signal the fleet," she said, her voice cutting through the air like a whip. "Begin recovery operations. And ensure that the Mechanicus ships maintain their defensive perimeter. I will not have this victory tarnished by carelessness."

The officers moved to obey, their voices blending once more into the hum of activity that filled the bridge. Lorena stood at the center of it all, unyielding and unshaken.

War was eternal. Duty was eternal. And she would see it through to the end.

---

The title General Tempestus had hung in the air of Minas Tirith like the weight of a storm about to break. It didn't matter that it hadn't been uttered aloud in over two millennia. It didn't matter that the last man to hold it had survived only four years of his ten-year appointment before the galaxy ground him to dust. What mattered was that Michael now wore it like armor—or maybe like a target.

And the Emperor himself in his infinite wisdom, had made it limitless. Not ten years. Not even a term. Just a permanent position of authority bestowed by the hand of the Custodes themselves. The Emperor's golden sons had spoken, and if they spoke, it was as if the Emperor himself had spoken. Naturally, the whispers had started immediately.

Some called it divine approval—proof that Michael's every step was ordained by the God-Emperor himself. Others muttered that it was punishment, that Michael had so thoroughly disrupted the natural balance of Imperial society that the Emperor had saddled him with a title designed to be as fatal as it was grand. Goswin thought both camps were equally insufferable. Rumormongers always thought their gossip carried weight, as if their ceaseless mutterings could alter the course of history. Michael didn't care about their opinions. He cared about duty—his and theirs. And when someone failed in that duty, well, the Saint didn't waste time with whispers.

Goswin let a corner of his mouth twitch upward in a dry smirk, hidden beneath his hood. The Paladins, for their part, had taken the announcement with all the humility of a thunderbolt. They'd always been fiercely loyal to Michael, but now? Now they swaggered through the halls of the citadel of Minas Tirith like they carried the Emperor's own mandate. And perhaps they did, in a way. Most of the veterans tempered their confidence with discipline, letting their actions do the talking. But the younger recruits? They were like dogs let off the leash, their newfound authority evident in every sharp salute and every brash grin.

To the Paladins, the proclamation was more than a political maneuver. It was a divine endorsement, a declaration that their Saint was untouchable, and by extension, so were they. It didn't matter that the Inquisition technically outranked such proclamations—Goswin knew better than most how thin the line was between technical authority and practical power. No Inquisitor in their right mind would requisition Michael's troops without clearing it with him first. The Saint's presence had a way of forcing even the most arrogant minds to consider the consequences of their actions.

The walk through the Saint's citadel wasn't one Goswin particularly enjoyed. Not because of the citadel itself—Emperor knew it was a fortress worthy of a Saint, fortified to the teeth with more checkpoints than even the Inquisition would deem reasonable—but because of the company. Everywhere he turned, there were Paladins in pristine white carapace armor, patrolling the halls with that self-assured swagger they'd adopted since Michael's confirmation.

They weren't all green recruits, of course. Most had been hardened by the fires of war, their discipline honed to a razor's edge. But there was still a distinct air of fanaticism about them, a zeal that only Michael could inspire. Goswin couldn't decide if it was endearing or mildly terrifying. Probably both.

His Inquisitorial rosette allowed him to bypass the worst of the security checks, but even then, it took nearly twenty minutes to navigate the labyrinthine corridors and checkpoints to reach today's meeting room. By the time he entered, he'd had more than enough of the Paladins' intense stares and their barely restrained eagerness to demonstrate their loyalty. Lunatics, he thought again, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. Useful lunatics, but lunatics nonetheless.

The room itself was a stark contrast to the grandeur of the citadel. No gleaming hololithic projectors, no tactical maps sprawling across walls, and, most importantly, no Mechanicus representatives hovering around in a perpetual state of smugness, attempting to win the Saint's favor. Goswin scoffed internally at the thought. The Mechanicus had been trying for months to convince Michael to abandon his "Techboys." As if that would happen.

The Techboys were far from perfect—Goswin would be the first to admit that—but they were obedient, innovative, and devoid of the arrogance that seemed to be woven into the Mechanicus' DNA. The so-called dragon armors were proof enough of their capabilities. The fighter craft were simple in design, built without the mysterious rituals or esoteric tech-mysteries the Mechanicus clung to, but they were devastatingly effective against the Chaos-heldrakes. And yet, Goswin still couldn't wrap his head around Michael's insistence on calling them dragon armors instead of one of the dozen better names that had been suggested.

Then again, Michael wouldn't be Michael without his eccentricities.

Goswin's gaze swept the room as he stepped inside. The Saint was seated casually on a couch, dressed in his usual Astra Militarum uniform, a single golden medal glinting on his chest—the Custodes' mark of his appointment as General Tempestus. It caught the light in a way that seemed deliberate, like a reminder to everyone present that Michael was no ordinary man.

Beside him stood two figures Goswin recognized instantly, though their appearances were nothing alike. The twins, Francesca and Francesco. Infamous among the Inquisition as members of the Ordo Chronos, they were walking reminders of why meddling with time was best left alone.

Francesca looked like a woman in her middle years, her features lined with a wisdom—or weariness—that only decades of service could bring. Francesco, by contrast, could have passed for a preteen, though his sharp green eyes held an intelligence far beyond his youthful appearance. Their shared brown hair and piercing gazes were the only clues they were siblings.

The twins had recently survived another chronal disaster, or so the rumors went. Francesca had been aged into a crone, a condition Michael had reversed as easily as one might swat away a fly. Francesco hadn't been so fortunate—or perhaps he had, depending on one's perspective. De-aged to his preteen years, he now faced the unenviable task of aging naturally once more. Goswin couldn't suppress a shiver at the thought. An Inquisitor going through puberty again? That was the kind of nightmare even the God-Emperor Himself might have avoided.

Michael greeted Goswin with a nod, his expression calm and unreadable. It was the same look he always wore in moments like this—a mask of serene authority that gave nothing away. What's he thinking? Goswin wondered, not for the first time. Michael's mind was as much a mystery as his miracles.

"Goswin," Michael said, his voice as steady as the Throne's light itself. "I trust you had no trouble reaching us."

"None worth mentioning," Goswin replied, his tone clipped but respectful. The twenty-minute delay hadn't been trouble so much as an annoyance, though he suspected Michael already knew that. The Saint's sense of humor was maddeningly subtle, and Goswin had long since learned to read between the lines.

Francesca and Francesco exchanged glances, their silent communication as seamless as always. Goswin didn't envy their bond, though he appreciated its efficiency. Twins with decades of shared service between them were an asset, even if their methods were unorthodox.

Goswin crossed his arms, as he watched Michael with what he hoped was a neutral expression. The Saint's faint smile was a masterclass in deliberate ambiguity, revealing just enough to make you curious, but not enough to satisfy. It was maddening.

"Patience, Goswin," Michael repeated, his voice calm, almost teasing, as if he were discussing the weather instead of whatever crisis had necessitated this meeting. "All will be revealed in time."

Patience. Goswin swallowed the urge to scoff aloud. It wasn't just that patience wasn't a virtue the Inquisition encouraged—it was practically heretical to an organization that thrived on decisive action. But Michael's tempo was his own, as immutable as the Emperor's light itself. Any attempt to rush him was a fool's errand, guaranteed to backfire. Goswin had seen it before, new recruits or overeager nobles pushing for answers, only to find Michael slowing down even further, like a mule digging in its heels.

And so, Goswin sat.

The chair was plush—an old-fashioned, high-backed armchair placed around the room's most incongruous feature: a fireplace. The fire crackled cheerfully, its warmth entirely unnecessary given the citadel's precisely controlled climate. Goswin wasn't surprised, though. Michael had a particular fondness for outdated comforts, be it fires, physical books, or the occasional preference for tea brewed by hand instead of the far more efficient automated systems. Sentimentality wrapped in practicality, Goswin thought. Or maybe it was just the Saint's way of keeping everyone guessing.

He allowed himself to sink into the chair, the flickering firelight casting shifting shadows across the stone walls. "Are we waiting for someone?" he asked, breaking the silence.

Michael leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as a conspiratorial grin spread across his face. "Not for long," he said. His voice dropped into a stage whisper. "Though do me a favor, Goswin. Pretend to be surprised when she arrives. She's such a drama queen."

Drama…what? Goswin blinked, the unfamiliar phrase catching him off guard. He was tempted to ask for clarification, but he'd learned long ago that Michael's strange sayings rarely benefited from closer scrutiny. He gave a single nod instead, filing the term away under the ever-growing list of Saintly Eccentricities.

They didn't have to wait long.

A section of the wall slid open with a low hiss, revealing a tall, lithe figure in sleek black armor. Even before she stepped fully into the room, Goswin knew who it was. The arrogance practically radiated off her like a psychic echo.

Seraphina Nightbane, the Eldar ambassador to Michael.

Goswin's jaw tightened instinctively, though he kept his expression neutral. He'd seen her before—too many times for comfort. The sight of her elegant, impossibly alien grace still set his teeth on edge, though it had nothing to do with her appearance and everything to do with what she represented. An Eldar, here, in the heart of an Imperial stronghold. It was an alliance so fragile and so dangerous it practically begged for disaster. And yet, Michael had brokered it.

He forced himself to acknowledge, however grudgingly, that Seraphina had proven herself useful. Her foresight—though steeped in the esoteric arts of the Warp—had saved countless lives, eliminating cults and xenos threats before they could fester into galactic calamities. Her arrogance had been tempered somewhat, though Goswin suspected that was more a reflection of Michael's influence than any true humility on her part.

Still, the knowledge of those yearly shipments of Emperor's Tears—gems so sacred they were practically relics—made his stomach churn. If anyone ever found out that Michael was sending them to the Craftworlds as part of this alliance…well, the fury of the Ecclesiarchy would be the least of their concerns. It wasn't a matter of if the Imperium would burn the Eldar to extinction, but how quickly.

Not that Goswin would ever breathe a word of it. No matter what was done to him, some secrets were too dangerous to reveal.

"I've gathered you all here," Michael began, his voice a steady cadence that managed to be both warm and authoritative, "to follow up on a lead that our two favorite twins have uncovered."

Goswin arched a brow, skepticism bleeding into his features despite his best efforts to stay composed. The twins. He couldn't help himself. "What kind of insane scheme have they concocted this time?"

"No scheme," Michael replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. It was that maddeningly calm expression, the kind that hinted at a thousand secrets he wasn't going to share. "Information. Valuable information."

Goswin's gaze narrowed. Valuable information was often code for the kind of mess that required more bodies than brains to clean up. He leaned forward, his tone sharper than he intended. "And you trust it?"

The weight of Seraphina's gaze landed on him, subtle but undeniable, like the whisper of a blade against his skin. He ignored it, focusing instead on Michael, whose expression softened, though his eyes remained sharp.

"An undeserved reputation," Michael said quietly, his words deliberate. "One the Ordo Chronos has cultivated intentionally. The less interest the Imperium shows in temporal technologies, the better."

Goswin's lips pressed into a thin line. His inquisitive nature wrestled with the implications, refusing to leave the thought unexplored. "Oh? Why?" he asked, letting his voice slip into a tone that balanced curiosity and challenge.

Michael tilted his head, the faintest glimmer of amusement flashing in his eyes before he gestured toward the twins. "It's better if they explain."

Francesca leaned forward, her posture deceptively casual, but her tone all business. "When the Imperium was in its infancy, various attempts to meddle with time revealed…barriers. Interesting ones. Whatever was behind those barriers, the Emperor deemed it significant enough to form the precursor to the Ordo Chronos. It was later folded into the Holy Ordos when it became clear such oversight was necessary."

Goswin frowned, leaning back in his chair as the firelight danced across his sharp features. "And now you hunt anyone who tries to meddle beyond the Emperor's imposed limits?"

Francesca nodded, her expression calm. "Exactly."

"Fine. But the accidents—the so-called temporal anomalies—are they all your doing?" Goswin pressed, his tone cool but tinged with genuine curiosity.

Before Francesca could respond, Seraphina spoke, her voice smooth and cutting in equal measure. "I doubt it," she said, crossing her arms. The faint glow of psychic energy flickered in her eyes, a subtle reminder of her otherworldly power. "From what I've seen of these incidents, they've likely triggered some of the old temporal wards left behind by the Empire of a Billion Suns."

Goswin blinked, the term jarring enough to disrupt his thoughts. "The Empire of a Billion Suns?" he asked, his voice low but sharp with intrigue. It wasn't the words themselves that struck him, but the reverence in Seraphina's tone—a rare thing for an Aeldari to afford anyone or anything.

Michael answered before she could, his tone measured. "The empire the Aeldari built when they returned to the galaxy at large, thousands of years after the War in Heaven ended." He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room, landing on each person as if daring them to challenge the weight of his words. "They ruled the galaxy for about sixty million years before they…ruined it. Quite literally."

Goswin's brow furrowed, the air around them suddenly heavy. "Ruined it how?"

Michael's smile turned grim, a flicker of something darker passing through his features. "By bringing the Prince of Pleasure into existence and, in the process, creating the Eye of Terror."

The room fell silent, the implications sinking in. Goswin's thoughts churned, questions bubbling to the surface faster than he could suppress them. The Empire of a Billion Suns, sixty million years of dominion, temporal wards powerful enough to persist for eons—none of it made sense, and yet it fit together in a way that left him unsettled.

"What did they defend against?" Goswin asked, his voice neutral, but his mind was already trying to piece together answers from fragments of half-remembered reports and ancient texts.

Michael's gaze flickered to him, his tone crisp but still annoyingly warm. "Most of the barriers were designed to guard against the usual temporal incursions—hostile forces trying to erase them in their infancy, that sort of thing. But the most powerful wards? They're meant to prevent access to the era of the War in Heaven. The ones we haven't triggered yet, thankfully. Those would release horrors best left buried."

Horrors. That word lingered in the room like the echo of a scream. Goswin straightened in his seat, his lips twitching into a faint frown. "The era of the War in Heaven?" He let the question hang for a moment before adding, "Was it really so bad?"

Michael's expression didn't change, but his voice dropped, gaining an almost reverent weight. "The War in Heaven is a poor translation, really. The better term would be the War in the Firmament. Entire species annihilated. Stars torn apart. Entire timelines shattered and weaponized. We're lucky, truly, that the war's very nature prevented them from breaking through to the present. If they had, they would rule everything."

The words settled in Goswin's mind like sediment in water, clouding his thoughts. He tapped a finger on the armrest, his voice wry. "Ah, no meddling with time. Got it. That's...comforting."

Michael's lips quirked into a faint smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Not no meddling. Just very careful manipulation. The key is avoiding the shattered remains of that war. If we're not careful, one misstep could allow something trapped there to bleed into our time. And then, well, we'd all die horribly under the talons of whatever horror slips through."

Cheerful. The Saint somehow managed to deliver that sentence with the same tone someone else might use to announce an afternoon tea. Goswin fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"Right," Goswin muttered, running a hand over his jaw. "So, careful meddling. Sounds perfectly safe. Wait, Chaos, they created it, didn't they"?

Seraphina interjected, her voice cold and unyielding. "Chaos arose as a result of the War's aftermath—not directly, but the conflict left scars in both the Materium and the Immaterium. Those scars allowed Chaos to take root and grow."

"And my people's folly," Seraphina continued, her tone softening slightly, though it carried a weight of centuries, "is what allowed Chaos to break through the wards my ancestors kept them under. It's why they're as powerful as they are today."

"Another thing to blame the Eldar for," Francesco muttered, his voice sharp with venom. The incongruity of his youthful tone laced with ancient hatred made Goswin glance at the boy, wondering just how much bile someone that young could carry.

"Francesco, enough," Francesca said gently, placing a hand on her twin's arm. Her touch seemed to calm him, though his eyes still burned with quiet fury.

Michael cleared his throat, reclaiming the room's attention with the ease of someone who had long mastered command. "As I was saying," he continued, his tone a bit brighter, as though brushing past the tension, "today, we're exploring what I believe to be a repository of knowledge from one of the two major powers of the war"

Goswin arched a brow, the question slipping out before he could second-guess himself. "And why, exactly, do you need me for this?" His voice carried a practiced indifference, but inside, a nagging unease coiled tighter. Michael always had a reason—usually several—and none of them ever boded well for Goswin's sanity.

Michael turned to him with that maddening mix of warmth and subtle amusement. "Because, Inquisitor, your expertise as a member of the Ordo Xenos makes you uniquely suited for this endeavor."

Goswin's curiosity sharpened like a blade. That smile—half knowing, half infuriating—meant Michael was enjoying himself, as he often did when peeling back layers of secrets. "Go on," Goswin drawled, feigning nonchalance.

Michael's tone softened, becoming almost conspiratorial. "I happen to know you've shown a particular interest in the ruins left behind by the species you call the Old Ones."

The words hit like a bolter round to the chest. The Old Ones. Goswin kept his expression neutral, though the name sent a chill racing through his veins. It was one thing to study them from the safety of tomes and data-slates, to piece together their enigmatic existence through scraps of half-erased history. It was another thing entirely to think about standing in their shadows. He forced himself to exhale slowly, his fingers tightening around the armrest of his chair.

Michael, either unaware of the storm brewing in Goswin's mind or choosing to ignore it, pressed on. "They were one of the sides in the War," he said, his voice quieter now, tinged with something that could have been reverence—or regret. "Technically, they lost. But there were no winners in that war. Only survivors."

Goswin tilted his head, letting the words settle for a moment before responding. "So why explore their ruins? If they lost the war, shouldn't we be more interested in what the winners had? Learn from them, maybe?"

Michael's laugh was soft but carried an edge. "Considering the other side was the Necrons—and more specifically, their Star Gods—no, I don't think we'll be learning much from them. The Necrons were enslaved in all but name. And their masters…" He trailed off, his gaze distant for a moment, as though recalling something Goswin didn't dare ask about. "Let's just say they're not the kind of teachers we'd want."

That sent a shiver down Goswin's spine. He'd seen the Necrons once—from orbit—during a joint operation to collapse a mountain on their tomb world. It was supposed to be decisive, a final burial. But even from orbit, the sheer, soulless malice of their presence had left its mark on him. He still remembered how the void itself seemed to twist in their wake. "Ah," he said simply, his voice clipped. "Necrons. Say no more."

Michael's gaze flicked to him, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Exactly."

"So," Goswin began, gesturing lightly with his hand, "why the delay in visiting this particular ruin? If it's so important?"

Michael leaned back, folding his arms with an ease that felt almost out of place in the weighty conversation. "Because these ruins aren't easy to find. They're invisible to conventional scrying methods and even to prescient sight. They're the kind of places your eyes glance over without realizing it. It took us quite some time to locate even one."

Goswin narrowed his eyes. That sounded…convenient. Almost too convenient. "And what makes this one special?"

Michael's grin widened, the faintest spark of mischief in his expression. "Machines don't work inside it. No matter what you do, you can't record or copy anything from within—not in writing, not in pictures, not even in paintings. The only thing you take out with you is what you've committed to memory."

That gave Goswin pause. He'd seen strange places before, but this? This was something else entirely. "Charming," he muttered dryly. "And the Eldar? Why do we need her for this? Or is she just here so you don't have to babysit her elsewhere?"

Before Michael could answer, Seraphina's voice cut through the conversation, sharp and sure. "Because I'm the one most likely to decipher their language. The Old Ones created my species. Our language is derived from theirs. I'll understand enough to guide us, even if the nuances are lost."

Her confidence set Goswin's teeth on edge. It wasn't arrogance, not exactly, but it was close enough to make him uncomfortable. "Convenient," he murmured under his breath, though he suspected she heard him.

Michael clapped his hands together, a grin splitting his face, all youthful energy and that maddening sense of calm he carried into even the direst situations. "Now that everything's clear, let's get started."

Goswin barely had time to open his mouth to protest before a bluish-white glow enveloped him, the world vanishing in a wash of light that left him momentarily blind and reeling. One second, he'd been seated comfortably, the edges of his cynicism sharpening against Michael's usual vague declarations, and the next, he was standing knee-deep in fine, shifting sand.

He staggered, the sudden transition leaving his stomach lurching as if he'd just been yanked out of an airlock mid-flight. His boots sank into the golden grains as he struggled to right himself. "By the Emperor," he muttered, shaking his head and brushing a hand through his graying—no, annoyingly rejuvenated—hair.

The air was thick with heat, dry enough to sap the moisture from his throat in a single breath. Before him rose a mountain, its jagged silhouette breaking the endless expanse of desert. At its base, a massive cave yawned open like a beast ready to swallow the unwise whole. Its edges glowed faintly, the reflected light glinting off something within. Something unnervingly bright.

Goswin squinted, his breath catching as the realization hit him. Gold. The entire interior of the cave was covered in it—not in patches or streaks, but vast, seamless expanses that shimmered with an otherworldly radiance. It wasn't natural. Nothing about this place felt natural.

"Of course," he muttered, his voice dry as the sand beneath his feet. "Because nothing says 'ancient ruin of unimaginable power' like a giant, gold-plated death trap."

Michael glanced back at him, his grin still firmly in place, the picture of confidence. "Hardly a death trap," he replied breezily. "Unless you count the various defenses the Ordo Chronos placed around it. But I wouldn't rate them as that deadly."

As if summoned by the sheer arrogance of the statement, the sands around them shifted. Dozens of automata rose from the dunes, their forms humanoid but unnervingly alien in design. Each was armed with weapons that pulsed with a strange, greyish aura that made the air hum with menace. Goswin froze, his hand twitching instinctively toward his bolt pistol, though he knew it was a futile gesture. The constructs were like nothing he'd ever seen before, and that was saying something for a man who'd spent over a century cataloging xenos threats.

The twins, Francesco and Francesca, moved forward without hesitation, their Inquisitorial rosettes held high. The automata hesitated, then slowly lowered their weapons, sinking back into the sands with a low, mechanical whine. A faint shimmer flickered across the air in their wake, and Goswin realized with a start that they'd deactivated some kind of field—a defense mechanism he hadn't even noticed until it was gone.

"Well," he muttered under his breath, "that's unsettling."

Michael didn't seem the least bit fazed. He tilted his head, studying the faint traces of energy still lingering in the air. "An interesting variation of a time loop device," he remarked, as if discussing the weather. "The Ordo Chronos has found a way to weaponize their mistakes, it seems."

Goswin tore his gaze from the shifting sands to glare at the Saint. "And what exactly would've happened if they hadn't deactivated the field?" he asked, already dreading the answer.

Michael didn't disappoint. "We'd have been caught in a loop," he said matter-of-factly, "fighting those little fun automata over and over until the power source finally gave out. Which, judging by its design, would've taken a few million years." He offered a faint smile, the kind that suggested he'd long since made peace with the absurdity of the universe. "Dying repeatedly to chronotron weaponry would've been… unpleasant. By the ten-thousandth loop, I doubt anyone would still be sane."

Goswin stared at him, his mind momentarily blank. "So… not a death trap. Just a 'die an infinite number of times until your mind breaks' kind of trap."

"Exactly." Michael shrugged, and Goswin couldn't decide whether it was the most reassuring or infuriating gesture he'd ever seen. "But I could've shattered the defenses if needed." He paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "It would've taken time, though. Rebuilding something even remotely as good would be a pain."

"Or," Seraphina interjected smoothly, "you could let the Eldar handle it. We've always been better at preserving what's worth saving."

The desert wind died the moment Michael turned to her, as if even the elements held their breath when he spoke. His expression was as unyielding as the dunes behind them, his gaze leveled at Seraphina with a kind of quiet finality that sent a shiver down Goswin's spine—not that he'd ever admit it. When Michael's voice broke the silence, it wasn't angry or bitter, but there was weight there, a gravity that seemed to pull the very air into stillness.

"Never," Michael said simply, and that single word carried more conviction than a thousand sermons delivered from the pulpits of the Ecclesiarchy. "You had your chance." His tone softened—barely—but the pity woven into it was sharper than any blade. "It's mankind's turn now. And all things considered, we're doing quite well."

Seraphina didn't flinch, though the smallest twitch of her elegant jaw betrayed her annoyance. "You are fighting the entire galaxy," she replied, her tone dry and cutting, as if she were stating the obvious to a particularly dull pupil.

"And practically all the major forces in the Warp," Michael shot back, an insolent grin spreading across his face. Goswin could tell he enjoyed baiting her—far too much for someone supposedly touched by the divine. "And yet, we aren't losing."

"You are not winning either," she countered, her voice calm, though her narrowed eyes carried enough heat to singe.

"No," Michael admitted with a shrug, his grin unfaltering, "no, we're not. But if your ancestors had found themselves in the same situation, they would have either died outright or sealed themselves away in the Webway like frightened children hiding under the bed."

The shift in Seraphina's posture was subtle, but Goswin had spent decades—centuries, now—watching for the cracks in a person's composure. The haughty lift of her chin, the tightening at the corners of her mouth; she was trying to maintain her usual air of superiority, but Michael's words had struck a nerve.

"My ancestors," she began, her voice as imperious as ever, "were the mightiest civilization in the galaxy—a worthy heir to the Ancient Ones themselves."

Goswin stifled a scoff. The sheer arrogance of the Eldar never ceased to amaze him. They spoke of their so-called greatness as if the galaxy hadn't spent millennia cleaning up their messes.

Michael's grin widened, a predator catching the scent of blood. "Remind me," he said, his tone deceptively casual, "how did you fight the Enslaver plague again?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Goswin didn't need to see Seraphina's face to know she was fuming. Michael continued, unrelenting. "Oh, that's right—you ran. And when you finally came back, you built your empire on the graves of a thousand races. Things have only gone downhill since, haven't they? It's almost impressive, really, how universally hated you've managed to make yourselves. There are long-lived species out there that consider killing an Eldar a sacred act—and it's not because your ancestors were such nice people." His grin turned razor-sharp. "So, let me be perfectly clear: if any Eldar even approaches one of those places under our protection, I will personally come and…ask some pointed questions."

Seraphina's response was curt, her voice clipped with tightly reined fury. "Understood."

Goswin suppressed the urge to smirk. She might have been centuries older than him—assuming she was telling the truth about her age—but in that moment, she looked like nothing more than a chastised acolyte trying not to glare at her instructor.

"Good," Michael said, his tone as light as if they'd just wrapped up a pleasant negotiation. He turned and began striding toward the cavern, his movements impossibly fluid. Not even the soft, shifting sand seemed to dare hinder his steps.

Seraphina followed, her grace no less impressive but lacking the effortless command Michael exuded. Goswin fell into step behind them, sparing a glance at Francesca and Francesco, who remained stationed outside the cavern's entrance like living statues. Their identical expressions—calm, unreadable—did little to settle his unease. Whatever lay inside the cavern, even they seemed reluctant to face it.

As they crossed from the sand to the rock at the mountain's base, Goswin's unease grew. The cavern loomed ahead, its mouth wide enough to swallow a Warhound Titan whole. The air felt heavier here, thick with a palpable tension that crawled across his skin like an unseen hand.

Michael and Seraphina stopped at the threshold, raising their arms in unison. The display was…something. Goswin had seen psykers in action more times than he cared to count, but this wasn't the raw, chaotic force he was used to. Michael's golden light surged forward like the tide, radiant and all-consuming. Seraphina's power was darker, her runes spinning in intricate, hypnotic patterns. The sheer magnitude of their combined power was suffocating, pressing down on him like the weight of a thousand sins laid bare.

The strain hit like a sledgehammer, though Michael bore it better than most mortals could ever hope to. Goswin watched the Saint's face closely, noting every tightening muscle and the slight narrowing of his eyes. Wisps of steam curled from his skin, like a forge left untended, the heat of his exertion palpable even from where Goswin stood. Meanwhile, Seraphina crumpled to her knees, her lithe form trembling as blood streamed from her eyes and streaked down her porcelain cheeks. The emerald runes that had swirled around her sputtered and dimmed, leaving her gasping as though she'd just surfaced from drowning.

When the torrent of power finally ceased, the cavern itself seemed to exhale. The walls groaned and shifted, ancient carvings grinding into new formations. What had once been an indecipherable jumble of fragmented symbols now stretched into endless rows of glowing runes, their intricate design alien yet uncomfortably familiar. They radiated an undeniable authority, as though daring anyone to question their purpose.

Goswin's attention snagged on the images embedded between the lines of text—figures carved with almost reverent detail. The bipedal, frog-like beings stared back at him from the golden-veined walls, their forms regal despite their oddity.

"The Ancient Ones," he muttered under his breath, the term scraping out of him like rusted metal. He didn't believe in myths, not in the comforting way some did. Myths were just shadows of forgotten truths, often exaggerated, always incomplete. And yet here they were, staring him in the face, smug in their permanence.

Michael's voice broke the heavy silence. "Not what they called themselves, I'm sure, but close enough." His tone was laced with a wry amusement that Goswin couldn't quite decide was earned or infuriating. "And now, it seems, I've just been handed administrative access to their… library." He gestured to the glowing script with a slight lift of his chin. "So much for the Eldar's claim of being their worthy heirs."

Beside him, Seraphina dragged herself to her feet, wiping the blood from her face with trembling hands. "The gem couldn't handle the magnitude of my power," she bit out, her voice raw but edged with defiance. "If it had, I could've accessed this repository faster than you."

Michael turned to her, one brow arched in that infuriatingly calm way of his. "I doubt it. It wasn't a question of power, Seraphina. For all their faults, the Old Ones understood the Warp better than any of us. Their warding systems are beyond even my capability to replicate, and they recognized the sliver of Chaos that taints all of you." His gaze softened, but his words cut like blades. "They rejected you. Be thankful the gem purified your power, or the wards would've obliterated you where you stood."

"Lies," she hissed, though there was a flicker of fear in her luminous eyes that betrayed her confidence.

Michael shrugged. "If that's what helps you sleep at night." He gestured toward the yawning cavern ahead. "Let's move. We're fortunate this repository had what we needed. Start translating what you can. I'll need a cipher for this language."

"You think you can just grasp the Noble Tongue as easily as that?" she snapped, her pride visibly bristling.

"Yes." His answer was so matter-of-fact it was almost a slap.

Goswin bit back a smirk as Seraphina's mouth pressed into a thin line. The Eldar ambassador looked like she wanted to argue, but instead, she stalked past Michael, her shoulders taut with irritation.

The cavern opened into halls of sprawling grandeur, their walls veined with gold so seamlessly integrated into the stone that it felt like the mountain itself had been forged in a crucible. The murals that lined the halls depicted scenes so vivid they almost seemed to move—frog-like beings shaping stars with their elongated hands, weaving planets into existence like tapestries.

Michael paused occasionally, his sharp gaze scanning the runes with unnerving precision. Seraphina muttered translations under her breath, her irritation growing louder with every word. It didn't take long before Michael waved her off entirely, his confidence cutting through her protests.

"Got it," he said, his tone almost light, though Goswin could see the focus behind his eyes. "You can stop now, Seraphina. I've got enough to work with."

Her glare could've cut ceramite, but she said nothing as Michael strode ahead, his pace unbroken. Goswin followed, his own gaze flicking between the murals and the Saint's back.

The chamber stretched before them, vast and suffocating in its grandeur. The air hung heavy with a kind of ancient authority that seeped into every breath Goswin took, pressing down on him with invisible weight. The smooth, golden floor shimmered beneath the golden light filtering through the rune-lined walls, and the massive mural carved into its center demanded attention. It was impossible to ignore the sheer artistry of it, the precision that defied millennia of decay.

Dozens of orbs spiraled outward in chaotic beauty, connected by lines that curved and twisted with maddening complexity. At the center of it all stood the unmistakable humanoid figure—towering, triumphant, and unmistakably proud. The sheer scale of the thing dwarfed the orbs, and by extension, the planets they likely represented. Yet, despite its awe-inspiring form, Goswin felt a prickle of disdain curl in his chest.

"Even the Old Ones couldn't resist putting themselves at the center of everything," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, but the bite in his tone was sharp enough to cut.

Michael, standing just a few steps ahead, didn't look up from the runes he was studying. "Humans didn't invent arrogance, Goswin," he said, his voice calm but edged with something Goswin couldn't quite name. "We just perfected it."

The words landed like a lash, leaving behind a hollow ache that Goswin couldn't quite shake. His gaze returned to the mural, to the figure that stood as a testament to power and hubris. It was a stark reminder that the galaxy was far older—and far crueler—than even his jaded perspective could account for.

"What did you hope to learn from this… library?" he asked finally, breaking the heavy silence.

Michael straightened, his eyes still fixed on the mural as if it held the answers to every secret of the universe. "How to forge a god," he said simply.

Goswin froze. The words hit him like a bolter round to the chest, hollowing him out with shock and something uncomfortably close to dread. His throat tightened, and for a moment, he wondered if he'd misheard. But Michael's expression didn't waver, his conviction as steady as the stone beneath their feet

His voice came out harsher than intended, a reflex of a lifetime spent guarding against heresy. "Forge a god?"

Michael turned to him then, and his gaze—sharp, almost playful—pinned Goswin in place. "Oh, don't look at me like that. No one could ever replace the Emperor, least of all me. But tell me this, Inquisitor: what word would you use to describe the mighty beings of the Warp that we stand against? The human tongue falters, doesn't it? We call them gods because it's what countless species have called them. But make no mistake—I haven't gone mad, Goswin. I'm merely acknowledging what they are."

"Parasites would be more accurate," Goswin shot back, his voice low but no less firm. Even calling those abominations gods, lowercase or not, felt like a betrayal of the Emperor's name.

Michael tilted his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Even if they were all harmful—and not all of them are just the vast majority of them—calling them merely parasites risks underestimating them. And underestimation, Goswin, is a luxury we cannot afford." He gestured to the walls around them, to the runes and murals that seemed to pulse with ancient power. "But fine. Let's call them False gods, if that helps settle the storm in your heart. It doesn't change the reality of what they are—beings so powerful that even the term 'godlike' struggles to encompass them."

The words hung in the air between them, thick with implication and sharp enough to draw blood. Goswin's jaw clenched, the tension in his body a familiar weight, one he hadn't felt in decades before Michael had returned him to his prime. And now, standing in this ancient vault of secrets, it felt like the man before him had just casually tossed a grenade into his carefully constructed understanding of the galaxy.

"False gods, then," he said finally, the words scraping against his faith like sandpaper. Even agreeing to that terminology felt like a betrayal of the Emperor's divine truth, but there was no point in arguing semantics. Not when the stakes were this high. "But why would you need to know how to craft one of them?"

Michael's expression darkened, his youthful features momentarily shadowed by an almost unnerving intensity. For all his physical prime, there was an agelessness to the Saint that unsettled Goswin. "Because that's exactly what our enemies are doing in the Maelstrom," Michael said, his voice steady and heavy with certainty, as if the statement were as undeniable as gravity.

Goswin felt the impact like a physical blow, his thoughts spiraling as he tried to catch up. "They're trying to create a new Daemon Prince," he said slowly, the words tasting bitter and incomplete. His mind reached for details, connections, anything to anchor this revelation, but there was only the weight of Michael's conviction pressing against him.

"A Daemon Prince of Chaos Undivided," Michael clarified, his tone even but edged with something that made Goswin's stomach churn—a grim determination that felt too sharp, too final. "And I've long suspected they were something more. The knowledge in these walls just confirmed it."

Goswin's gaze flicked back to the mural, its sinuous lines and triumphant central figure suddenly more menacing than awe-inspiring. The pieces began to align, though the picture they formed was far from reassuring. "What are you saying?" he asked, though part of him wasn't sure he wanted the answer.

Michael's eyes met his, unwavering, piercing in a way that felt far too knowing. "What the Imperium calls Daemon Princes of Chaos Undivided… the Old Ones had another name for them. Minor False gods."

The temperature in the chamber seemed to plummet, or maybe that was just Goswin's perception twisting under the weight of those words. His faith reeled, his mind scrambling to reconcile this revelation with everything he had believed, everything he had fought for. But even amidst the chaos in his thoughts, his instincts as an Inquisitor kicked in. Focus. Analyze. Survive.

"And you think we can stop them?" he asked, the question cautious, laced with skepticism.

Michael's lips curved into a faint smile, though it held no warmth. "This isn't about stopping them, Goswin," he said, his tone as sharp as a blade. "Why would it be? To the Old Ones, False gods were tools, nothing more. What I hoped to find here was information on how they imprisoned them, controlled them, enslaved them. But," he gestured at the runic walls around them, "it seems such knowledge doesn't reside in this particular library."

"So, this was a fruitless trip?" Goswin pressed, his voice dry, though inwardly he was bracing himself for whatever twist Michael was about to throw his way.

"Not entirely," Michael replied, his tone light, almost conversational. It was the kind of calm that made Goswin's skin crawl. "I've learned much about our enemies. Enough to keep the Ordo Malleus busy for decades."

"Such as?" Goswin asked, his patience worn thin but his curiosity sharpening with every word.

"Simple," Michael said, his voice steady. "Daemon Princes dedicated to one of the Ruinous Powers are extensions of their patrons' will. But those of Chaos Undivided… they're different. Vassals, perhaps, but each one is its own power, its own entity."

Goswin's frown deepened. "And you think that makes them allies?" he asked, his tone sharp enough to cut.

Michael's smile turned razor-sharp. "Not allies. Tools. If we strike a blow powerful enough, their reactions become predictable. And predictable enemies are enemies we can use."

"Careful," Goswin warned, his voice low, his instincts bristling against the implications. "Many have walked that path before. It never ends well."

Michael didn't flinch, his gaze as steady as ever. "I'm not talking about a direct alliance, Goswin. Merely leverage. If their actions can be shaped, then they can be weaponized. And that might be the only edge we have."

The logic was sound, maddeningly so, but Goswin couldn't shake the unease curling in his gut. "And you think this new ascension is the key to that leverage?" he asked, his voice laden with doubt.

Michael nodded, his expression grim. "To make even a minor False god, one needs power that dwarfs anything I could summon, even on my best day. That kind of power, properly redirected, could strike a blow against the Ruinous Powers themselves."

"Wouldn't it be better to stop the ritual outright?" Goswin countered, his voice hard. "End it before they succeed?"

Michael shook his head, his expression sharpening with the kind of clarity Goswin had come to dread. It wasn't the clarity of a man with hope, but of one who'd weighed all possible outcomes and found them all equally damning. "If we stop the ritual outright, the power they've already gathered—the culmination of war, atrocities, and rituals that would make even an Inquisitor flinch—will have nowhere to go but back into the Maelstrom itself. The Warp Storm will grow. Four percent larger, at least."

Four percent. It sounded like such a trivial number, but Goswin knew better. He could see the implications ripple out before him like a meticulously drawn star chart, each line connecting to the next in a web of catastrophe. Four percent wasn't a mere fraction; it was entire sectors erased from existence, countless billions swallowed by a storm that already defied understanding. The weight of it settled in his chest like a lead weight.

Cold, unrelenting logic. He hated how much sense it made. Hated that there was no easy solution, no black-and-white path to follow. He'd built his life around the Emperor's light, but moments like this made him question if the galaxy was ever as simple as faith would have him believe.

"And how exactly do we manage that?" he asked, his tone cutting, not out of disrespect but necessity. "Do you have any idea where to start? Or is this just another lofty ideal we'll be forced to scramble to keep up with? The Maelstrom is still chaos incarnate, and the rebellions, the raids, the infighting—it hasn't slowed, not even with those… gates you gave Huron. If anything, it's only made it worse."

Michael didn't flinch, though his expression softened for the briefest moment, something like regret flickering across his face. "You're not wrong," he admitted. "The gates have pushed them to accelerate their plans. The price they're paying to sustain their efforts is astronomical. When this campaign is done, the strength of the heretics and xenos in the Maelstrom will be spent for centuries—millennia, even. But," he added with a self-deprecating smile, "you're right. I've begun to ramble."

Goswin arched an eyebrow, his gaze narrowing. "And the answer to my question?"

"It's here," Michael said, gesturing to the intricate mural on the floor. "You're standing on it."

Goswin blinked and glanced down at the golden surface, at the image of the triumphant humanoid figure surrounded by spheres—stars? Planets?—all connected by winding, sinuous lines that looked more like abstract art than anything practical. He frowned, his mind working to parse the pattern. It didn't click. "I don't see it," he said after a long pause, his voice flat.

Michael sighed, the sound heavy with exasperation but tempered with patience. "Maybe I ask too much of people," he said, more to himself than to Goswin. "What you're looking at is the ritual of the Old Ones. If my translation isn't wrong—and it rarely is—that figure is Kurnous, the Aeldari god of the hunt and wilderness. The spheres are stars, used as anchors and altars to funnel and amplify the power needed to forge a god. It's brilliant work, even now. Though I doubt anyone in the galaxy could replicate it exactly, Chaos… Chaos doesn't need stars. Planets will do."

"Daemon worlds?" Goswin asked, the words instinctual. They felt like the obvious answer, the expected one.

But Michael shook his head, his expression turning sharp again. "No. Daemon worlds wouldn't work. They're too deeply tied to the Ruinous Powers, to their individual aspects. And even for the Four, the cost of such an endeavor would be astronomical. But worlds corrupted by ritual? Or even just worlds cleansed of life, shaped to serve a specific purpose? That, they could manage."

"And you're sure they'd do it this way?" Goswin asked, his voice laced with skepticism. "They're Chaos. Innovation isn't exactly their hallmark, but that doesn't mean they can't surprise us. Maybe they're planning some other type of ritual."

"There aren't many ways to create a false god," Michael countered, his tone firm, his confidence unyielding. "If there were, the galaxy would already be teeming with them. And Chaos isn't creative, Goswin. Destructive, yes. Insidious, certainly. But their playbook hasn't changed in millennia. Besides," he added, his voice dipping lower, "this fits. The wars, the rebellions, the patterns I've seen in the Maelstrom—they all point to this."

Goswin let out a slow, measured breath, his eyes dragging across the mural once more, searching for the revelation Michael seemed so certain of. All he could see was an elaborate piece of golden artistry, something that belonged in the depths of a shrine-world, not here. But if Michael, said it was the key, then it was the key. No matter how much it grated against his instincts to trust anything he couldn't definitively prove.

"So," he said at last, his voice dry enough to match the arid wastelands of Armageddon, "we're going to let them build their god, then?"

Michael turned to him with a smile that could rival a wolf pack's, all sharp edges and predatory confidence. "Not quite," he replied, his tone laced with an unsettling calm. "We're going to let them gather their power, let them believe they're on the cusp of divinity. And then, we're going to take it from them. Have you ever wondered if gods bleed, Goswin? Because we're about to find out. We'll stab them with a spear forged from their own hubris, their own power, and we'll see what spills out."

Goswin's lips twitched, though he didn't let it become a smile. "A lofty plan," he murmured, his tone so neutral it was practically a void. "But you'll need more than theatricality to carry it out."

"That's an understatement," Seraphina interjected, her voice slicing through the conversation like a blade. She'd been silent until now, watching with that unblinking Eldar intensity that always made Goswin want to reach for a bolter. "Many have tried to turn Chaos' power against them. Many have failed."

"But none of them were me," Michael said, his confidence as steady as the Emperor's light. He leaned casually against a pillar, as though they weren't discussing god-making rituals and galaxy-shattering stakes. "I've already done it—on a smaller scale—on Veridan Tertius."

"They won't make the same mistake again," she warned, her tone as brittle as ancient wraithbone.

"Neither will I," Michael replied smoothly, his smile returning but softer this time, more thoughtful. "If there's one thing I excel at, it's creativity. Chaos may thrive on change, but it's depressingly predictable once you understand it."

Seraphina tilted her head, her alien features catching the dim light of the chamber. "Try not to die too quickly, then," she said, her voice edged with the dry humor that made her company almost tolerable. "The Emperor's Tears gems are far too valuable to this galaxy to be squandered on foolishness."

Michael placed a hand over his chest with mock reverence, his grin turning theatrical. "I'm deeply touched by your concern," he said, his voice rich with exaggerated sincerity. "But I'll need you to do something for me, Seraphina. Go back to your Craftworld. I'll need your warhosts for what's coming."

Her expression hardened instantly, and Goswin couldn't blame her. The Eldar weren't exactly known for selfless acts, and Michael asking them to gamble their lives on an Imperial campaign was audacious, even for him. "Why would we risk our lives for your war?" she asked, her words as sharp as a monomolecular blade. "There were no such provisions in our treaty."

"Because you need a way to truly test the wards you've crafted with the Emperor's Tears," Michael replied, his tone turning pragmatic. "You've done something extraordinary, Seraphina. You've found a way to purify your strength without corruption. But theoreticals and small skirmishes won't prove if they can hold against the kind of power we're about to face. And," he added, his eyes gleaming with that same predatory intensity, "how would it feel to reclaim a Maiden World and make your gods stop laughing, just this once?"

Her silence was long and weighted, her gaze slipping to the mural as though searching for answers within its golden lines. Finally, she spoke, her voice quieter, but no less firm. "It would feel… satisfying," she admitted. "But I doubt the Farseer Council will see it that way."

"Then tell them what you've seen here," Michael said, his tone light but his words heavy with purpose. "Tell them what we're stopping. Tell them they'll have time to think it over. I won't need your warhosts tomorrow."

Seraphina sighed, a sound so soft Goswin might have missed it if he hadn't been watching her so closely. "I'll speak to them as soon as I'm back on Minas Tirith. I'll need access to my portable Webway gate."

"Good," Michael said, already turning toward the chamber's exit, his long strides purposeful and unrelenting. "Let's get outside, pick up the twins, and be on our way. No time to waste."

Goswin exchanged a glance with Seraphina before they both fell into step behind Michael, his pace forcing them to hurry to keep up. He bit back the urge to comment on how typical it was of Michael to leave the details scattered in his wake like stardust for others to piece together. It would've been funny, if the stakes weren't quite so apocalyptic. Instead, he muttered under his breath, low enough that only he could hear, "Never a dull day with a saint."

---

Ambrosius stepped through the portal with deliberate ease, his boots meeting the ferrocrete of Minas Tirith's landing zone as the Warp-gate shimmered behind him, collapsing into nothingness with a faint hum. It was the kind of impossibility one could only expect from the reality-warping presence of Michael. Paired Warp portals—an affront to the galaxy's understanding of the Immaterium. Impossible, the scholars of the Ordo Malleus would claim. And yet, Chapter Master Huron had forged them as if such miracles were no more complex than breathing. Ambrosius wondered, not for the first time, what price the Chapter Master had paid for such a gift. Michael's touch lingered upon Huron like the afterglow of a star gone nova, reshaping him into something... other.

Ambrosius allowed himself a grim smile. He recognized the subtle echoes of that touch in his own psyche, the enhancements Michael had wrought in him. Yet, Huron's transformation had been far greater, as if Michael had dipped him wholly into the Emperor's light and left him there to blaze eternally. The thought was both humbling and disquieting.

Around him, Orthos, Meckrel, and Sickra moved with the disciplined precision of soldiers long accustomed to war. Clad in black and silver power armor that bore only faint embellishments of the Imperial Aquila and the sigils of the Stirpe Imperialis, they looked every bit the Imperial Guardsmen and Tempestus Scions they had once been. That they now wielded the Emperor's light as holy sorcerers was a truth cloaked in layers of paradox and necessity—acceptable heresy in service to His will. Ambrosius found no irony in this, only the grim satisfaction that such power could be used to turn back the tide of the Warp.

The Paladins of Tethrilyra stood at attention as the cadre passed through the landing zone, their salutes sharp and deliberate. It was an uncommon gesture, and Ambrosius did not miss the significance. Even here, on the Saint's world, the stories of the War in the Maelstrom had reached eager ears. Tales of how, for the first time in generations, the servants of the Emperor had met the Warp's abominations with equal force, wielding His light and fire to burn away the heretical filth. Ambrosius allowed himself a moment of pride. Let the Paladins salute them; the Emperor's light deserved no less.

The cadre moved with purpose through the labyrinthine checkpoints leading to the Saint's sanctum. Veteran soldiers from Veridan III and Rho-1223 recognized him instantly, their efficiency ensuring the group passed in record time. Ambrosius nodded at the occasional murmured word of respect or awe directed his way, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The Warp surrounding Minas Tirith was... clean. Cleaner than it had any right to be. The Saint's presence acted as a miniature sun within the Immaterium, banishing the shadows that so often gathered around Imperial worlds. Even the neverborn had fled, their whispers of venom and temptation reduced to impotent hatred. It was a strange, hollow reprieve from the usual cacophony that accompanied his psychic senses.

He glanced at the five amber bracelets circling his wrists, each housing a lesser daemon bound and caged within the Emperor's light. Normally, they would writhe and rage against their imprisonment, their psychic screams adding a discordant undertone to his every thought. But here, so close to Michael, they were silent, their malignant energies reduced to a simmering unease. Ambrosius could feel their fear—an unfamiliar sensation from beings accustomed to feeding on the fears of others. Even these fragments of the Immaterium's worst horrors dared not draw the Saint's attention.

They approached the massive plasteel doors to Michael's sanctum, unadorned but imposing in their sheer scale The plasteel doors groaned open, their weight dragging against mechanisms built to withstand centuries of war and the press of unholy forces. Ambrosius Aedra took a deep breath, his power staff steady in his hand. The air carried a strange tang, something old and untouched by the machinery of the Imperium. Not musty like an abandoned cathedral, nor acrid like a battlefield's smoke—but primal, like the space itself remembered an ancient shaping. He stepped forward, his boots echoing faintly in the cavernous chamber beyond.

His psychic senses flared the moment the doors parted fully, and there it was: Michael's presence, vast and radiant, a gravitational pull that twisted the Immaterium into uneasy silence. It wasn't just light—it was a soul-deep resonance, a pressure in the bones and blood that reminded Ambrosius of the Emperor's touch. No psyker, no sorcerer, no warp-born terror could match it. And in that moment, even the daemons bound to his amber bracelets shrank further into themselves. Their hatred hissed in the background of his mind, quieter now, almost as if they feared being noticed.

"Cowards," he thought, half-amused, half-disgusted. "You who feed on fear can't stomach even this? What a waste of malice." His lips curled into a smirk. A small mercy, indeed.

The cavern opened before him, vast and surreal. He hesitated, not from awe—he had seen too much in his long life to be easily awed—but from a kind of analytical shock. His enhanced vision drank in every detail, his mind dissecting the strangeness of what lay ahead.

Michael stood near the chamber's center, a silhouette framed by light filtering through jagged crevices high above. The chamber itself was vast, hewn into the heart of the mountain as though millennia of water had worn its way through stone. But there was no natural randomness here. Every line, every curve of the space, suggested deliberate intent—an artistry too subtle to be mechanical, too precise to be natural.

Beside Michael loomed an obelisk, five meters tall and impossibly smooth. It caught the dim light like a blade edge, gleaming with the crystalline purity of diamond. Ambrosius frowned. A single piece? It seemed crafted from some impossibly large fragment, the kind of artifact that defied conventional Imperial engineering. But gemwork was not his expertise, and this place had already proven itself beyond the Imperium's standards of the ordinary.

His eyes traced upward, to the ceiling that stretched high into shadowed vaults. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of crystals and gemstones hung suspended from what looked like strands of spider silk. They swayed, catching the faint currents of air that moved through the chamber. Light refracted from their surfaces, scattering rainbows across the walls and floor. The effect was hypnotic, but there was a tension to it—a pattern he could almost grasp but which slipped away like a half-forgotten dream.

Closer to Michael, the ground dropped into a series of rough-hewn stairs, descending into a lower level. The floor below was a mosaic of sea shells, their colors muted and chaotic, as if the attempt to form a coherent pattern had failed midway through.

Ambrosius descended the rough-hewn stairs slowly, each step drawing him deeper into the unsettling space. The air felt heavy, not with heat but with a chill that seemed to radiate from the mismatched mosaic of seashells below. He let his eyes wander over the chaotic patterns, his enhanced mind instinctively trying to impose order, to see the intent behind the apparent randomness. But the shells defied him, as though their arrangement mocked his attempts to understand. Incomplete, he thought, his frown deepening. No. Not incomplete. I'm missing something.

The sound of knees hitting stone drew his attention. Orthos, Meckrel, and Sickra—new recruits from the Stirpe Imperialis—had dropped into genuflection before the Saint. Ambrosius suppressed a sigh. They hadn't been part of the first cadre Michael had personally trained, so they didn't understand how such gestures grated on him. Michael valued loyalty, not blind worship, a lesson these three clearly hadn't learned yet.

Michael's expression flickered—just a brief flash of irritation in his golden eyes before it was gone. Ambrosius, always watchful, caught the moment and felt a wry amusement creep in. Even with all his might, capable of shattering planets and achieve the impossible, Michael remained vulnerable to the little annoyances of mortal misunderstanding.

"Please, stand," Michael said, his voice calm but edged with steel. "You'll quickly find that outside formal events, I... dislike such gestures."

Meckrel, always the first to speak, rose hurriedly. "We didn't mean to offend," she said, her voice tinged with shame.

"You've not offended me," Michael said, waving a hand as if brushing away her apology. "Just don't do it again."

The trio answered in unison, their military precision unshaken. "We won't, sir."

Ambrosius watched them with a mixture of pity and approval. Their training—brutal, relentless, and molded by their need to wield the Emperor's light against the Warp—had instilled a rigid discipline that was both their strength and their weakness. They couldn't help but treat Michael as a divine figure, even when he made it clear he preferred otherwise.

Michael turned to Ambrosius, his golden gaze softening. "And how are you, my friend?" he asked as he approached, his movements impossibly fluid for a man of his size. Bare-chested, his towering frame bore the perfection of humanity's genetic engineering—muscle carved like marble, skin unblemished, and eyes that burned with the radiance of the Emperor's light.

Ambrosius clasped Michael's forearm in a firm grip. "Tired of war," he said honestly, his voice carrying the weight of decades of battle. "But only in death does duty end."

Michael's laughter echoed through the cavern, warm and genuine. "We'll try to get you some years of peace before you croak," he said, a grin splitting his face. "But I'm afraid today isn't that day. I need your full focus for something... new."

Ambrosius raised a brow, intrigued. "What is it this time?"

Michael's grin widened as he gestured toward the massive obelisk near the center of the chamber. Nearly five meters tall and impossibly wide, it glimmered like frozen starlight, its surface catching and refracting the dim light of the hanging crystals above. "What would you say to an Emperor's Tears gem... that big?"

Ambrosius blinked, caught between skepticism and admiration. "I'd say you're either insane or trying to impress the hell out of me. Possibly both." He took another step forward, his curiosity overriding his caution. "I thought you couldn't imbue anything that large?"

Michael ran a hand through his dark hair, the motion almost too casual for the gravity of what he was proposing. "Kind of. I could, but the cost increases exponentially with size. Something of this scale? Even for me, it's a challenge. Almost impossible."

Ambrosius snorted, shaking his head. "Almost impossible. That's as close to certainty as I've ever heard you get. So, you're saying there's a chance."

Michael's grin turned sharp, wolfish. "Oh, there's a chance. And if we pull this off, it'll let us hit the Abominations harder than ever before. Imagine the devastation we could unleash. No more just pushing them back, Ambrosius. We could burn the filth out of existence."

Ambrosius crossed his arms, his gaze lingering on the obelisk. The sheer audacity of the idea made his stomach tighten. "What do you need us here for, then?" he asked, keeping his tone measured. "You're the only one who can create something like this. Whatever power we can bring to the table will barely scratch the surface compared to yours."

Michael's eyes gleamed, and his voice dropped into that tone Ambrosius had come to recognize—the one he used when revealing something world-shattering. "Raw power isn't everything," Michael said. "Besides, you're not here to help me. You're here to learn."

"Learn what?" Ambrosius asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

"What makes this whole attempt possible," Michael replied, gesturing toward the obelisk and the intricate arrangement of the room. "Lately, I visited the ruins of a species that made even the Eldar look like children playing with sticks and rocks. Their mastery of the Warp wasn't just science or sorcery—it was something else entirely. I've picked up a few tricks."

Ambrosius frowned, glancing at the chamber around them. The architecture, the strange patterns carved into the walls, and the faint hum of power in the air all suddenly felt alien. "I suppose this," he said, motioning to the obelisk and its surroundings, "is one of those tricks."

Michael nodded, his expression turning serious. "Indeed. This is a new way to approach rituals. I've been too rigid, too caught up in geometric precision and the same inefficient symbology we've been using for millennia. This? This is different. It's raw, primordial—a way to tap into the geometries of existence itself. Something older than anything we've known."

Ambrosius' frown deepened. "That kind of power—that kind of Elder power—is the kind of thing that might do far worse to us than just vaporize us."

Michael's grin returned, a flash of reckless confidence. "Of course, it's dangerous. The risks are horrifying. But I believe it will work. We'll need this kind of power to combat the false gods who claim dominion over the Immaterium and Fate itself. They've built their thrones on our fear, Ambrosius. It's time to show them what happens when the faithful refuse to kneel."

Ambrosius let the words hang in the air, weighing their meaning. Finally, he gave a small nod. "Then teach us."

"This isn't something even I can teach—not fully," Michael said. "You'll observe. Learn by seeing, not doing. For now, step off the floor area. Anything past the steps is off-limits for you. I can't guarantee your safety if you linger too close."

Ambrosius quirked a brow, his tone dry. "Always inspiring confidence."

Michael smirked, holding out a hand. "Oh, and I'll need one of your bracelets."

Ambrosius unclasped one of the five amber bands from his wrist without hesitation, his calloused fingers working the latch with the ease of centuries of muscle memory. He handed it over to Michael, the faint psychic resonance of the daemon trapped within still clinging to the band like an oily film. "What for?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral, though his mind pried at the edges of Michael's intent.

Michael tilted his head, his expression bordering on predatory amusement. "For what is even now cowering inside," he said, rolling the bracelet between his fingers. "A sacrifice is needed to jumpstart this process. My blood would suffice, or perhaps the lifeblood of a criminal or two. But the symbolism—oh, the symbolism—is so much richer when it's one of the parasites themselves. Stand back and watch."

Ambrosius stepped away, his boots crunching lightly against the scattered seashells beneath them. His enhanced sight caught the shimmer of warp energy coalescing around Michael, and for a brief moment, he almost reached out to stop him. Almost. The Saint had a way of making even the reckless seem measured, the impossible feel inevitable.

Michael walked forward, the bracelet still in hand, his steps deliberate as he moved across the multicolored seashells that seemed to glow faintly in response to his presence. Ambrosius' sharp eyes roamed over the chamber again, and this time, he saw it—not just a collection of hanging crystals, silk lines, and scattered shells, but a pattern. A four-dimensional web of purpose, its design maddeningly intricate and utterly alien. The realization hit him like a shockwave. The hanging gems refracted not just light but some primal resonance of the Warp itself. The shells weren't placed randomly; they mirrored an impossible geometry that tugged at the edges of his mind.

Ambrosius probed at the ritual's energy with his mind, testing its depths as Michael approached the obelisk. His breath hitched. The power flowing through the room wasn't just immense—it was monstrous, ancient, and unrelenting. Even the raw force he'd felt when probing Michael's connection to the Emperor paled in comparison. And the worst part? This was merely the foundation. The crescendo hadn't even arrived.

Michael stopped in front of the obelisk, the gem's towering form radiating cold brilliance that seemed to swallow the dim light of the room. With a slow, deliberate motion, he closed his fist around the bracelet. The amber band crumbled to ash in his palm, its destruction unleashing a swirling vortex of dark smoke that coalesced into a monstrous visage.

The daemon's form took shape—a thing of mouths, teeth, and claws, as large as an Astartes but lacking any of their grace or nobility. Its presence was an affront to existence, a writhing abomination bound by the ritual's relentless power. It screeched in rage, lunging for Michael, its warped instincts screaming that this was its only chance to break free.

But Michael didn't flinch. He stepped aside with the fluidity of someone who'd already lived this moment in his mind a dozen times. The ochre-colored flint blade in his hand came up in a blur, plunging into the daemon's malformed chest. The beast shrieked—a sound that pierced through the Immaterium itself—as it experienced something no daemon was meant to know: True Death. Its essence burned away, sacrificed to the ritual, its physical form detonating in a pillar of white-gold fire.

The shockwave of its destruction rippled outward, and Ambrosius braced himself, feeling the surge of power flood the chamber. The crescendo of the ritual arrived in a deafening roar, the obelisk at its center glowing brighter than a newborn star. The patterns in the room pulsed with impossible energy, harmonizing with the Emperor's divine will in a way Ambrosius could barely comprehend.

He stood there, motionless, watching Michael in the center of it all. The Saint was bathed in golden light, his presence like a fulcrum around which the entire ritual turned. Ambrosius stood still, his breath caught in his throat, every fiber of his being tuned to the thrumming resonance that filled the chamber. He could feel it—no, he could taste it in the back of his mind—the ripple of power coursing through the Immaterium. The death of the daemon had sent shockwaves through the warp, but what followed was something wholly unprecedented. The golden-white light of the Emperor's will, raw and unfiltered, pulsed like the heartbeat of a newborn star, wrapping itself around the ritual in a way that defied all comprehension.

He stretched his psychic senses outward, probing at the edges of the power. Awe lanced through him, sharp and unrelenting, despite his century of hardened experience. This was not the tempestuous, chaotic energy most psykers grappled with, nor was it the refined precision of an Adeptus Astra Telepathica ritual. This was something alive, something that existed as naturally within the Immaterium as currents in a river—only this river bore the golden touch of divinity itself.

The sheer scale of the energy was staggering. Had any psyker within two light-days felt this, Ambrosius was certain they'd be reduced to gibbering wrecks, their minds shattered by the weight of it. And yet, here it was, contained but not suppressed, harmonized but not leashed. The chamber blazed with the light of the Emperor's will, so palpable it made his skin tingle and his mind hum in tune.

One by one, the crystals hanging from their delicate silk threads began to shatter, sharp cracks echoing like gunfire. The multicolored seashells, so painstakingly arranged in their impossible geometry, began to shrivel inward, curling into themselves as though consumed by an invisible fire. But the power only grew. It climbed higher, brighter, fiercer, pushing against the boundaries of what Ambrosius believed reality could withstand.

At the center of it all stood Michael, arms raised as though holding the heavens themselves aloft. The ochre-colored flint blade in his hand seemed to glow with an inner light, a stark contrast to the flames still licking at the edges of the room. The pillar of gold-white fire born from the daemon's death was now pouring into the obelisk at the heart of the chamber, the crystalline monolith drinking deep of the sacrifice. Yet, beyond the physical veil, Ambrosius could see it—truly see it.

The obelisk was no mere construct of crystal and light. It was a conduit, a font of the Emperor's unyielding will. The energy flooding into it was enough to scour worlds from existence, enough to turn entire daemon legions into scattered ash upon the winds of the Warp. And still, it grew

The last crystal shattered, shards falling like glass tears to the floor. The final seashell shriveled into dust. Michael lowered the blade, its ochre hue seeming to pulse one last time before he drove it toward the obelisk. But the blade never reached its target. It disintegrated into pure, radiant light, a single, brilliant ray that merged with the obelisk's core.

Ambrosius gasped as the ritual reached its zenith. The chamber was bathed in holy light, the obelisk now a prism of blinding brilliance. The energy within it moved like a thousand stars trapped in crystal, their radiance coursing through its diamond-like structure in mesmerizing patterns.

And then came the sound—a cry that rippled through the Warp, shaking its very fabric. It was unmistakable, a sound that carried with it the weight of eons and the power of unyielding defiance. The cry of the ancient Terran Aquila echoed across the Immaterium, a declaration of war against the forces of darkness and a solemn vow to defend the Imperium from its enemies.

As the power settled, the obelisk's light reached out far beyond the confines of the chamber. Ambrosius could feel it stretching across the Warp, cleansing and purifying as it went. The Arnor solar system itself was bathed in the obelisk's radiance, the taint of Chaos burned away in waves of golden fire. What few daemons remained in the system fled, pursued by phantom armadas of golden Aquilas and ghostly warriors forged from the Emperor's will.

The air grew still, the light in the chamber softening but never fading. Ambrosius knelt where he stood, his trembling hands pressing into the cold stone floor. His breath came uneven, his chest heaving as he tried to process the magnitude of what he had just witnessed. He had seen miracles before—flashes of the Emperor's favor, the annihilating wrath of His will made manifest—but this was not a miracle. This was a declaration. A pronouncement carved into the bones of the Immaterium itself.

He looked up, his gaze drawn to Michael, who now stood still as a statue amidst the aftershocks of his own work. For the first time, Michael looked human. His body was covered with sweat, his breath shallow, his movements slower, burdened. To Ambrosius, who had come to see Michael as something untouchable, invincible, this sight was a revelation in its own right.

Michael finally turned to face him, his golden gaze boring into Ambrosius with the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. "You've learned," Michael said, his voice low but carrying an unshakable authority, "the part of the lesson I needed you to see."

Ambrosius shook his head, his thoughts too scattered to form coherence. He staggered, his knees buckling beneath him as the weight of the Emperor's presence lingered in his soul. "I... I can't," he stammered, his voice cracking under the strain. "This is too much. I cannot wield this kind of power. I cannot call upon His light the way you do."

Michael stepped forward, kneeling beside him with a gentleness that cut through the raw weight of the moment. "But you can," Michael said, his tone softer now, but no less resolute. "Tell me, Ambrosius, have you never wondered why I chose you—and the others?"

Ambrosius swallowed hard, his throat dry, his head shaking as though in denial. "Why?" he asked, though deep down, the answer was already forming, unbidden, in the recesses of his mind.

Michael's expression softened further, though his eyes still burned with a divine intensity. "Because," he began, his voice measured, deliberate, "of all those with whom I have fused the Emperor's Tears gems, only your souls have adapted to them in the way I hoped. Only you have resonated with the purpose they were meant to fulfill."

Ambrosius opened his mouth to protest, but Michael held up a hand to silence him. "The lesson," Michael continued, "was never about the ritual itself. That, I can teach you—though it will take time. The lesson was about what lies within you, what the presence of the gems has seeded within your very essence. Your presence here, your role in this ritual—it has awakened something in you. Something that was always meant to grow."

"We are not worthy," Ambrosius whispered, the weight of his unworthiness pressing down on him. Around him, the others—Orthos, Meckrel, and Sickra—echoed his words, their voices trembling with the same realization.

Michael rose to his full height, and in that moment, he was a storm incarnate. His voice thundered, reverberating through the chamber like the crack of a judge's gavel. "Who do you think you are," Michael roared, "to decide who the Emperor decrees worthy? Do you think yourself wiser than He? Do you believe, in your arrogance, that the Emperor's light can only shine on those who meet your standards?"

Ambrosius felt the weight of those words like hammer blows to his chest. He could not lift his head, could not meet the radiant fury that burned within Michael's gaze.

Michael took a step forward, his voice like rolling thunder now, yet with an edge of sorrow that cut deeper than any blade. "Do you think His light so weak that it cannot reach into the darkest corners of the soul? That His will is so limited as to require pedigree or perfection of purpose? Answer me, then. Speak, oh vain fools, if you have an answer."

None of them spoke. How could they? Their heads bowed lower, their bodies trembling under the weight of the truth. They were nothing, less than nothing, yet here they were—chosen, called upon by the conduit of the Emperor's will to fulfill a purpose so far beyond them that it defied all reason.

"Look upon yourselves," Michael said, his tone softening as he extended a hand, gesturing to them all. "You are sinners, unworthy by any mortal standard. And yet, the Emperor's light has made you more. You, the least among His servants, have been called to a task that no other could bear. Do not disgrace His will by questioning His choices."

The chamber fell into silence, save for the lingering hum of the obelisk's light. Ambrosius finally raised his head, his breath steadying, though his heart still thundered in his chest. The truth was undeniable. They had been chosen—not because they were worthy, but because they could become what the Emperor needed them to be.

The silence hung heavy, oppressive. Finally, Ambrosius broke it, his voice rough but steady. "We will not fail."

The others nodded, one by one. Their resolve grew in the silence that followed, hardening like iron struck on the forge of Michael's truth.

And then Michael spoke again, and his words broke what little peace Ambrosius had begun to find.

"Oh, but you will fail," Michael said, his voice softening, weighted with an unbearable sadness. "Yet He asks of you to rise again. Again and again. Even when it seems impossible. Even when you are broken."

Ambrosius frowned, confusion flickering through the bond they all shared now. But Michael continued, his voice cracking, not with weakness, but with sorrow so deep it felt infinite.

"The truth is… I have cursed you. And for that, I beg your forgiveness."

Ambrosius's breath caught. He looked up fully now, his mouth opening slightly, though no words came. Michael, the untouchable, the invincible, the Saint of the God-Emperor Himself, fell to his knees before them.

"I have deprived you of choice," Michael said, his golden eyes misting with unshed tears. A single drop rolled down his cheek, falling like a shard of light to the chamber floor. "By my actions, I have stolen from you the right of selfishness. I have taken from you the right to say, I want to. From your gift, the Imperium will depend. From your sacrifice, more Emperor's Tears will be made. And because of this, the Imperium will use you. It will demand of you until your souls fracture, until you are bled dry, until there is nothing left."

Ambrosius could feel his chest tightening. His heart, so strengthened by the Emperor's will, now ached with something almost unbearable. Guilt. Sorrow. Hope.

Michael's voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible but cutting nonetheless. "For that, I am sorry. I am so very sorry."

The silence returned, and for a moment, none of them moved. Then, slowly, Orthos, the brawniest among them, stepped forward. His scarred, weathered hands gripped Michael by the shoulders, gently but firmly. Orthos knelt, and as he rose, he pulled Michael up with him.

"Please stand," Orthos said, his deep voice rough with emotion. Tears rolled freely down the face of the hardened veteran. "You have allowed us to become His Chosen. Do not blame yourself for that. Not one of us would have refused, had you called us before. Not one of us will falter now."

He turned his gaze to the others, to Ambrosius, to Meckrel and Sickra, and finally back to Michael. "Today, we are called. And today, we answer."

He raised his hand in the sign of the Aquila, his voice firm as iron, steady as the Emperor's light. "Ave Imperator."

The others echoed him, their voices growing stronger with each repetition. And in that moment, even amidst the impossible weight of the task ahead, Ambrosius felt the faintest flicker of something he had not felt in centuries.

Hope.

---

Michael stood before the towering obelisk, its crystalline surface shimmering with light that seemed to refract from no external source, a beacon of pure Anathema energy. It pulsed faintly in the dim chamber, each resonance brushing against the edge of his enhanced senses like the hum of a distant, discordant hymn. The air tasted charged, electric with a weight that defied mortal comprehension, and yet Michael understood it—had shaped it, had willed it into being. He stared at the obelisk and saw not divinity, but the sum of a thousand cold calculations and one undeniable truth: the Imperium needed this lie to survive.

Not a lie. A story, he corrected himself, his inner voice as sharp as a scalpel. Stories could reshape reality. The Imperium ran on them—faith in the Emperor, faith in purpose, faith in the impossible victories that kept humanity staggering forward in defiance of entropy. His hand, golden and steady, brushed against the surface of the obelisk. A perfect illusion of sanctity. Every facet reflected his image distorted, fragmented, but whole enough to inspire awe. The thought turned in his mind like a blade. They will believe, and because they believe, it will be true.

He let out a slow breath, his gaze drifting to the four figures standing silently at the edge of the chamber. Ambrosius, his sharp features worn but unyielding, seemed almost like a statue carved in tribute to the Emperor's unbending will. Orthos, broad-shouldered and scarred, knelt with his head bowed, hands clasped as if he were praying—though Michael suspected it was more out of habit than necessity. Meckrel and Sickra, younger but no less hardened, shifted uneasily in the sacred quiet. Each of them bore the mark of his design, the gem embedded in their sternums a quiet betrayal masquerading as a gift.

He studied them through the filter of his senses, an overwhelming flood of electromagnetic pulses and the faint, shifting hues of human emotion. Doubt, tempered by faith. Fear, subsumed beneath duty. Resolve, sharp and brittle like tempered glass. He could see their flaws as easily as he could see their potential. Tools, his mind whispered. But no, they were more than that. Sacrifices. They had offered themselves willingly—or so they believed. He had taken that choice from them, reshaping their lives in the crucible of necessity.

Michael turned to face them fully, his expression carefully curated—regret softened by purpose, sorrow edged with determination. "You will hate me for this, one day," he said, his voice low, each word deliberate. "And I will not begrudge you that hatred. I only ask that you do not let it stop you from doing what must be done."

Ambrosius lifted his head, his eyes glinting with the eerie clarity of a psyker who had touched the Emperor's light and lived to speak of it. "We do not hate you, my Lord," he said. "You have given us purpose. You have—"

"Spare me the platitudes, Ambrosius," Michael interrupted, his tone sharp enough to slice through the other man's words. "I have not given you purpose. I have taken it. Do not mistake my actions for generosity. What I have done here, what I have made you, is a necessity. Nothing more."

The chamber seemed to contract around them, the weight of his words sinking into the stone itself. Michael saw their reactions before they could mask them—Orthos stiffening, Meckrel's jaw tightening, Sickra's hands twitching at her sides. Only Ambrosius remained unmoved, his gaze steady, unwavering. Michael allowed himself a moment to wonder if the psyker's faith was born of true belief or if it was simply the strength of his will, bent irrevocably toward service.

"Do you understand what this means?" Michael asked, stepping toward them. His golden eyes glinted in the obelisk's light, a reflection of something otherworldly. "You are no longer your own. You are instruments now, forged for a singular purpose. These gems," he gestured to their chests, "will ensure that even if I fall, the work continues. The Imperium will have what it needs to fight the dark."

Silence lingered like a shroud, the weight of it pressing against the walls of the chamber. The air itself felt heavy, charged with the remnants of the ritual—an almost tangible presence of power that seemed to seep into the very stones beneath their feet. Michael stood at the center of it all, his golden eyes scanning the four figures before him.

Orthos broke the silence, his voice a low rumble that carried the gravity of a tectonic shift. "We are yours, my Lord. Use us as you see fit."

The words twisted something inside Michael, a sensation he immediately buried beneath the cold logic of the Gamer's Mind. Yet, for the briefest moment, the mask slipped. Unbidden, unwelcome, a flicker of unease surfaced. He could feel their faith—a tide of emotion so overwhelming it threatened to consume him if he let it. Not just Orthos, but all of them. Their devotion was a burning thing, raw and unrelenting, pressing against the edges of his awareness like an open flame seeking to devour.

He inhaled slowly, consciously easing the tension in his shoulders. Faith. The word itself was a paradox. A tool of immense power, yet one fraught with peril. It could galvanize armies, turn despair into hope, and light the darkest of voids. But it could also blind, smother, and destroy. The faith they placed in him was not what he wanted. Obedience? Yes, unquestionably. But this blind zealotry, this unquestioning fervor? It was a double-edged sword, and he stood precariously on its edge.

"Not as I see fit," he said at last, his voice even but weighted, calibrated for the moment. He could sense how the words would land, the subtle shifts in their emotional resonance like ripples in a still pond. "As the Emperor wills it. We are all His instruments."

Their belief deepened, solidifying like freshly poured cement. A part of him hated himself for the manipulation, but another part—the pragmatic part—understood its necessity. Unimpeachable actions, cloaked in divine will. That was the only way to navigate the treacherous waters of this era. Anything less would see him branded a heretic, a threat to the very Imperium he sought to save.

"It is time," he continued, stepping forward, "to bestow upon you one last gift—or burden, depending on how you choose to see it."

As he approached, he retrieved a robe from his [Inventory] with a flicker of will, draping it across his broad shoulders. Even with the genetic perfection of his body—bronzed skin, corded muscle, a form sculpted to near-divine standards—he felt the discomfort of exposure. It was a relic of his former life, a fragment of humanity that refused to be extinguished even amidst the transformation. Had the ritual not demanded it, he would never have disrobed in the first place.

He halted before the four, his golden gaze sweeping over them, lingering briefly on each face. The room was a mosaic of emotion—Orthos's stoic determination, Meckrel's simmering awe, Sickra's quiet reverence, and Ambrosius's inscrutable calm.

From his fingertips, the process began. With an almost imperceptible flick of his will, shards of bone—infinitesimal, nearly invisible—emerged and streaked through the air, penetrating the ceramite of their armor as if it were no more than paper. They flinched as the shards fused with their sternums, the pain sharp but fleeting. He felt the connection form, a psychic tether linking their newly awakened potential to his own vast reserves of power. It was an intricate bond, one born of necessity.

"The process of creating the Emperor's Tears gems is... taxing," Michael explained, his tone clinical, yet imbued with a faint undercurrent of empathy. "While the ritual has awakened the capability within you, the full realization of that ability is yet to come. Until your bodies and souls adapt, you will draw upon my strength. The burden is mine as much as yours."

He glanced at Ambrosius, the lone exception. There was no need for the shards with him. The ancient psyker's power was formidable enough on its own, and their existing bond—formed by Remy's unique powers —was stronger than any artifice he could craft here. Ambrosius inclined his head in acknowledgment, the faintest hint of approval in his weathered features.

The others knelt before him, their expressions a mixture of pain and awe. He could feel the fervor solidify within them, a dangerous intensity that burned brighter with each passing moment. They believed they had been blessed by the Emperor through him, elevated to a divine purpose. He had carefully constructed that narrative, knowing full well it would bind them more tightly to their new roles than any oath of fealty ever could.

The weight of their faith was a presence in the chamber, oppressive as the still air. It clung to Michael like a shroud, wrapping tighter with each glance cast upon him by the four figures kneeling before him.. Faith, he thought bitterly, was the most potent of all chains—a binding force stronger than iron, more immovable than stone. And in this age of cruelty and zealotry, it was the one force he could wield with precision yet never fully control.

Do they see it? he wondered, letting his enhanced senses stretch outward, tasting the shifting tides of emotion in the room. The half-truths, the necessary lies, the compromises I can never speak aloud? No. They saw only the mask. The Saint. The vessel of their God. For a moment—no longer than a breath—he feared the mask might slip so far that he himself could no longer find the man beneath it.

He turned away, unwilling to let the flicker of doubt take root in their perceptions. His golden eyes fixed instead on the obelisk towering at the room's heart, its facets catching the dim light and refracting it into faint prismatic arcs. The first Imperial pylon. A structure birthed through ritual and artifice, its foundations more a product of forgotten science than the divine providence he allowed them to believe. Within its crystalline core pulsed a shard of anathema energy, raw and absolute. Its radiance pushed faint, intangible waves of dissonance through the room, warping the very air with its unnatural presence. A lie sanctified by necessity.

"Rise," Michael commanded, his voice a blade cutting cleanly through the room's heavy silence. The figures stood, their armor clanking faintly as they obeyed without hesitation. "Your burdens are heavy," he continued, his tone measured, each word deliberate, "but so too are your strengths. The Imperium will demand much of you. And I…" He hesitated, just long enough for the pause to twist into meaning, an unspoken confession hovering in the air. "I will demand more. For now, take your rest. We will spend enough time together in the coming days as I teach you the art of creating more of these gems."

The four filed out without question, their movements purposeful yet devoid of individuality. To them, his words were the Emperor's will, their actions extensions of his divinity. Only one stopped short at the threshold as Michael's voice broke the air again.

"Not you, Ambrosius. I have need of you still."

The elder psyker halted mid-step, his weathered face turning back toward Michael. Even now, despite his apparent vigor, Ambrosius carried the weight of his long years in the way he moved—steady, deliberate, never wasteful. He met Michael's gaze without fear, a rare quality even among those closest to him. The others hesitated only for a fraction of a second, their instincts to question overridden by their unwavering belief. To them, the Saint's actions were beyond reproach. To Ambrosius, they were not. And that made him invaluable.

"What do you require, Michael?" Ambrosius asked, his voice steady, edged with curiosity.

"You must return to the Maelstrom," Michael replied, the statement delivered with a precision that hinted at premeditation. "Specifically, to Badab."

The faintest flicker of surprise crossed Ambrosius' face—subtle but unmistakable. His bushy white brows rose by a fraction, a gesture that might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. "I thought we were to remain sequestered here," he said, his tone restrained, though Michael could feel the undercurrent of doubt, the tension that came with years of service and suspicion.

Michael allowed himself the luxury of a small smile, though its warmth was measured. "No. None of you will linger here for more than a few months. The Inquisition will see to it that you are scattered—one to the Imperial Palace itself, the others to their deepest vaults. Their paranoia will drive them to cage what they do not fully understand, and you are all enigmas now."

Ambrosius frowned, the lines on his face deepening with something that was not quite concern but close enough to resemble it. "And yet you send me into the Maelstrom, the very heart of the storm? Surely they'll consider this a breach of their expectations. Perhaps even treachery."

Michael's golden eyes narrowed, the faint glow within them sharpening into something both commanding and inscrutable. "They will not challenge me on this. They dare not. You are needed there, Ambrosius. Your presence will allow us to strike with precision when the time comes."

Ambrosius hesitated, the weight of Michael's words settling heavily over him. "And how precisely do you expect me to manage that?" he asked finally. "Even with the... infusion of power you've given me, I'm no savior. My abilities, though amplified, are finite. I am no god."

Michael inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the truth in the older man's words. "They are finite," he agreed, his voice steady, "but that is why we must make use of tools that surpass your limitations. The gems you can now create are only part of what you have awakened within you. There is a spark of His fire in you, Ambrosius. A piece of divinity, if you will, though we will not name it as such. You can channel that spark through this." He gestured toward the towering pylon, its crystalline surface refracting faint light into shimmering rainbows. "With the pylon as a conduit, you will become more than a weapon—you will be a storm given purpose."

Ambrosius stared at the obelisk, its surface gleaming with a cold, alien beauty that spoke to power far beyond mortal comprehension. "How?" he asked, his voice low but steady, though Michael could feel the undercurrent of unease that even Ambrosius could not suppress.

"Follow me," Michael said, turning to the pylon. He rested a hand on its surface, feeling the hum of energy beneath his palm, the resonance of a force that defied simple explanation. "Touch it," he instructed. "Reach out as though you were drawing power from the Warp, but do not direct it through the Emperor's Tear gem within your chest. Instead, channel it through the pylon. Let it guide you."

Ambrosius hesitated only a moment before following the command. His hand met the pylon, and Michael could feel the shift almost immediately—a pull, a vast drawing of energy that rippled outward like a stone dropped into a still pond. Ambrosius' shock was palpable, a sharp spike of awe and fear that surged through him as the pylon responded to his touch.

"This power…" Ambrosius breathed, his voice trembling as the light from the pylon reflected in his sweat-soaked face. "It's… impossible. This much… I can't hold it."

"You don't have to hold it," Michael said sharply. "Control it. Guide it. This is not the Warp's chaotic hunger. The pylon will steady you, but it demands precision. If you are careless, it will burn you to ash."

Ambrosius' hand trembled visibly now, his breath coming in shallow gasps, each exhalation laced with strain. His face had turned pale, a sheen of sweat beading along his temple. "It's… too much," he managed, his voice strained as he pulled his hand away from the pylon. His entire frame seemed to sag under an invisible weight, as though he had carried something immeasurable and found himself unequal to the burden. "Even with this pylon, this power—it's not enough. How am I supposed to dent a Warp storm with this? Let alone strike at the heretics who thrive within them?"

Michael observed him quietly, his expression giving away nothing. He folded his arms, golden eyes sharp, gleaming like molten metal in the dim light of the chamber. This was the moment—when the limits of mortal resolve and perception buckled under the enormity of the tools he'd offered. He stepped closer, the steady cadence of his boots breaking the silence between them.

"Not yet," Michael said, his tone cutting through the weight of doubt that hung over the room. "This is only the beginning, Ambrosius. The pylon is a tool—a lens, not the fire itself. It magnifies, it focuses, but you must master it. Power without precision is a wild flame, consuming everything indiscriminately. I'm asking you to do more than wield it. I'm asking you to shape it, to weave it into something greater. Wards, barriers, precision strikes—these will become second nature to you if you're willing to step beyond your comfort and push the boundaries of what you believe possible."

He softened his voice, though it retained an edge, an urgency that could not be ignored. "And there's more—this pylon isn't just a weapon. It's a key. The synergy between you and Chapter Master Huron will determine its true potential."

Ambrosius lifted his gaze, his brow furrowed. "What synergy?" he asked, his voice laced with suspicion and curiosity, his hand still trembling as he rubbed his wrist, a subconscious motion to steady himself.

Michael nodded toward the pylon, his golden eyes glinting with a faint, inscrutable amusement. "Huron's portals are powerful, but imprecise. The Maelstrom's storms resist even his will. The pylon will change that. Through it, you'll enhance his targeting. You'll help him thread those impossible storms and carve pathways where none exist."

"God-Emperor preserve us," Ambrosius breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. His shock wasn't feigned; the tactical implications struck him with the force of a bolter round. The ability to target portals with precision—even within the chaos of a Warp storm—was unheard of. "The parasites of the Warp will not take kindly to this," he added, voice low, his tone carrying the weight of grim certainty.

Michael nodded, a faint, sardonic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "They won't. But that's why the pylon will be placed on Badab. Its defenses, fortified and sharpened by my Techboys and the Mechanicus, will keep you and it out of their grasp."

Ambrosius raised a brow, some color returning to his face as he considered the implications. "Huron will like this," he said, almost to himself. "He's already launched raids into the Maelstrom, but with this... the advantage becomes insurmountable. With this, we could tear apart their sanctuaries."

"The servants of the Ruinous Powers will have nowhere to hide," Michael said, his voice ringing with finality. "And the raids will carry less risk, allowing resources to be diverted where they're most needed—to crush the cultists rising across the zone."

"They'll strike back," Ambrosius warned, his voice steadying now, though his expression remained cautious. "They'll throw everything at Badab."

"I know," Michael said simply. His gaze flicked to the towering obelisk, the Emperor's Tear embedded at its apex radiating a faint, otherworldly hum. "I've already accounted for that. A task force will join Badab and fortify its defenses. The Techboys will reinforce the structure, and the Mechanicus... well, their pride won't allow them to contribute anything less than their best. You will weave the wards using the pylon's power, bolstering the defenses against sorcery and Warp-born trickery."

Ambrosius' eyes narrowed as he regarded the pylon, his thoughts racing. "So, it becomes a bastion," he said slowly. "The anchor for humanity's resistance in the Maelstrom zone."

Ambrosius swallowed hard, nodding slowly, though his doubt remained a palpable thing. "I'll need time," he murmured, his voice quieter now, burdened by the weight of the task before him.

Michael sighed, his gaze softening, though his mind remained a tempest. "Time is the one thing we lack, old friend," he said, his tone heavy with a weariness that no one but himself could understand. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before continuing, "We'll spend every moment we can spare. I'll teach you how to harness the pylon's power, how to shape it. And I'll share with you the ritual I used to create it."

Ambrosius blinked, surprise flickering across his face. "You'd teach me that?"

"Not the ritual itself," Michael clarified, shaking his head. "But the principles behind it. The why and the how. Enough for you to adapt it to your own needs." He paused, then added, almost as if to himself, "The Imperium will not be left bereft of weapons against the Ruinous Powers. Not while I still breathe."

"It's a heavy burden," Ambrosius said after a moment, his voice tinged with doubt but also a growing resolve. "But I'll do my best to be worthy of your trust."

"That's all I can ask," Michael replied, allowing a faint, warm smile to surface. It wasn't just for show—he'd learned that people responded to sincerity, even if it wasn't wholly honest. But as much as he needed Ambrosius' loyalty, he couldn't ignore the pang of guilt that came with every calculated word, every nudge toward devotion.

He turned back toward the pylon, his hands clasped behind his back. Inside, his thoughts churned, dark and restless. They'll come for him. For me. For this fragile, fleeting chance at something better. And when they do, I'll have to fight them—again. Another war, another storm. Another step closer to…

Michael forced the thought away, letting his Gamer's Mind silence the creeping dread. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it. There was no other choice. Not for him. Not for humanity.

---

To accuse the Lords of Segmentum Command of neglecting the Maelstrom Zone is to misunderstand the scale of their responsibilities. The Ultima Segmentum, the largest of the five Segmenta, spans more stars than mortal minds can comfortably comprehend. Its millions of inhabited worlds, from thriving hive cities to isolated Agri-worlds, demand constant vigilance. Threats erupt with terrifying frequency: Tyranid splinter fleets gnaw at the Segmentum's eastern edges, Ork warbands rise and fall like waves, and Drukhari raids bleed the Segmentum slowly from ten thousand hidden Webway gates

In this vast and unrelenting theater, the rebellion within the Maelstrom Zone—though undeniably catastrophic—was but one inferno among countless others. Moving the resources necessary to quell such an uprising—entire battlegroups of the Imperial Navy, armies of Astra Militarum, fleets of supply ships—was no simple task. Warp storms hindered navigation, astropathic relays overloaded with conflicting demands, and every mustering depot already strained to breaking point.

That the Maelstrom Warders held as long as they did is a testament not only to their strength but to the support provided, however slowly, by Segmentum Command. The first waves of Imperial reinforcements, delayed as they were, represented one of the largest mobilizations of manpower in centuries. Yet, even this effort was dwarfed by the scale of the Imperium itself. A hundred systems fell, yet thousands more endured. This is not to dismiss the tragedy of those worlds lost but to place their loss in the context of a galactic empire."

—Magos Lexarithan, Tactical Analysis: Logistics of the Maelstrom War 431.M42

Motneem adjusted the high collar of his immaculate dress uniform, the subtle weight of its ceremonial gold threading more comforting than oppressive. It wasn't vanity that drove him to ensure every detail of his appearance was perfect—though some would undoubtedly think so—it was discipline. Appearance mattered, especially when one sat at the fulcrum of power and politics. Every thread of the uniform, every ribbon pinned to his chest, declared that he was not merely a man but an institution. An extension of the Emperor's divine will, or so he reminded himself.

And yet, he mused, even the perfect cut of his uniform couldn't suppress the disquiet that had settled in his chest. The Saint. A commoner, no less—though Motneem would never utter the word aloud. Even in the privacy of his thoughts, it felt dangerous, like a whisper in the presence of a caged predator. He paced his office, glancing out the great adamantium-framed viewport that dominated one wall. Beyond it, the void shimmered with the distant spark of ship movements, a constant ballet of vessels ferrying troops, supplies, and weaponry across the Kar Duniash system.

Normally, he would have days of notice before meeting any dignitary, especially one of such importance. The bureaucracy of the Navy demanded it. Ships exiting the Warp at Lagrange points were logged, their courses projected with precision that bordered on the sacred. But the Saint—his Saint—defied such mortal logistics. Blessed by the Emperor, it was said, to stride through the stars unshackled by their limitations. And now, an astropathic missive encoded with the highest Inquisitorial priority had informed him, curtly, that the Saint would arrive imminently. It left Motneem feeling stripped of control, a sensation he loathed.

The office was pristine, every piece of furniture and decoration a deliberate statement. A star map dominated one wall, its holographic surface alive with the light of Imperial worlds and the flickering markers of fleets in transit. The desk, hewn from the dark wood of a planet long since obliterated in the Horus Heresy, gleamed beneath a layer of polish. Personal relics were displayed sparingly—naval commendations, a ceremonial sword, and a weathered photograph of his forebears, each an Admiral in their time.

The only thing that marred the perfection was the woman sitting silently to one side. Dressed in plain black, she had the air of someone who had seen the worst horrors of the galaxy and had not only survived but been reshaped by them. Her face was a map of scars, and her left arm, a lattice of polished bionics, twitched faintly as if recalling the battles that had claimed her flesh. The Inquisitorial rosette at her hip spoke volumes, silencing any doubts about her authority. Lady Inquisitor Skye was as much a reminder of the Imperium's ruthlessness as she was of its fragility.

Motneem glanced at her, half-expecting her to speak. She didn't. Instead, her piercing gaze dissected him, as though his uniform, his title, even his soul were laid bare before her scrutiny. He hated that feeling, but he hated the silence more.

Before he could speak, the chime of his desk's vox-intercom interrupted his thoughts. Commodore Thire's voice, smooth and precise, came through the channel. "Lord High Admiral, I've received confirmation. The Saint has arrived. He will join you momentarily."

Motneem exhaled through his nose, a measured release of tension. "Very well, Commodore. Have the honor guard prepare."

"Yes, my lord," Thire replied, and the channel clicked off.

The Saint. The Emperor's Chosen. Motneem's hands tightened behind his back as he turned to face the viewport again, though his mind was far from the distant stars. A man not of noble blood, yet elevated to heights unimaginable. It was, Motneem supposed, the Emperor's right to do so, to raise up one of the common rabble as an example of His divine power. But even as he accepted this truth, a whisper of unease lingered in his thoughts.

He had done all he could to reinforce the Maelstrom zone, diverting ships and resources where possible without compromising the Ultima Segmentum's broader defenses. But it wasn't enough. He knew it wasn't enough. The zone was a boiling pit of rebellion and xeno incursions, and the demands of Huron of the Gate, had only worsened the situation. Many of his admirals resisted the idea of committing more forces, citing the Navy's independence and their own grudges against the Astral Claws' Chapter Master. Motneem sympathized with their indignation but had no patience for their obstinance. The Maelstrom's wealth was vital to the Imperium, but more than that, failure there would be failure before the eyes of the God-Emperor.

He turned away from the viewport, his eyes falling once again on Lady Inquisitor Skye. "You've been awfully quiet," he said, his voice low but edged with curiosity.

Her lips twitched in what might have been the beginning of a smile. "And you've been pacing like a caged grox."

"An apt comparison," he admitted. "I suppose even the mightiest of admirals can find himself at the mercy of the unexpected."

She tilted her head, her gaze cutting as ever. "Do you dread meeting him?"

The viewport stretched before Lord High Admiral Motneem Strinoss like a cathedral window, framing the endless, shifting ballet of voidships and their invisible currents. A billion souls moved in precise synchronicity, each vessel like a synapse firing in the vast, incomprehensible brain of the Imperial Navy. He allowed himself a rare moment to admire it, this meticulously cultivated order born of centuries of doctrine and discipline. It was a reminder of why he endured the political intrigues, the petty squabbles, and the heavy burden of command. All of it served the Emperor's divine purpose, as did he.

The silence behind him was heavy, expectant. Skye, stood like a statue, her head tilted slightly, her sharp gaze dissecting his every move. She had asked her question, and Motneem, after tasting the words as if they were some foreign delicacy, had answered.

"Not dread, no," he repeated, his voice measured. "The Saint is the Emperor's will made flesh. To stand in his presence is a privilege."

"And yet you pace." Her tone was as flat as the void, devoid of accusation but cutting all the same.

He allowed himself a thin smile, humorless and brief. "Because privilege does not exempt one from scrutiny."

Her silence was approval enough. She was like that—efficient, pragmatic, and uninterested in unnecessary platitudes. He turned back to the viewport, watching the slow crawl of battleships and the flicker of engine trails across the black canvas of space. The enormity of it all—the sheer weight of responsibility—was something that never ceased to awe him, even after nearly two centuries of service. Billions of lives rested on his orders, a burden he carried willingly, even zealously, as a servant of the God-Emperor.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sound, soft and strange, like the distant rush of water. A rectangle of amber light cut through the air, spilling a subtle radiance into the chamber. It was an unceremonious entrance, yet profoundly disconcerting in its simplicity. He straightened instinctively, his hand brushing the polished surface of his desk. Skye stiffened but did not speak, her discipline as unshakable as his own.

From the light stepped the Saint.

Motneem had seen the holovids, of course—who hadn't? The man's visage had been broadcast across a thousand systems, his victories etched into the annals of the Imperium. But the holovids had not prepared him for the sheer presence of the man. He was taller than Motneem had expected, nearly two meters, his frame lean but undeniably powerful. The loose black and green silks he wore seemed almost out of place, their simplicity a stark contrast to the grandeur of the chamber. Yet they somehow suited him, emphasizing the raw, unpretentious strength of someone who carried the Emperor's will in his veins.

His hair was cropped short, an echo of his commoner origins—a detail that might have drawn disdain from lesser men but only intrigued Motneem further. The nobility of mankind had been chosen by the Emperor Himself, but the Saint was proof that even the lowliest among them could be raised to heights unimaginable. It was a truth Motneem had always believed, though he rarely spoke of it.

And then there were the eyes—golden and luminous, as though lit from within by some celestial fire. They held a weight that was almost unbearable, a gaze that seemed to pierce through flesh and bone to the soul beneath. Motneem resisted the urge to look away, though he felt an instinctive flicker of unease. This was not a man, not entirely. This was something more, something that transcended mortal comprehension.

Behind the Saint came a figure that made even Motneem's disciplined honor guard falter—a Custodes, a living bastion of duty and might. The black and red-armored sentinels at the door froze for a heartbeat, their training momentarily overridden by primal awe. Motneem could hardly blame them. The presence of a Custodes was a statement in itself, a reminder of the Emperor's enduring vigilance.

With a sharp gesture, Motneem signaled the guards to move. They recovered quickly, forming a perimeter outside the chamber. The Saint had bypassed every ceremony and formality, entering as if he owned the place—and, in truth, he likely could have, had he desired. Relics and wards designed to repel intrusions had proven meaningless against the Saint's arrival, a quiet testament to the power he wielded.

The amber light dissipated with a sound like a dying breath, leaving behind the Saint, his attendant—an unassuming man whose polished spectacles caught the residual glow—and the towering Custodes. Silence claimed the room, not awkward but deliberate, as if the walls themselves were absorbing the gravity of the moment. Motneem Strinoss, Lord High Admiral of the Ultima Segmentum, straightened his posture, letting the silence stretch. His gaze swept over the Saint, cataloging every detail with the precision of a seasoned tactician. This was not idle curiosity; it was the reflexive scrutiny of a man who had risen through decades of treachery and war.

"Lord High Admiral," the Saint said. His voice was measured, calm, and yet it reverberated in a way that touched more than the eardrum. It carried an undercurrent of power, as though his words were a force in themselves. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person." He shifted his gaze briefly. "Inquisitor Skye." The nod he offered her was subtle, but Motneem could see the calculation behind it. The Saint was aware of the implications of his arrival, of the disruption this unannounced meeting would cause. And he didn't care.

"The pleasure is mine," Motneem replied, his words crisp and deferential. He executed a shallow bow, a gesture precise enough to imply respect without overindulgence. "Can I offer you refreshment? Something to eat?" His tone was composed, but his mind churned. The Saint's sudden appearance, bypassing layers of defenses and protocols, was not only a violation—it was a challenge.

The Saint shook his head. "I have bypassed the ceremonies for a reason, Lord Strinoss. Time is not on our side."

Motneem suppressed the urge to sigh. Of course, it wasn't. Time never was, not in the Imperium. "I presume you wish to discuss the situation in the Maelstrom." He kept his voice steady, his words betraying none of the frustration clawing at him. "The situation, however, is... complicated."

"I have not come to add complications," the Saint replied, his tone still measured but laced with quiet resolve. "I have come to remove them."

It was Skye who responded, her voice carrying that particular chill Motneem had come to associate with her most dangerous moods. "Careful, Saint. The Imperial Navy is independent. No one—saint or otherwise—has the authority to order it." Her tone was calm, even level, but it struck Motneem like a blade drawn from its sheath. He had seen her issue extermination orders in that same voice, purging entire planetary populations in the Emperor's name.

The Saint didn't flinch. "I do not intend to infringe upon the Navy's autonomy," he said smoothly, gesturing toward the Custodes at his side. The golden-clad warrior remained silent, a monument of stoic authority. "He, however, might."

Motneem's eyes flicked to the Custodes. The air around the warrior seemed heavier, denser, as though the very fabric of reality bent to accommodate his presence. The Custodes spoke at last, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that carried the weight of finality. "By His Majesty's decree, Chapter Master Lufgt Huron—Huron of the Gate, as he is now styled—will be made Warmaster of the Maelstrom Zone campaigns. He shall hold authority as Lord Praefectus of the zone in perpetuity until all His foes are annihilated."

The words hit like a plasma barrage, scorching away any possibility of argument. Motneem felt a flicker of unease ripple through the room, though his face betrayed nothing. Skye's expression darkened, her sharp eyes narrowing on the Custodes.

"What does this mean?" she asked, her voice still cold but now tinged with suspicion.

"It means," the Custodes said, each word measured and deliberate, "that the Emperor's will is clear. Any dissent will be... addressed." He let the implication hang in the air, the unspoken threat as palpable as the haft of his spear.

The Custodes' words lingered like the finality of a death knell, the silence that followed as heavy as the solemn clang of a cathedral bell. Motneem's fingers twitched involuntarily against the ornate armrest of his chair, the only sign of the battle within his mind. The Custodes had spoken with the weight of absolute authority, the kind that brooked neither interpretation nor challenge. Any resistance would not merely be insubordination—it would be heresy. Yet the implications were staggering, seismic enough to fracture the carefully maintained facade of Imperial hierarchy in the Ultima Segmentum.

Huron, Warmaster? Lord Praefectus? The words clanged in Motneem's head like a faulty power relay. His mind churned through the possibilities, the inevitable fallout. Promotions of this scale were not decisions made lightly—or without consequences. To elevate Huron of all people, a man whose reputation was as polarizing as it was infamous, to the position of Warmaster would send shockwaves through the chain of command. There would be dissension, challenges to authority, perhaps even mutiny among those who had clashed with the so-called Tyrant of Badab in years past. The Navy was no stranger to feuds, grudges, and fragile egos, and this appointment would strike at the heart of every simmering conflict within its ranks.

Motneem exhaled slowly, a controlled release of tension that masked the undercurrent of unease. The Custodes, impassive and immovable, stood as if carved from gold-veined marble. One did not argue with the Custodes. To do so was to invite ruin of a kind that transcended mere mortal understanding. Motneem shifted his gaze to the Saint, who regarded him with a calm that bordered on disarming. There was something maddening about the man's composure, as if he had already anticipated every objection, every counterargument, and deemed them irrelevant.

The Saint broke the silence. "Allow me to clarify a few things," he said, his voice measured but edged with faint amusement. "Custodes are many things—peerless warriors, incorruptible guardians of the Emperor's will. But when it comes to... necessary clarifications, they can be rather succinct. Volusian here is no exception."

The Custodes—Volusian, if the Saint's casual familiarity could be trusted—remained still, the faintest flicker of something inscrutable crossing his face. Motneem didn't know whether to bristle at the Saint's irreverence or admire his audacity.

"What this means," the Saint continued, "is that the Emperor has determined the situation in the Maelstrom zone requires coordination on a level we've not seen in centuries. A Warmaster is necessary. Huron's appointment will solve many of the... inefficiencies that currently plague the war effort."

"There are no inefficiencies in my ranks," Motneem interjected, his tone sharp. The denial came more from instinct than conviction. The truth, unspoken but painfully obvious, was that inefficiency was the natural state of the Imperial Navy. It was a beast with a thousand heads, each straining against the leash, and his job was to wrangle it into some semblance of unity.

"Of course not," the Saint said with a nod, his expression utterly devoid of condescension, which somehow made the words sting all the more. "But let us consider a hypothetical. Suppose there are those within the Navy who have been... less than prompt in their response to the crisis. Officers who might, let us say, have allowed old grievances to cloud their judgment. With Huron elevated to Warmaster, any action that hinders him in fulfilling his duties would fall under the purview of High Treason. Not that such insubordination would ever occur within the Navy, naturally."

Motneem's jaw tightened. He could hear the unspoken accusation, the needle aimed at his precarious balancing act. His silence was calculated, a non-acknowledgment that allowed him to retain some semblance of control over the conversation.

"One moment, Lord Michael," Inquisitor Skye said, her voice cutting through the room like a scalpel. "None of my peers have informed me of such a development. Nor has there been any astropathic proclamation to that effect."

"It will come," Volusian said, his voice as steady as a planetary orbit. The two words carried the weight of inevitability, their simplicity more intimidating than any tirade.

"As Volusian says, it will come," the Saint added smoothly. "Within two weeks, the High Lords of Terra will convene. The Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes will present an edict, issued directly by Him on Terra. Within the month, this decree will have reached all major Imperial command centers."

Motneem noted the slight narrowing of Skye's eyes, the faint tightening of her jaw. She didn't trust him—not entirely—and for good reason. Trust was a commodity rarer than Adamantium in the Imperium, and far more dangerous when misplaced.

"And we are simply to take your word for this in the meantime?" she asked, her tone laced with suspicion.

"Yes," Volusian said, his voice as unyielding as ceramite. The singular word, delivered with an air of finality, carried more weight than any threat Motneem could have conjured.

The Saint leaned forward slightly, his posture just shy of insubordination yet carrying the ease of someone who already held the winning hand. His voice was low, almost conversational, yet it carried the weight of certainty that only faith—or madness—could muster. "I'm not asking you to relinquish the Navy's scepter of command before the edict arrives. But let us return, hypothetically, to the question of elements. If certain... individuals were to find themselves assigned under Warmaster Huron's authority, those same individuals might discover their capacity for obstruction significantly diminished. An elegant solution, wouldn't you agree? A solution that benefits us all."

Lord High Admiral Motneem Strinoss allowed himself the smallest of frowns, a controlled flicker of displeasure that settled across his patrician features. The Saint's words were surgical, each syllable chosen with the precision of a scalpel, and they cut through the layers of formality like an autopsy blade through flesh. Manipulator, his mind whispered, a word tainted with both disdain and reluctant admiration. Michael was no fool. That much had been clear from the first reports of his deeds, but seeing him in person underscored the fact with brutal clarity. He was dangerous—not because of what he was, but because of what he represented. A living Saint was a weapon that no faction, no matter how entrenched, could ignore.

"A dangerous ally," Motneem thought grimly, his thoughts a web of conflicting impulses. "And an even more dangerous enemy."

He forced a nod, the gesture deliberate in its ambiguity, a practiced noncommittal. "I will... consider your proposal," he said, the words carefully measured, as though speaking them too quickly might bind him to something irreversible.

Michael's expression did not shift, though there was a glimmer in his eyes—triumph, perhaps, or something more inscrutable. "That is all I can ask of you," the Saint replied, his tone the perfect blend of humility and inevitability. Without ceremony, he produced a dataslate, its surface flickering to life with the pale glow of projected text and schematics. The device seemed to appear out of nowhere, conjured from some unseen fold of his robes, and though Motneem longed to ask how it had been concealed, he bit down on the impulse. There were things about Saints—and by extension, the Emperor Himself—that mortal minds were not meant to grasp.

Michael slid the dataslate across the table, his movements slow and deliberate, as if presenting not a document but a weapon. "I've taken the liberty of outlining a few suggestions," he said smoothly, "regarding the kinds of assets that might be... strategically deployed to the Maelstrom zone. You'll also find a list of officers most suited to such assignments."

Motneem picked up the slate, his eyes scanning the contents with the discipline of a man accustomed to parsing data under extreme pressure. At first glance, the numbers seemed reasonable. The requested ships matched his own projections—difficult to arrange, certainly, but not impossible. He had already begun moving resources in that direction, despite the logistical labyrinth, the maddening distances, and the obstinacy of certain admirals who seemed determined to interpret his orders with glacial speed.

It wasn't the numbers that made his chest tighten with a mix of unease and exhilaration. It was the names.

The officers listed weren't just the usual suspects—the career bureaucrats and minor nuisances who populated the Navy's lower echelons. No, these were significant figures: men and women whose influence extended far beyond their fleets. Some were his political enemies, others belonged to factions that had long opposed his policies. And then there were those whose arrogance and rigid ideals rendered them blind to the larger needs of the Imperium, officers whose obstinance had already cost more than Motneem cared to count.

He recognized the trap immediately, and yet he could not deny its appeal. The officers on this list were unlikely to survive long under Huron's command. A Warmaster, after all, held absolute authority in a warzone. Court martials would become a formality, and firing squads would operate with impunity. Huron was many things—brutal, unforgiving, and prone to excess—but he was also ruthlessly efficient. Those who prioritized personal ambition over Imperial survival would find themselves purged with a finality that even Motneem's own bureaucracy could never achieve.

"Clever," he thought, a chill creeping into his thoughts. "Too clever, perhaps."

Motneem maintained a calculated expression as he handed the slate back, his pale fingers brushing against the edge as though reluctant to fully let it go. "These are... interesting suggestions," he said, his words delivered with a deliberate neutrality that betrayed nothing. Each syllable was a carefully chosen piece in the delicate game of politics and survival he had mastered over nearly two centuries. "I will review them further."

Michael inclined his head slightly, the movement poised between deference and inevitability. "Of course. I trust your judgment, Lord High Admiral." His voice was soft, each word polished to a sheen, but the undercurrent of control was unmistakable. Then, with the ease of one shifting to a new, carefully premeditated gambit, Michael continued, "Now, unto other matters. I have heard you've made inquiries regarding a Palatine Phoenix-class battleship for the flagship of the Ultima Segmentum fleet. Is that correct?"

Motneem's brow tightened imperceptibly, but he nodded. "Indeed, I have," he said, his tone smooth, though privately his thoughts churned with skepticism. He doubted he would live to see such a ship under his command. It wasn't merely a question of political leverage or the labyrinthine bureaucracy of the Adeptus Mechanicus—it was the cold reality of time. Even with expedited production, his own shipyards would require thirty to thirty-five years to complete a Palatine Phoenix, assuming the drydocks and specialized assembly lines could even be readied in a reasonable timeframe. The rarefied technologies encoded within the Standard Template Construct database demanded a level of precision and resource allocation that bordered on the impossible without the direct intervention of Mars. Realistically, the first of such battleships would roll off the assembly lines of Kar Duniash no sooner than sixty or seventy years. He doubted he would still be alive to stand on its bridge when it was commissioned.

"As it so happens," Michael said, his tone almost conversational, though Motneem detected the calculated weight behind it, "there are four Palatine Phoenix battleships nearing completion in my shipyards. They'll be finished within a few months."

Motneem's instinctive reaction was to dismiss the claim as a fabrication, but he caught himself. Michael was not the sort of man to deal in empty promises. His words, no matter how improbable, carried the quiet conviction of someone who had already bent the world to his will more times than most could imagine. "Four?" he repeated, his voice betraying only the faintest hint of incredulity.

Michael nodded. "Four," he confirmed. "Two are destined for the Segmentum Solar Navy, specifically Mars. Another will be delivered to the Custodes. But the fourth... Well, I can arrange for it to be sent to your command as part of my tithe."

Motneem tilted his head slightly, his mind spinning as he processed the implications. A Palatine Phoenix-class battleship—a symbol of absolute naval supremacy, a vessel second only to the ancient Glorianas and the Ark Mechanicus themselves—delivered to him? Such a gift would elevate his standing to unprecedented heights. The prestige alone would be enough to silence his detractors within the Navy and potentially even rival some of the most entrenched dynasties of Terra. The Saint was offering him something beyond value, and yet Motneem could not shake the sense of calculation behind the offer. This was no simple gesture of goodwill.

He hummed, low and contemplative. "I was under the impression," he began carefully, "that it would take decades to complete even one of these vessels."

"In most shipyards, yes," Michael replied with a shrug, as though discussing something as mundane as crop yields. His tone was maddeningly casual, yet it carried the weight of something profound, something beyond the understanding of most mortals. Motneem briefly considered pressing the matter, but the thought withered as quickly as it had formed. There were things about the Emperor's chosen—and their methods—that were not meant to be understood.

"And Terra?" Motneem asked, his voice clipped. "They would sanction such a... deviation?"

Michael's smile was thin but assured. "The other three are accounted for, as I've said. Two for Mars, one for the Custodes. That leaves the fourth. Yours, should you choose to accept it. You would be the only Segmentum command outside of Solar to possess such a vessel."

Motneem leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze drifting to the intricate patterns of light playing across the dataslate's surface. He could see the entire tableau unfolding before him: the prestige, the power, the opportunities this would create. The costs were clear, too—thousands of lives, many of them belonging to officers who had long sought to undermine him, to challenge his authority. A Palatine Phoenix battleship and the removal of his rivals, all wrapped into one package. And all he had to do was let the Saint's plans proceed unchallenged.

"I would indeed be... interested," he said finally, his voice calm but weighted with meaning.

The Saint extended his hand, his smile softening into something almost human. Motneem took it, his grip firm. In that moment, he allowed himself a flicker of faith, a brief indulgence in the thought that the Emperor truly did provide for His servants. But beneath that faith lay the cold, calculating certainty of a man who understood the nature of power: nothing was ever freely given. And though Michael had played his part perfectly, Motneem could not help but wonder how deep the Saint's game truly went.

---

The artillery continued to roar, its bone-rattling cadence blending seamlessly with the unrelenting chaos outside. Lord Marshal Abrar Ratzeimer stepped into the command vehicle, the stink of mud, cordite, and blood clinging to his armor like a second skin. He had no illusions about what anyone thought of him being here, so close to the frontlines. Too valuable, they said. Foolish, they muttered. But Ratzeimer didn't give a damn what they thought. It hadn't saved the four men who'd sat in this chair before him. They'd all died just the same, whether it was to a stray shell, a cunning Ork commando, or some kamikaze greenskin crashing a trukk through their command centers. Cowards and cautious men died just as easily as bold ones. If he had to go, it wouldn't be cowering miles away from the fight. It would be with a laspistol in one hand, a sword in the other, and the Emperor's name on his lips.

The command vehicle was as cramped as ever, a humming nest of cogitators, vox operators, and map displays, all rendered claustrophobic by the sweat and tension of men who had barely slept in days. But there was something new, someone he hadn't left behind two hours ago when he stepped out to inspect the shattered trenches. Sitting near the map table, bathed in the harsh glow of a flickering lumen globe, was a figure in black and gold power armor. His helmet rested on the table, leaving his pale, severe face exposed. Bishop Rhaj Bolin.

The Bishop's piercing blue eyes locked onto Ratzeimer the moment he entered, the kind of gaze that felt like it could bore straight through steel, stripping away armor and lies alike. For all his disdain for the ecclesiarchal types, Ratzeimer found himself hesitating. Not out of fear—no, he'd long since burned that weakness out of himself—but out of something else. Respect? Curiosity? He wasn't sure. What he did know was that Bolin carried himself like a man utterly convinced of his purpose, a trait the Lord Marshal couldn't help but begrudgingly admire.

"Bishop," Ratzeimer said, forcing a smirk onto his face, the sort of gallows humor only soldiers could muster. "A pleasure to see you here. I assume this means we're not losing just yet."

Bolin's voice was deep and resonant, a tone that could command an army or bring a cathedral to its knees. "A pleasure to see you still alive, Lord Marshal." There was no jest in his words, no trace of humor. Just an almost unsettling certainty. "For now, at least."

Ratzeimer chuckled dryly, tossing his mud-slicked gloves onto the nearest console. "A pleasure to be alive, Bishop. Though I've learned not to take such things for granted. Let me guess—you've just come back from Gamma-19?"

"I have." Bolin leaned forward slightly, his armored elbows resting on the table. "Everything is proceeding as planned. My cadre has thinned their attacks across the entire front, and your forces are giving a convincing enough display of faltering lines. The Knights of House Weshingtan are already in position to intercept the Orks' walkers. Meanwhile, the Paladin sappers are nearing completion on their traps. When the greenskins push, we'll spring the net."

Ratzeimer nodded, glancing over the holographic map projected before them. Ork forces swarmed the display, crude, hulking shapes pressing against the carefully arrayed Imperial defenses. It was a plan that hinged on precision, timing, and the ever-unpredictable temperament of Ork Warbosses. The kind of plan that could win wars—or lose them.

The command vehicle shook with the rumble of distant artillery, the rhythmic thunder rolling through the cramped space like a heartbeat. Ratzeimer leaned over the flickering hololithic map, the glowing lines of troop movements and enemy positions casting sharp shadows across his scarred face. His gauntleted fingers hovered near Gamma-19, a sector flashing red with all the urgency of a bleeding wound. His voice, roughened by years of shouting orders and inhaling battlefield ash, cut through the tension like a blade.

"And the Techboys?" he asked, his tone just shy of accusatory. "They've been muttering about some exotic warheads. Tell me we're not gambling on whatever junk they've cobbled together this time."

Bishop Rhaj Bolin, seated across from him in his gleaming black and gold power armor, let his lips twitch in what might've been amusement—or condescension. It was hard to tell with these Stirpes Imperialis types. "The Techboys has deployed a limited number of the alchemical warheads left over from the Siege of Hive Muniar," Bolin said, his deep voice steady and calm, like a boulder resisting a storm. "But as you might imagine, our stockpile has dwindled. Resupply from the Saints' Five Hundred has proven... difficult."

Ratzeimer snorted, dragging a gloved hand through his cropped hair, now more gray than black. "Difficult. That's one word for it. 'Impossible' feels a hell of a lot more accurate."

Bolin's gaze didn't waver, didn't blink. "Even if we had thousands of those warheads, the odds of taking down all the greenskin walkers and Gargants in a single strike are close to zero."

"Of course," Ratzeimer said with a weary sigh. "The Emperor never makes anything easy. But it'll have to do. I'll take what I can get and hope this victory doesn't cost us more than we can afford.

"You think the Warboss will take the bait?" Bolin asked, his pale eyes narrowing as he studied the map.

"He'll take it," Ratzeimer said without hesitation. "Orks are predictable that way. Especially if my vehicle is in the area. He'll want to crush us personally."

"That will make it dangerous," Bolin warned. "Perhaps too dangerous."

Ratzeimer shrugged, his shoulders stiff beneath the weight of his carapace armor. "If it's His will that I die, it won't matter where I go. But until that happens, my men need me on the line to keep their morale intact. They've followed me through hell and worse; the least I can do is stand with them."

The Bishop leaned back slightly, his armored gauntlets resting on the edge of the table. "Good. You could do better," he said, his voice dripping with that peculiar mix of approval and disdain that only the Ecclesiarchy seemed to master, "but I suppose too much bravery is better than too little."

Ratzeimer smirked, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"But," Bolin continued, "the Saint has received my reports. He agrees with me that you'll need more protection than what my cadre or the Stirpes Imperialis can provide."

Ratzeimer raised an eyebrow. "What kind of protection are we talking about?"

"The Saint has sent his personal bodyguard," Bolin said, his voice dipping into something almost reverent. "Casper Pyrene will stand at your side and ensure you live long enough to see this war won."

Ratzeimer felt his gut twist, though his expression remained stony. His Cadians, his boys and girls born of Cadia's unyielding soil, were all the protection he needed—or so he told himself. But there was a flicker of curiosity, a crack in his armor of confidence. What kind of man was deemed worthy to guard someone like the Saint? The stories of Michael painted him as something far beyond human—perhaps Pyrene wasn't a bodyguard at all but a leash for a weapon too dangerous to be left unchained.

"My Cadians will be enough," Ratzeimer said finally, his voice firm but lacking the conviction he would've liked. Then, after a beat, he added, "But one more warm body between me and the Orks won't be refused."

Bolin inclined his head, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Smart move."

The Bishop pressed a button on his gauntlet, the vox bead embedded in his armor crackling to life. "You can come in now, Casper."

The command APC stank of ozone and fear-sweat. Ratzeimer's augmetic knee hissed as he pivoted, his Cadian instincts flaring before the door finished opening.

Kid.

The thought hit him like a stray mortar round.

The warrior standing at attention looked barely weaned off mother's milk – smooth cheeks, honey-gold hair cropped regulation-short. Ratzeimer's eldest had more scars from the Schola Progenium's sparring cages. But then he saw the eye.

Or lack of it

A knotted crater of scar tissue consumed the right socket, the flesh around it mottled with the telltale signs of suppressed warp-rot. No medicae could fix that. Maybe not even the Saints fabled power

"Casper Pyrene," the boy said, voice deeper than expected. The salute was perfect. Bred for it, probably. Some shrine world princeling playing soldier.

Ratzeimer's remaining organic eye twitched. He opened his mouth to spit acid – then stopped.

The power armor wasn't parade-ground polish. Dried xenos blood crusted the joints. A hairline fracture ran across the left pauldron where something had tried to chew through. The mud caking Pyrene's greaves wasn't local – stank of promethium and gangrene. Maelstrom filth.

This one's been in the shit.

"You swing that pigsticker or just haul it for show?" Ratzeimer jerked his chin at the power sword taller than most conscripts.

Pyrene's remaining eye – cold as a void-dweller's corpse – flicked to the tactical hololith. To the blinking red tides swallowing Gamma-19's western trenches. When he spoke, his words carried the bored menace of a chainblade idling. "Saints' Five Hundred lost three transports last week. Sir."

Ratzeimer's knuckles popped against his plasma pistol's grip. Clever little bastard. The unspoken math hung between them – Pyrene hadn't arrived on some cushy shuttle. He'd fought through the orbital meatgrinder. On foot, if the state of his armor meant anything.

Bolin cleared his throat. "Casper's retinue cleared twelve Ork patrols between the—"

"Don't care." Ratzeimer stepped into Pyrene's space, close enough to smell the faint antiseptic stink beneath the blood and cordite. The boy didn't blink. "You guard me, you follow my orders. Cadians hold the line here. Not your pretty Paladins."

Pyrene's lips twitched. Not a smile. The expression of a man remembering where he'd buried the knife. "Your Cadians are brave. But brave dies screaming when Turgnakh's gargants start singing."

The vox exploded before Ratzeimer could retort.

"Contact east flank! Warbikes an'—Emperor's bowels is that a SQUIGOTH—"

Static swallowed the rest. Ratzeimer was moving before the scream cut out, his augmetic leg pistoning him toward the firing ramp. He didn't check if Pyrene followed.

Didn't need to.

The boy's shadow clung to his back like a Reaper round – close enough to smell the sanctified oil on that monstrous sword. Ratzeimer's teeth ground together. Let the pup play bodyguard. When the real killing started, he'd learn fast.

Or die faster.

The artillery platform trembled like the world's last tooth. Ratzeimer's augmetic eye cycled through magnification tiers, each click revealing fresh horrors. Ten thousand greenskins? Twenty? Numbers meant nothing in the Maelstrom. The horde stretched to the ash-choked horizon – a roiling green tsunami crashing against Imperial steel.

Cadia's bloodline holds.

His shock troops moved in perfect kill-zones, lasfire stitching disciplined patterns through the mob. But the Paladins… damn their polished white armor. They fought like void-born angels. Rotating phalanxes of bolter fire. Plasma crews relaying barrels with ritual precision. Not an inch of ground ceded without three ork corpses piled as tribute.

"Halfway decent," he muttered, tasting the lie. Pride burned acid in his throat.

Casper's power sword buzzed like an angry hornet nest. "Your 'decent' men just butchered five hundred greenskins in six minutes."

"Waste of good ammo." Ratzeimer spat over the rail. The glob vanished into the cauldron below – a seething mass of choppas, shootas, and Saint-damned squigs big as tanks. "Should've let my boys soften 'em first."

Amber lightning split the sky. A Stirpes sorcerer's wrath atomized an entire mob, the shockwave rippling outward like god's own artillery. For a heartbeat, Ratzeimer's augmetic registered the numbers: 87,432 ork biosigns. 19,203 human. Neryx laughed at such arithmetic.

"East flank!" a vox-officer screamed. Ratzeimer didn't need binoculars to see the new threat. A gargant pack – six stomping nightmares draped in barbed wire and human skulls – trudged through the hellstorm. Each step flattened tanks like beer cans.

"Right on schedule," he growled. The command Chimera bearing his old regimental colors burned bright in gamma sector. Bait even a blind Warboss couldn't ignore.

Casper's dead eye twitched. "They're diverting the gargants."

"Good."

"Too many diverting."

Ratzeimer's smirk felt carved from stone. Through the smoke, he saw Turgnakh's personal glyph glowing baleful red atop the lead gargant. The Warboss himself rode in its ribcage throne, twin chain-choppas revving like daemon engines. Every Cadian's death would be repaid tenfold.

The drone swarm hit with apocalyptic fury. Saint's "miracles" – sleek, locust-like killers – detonated in waves. Firestorms bloomed. A gargant stumbled, knee joint melting. Ork crews spilled screaming from its belly, only to be vaporized by Paladin hydra platforms.

"Showoffs," Ratzeimer snarled. The 19th's banner now flew from a pile of smoldering trukk wreckage. Perfect parade-ground formation. Perfect waste of good flanking opportunities.

Casper's blade dipped toward the northern ridge. "Your boys are slipping."

A Cadian squad fell back through the corpse-choked trenches – not retreating, reloading. They moved like shadows, baiting a mob into overlapping kill-zones. Lasfire erupted from hidden bunkers. Greenskins melted.

"Slipping?" Ratzeimer's grin showed too many teeth. "Watch."

The Cadians pivoted as one, bayonets gutting the last survivors. Clean. Efficient. No wasted motion. The Paladins could keep their holy hymns and relic armor. His men wrote psalms with blood and pragmatism.

The ground quaked. Not from gargants. From the Saint's special gifts– earthshaker rounds loaded with alchemical fire. The Techboys' "gift" detonated in the horde's belly. A mushroom cloud of green flesh and promethium vomit blotted the sky.

For three sacred seconds, silence reigned.

Then the Waaagh! roared louder.

"Plan's working," Ratzeimer said, reloading his plasma pistol.

Casper's sword hummed a lethal counterpoint to distant artillery. "They'll reach the killzone in eight minutes."

"Seven." Ratzeimer adjusted his grip on the railing. Ceramite creaked under his augmetic fingers. "My boys'll shave one off."

Below, the Paladins proved him right. Rotating kill-teams funneled the ork tide into gamma sector's jaws. White armor turned black with xenos blood. Still they chanted. Still they held.

Halfway decent. The thought came quieter this time. Almost respectful.

Casper's remaining eye narrowed. "Turgnakh's taken the bait."

The lead gargant veered hard toward the command Chimera, crushing ork and human alike under its piston-feet. Ratzeimer's augmetic zoomed on the Warboss's snarling muzzle. Close enough to see the human finger necklaces. Close enough to count the scars.

The gargant's roar shook the artillery platform's rusted bones. Ratzeimer gripped the rail, his augmetic eye zooming past the carnage to the real prize – Turgnakh's tusked grin, closer now. Close enough to see the Warboss lick blood off his chain-choppa.

Patience, you bastard. We're just getting started.

"Phase three!" he snarled into the vox. The order tasted like dead men and last chances.

Across the line, ten thousand guardsmen began dying properly.

Not panicked routs. Not last stands. Textbook retrograde ops – armored companies bleeding the horde with staggered ambushes, infantry squads melting into tunnel networks only Cadians had mapped. The lucky ones made for the waiting Thunderhawks, their engines screaming like butchered animals.

"Your boys're showboating," Casper said, nodding to where Paladins held a refinery complex. Their white armor gleamed amidst the smoke, bolters chanting death-hymns as they covered a Valhallan retreat.

Ratzeimer spat. "Silver-plated idiots. Should've fallen back three minutes ago."

"They'll hold." Casper's voice carried the Saint's own certainty. "They always do."

The Cadian opened his mouth to retort – then froze.

The tunnels shook.

Out they came, not soldiers but fortresses – Saint Michael's heavy combat servitors, two and a half meters of slab-sided ceramite thicker than a Leman Russ' flank. No flesh visible, no weak points – just seamless armor plating etched with hexagrammic wards, their optics glowing a dull forge-red through slit visors. Heavy bolters roared from arms fused permanently into weapon mounts. When they moved, the ground cratered under their weight.

"Bullet sponges," Ratzeimer muttered, watching a mob of orks unload shootas at the closest unit. Sparks erupted where rounds ricocheted off the armor. One servitor paused, rotated its torso with hydraulic menace, and reduced the greenskins to paste with a sustained burst. Behind their wall, a Mordian platoon retreated unscathed.

Casper tapped his vox-bead – a private channel. "Combat units at 92% integrity. Acceptable attrition."

Ratzeimer's organic eye twitched. Of course the Saint's pet gets live diagnostics.

"Better than last month," the Cadan forced himself to admit. The things had tanked a direct Ork plasma blast at Hive Secundus. Didn't mean he had to like them.

The lizard-things followed – sleek, predatory machines with reverse-jointed legs and tails crackling with disruptor fields. Their chainblade forelimbs whirred as they leapt into the fray, carving through warbikes like parchment. One latched onto a battlewagon, twin lascannons on its back slagging the engine block while its blades sawed through the crew hatch.

The Warboss howled. Turgnakh's gargant lurched forward, its mega-choppa shearing through a servitor's armored shoulder. The machine stumbled, sparks geysering from the wound – then retaliated by ramming its remaining arm-cannon into the gargant's ankle. The explosion peeled back armor plating, revealing glowing sinew beneath.

"Now," Ratzeimer breathed.

Nothing happened.

"Now!"

Static answered.

Casper's power sword flared. "Techboys' lines are cut. Gargant's emissions scrambled the–"

Ratzeimer didn't hear the rest. He was already moving, augmetic leg pistoning toward the comms array. The platform shook, artillery crews screaming as a stray shell detonated nearby.

"Get the fucking signal through!" he roared, shoving a trembling tech-acolyte aside. His gauntleted hands mashed the runes. "Detonate the alchem-warheads NOW!"

A servitor took a rokkit to the chest, its armor blackened but unbroken. The lizard-things swarmed the gap, buying seconds. Paladins charged into the breach, bolt-rounds blasting greenskins off the refinery walls.

Casper's blade rested against his neck. Cold. Steady. "You'll cook your own men."

Ratzeimer didn't turn. "They know the price."

Through the blood-smeared viewport, he saw them – Cadians in gamma sector, purple armor blackened, still funneling the horde. Sergeant Harkon squad waved as the gargant approached. Smiling.

The vox crackled.

"–ignition in five–"

The rumble of distant detonations reverberated through the Earthshaker platform beneath Lord Marshal Abrar Ratzeimer, but no sound reached his ears from the battlefield itself, three kilometers distant. The vox-net had been dead for nearly twenty minutes now, leaving him with only the grainy, flickering feed of his augmetic left eye to track the chaos unfolding in what had once been Gamma Sector.

He adjusted the focus of the feed, his gaze narrowing as he scanned the shattered landscape of overlapping trenches and craters. The feed stuttered, struggling to keep pace with the violent, unnatural phenomena erupting below.

The remnants of Sergeant Harkon's Cadian squad clung to their trench like splinters wedged into flesh, their uniforms dulled and scorched, but their movements sharp and precise. Ratzeimer knew them by their posture, their efficiency. Cadians. Reliable as ever. Across the killzone, the Paladins of Tethrilyra stood like marble statues, white armor gleaming against the fire-blackened earth. He couldn't hear their chants, but he saw the synchronized flicker of their movements as they reloaded, the glint of their blades catching the weak sun.

Above them, the massive silhouette of the Warboss' gargant loomed, casting a shadow that swallowed the trenches whole. The sheer size of the thing was staggering, a monstrous testament to the crude genius of Ork engineering. Its cannons swiveled, belching smoke and fire into the sky as it sought targets with a mindless hunger.

Ratzeimer's jaw tightened. The detonations were coming too slowly. Something had gone wrong—no vox confirmations, no signals. But the Cadians moved with unerring purpose, and that gave him a grim sliver of hope.

In the static-laden corner of his view, a flare of motion caught his eye. Harkon. The sergeant's augmetic arm moved with brutal efficiency, his hand gripping a detonator. Beside him, Private Varn hesitated, his thumb hovering over his own trigger. Ratzeimer saw the tension in Harkon's frame, the split-second decision crystallizing in the man's mind.

The flash came without warning.

Gamma-7 erupted in a sphere of frost so intense that even through the distorted feed, Ratzeimer felt an almost physical recoil. Orks froze mid-charge, their brutish faces twisted in snarls that shattered as they hit the ground. Nobz at the front dissolved into glimmering shards that caught the light like macabre jewelry.

The augmetic eye struggled to adjust, its focus jumping wildly as a second detonation vaporized what remained of the forward Ork line. This time, there was no beauty, only raw violence—a mob of greenskins reduced to steaming puddles of mercury and slag.

Further down the sector, the heavy combat servitors waded into the fray, their movements slow but unstoppable. Sparks flew as Ork choppas scraped futilely against their ceramite hides, the servitors pushing deeper into the kill-net with mechanical precision.

Ratzeimer zoomed in on the chaos around Gamma-12 just as it vanished in a kaleidoscopic burst. Orks aged centuries in seconds, their flesh sloughing from their bones before the bones themselves disintegrated. A gargant staggered, its rusting joints collapsing as if millennia of decay had been condensed into a single heartbeat.

The Marshal's gaze swept to Gamma Ridge. Arric's warhead detonated with all the subtlety of a supernova. Prismatic fire consumed everything, Ork and Paladin alike, the conflagration transmuting flesh into crystalline sculptures and fuel into momentary antimatter. The shockwave rippled out, tearing through the battlefield and hurling shattered debris in every direction.

Ratzeimer's breath hitched as he caught a fleeting glimpse of Evander, the Paladin's expression frozen in serene triumph as his body turned to diamond. He died clutching his detonator, his fingers locked in an eternal grasp.

The feed flickered again, this time jumping to Sigma Sector, where gravitic inversion warheads detonated in brutal unison. Massive Ork war machines were ripped from the ground and hurled into the stratosphere, their trajectories leaving streaks of fire across the sky. Acidic rain from one of the alchemical warheads, sizzled through the remains of a squiggoth, leaving behind only a slurry of bone and ichor.

The warboss' gargant came into view again, its massive frame silhouetted against the churning, fracturing sky. A final chain of detonations reduced it to something almost pitiable—a headless, flaming carcass staggering blindly as its torso became sentient flame, devouring its own crew.

Through the smoke, Ratzeimer could just make out the shadowy forms of the last Paladins and servitors pressing forward, their silhouettes swallowed one by one as the battlefield dissolved into an apocalyptic storm of fire and ice.

Then, silence.

Where Gamma Sector had stood, there was now only devastation. Crystalline forests shimmered in the strange light of the burning horizon, casting jagged reflections that seemed to mock the beauty of what had once been. Nothing moved. Nothing survived.

Ratzeimer's augmetic zoomed out, scanning the ruined expanse. Of the three hundred who had held the line, only Evander's diamond corpse remained, glittering in the middle of the carnage, fingers still curled around his detonator.

The tunnels held.

Ratzeimer tasted the words like stale promethium fumes, lips cracking around them. His throat burned worse than the smoldering gargant husks littering the plains. Cadians knew tunnel warfare - proper warfare - but this...

A gauntlet the color of bleached bone slammed against his chestplate. "Warboss breathes." Casper's voice emerged distorted through his Paladin helm's grille, the sound like a chainsword dragged across granite. The white ceramite of his armor glowed faintly in the warp-tainted firelight, purity seals flapping like accusation flags in the toxic wind.

He followed the armored finger's arc. Didn't need enhanced optics to see Turgnakh Skullrend emerge - the Warboss' roar shook the marrow in a man's bones, not some fancy ocular implant. The greenskin warlord tumbled from his collapsing god-machine like a meteor, skin bubbling with warp-tainted flame he simply shrugged off.

Typical. Ratzeimer spat black phlegm. Experience had taught him Orks didn't die - they got inconvenienced.

"Knight-Baron! Clean-up detail." Ratzeimer's vox-crackled order sliced through artillery static.

Mirex's laughter boomed like a siege cannon report. "Sweepers advancing."

They came from the rear lines first - great lurching shadows in the smoke. Eleven Knight suits older than Cadia's first wall, their piston-legs pumping chemical sweat onto blood-soaked soil. Ratzeimer's enhanced retina caught their house sigils flaring to life - Mirex's crimson hawk screaming from its heraldic cage.

Let the nobles bleed first for once.

The Warboss' remaining Gargants turned sluggishly, fungal brains finally registering the threat at their backs. Too late. Mirex's lancers hit them in the power cores, thermal spears punching through rusted belly armor.

"Costly broom," Ratzeimer muttered, tasting copper. His tactical display lit up as Cadian armor columns surged through the gaps - Leman Russ squadrons forming steel petals around the remaining knights. Good. Let the treadheads make themselves useful.

Zone Gamma stank of prophecy now. Ratzeimer's boots sank into mud that bubbled with xenos blood. He watched through magnoculars as the Paladins' white armor moved among conscript troops, their blessed flamers turning ork mobs to screaming torches.

"All units, advance pattern Kappa." The order left his lips before he'd consciously decided. Let the Strategium think this was planned. Let the Munitorum call it genius. Truth was, you either rode the avalanche or got buried.

The green tide hit them singing. Battlewagons mounted with shrieking glyphs, trukk mobs hurling themselves at knightly shins, a storm of crude metal that made the Warhound Titan's Vulcan megabolter weep streams of glowing tracers. Ratzeimer's cyber-eye flickered casualty counts - 6%... 7.3%... 9.2% - before he smashed the display.

"Mirex! That Titan babysitter of yours napping?"

The Warhound answered for its master. A plasma blast ripped through six kilometers of greenskin flesh, the shockwave flattening Ratzeimer against command rhino plating. He came up spitting mud and laughter.

Casper materialized through the smoke, his white plate now the color of a butcher's apron. "The Stirpes request coordinates."

"Tell their witches..." Ratzeimer paused as a strafing jetbike exploded overhead, "...to mind the goddamned infantry!"

Somewhere in the firestorm, Turgnakh Skullrend bellowed his challenge. Ratzeimer hefted his power maul, the Cadian crest on its haft still gleaming.

The battlefield breathed in that strange lull between artillery barrages. Ratzeimer's enhanced ear caught the symphony - Leman Russ engines idling like restless hounds, the click-hiss of a thousand laspacks cooling, the Warhound Titan's plasma core purring three octaves below human hearing.

"All knightly assets, forward sweep." His vox-order triggered the avalanche.

Nine remaining Knights fanned out across the corpse-choked plains, their ion shields flaring emerald as they became moving fortresses. The 88th Delphic Raiders scrambled behind a revenant-pattern Knight Walker, using its shuddering bulk as cover while their meltagunners picked off looted tanks. A Valhallan ice-corps squad rode the thermal updrafts from another Knights thermal cannon, their lasrifles shattering overheated ork flesh.

Not Cadians.

But adapting.

The Warhound made gods of them all. Its turbo-laser bisected a stompa mid-warcry, the resulting plasma firestorm cooking six hundred greenskins in their fungal armor. Ratzeimer's retinal display auto-filtered the glare, catching the 114th Mortaxian Rifles advancing through the inferno - standard-issue rebreathers useless against the stench, but still forming firing lines with parade-ground precision.

"Grey Sentinels, anchor sectors seven through nine!"

The humanoid variants locked shoulder plates along the western trench line, their armored backs becoming makeshift ramparts for Vorstian grenadiers. A saurian-pattern's tail lashed out in dying spasm, spiked ball crushing a trukk full of kommandos before power klaws finished the machine. Ratzeimer noted three Sentinels from the 7th Maniple still fighting after losing limbs, their machine spirits refusing to die while Guardsmen still sheltered behind them.

Artillery found its voice.

Basilisk crews from some backwater Agri-world pounded coordinates they couldn't see, their Earthshaker rounds walking perfect ten-meter intervals down the ork rear lines. Ratzeimer's comm-bead picked up their chatter - farmhand gunners using harvest moon calculations for barrage arcs.

Crude.

Effective.

For seventeen minutes, the calculus held. Knights broke armor, Titan broke mobs, Sentinels broke charges. The Vorstians' jury-rigged hellhounds incinerated a warbike swarm trying to flank the Warhound's Achilles heel. Some anonymous sapper regiment mined their own forward trenches to collapse a greenskin tunnel network.

Then Turgnakh roared.

The Warboss' surviving elites materialized through the smoke - five thousand stormboyz riding screaming rokkits. They crashed into the lines like living meteors, power saws chewing through Sentinel armor and human bone with equal frenzy. Ratzeimer watched a Mortaxian gunner crew disintegrate mid-reload, their heavy bolter's ammo chain cooking off in a spiral of detonations.

"Paladins! Suppression fire on vector-"

Casper was already moving. The white-armored warriors' blessed Plasma gun turned the stormboyz' descent into a meteor shower of burning greenskins. Behind them, the last saurian Sentinels charged upward, chainsword arms shearing through rokkit packs in sprays of promethium and intestines.

It almost worked.

Turgnakh hit the Warhound's left ankle like a cannon round. The Titan staggered, its Vulcan megabolter chewing useless sky as the Warboss' klaw found reactor shielding. Alarms shrieked across every Imperial frequency.

Ratzeimer's fist closed around a dead comms officer's mic. "All armor, convergent fire on my marker! Now!"

The response tore the night.

Vanquishers from a forgotten armored division scored direct hits on Turgnakh's backplates. Sentinel-supported grenadiers emptied entire munition hoppers into the Warboss' joints. The Warhound's stabilizer jets screamed as it regained footing, crushing ninety-four ork vehicles under one reactor-hot foot.

When the smoke cleared, Turgnakh's broken form lay half-buried in a Leman Russ carcass... laughing.

"Teleport aura!" Casper's warning came too late.

The Warhound's stabilizer jets screamed as it regained footing, promethium dripping from its wounded ankle like mechanical blood. Turgnakh's laughter cut through the smoke - a chainsaw grinding on bone.

"Regroup! Regroup you grox-fuckers!" Ratzeimer's vox-bark triggered automated triage protocols across the battlefield.

The Warboss wasn't running.

Turgnakh's surviving stormboyz formed a living battering ram around him, their rokkits carving a crimson arc through the 88th Delphic Raiders' left flank. Ratzeimer's retinal display lit with emergency sigils as the brute's power klaw tore through a humanoid Sentinel's chestplate - not killing it, riding the thrashing machine like some perverse cavalry mount.

"Converge fire! All batteries on that fungal abscess!"

The Warhound's stabilizer jets screamed as it regained footing, promethium dripping from its wounded ankle like mechanical blood. Turgnakh's laughter cut through the smoke - a chainsaw grinding on bone.

The air tasted like burnt wiring and ruptured bowels.

Ratzeimer's latest vox-shout left his throat raw enough to spit blood. He didn't. Waste of moisture. Cadians knew better.

"Regroup, you grox-fuckers! Move!"

The order wasn't for his Cadians. They were already moving - 88th Delphic Raiders scrambling to re-form their shattered flank like good little meatshields. Ratzeimer's retinal display painted emergency sigils across Turgnakh's latest insult: the Warboss straddling a convulsing Sentinel, power klaw buried in its sanctified guts like some perverse rider breaking a steed.

Typical greenskin theater.

"All batteries! Converge on fungal coordinates Delta-Nine!" His bolt pistol barked punctuation, taking a stormboy's eye cluster in explosive staccato.

For three minutes that smelled like overcooked promethium, it worked.

Valhallan ice-gunners froze squig riders mid-leap, their frostbitten fingers still squeezing triggers. Vorstian sappers detonated jury-rigged melta traps under looted battlewagons. The Warhound Titan's turbo-laser carved a glowing scar across the plains, briefly illuminating the real Waaagh!

Then the tide hit.

Not the scattered mobs they'd been gutting for weeks - the true horde. Ratzeimer's auspex flatlined trying to count the stompas. His gut didn't need numbers. The ground shook with their approach, tectonic plates groaning under xenos boots.

"Hold the cordon!" Casper's voice cut through the din, white armor already streaked with greenskin bile.

The Knights answered first. A revenant-pattern Knight walker charged a squiggoth herd, chainblade screaming hymns only the dying could parse. Behind it, the Warhound's Vulcan megabolter chewed through a battlewagon phalanx, spent shells raining hot brass on the Mortaxians below.

There went the flank.

Turgnakh's laughter rolled across the field like a poison fog. Ratzeimer's remaining eye tracked the Warboss bulling through a Basilisk position, his klaw tossing artillery crews like ragdolls.

"Stirpes! Light the fucking path!"

The golden fire came late. A conflagration of golden fire erupted two hundred meters starboard, immolating stormboyz mid-leap. Ratzeimer's nostrils flared at the stench - sanctified accelerants and xenos fat crackling like sacramental incense.

Close enough.

The Warboss came anyway.

Ratzeimer's chainblade found its grip before his conscious mind registered the threat. Bolt shells tore chunks from Turgnakh's bodyguards fungal flesh. Casper's plasma fire scored glowing trenches across the brute's looted chest plates. Bodyguards fell screaming both his and the Turgnakh's, their carapace armor peeling open like ration tins.

Then it was just three.

Him. Casper. The monster.

Turgnakh's shoota barked, the hypersonic round struck like a sledgehammer to the ribs, the golden shield flaring in a burst of sanctified light that left Ratzeimer's teeth buzzing. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the metallic tang of ozone and the Warboss's guttural roar. Turgnakh loomed, a mountain of scarred flesh and iron, his remaining klaw swinging in a murderous arc that gouged trenches in the mud.

Casper moved.

Not with the crude brutality of the Guard, but like a shadow given blade and purpose. His power sword carved silver arcs through the haze of smoke and cordite, severing the Warboss's arm at the elbow. Xenos blood erupted in a geyser, sizzling as it kissed the Paladin's ivory armor, etching black scars into holy ceramite. The stench of burning fungus choked the air—rotten meat and sulfur.

Ratzeimer lunged, his chainblade snarling the old Cadian war-chants. The teeth bit deep into Turgnakh's thigh, grinding against bone that felt too much like plasteel. The Warboss bellowed, not in pain but annoyance, as if swatting a gnat. A backhanded blow sent Ratzeimer sprawling into the wreckage of a Chimera, the impact rattling his bones. He tasted blood, iron-sharp, and spat a curse lost in the din.

Casper didn't pause.

The Paladin's blade danced—a machine's precision wrapped in human flesh. Every parry rang like a funeral bell; every strike was a surgeon's incision. Turgnakh's counterblows cratered the earth, each miss a seismic rumble that shook Ratzeimer's teeth. The Warboss was a force of nature, a hurricane of muscle and rage, yet Casper flowed around him, a ghost in white.

Ratzeimer dragged himself upright, his body a symphony of bruises. Orks surged toward the duel, howling for their master. He met them with bolt pistol and blade, each shot a thunderclap, each swing a butcher's rhythm. A greenskin lunged, tusks gnashing; Ratzeimer jammed the chainblade into its throat, felt the vibration of dying snarls in his wrists. Another fell to his pistol's bark, its skull bursting like overripe fruit.

None reached Casper.

The Paladin's sword was a blur now, a silver storm peeling layers of iron and flesh from the Warboss. Turgnakh swung wildly, overextended—a fraction of a second, a crack in the tempest. Casper struck. The power sword sheared through the remaining arm, then returned in a crescent moon arc, severing the Warboss's head in a spray of blackened blood.

The head hit the mud with a wet thud. The body swayed, a grotesque monument, before collapsing.

Silence.

Then—chaos. The Waaagh's spine snapped. Greenskins faltered, their roars dissolving into panicked shrieks. The tide turned, a river of green breaking against sudden, desperate retreat.

Ratzeimer limped forward, his boots sinking into blood-soaked earth. Casper stood over Turgnakh's corpse, his blade humming, armor streaked with viscera. Around them, the Imperials rallied—Cadian shock troops advancing in disciplined volleys, Stirpes sorcerers igniting the fleeing horde with golden fire, and the ragged remnants of lesser regiments howling as they charged. A Valhallan trooper bayoneted a fleeing Ork, her frostbitten face twisted into something feral.

The vox crackled. Reports poured in—stompas crumbling, Battlewagons toppling. Victory.

Yet as Ratzeimer stared at Casper, at the Paladin's unyielding poise, he felt no triumph. Only the ache of bones, the sting of pride. The Cadians would sing of this day. The Stirpes would etch it in gold. But the Maelstrom still breathed at their backs, hungry, eternal.

Somewhere, another threat would rise.

---

Say what you want about the Saint, but he'd given the Techboys more than they'd ever dreamed possible. What had once been a barely-tolerated tech-cult scratching out an existence in the Underhives of Tethrilyra had become something worthy of respect. No—something worthy of awe.

Here on Badab Primaris, their rise had transformed from whispered speculation into undeniable fact. He wasn't blind to the sneers of the Adeptus Mechanicus. The red-robed bastions of orthodoxy still dismissed the Techboys as barely competent machine-herders. But sneers were hollow when the planet now bristled with defenses designed and overseen by those same so-called lesser engineers.

Fortifications sprawled across the Hive world and its neighboring planets, their outlines shimmering in the midday haze like serrated teeth waiting for prey. The Mechanicus clung to their plasma and volkite arrays, their tech arcana polished by millennia of sacred rituals. The Techboys? They didn't have all that, but macrocannons and lance batteries killed just as well. And thanks to the Standard Template Constructs Michael had recovered, even multi-layered void fields were now within their grasp.

With the Saint's presence, time itself bent. The Omnissiah flowed through him—a force both unfathomable and absolute. Decades' worth of construction had been compressed into weeks, shipyards blooming like iron flowers in orbit while defense arrays sprang from the earth itself. If the Adeptus Mechanicus had taken offense to their ascendance, that was their burden to bear. Badab Primaris would soon stand as one of the most heavily fortified worlds in the Segmentum.

And at its core stood the Imperial Pylon—a towering obelisk carved from a single, radiant shard of Emperor's Tears gemstone. He still remembered the first time he had seen it shimmering in the planet's weak light like something ripped from a primordial legend, humming with an ancient power even Varea barely comprehended. Michael had named it the first of its kind, and already, it was the anchor upon which countless hopes—and fears—had been pinned.

Varea exhaled slowly, wrenching his focus away from the dizzying scope of the Techboys' triumphs. There would be time enough to present a full operational review once he reached the Spire Huron had claimed as his headquarters. Beneath it, in the super-heavy bunker, Ambrosius and his Stirpe Imperialis team tended to the Imperial Pylon, shielding it with wards both technological and psychic.

The mag-car hummed as it decelerated, gliding smoothly toward the Spire's entrance. Varea's robes whispered against the floor as he stepped out, the familiar weight of his augmetic gauntlets grounding him. He moved with precision, his internal systems processing hundreds of operational requests from Techboys across the system. His role wasn't merely one of leadership but of constant synchronization—a living cog in the great machine Michael had set into motion.

The Spire loomed before him, its walls reinforced with adamantium plating that shimmered faintly under the harsh lights. Squads of Imperial Guardsmen flanked the entrance, their rifles gleaming with fresh maintenance. Behind them, a squad of Space Marines in the blue and gold of the Astral Claws stood like sentinels carved from ceramite and wrath.

The scans took twenty agonizing minutes, layers of security protocols unfolding like cogwork petals, each one more invasive than the last. Varea endured it with the patience of a craftsman watching molten metal cool into perfection. The protocols had been his design, after all, and they served one purpose: ensuring no harm could come to the Imperial Pylon beneath the Spire.

At last, he was cleared, the heavy blast doors groaned like ancient beasts awakening, their adamantium frames trembling as they parted. Varea stepped forward, the air thick with incense and the ozone bite of active machinery. His optics flickered, adjusting to the dim light of the chamber beyond, where servo-lanterns cast fractured golden arcs across the vaulted ceiling. Shadows danced like restless spirits, but his gaze locked unerringly on the figure at the room's heart.

Chapter Master Huron stood like a monolith of war, his modified Terminator armor a symphony of brutality and precision. Every plate, etched with hexagrammic wards and battle honors, gleamed under the flickering light. Three meters of gene-forged might, his presence alone seemed to warp gravity—a force honed to annihilate the enemies of mankind. Varea's logic-core stuttered, a rare lapse as his augmetics registered the weight of the man: not just physical, but the crushing aura of a soul tempered in endless war.

"Chapter Master," Varea intoned, his voice a steady binary hum beneath the whir of servos. He inclined his head, the motion sharp, mechanical. "I am prepared to brief you on the defenses of Badab Prime."

Huron's gaze burned like a targeting laser. "Good," he rumbled, "but it is not only to me you report today."

A shiver skittered down Varea's spine—no, not fear. Anticipation. The Machine Spirit within him trilled, a harmonic resonance that sharpened his senses. He followed Huron's gaze to the shadows pooling beneath the lanterns, where the air shimmered with latent energy.

And then he stepped forward.

Michael emerged like a revelation, the shadows peeling back as if bowing to his presence. Inquisitor Shiani lingered at his flank, her face unreadable, but Varea's optics barely registered her. All he saw was him: the chosen one, the living conduit of the Omnissiah. The air itself seemed to vibrate with the song of the Machine God, a chorus only Varea's enhancements could parse—a symphony of code and light that swelled in Michael's proximity.

"It is good to see you again, Varea," Michael said, his voice a warm counterpoint to Huron's frost. He moved with deliberate calm, his robes brushing the floor like a whispered prophecy.

"My lord," Varea breathed, bowing deeper this time, his joints whirring in reverence. The title felt inadequate. Prophet. Herald. Divine.

Michael chuckled, the sound rich and disarmingly human. "No need for formalities. We stand among friends." He settled into a seat at the massive strategium table, its surface a holographic tapestry of Badab's star fortresses. "You look… energized."

Varea straightened, his optics narrowing. "I thought you were on Minas Tirith." The words slipped out sharper than intended—a flicker of the zealot beneath the logic. An entire Segmentum away, according to last week's reports. Yet here he stood, as inevitable as entropy.

"It is time," Michael replied, his grin fading into something darker, hungrier. "Three years I've lingered at the edge of the Ultima Segmentum, waiting. But the fulcrum approaches." He leaned forward, the holograms casting eerie light across his face. "The Ruinous Powers will choke on ash before this ends."

Varea's neural links flared. Ash. The word echoed through him, a litany. Ash from the forges that had birthed the Techboys' empire. Ash from the pyres of their enemies. He saw it then—the future Michael had promised them, written in fire and steel.

"We are to prepare for assault?" Varea asked, his voice steady despite the storm in his core. "The orbital grids are at 87% efficiency. Two more defense platforms could—"

"Not yet." Michael's voice cut through the tactical hololith's hum, calm as a blade resting against a throat. The projection flickered crimson over his sharp features. "Let the enemy spend their fury unraveling Ambrosius's walls. Sorcery burns, and the Stripe Imperialis does not yield to flame." His lips curved, not in warmth, but in the predatory satisfaction of a forge-master watching molten alloy pour into its mold. "When their arrogance cracks… we crush them."

Varea's optic implants whirred faintly as he nodded. "As the Machine God wills. When their ships stain the void, our defenses will scour their filth from orbit. Xenos. Mutants. Heretics." The words tasted like liturgy, like the first prayers he'd whispered over gutted generators in the Underhive's stinking dark. Back when the Techboys scavenged like rats. Now they forged. Now they bled the unworthy. "None will tread upon Badab while your light guides us, Domine."

Michael's smile softened, but only just. A crack in armor, there and gone. "Your faith is a weapon, Varea. Sharper than any blade in this war." He stepped closer, the scent of ozone and sacred oils clinging to him, and Varea's breath hitched as the chamber's lumens brightened—subtle, alive, as though the ship's spirit leaned in to listen. "But walk me through the Grey Sentinels. The Foundries of Badab Prime… they're ready?"

Pride swelled in Varea's chest. Four operational. Four more in seven solar cycles. The first batch within forty-eight hours. Data streamed behind his eyes, but he forced the report through human lips. Flesh first, then steel. A relic of the exile, when the Adeptus Mechanicus had spat them out for daring to bend. To evolve. "Production meets projected thresholds. All Sentinels will remain system-bound, per your command. The Maelstrom's borders will hold."

"And the forge-ships?"

"Eight mobile foundries, two orbital sanctums." Varea's jaw tightened. "Three additional vessels and another sanctum by month's end, but…" He hesitated, the admission bitter as promethium ash. "Supply lines falter. Ork raids gut our convoys. Dark Eldar harriers pick the bones."

Michael's gaze hardened "Then we feed the forges better." The lumens pulsed, sharp and sudden, and the hololith spat static—a chorus of machine-spirits hissing approval. "I did not cross the hells of the Warp to let petty warlords starve what we've built. Resources will come. Break your quotas."

Varea's pulse stuttered. He speaks, and the universe bends. How many times had he witnessed it? Ships materializing from cosmic wreckage. Reactors flaring to life under dead hands. The Techboys' empire, clawed from ruin, brick by sacred brick. "By your will," he rasped.

Huron's voice was like iron breaking against stone—unyielding and relentless. "A month past, Casper broke Turgnakh's Waaagh on Neryx, but Mung's horde still festers. Twelve systems bleed. My fleets are stretched thinner than vapor." His scarred face flickered in the hololith, the gleam of his cybernetic eye cold and unsympathetic. "We need your touch, Michael. Not tomorrow. Now."

Michael, as always, was calm. Unshakable. "And you shall have it," he promised without hesitation. "But they'll have to wait a few days."

Huron's brows drew together, dark and dangerous. "Why?"

"I need to kill a Necron Tomb World." Michael said it like he was discussing the weather, as though wiping out a planet of ancient, deathless horrors was just another chore on his list.

The Chapter Master's growl reverberated through the room. "I can't spare enough forces for this."

"You won't need to." Michael's tone was as steady as a perfectly calibrated cog. "I'll attack it on my own."

On my own. The words clanged in Varea's mind like a warning klaxon. His augmetic gauntlets flexed instinctively, servos whirring in protest. "My Lord, at least permit me to detach a force of my own Techboys," he pleaded, his voice edged with urgency.

Michael's eyes softened as he turned to him. "Varea, your concern is appreciated." His smile was infuriatingly confident, broad and sincere. "But while it is dangerous, there's nothing on that Tomb World capable of harming me. Anyone I bring along will only be a liability. I can't afford to shatter their Phalanxes and protect anyone else at the same time."

Varea's mind rebelled against the logic. Tomb Worlds were graveyards filled with abominations of twisted metal and ancient hatred, their machine spirits ancient and foul. To face them alone—well, even the Omnissiah's blessings had their limits.

Huron's voice sliced through the silence. "Why are you attacking it? Is it about to slaughter an Imperial world?"

Michael's expression turned contemplative. "No. From what I've glimpsed in my visions, they've only just reawakened. Their world stands in the ruins of a shattered planet, and the system is completely devoid of other life."

"Then why waste your time?" Huron demanded, disbelief lacing his words.

"Because I need something to convince the Mechanicus that I haven't sent them on a fool's errand." Michael's gaze hardened. "And the STC database the Necrons have taken as a trophy will suffice."

STC database. Varea's breath hitched. The words carried a weight beyond precious metals, beyond sacred relics. They were the beating heart of technology, the foundation upon which the Imperium had been built.

Huron's voice sharpened. "How do you know of this STC database? We'd have known if there was any such thing in this zone."

"It's in the Hyrion system," Michael explained, his tone patient but unyielding. "Nobody goes there, thinking it's haunted—and technically, they're right. Necrons and whatnot." He shrugged like that was just a minor inconvenience. "But I'm certain because all STCs have specific trackers built into them by their creators."

Varea's fingers twitched, the desire to verify Michael's claim burning through his circuits. But he held his tongue. Michael was rarely wrong about these things.

Michael continued, "When I destroyed Martin Whitby on Rho-1223, I was granted a map of all the STCs his megacorporation had built until late M25."

"That's wonderful news!" Huron exclaimed, his voice thick with newfound hope. "This could change the face of the galaxy."

Michael's smile was thin, edged with pragmatism. "Not exactly. Most of them are destroyed or lost somewhere their trackers don't function. But this one? It's within reach. And we're fortunate the Necrons consider it a mere bauble—a trophy from when they exterminated the colony that once used it." Michael's words hung in the air like a challenge to the universe. "I intend to finish the work the Eldar started when they shattered the planet back in M26 and avenge the fallen colonists." His expression darkened, the weight of ancient history flickering behind his eyes.

Varea's breath hitched, logic colliding with loyalty in his mind. His thoughts raced through probabilities, the raw mathematics of warfare clashing with his deeply ingrained belief that the Omnissiah had chosen Michael as His vessel. The Machine Spirit always sang louder in Michael's presence. And yet, this plan was madness, the kind that should only be whispered in darkened assembly halls where no rational cog-priest could hear it.

He couldn't argue with the results, though. Under Michael's guidance, the Techboys had grown from exiled remnants into a burgeoning powerhouse within the Underhive. They weren't the Adeptus Mechanicus—not by a long shot—but they were becoming something formidable in their own right. And all of it hinged on Michael's enigmatic, Omnissiah-blessed touch.

"Very well," Huron finally said, his voice carrying the weight of reluctant acceptance. The Astartes Warmaster's scarred face remained grim, but there was a spark of admiration in his eyes. "But if you die, I swear by the Throne I will drag you back from whatever afterlife the Emperor has planned for you and force you to hold your end of the bargain."

Michael laughed, the sound warm and effortless. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Varea clenched his fists as Michael's gaze hardened with purpose. "I'll need you to start Phase Retribution."

Huron folded his arms across his chest, his expression skeptical. "I can do it, but I'm still new to the position of Warmaster. Even with all the purges and Lady Shiani wiping out the traitors within our ranks, not many will be happy with deep strikes into the Maelstrom. Not when the fires of rebellion are still burning in our backyard."

"Don't use your regular forces," Michael said without missing a beat. "Deploy the Sons of the Lion as task forces. I've blessed nearly a thousand melta torpedoes. A few of those will be enough to set entire corrupted worlds ablaze. With your warp portals, you can insert ground forces to shatter void shield projectors, then launch the melta warheads and retreat before they know what hit them."

Varea's heart skipped. Melta torpedoes? Blessed by Michael? The implications rattled through his circuits like a surge of raw data. Michael's blessings always yielded results that defied conventional logic. If those torpedoes were anything like the other miracles he'd conjured, entire heretic worlds would be reduced to ash.

Huron's eyes narrowed. "The Sons of the Lion agreed to this?"

Michael's smile was sly. "They insisted when they realized the synergy between the Imperial Pylon and your warp capabilities."

Of course, they did, Varea thought. The Sons of the Lion were pragmatic to the bone—ruthless when it came to seizing any tactical advantage.

Huron grunted, acknowledging the point. "Very well. And how are we supposed to deal with the storm you warned us about? The one that will be unleashed the moment you set foot into the Maelstrom?"

"You're not the only one who has synergy with the Pylon." Michael gestured toward Lady Shiani, the petite Inquisitor standing off to the side with a steely glint in her eyes. "Her abilities will be enhanced to the point where her detection skills will span the entire Maelstrom. She'll have greater detail than ever before, allowing you to move your forces quickly to counter any traps or fires the enemy tries to spark."

Huron's voice cut in, crisp and unyielding as if reciting a sacred litany. "If you're right about this," he declared, "the Parasites and their followers are in for a bad day." His words held a certain finality, a weight that pressed upon Varea's thoughts like a thousand tons of adamantium.

"Indeed, they definitively will," Michael continued, his tone pragmatic but edged with a hint of foreboding. "But mark my words—things will only grow worse before they ever begin to improve."

Huron's expression darkened further, the corners of his mouth tightening as he asked, "What do you mean?"

Michael's eyes narrowed, and his voice took on a measured cadence as if reciting a prophecy from the depths of the Warp. "I mean that these three years—despite all that has transpired, despite the countless worlds lost and the staggering death toll—have merely been a preparation for this moment. We now stand at the cusp of the endgame. Their plans are nearly ripe for harvest, and with my presence and the cumulative force of our preparations, they will hurl everything they have against us."

Varea felt a shiver of both dread and exhilaration at the audacity of it all. His mind, forever teetering between the rigid logic of circuitry and the ungovernable chaos of human emotion, noted wryly, It appears the enemy's own hubris may be their undoing, if only we can harness it.

"Let them come," Huron growled, his voice vibrating with raw, predatory resolve. "Between my own abilities, Ambrosius' support with the pylon, and Shiani's uncanny capacity for detection, we will meet them head-on, wherever they dare fight, and we will do so with overwhelming power. Every plan they've devised will crumble beneath our might."

Michael's tone turned cautious, a subtle warning beneath his confident veneer. "It won't be as easy as you think. They possess weapons of considerable lethality—tools that can bring us to our knees if we are not vigilant."

"What kind of weapons?" Huron demanded, his brow furrowing as if trying to physically extract the answer from the air.

"Even I am not privy to all their secrets," Michael admitted, his voice measured and grim, "but there is one instrument I am aware of that they can wield with devastating effect. And that weapon, I fear, is you."

A heavy silence followed. Shiani tensed visibly, her eyes narrowing in alarm. "How?" she managed, the question trembling on her lips.

Michael's reply was both clinical and portentous. "You understand that time is not a linear continuum, especially within the roiling chaos of the Warp. Echoes of possibility can be drawn from its torrents. There exists a potential Daemon Prince of the Maelstrom, one that calls itself the Prince of Broken Gates and he has drawn from the depths of the warp a reflection, a dark mirror, if you will, of you. This creature has pledged itself to the parasites, and it will use your likeness, your very name, to issue orders in a counterfeit voice, to sow dissent and to lead the unwary away from the Emperor's light."

The revelation struck Varea like a dissonant chord. His mind raced—was it possible that a twisted echo of a man he had once trusted could be weaponized against the Imperium itself? "And how do you propose we counter this... doppelgänger of deception?" Shiani asked, her tone steely despite the underlying tremor.

Michael's gaze swept over them, his eyes alight with a fierce determination. "Huron must remain in the field, ever-present, to command the true armies of our cause. You, must never give orders directly. Instead, assemble a cadre of trusted lieutenants who will issue commands in your stead. Utilize the Emperor's Tarot to generate undecipherable passwords—arcane keys that confirm authority. All orders, his and those spoken in his name, must be authenticated by the presence of an Emperor's Tears Gem. And further—I have secured a loan of three Custodes to escort every messenger. Without their vigilant oversight, any miscommunication might prove fatal, and the messenger would be dispatched without hesitation."

Varea allowed himself a moment to absorb the intricate plan, his thoughts laced with the quiet, dry humor that was his refuge. Ah, yes, trust must be verified by gemstones and Custodes. What a charmingly archaic solution for a modern problem. Yet beneath that dry humor lay an unyielding resolve—a determination forged in the crucible of endless war and tempered by the certainty of Michael's enigmatic vision.

Shiani braced herself against the hololith's edge, her knuckles pale as bleached bone. "This butchers our logistics," she said, voice fraying like a overstressed cable. "One misstep, and we're feeding entire regiments into a woodchipper."

Michael leaned over the table, the hololith's azure glow painting his silhouette in fractured light. No crown, no relics—just a man who moved like the war room itself bent around him. "The Prince wants you dead first, Huron," he said, matter-of-fact as a surgeon stating cause of death. "You're the poster boy for this crusade. Kill you, and half the Segmentum loses faith in sunrise."

Huron's grin was a jagged thing. "I've survived daemons, warlords, and Terra's tax auditors. Let the Prince try."

"You survived because you got lucky," Michael said, blunt as a hammer. Michael corrected, that strange, casual cadence bleeding through—words too smooth, too archaic for the Gothic growl of Imperial High Command. "I have devised contingencies: five cadres of Stirpe Imperialis will remain at your side, along with twenty of my own Witch Hunters—the Malleus Maleficarum, if you will humor the title. Of the three Custodes assigned, two will stay with you at all times, while the third rotates with the messengers. I, for my part, will remain as mobile as my power permits, though I cannot be everywhere at once."

Varea allowed a wry smile to flicker across his features as he processed Michael's words. In his inner monologue, he mused that bureaucratic infighting and petty squabbles among Imperial officers were a constant irritation—a veritable cesspool of envy and self-interest. Yet, for all his cynicism, he understood that Michael's orders were final. "I see, so I must be careful… perhaps even hide when necessary," Huron remarked, echoing a sentiment that Varea found both absurd and tragically inevitable.

Michael's reply was brisk, his tone betraying no sentiment beyond the necessary command: "I would never offend you by suggesting that, Huron. By your very nature, you must be at the frontlines. I know how much the bureaucratic side of being a Warmaster grates on you, but remember this when you engage: to die for the Emperor is glory; to live for Him is sacrifice. Let not the warrior seek death, but rather preserve those he guards. The living may yet serve; the dead can only inspire."

There was a pause, a measured silence in which Varea could almost hear the hum of his own mechanical heart. "I know, Michael, death is lighter than a feather," Huron sighed, a grim chuckle lacing his voice. "I will try to be careful, but the Xenos and heretics shall know my wrath on the field of battle."

Michael's tone softened into something resembling paternal approval. "That is all I can ask. Our fate lies only with the Emperor, and in His Hands we trust our future. But I bring not only dire warnings. In four days, you will open two pairs of Warp Portals between Badab and Minas Tirith—one on each planar side—to usher in forty Paladin Legions, two hundred million of the Grey Sentinel battle automatons, and a fleet that includes three forge ships plus one Palatine Phoenix-class battleship freshly emerged from the orbital forges of Minas Tirith. Segmentum Command has graciously allocated these assets to our effort."

Pride pulsed through Varea's chest, a potent mix of devotion and vindication. His Techboys had calibrated the plasma cores on that warship, their steady hands etching sacred warding sigils into its hull as they sang binary hymns in reverence. The Machine Spirit had answered their efforts, thrumming in perfect harmony. Even now, thinking about it filled him with an almost feral satisfaction—a reminder that against all odds, his people had risen from the ashes of exile to carve out a technological empire in the shadows of the Hive.

But beneath the pride simmered a gnawing ache, born from the sheer enormity of it all: the relentless churn of war machines, the vastness of the void, the chaotic choreography of fleets clashing like tidal waves against an indifferent shore. His mind conjured images of plasma beams ripping through the darkness, hulls splintering under precision strikes, and the unyielding discipline of Michael's tactical brilliance reigning supreme. Awe mingled with simmering resentment. The scale was monstrous—lives, destinies, entire worlds—and yet here they were, trying to hold it all together with faith and ingenuity.

Michael's voice broke through his thoughts, low but commanding, as if even the void strained to listen. "I'll need to leave soon," he said, his expression grim. "I've managed to hide from the eyes of the Parasites for now, but with their attention so focused here, that won't last. I need to get as much done as I can before they realize I'm here to personally engage in this war."

Varea's fingers twitched at his sides, mind already cataloging the tasks that needed to be accelerated, contingency plans drafted, and resources reallocated. The thought of Michael's departure gnawed at him like rust on sacred circuitry. The Omnissiah's chosen shouldn't be forced to hide; he should command the battlefield openly, the Machine Spirit singing in triumph.

Huron pushed back from the table, his crimson gauntlet catching the light as he stood. "Then I suppose I need to start organizing my staff to be prepared for when my echo begins to show its ugly face." His voice was rough, edged with the arrogance typical of an Astartes Chapter Master.

"I'll help with that," Michael said, already moving toward the exit. "I've figured out a trick that will let you share your Warp Portal-generating ability with others—limited, but it'll be enough to make a difference. Oh, and Huron?" He paused, golden eyes glinting. "Scrap your usual playbook. This echo is you. It'll predict your every move."

A flicker of annoyance crossed Huron's face. "Then I'll need to incorporate tactics from mortals and other Astartes." His disdain for non-Astartes palpable in his voice. "Once again, you were correct in your predictions."

"Burden of the job," Michael said, pushing off the table. The motion was too casual, too archaic, for a saint. Varea couldn't help the smile tugging at his lips. The man had a way of making even grim realities seem like a game he was destined to win. Michael turned, his gaze locking onto Varea. "Varea—with me."

"Very well." Varea rose, inclining his head toward Lady Shiani and Lord Huron. "Lady Shiani. Lord Huron."

The bluish-white glow of Michael's teleportation wrapped around Varea, warm and crackling like the first pulse of a newly awakened plasma core. The familiar hum buzzed against his skin, more hymn than sound, and for a heartbeat, it drowned out every concern tangled in his mind. Then the forge materialized around them, vast and alive, its symphony of grinding gears and hissing steam as sacred to him as any prayer whispered in binary code. The air here was a living thing—thick with the stench of scorched metal, sacred oils, and the acrid tang of overburdened power coils.

Sparks rained from the vaulted ceiling like falling stars, hissing as they died against the grime-coated floor. where his Techboys labored, their hands steady despite the crushing weight of innovation and expectation. Binary chants echoed through the cavernous space, harmonizing with the forge's ancient rhythms. Varea's augmetic eye flickered, parsing the chaos into something sacred. His chaos. His cathedral of gears and fire.

Michael's boots struck the ground with a thunderclap finality, his coat swirling like a stormcloud in the forge's hellish glow. He didn't pause to admire the symphony of industry—the way the molten plasteel rivers shimmered crimson, or the skeletal frames of warships looming like titans in the smoke. His gaze cut straight to Varea, golden and unyielding. "Where are we with Project Archimedes?"

Varea's pride flared despite the tension coiled in his chest. His Techboys had pushed past limits even the Adeptus Mechanicus would've balked at. "We've completed the primary assembly and initiated the first power tests. The results were... promising," he said carefully.

Michael's gaze didn't waver. "Good. You'll start deployment immediately."

The words hit like a servo hammer to Varea's chest. His instincts balked, his mind already calculating the risks. "It needs further testing," he protested, voice taut. "There are variables we haven't accounted for—"

"We don't have the time," Michael cut him off, his tone sharpened with urgency. "Start preparing the ships. I'll give you the coordinates. If we're lucky, we'll have a few months to deploy it properly."

A cold weight settled in Varea's gut. He wasn't one to flinch at risk, but this wasn't just dangerous—it bordered on madness. "It's rushed," he said, voice low but firm. "And the technology... it verges on heretical. If the Mechanicus finds out, they'll hunt us down, whether we stand under your aegis or not."

Michael's eyes gleamed with unyielding conviction. "They'll be too busy celebrating the recovery of the STC I'm about to secure." His voice was quiet, resolute. "Archimedes is a shadow. Unless your people start babbling to the wrong magos…"

Varea bristled, his loyalty immediate. "None of my fellow Forge Masters would speak to the Mechanicus." He couldn't let Michael doubt the loyalty of the Techboys. "But subtle or not, the risk still exists."

"There's only one Mechanicus Archmagos capable of recognizing what we're doing," Michael said, his voice confident in that infuriating way that made it sound like he'd already won this particular gamble. "And I know for a fact he's on the other side of the galaxy right now."

Varea exhaled, tension grinding through him like rust on sacred gears. It was reckless. Bold. But the Omnissiah rewarded those who dared to forge new paths.

"Proceed with caution," Michael added, his voice softening. " "And if you smell even a whiff of discovery, contact Ambrosius. I'll be at your side as soon as I can."

The promise was a weight lifted from Varea's shoulders, but it didn't ease the gravity of what they were about to unleash. "As the Omnissiah wills," Varea murmured, sketching the cog across his chest. The gesture felt hollow, but ritual mattered. It kept the doubts caged.

Turning, he moved deeper into the forge, where heat and light wrapped around him like absolution. His Techboys glanced up as he passed, their faces illuminated by the glow of plasma furnaces and their eyes filled with the fierce determination he'd cultivated in them. He would not falter now. The Omnissiah's will was clear, and through Michael's guidance, they had been chosen to shape the future.

With every step, Varea's resolve hardened. They were about to unleash a piece of technology that would reshape this corner of the galaxy—and by the Machine God, they would see it through.

---

The universe had a way of reminding even the most capable that survival was rarely an act of will alone. Michael knew this better than most, standing on the barren chalk-white surface of FX-00213's desolate moon. The harsh, airless expanse stretched out under his boots like a scene from a fevered nightmare—a wasteland of pale stone and fractured craters illuminated by the cold light of distant stars. No winds stirred here. No life lingered to mark its existence. Only the ominous shadow of the asteroid field dominated the skyline, a grim memorial to ancient violence.

The field shimmered in the void, thousands of jagged rocks tumbling in silent orbit, remnants of a world that had once known the touch of humanity. M.26 had claimed it as a colony of man, a beacon of civilization until the Necron tomb complexes hidden within the planet's mantle had awoken. What followed had been a massacre without mercy, the cold efficiency of xenos machines dismantling the colony's defenses and lives alike. Their prize had been the priceless STC database—a relic of human ingenuity so potent that entire worlds would burn for it.

The Aeldari of that time, arrogant in their knowledge and power, had cracked the planet open in an act of desperation. But arrogance rarely accounted for thoroughness. The Necron Tomb Complex had survived, slumbering through the ages, its cryptic menace waiting. And now Michael was here, knowingly poised to awaken that ancient nightmare.

He inhaled sharply—not for breath, as his augmented body required none in this vacuum—but for focus. His senses stretched outward, weaving through the electromagnetic spectrum, brushing against the faint warpscape echo lingering across the moon's surface. Light, heat, magnetic fields—all information cascaded through him in streams so vast that most minds would drown in the torrent. He stood on the precipice of perception, both awed and burdened by the immensity of it.

Far beyond the visible spectrum, in the depths of the void, he could feel the faint stirrings of the Necron tomb. Dormant now. But his presence would not go unnoticed for long. He had little doubt that the tomb's Cryptek—or worse, its Pharaon overlord—would rise in defense. And if they unleashed a C'tan Shard, escape would be his only option.

That grim thought brought a flicker of amusement to his lips. Luck, as far as the galaxy was concerned, was a myth. Survival demanded preparation. And Michael was nothing if not prepared.

He reached across the moon with psychokinetic precision, shaping its structure in infinitesimal ways. Subtle alterations—fractured stones realigned, microscopic layers of dust compacted—disguised the immense ritual channels he was preparing. Billions of [MP] flowed from him into pre-prepared conduits, ancient pathways designed to funnel energy with terrifying efficiency. The runic patterns of the Old Ones' design whispered their ancient secrets to him, and he bent those whispers to his will.

At the same time, his hands moved with practiced ease, scattering enchanted artifacts drawn from his Inventory across the landscape. Each item, etched with potent sigils and infused with energies beyond mortal comprehension, formed part of the ritual's complex lattice. Their presence was masked, hidden even from the most sensitive auspex readings. Should disaster strike, these objects would be sacrificed to unleash destruction on a scale that even Necron resilience might not withstand.

Destruction is always a certainty, Michael thought grimly. Survival is the challenge.

The Mechanicus had demanded an STC database, and he'd promised it to them. But survival came first. If the tomb complex proved too dangerous to secure, he would obliterate it and construct a convincing counterfeit. His reputation would remain intact, and the Tech-Priests would have their prize. Trust, after all, was a currency more valuable than gold—one he could ill afford to squander.

He pushed down the gnawing unease that always accompanied such duplicity. The Imperium's endless zealotry gnawed at his resolve, its rigid dogma demanding conformity and sacrifice. He despised their blindness, their inability to see past ritual and fervor. And yet... he was no stranger to necessity. If he could use their beliefs to reshape this stagnant, brutal empire into something capable of healing rather than endless self-destruction, then so be it.

Control the myth, he reminded himself. Or the myth will control you.

As the last enchanted artifact locked into place, Michael allowed himself a brief pause. His golden eyes scanned the landscape, seeing not just the physical but the shimmering outlines of energy rippling through the ritual lattice. It was a thing of beauty and horror, raw power harnessed by will alone. A shiver ran through him, not of fear, but of awe. In moments like this, he could almost understand why the Imperials mistook him for divine.

Almost.

"I hope you're ready," he muttered to the silent tomb complex beyond the asteroid field. "Because I sure as hell am not."

In that moment, the void itself shuddered—not in the clamor of physical tremors but in an imperceptible, yet unmistakable, stirring of ancient energies. It was as if the very soul of that Necron relic, long dormant beneath layers of cosmic dust and stone, had awakened a secret subroutine: a shift in its arcane energy signature, subtle as a whisper yet profound as a decree from the Emperor himself. Michael's eyes, which shone with the muted gold of a man remade by the crucible of both time and technology, narrowed as a ghostly, green light emerged from the darkness—a gaze, or perhaps an unseen witness, sliding silently through the gloom.

Though the Necrons were bereft of true psychic presence, their anti-psyker defenses—the cold, unyielding void of Null Field Matrices and the spectral echoes of long-forgotten runes—spoke directly to his heightened senses. He could perceive the subtle shifts in electromagnetic hues and the faint pulses of emotion resonating across the cosmos. He felt it then—the surge of titanic power within the tomb's core, as brilliant and relentless as a supernova. That radiance, a torrent of green energy coursing through fissures in rock and metal alike, promised the destructive potential of a hundred Hive Worlds.

And in that awe-struck moment, Michael knew he had been noticed. The tomb, with its labyrinthine defenses and ancient, relentless will, had sensed the psychic thread he had been weaving subtly through the darkness of a shattered moon. His senses warned him with an almost painful clarity that his presence was no longer concealed.

He reached for Starway, that delicate lattice of psychic energy that bent space like a lover's whisper. For four years, it had carried him through the unseen folds of the cosmos, a thief slipping through cracks in the dark. For a heartbeat, he was one with the void, a transient wraith borne on the currents of the Warp. Yet this time, the tomb bit back. Reality recoiled, snapping like a bowstring, hurling him backward. He crashed into the void two hundred kilometers from the complex, naked but unharmed, his regeneration stitching flesh and bone faster than pain could follow

From the untrained eye, the tomb complex might appear a mere fragment of ancient rock—an inert husk adrift in an endless sea of asteroids. Yet he saw more: beneath the thick veneer of cosmic dust lay a living edifice of necrodermis, its inner workings aglow with eerie green fissures that danced like the phantoms of lost souls. To him, the energy surging within was as overwhelming as the first light of dawn after an Aeon-long night, the combined might of a hundred worlds concentrated in a single, pulsating monument of forgotten power.

The Necrons did not gloat. They unmade.

In the silence that followed, torrents of emerald energy and whips of charged particles lashed out from the tomb, striking him with a ferocity that might have shattered a battlecruiser. His defenses—wards and barriers skills—suffered grievous blows as the Necron technology, ancient and inexorable, tore through them as though they were naught but gossamer. His body—perfect, a mockery of the divine—flared and burned. For a heartbeat, he was ash. Then he was whole again, the Resilience of the Seas thrumming in his veins, salt and storm and the relentless pull of tides.

Alive. Again. Always.

He laughed, the sound swallowed by the void. Laughter was armor here, the last refuge of a man who refused to kneel. With a thought, he conjured fire—not the crude pyrotechnics of promethium, but a spear of annihilating white, forged from the edge of his soul, a lance of white fire as vast as a hab-block and imbued with the power to raze continents. But his assault, however mighty, met a barrier: a quantum shield array, delicate yet resolute, flared into being with but a flicker of energy, halting his fiery spear in its relentless advance.

Michael regarded the quantum shields with a wry, almost rueful amusement. "Quantum shields. Of course."

He quickly calculated that breaking through this shield would require more time and sacrifice than the present moment allowed. He would need to draw near, to engage the enemy up close and personal.

"Let's dance," he whispered, and the void did not disagree.

In response, the darkness erupted into a tumult of green torrents and radiant pulses—star-fire that leapt like the vengeful hand of a long-forgotten god. The tomb complex, ancient and immovable, stirred to life with the relentless precision of a machine born of millennia of war. Its defenses, relics of a civilization whose cold logic had been honed over untold ages, surged forth with an unyielding fury.

Michael danced through them, a comet threading a storm. His body, absorbed and dissipated the furious onslaught. He felt his flesh dissolve into ephemeral ash and reconstitute itself with each near-fatal impact, a testament to his miraculous regeneration. Each time the tide of destruction threatened to engulf him entirely, he emerged from the abyss a fraction mightier.

At one moment, as he attempted to speed past the shimmering quantum barrier, the full force of the Necron technology met him head-on. The shield flared, and with a collision of kinetic fury, he was hurled back—a comet thrown from its course. The shields flared as he struck them, an insect dashed against glass. He laughed, the sound soundless, bitter. Necron arrogance was a mirror, and in it, he saw the Imperium's face. We are all prisoners of our hungers.

There was one inherent weakness in the shield's design. For no barrier, however formidable, could hope to be utterly impervious; it must, by its very nature, yield passages for its own offensive bursts. So, he would advance at a slower pace.

Through dozens of onslaughts—torrents of emerald gauss fire and blinding star pulses that rained like the wrath of a forsaken sun—he pressed forward. The fields of energy battered him, each strike a note in the cacophonous symphony of war, yet he emerged seemingly unscathed. His clothes, if they had ever mattered, were of little concern; in this savage theater of annihilation, modesty was but an idle luxury. Both Necron and man alike cared only for the destruction of their foes

At last, he broke free of the shield's immediate influence and surged toward the floating tomb complex. Its massive, ancient rock—scarred with countless fissures aglow with eerie green luminescence—seemed almost to breathe with a terrible, dormant power. With every passing moment, flashes of viridian heralded the arrival of Necron units: waves of silver and green, a living tide of scarabs and the grim countenance of Gloom Prisms that sought to drain his strength as though it were the very lifeblood of a fading star.

Michael allowed himself a fleeting, almost imperceptible roll of the eyes—recalling his earlier days when he had just come to this universe, - when he had been less equipped to contend with the arcane forces arrayed against him. He remembered then the wisdom of preparing for the myriad anti-psyker devices that the enemy wielded. Though the vast Null Field Matrix remained beyond his current grasp, the more modest gloom prisms were not beyond his reach.

The swarm came for him.

Scarabs—silver and emerald, a tide of clicking, devouring hunger. Among them, Gloom Prisms pulsed, leeching the Warp's breath from his lungs. He almost smiled. The Necrons, for all their timeless cruelty, were predictable. They thought in equations, in absolutes. They did not understand the human gift for spite.

In response to the swarm, two hundred thirty-five short spears materialized, silvery and slim, with skills and effects that the Mechanicus would raze entire worlds to possess, created to exploit the one weakness of Warp suppressing technology, enchanted items and things already materialized still functioned even inside Null Fields. Aiel Needles, he called these enchanted items, a private joke for a man who missed irony. They streaked silent, precise, finding the Prisms' hearts. Glass shattered. Green light dimmed.

A seething tide of scarabs closed in around him, a living storm of clicking metal and ancient purpose. In that moment, a sphere of incandescent flame—hot and fierce as the inner furnace of a dying star—erupted about Michael, consuming the chittering swarm in a burst of heat and light that scattered their forms like so many cinders on a cold wind, their reclamation protocols outrun by annihilation. For a moment, the void held its breath. Then Michael fell like a comet, striking the tomb complex with the weight of a god's disdain, with an impact that rent the rock covering the Necrodermis in a hundred-meter radius, Michael's approach stripped away the layers of time and neglect that shrouded the Tomb World

Before him rose a wall of viridian energy—a lattice of crackling lightning arcs and annihilator beams wrought by machinery of a forgotten age. He raised his shield, a shimmering barrier of light wrought by his refined warp energy, halting the beams in their relentless advance. Though these weapons could fell mighty tanks and Knights, they were as nothing to his defenses.

Firestorms followed. They always did.

With but a thought, he summoned a firestorm that spread across the barren landscape like a wrathful tide. The landscape melted, rivers of molten necrodermis swallowing warriors and Doomsday Arks alike. The tempest melted through the ranks of the Necron warriors and shattered the feeble arcs of Doomsday weaponry, compelling even the monolithic defenders to recoil and retreat into the protective embrace of their inner sanctuaries.

The tomb world replied by ejecting the Necrodermis plate he was standing on was hurled outwards, a sacrifice to the storm of anti-starship weaponry that now focused upon him, their fury a hymn of green fire. He burned. He burned. Ash and ember, ash and ember, as he endured the inferno, burned to ashes time and again—each second a dozen fleeting deaths—his flesh reformed with an almost preternatural speed, each return from the brink granting him new strength

A forcefield gripped him, invisible chains binding him to the storm's heart. Gauss beams carved his flesh. Particle whips flayed his soul. Starfire pulses scorched the memory of his name. And still, he laughed. A soundless, bitter thing. The Necrons did not understand laughter. They had forgotten the taste of defiance.

Summoning the depths of his power, he willed himself to break through. These barriers, formidable though they were, were not true quantum shields—mere constructs that he could, with a determined thrust of energy, power through. Yet as he pressed on, he felt his strength begin to wane, as if the very energy that animated him struggled to maintain its hold beyond the confines of his body.

Beyond the field, scarabs gathered again, Gloom Prisms clutched like offerings to a dead god. His vast power sputtered, the Warp's breath stifled. He felt their intent, their cold, calculating logic, the ancient, unblinking gaze of a machine intelligence.

Predictable, he thought

He gave a silent snort. The Necron anti-starship weapons battered him, a furious tempest of energy, a storm of unimaginable power focused upon him. He would not die. Not from this. And since pain was now a mere abstraction, a ghost of sensation, he could afford to wait, to endure, to bide his time. He could wait for his Aiel needles to return. The Necrons likely considered them one-use weapons, exquisitely crafted but ultimately expendable but the truth was that he had always despised those one-use items as trivial and he sure as hell would not create such masterpieces only to be used once, to be discarded like broken toys.

Moments later, as if in silent accord with fate, hundreds of silver streaks descended.

Silver streaked the dark.

His needles returned, his Aiel Needles, swift and sure as regret. They pierced the Prisms, glass shattering in silent crescendo, their nullifying influence waning, like stars fading at dawn, their light extinguished by the encroaching day. The weakening of the field was enough. Michael surged forward and bathed in a wash of brilliant radiation—a light so fierce that it would have seared the retinas of any lesser soul—he broke through the barrier. He flew forward, casually shattering the sound barrier in the empty void of space, where the concept of sound was but a faint echo. Yet even in that vast emptiness, he felt the tiny impacts of micro meteorites and cosmic dust against his resilient, adamantine skin—a constant reminder of the universe's indifferent chaos.

Michael surged toward the Necron spires that loomed like the jagged teeth of some ancient leviathan. He descended upon the Necron spires like the righteous fury of a god, or perhaps, he mused, like a man finally claiming his due, a force of nature unleashed upon the creations of a long-dead race Warpfire followed—a color that had no name, a power that laughed at physics, lashed out, ignoring the stasis shields that flickered uselessly against their touch, like candles in a hurricane. The spires, the source of the devastating anti-starship weaponry, simply ceased to be, their matter unmade,

He moved from spire to spire, a whirlwind of destruction, each touch a cataclysm, each strike a death knell for the ancient Necron war machine. The ground units, their numbers swelling, their fire a growing chorus of destruction, were a distraction, a buzzing annoyance in the face of true power. Their weapons could still harm him, especially in such numbers, but it was the spires that posed the true threat, the source of the Necrons' true danger to him. In a single moment of neglect, their concentrated might well have ended him. He understood that a single careless step could be fatal, sending him back to the warp to be reborn, to fight again. He would return, of course, but there was no need for such arrogance, such needless risk, such a foolish waste of time. Not against the echoes of the War in Heaven, not against the might of the Necrons.

The void, that ageless witness to the rise and ruin of empires, held its breath as Michael moved through the aftermath of shattered spires, so damaged that even the Necrons' legendary capabilities of reconstruction could scarce hope to restore before Michael's relentless assault had swept over the Tomb World.

The Necron phalanxes awaited him, ranks of Necrodermis warriors and Immortals gleaming with the cold arrogance of a civilization that had outlived stars. Ranged weaponry rained upon him like the bitter lamentations of a dying cosmos—gauss beams and particle whips tearing at his form, unraveling molecules with the precision of surgeons, each impact disassembling matter with a precision that would spell doom for any lesser soul. Pain, had he been mortal, would have been a symphony. To him, it was a distant echo, muted by the Gamer's Mind—a gift and a curse, smoothing agony into abstraction.

He endured.

For every death, he returned. For every unraveling, he was reforged. He endured, knowing, with a certainty that bordered on arrogance, that each brush with oblivion only tempered him, made him stronger. "A rather convenient perk", he mused, not for the first time.

Then he struck back.

Warpfire surged—colorless, ravenous, a spectral flame that surged from him in a silent eruption. It crashed against the phalanxes, only to gutter like a candle in a storm. Scarabs emerged anew, silver-green swarms clutching Gloom Prisms like blasphemous relics.

The air shimmered, the power of the Immaterium suppressed, leashed by the Necrons' chilling technology. And then, the Monoliths rose, two colossal sentinels of ancient power, forming between them a shield of null energy, a void that drank the warpfire's essence, reducing it to a mere whisper of heat, a warm breeze against the Necrons' unyielding defenses. Ingenious, he thought, a flicker of grudging admiration in his mind. They were learning.

Silver flashed.

His Aiel Needles returned, their silent flight a prelude to destruction. They pierced the Prisms, glass shattering in silent requiems. Whatever cold intelligence commanded the Necrons, it had learned to fear these flashes of silver. The Immortals, their gauss weaponry tracking the needles' movements, managed to shatter a few dozen, reducing them to stardust.

In the midst of that chaos he paused, and in the still, airless void, his lips curved into a wry smile as he murmured low, almost to himself, "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"

The words left him soundlessly, a whisper to the airless dark. Who watches the watchmen? The Necrons, it seemed, did not appreciate irony.

Without delay, he raised his hands as golden energy gathered in his palms, the anathema power of the beams better suited to dealing with the dampening effects of the Monoliths' null field. Twin lances erupted, brighter than dying suns, their light a hymn to the power of Mankind.

They struck the Monoliths, and for a heartbeat, the void itself seemed to recoil. The constructs dissolved—not merely destroyed, but unmade, their reclamation protocols outrun by purging fire. The remnants flickered, teleported away to the tomb's depths, but the damage was done. The field collapsed.

The phalanxes wavered. Even machines, it seemed, could know doubt.

Michael did not pause. He moved among them, warpfire and golden light dancing in his wake. Necron warriors fell, their necrodermis melting like wax under a blowtorch even as their reclamation protocols returned them to the depths of the Tomb world to be rebuilt. Immortals, those paragons of undying arrogance, crumbled to slag. The scarabs returned, always returning, but their Prisms were fewer now, their swarms thinning.

And then, in a heartbeat, the field of battle shimmered with an otherworldly chill as Michael found himself, for a single, breathless moment, utterly alone. The relentless tide of Necron phalanxes and their ceaseless swarms of scarabs had vanished in a cascade of viridian flashes—not as the result of his earlier devastation, but rather as a cunning ruse. In their stead, fifteen great Monoliths appeared about him, each one materializing with the cold precision of a necro-engineer's design. A null field hummed to life, its resonance a blade pressed to the throat of the Warp. The air—or what passed for it in this conjured pocket of theater—thickened with oppressive stillness.

From another vortex of green fire emerged the Lychguards, fifteen units—the Thokt Lychguards, as discerned by his Observe skill—materialized like specters summoned from the void.

They were not soldiers. They were poetry of violence. Clad in Thokt dynasty armor, their forms shimmered like mercury under a poisoned moon, hyperphase scythes glowing with the cold hunger of event horizons. Their presence was a hymn to annihilation, each step precise, each motion a rebuke to mortality. They spoke as one, voices resonating through the artificial atmosphere like the tolling of a funerary bell: "Surrender and die."

Michael almost laughed. Not at the threat, but at the theater of it. "Atmosphere conjured, just for dramatics," he murmured, with a dry snort that was half amusement, half disdain "You do have style, I suppose."

They moved.

To call them fast would be to call a supernova warm. They blurred—no, unblurred—the very concept of speed rendered obsolete; they were ephemeral, like shadows flickering across the edge of perception. They were, he realized, the fastest beings he had ever encountered. Even the Dark Eldar he had fought and slain, were nowhere near as swift.

"Impressive," he conceded mentally.

Yet fate, it seemed, had granted him an edge: even the potent Null field generated by the distant Monoliths could not hamper the raw, unyielding velocity of his Gamer Body. Many of his other skills lay dormant beneath the weight of that field, but his body, honed to a level that no human could ever dream of achieving, surged forth unhindered. He dodged the first few slashes, his movements so swift that the thin atmosphere conjured by the Necrons for their theatrics was ignited by the friction, a fleeting burst of flame marking his passage.

With a deft movement born of equal parts instinct and calculation, Michael reached into his inventory and drew forth a power sword. Its blade, a searing arc of condensed energy, glowed with a promise of both retribution and hope as it rose to meet the hyper-phase weapons of the Necron foes. Steel met hyperphase edge in a shower of sparks that burned like dying suns. Parrying one scythe, he pivoted to evade another—only for a Tachyon arrow to graze his ribs, unraveling flesh before his regeneration stitched him whole.

In the ensuing moments, he found himself pressed upon by an unyielding defense. Though he was among the finest warriors of his time—rated within the top percentile of all human combatants in this age—the numbers before him were overwhelming, and they fought with a precision honed over untold millennia.

They cheated.

Phasing in and out of reality, the Lychguards fought as if the laws of physics were mere suggestions. Scythes materialized inside his guard; arrows struck from angles that defied geometry, and the Lychguards phasing in and out of the tangible world to avoid his counterstrikes.

Each blow he sustained threatened to unravel him; his regeneration, that miraculous boon which allowed him to rise time and again from the brink of annihilation, was his sole shield against their coordinated onslaught. Yet he knew well that any pause—a moment's hesitation in his ceaseless dance—could allow them to corral him, to compound their damage until even the Eternal Embrace and his regenerative gift might falter. Though he would return to life once more, he resolved in that fleeting instant to preserve his reserves for the direst of adversaries—a Cryptek's sorcery or the dread presence of a C'tan shard.

So he danced—a weaving, frantic motion that kept him ever in flux, dodging the teleporting, phasing Lychguards

He retreated, not in fear, but in strategy. The monoliths loomed at the edges of the field, their null energy a chain around his throat. One. He needed to break one.

A Lychguard phased behind him, scythe aimed for his spine. Michael spun, sword meeting scythe in a scream of metal. The force of the blow cratered the ground beneath them. Another arrow pierced his shoulder—he let it, using the momentum to hurl himself toward the nearest monolith.

The Lychguards pursued, a silvered tide.

He weaved, a dance of desperate grace, deflecting a dozen blade strikes, parrying two tachyon arrows as he retreated, a measured withdrawal towards the looming presence of the Monoliths. His foes, silent and implacable, continued their pursuit, a pack of wolves closing in for the kill. Their scythes sang—a discordant chorus of hyperphase blades cutting reality into fraying ribbons, each strike a stanza in a poem composed long before humanity had learned to fear the dark.

They were not merely warriors. They were elegies in motion. Clad in Thokt dynasty armor that shimmered like liquid oblivion, the Lychguards moved with a precision that mocked mortality. Their forms phased in and out of existence, ghosts haunting the edges of time, Tachyon arrows humming like wasps from their wrists. Michael parried, retreated, and struck in measured cadence, his power sword a flicker of stolen starlight against their necrodermis scythes. The air—conjured by Necron artifice for their theatrics—thrummed with the static of impending storm.

Cheating bastards, he thought, not with anger, but the wry admiration of a man who'd once laughed at cheat codes in another life. Their smugness radiated, a cold ember in the void, though they had no souls to burn.

Michael weaved through the melee launching a dozen swift strikes with his power sword—each arc a burst of burning light—yet the scythes of the Lychguards, as if endowed with the caprice of shadows, phased in and out of reality. Their blades found no lasting purchase in their cold, metallic flesh, slipping away like whispered secrets. Still, he pressed on, parrying a volley of tachyon arrows that whistled past him like the shriek of a dying wind. His senses, honed to perceive every nuance of electromagnetic radiation and the subtle tremors of emotion, caught the hiss of energy as five such arrows breached his defenses—slicing at his molecular bindings with a precision that would fell any lesser man.

He grimaced—not from pain, for his regeneration blunted every blow into a transient, abstract ache—but from the calculated necessity of every parry and every counter. As he parried their attacks, his power sword, a shimmering blade of contained energy, failed to find purchase against the Lychguards' necrodermis flesh. They phased, their forms blurring, becoming like ghosts slipping between moments of reality, evading his counter-assault with an almost disdainful ease. Yet, he pressed on, knowing, even as he moved, that it was a futile exercise.

He dodged the strike of a Lychguard that would have severed his head. While it wouldn't kill him – not truly – it would certainly immobilize him, leaving him vulnerable to the others, a feast for their hyperphase scythes. He evaded the blow, parried another that would have bisected him, but in the exchange, one of the Lychguards managed to shear off his left foot at the ankle.

In that fractional pause, he struck.

His fist connected with the helm of a Lychguard, the impact reverberating through his arm like a cathedral bell's toll. Necrodermis dented—a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. The machine staggered, its perfect rhythm broken. For a heartbeat, the pack faltered, emerald eyes flickering with something akin to recognition.

They feel it too, Michael realized. The weight of time, the fragility of eternity.

For a fraction of a moment, the Lychguards, their pride wounded, faltered in their relentless pursuit—a silence heavy enough to be heard amid the chaos. Seizing the opportunity, he surged forward, his steps measured and defiant against the tide of tachyon arrows that rained anew, each impact a searing reminder of his precarious state. With every assault, his Vitality, climbed imperceptibly higher. Then, as if heralding a transformation wrought by the crucible of endless conflict, a new notification shimmered before his inner vision:

"For reaching 1000 Vitality you have unlocked the perk: The Bastion.

The Bastion

Flesh yields, not breaks, a whispered change. Where fire's kiss makes strong, and void's chill can't estrange. Each blow a lesson, etched deep within. The body learns, the storm held back, within. From ruin's edge, reborn, where strength abides.

Effects: Increase speed at which resistance skills grow stronger by 20x

Allow for resistances to form for things that can't be normally endured

Increase HP regen By 50x

Store 20% of all damage done to you as kinetic energy to be unleashed at will

All damage done to you is reduced by 15%

Once a day, you can make choose an area and within it you and anything designated as ally becomes invulnerable for up to 10 minutes.

He smiled, a quiet, internal expression of satisfaction, as he considered the implications of this new perk. It was a significant development, a powerful augmentation to his already considerable abilities. But it didn't change his plans. With his warp powers so thoroughly suppressed by the Null field, the area of invulnerability would be a wasteful expenditure of his precious energy. No, his original plan was still the best course of action. And with the Monolith now looming before him, he was almost within reach. The game, he knew, was about to change

Come on!" he roared, laughter sharp as a dagger's edge, a counterpoint to the silent menace of the Lychguards. "Is this all death's scribes can muster? A symphony of steel and silence?"

They answered, not with words, but with the relentless precision of their attacks. As he neared the Monolith, the null-field's hum intensified, a dirge grinding against his senses, a suffocating blanket that threatened to smother his power. The Lychguards' coordination tightened, their movements a ballet of death, herding him like prey towards the waiting trap.

A hyperphase scythe sheared towards his neck – he ducked, a hair's breadth from oblivion, but not before a tachyon arrow, swift and deadly, pinned his foot to the ground. He moved forward, ignoring the searing pain, letting his regeneration, that constant, quiet miracle, deal with the damage. It's quite faster, he noted, a detached observation even as he pushed onward.

The Lychguards closed, a silvered maelstrom. Michael parried a scythe aimed for his throat, pivoted to avoid another, and let a third bite into his shoulder—buying inches toward the monolith. His sword flashed, not to kill, but to provoke. Phasing forms blurred, but his newfound resilience turned fatal strikes into grazes.

The Lychguards closed in—a silvered tempest, their hyperphase scythes carving arcs of cold, inevitability. They were not soldiers, but consequences given form. Clad in Thokt dynasty armor that drank the light of dead stars, they moved as if time itself were a servant to their will. Each step precise, each strike a verse in an elegy written for civilizations long dust.

He wove between the advancing Lychguards, parrying their strikes with a dozen well-honed blade strokes. Every counterattack bought him precious seconds—a currency in this grim dance of death.

The Lychguards herded him, their coordination flawless, phasing in and out of reality like shadows cast by a dying star. Their scythes were hunger incarnate, their Tachyon arrows the whispers of entropy. Yet he wove through them, his power sword a flicker of defiance. Parry, pivot, strike—each motion a testament to stolen skill and desperation.

His moment came as he neared the monolith, its obsidian bulk a blasphemy against the void. From his Inventory, he drew the elixir—a glass egg cradling a sandstorm frozen mid-tempest. The Lychguards, sensing peril, surged. Blades bit into his flesh; arrows unraveled his form. Yet he hurled the vial, its arc a prayer to chance even as a Lychguard's hyperphase blade sliced across his throwing arm though his regeneration, healed the wound almost instantly.

Let this work.

The glass shattered.

Time fractured.

The transmutation bloomed—a wave of alchemical fire that turned stone to crystal, air to glass, reality to art. The nearest monolith became a cathedral of frozen light, its necrodermis veins replaced by delicate filaments of silica.

As he felt the container shatter against the Monolith's surface, he dove forward, the air around him igniting into a stream of plasma as he pushed his body to its limits, seeking to maximize the distance between himself and the impending transmutation. Even as the scythes of the Lychguards and the deadly tachyon arrows tore into him, he endured, his regeneration working furiously to repair the damage, his focus unwavering. He was fast, but the effects of the elixir were even faster. In the blink of an eye, a third of his body was transformed into glass Lychguards, displaying their supreme skill, managed to evade the brunt of the transformation, their phasing abilities allowing them to slip through the wave of change. Not all of them were so fortunate. A Lychguard, too slow to phase, stood preserved mid-strike, its scythe a glittering sculpture. The void itself seemed to gasp.

Michael, half-transformed, tore free from the glass snaring his limbs. Flesh reknit, healthy and whole, as he vaulted clear of the null field. The surviving Lychguards halted, their emerald gaze flickering—not fear, but calculation.

Before the Lychguards could regroup or the surviving monoliths reassemble their null fields, spun on his heel and he cast Iwn Nfr.

The spell unfolded not as light, but as memory. The beams blazed forth with such blinding brilliance that, for a heartbeat, the world fell into utter darkness as a radiance older than stars, purer than the first breath of creation, tore through the dark. The void recoiled. Four monoliths stood in its path—monuments to arrogance, to the Necrons' delusion of immortality. The beams struck.

There was no sound. No fury. Only unmaking.

The monoliths dissolved. Not in fire, not in explosion, but in a sigh of acquiescence. Their cores, star-forged and shielded by aeons of pride, ignited into emerald infernos. The null-field further weakened.

The Lychguards paused in their relentless pursuit, a momentary lull in the cold, mechanical rhythm of war. For the first time, their advance faltered—not in retreat, but in an unspoken reassessment, as if the machines, honed over eons of silent warfare, might have learned something new from the fury before them. Michael's eyes narrowed at the sight. The null field radiated from the fourteen distant Monoliths, its hum a sorrowful dirge that spoke of power beyond mortal ken.

Yet the light of creation—the raw, unbridled energy he wielded—spared no such inhibitions. Though he was careful not to squander this force by spamming its full might at every turn, he wasn't yet at the level where he could wield such energies with impunity, to simply unleash them endlessly without consequence. Not yet, he added silently.

The Monoliths shifted, their massive forms relocating, attempting to form yet another cage of null energy around him. But this time, he was ready. As soon as he perceived the telltale shimmer, the subtle distortion of reality that heralded the Necrons' brand of teleportation, he was gone. Utilizing Starway, he slipped between the layers of reality, a flicker of movement too swift for the eye to follow, reappearing nearly a kilometer away from his previous position Plasma bloomed from his palms, towers of blue-white fire, a wave of raw energy that dwarfed even the towering Monoliths. The null fields could suppress his warpfire, yes, but plasma? Plasma was the Materium's child, obedient to physics' cold rules.

Five monoliths melted, their necrodermis sloughing like wax before they vanished into repair-vortices. This time, he didn't bother to move as the five remaining Monoliths reformed their formation around him. There was no need. Their diminished power was hardly enough to truly hamper him, to truly contain him. Even as their green beams tore into his flesh, his regeneration, mending the wounds as quickly as they were inflicted, he prepared his counter-attack. Beyond the edges of the Null field, his power coalesced, forming thirty six metallic spears of tungsten, each one a potential death knell. He launched them, like railgun projectiles, accelerating them through electromagnetic fields generated by his power to a speed of two hundred kilometers per second. They struck.

Force met force.

Each impact was a cathedral collapsing in silence, kinetic fury shearing through necrodermis. Four spears per monolith—ninety-six kilotons of rage made manifest. The constructs shattered, their remains whisked away by reclamation beams. For a heartbeat, the void felt almost clean.

He turned his gaze then to the Lychguards. They, too, vanished in vortexes of viridian energy, retreating before his might.

Then the scarabs came.

A silver-green tide, clicking and devouring, Gloom Prisms glowing like poisoned stars. Behind them, phalanxes of warriors advanced, gauss rifles humming, Immortals flanked them, their disdain for death etched in every stride, their ranks stretching as far as the eye could see, a metallic tide poised to engulf him. They were backed by Doomsday Arks, instruments of planetary annihilation, and the swift, deadly forms of Destroyer units.

He almost rolled his eyes. Apparently, the Necrons' creativity had reached its limit. "Creativity's dead, huh? Just numbers now?" he murmured to himself. A rather unimaginative approach, he mused. "Well," he whispered to himself, a hint of grim determination in his voice, "time to see just how many times a Necron can come back from utter destruction."

The void, that silent scribe of eternal wars, bore witness as Aiel Needles returned—silver shards flashing like comet tails against the Necrons' emerald wrath. They streaked through the dark, ephemeral and defiant, their paths a ballet of precision. A wall of viridian energy rose to meet them, a storm of annihilation that devoured all light, all hope. Yet some needles slipped through, delicate as whispers, shattering Gloom Prisms in bursts of crystalline dissonance. For a moment, the battlefield glittered with dying stars, each prism's fall a requiem for drowned ambitions.

They served their purpose, he thought smirking, as the last of the intricate runes—formed from the drifting cosmic dust in the endless void—finished to charge, and with a precise, almost ritualistic invocation, he released ten thousand smaller kinetic projectiles of adamantium. These projectiles, accelerated like massive tungsten spears before as ten thousand adamantium projectiles awoke. Launched at velocities that mocked mortal design, they became a meteor shower of human spite—scattering scarabs like ash, silencing prisms like snapped harp strings.

Good enough, he thought, the dry irony of a man who'd once juggled spreadsheets and now juggled apocalypses.

With the Gloom Prisms gone, the void itself seemed to exhale.

It feels good to cut loose for once, he thought, a flicker of something akin to joy, a release after the constraints of the Necrons' dampening technology. You never know when such a chance might come again

Warpfire surged from his outstretched hand, colorless and ravenous, a tide that laughed at physics. It crashed against the Necron phalanxes, meeting gauss beams and Doomsday cannons in a crescendo of light and paradox. The flames recoiled, not in defeat, but in recognition and for an ephemeral moment, the air itself vibrated with the contest of titanic forces—a reminder that these ancient soldiers, hardened in battles against the Old Ones, were no easy prey to the unpredictable, blazing power of the Immaterium. Their resilience carved into the bones of history.

Michael's grin sharpened. Fine. Let's dance closer.

Starway parted reality like a curtain, and he stepped through, emerging before the silent ranks. His power sword flared, warpfire threading its edge into a blade a hundred and fifty meters long—a shard of night itself, burning with the raw power of the Warp. The strike was a painter's arc, effortless, inevitable. Necron warriors and Immortals fell by the hundreds, cleaved into halves that shimmered and teleported away to be repaired, their necrodermis crying out in silent, mechanical anguish.

The response was a symphony of green annihilation. Gauss beams wove a lattice of dissolution, Tesla arcs clawed the air, Doomsday cannons roared with the hunger of dead stars. Michael's body unraveled—flesh to bone, bone to ash, ash to incandescent dust—only to coalesce again, healthy and whole, a heartbeat later.

Again, the Gamer's Body whispered, and again, and again.

To the Necrons' credit, they never ceased their attack. But their weapons, for all their destructive power, were simply not enough to kill him, to truly extinguish the spark of life that burned within him. They forced him to regenerate from ash and glowing bone half a dozen times a second, a relentless assault that would have broken any other being. But he was not any other being. He moved as if time were a suggestion. Each rebirth etched colder resolve into his soul. The sword's flame carved through Destroyers, their phased forms no sanctuary. It split Doomsday Arks like ripe fruit, spilling antimatter cores that bloomed into silent supernovae. Annihilation Barges crumpled, their grandeur reduced to scrap, as the blade's edge kissed their hulls.

The Necrons rebuilt as swiftly as they fell, scarabs stitching metal and malice back into shape. But Michael was a tempest in the machine. For every warrior resurrected, his fire birthed two graves. Minutes stretched, taut as a bowstring. The tide of silver and green thinned, their infinite legions learning the taste of finite.

Within minutes, the Necron armies were largely undone, their ability to reconstruct their fallen proving insufficient to keep pace with his relentless destruction. Shattered metal littered the desolate landscape, a graveyard of silent machines, their once-imposing forms reduced to fragments by his power. Yet even as the last Necron warrior crumpled under his strike, the air shivered—a ripple in the fabric of moments, subtle as a spider's thread drawn taut.

Time folded.

He was back.

Five seconds prior, his sword mid-arc, the scent of ozone and scorched metal sharp in senses that spanned three million kilometers of void. The Gamer's Mind whispered the truth—again, again—as the Cryptek's trap snapped shut. A shimmering bubble encased him, its walls not of light, but of stolen seconds. To mortal eyes, the loop would have been seamless, a prison without bars. To Michael, it was a scratched hololith replaying the same cursed frame: strike, triumph, collapse, repeat.

"Clever," he mused, the dry irony of a man who'd once cursed traffic jams now cursing temporal snares. Temperance stirred in his veins, a perk hungry as a black hole. He let it feed.

The loop unraveled.

A storm of crystallized moments tore through him—splinters of frozen time, jagged and indifferent. They tore at his being, ignoring all conventional defenses. After all, time, that fundamental force of the universe, cared little for such mortal concerns as physical durability. An interesting sensation, he mused, even as he endured the temporal assault. Pain flared, raw and primal, before the Gamer's Mind smoothed it to a distant thrum. The Cryptek's fire followed, a wave of star-born wrath that washed over him like a lover's sigh. Flames curled around his form, harmless, almost reverent.

"Fire," Michael chuckled, ash on his tongue "always did like me."

For him after all, fire was no enemy; whether it came as conjured warpfire or as the incandescent fury of the stars themselves, it was a force that would forevermore embrace him as a long lost brother

The Cryptek observed from afar, its cloak a tapestry of spun time, threads of eons woven into a shroud. A Tachyon pulse erupted from its staff, , hurling Michael backward, the force of the blast turning the surface around him into a tableau of shattered rock and necrodermis, a landscape of destruction.

He crashed through necrodermis spires and bedrock, the world fracturing around him. As he rose, a stasis field bloomed—a lotus of frozen light, petals closing to crush him. Temperance flexed again, and the field dissolved like sugar in rain.

The Cryptek tilted its skull-like visage, eyes pits of viridian cold. When it moved, it did not teleport. It unstitched—folding space-time with a nauseating lurch that twisted Michael's senses, a reminder that some truths were not meant to be seen by mortal minds.

"What a curious toy the Kynaz'xur have created," it intoned, voice a glacier's grind. "But like all those before you, you will fail. The Necron endure."

Michael dodged a tempest of crystallized milliseconds, their edges singing past his cheek. His retort came with a whip of warp-lightning, splitting the air where the Cryptek had stood. "I'm not a creation of Kurn-whatever," he snapped, the name crumbling in his mouth like ancient parchment.

The Cryptek stood atop the ruins of a spire, a spectral figure draped in a cloak woven from the threads of dead epochs. The fabric billowed in a windless void, as though time itself mourned the Necron's hollow triumph. Its voice, cold and resonant as a bell tolling in an empty cathedral, cut through the silence: "All Vyrgolath are their creations. You bleed borrowed divinity, little spark."

Michael's laughter was a crack in the stillness, sharp and human. "Curious words, Cryptek," he called, his voice carrying across the shattered battlefield like a challenge thrown at history's feet. "Chief heretic. Breaker of your gods." Beams of raw Warp energy lanced from his fingertips, fracturing the air into prismatic shards. The Cryptek unstitched itself from reality, a phantom retreating into the folds of spacetime, always a breath ahead of annihilation.

"The C'tan were no gods," the Cryptek intoned, reappearing amidst a storm of tachyonic pulses. Filaments of frozen time spiraled from its staff, crystallized moments that hung in the void like shards of a shattered hourglass. "Nor were the Kynaz'xur creations ever worthy of our obeisance."

"Ah," Michael mused, weaving through the chronomancer's onslaught—a dance of fire and frost. "So that's what you call the Old Ones." Warpfire roared around him, a tempest defying the Cryptek's frozen filaments. "It matters little, in the end, what you think of them. What matters is that you knelt. Gave your bodies, your souls, to the C'tan. And the galaxy still bleeds for it. That is the legacy of your bargain."

The Cryptek's emerald gaze flickered, a ripple in its mechanical calm. A beam of pure darkness lashed out—a sliver stolen from the heat death of some forgotten universe. Michael twisted aside, the void where the beam passed screaming silently. "You know not what you speak of, Szeth'mokh," it hissed, the first fraying edge in its monotone. "The Kynaz'xur broke our empire. Poisoned our worlds. Left us to rot."

"I would have done the same," Michael said, hurling a thousand spears of star-forged plasma. They pierced the frozen time-filaments, melting them into rivulets of liquid light. "What came after proved you weren't ready for immortality."

The Cryptek encased itself in a bubble of suspended time, plasma scorching its surface like rain on glass. "We were young. Impetuous," it conceded, the words heavy with the weight of sixty million years. "But was that crime enough to condemn us? To watch our children wither, our worlds strangled by cancers we could not name?"

Michael paused, the Warp's fire dimming in his palm. "And do you know life now?" he asked softly, the question a blade slipped between ribs.

The Cryptek did not answer. Instead, it raised its staff, and the void shuddered.

Michael's strike came as a spear of Warp energy—a bolt of crystallized though, radiant and terrible. The Cryptek met it with a shield of collapsed spacetime, the collision birthing a singularity that devoured light, sound, and memory. When the darkness receded, the Necron was near a pyramidal structure, covered in glyphs

The Cryptek stood motionless, its skeletal form haloed by the cold geometries of the tomb-world's machinery. Its voice, when it spoke, was the rasp of sand against obsidian—a sound that seemed to carry the weight of sixty million years. Michael felt it in his bones, that voice, as he felt all things now: the electromagnetic hum of dormant monoliths, the faint thermal pulse of scarabs burrowing through stone miles below, and the hollow, aching absence where the Necron's soul should have been. It was like standing in a cathedral stripped of its icons, hearing only the wind where hymns once echoed.

"No, we do not, little spark." The Cryptek's oculars flickered, a fleeting mimicry of life. "I will not lie to myself and say we have ever known life. Not truly. Not even after we broke the C'tan. But this… this half-existence… it is preferable to the oblivion you name death."

Michael stepped forward, his boots crunching over frost-etched sigils. The air here was thick with chronometric distortion; time itself recoiled from the Necron's presence, bending like light through a prism. He saw it all—felt it all—the warping of ultraviolet wavelengths, the faint gamma whispers of the Tesseract Vault behind the Cryptek. His senses, vast and unyielding, threatened to drown him. Yet beneath it, like a thread of silver in ash, he sensed the Warp's answer

"Fool," Michael said, his voice softer than he intended. Compassion, he had learned, was a dangerous currency here. He let it bleed through anyway, a calculated risk. "The Immaterium is proof that life does not end when the body dies. You fear a shadow."

The Cryptek tilted its head, a gesture so eerily human it chilled him. "Mayhap. But shadows are all we have now." Its talons danced across the Vault's control nodes, each movement precise, ancient, ritualistic. "We were never told of doors beyond death. Only silence. And now… we are bereft. Soulless. There is nothing for us but this."

Lies, Michael thought. His gaze—no, his sight—pierced the veil. In the Warp, where the Cryptek's presence was a void, he saw embers. Faint, yes. Dormant. But there. Souls once sundered, now adrift… but not devoured. Not fully. The C'tan had gorged, but even gods could be gluttonous, careless.

"There's a chance," he said, stepping closer. Spacetime shivered, repelling him; he leaned into the resistance, his Gamer's Body absorbing the strain. "Your souls are not gone. Embers remain. They can be kindled."

The Cryptek paused. For a heartbeat—or an eon, in this distorted chamber—it seemed to waver. Then came the laugh: a sound like shattering glass, devoid of warmth. "And who would do this? You, who wear borrowed robes of divinity? Who play at godhood?"

Michael flinched. The words struck deeper than the Cryptek knew. Zealotry is a blade without a hilt, he thought. And I grasp it daily. Aloud, he said nothing

"Let me show you, pretender," the Cryptek hissed. "Let me show you Nekrothyss… what true power wears as skin."

The Tesseract Vault split open.

Light erupted—not light as humans knew it, but starfire given sentience. A column of plasma and fury, sculpted into a form that seared Michael's senses. Five meters tall, humanoid only in the crudest sense, it radiated across the electromagnetic spectrum like a symphony of annihilation. Gamma rays screamed. Infrared coiled like serpents. Visible light bent into a corona that would have blinded any mortal eye

?

Nyadra'zatha

?

Even shackled, even shattered, the C'tan Shard was a hymn to destruction. Its presence crushed the air, replaced it with the scent of ionized metal and burning nebulae. Michael's breath caught. His mind—his Gamer's Mind—held firm, but if It hadn't been there, his mind would have started collapsing under the weight the survivors of the War in Heaven had named, the Burning One, the Prime Igniter of Celestial Forges, Scourge of Unbounded Fusion, Undying Echo of the Universe's First Fire, but most importantly, king among monsters.

It's power was suffocating, its presence a luminous beacon across the electromagnetic spectrum, a being of pure, unadulterated energy barely contained within its physical form. Michael felt the weight of its power, the sheer, overwhelming presence of a force that had shaped galaxies and ignited stars. It was a power that dwarfed his own, a reminder of the vast, cosmic forces that lay beyond his control. He felt a shiver run down his spine, not of fear, but of awe, a humbling realization of the true scale of the universe and the forces that governed it. This was not a god, not in the conventional sense. This was something ancient, something vast, something terrifyingly powerful. This was a C'tan shard, a fragment of a being that had once devoured stars, and even in its fragmented state, it radiated a power that was both mesmerizing and terrifying.

The Cryptek regarded him, its form a silhouette of ancient arrogance. Its voice, when it spoke, was the sound of sand eroding stone. "Behold, little spark. The truth you court. The power that forged empires… and unmade them."

Then it was gone, dissolved into viridian mist, leaving Michael alone with the star-born horror it had unleashed.

Nyadra'zatha.

The C'tan shard did not stand—it existed, a convergence of fire and fission, its form a blasphemy against mortal eyes. To Michael's senses, it was a supernova rendered sentient: gamma rays screamed hymns of annihilation; infrared coiled like serpents; visible light bent into a crown of radiant spite. Its voice was not sound but radiation, a pulse echoing through the cosmic microwave background, a single commandment etched into the fabric of reality:

Burn.

Michael's senses reeled under the weight of it all. To perceive such a being was not merely to see—it was to experience creation and destruction intertwined, a symphony of forces beyond mortal understanding. Yet beneath the awe lay fear, a quiet dread whispering that this creature was no mere relic of an age long past but a force of nature given sentience, bound by neither time nor morality.

And yet, for all its majesty, the shard was not invincible. It was shackled, fragmented, its power leashed by the Necron technology that confined it. But even in its diminished state, it remained a god among mortals, a being whose existence mocked the limits of flesh and blood.

Without hesitation, Michael struck first— Warp-energy spears coalesced in his grip, their edges singing with the grief of a thousand psykers. He hurled them, and the tomb-world shuddered as spacetime tore like parchment. The shard did not flinch. It twisted, a serpent of folded dimensions and the spears tore through the rock and necrodermis hull of the tomb world, gouging deep scars into the surface before vanishing into the void.

The reply was a psalm of fire.

Fission reactions bloomed around Michael, suns born and dying in the span of a breath. The tomb's necrodermis buckled; the air became plasma. Fire licked his skin—harmless, thanks to the Phoenix Scepter's blessing—but the radiation pressed, a weight like collapsing galaxies. His Gamer's Body held, veins alight with stolen energy, yet his mind…

Gods of a dead Earth, he thought, this is what it means to duel a law of physics.

He emerged from the inferno, skin glowing like forged steel, and retaliated with black-tinted arcs of electricity crackling with malice and intent. This was his cursed lightning, a weapon born of wrath and necessity, each bolt infused with the darkness of despair and defiance. He hurled it at the shard, channeling every ounce of malice into the attack.

The C'tan shard met the assault head-on, raising a hand—or perhaps what passed for one— and with it came his answer starfire, primal and pure, dissolving his assault into ash. Michael lunged through the flames, his immunity to fire ensuring he emerged unscathed. As he closed the distance, he marveled at the paradox before him: a being capable of reducing worlds to ash, yet restrained by chains forged eons ago.

Though Nyadra'zatha appeared unmoving to the naked eye, Michael's heightened senses detected subtle shifts in its aura—an intensification of the hatred and destruction it broadcast into the background radiation. The C'tan shifted. Not a movement, but a rearrangement of causality, as though the universe had blinked. Its strike—a backhanded sweep—channeled the fury of a hundred collapsing stars. Matter became energy; energy became force. Michael felt the impact like a tidal wave crashing against his body, each molecule vibrating with the violence of the collision. As he was flung through the tomb's crust, through two asteroid sentinels, their iron cores vaporizing in his wake. before finally coming to rest amidst the debris, regeneration knitting bone and sinew before pain could register.

The shard's hatred pulsed brighter in the cosmic background, a drumbeat of burn-burn-burn.

You are a relic, a footnote to a dead god's reign. And yet, even footnotes could bleed empires dry, could shape destinies and shatter worlds. This fragment of a once-mighty entity was no mere relic; it was a force of nature given form, its presence a hymn to destruction and renewal in equal measure.

He breathed—a reflex born of habit, a remnant of the softer life he had known before being thrust into this brutal cosmos—and let his Gamer's Mind smother the fear, the doubt, the part of him that still whispered, This is madness. What remained was calculation, sharp as a monomolecular blade, honed by years of survival and strategy. If there was one truth Michael clung to, it was that emotion, unchecked, was a liability. Yet here, facing something so far beyond human comprehension, even logic faltered under the sheer majesty of the C'tan shard.

The shard struck.

Fire unwove itself from the fabric of reality—not flame as mortals knew it, but the primal scream of matter devouring itself. It struck Michael, and his body, which had laughed at suns, faltered. When it struck, his HP bar plummeted with alarming speed, the defensive power of The Phoenix Scepter rendered null. The flames weren't truly flames—they were something else entirely, existing just close enough to the domain of the Materium to fall under its dominion while simultaneously transcending it. Clearly, the Prime Igniter of Celestial Forges had encountered others blessed—or cursed—with immunity to fire and had found ways to bend the laws of existence until such defenses no longer mattered.

"Clever," he rasped, though the void stole his breath.

The Eternal Embrace kept his HP meter from reaching zero, clinging stubbornly to the brink of oblivion even as this false fire sought to unmake him. But survival alone would not suffice; he needed space, time to think, to plan. Desperation gave way to action as he activated Starway and he fled—or tried to anyway.

Starway bent dimensions, layers of reality peeling like petals. Yet the shard's will gripped him, a riptide dragging him back. Space inverted, and he stumbled into the heart of the furnace once more. Nyadra'zatha loomed, its limbs—if limbs they were—weaving a wheel of false fire, a maelstrom of plasma and spite.

Trapped.

The wheel spun, a mandala of annihilation. Pain flayed him, a thousand scalpels of radiant hate, but the Gamer's Mind rendered it abstract, a distant storm. His body, ever-obedient, regenerated—flesh knitting, bones reforged—even as the false fire unmade him anew. Behind it all, thrumming in the background radiation, he felt the shard's delight: the giddy cruelty of a child charring ants beneath a lens.

You've done this before, Michael realized. To others like me. Beings who thought themselves invincible, armored in borrowed divinity. The revelation should have chilled him. Instead, it sparked a laugh—harsh, bright, a shard of the man he'd once been.

The C'tan's answer was a nova's sigh, the wheel tightening. Michael's Starway flickered, the spatial manipulation collapsing under the shard's material dominion. Michael stood—existed—within the crucible of Nyadra'zatha wrath, the wheel of false fire carving sigils of annihilation into his flesh. Pain flared, a symphony of agony, but the Gamer's Mind reduced it to a distant hum, a storm beyond glass. His body, ever-obedient, regenerated even as it unraveled, caught in the paradox of a star god's mockery.

"You'll need more than fire," he hissed into the void, the words devoured by the C'tan's cosmic laughter. The shard's delight pulsed through the background radiation—a child's glee, if children could birth supernovae.

Desperation, then. Not the blind thrashing of a cornered beast, but the cold calculus of a man who had learned to bargain with oblivion. Michael turned his senses inward, away from the searing wheel, away from the tomb-world's death rattle. His mind brushed d against The Magician and the world dissolved.

As always, when he accessed this facet of his power, his mind was transported to what seemed an endless void filled with countless points of light, twinkling faintly like distant stars. Each mote represented a potential ability, a spell, or a skill waiting to be unlocked. He reached out, calling upon this celestial repository for the means to end the C'tan shard—or at least shatter its dominance over him. But the realm remained silent; none of the motes responded to his plea. No spell existed here capable of killing a being whose essence stretched back to the dawn of creation.

Frustration flared briefly before giving way to pragmatism. If direct confrontation proved futile, perhaps escape offered a better path. He shifted his focus, seeking instead a way to traverse the Warp safely, evading both its denizens and the C'tan's mastery over the Materium. At once, multiple motes of light flared brighter, their promise of utility clear. Yet only one approached him, drawn inexorably toward him as if chosen by some unseen hand. The mote enveloped him in a silvery glow, its warmth carrying the weight of ancient wisdom. In that instant, the knowledge and skill contained within became his.

Celestial Dance Across the Abyss lv.1

Cost: 250,000 MP per use

Range: 0.01 meter (INT WIS) [minimum 500 INT and WIS stats]

A flicker, a shimmer, a soul's swift release, from the grip of the mundane, through the veil of the warp, a path unseen. A whisper of light, a touch of the divine, in this fleeting space, a defiance of chaos, in the endless blight. A leap through the void, a whisper of might, a defiance of distance, safe from the whispers, the claws, and the bite, in eternal light.

Effect: Allows for a short jump between the material and immaterial planes, unseen by curious eyes.

Michael returned to his body as the wheel's teeth gnawed his collarbone. His lips curved—not a smile, but the baring of teeth. "Try this," he whispered.

The skill ignited.

Golden light tore through the false fire, not as a weapon, but as a needle threading reality's veil. Hexagrammic and Decagrammic wards spiraled around him, their geometries singing of ancient pacts and older lies. Beyond the tunnel's walls, the Warp roiled: daemons clawed at the light, their forms blurred as if viewed through frosted glass. One—a thing of hooks and hungers—met his gaze. Michael raised a hand, middle finger extended. A mortal's defiance.

Michael did not linger to savor the sight. Within a fraction of a second, he found himself deposited onto a floating asteroid some ten kilometers distant from the C'tan shard. The sudden transition left him disoriented, but his Gamer's Body compensated swiftly, steadying him as he surveyed his new position. From here, the shard appeared smaller, less immediate, though its aura of terrible majesty still radiated across the void. Its form shimmered faintly, a beacon of raw energy barely contained within the confines of Necron technology.

The shard had already noticed his reappearance, its attention shifting toward him with a deliberateness that sent a chill down his spine. But Michael stood ready, his mind racing, his senses alive with possibilities. The fight was far from over, but for now, he had gained precious ground—and with it, a glimmer of hope.

Burn," the background radiation hissed, a voiceless whisper carried on waves of hatred and destruction. The words resonated deep within Michael's senses, not as sound but as an immutable command etched into the fabric of reality itself.

Michael spat, a flicker of defiance in his golden eyes. "You first."

The audacity of his response was not born of bravado but necessity. He had no illusions about the sheer magnitude of the force arrayed against him. The C'tan shard before him was a relic of an age when gods walked among stars, their power so vast it could reduce worlds to ash with little more than a thought but if there was one thing Michael understood, it was survival—and survival demanded action, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

He called upon Iwn Nfr, and the void changed.

Light erupted—not the sterile glare of lasers or the sickly glow of Necron weaponry, but something older. This was the light of the source of all things, the first dawn that had spilled from the cosmic forge at the birth of creation. It tore through the darkness like revelation, a beam of gold and violet and impossible indigo, as if every photon since the universe's first breath had been gathered into this single, annihilating thread. The C'tan's flames—a mockery of fusion, stolen from stars it had murdered—dissolved like ash in a hurricane. The shard recoiled, folding spacetime into labyrinthine shields, but the light persisted. It remembered the shape of existence before gods and mortal scheming, before the tyranny of physics. It carved through the shard's arm, necrodermis vaporizing into a scream of scattered particles.

A titanic shockwave rippled outward, spreading through the void with a ferocity that defied the laws of physics. Michael felt it as much as he saw it, the wave crashing against him with the fury of a tempest unleashed. His conjured warp shields dissolved beneath its touch, vanishing as though they had never been, and he was flung through the asteroid he had been standing upon. The rock shattered around him, reduced to dust by the sheer force of the impact, scattering fragments across the void like tears shed for a lost world. As he brought himself to a halt amidst the debris field, the C'tan was already upon him.

Its strike came with the force of a thousand lance batteries, the blow carrying enough power to shatter continents. Michael flew. Asteroids shattered as he pierced them, each collision a thunderclap in the airless dark. Yet worse than the force was the aftermath. He felt it as his body healed—a wrongness in his marrow, a whisper in the strong nuclear force.

Clever bastard.

The shard had anchored a field to him, a perversion of physics where neutrons grew obese, collapsing atoms into degenerate matter. His cells unraveled, complex molecules devolving to ash. His HP bar plummeted, then surged as regeneration fought entropy—a macabre dance.

Within such fields, life cannot exist, he mused, oddly detached. But I'm not just alive, am I?

Regeneration kicked in immediately, replacing the manipulated matter with new material, but the effect persisted. His HP bar dipped nearly to zero, only to climb back up, then plunged again—a cycle of destruction and renewal that threatened to overwhelm even his enhanced capabilities. This was making him stronger, yes, but the destruction seemed relentless. He needed time to counteract it, to endure until everything was in place.

His mind stretched outward, reaching across the vast distances between celestial bodies, to the nearby moon where he had prepared a ritual meant to destroy the Tomb World if all else failed. Now, however, he began subtly altering its parameters, weaving new strands into the tapestry of its design. Destroying the Tomb World would still serve as a fallback plan, a final gambit to ensure the C'tan shard could not continue its reign of terror. But now, the ritual would also target the arrogance of the physical god attempting to kill him. Let the ancient one taste humility, let it know the limits of its power, let it learn that even gods can fall.

The Burning One loomed, its form a blasphemy of light. Humanoid in the way a supernova might mimic a candle, it pulsed with the arrogance of a thing that had watched civilizations rise and fall like tides. Its oculars—if such a word could describe the twin singularities that passed for eyes—glowed with a cold, crescendoing fire.

Mistake, Michael realized, his Gamer's Mind dissecting the shard's glee. The C'tan had recognized The Eternal Embrace, and understood one of its side effects: exponentially increasing pain, an agony so intense it would drive any mortal mind utterly mad. But Michael was no ordinary mortal. To him, pain was just an abstraction, a number on a screen rather than a visceral sensation. His body cycled through destruction and regeneration, each iteration strengthening him further until finally, the cycle paid off.

New strength surged within him as notification flickered in his mind's eye, gold text against the void:

For reaching 1000 in Strength, you gain the perk: Unbound Cataclysm.

Unbound Cataclysm

Where others strive with cunning blade, he shatters foes with force unmade. A titan born of earth and might, he rends the air with furious flight. Each blow a tremor, deep and wide, crushing all that lies inside.

Effects:

Physical attacks bypass 50% of all defenses.

Generate shockwaves which deal 50% of the damage inflicted to enemy/object you hit within range (range depends upon the amount of power behind the strike).

Successful successive hits temporarily increase strength by 2% until a max of 10x (effects last 10 minutes from the last successful hit).

Increase HP by 50x.

Strength, the kind that had once toppled Titans, flooded his limbs. He flexed, and the void rippled.

"Let's dance," he murmured, and the stars listened

It was time to see if even gods—or at least shards of them—could feel pain.

He activated Celestial Dance Across the Abyss, disappearing once more into the tunnel of golden light, enveloped in hexagrammic and decagrammic wards. As he sped through the corridor, the Neverborn stared impotently after him, their grotesque forms pressing against the shimmering barriers but unable to breach them and once more flipped them. He emerged beside the C'tan, knuckledusters of warp-energy gleaming like captured starlight. The first blow struck necrodermis, and the universe sang.

Unbound Cataclysm did not merely break defenses—it unmade them. Shields of folded spacetime crumbled; quantum-flux barriers dissolved into harmonic echoes. Each strike reverberated through the shard's form, shockwaves tearing at its star-forged flesh. Nyadra'zatha recoiled, a star surprised by shadow.

"Burn," the background radiation howled.

Michael's fists answered. Ten strikes. Twenty. Strength compounding, a snowball down a mountain of gods. The C'tan's necrodermis spiderwebbed, fractures spreading like cracks in ancient ice.

Retaliation came.

The shard of spacetime twisted, a serpent of bent causality. Temporal anomalies bloomed—viscous pockets of frozen time, each a flytrap for mortal flesh. Temperance flared, its power a scalpel cutting through the knots. But the delay cost him.

Distance opened, a gulf carved by celestial spite. Nyadra'zatha raised a hand, and the void birthed an asteroid of anti-matter—a tombstone engraved with Michael's name.

He stood, arms spread, as the thing hurtled toward him.

What's one more explosion to a man already in pieces?

The detonation tore reality asunder. Light blinded; sound deafened; the Geller-fields of distant ships screamed in sympathy. The Eternal Embrace strained, its threads fraying—but holding.

Michael stood—floated—amidst the shattered remnants of Nyadra'zatha's wrath, blood crystallizing on his skin like rubies sown into linen. To his senses , the battlefield was a mosaic of ruin: the ultraviolet wail of necrodermis shards, the infrared pulse of dying stars, and the C'tan's fury, etched into the cosmic microwave background like a curse carved into temple stone.

The Burning One loomed, a colossus of star-forged malice, its form a blasphemy against the concept of shape. Humanoid only in the way a wildfire might mimic a candle's dance, it radiated the cold arrogance of a thing that had watched civilizations rise and fall like tides upon a shore long since swallowed by the sea. Its oculars—if such a word could describe the twin abysses where eyes might once have been—glowed with a light that predated language.

Miscalculation, Michael mused, his Gamer's Mind dissecting the shard's triumph. The C'tan had mistaken his resilience for endurance, his regeneration for surrender. But pain, that old companion, had become a dialect he no longer spoke.

Regeneration stitched him whole once more, sinew and bone reforged in the crucible of a body that scoffed at entropy's petty rules. A notification shimmered in his mind's periphery, golden script against the void's infinite ledger:

For reaching one thousand dexterity you have unlocked the perk: Starlight Harmony

Starlight Harmony

Forged in the crucible where starlight is crowned, striking from realms lost, fueled by celestial light. Speed becomes legion, in star splinters bright, a horde born of echoes, in blinding swift light.

Effects: Every successful dodge increases your movement speed by 10% ,up to 10x (effect last up to 5 min from last successful dodge)

While enhanced by the dodge boost, you gain you gain 50% attack speed , 30% critical hit chance , and 20% damage reduction .

You can perform a dash which cannot be blocked by no physical force up to 400 meters

Each time you perform a dash you live a clone that last 13 seconds, made from starlight, which does 50% of your damage (clones cannot use ranged psychic skills)

Interesting, he thought, the word a dry rasp in the arid landscape of his mind. More than interesting. It was a shift, a tide turning perhaps, in this relentless, grinding war against the very entropy of the galaxy. A flicker of something akin to genuine anticipation stirred within him, a rare warmth in the cold calculation that governed his thoughts. This new…perk. It felt different, resonant with energies that even his uniquely calibrated senses recognized as significant.

Michael threw himself into the golden tunnel of [Celestial Dance Across the Abyss, emerging before the towering form of the C'tan shard like a meteor reversing its course. The creature—this fragment of a being that had once devoured stars—had learned from their exchange. Gone were the futile attempts to trap him in fields of frozen time or walls of pure energy. Instead, it conjured matter itself, hardened beyond mortal comprehension by fundamental forces twisted to its will.

Yet Michael's weapons—those warp-forged knuckledusters that sang with powers anathema to natural law—cared nothing for such physical barriers. Each strike left wounds in reality itself, Unbound Cataclysm eating away at defenses that should have been impenetrable. He dashed through the void, leaving trails of silvery starlight in his wake, each movement spawning echoes of himself—temporal phantoms wrought from celestial light.

The scene became something out of ancient mythology: a dance of multiplication, as dozens of starlight clones surrounded the C'tan shard. Each bore his face, each wielded copies of his warp-touched weapons, each moved with his purpose. The Prime Igniter of Celestial Forges found itself beset by a swarm of ephemeral warriors, each strike precisely coordinated through a mind that had learned to process the impossible. Necrodermis shields, hardened beyond mortal ken by the shard's manipulation of atomic bonds, shattered under the onslaught. The Burning One, architect of supernovae, found itself cornered.

It was then that the C'tan demonstrated why its kind had once ruled the galaxy.

"Enough," it pulsed, not in sound but in the shudder of neutrinos.

The void shifted.

Reality lurched—a sensation that his enhanced senses registered as a fundamental shift in the underlying fabric of existence. The battlefield transformed, the void of space replaced by something older, something that predated the very concept of illumination. This was darkness in its purest form, the absence that had existed before the first stars dared to shine.

But darkness, in this realm of gods and monsters, was merely prelude to light.

Ignition followed: a sun birthed from the C'tan's will, its flames a hue no human eye had ever witnessed—violet edged with oblivion.

Fire, but not fire.

The conflagration devoured his clones, their starlight snuffed like candles in a hurricane. Shockwaves of raw cosmic force flung Michael backward even as they dragged him toward the newborn star's heart.

In the heart of that impossible star, where reality bent to the will of a being that remembered the universe's first breath, Michael remained analytical. The Gamer's Mind held firm, transforming what should have been panic into calm assessment. He recognized, with a chilling detachment, the artifice at play. This pocket dimension, woven from raw cosmic energies and shaped by the will of a being old when stars were young, was a brutal, beautiful testament to the C'tan's terrible power. His own Babel skill, a pale echo of such dominion, allowed him to sculpt similar, lesser realms, fragile bubbles of altered reality compared to this. The Undying Echo of the Universe's First Fire, indeed. The title resonated with a cold majesty, a terrible grandeur that spoke of epochs beyond human comprehension.

To match such power in open, brute confrontation was folly, a swift and ignominious end. But within the very act of creation, of imposing will upon the fabric of reality, lay also, he reasoned, the whisper of vulnerability. Forming such dimensions, however flawlessly executed, implied a point of ingress, and therefore, a point of egress. Escape, not victory, became the immediate, stark imperative.

The cycle of death and rebirth within that strange star became almost meditative: his body reduced to ash, rebuilt by regeneration, then destroyed again. The neutron-manipulating field still clung to him, a reminder of the C'tan's earlier touch, adding its own rhythm of destruction to the symphony. Each cycle should have been agony beyond measure, yet to Michael it was data, experience, power—each death making him stronger, each rebirth more resilient.

Then came the moment, calculated amidst destruction, when he tore his way back into conventional space. The transition felt like being born again, reality reasserting its familiar laws around him. But the C'tan—that majestic horror—followed in his wake, its form still crowned in fires that mocked mortal comprehension. Where Michael's earlier attack had severed its left arm, now writhed a blade of warped fire and plasma, an weapon forged from the same forces that had lit the first stars.

As that blade descended, Michael smiled. It was not the smile of a warrior facing death, nor even the smirk of someone with a hidden advantage. For while the C'tan had demonstrated its mastery over space and time, it had also given Michael exactly what he needed: time for his true strategy to unfold.

The ritual he had prepared on the nearby moon—begun before he had even approached the Tomb World, before this dance of gods and mortals had commenced—had been gathering power throughout their entire confrontation. Each exchange, each moment of combat, had fed more energy into the working, the ritual multiplying it a million-fold, weaving it into something that even a star-god would have to acknowledge.

All the pieces were in place now. The trap was set. There remained only one final move in this cosmic game of regicide: Michael's own death.

His smile, that faint, knowing curve, deepened as the spectral blade descended. Victory, he often reflected in the cold calculus of his mind, was rarely a singular, triumphant moment. More often, it was a brutal accounting, a tally of losses measured against gains, and sometimes, it demanded more than mere endurance. Sometimes, it demanded…extinction.

The blade fell, and Michael embraced his own ending. With Eternal Embrace released, his form crumbled to molecular ash, scattered across the void like stardust returning to the cosmos. But death, in this age of impossibilities, was merely another form of beginning.

The Sun, that incandescent perk, flared into being, a defiant spark in the encroaching darkness. Not the life-giving warmth of Terra's distant sun, but a miniature star nonetheless, a furious orb of orange-red fire and plasma, eight hundred meters in furious diameter, blossoming into existence from the very locus of his annihilation created a zone of ten kilometers of incandescent erasure. The C'tan, that ancient master of stellar fires, registered the flare with something akin to…annoyance. Harm? No. Not true harm. It nullified the nascent solar fury with an almost casual exertion of will, a cosmic shrug. Michael, even in the throes of manufactured oblivion, had never truly expected otherwise. To believe such a power, even amplified by his strange gifts, could truly harm a being of primordial starlight was akin to imagining a child's sparkler posing a threat to a forge

But this had never been intended as the killing stroke; it was merely the key turning in a lock far greater than mere stellar fire. The ritual seized upon this moment of transformation. The orange-red sphere of Michael's death-born star shifted, its color bleeding away to a pale, ethereal blue that spoke of something far older than mere physical law. These were the winds of Hel itself—not heat but its absolute antithesis, a cold that transcended material understanding. It was a paradox made manifest: flames that burned with frost, beyond even a star god's dominion over the material realm.

Michael reformed at the heart of this impossible conflagration, his being reconstructed and enhanced, every aspect of his power grown by half again. Yet even this transformation paled before the ritual's true purpose, now unleashed in all its terrible glory.

The C'tan recognized the threat too late. It responded as befitted a being that had once kindled the first stars, unleashing a tide of primordial plasma that should have drowned any lesser force. But these death-cold flames were hunger incarnate, devouring the star god's fires as though they were nothing more than shadows, leaving in their wake a void more absolute than mere space.

The C'tan shard, the Prime Igniter of Celestial Forges, found itself engulfed, drowned not in fire, but in absolute, soul-chilling cold. Its incandescent flames guttered, flickered, and then were extinguished entirely. The shard's necrodermis shell—that impossible living metal that had weathered the death of stars—shattered like frost-touched glass. Michael's enhanced senses perceived the truth of what followed: the C'tan essence, stripped of its physical form, reverting to its most primordial state. Not truly dead—such beings could never truly die—but reduced to energy so diffuse and formless that even consciousness became impossible. No longer a threat, for the Necrons themselves had learned the folly of giving such entities physical form again.

Yet victory demanded completion. The Tomb World still waited, its massive form humming with eldritch energies that sang to Michael's expanded awareness like a beacon in the darkness. The winds of Hel responded to his will, condensing into a spear of absolute negation. With a thought, he launched it toward the ancient installation.

The spear struck with the weight of impossibility itself, boring through layers of defenses that had withstood millions of years. Necrodermis, force fields, and even the Necrons' beloved temporal anomalies proved as substantial as morning mist before this weapon forged from death's own breath. It found the primary power node—that beating heart of mechanical undeath—and shattered it with casual finality.

From this mortal wound, the killing cold spread like frost across glass, seeking out and destroying every secondary node, every backup system, every failsafe that might have preserved the tomb's function. The winds of Hel brought true death to these lords of undeath, a fitting end to beings who had chosen to trade their souls for immortality.

In the aftermath of the Tomb Worlds death knell, he took a moment to analyze the golden tablet which materialized from the scattered remnants of the Burning One's form. To Michael's enhanced senses, it gleamed with more than mere physical light—a Skill Book inscribed with the flowing script of the Old Ones, those mythical architects of reality who had shaped the galaxy long before humanity's first hesitant steps toward consciousness.

As he absorbed its knowledge, power blazed through him like a newborn sun. This was no mere technique to be learned, no simple enhancement to be catalogued. This was Gevurah awakening—a fundamental aspect of existence that lay dormant in all souls, though few could ever hope to touch it, let alone master it as he now had. Even with all his accumulated power, he knew he could no more teach this awakening than he could teach a stone to dream.

Gevurah's Strength

Passive

From the soul's deep forge, a fire takes hold, Gevurah's breath on embers long grown cold. Justice awakes, a righteous, burning brand, the heart now steeled, by purpose truly bound. Divine decree in every pulse profound, let darkness tremble, let evil take flight, for Gevurah's power now bursts forth in might.

Effect: Increase the effect of any attacks by 100%

50% chance of bypassing defenses or immunities

Can cause damage in large areas (Damage scales with the users Wisdom stat and the amount of power poured in this effect)

Reduce enemies healing skills and regeneration by 80% within area of effect (AOE= STR * WIS)

20% chance of any enemy stricken gain the debuffs [Lament of Gomorrah]

Gevurah's Strength settled into his being like a forgotten truth finally remembered. Justice. Gevurah. Words weighted with consequence in this brutal age, resonant with echoes of faiths both ancient and yet to be born. He considered the implications, the potential of this new…awakening. Justice in the 41st Millennium was a blunt instrument, wielded by the iron fist of the Imperium, often indistinguishable from vengeance, from zealotry.

Yet, the very name, Gevurah – strength, severity, justice… it spoke of something deeper, something perhaps even…divine. A dangerous notion, to be sure, in a galaxy consumed by religious fervor, a galaxy where he himself was increasingly seen as an instrument of divine will.

He pushed the thought aside, a tendril of unease coiling in his gut. Such reflections were for later, for quieter moments, of which there were precious few in this relentless war.

The moment of revelation passed, and Michael found himself standing in darkness. The cavernous chamber, once humming with the power of the Tomb World's primary node, now lay silent and cold, illuminated only by the crystalline gleam of frozen machinery. But he was not alone.

Surrounding him in a perfect circle stood what appeared to be countless transparent reflections of himself, each one precise in its mimicry of his stance and presence. This was no product of his own abilities—Temperance, flared in recognition of something far stranger, identifying not one anomaly but thousands, woven together with an artistry that spoke of time itself being folded and refolded like origami of reality. It would take time. Time and sustained effort to unravel this. This was no singular anomaly, but a thousand threads, a thousand echoes, woven together into a tapestry of impossible reflection.

Curiosity—that most human of impulses—prompted him to reach toward the nearest duplicate, watching as every reflection moved in perfect synchronization. But a familiar voice cut through the darkness, staying his hand.

"I wouldn't do that, little spark." The words echoed through the chamber with the weight of dead stars. "To survive Nyadra'zatha only to fall to this modest chronal construct would be... inelegant."

The Cryptek's voice carried the peculiar timbre of the ancient dead—mechanical, yet laden with meanings that had outlived organic speech. Michael's enhanced senses detected layers of satisfaction beneath the metallic monotone, like finding ripples in a frozen ocean. Here stood a being who had witnessed the death of stars from old age, who had helped chain gods themselves, and who had, it seemed, prepared for even the failure of their mightiest weapon.

"Then by all means," Michael said, his words sharp as drawn blades, "spring your trap. I will survive it, and then we shall see what remains of your confidence."

"Such vigor." The word emerged from the Cryptek's vocalizer with what might have been amusement in a being still capable of emotion. "But destruction is not my intent, little spark. You present a curiosity I find... compelling."

"Speak then." Michael maintained his focus on Temperance, working to unravel the chronal maze even as they talked. One did not leave a blade at one's throat, even during pleasant conversation.

"We need not be adversaries," the Chronomancer offered, its words measured with the precision of atomic clockwork.

Michael's gesture encompassed the devastated chamber, the crystalline remains of the power node glinting like broken dreams in the darkness. "Strange words from one whose defenses I've shattered, whose tomb I've rendered lifeless."

"This was never truly my tomb." Something like disdain crept into the mechanical tone. "I was exiled here, bound to serve a minor Overlord. Szarekh himself cast me from his court—what should have been a brief chastisement became millions of years of dreamless sleep."

"And this makes us allies?" Michael probed, even as his powers worked invisibly, weaving runes into the very geometry of the chamber, hidden like stars behind daylight.

"Don't be absurd, little spark." Amusement somehow penetrated the monotone, like lightning through steel. "But your earlier words intrigue me. Can you truly restore what we were? Grant us bodies worthy of the Necrontyr, return the souls we traded for immortality?"

"Not yet," Michael answered, seeing no benefit in deception. "But given time, I believe I could find a way."

"And I believe you." The Cryptek's response carried the weight of scientific observation. "I witnessed your battle with the Burning One. Two greater powers manifested, and now a third. Such magnitude of ability was rare even among the Vyrgolath."

"I am not of their kind," Michael noted, continuing his subtle working of both traps—the dismantling of one, the creation of another.

"Indeed not. Even the Vyrgolath who named themselves Aeldari could not maintain their deathless dance so long without their minds shattering beyond the repair of gods or Kynaz'xur." There was something like respect in the ancient being's tone. "You represent an fascinating anomaly. One whose growth I would very much like to observe."

"You would trust me?" Michael asked, his hidden runes now numbered in the hundreds, each one a thread in a web of his own devising. "Trust me not to seek the extinction of your kind?".

"Why should I not trust you?" The Chronomancer's question carried the weight of mathematical certainty. "Even with all your power, you remain no true match for a well-prepared Cryptek. The great sleep may have diminished us all, but we remain the victors of the Kh'aël-Tetra."

"I killed the shard of your gods," Michael reminded him, though he kept his tone measured, aware of the delicate dance of powers at play.

"You defeated a minor shard of a lesser C'tan, one still bound by countless shackles." The ancient being's words held neither mockery nor praise, merely the precise measure of scientific observation. "It is a feat beyond what most Vyrgolath could achieve, be they Krork, Aeldari, Hrud, or any of the thousand names they claimed. Yet you remain far from a true threat. With sufficient preparation, I could destroy you, and I stand far from the pinnacle of power among my order, let alone all Crypteks."

"Then you have not contacted other Tomb Worlds," Michael observed, sensing the gap in the ancient being's knowledge.

"I have merely relocated the salvageable Necrons from this installation to the nearest outpost," the Cryptek confirmed.

"Then you cannot know how time has treated your kin." Michael's words carried the weight of witnessed truth. "You are among the most lucid of your kind now. Nemesors, Crypteks, warriors—their engrams have deteriorated or fallen prey to the Flayer's curse."

A pause followed, measured in milliseconds yet heavy with consideration. "Are you making an argument for your own destruction?"

"No," Michael replied, "but if we are to work together, truth must be our foundation."

"Admirable, for a Nekrothyss," the Cryptek acknowledged. "I shall investigate these claims, though even if proven true, you remain no immediate threat. And the potential benefits..." A note of ambition entered the mechanical voice. "Success could see me elevated to Pharaoh, perhaps even to the Triarch itself."

"Investigate then, and return," Michael said. "But know my help carries a price."

"I would expect nothing less. Name your terms."

"Your pylons," Michael stated simply. "And a portion of the Blackstone from which they're fashioned."

"You would suppress the Immaterium?"

"Not entirely. But you will find, when you examine the state of the galaxy, that such restraint has become necessary."

"So the Aeldari failed in their ambition to supplant their makers," the Cryptek mused, ancient satisfaction in its tone.

"More thoroughly than you yet realize," Michael confirmed. "I will also require the occasional use of your armies—not constantly, but there will be enemies that need addressing."

"What makes you believe I command such authority?"

"The absence of this Tomb World's Overlord in our confrontation speaks volumes," Michael observed. "Even now, with his domain in ruins, he fails to appear."

"He believed he knew better than I what precautions would preserve him through the great sleep," the Cryptek offered, the words carrying millennia of vindication. "Your proposals seem... acceptable. We shall determine precise terms once I have verified the state of our awakened galaxy."

In the vast emptiness of the tomb world's chamber, where ancient technologies slumbered beneath countless millennia of dust, Michael felt the weight of his own hubris settle upon him like a shroud. His enhanced senses - that impossible gift that let him perceive the electromagnetic spectrum in its entirety - showed him the intricate weave of energy signatures that permeated the chamber. The Blackstone formations pulsed with their characteristic void-signature, a darkness that was somehow deeper than mere absence of light.

"The Blackstone, then," he said, measuring each word with careful precision. Time had taught him that in this grim millennium, every syllable could carry the weight of prophecy. "And the other artifacts left here. They would serve better purposes in my keeping." The statement hung in the stale air between them, both question and declaration.

The Cryptek's response came with the artificial precision characteristic of its kind, its tone carrying echoes of civilizations that had risen and fallen while it slumbered. "Your ambition exceeds your wisdom, young one. The paradox weave remains unbound, and your existence here hangs by threads far more delicate than you comprehend."

Michael allowed himself a smile, though it carried none of the warmth a human expression should. Back in his own time, barely five years past, he would have found such exchanges unthinkable. Now they were his daily bread. "Shall we speak of ambition, ancient one? Your designs on a Triarch's seat are hardly humble."

The air grew heavy with tension, thick enough that even those without Michael's extraordinary senses might have felt it. Hundreds of runic wards blazed to life around them, their white radiance casting harsh shadows across the metallic features of the Cryptek. Each rune was a promise of destruction, crafted with knowledge that should have been impossible for any human to possess.

"Your trap is elegant," the Cryptek said, its tone carrying that peculiar mixture of condescension and amusement that only immortal beings seemed to perfect. "But you face merely a temporal echo, little spark. I who survived the Kh'aël-Tetra have learned to cast my consciousness across time itself. Your runes would bind nothing but shadows."

The ancient being's form began to fade, not with the characteristic viridian flash of Necron teleportation, but rather like mist dissipating in morning light. Its final words lingered longer than its presence: "Remember this lesson well."

Alone in the chamber, Michael felt the bitter taste of recognition. He had allowed himself to become what he once despised - arrogant, certain, unquestioning of his own superiority. In the silent halls of the tomb world, surrounded by the technological marvels of a civilization that had mastered death itself, he was reminded that he remained, at his core, a man out of time. His extraordinary abilities, his insights into the electromagnetic spectrum, even his power to peer into the very fabric of reality itself - these were tools, not guarantees.

Time pressed upon him now. The STC database waited in the depths of these halls, along with relics from countless civilizations that had crossed paths with the Necrons. Each artifact held knowledge, and knowledge was the one currency that never lost its value in this dark millennium. But as he began to carefully unpick the threads of the Cryptek's trap, Michael knew that his greatest lesson today had not been about ancient technology or forgotten lore, but about the price of presumption in a galaxy that had perfected the art of humbling the proud.

---

The tactical hololith bathed the bridge of the Palatine Phoenix in a cold, arterial glow. Admiral Lorena Voss stood at the center, her rejuvenated fingers tracing the faint scars etched into the command console—scars left not by battle, but by the ship's previous masters. Xenos claws had once gripped this metal. Her lips thinned. Now it was hers. A relic reborn, its systems humming with pre-Unification schematics Michael had coaxed back to life. The bridge's architecture was too smooth, too clean for an Imperial warship, its vaulted arches and luminescent panels a whispered affront to the Gothic spires she'd commanded for centuries. But the Saint had insisted. Preservation, he called it. She called it sentiment.

A chime sounded. Sub-Captain Ryvan, his augmetic eyes flickering with tactical runes, turned from his station. "Modified Choir confirms contact, Admiral. Seven light-minutes rimward. Webway fluctuations consistent with Drukhari egress patterns."

Voss nodded. The Astropathic modifications still unsettled her—psykers interwoven with cogitator arrays, their whispers filtered through logic engines instead of incense. Innovation. A necessary poison, like the rejuvenation coursing through her veins. Her hand drifted to her throat, where liver-spots had once clustered. Now the skin was taut, unblemished. A second lifetime gifted by a man who claimed no divinity, even as he reshaped the galaxy.

"Signal the Mechanicus detachment," she said. "Tell Magos Lur-122 to hold at the Lagrange killzone. No deviations."

Ryvan hesitated. "They're… requesting clarification on the telemetry protocols."

"Denied. They'll follow the Saint's schema or bleed in the void."

The sub-captain stiffened. "Aye, Admiral."

Voss turned to the hololith. The gas giant's ochre bands churned below, its electromagnetic soup masking their fleet's thermal signature. Two hundred ships lurked in its shadow—Cobra destroyers skulking like knife-fighters, Lunar-class cruisers with nova cannons coiled silent, the Mechanicus's bloated vessels hovering apart like skeptical vultures. And her Phoenix. Not a battleship by tonnage, but by the ache in her bones when its plasma drives flared. It moved like liquid mercury, its hull singing with systems no Tech-Priest could name.

Another chime. The hololith rippled, projecting a grainy feed from the decoy convoy. Fire-ships masquerading as Indomitus-class haulers, their holds empty save for press-ganged heretics and enough promethium to scorch a continent. The xenos would smell desperation. Greed. Arrogance.

"Raise void shields to minimum," she ordered. "All ships, transition to attack pattern Ebon Veil."

Deck plates vibrated as the Phoenix's engines ignited. Voss watched the gas giant's haze peel away, replaced by the star-flecked black. Her old flagship, Emperor's Gale, had groaned like a dying leviathan at such maneuvers. This ship purred.

"Webway rupture confirmed!" Ryvan barked. "Multiple signatures—Ravagers, Voidravens, two Kabalite Dreadnought analogues. They're engaging the decoys."

Voss leaned forward. The Drukhari swarmed the convoy, their ships jagged and predatory, like glass shards spat from a wound. She noted the precision of their strikes—engines disabled, escape pods ignored. They wanted prisoners. Suffering.

"Hold position," she murmured. Let them sink deeper into the feast.

Admiral Lorena Voss registered the anomalous flare on the hololith with a flicker of professional displeasure – a premature detonation amongst the fire-ships. Reactor breach, sun-bright and fleeting. A Corsair's error, she calculated, most likely, though the alternative – a final, defiant act of immolation by one of the condemned souls manning those doomed vessels – was not entirely dismissed. Spite, even in the dregs of humanity, could sometimes find unexpected expression.

The Drukhari formation, predictably predatory, fragmented at the sudden disruption, a flock of disturbed void-raptors scattering before instinctively regrouping, their sleek, malevolent forms tightening once more around the crippled prey. Let them circle, then. Let them anticipate an easy feast. The initial price of blood – a sacrifice of penal scum and the handful of duty-bound officers overseeing their final, grim task – was a cost readily borne. The Drukhari descended, precisely as anticipated: vultures to carrion, their fighters and transports vectoring in upon the fire-ships with undisguised avarice, salivating for the illusory spoils within. Fools. Their depraved hunger, their insatiable lust for pain and ephemeral treasures, rendered them tragically predictable, and in the cold, indifferent theatre of the void, predictability was a fatal flaw.

Her fleet, the true instruments of Imperial retribution, maintained its deliberate advance, screened by the gas giant's chaotic asteroid belt, emissions throttled back to a whisper against the cosmic background noise. Patience remained paramount. The bait, meticulously prepared and strategically deployed, must be fully taken before the trap could spring, before her ships could unleash their meticulously orchestrated symphony of annihilation upon the unwary xenos.

The Palatine Phoenix's augur arrays, far exceeding the crude sensorium of lesser Imperial warships, pierced the void-veiled deception with effortless acuity. The hololith painted a precise, multi-spectral depiction of the unfolding drama: Drukhari assault craft swarming over the decoy convoy, elegant arcs of darklight fire strafing the fire-ships' already compromised defenses, Haywire ordnance blooming in disruptive EMP discharges, disabling engines and weapon systems with cruel efficiency. The stage was set.

A glacial calm settled over the Palatine Phoenix bridge. Minutes elongated, stretched taut with anticipation, each tick of the chronometer a measured beat in the prelude to carnage. Then, the explosions. Not the ragged, uncontrolled bursts of reactor instability, but a series of precisely timed detonations, blooming across the hololith in rapid succession. Sixteen fire-ships, their stolen human hulls vaporizing in synchronized catharsis, erupting outwards in sixteen brief, brilliant nova's.

Thousands of xenos souls, Drukhari warriors and their unfortunate mercenaries, extinguished in the calculated inferno. A significant portion of the Corsair fighter screen, atomized in expanding fireballs and cascading debris fields. Several of the swifter escorts, caught too close to the epicenter of destruction, buckled and shattered amidst the concussive shockwaves rippling through the void. The ambush, sprung with lethal precision.

Even as the echoes of the fire-ships' demise still propagated through the void, even as the Drukhari fleet faltered, momentarily stunned by the abrupt, devastating reversal, the Palatine Phoenix initiated its part in the unfolding ballet of destruction. Command protocols flowed from the Admiral, precise, economical gestures translated into cascading sequences of action across the bridge. Then, the railguns spoke. Spinal mount weaponry, charged and unleashed. Superluminal projectiles, almost invisible to the naked eye, faint trails of blue Cherenkov radiation the only visible manifestation of their impossible velocity, streaked forth from the battleship's prow, guided by cold algorithms and the implacable logic of machine-spirits.

First blood, truly, belonged to the Palatine Phoenix this engagement. Three precise strikes, delivered with contemptuous ease. A Drukhari Dying Sun-class battleship, pride of its Kabal, erased from existence in a cataclysm of antimatter breach. Two Torture Cruisers, their grotesquely ornamented forms dissolving into expanding clouds of superheated plasma. A Venom Blade frigate, ripped asunder by the sheer kinetic force of the relativistic impact. The resulting detonations – antimatter detonations, secondary explosions of fuel and ordnance – consumed the void ahead, obliterating a swathe of Drukhari escorts, tearing a gaping hole in their surprised battle line. An invitation, stark and brutal, laid bare before the onrushing Imperial fleet.

And into that breach, into that sudden, gaping maw in the xenos lines, the Imperial armada surged, responding with the disciplined ferocity of a predator unleashed. Capital ships, lumbering behemoths of iron and faith, accelerated through the debris-strewn void, their weapon batteries charging, their void shields flaring into life. Frigates and destroyers, swifter, nimbler, darted forward, like hunting hounds unleashed upon wounded prey. The void itself convulsed, erupted in a maelstrom of light and lethal energies. Lance strikes, incandescent beams of coherent energy, lanced forth from Imperial prows, carving through void shields and plasteel armor with contemptuous ease.

She registered the escalating symphony of destruction – macrocannons, torpedoes, Drukhari darklight – with a professional detachment honed across decades of void warfare. Macrocannon salvos, continent-killers hurled across light-minutes, thundered from Imperial broadsides, their detonations blooming as expanding spheres of raw kinetic force against the star-strewn backdrop. Torpedo volleys, elegant in their deadly purpose, streaked from launch bays, each a self-propelled lance of annihilation tracing complex trajectories through the void, a ballet of offense and inevitable riposte. And answering the Imperial broadsides, the spiteful energies of Drukhari weaponry – darklight pulses, insidious and corrosive, spiderwebs of shadow energy seeking to cripple and consume, and the shrieking volleys of splinter cannons, each crystalline shard poisoned and barbed, tearing at void shields with calculated malice. The void around them, once an indifferent emptiness, now writhed and crackled, ignited by the furious energies of mutual hatred, a theatre of righteous Imperial fury meeting xenos depravity in a clash of titans.

Even as capital guns exchanged blows, the smaller dramas of void combat unfolded. Carriers, both Imperial and xenos, disgorged their swarms of fighter craft, a churning vortex of accelerating silhouettes against the stellar canvas. From Imperial launch bays poured the familiar forms of Fury Interceptors, reliable workhorses of the Navy, and the heavier, more ponderous shapes of Thunderhawks, multi-role gunships lumbering into the fray, their massed bolter batteries spitting defiance. And alongside these veterans, a newer element, the Saint's Dragon armors – unsettlingly elegant for Imperial design, almost xenos in their sleekness, yet undeniably potent.

These formations met the surging wave of Drukhari fighters, a dark tide rising to engulf the Imperial screen. Once, perhaps, in a less… evolved epoch of Imperial naval doctrine, such a confrontation might have induced a tremor of apprehension. Drukhari fighters, legend whispered, had been honed in arenas of unimaginable cruelty, their pilots possessing reflexes and a predatory instinct that bordered on the precognitive. Their attack craft, notoriously agile, their aces whispered to be touched by something akin to xenos-divination, might have turned any engagement into a protracted, costly attrition. But today, the Dragon armors flew.

Lorena observed, with a dispassionate calculation that bordered on the clinical, as the Dragon armors entered the melee. Reluctant as she remained to fully concede the efficacy of these relatively untested technologies, these "toys" of the Saint and his Tech-acolytes, the empirical data remained undeniable. Less than three standard years in active service, and yet the Dragon armors had already proven their devastating potency, first against the grotesque Heldrakes of the Maelstroms hosts, and now, seemingly, against the notoriously elusive Eldar craft.

They moved with an unsettling fluidity, blurring streaks of metallic quicksilver against the void, their multi-spectral weaponry – plasma bursts and las-pulses interwoven into a near-continuous stream of coherent energy – ripping through Drukhari fighters as if they were no more substantial than flimsiplast. The engagement, she noted with a flicker of grim satisfaction, was far from even.

Bombers, however, she held back. For now. The Drukhari fighter screen, though demonstrably bleeding, remained too numerous, too capable of opportunistic strikes against lumbering, less defended bomber wings. Patience, again. The void was a canvas of strategy, measured in light-seconds and probability curves. Her fleet, the heavier elements, maintained their inexorable advance, a tightening noose around the xenos formation, setting the void itself ablaze with the incandescent glare of their weapon discharges as they moved to complete the encirclement.

The Palatine Phoenix, despite its prodigious engines, began falling behind the advancing Imperial battle line, its immense mass and battleship scale proving, as predicted, less conducive to knife-fighting ranges than the nimbler cruisers and escorts under her command. No matter. The Phoenix's true potency lay not in close-quarters brawling, but in the surgical precision of its long-range armament, in the cold, distant application of overwhelming firepower. Let the smaller vessels close to engage; the Phoenix would remain at a remove, a celestial artillery piece, turning xenos warships into expanding clouds of superheated dust.

The Helios Arc Lances, mounted in forward and dorsal emplacements, sung their high, keening note as the Phoenix repositioned, lancing forth beams of coherent energy, each pulse capable of cauterizing void shields and breaching adamantium plate. And then, again, the superluminal railguns spoke. Another shudder ran through the Palatine Phoenix as its magnetic accelerators hurled another trio of projectiles into the void, invisible lances of relativistic force aimed with chilling precision. Another gap tore itself open within the Drukhari lines.

The xenos fleet, faced with a grim and unenviable calculus, faltered once more. Gather together, seeking mutual protection, consolidating their diminished forces into a tighter formation? Such a maneuver would offer a more readily targeted mass for the Phoenix's railguns, presenting a denser field for their devastating penetrative power to wreak havoc. Or, disperse? Scatter into smaller, more elusive formations, seeking to mitigate the battleship's long-range dominance? Such dispersal would render them harder targets for the Phoenix's rails, yes, but simultaneously expose them as isolated prey, vulnerable to the heavier Imperial cruisers and escorts, vessels demonstrably better suited for the brutal, up-close attrition warfare that the Drukhari, with their fragile, "glass cannon" designs, could never truly hope to endure. The choices facing the xenos fleet, Lorena noted with a detached satisfaction, were all, ultimately, paths to their ordained destruction.

The command bridge doors hissed open behind her, the pneumatic seals sighing in well-oiled deference. Admiral Lorena Voss did not need to turn to know who entered. Milor Teyber moved with a predator's assurance, a fluid grace that owed nothing to the cumbersome bulk of his grey power armor. Hexagrammic wards, etched into the ceramite like lines of silvered scripture, shimmered faintly in the bridge-light, proclaiming his sanctioned status, his rigorously consecrated purpose. Seals of purity, gleaming like polished bone, adorned pauldrons and greaves, further reinforcing the carefully constructed image of Imperial sanctity. He strode onto the bridge, into the controlled chaos of void-battle, as if he were entering his own private salon, an assumption of dominion telegraphed in every measured step.

Lorena knew the presumption was not entirely unwarranted. Teyber was, after all, a creature of the Saint's inner circle, a favored instrument. His youthful visage, paradoxically unlined and unmarked despite the brutal realities of their present war, did not deceive her. Black hair, soft in appearance yet framing a face too sharp, too knowing for true youth, merely underscored the artificiality of his apparent age. Anyone who basked in the Saint's proximity, she knew, could partake of the near-mythical rejuvenations he dispensed, a localized reversal of entropy that defied even the most advanced medicae doctrines.

So, the guise of a black-haired youth, untouched by time or scar, was just that: a veneer. It did not obscure the eyes. Those cold, grey depths held the unwavering focus of a seasoned killer, a predator honed to lethal perfection. She found a grim, detached comfort in the Saint's… management of such a weapon. Leashed to Imperial purpose, channeled against the myriad enemies of Mankind, Teyber's bloodlust, however unsettling, became a directed force, a blade turned against the darkness.

"Battle joined, I perceive," Teyber commented, his voice a low, even timbre that carried across the bridge din without undue amplification. He moved to the forward viewport, his gaze fixed on the incandescent ballet of destruction unfolding against the void-black.

"Do not fret, acolyte," Lorena replied, her tone crisp, edged with the authority of command, yet devoid of true warmth. "The boarding torpedoes are primed, awaiting deployment vectors. We merely require optimal positioning to ensure your… insertion. And," she added, a subtle emphasis, "to ensure your continued viability throughout said insertion." Survival, after all, was a variable even for those closest to the Saint.

"As you deem necessary, Admiral," Teyber responded, his gaze unwavering from the viewport spectacle. "A small… indulgence, if you would. Eliminate that escort, there." He gestured, a casual inclination of his power-armored hand towards a specific blip amidst the swirling tactical displays.

Logic engines, ever-vigilant and preternaturally swift, processed the subtle directive in nanoseconds. Targeting solutions began to spool, weapon batteries to cycle, all without explicit command from the Admiral herself. The Palatine Phoenix anticipated, obeyed, even before the verbalized order.

"May I enquire as to the impetus?" Lorena asked, a flicker of genuine curiosity breaking through her professional reserve. "Has the Celestial Host reassigned your…priorities? Do the Custodes now mark a different quarry?"

"No shift in mandate, Admiral," Teyber replied, turning from the viewport, a faint, roguish grin playing about his lips – a fleeting expression that did little to soften the glacial intensity of his grey eyes. "Objectives remain… constant. However," that grin widened, just enough to reveal a hint of teeth, "I can… sense their particular shade of darkness from here. Even amongst their kindred filth, that vessel exudes a certain… ripeness of depravity. A subjective assessment, perhaps, but…" He let the implication hang, unspoken, yet undeniably clear. "Consider it a… favor, Admiral. A preemptive cleansing. Render them into cosmic detritus, if you would be so kind."

"Since you phrase it with such… courtliness," Lorena conceded, a dry amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth. She issued the implicit command, a subtle shift in her posture upon the command throne, a silent directive rippling through the bridge crew. Targeting officers acknowledged, their motions precise, economical. Arc Lance batteries aligned, capacitors charging, ready to unleash coherent beams of unimaginable energy.

The Palatine Phoenix responded with brutal efficiency. Helios Arc Lances discharged, a trio of incandescent orange-yellow energy pulses searing through the void. Three heartbeats later, the targeted Drukhari escort blossomed into a short-lived, violently expanding nova, its reactor core breached and detonating with unrestrained fury. A kill, achieved with almost contemptuous ease.

"Any further… aesthetic adjustments required, Acolyte Teyber?" Lorena inquired, her tone laced with a hint of sardonic amusement.

"Abundant scope for refinement, Admiral," Teyber rejoined, his gaze sweeping back to the viewport, the void battle a canvas of endless targets. "Take your pick, truly."

"Droll," Lorena responded, a flicker of something akin to genuine irritation now surfacing. Even as she spoke, a subtle tremor resonated through the Palatine Phoenix's immense frame, a barely perceptible shudder that spoke of glancing impact. Darklight weaponry, she registered, with professional indifference. Void shields shimmered, energy discharges dissipating harmlessly against their layered matrices. Hardly a cause for concern. The Phoenix's defenses could shrug off a thousand such pinprick strikes before registering true vulnerability.

"Now," she stated, her voice brooking no further levity, "absent further… divinely inspired target designations, I suggest you vacate my bridge, Acolyte. There remains a battle ongoing, for those of us tethered to mundane command protocols."

"As ever, your will is… law, my Lady," Teyber responded, a flicker of that roguish grin returning, swiftly suppressed. He executed a mocking bow, a gesture deliberately exaggerated, undeniably insolent in its familiarity from one of undeniably common birth. "My humblest apologies for my… disruptive presence, Admiral Voss." And with that, the Saint's "pet killer," as she privately and uncharitably termed him, turned and departed, the command bridge doors sighing closed in his wake.

Had it not been for the Saint's inexplicable favor, for Michael's almost… inexplicable elevation of this brazen commoner, Lorena reflected, she might have ordered Teyber summarily ejected from a conveniently located airlock. But such impulses, however aesthetically satisfying, were…unwise. Teyber was the Saint's favored blade, his instrument of… less palatable tasks. And for now, at least, that uncomfortable reality demanded a certain… tolerance, however grudgingly given.

The void outside the Palatine Phoenix's viewing panes was a tapestry of silent annihilation. Gas plumes from shattered Drukhari vessels hung suspended in the vacuum, their iridescent debris backlit by the cold glow of the Maelstrom's accretion disk. Voss observed the retreat through the hololith's fractal projections, her augmented retinas parsing tactical sigils with neural-augur precision. Three Eldar light cruisers and their escorts—jagged, organic shapes like splinters of stained glass—were vectoring toward a flickering Webway aperture. Cowards. Predators when they held the advantage, scavengers when cornered.

She flexed her rejuvenated fingers against the command throne's haptic interfaces, the ship's machine-spirit murmuring subvocal acknowledgments into her auditory cortex. The Drukhari's flight vectors glowed amber in her overlay, their engines flaring ultraviolet as they jinked through the debris field.

"Target the fleeing squadrons," she said, her voice carrying the clipped authority of five decades commanding void-war. "Priority to heavy units. Burn their spines first."

Across the bridge, junior officers bent to their stations, their gloved hands dancing across luminescent consoles. The air thrummed with the basso growl of the Phoenix's power cores cycling up. Voss felt it in her bones—or rather, in the subdermal implants that now mimicked the sensation of bone-deep vibration. A necessary concession to the ship's archaic, near-sentient systems.

"Superluminal rail charged at ninety-seven percent," reported Enginseer-Secundus Vorl, his voice filtered through a vox-grille grafted where his jaw should have been. "Harmonic dampeners nominal. Munitions loaded: M36 Adamantine-penetrators, graviton-sabot variants."

Voss nodded. The rails were a relic of mankind's zenith, their principles half-lost even to the Mechanicus. Michael had unearthed them from the ship's gutted archives, bypassing Martian dogma with a heretic's pragmatism. Innovation again, she thought, but sanctioned by divinity.

The hololith updated. The Phoenix pivoted on its axis, its thrusters flaring gamma-bright as it aligned with the retreating xenos. Voss watched the tactical chrono tick down—ten minutes, a lifetime in void combat. The Drukhari were accelerating, their ships weaving fractal evasion patterns.

"Fire control synced," Vorl rasped. "Trajectory solutions locked."

Voss interfaced directly with the throne's systems, her command codes slicing through layers of cryptographic protocols. The ship shuddered as magnetic coils energized, the rails humming with pent-up ferocity.

"Fire."

The discharge was a silent strobe of relativistic fury. Cherenkov radiation bloomed azure in the Phoenix's wake as penetrators crossed the gap at 9c. On the hololith, Voss watched the Eldar ships disintegrate—not in explosions, but in recursive fractal patterns of collapsing matter. Graviton shears tore through their crystalline hulls, reducing a Kabalite Dreadnought to spinning shards. Two lighter cruisers survived, their engines crippled, leaking atmosphere like silver blood.

"Secondary targets acquired," Vorl intoned. "Helios Arc Lances primed."

The Phoenix's dorsal weapons array swiveled, plasma conduits flaring crimson. A lance strike bisected an Eldar frigate, its halves spinning apart in perfect Newtonian indifference. Another grazed a heavy cruiser's dorsal spine, melting its sensor spines into slag. The xenos vessel lurched, its drive signatures dimming as it limped toward the Webway.

Voss leaned back, her implants feeding her real-time damage assessments. "Relay targeting data to the Sword of Absolution and Argent Vindicator. Let them mop up the cripples."

The bridge crew obeyed, their loyalty honed by her relentless drills. Voss noted the efficiency—no wasted motions, no vox-chatter. They were her instrument, as she was the Saint's.

Alerts flared as return fire pattered against the Phoenix's void shields. Drukhari darklight cannons scribbled actinic lines across the hololith, their impacts dissipating against the ship's multi-layered defenses. The shields flared briefly, their interference patterns resolving into Mandelbrot swirls before stabilizing.

"Shield integrity at eighty-nine percent," Vorl reported. "No hull breaches."

Voss permitted herself a thin smile. The xenos' weapons were elegant, yes—deadly in raids and skirmishes. But elegance shattered against the brute-force genius of humanity's Golden Age. The Phoenix was a sword forged in an era when mankind needed no subtlety.

"Maintain pursuit vector," she ordered. "Ready the Lance batteries for close-range engagement. Let them taste their ancestors' hubris."

The bridge thrummed with purpose, officers calling out readiness codes. Voss watched the hololith, her mind already three moves ahead. The surviving heavy cruiser was leaking drive signatures—a trail of ionized particles even the Webway couldn't cloak.

Run, she thought, coldly amused. We'll find your nest eventually.

As Sword of Absolution and Argent Vindicator, strike cruisers of the Imperial Navy, maintained their relentless pursuit vector, their logic engines and augmented crews tracking the wounded Drukhari heavy cruiser with the cold, implacable efficiency of hunting algorithms, Admiral Lorena Voss shifted her focus as the Palatine Phoenix shuddered as its Helios Arc Lances carved searing geometries into the void, their focused beams intersecting with the skittering shadows of Drukhari raiders. The closer escorts—sleek, venomous things akin to crystalline insects—danced just outside optimal kill range, harrying the Imperial formation with hit-and-run barrages of darklight fusillades. Voss monitored the tactical hololith, her neural augurs parsing the chaos into grids of threat vectors and heat signatures. Every lance strike, every evasive thrust, was a calculated expenditure of energy and time.

The hololith flickered with the cold calculus of void war. Admiral Voss observed the Whispering Doom's trajectory, its Dying Sun-class silhouette rendered in jagged crimson vectors against the starless black. The Drukhari battleship was a splinter of malice, its engines bleeding plasma as it limped toward the system's inner debris fields—and the portable Webway gate hidden there. A predictable gambit. Predators always fled to their holes when cornered.

She interfaced with the Palatine Phoenix's tactical suite, her neural augurs parsing the Custodes' encrypted directives. Five of the Emperor's own, gold-clad and silent, had boarded her ship with orders sealed in bloodmarked stasis-caskets. Their quarry: the Kabal of the Severed's Archon. Not a decapitation strike, but a message—one Terra wanted delivered personally. Voss cared little for the politics, only the precision required.

"Enginseer-Secundus," she said, her voice cutting through the bridge's low hum. "Recalibrate the superluminal rail for surgical strike protocols. Target the Doom's primary engine nacelles."

Vorl's augmetic fingers danced across his console, glyphs flaring in the dim. "Acknowledged. Reconfiguring magnetic containment fields. Munition selection: M36 Adamantine-penetrator, inert core, gravitic dispersal tip."

Voss nodded. The rail's archaic systems—relics of a time when humanity bent physics like clay—were temperamental. Too much force, and the Doom's antimatter reserves would flash them all into stellar ash. Too little, and the Archon would slip into the Webway's labyrinth.

"Trajectory locked," Vorl rasped. "Firing solution accounts for target evasion patterns and local gravitic anomalies."

On the hololith, the Whispering Doom twisted, its hull shimmering with phase-shield harmonics. Voss's lips thinned. Drukhari ships were quantum phantoms, slipping between realities—but even phantoms left echoes.

"Fire."

The rail discharged with a subsonic groan felt more than heard. A hypersonic penetrator lanced into the dark, its Cherenkov wake a fading scar. Six seconds later, relativistic kinetics met crystalline hull. The Doom shuddered, its aft section erupting in a bloom of ionized gas and fractured spacetime. Phase-shields buckled; engines died in a cascade of dying light.

"Direct hit," Vorl confirmed. "Target's propulsion efficiency reduced to three percent. Residual antimatter containment at critical but stable."

Voss leaned back, her throne's haptic feed relaying the ship's machine-spirit satisfaction. "Commander Tyris—deploy fighter screen in standard Kurze Formation. Assign Blade of Mercurial Dawn and Eternal Vigil to close-support roles. Their point-defense arrays are fresh?"

"Replenished twenty minutes ago, Admiral," Tyris replied, her voice clipped. "Bomber wings report payloads loaded with melta-charges and EMP shrikes."

"Good. Prioritize dorsal weapon batteries. Cripple their lances, but leave the bridge intact."

The orders propagated through the fleet's neural net, a symphony of obedience. Voss watched the hololith update: Sword-class frigates pivoted, their thrusters flaring as they herded the Doom toward the Custodes' kill box. Fighters streamed from the Manifest Destiny's ventral bays, their angular shapes like steel wasps against the void."

The Custodes leader had arrived silently and now stood at the edge of the bridge's secondary command tier, their auric armor dimmed to a burnished obsidian by stealth fields. To the untrained eye, they might have been statues, if not for the faint thrum of their power armor's stasis-shield harmonics. Their presence was an open secret to her senior officers and no one else—a necessary risk, given the sealed orders from Terra.

Voss turned to Sub-Captain Ryvan, her voice cutting through the din of damage reports. "Divert secondary power to dorsal void shields. Their raiders are probing for weak points."

"Aye, Admiral. Rerouting from non-essential systems."

She pivoted to the Custodes' leader, his identity obscured by a battleplate helm styled after the Emperor's own. Their encrypted vox-channel crackled to life, a secure tunnel buried under layers of auspex static.

"The Whispering Doom's engines are crippled," Voss said, her words precise. "But its phase-shields are regenerating. You have a ten-minute window before it slips into the Webway."

The Custodes' voice was a low rumble, filtered through a dozen counter-scrying protocols. "Launch the torpedoes. We will handle the rest."

She nodded to Vorl, who input a sequence into his console. Across the ship, hidden bay doors slid open, their mechanisms masked by the Phoenix's engine flare. Six boarding torpedoes—sleek, blackened shells with no markings—ejected into the fray. Their thrusters fired cold-gas propellants, leaving no thermal trace as they navigated the debris field, using the wreckage of a gutted Ravager as cover.

"Torpedoes away," Vorl confirmed. "Trajectory synced to the Doom's aft blind spot."

The Custodes detached from the shadows, moving toward the launch silos with preternatural coordination. Voss watched them vanish into the ship's arterial transit corridors, their departure unnoticed by all but her most trusted officers.

"Admiral!" Tyris called out. "Drukhari reinforcements—two more Ravager packs entering engagement range. They're targeting our starboard lance batteries."

Voss glanced at the hololith. The Helios Arc Lances were fully committed, their targeting arrays overwhelmed by the swarm. "Redirect the Argent Vindicator's bomber wing to intercept. Order the Blade of Mercurial Dawn to tighten its point-defense grid."

The bridge crew obeyed, their movements rehearsed to muscle memory. Voss cycled the hololith to track the torpedoes—tiny crimson blips skirting the battle's periphery. They wove through a nebula of coolant venting from a crippled Cobra destroyer, their stealth coatings absorbing active scans.

"Phase-shields on the Doom are at 12% regeneration," Vorl reported. "Custodes torpedoes entering final approach."

A proximity alert blared. A Drukhari Voidraven, sleek and needle-like, broke through the Phoenix's screen, its void bombs detonating against the ship's shields. The impact rattled the deck, but the shields held, their interference patterns flaring in geometric defiance.

"Helios Lances are recharging," Tyris said. "They're vulnerable for 17 seconds—"

"Deploy countermeasures," Voss snapped. "Saturate their approach with chaff and plasma flares."

The Voidraven banked, its pilot overcorrecting into a cloud of fragmented hull plating. The Phoenix's auto-turrets shredded its starboard wing, sending it spiraling into the void.

"Torpedoes have breached the Doom's hull," Vorl announced. "No detonation signatures. Custodes are aboard."

Voss allowed herself a fractional exhale. The hardest part was over. Now it was a matter of holding the line.

"Maintain pressure on the remaining raiders," she ordered. "And keep those lances hot. The Archon's allies won't retreat while his ship still bleeds."

The hololith flickered as the Custodes' telemetry feeds dissolved into encrypted noise. Their work would be swift, clinical, and unseen—a surgical excision, as ordered by Terra.

Voss leaned back, her throne's haptic interfaces humming with damage reports and shield metrics. The Phoenix's machine-spirit murmured in her mind, a chorus of ancient code and battlefield calculus.

"Now for the rest of the vermin" she though as she turned her focus away from the Whispering Doom, the Custodes would take care of their target, for now it was time to make the Eldar bleed for their arrogance

---

Waiting to get slammed head-first into a Drukhari battleship in a goddamn boarding torpedo wasn't exactly Milor Teyber's idea of a good time. Orbital insertions on Rho-1223? Cakewalks compared to this fragging suicide run. And Michael? Mister Saint-of-Trouble? He always had a knack for landing Milor square in the center of the galactic crap-storm.

The torpedo screamed. Not metaphorically—actual, ear-bleeding screams. The kind that made you want to claw out your own implants. Hypersonic velocity turned the Drukhari counter-fire into a strobing lightshow outside the viewports, macro-shells detonating close enough to frost the armorplas with radiation burns. Milor clenched his jaw, his rebuilt bones humming with the Saint's enhancements. No scars anymore. None of them had scars. The Five Hundred's elixirs saw to that, skin smoothing over between battles like wax under a flame. Too clean, he thought. Men like him were supposed to wear their sins.

The four Custodes stood like statues, their auramite armor matte-black for the op. No gold, no crests. Just killers hiding in plain sight. Across from them, the twelve Paladins of Tethrilyra looked like ghosts in their pearl-white plate. Every man, every woman, handpicked by the Custodes themselves, flown in special, orders sealed tighter than a vacuum-packed corpse on a void-ship. Orders straight from Terra, whispered the Custodes. Orders straight from the big man himself, the God-Emperor. No fragging room for error. No margin for screwing up. And a hell of a lot riding on Milor's…special talents. Courtesy of the Saint, naturally.

This power Michael had juiced him up with, this crime-sense thing? Interesting gig, if a little…judgey. Arbitrary as a drunken Inquisitor on a bad synth-ale bender. Stuff like killing people? Lies? Bad. Apparently. Galaxy-bad. Like, get-you-eaten-by-a-daemon bad. Milor knew the score, though. This ain't no fluffy bunny garden. This is the 41st Millennium. Try playing Mr. Nice Guy, Mr. Bleeding Heart Just, and you'd be space-dust before you could blink.

Eaten alive. Swallowed whole by the fragging darkness. Still, useful, this power. Like a built-in lie detector, cranked up to eleven. Could sniff out the dirt on anyone just by looking at 'em. Crimes, past and present, flashed up in his head like target runes. Nifty. If a bit depressing.

One of the Paladins—a kid with a jawline still soft from some shrine-world finishing school—vomited into his helm. The sound gurgled through the vox.

"Breathe through your nose, rook," Milor grunted. The kid's aura flickered in his vision: crimson haze. Stole a medkit once. Punched a priest who called him weak. Milor's gift prickled, demanding he make the boy's nerves burn for it. He ignored it. The Saint's justice was a compass, not a chain.

The Custodes didn't move. Their auras hung like black holes in Milor's sight. Not lies—never lies—just oceans of blood under the Emperor's seal. They'd glassed worlds. Broken species. Made martyrs of millions. Milor respected that. Clean work.

"Recite the Litany of Steel!" barked Sergeant Veyra, her voice sharp as a lash. The Paladins obeyed, their chant syncopated with the torpedo's shuddering. "From the fury of the xenos, deliver us…"

Milor tuned them out. Zealots. Brave as hell, sure. He'd seen Veyra charge a horde of undead with nothing but a power sword and a death wish. But discipline? They'd trade formation drills for another hour praying to the Saint's relics. Tools, not tributes, he wanted to snarl. But he didn't. Respect was respect, even if it itched.

The pilot's voice crackled. "Breach in ten. Nine. Eight—"

The Custodes stirred. One tilted its helm, lenses glowing faintly. "The Archon's soul is ours. The Saint's gift will light the path."

Gift. Right. Milor's fingers twitched. The power crawled under his skin like static—the knowing. He could taste the Archon's sins already. Centuries of torture. Planets razed for sport. A soul so black it'd make the Custodes blush.

"Five. Four.

The Paladins' chanting rose to a shout. The kid wiped vomit from his chin, grip tightening on his bolter. Milor leaned forward, his harness creaking.

"Two. One."

The world split.

The torpedo's nose crumpled as it speared through the Whispering Doom's hull, atomized deckplates spraying like shrapnel. Alarms died mid-wail. For a heartbeat, there was only the hiss of depressurization and the stink of xenos alloy burning.

Then the doors blew.

Darkness yawned beyond—Drukhari corridors, all jagged arches and bioluminescent veins. The air tasted like copper and spoiled wine. Somewhere in that labyrinth, the Archon waited.

The Custodes moved first, silent, power spears igniting in unison. The Paladins followed, volkites raised, their flawless armor reflecting the hellish glow.

Milor lingered, just a breath.

Tools, he thought, thumbing the safety off his plasma pistol. Let's see how sharp we are.

The air stank like burnt ozone and xenos blood—sharp, acidic, wrong. Milor's boots squelched in the gore-slick hallway, his plasma pistol hissing as it cooled. The Whispering Doom's innards pulsed around them, walls throbbing with bioluminescent veins like the ship itself was laughing. Or screaming. With Drukhari, it was hard to tell.

The Custodes moved ahead, blackened armor swallowing the hellish light. They didn't run. They flowed, guardian spears humming as they carved through bulkheads, elixir-vials strapped to their thighs smoking with whatever alchemy the Saint had cooked up to melt alien alloy. Milor watched them, part awe, part irritation. Back in the Skull-Takers, he'd have called this overkill. Now? Now he just called it Tuesday.

Custodes were using those Elixir vials like candy now. Popping the tops, tossing back the glowing goo, leaving trails of alchemical scorch marks on the deck plates. Walls dissolving, bulkheads weeping molten metal, whole sections of the battleship just…gone, replaced by smoking craters and the stink of superheated void-steel. Fragging wasteful, if you asked Milor. But nobody was asking Milor. Custodes had their orders, and 'economy' wasn't exactly on the fragging list. Just 'kill Archon' and 'don't fragging fail'. Rest of the Drukhari ship was just scenery to them. Expensive scenery, sure. But still…scenery.

Corridor twisted, opened into a wider chamber – more like a fragging abattoir than a hallway. Flesh-hooks dangling from the ceiling, walls lined with writhing restraints, pools of something black and viscous glistening on the deck. Definite Drukhari styling. Crime-sense flared, spiking like a goddamn Geiger counter in a nuke zone. Pain. Terror. Sadism. Filth. Smelled like a fragging daemon's jockstrap in here. Drukhari liked their toys. And their toys, Milor figured, usually screamed. A lot.

The Paladins fanned out behind him, pearl-white armor glowing in the gloom. No scratches. No dents. Not even a scorch mark. Fething showpieces. Milor's own armor was a pristine grey too, but he'd rubbed mud into the joints out of habit. Old underhive instincts died hard.

"Contact!" Veyra barked, her voice tight.

Milor's gift flared before his eyes did—a hundred crimson smears blooming in the dark. Tarellians. Loxatl. Mercs with price tags bigger than their brains. Their sins flickered like bad hololiths: villages torched, children sold to flesh-markets, planets stripped to bedrock. The itch behind his skull sharpened. Punish, it whispered. Make them scream.

He ignored it. The Saint's justice was a blade, not a bludgeon.

The Custodes stopped. Just… stopped. Like the universe paused to let them pick the kill-order.

Then hell broke loose.

One moment, the xenos were slinking from shadowed alcoves, rifles raised. The next, the Custodes were among them. No war cries. No prayers. Just the wet crunch of spears punching through carapace, the sizzle of volkite beams reducing mercs to ash mid-sprint. A Tarellian lunged, claws out—its head rolled before its war cry finished echoing.

Milor fired his plasma pistol, searing a Loxatl's spine as it scrambled toward the Paladins. The xenos collapsed, ichor bubbling from its maw. "Keep up, zealots!" he snarled.

The Paladins moved like a firing line from the Imperial Primer—disciplined, precise, volkite streams cutting down stragglers. But next to the Custodes? They looked like kids swinging sticks at a thunderstorm.

A Custodes pivoted, his spear's bolter barking twice. Two Tarellians dropped, skulls vaporized. Before their bodies hit the deck, he'd cleaved a Loxatl in half, the blade's edge singing as it split xenosteel armor like parchment. Blood misted the air. The Custodes didn't blink.

Milor's gift pulsed—the mercs' sins snuffing out one by one, replaced by the Custodes' own endless black tide. Atrocities in gold, he thought. But clean. Surgical. The Emperor's knives didn't need to justify their cuts.

A plasma burst grazed his shoulder, burning ceramite. Milor hissed, rolling behind a ruptured conduit. "Fething—!"

A shadow blotted the light. A Custodes stood over him, spear whirling. Three shots. Three corpses. The xenos didn't even have time to look surprised.

"Stay behind us, Paladin." The voice wasn't unkind. Just… factual. Like a hammer telling a nail its place.

Milor bared his teeth. "Wasn't planning on dancing with you, golden boy."

The Custodes tilted his helm—a microgesture that somehow screamed amusement—before vanishing back into the slaughter.

Ten seconds. That's all it took.

When the echoes faded, the hallway was a charnel house. Bodies piled like cordwood, some still twitching. The Paladins stood breathless, volkites glowing hot. The Custodes? Unmarked. Unmoved. Their cloaks didn't even ripple.

Milor kicked a Loxatl corpse. "Emperor's teeth. Save some for the rest of us next time."

Veyra glared, her augmetic eye whirring. "Show respect, Captain."

He snorted. "Respect's in the results, Sergeant."

The lead Custodes turned, his spear dripping black ichor. "The Archon's presence festers ahead. Prepare."

The air tasted like rust and spite. The Whispering Doom's guts were a maze of jagged corridors and bioluminescent rot, every wall oozing with the kind of malice that made Milor's teeth ache. The Custodes didn't care. They carved forward like surgeons on a bender, sloshing vials of the Saint's elixirs onto bulkheads. The chemicals hissed, frothing as they flash-froze the alien alloy into brittle crystal. Then, with a kick that would've cratered a Leman Russ, one of the golden boys shattered the wall into shrapnel. Shards screamed through the air, shredding the ambush waiting on the other side into collander-meat.

Milor ducked a ricochet, his enhanced reflexes humming. The elixir's frostbite stink clung to his nostrils. Fething showboats.

The hallway beyond was a tide of red—Tarellians and Loxatl, their mercenary hides slathered in gang-tattoos and blood-oaths. Behind them, Drukhari elites lurked like spiders in a web, their sin-auras so black they sucked the light from the room. Milor's gift throbbed behind his eyes, painting the xenos in guilt-rays. Punish, it hissed. Make them pay.

He told it to shut the hell up.

These ones weren't just guilty—they were drowning in sin. Blackened souls, twisted by acts so vile they made even his hardened stomach churn. Torture, enslavement, mutilation—all the things the priests railed against when they preached about the evils of the xenos. It wasn't propaganda here; it was fact. And these bastards wore their crimes like badges of honor. Four times the numbers of the last ambush, backed up by Drukhari elites—slick, cruel predators who moved with predatory grace—but none of that mattered. Not against the Custodes.

The Custodes moved. Not the way humans move. Not even the way Astartes move. They unfolded, guardian spears spitting bolt-rounds one second, gutting Tarellians the next. A Loxatl leapt, claws extended—a Custodes caught it mid-air, crushed its skull with a gauntlet, and kept walking. Volkite beams from the Paladins turned the rest to ash, their green fire painting the walls in shadow-puppet horrors.

Custodes tore through 'em like they were made of wet paper. Figures of auramite and righteous fury carving a goddamn swathe through the red tide. Guardian spears spat mass reactive shells, vaporizing Tarellians in mid-charge, turning red armor and xenos flesh into smoking craters before they even got a shot off. Chainswords whined, power blades blurring, ripping through Tarellian muscle and bone like hot knives through butter. The red tide broke, faltered, shattered. Tarellians went down screaming, yelping, dissolving into bloody, smoking piles of xenos-crap.

Paladins weren't slacking either. Volkite weapons hummed, spitting those green-death energy beams that turned xenos flesh to ash in micro-seconds. Milor added his own two-bits, plasma pistol barking in his hand, spitting superheated death across the corridor. Splinter rounds and las-pulses pinged off his grey power armor – like fragging raindrops on a tank hull, barely even registered through the ceramite and adamantium. Return fire? Yeah, his return fire was a little more…persuasive. Plasma bolts slammed into the red tide, vaporizing Tarellians, turning Loxatl scales into smoking goo, leaving smoking craters where xenos torsos used to be. Good weapon, plasma pistol. Always reliable. Always messy as hell.

Splinter shard whizzed past his helmet, close enough to make the auto-senses flicker. Another one smacked into his shoulder plate, ceramite armor shrugging it off like it was a goddamn mosquito bite. Annoying, but not exactly life-threatening. But the xenos fire was getting thicker. Red tide might be breaking, but the Drukhari elites? They were dug in, spitting darklight pulses and monomolecular shurikens, making things…uncomfortable.

One of the Drukhari elites – a Wych, maybe? Sleek black armour, all spikes and blades, moving with that unnatural xenos grace – decided she'd had enough of the golden freaks. Decided Milor and the Paladins looked like softer targets. Smart xenos. Relatively speaking, anyway. Bad choice, dumbass xenos. She charged. Monomolecular blade shimmering in her hand, moving faster than any baseline human could track, xenos grin splitting her face, sharp teeth glinting under the corridor lights. Showtime.

She came in fast, monomolecular blade a silver blur, aimed for his throat. Amateur move. Milor met her blade with his own power sword, ceramite-steel ringing against monomolecular edge in a shower of sparks. Wasn't no fragging swordsman prodigy, not like Casper, the fancy-pants pretty-boy. But Milor knew how to swing a goddamn sword. Knew how to fight dirty. Knew how to win. Against this Wych? Compared to Milor, she was clumsy. Slow. Fancy footwork and xenos-twirling blades were for arenas and pain-shows. This was a fragging kill-zone. No room for fancy. Just kill

"Mon'keigh pig," she hissed, her voice like glass on bone.

"Pig's gotta eat," Milor grunted.

She was fast. Blur-fast. But he'd sparred with Casper in the brawling pits, fought the Saint himself and lived. The Wych's blade danced, but Milor's sword was a piston—brutal, efficient, driving her back step by step. Her sneer faltered.

"No… art," she spat, parrying a blow that rattled her wrists.

"Art's for galleries."

He feinted left, then shot her in the face with his plasma pistol.

Her shocked expression as the bolt vaporized her upper body was almost comical. What had she expected? Some fancy duel? A chance to prove herself superior? Maybe she thought he'd be impressed by her acrobatics or her flashy blade work. Foolish. She died like every other xeno who crossed his path—quickly, brutally, and without ceremony. The body crumpled, blade clattering. Milor kicked it aside. "Should've brought friends."

By the time he holstered his pistol, the hallway was already a charnel house. Bodies lay strewn everywhere, some reduced to ash by the Paladins' volkite weapons, others torn apart by the Custodes' relentless assault. Blood pooled on the floor, mingling with melted armor and shattered bone. The air stank of burnt flesh and ozone, thick enough to choke on. And yet, despite the carnage, the Custodes stood untouched. Immaculate. Their cloaks hung perfectly still, their black-and-gold armor gleaming as though freshly polished. Even the Paladins looked rougher in comparison, their white armor scorched and dented from stray shots and close calls.

One of the golden giants glanced at the Wych's corpse, then at Milor. "Practical," he rumbled.

"Had a teacher," Milor said, reloading his pistol power pack.

The Custodes tilted his helm—approval? mockery? —before moving on.

Milor spat on the deck. The Saint's gift still itched, unsatisfied. Too many sins, not enough time. He followed the killers deeper into the ship, his boots crunching over xenos bones.

The Paladins fell in behind him, volkites glowing like righteous fireflies.

The screams didn't stop. Not for hours. Not for miles.

Every corridor bled into the next, a kaleidoscope of xeno guts and shattered armor. The Whispering Doom's innards twisted like a gutted serpent, its walls slick with fluids that hissed when they hit the deck. Milor's boots squelched through it all, his plasma pistol searing holes in the dark. Three Paladins were gone now. Three kids in white plate who'd laughed at his underhive jokes last week. Reduced to ash and echoes.

But the Custodes? They didn't slow. Didn't bleed. Just carved deeper, their blackened armor drinking the ship's sickly light.

"Again!" Sergeant Veyra barked, her voice raw from chanting litanies.

Again.

Another ambush. More red-skinned Tarellians, more Loxatl skittering on clawed feet. More Drukhari elites with eyes like broken glass and sins so thick Milor's gift buzzed like a hive in his skull. He didn't need the Saint's power to know these bastards deserved burning. Their crimes hung in the air—reek of charred villages, screams of children sold to Haemonculi, planets stripped to bone.

The Custodes hurled another vial. Neon-orange liquid splashed the bulkhead, its glow screaming as it ate through the door. The metal bubbled, froze, then shattered into shards that shredded the xenos behind it. One shard lodged in Milor's thigh. He yanked it out, blood sizzling as his enhancements sealed the wound.

"Fething alchemy," he muttered

The bridge doors blew inward.

Volkite fire lit the room emerald. Custodes bolters thundered, their mass-reactive shells turning Drukhari into pink mist. Milor's gift painted targets—crimson smears in the gloom—and he fired, plasma melting a corsair's smirk before it could become a threat.

Then he saw him.

The Archon stood at the room's heart, a nightmare in obsidian. His armor glistened like oil, left hand replaced by a clawed prosthetic that dripped venom. But it wasn't the claw that froze Milor's breath. It was the aura.

Centuries of sins boiled around the xeno—not just torture or piracy, but something colder. Calculated. Battlefields razed not for profit, but joy. Cities drowned in phosphex just to watch them burn. Milor's gift howled, demanding justice. His finger twitched on the plasma pistol's trigger.

The Archon moved.

A blur. A flicker. One second he was across the room; the next, his claw slashed at a Custodes' throat. The golden giant sidestepped, casual as a man swatting a fly, and backhanded the Archon into a console. Metal crumpled. Sparks rained.

The Archon rose from the wreckage of the console, his obsidian armor crackling with malice. His claw twitched, venom dripping like liquid hate. Milor felt the gift squirm in his skull, hungry, insistent. It wanted out. It wanted him.

"Finish it," the Custodes repeated, already gutting a Drukhari who'd lunged from the shadows. Their spear moved like it had a mind of its own—a golden blur, a butcher's punchline. He didn't need to be asked twice. Orders were orders, and frankly, the less time spent breathing the same recycled air as these Dark Eldar freaks, the better. Besides, Custodes weren't exactly known for their bedside manner. Or any manner at all, really, beyond 'efficient application of force.'

An Incubus leapt at Milor, blade singing. The Custodes didn't even turn. A bolter shell from their spear caught the xeno mid-air, vaporizing everything above the waist. The legs stumbled another step before collapsing.

Milor grinned. Showoffs.

The Archon, started to pick himself up off the deck. Custodes had backhanded him hard enough to rearrange his pointy features, but the xeno was nothing if not persistent. Spit a mouthful of something black and nasty, eyes burning with enough hate to power a small void-ship. All theatrical rage and Dark Eldar melodrama. But Milor wasn't buying the show. Not tonight. Too late in the shift for xeno opera.

His aura pulsed—a black hole of sins so dense it made Milor's teeth ache. Torture. Genocide. Planets burned for the sound of screaming atmospheres. The gift roared.

Punish.

Milor stopped fighting it.

Lightning ripped through his veins. Not metaphor. Actual lightning, blue-white and vicious, arcing from his fingertips. The Saint's power didn't ask. It took. Took his breath, his pulse, his sanity, and funneled it into a single white-hot truth:

Justice.

The Archon froze. For a heartbeat, his sneer held. Then his eyes widened.

Milor's gift didn't just hurt. It unmade.

Every sin, every scream the xeno had ever carved into the galaxy flooded back into him. Amplified. Refined. The Archon's knees hit the deck, his claw scrabbling at his helm. A sound tore from his throat—not a scream. A wail. Pleasure-pain, pain-pleasure, a feedback loop of sensation that melted his mind like wax. Blood bubbled from his nose, his ears, his pores.

"Y…yes…" the Archon gasped, shuddering. "M…more…"

Milor stepped closer. The gift burned hotter. "You like that, huh? Here's your fething more."

The xeno's back arched, his body seizing as synapses fried. His lieutenants—slick-haired Drukhari with eyes like broken mirrors—collapsed next, their minds shredded by the backwash of Milor's wrath. One clawed at her face, laughing. Another tore out his own tongue.

The Custodes watched, silent. Their spears dealt cleaner deaths to the last two xenos—decapitation, bisection. Mercy, compared to this.

When it was done, the bridge stank of burnt ozone and voided bowels. The Archon's corpse slumped, face frozen in rapture. His lieutenants looked like dolls dropped from orbit.

Milor sagged, the gift retreating like a tide of broken glass. His hands shook. His vision swam. He spat, tasting copper.

Milor gauged the psychic aftershocks rippling through the Whispering Doom. Void combat was a vast, cold emptiness, distances swallowing up most of the blast, but raw, untamed psychic force, especially something this… personal, had reach. It had teeth. Enough to leave the rest of the knife-ears rattled, nerves frayed, trigger fingers just a little less steady. Admiral Lorena's cleanup operation? Still going to be a grind, but maybe, just maybe, a shade less bloody. Small mercies in this godforsaken galaxy. You took them when you could get them.

The Custodes advanced, auramite boots crunching on the deck plating. Didn't bother to step around the corpses. Drukhari, Tarellian scum, some other xenos miscellany – just speed bumps on the way to a target. The bridge was a charnel house, a testament to what happens when pretty-boy knife-ears try to play hardball with the Emperor's finest. One of the four Custodes – indistinguishable, really, behind all that gold plate and grim purpose – paused beside what was left of the Archon.

Didn't even glance down at the mess. Just reached out a gauntleted hand, pulled some kind of gizmo from a hip-pouch. Looked like a polished obsidian orb, humming faintly. He held it over the xeno-puddle, and the damn thing drank the Archon. One second, puddle of alien goo and shredded pride. Next second, nothing. Orb swallowed it whole. Trophy? Maybe. Or maybe just Imperial tidiness. Custodes weren't big on leaving messes.

The same Custodes turned to Milor, finally acknowledging his existence. "Do your senses reveal anything left of the Archon?" Voice like a vox-caster set to low growl. No wasted words. Ever.

Milor took a beat, let his Gift stretch out, probe the psychic residue clinging to the air like xeno-reek. "No," he said, concise as the Custodes themselves. "Nothing. If there's any flicker of self-awareness left in that mess, it's beyond my pay grade to find it." Scanned the area after he'd unloaded on the Archon, standard procedure. Psychic equivalent of kicking a corpse to make sure it's really dead. Nope. Nothing sentient enough to cause trouble, nothing for his Gift to judge. Just… gone. Like a popped blister on the backside of reality.

"Good." The Custodes grunted, the sum total of their approval. Giants of gold and grim efficiency. Rarely spoke more syllables than absolutely necessary. Efficient in conversation as they were in combat. Another Custodes, slightly taller maybe, or maybe they just all looked the same at this point, approached the Sentinel. "We have confirmation," this one rumbled, vox-grill amplifying the basso profundo. "Objective Tertius is cornered in Sylfax." No preamble, no 'by your leave'. Just straight to business.

The first Custodes, the one who'd done the Archon-orb trick, turned back to Milor. "Can you do one more?" As if asking about the weather. As if 'one more' psychic smiting was like ordering another round of recaff.

Milor considered it. One more? "Sure," he said, keeping it casual. "Won't be fit for much after, though." The Gift wasn't free. Saint Michael's blessing came with a price tag, and the heavier the punishment dished out, the steeper the bill. The Archon had been a walking, talking void of sin, a psychic black hole. Wringing justice out of that had cost him. Facing another like it, back-to-back? Pushing the envelope. But then again… Michael's Left Hand of Justice, wasn't he? Saint's chosen enforcer of righteous pain. Couldn't exactly plead fatigue when the Emperor's errand boys came calling. Couldn't falter when the galaxy was knee-deep in scum needing a good smiting.

"You won't need to be." The Custodes' reply was flat, final. And suddenly, it clicked. Of the sixteen targets they'd been handed, this Sylfax gig was the last viable one. End of the line. For this little crusade, anyway. In the grim darkness, there was always another crusade brewing.

"Okay," Milor said, rubbing a hand over his face, feeling the psychic burn behind his eyes. "Sylfax it is. How are we getting there? Time's a factor, yeah?" Sylfax system was fifty-two light-years distant, standard charts. No teleportarium tech he knew of could bridge that kind of void-span. Unless…

Right on cue, reality shimmered. Next to him, the air itself seemed to… unzip. Tore open in a perfect circle, edges blurring like heat-haze, shimmering like disturbed water. Center of the circle was pure, unadulterated black. Void made manifest. Milor groaned inwardly. Huron. Of course. Custodes had comms with the Astral Claws Chapter Master, Huron of the Gate himself. And Huron, arrogant son-of-a-bitch, loyalist or not, had just punched a hole in spacetime for them. Because he could. Because the Saint had gifted him the impossible. Because Huron of the Gate didn't do 'impossible'.

The wards woven into his Stirpe Imperialis, the ancient blessings humming beneath his skin – they promised relative safety. 'Safe-ish' was the best you got when you started messing with the Warp. But to his Gift, that portal wasn't 'safe-ish'. It was a raw, screaming wound in reality itself. A psychic nerve-ending exposed to the howling chaos beyond. Just looking at it made his teeth ache.

Felt like the Warp was whispering promises – power, forbidden knowledge, things that glittered in the darkness. No. Dangerous thoughts. Stray thoughts. He slammed the psychic blast doors, locked them down tight. He knew the risks. Knew the temptations. And he knew, cold and hard in his gut, this Warp-breach, this shortcut through hell, was the express lane to Sylfax. Express lane to the next target. Express lane to getting the damn job done.

He moved towards the swirling blackness, boots heavy, Custodes flanking him like golden sentinels. Ten Paladins, bolters ready, moved to follow. Orb-Custodes raised a gauntleted hand. Stopped them cold.

"Join your brothers," the Custodes voxed, voice still flat, still devoid of anything resembling human warmth. "Purge the Whispering Doom of remaining xeno filth." A beat. A flicker. Maybe, just maybe, a hint of… something. Pragmatism? Dismissiveness? Hard to tell with Custodes. "We will ensure his… transit."

And with that, Milor stepped into the void. Into the screaming darkness. Into Huron's Gate. Because Michael's Left Hand didn't second-guess. He went where he was ordered. And he didn't flinch. Even when every fiber of his being screamed bloody murder.

---

"For three long years the Maelstrom Zone was awash in fire and fury. Amid the ceaseless rebellions and the xeno raids that tested the mettle of the Imperial Guard and the steadfast Navy, material support alone had kept the embattled forces of the Imperium from total collapse. Yet, in the fourth year of this interminable conflict, Saint Michael—known amongst the faithful as the Chosen of the Emperor—crossed the threshold into the very heart of the Maelstrom. His corporeal form, once shielded by the sanctified technologies of the Imperium, strode boldly into the tempest, as though led by a vision from the Emperor. It was said that the heavens themselves darkened in reverence and that the swirling vortex of destruction was momentarily silenced by his passage, heralding a new era of divine intervention on the field of war."

— Excerpt from "The Tempest's Threshold," Inquisitor Marcellus Dray of the Ordo Xenos

The command bunker reeked of stale recaf, burnt wiring, and the sour tang of men who hadn't slept in weeks. Abrar Ratzeimer leaned over the hololith, its flickering blue glow etching trenches into his face. The projections swam—troop movements across Warzone 11, casualty reports blinking like infected wounds, the jagged scar of Gorgrim Skulldrum's Waaagh chewing through systems. He rubbed his eyes. Three years in the Maelstrom, and the air still tasted like ash and arrogance.

Shouldn't be here, he thought. Not like this. Not Marshal.

Lord Marshal. Still tasted like ash in his mouth. Felt like wearing someone else's skin. Colonel had been fine. Colonel was earned. Lord Marshal? That was just what happened when the Orks chewed through the command structure like a Catachan Devil through some poor bastard's rations. Turgnakh Skullrend's Waaagh… that green tide had been a career opportunity, alright. Just not the kind anyone sane actually wanted.

He'd gotten the promotion, sure. Even managed to put down the greenskin warboss. Officially, anyway. Truth was, it'd been Casper, that unnervingly calm kid who babysat the Saint, who'd actually carved the Ork into manageable chunks. Ratzeimer had just… pointed him in the right direction. Drew up the plans. Set the stage. Casper had been the damn executioner. But High Command needed a hero for the pict-feeds, something to plaster across the propaganda vids and holos.

So, naturally, the story got… massaged. Ratzeimer, the tactical genius, the infallible mastermind who'd outplayed the Ork menace. Casper? 'Good sword arm.' That was the official line. Kid had taken it surprisingly well, actually. Shrugged it off with an easy grin, then vanished into the void, reassigned by Saint's orders to some other festering hellhole in the Maelstrom. Funny how the real heroes always got rotated to the worst sectors.

A vox-officer coughed behind him, spitting phlegm into a ration tin. "Signal from the 7th Cadian, sir. Holding the line at Korsk Delta. For now."

Abrar grunted. Cadians. The only ones who didn't need their hands held. The rest? Pallid PDF conscripts from agri-worlds, hive gangers shoved into uniforms, even a few Paladin legions strutting around in their snow-white plate like they owned the war. Halfway reliable. The other half? Cannon fodder with delusions of sainthood.

The hololith pulsed. Gorgrim's horde surged like a green tsunami across the eastern front. Warbosses didn't learn. They just got bigger. Meaner. Turgnakh Skullrend had been a runt compared to this. Abrar's jaw tightened. He could still see Casper, carving through Turgnakh's bodyguards like they were papier-mâché. High Command had scrubbed the kid from the reports, turned Abrar into some tactical genius. Like he'd wanted that promotion. Like he'd asked to babysit a hundred million souls while the Deathwatch played peekaboo with Ork patrols.

See, High Command, bless their strategium-addled hearts, had decided that since Ratzeimer had done such a bang-up job with Turgnakh – a 'bang-up job' mostly involving staying alive while Casper did the heavy lifting – he was just the man to handle the next Ork warboss. Gorgrim Skulldrum. Mentioned the name and you could practically hear the vox-operators flinch.

Turgnakh had been a goddamn gnat compared to this monster. A greenfly buzzing around a hive world. Skulldrum… Skulldrum was a force of nature. Incompetence, maybe. Complacency, definitely. Or just the cold, hard reality of fighting Orks – whatever the reason, Skulldrum's Waaagh had metastasized. Spread like a damn plague across twenty-odd planets, twelve-star systems. Fighting a greenskin empire, not just a raid.

"Sir?" The vox-officer again, holding out a dataslate. "Legio Xerxes confirms deployment. They're… eager."

Abrar snorted. Titans. Walking cathedrals with egos to match. "Tell 'em to save the sermons for the Orks."

He stalked to the viewport, boots crunching on spent lho-sticks. Outside, the sky burned. Anti-air tracers stitched the clouds, and somewhere beyond the smog, Mantis Warriors drop pods streaked like falling knives. The Deathwatch? Ghosts. They'd hit a fuel depot on Vorsk III last week, left a mountain of Ork skulls spelling REPENT in High Gothic. No heads-up. No after-action reports. Just a void comms snippet from some Blackshield with a voice like gravel: "Done."

Abrar missed the simplicity of Cadia. Missed the Blackstone, the clear lines of defense. Here, the front was a festering wound, oozing across star systems.

"Marshal!" A junior officer—pale, shaking, not Cadian—saluted too sharply. "The Paladin legions request permission to spearhead the next assault. They cite the Saint's—"

"Denied." Abrar didn't turn. "Put 'em on the western flank. Let them pray the Orks get bored."

The officer hesitated. "But sir, their commander insists—"

"Insist this." Abrar finally looked at him, and the kid flinched. "Cadians hold the line. Paladins play hero. Titans stomp anything left. That's the dance. Now get out."

The vox crackled. A new signal, encrypted. Deathwatch.

Abrar opened the channel.

"Skulldrum's Mekboy convoy. Grid Sigma-Nine. Burning now."

The line died.

He stared at the coordinates. Sigma-Nine was a gutted refinery, swarming with Ork trucks. A distraction? A trap? Didn't matter. The Deathwatch didn't make requests.

"Get me the 23rd Armored," Abrar barked. "And tell the Paladins… they want glory? Sigma-Nine's all theirs."

The vox-officer blinked. "But sir, that's—"

"Move."

The bunker went live. Like someone had just kicked over a hornet's nest wired to a promethium generator. Comms-officers yelling, vox-casters spitting static, adjutants sprinting with data-slates clutched like lifelines. Ratzeimer leaned back into the noise, the stink of ozone and recycled air, the goddamn endless chaos of a war that just wouldn't quit. Comfortable chaos, in a grim sort of way. Familiar. At least it was doing something, which was more than could be said for the last few weeks of grinding attrition.

Then the air shifted. Subtle, almost subliminal. Like the pressure had just dropped a fraction, or the static charge in the air had suddenly spiked. Something changed. And then the vox-channels, every damn one of them, slammed shut. Dead air. For a heartbeat, maybe two. Then they all crackled back to life, not with the usual babble of reports and orders, but with a single voice. A voice Ratzeimer knew, even if he'd only ever heard it booming out of propaganda pict-vids.

"Boys and girls, the cavalry is here." Saint Michael. The Imperium's latest miracle act, piped directly into his command bunker. Even through the vox-distortion, the sheer force of the man's voice hit you like a physical blow. Not just loud. Something else. Authority. Conviction. Certainty. And yeah, Ratzeimer had to admit it, even his old, scar-tissue heart gave a goddamn twitch of… something. Hope? Maybe. "So, prepare for mop up," the Saint's voice rolled on, that same undercurrent of absolute faith thrumming beneath the words. "Few minutes, Gorgrim's going to be history."

The sky outside, usually a churning soup of smoke and tracer-fire, decided to put on a goddamn light show. A star, a burning white hole in the smog, ripped open the gloom. Swallowed the smoke, swallowed the fire, swallowed the goddamn night. Blinded you if you looked at it too long, even through the reinforced viewport. And even from this distance, even through the viewport's polarized filters, Ratzeimer could see the trails of burning wreckage raining down.

Ork fliers. Hundreds of them. Just… popping. Like clay pigeons at a high-society shooting party. Vox-channels went ballistic again, this time with a chorus of ecstatic reports. Airspace clear. Planetary airspace, every sector, every grid, suddenly, miraculously, theirs.

Ratzeimer blinked, trying to process the sudden sensory overload. The light, the noise, the sheer… impossibility of it all. And then he noticed something else. Something personal. The dull, constant throb in his cybernetic leg, the phantom ache behind his bionic eye… gone. Vanished. The background hum of pain, the low-level misery that had been his constant companion for years, just… switched off. Area where metal met flesh, usually a symphony of dull aches and phantom itches, was… quiet. Still. Felt… almost normal

He squinted at the viewport, tracking the burning star as it descended, arcing down towards the horizon. Beyond the bunker's reinforced plasteel, beyond the smoke-choked sky, he knew the reports, that was where the Gargants of the Waaagh were locked in a titanic struggle with Legio Titanica Xerxes. Now, with the Saint's intervention, it seemed that conflict was about to reach its climax.

Then the mountains in the distance just… erupted. Not a series of explosions. One. Massive. Like some bored god had just flicked a macro-cannon shell the size of a hab-block into the Ork lines. A plume of smoke and fire mushroomed into the sky, blotting out what little was left of the manufactured daylight. Seconds later, the shockwave hit. Rolled over the bunker like a physical tide, rattled the reinforced walls, shook the deck plating under his boots. Even knocked a couple of junior officers off their feet. Thunder cracked overhead, fire rained down.

Not metaphorical fire. Literal fire. White-gold fire that clung to everything it touched, that burned with an unnatural, almost… holy intensity. Orks screamed. Not just the usual 'WAAAGH' battle-cries. Real screams. Agony. Terror. Dying screams. Flying drone-feeds flickered across the holo-projectors, showing the carnage in real-time. Entire Ork warbands engulfed in white-gold flames. Battlewagons ripped open by bolts of azure lightning, Stompas toppling like cheap toys. Wrath of the Emperor Manifest, alright. No emperor damned subtlety about it. Ratzeimer watched the cataclysm unfold, the sheer, casual power the Saint had just unleashed, and felt a cold, professional awe settle in his gut. This wasn't just turning the tide. This was drowning the greenskin tide in a goddamn tsunami of holy fire.

Then the WAAAGH hit. Not just the roar of it, the guttural, brain-rattling noise. Something else. A psychic shockwave, a green tide of pure Ork will that slammed into the bunker, rattled the teeth in your skull, and made the very air vibrate. Defiance. That's what it was. A greenskin bellow of pure, unadulterated frack you hurled across the battlefield, spitting in the face of physics, logic, and anything remotely resembling sanity. And it came from that. The mushroom cloud in the distance, the one still belching smoke and spores into the already poisoned air. Inside that toxic monstrosity, a green glow pulsed, obscene and vibrant, like a festering wound in the night.

Didn't last. Couldn't last. Not against that. Then the second explosion ripped through the cloud. Bigger. Brighter. Cleaner. Like the first blast had been Ork-filth, and this one was… purifying. The mushroom cloud just… ceased. Vaporized. Wiped from existence. And the shockwave from this one… different. Not just force. Authority. It blasted the smoke apart, ripped holes in the smog-choked sky for kilometers in every direction, tore back the perpetual gloom and showed him something he hadn't seen in weeks. Stars. Actual, honest-to-Terra stars, burning cold and distant in a night sky suddenly, impossibly, clear. Clean air. Untainted air. On this godforsaken mudball. Miracle, plain and simple.

After that… the Orks just folded. Snapped. Crumbled like week-old rations. Broke and ran. Well, tried to run. Didn't matter. The same holy fire that had cleansed the sky, the same thunder that had shattered the Ork WAAAGH, they followed.

After that… Orks broke. Snapped like dry kindling. Tried to run. Pointless. The fire, the thunder, the wrath – it hunted them. And the world… the world turned.

"Seismic readings off the scale, Lord Marshal!" A vox-officer's voice, sharp, urgent, cutting through the command pit din. "Ground fracturing Sector Gamma-Nine! Ork formations… collapsing!"

"Water surge, Bravo-Seven!" Another voice, closer, an adjutant's, face pale even under the bunker lights. "Coastal defenses reporting… tidal wave, inland surge! Sweeping everything!"

"Wind shear, Epsilon-Four! Tornadoes forming, multiple vortexes! Ork air assets… shredded!"

The fire, the lightning, the Emperor's wrath – and now the elements themselves. Soldiers… they were moving. No need for Commissar barked orders. No need for threats.

"Regiments advancing on all fronts, Lord Marshal!" A Cadian vox-operator, voice tight with adrenaline, but something else too… awe? "Full advance, no… resistance!"

"Recruits… they're cheering, sir!" The adjutant again, almost breathless. "They're… laughing! I've never seen anything like it!"

Laughing. In a warzone. Ratzeimer almost didn't believe it. But then, he saw the drone-feeds flickering across the holo-projectors. Entire Ork warbands engulfed in white-gold fire. Battlewagons ripped open by lightning. Stompas toppling like scrap-heaps. And yeah… down in the vox-feed chatter, beneath the reports, beneath the orders, he could hear it. Faint at first, then growing. Laughter. Jubilation. Madness. Miracle-fueled frenzy.

"Sir, forward elements reporting… minimal Ork casualties inflicted by our forces!" The Cadian vox-officer again, disbelief edging into his tone. "Saint… Saint is doing… everything!"

"Confirmed sir! Ork kill-count… negligible! The World… the world is doing the killing!" The adjutant, voice rising, almost hysterical. "It's… it's a goddamn miracle, sir!"

Miracle. Yeah. No other word for it. Ratzeimer watched the feeds, listened to the reports, the sheer, casual power of it all. His men… they were spectators. Witnesses to something… beyond war. Beyond anything he'd ever seen, ever imagined. This wasn't just victory. This was… divine judgment. The greenskin tide, drowning in holy fire, swallowed by the very planet they'd tried to defile. And all Ratzeimer had to do was… watch.

Ratzeimer turned towards the armaglass, the polarized viewport of the command pit. Something had caught his eye. A flicker of light on the horizon. At first, just a faint golden glimmer, distant, almost ethereal. Then it started moving. Coming closer, and fast. Too fast for a flyer, too direct for orbital drop. Missile? Weapon? Maybe. But there was something… different about this light. Too clean. Too… pure. He doubted anything Ork could manage that kind of radiance. And if it was a weapon, some new, Emperor-knows-what kind of holy ordnance aimed right at them… well, who was he to argue with divine judgment? If the Emperor wanted to vaporize them all, standing here gawking wasn't going to change the plan.

Heartbeat later, the glimmer was a glare. A nova of pure, untainted gold, blazing across the sky, swallowing the distance in heartbeats. And then it was there. Right outside the viewport. Filling the armaglass, bathing the command pit in light so intense it felt physical, like standing too close to a plasma furnace.

First glimpse of the Saint. And the rest of the world just… stopped. Ratzeimer's body went into automatic, reflexes honed by decades of parade-ground drill and combat protocols kicking in without conscious thought. Down. Kneeling. Forehead angled towards the deck plating. Didn't even register making the decision. Just happened. Around him, the scrape of chairs skidding across ferrocrete, the thud of knees hitting the deck. Every officer, every vox-operator, every tech-adept in the command pit, all hitting the deck, hard and fast. Instinct. Reverence. Survival. All tangled up together.

And the light… primordial. That was the only word for it. Bathed them, caressed them, permeated them. Felt like… coming home. Like something buried deep in the human soul, some ancestral memory of… better things, had just been reawakened. Warmth without heat, light without glare, power without threat. Something ancient, something… good. Even Ratzeimer, old cynic, scarred veteran, felt a tremor of it. Felt something loosen in his chest, something he hadn't realized was clenched tight in the first place.

Then the armaglass… yielded as the Saint stepped through. Not shattered, not broken. Parted. Like water flowing around an obstacle, rippling outwards, distorting the light for a moment, then… gone. Just… open. Hole in reality where solid plasteel viewport had been. Then, just as suddenly, it was back. Ripples fading, armaglass reforming, solid, seamless, viewport once more capable of withstanding direct artillery hits. Least of the Saint's miracles, probably. Showmanship, maybe. Didn't matter. Ratzeimer barely registered it. Too busy trying to process the man standing in front of them.

Saint Michael. Stepped straight out of some goddamn illuminated manuscript. Taller than any man had a right to be, pushing seven feet easy, maybe more. Black hair, cropped short, almost a military buzz-cut, but not quite. Something… finer about it. Like a Tempestus Scion's regulation cut, but somehow… better. Eyes… gold. Pure, molten gold. And in them… something unexpected. Something Ratzeimer wouldn't have predicted in a being who'd just casually unraveled a Waaagh the size of a small sector.

Kindness. Not weakness. Not softness. Kindness. Underlying the power, the authority, the sheer presence. Facial features… sharp. Clean lines, almost sculpted. Not conventionally beautiful, not in some soft, pampered courtier way. But… regal. Yeah, that was the word. Regal. Memorable. The kind of face you didn't forget. The kind of face that belonged on a goddamn monument.

From his back… wings. Not feathered, not biological. Wings of light. White fire and pure gold interwoven, shifting, shimmering, blurring the line between flame and radiance. Hard to tell where fire ended and light began. And the rest of him… covered in armor. But not armor, armor. Ethereal. Transparent scales of golden light, shimmering like heat haze, barely obscuring what lay beneath. And beneath that… something else entirely.

Armor again, but… solid. Black metal, unlike anything Ratzeimer had ever seen. Shaped like… muscles. Like a body sculpted from night itself. And in between the black metallic fibers, light again. Gold and green this time, pulsing, flowing, like living energy coursing through veins of shadow-steel. Unique. Yeah, that was an understatement. Unique armor for a unique Saint. A being who seemed to defy every goddamn category, every ingrained Imperial preconception.

"Please," the Saint said. One word. And the command pit went silent. Utterly, completely silent. Even the vox-static seemed to hush itself. "Stand." Voice… powerful. Resonant. Carrying the weight of worlds, the authority of empires. But… yeah. Underneath the power, the command, there it was again. That undercurrent. Softness. Kindness. Hard to reconcile with the goddamn firestorm he'd just unleashed on the Orks. Hard to square with the casual, effortless power radiating off him in waves. But it was there. Undeniable. Saint Michael. Wrath of the Emperor made flesh. And… something else. Something almost… human. Almost.

"My Lord," Ratzeimer started, voice stiff, parade-ground formal. Had to be him. Commanding officer, that was the job. Burden of command, burden of speaking first. Even if it meant risking a divine bollocking from a Living Saint. Wrath of the Emperor was one thing, personal wrath of a being who could casually rearrange planetary weather patterns? Yeah, different league entirely. "How may we serve?" Standard Imperial boilerplate. Polite, subservient, and utterly inadequate for the situation.

Saint Michael turned, that golden light somehow dimming as he focused on the command pit staff. Like a star deciding to be… considerate. "Keep up your good work." Simple words. Utterly, ridiculously simple. But the way he said it… different. Something in the tone, in the almost… gentle cadence of his voice. Kindness. Yeah, that was the word for it. Kindness radiating off a being who could probably vaporize a continent with a stray thought. And it hit them all. Hit the whole damn command pit like a low-yield psychic grenade. Every officer, every tech-adept, every battle-hardened Cadian veteran in the room, snapping to attention, salutes crisp enough to crack ceramite. Something about that kindness, that soft-spoken authority… it just worked. More effective than any Commissar's threats, any parade-ground bellowing. Made you want to earn that kindness. Made you want to prove you were worthy of it. Damn sight more motivating than fear, that was for sure.

"Lord Marshal, please join me." Saint's voice, turning back to Ratzeimer, still that same blend of power and… gentleness. He was already moving, heading towards one of the command pit exits. Ratzeimer knew the layout, knew that door led to the open training field, the pockmarked expanse they used for demolitions and heavy weapons drills. Of course the Saint knew. Probably knew the layout of every latrine on the goddamn base. "There are a few things I need to discuss with you personally."

"Of course, Lord Michael." Ratzeimer nodded, stiffly, trying to project 'official business as usual' even as his brain was still trying to process 'Living Saint just walked into my command bunker'. Tried to keep his face neutral, unflustered. Cadian discipline, kicking in again. Years of training, years of ingrained stoicism. Didn't want to look like some awestruck fanboy in front of the Emperor's Chosen.

They walked. Silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the crunch of their boots on the ferrocrete corridor. Saint Michael moved with a… fluidity. Grace, almost. Not something you expected from a being who could casually throw around planet-killing levels of firepower. Reached the exit, the blast doors hissing open at the Saint's approach, revealing the training field beyond. Large, scarred, cratered. Testament to decades of ordnance testing, decades of blowing shit up in the name of Imperial preparedness. No one followed them. Command pit staff knew the drill. Saint wanted private time with the Lord Marshal? Saint got private time. No questions asked. Not after that miracle. Not after seeing the sky burn and the earth itself rise up against the Orks. Blasphemy to even consider interrupting.

They stopped at the edge of the field, the Saint turning to face the horizon. Ratzeimer followed his gaze, out towards the distant mountains, still wreathed in smoke, still echoing with the muted rumbles of thunder. Nature itself, still flexing its muscles, still chewing on the remnants of the Ork Waaagh. Felt… surreal. Like the world had just taken a deep, cleansing breath after being choked by greenskin filth for too long.

Then the Saint spoke. Silence broken, words drifting on the still air. "Casper has high praises for you." Voice… still that strange blend. Power and kindness, authority and… something almost… colloquial. Felt like something a high-ranking officer might say planetside, back on Cadia, after a successful exercise. Except, you know, spoken by a being with wings of light and armor of shadow.

"It was… a decision taken by High Command," Ratzeimer started, stiff, bureaucratic reflex. Propaganda. Image spin. Downplaying Casper. Uplifting him. Standard Imperial… dance. Started to explain, to justify, to… well, to spin. Cut short by a sound utterly out of place, utterly unexpected.

A chuckle. Quiet, almost… normal. Saint Michael turned, golden eyes locking onto Ratzeimer's. "He does not resent you for that." Direct. Cutting through the layers, the bullshit, the ingrained Imperial game. "He fights not for glory." Pause. Head tilted, hint of… something. Amusement?

"And stop being so stiff, Lord Marshal." Michael's lips quirked. "I've spent enough time in trenches to know how soldiers really speak."

Abrar's spine straightened on reflex. "With respect, my Lord—soldiers don't get vaporized for disrespecting a Living Saint."

"Try me."

The challenge hung, light as a grenade pin. Abrar's remaining eye narrowed. The Saint stood relaxed, hands clasped behind his back, wings reduced to embers. No halo. No radiance. Just… a man. Taller, brighter, but a man.

Abrar lit a lho-stick, the flame trembling. "Fine. Why here? Why drag your golden ass to this festering mudball?"

Michael's grin widened. "You're here."

"So just 'cause Casper spoke highly of me?" Abrar's voice was gravel, his augmetic eye narrowing to a slit.

Michael's grin didn't waver. "Not just. Rhaj didn't."

Abrar's gut clenched. Rhaj. Leader of the Stirpes Imperialis. The kind of hardcase that made Cadians look like dilettantes. If Rhaj didn't like you… "The Bishop's been poking his nose into my business too, has he?" He pictured Rhaj's face, grim and he wondered what the old bastard had dug up, or more likely, invented to dislike about him.

"Call it… oversight." The Saint's wings dimmed, their light leaching into the smoke-choked air. "He thinks you're reckless. Too eager to die like a grunt."

Abrar snorted. "Casper agree?"

"He thinks it's admirable." Michael stepped closer, boots crunching spent shell casings. "I think you're a Colonel playing dress-up as a Lord Marshal."

The words hit like a sucker punch. Abrar's fist clenched, the lho-stick crumpling in his grip. Ash spilled like corpse-dust. "Not cut for this," he growled. "Don't know how."

"Secret, Marshal." Michael's voice dropped, conspiratorial, almost human. "None of us do. Not farmers. Not High Lords. Not even saints."

Abrar lit another lho, the flame reflecting in the Saint's molten eyes. "Farmers don't get billions killed if they fuck up."

"Fear's a trench, digs itself deeper the longer you stand still."" Michael said "You've got a good head screwed on, Cadia taught you right. You know how to delegate, you know how to pick the right bastards for the job, and most importantly," he jabbed a finger at Abrar's chest, hard enough to make him flinch, "you know what you don't know. That's half the battle right there. Ask the questions. Trust the experts. Let them do their damn jobs."

The field shuddered—distant artillery, or the planet laughing. Abrar's cyberleg sparked. "Why push me? You could melt this sector to glass with a thought."

"The Imperium needs butchers," Michael went on, voice smooth, too smooth, "but it starves for commanders who know the goddamn cost. And while I might be able to win any single brawl I wade into, Abrar… I can't be everywhere at once. Mankind… they need their own damn paragons. Need somebody to stand up and shoulder the fucking weight of tomorrow. Not just me playing bloody hero."

Paragons. Vulcan on a flaming stick. Paragons. Abrar sucked on the lho-stick, smoke stinging his eyes and doing nothing for the knot of tension twisting tighter in his gut. Paragons were for stained-glass windows and Inquisitorial propaganda pamphlets. Out here, in the swirling shitstorm of the Maelstrom, paragons got you dead. Quick.

"I don't think I'm your man," Abrar finally ground out, the words tasting like ash. "Not cut from that cloth. Not like Casper, or Rhaj, or you. Hell, shouldn't even be wearing this damned uniform. Just the last dumb bastard standing after the officers got chewed up. High Command needed a warm body and a scapegoat all rolled into one."

Michael waved a hand dismissively. "Bullshit. You survived. Your men survived. That's the only ledger that matters in this war, Marshal."

"You survived," the Saint said, voice cutting through the smog. "Kept your men alive. That's what matters."

Abrar barked a laugh, sharp as a bayonet. "Casper did the cutting. Turkanah's skull's on his belt, not mine."

Memories flashed—Casper's blade shearing through Ork bone, the kid's face serene as a butcher at market. Not even thirty, Abrar thought. Terrifying.

"Casper kills." Michael's wings dimmed, shadows clotting the air. "You lead. Without your trap, he'd be carrion in that Waaagh."

"Maybe…" Abrar remembered the raw, animal fury in Casper's eyes, the almost casual grace with which he'd butchered greenskins by the score. He wasn't so damn sure about that last part. Casper felt… different. More than human, somehow.

"No 'maybe' about it. It was your trap, Ratzeimer. Your damn Cadian stubbornness and battlefield sense that let Casper do what he does best." Michael's eyes locked on Abrar's, hard, unyielding. "Accept it, Marshal. We all got our roles to play. You ain't Casper, fine. Casper ain't you, and thank the Emperor for small mercies. The Imperium needs both. Butchers and brains."

Abrar barked a harsh laugh, the sound devoid of humor, edged with something close to hysteria. "You don't take 'no' for an answer, do you? And you sure as hell don't ask for small favors." He was laughing, yeah, but it felt like the laughter of a condemned man on the scaffold.

"Nope." Michael's grin was back, wider than ever, almost predatory. "And I'm not asking you to do anything I wouldn't bloody well do myself. Neither of us gets to live for ourselves anymore, Marshal. We live and breathe for the Imperium. So some plow jockey on some agri-world can scratch his ass in peace, so some starry-eyed pilgrim can cross the galaxy in one piece, knowing that by the Emperor's will, bastards like us stand between them and the goddamn darkness out there."

"Melodramatic much?" Abrar scoffed, but the words felt hollow even to his own ears. Damn if there wasn't a spark of something resonating in his chest, something cold and hard and…Cadian. "So what's the price of this little… melodrama, then? What do you need me to do?"

"High Command'll find another meat grinder for you soon enough, Marshal. Just keep breathing, keep your men breathing, and make sure the other side stops. That's the day-to-day." Michael chuckled, a low, rumbling sound.

Abrar's leg spasmed, neural feedback razoring up his spine. He staggered, catching himself on a rusted demo charge casing. The Saint watched, golden eyes unblinking.

"You want the leg back?"

Abrar froze. His augmetic eye flickered, painting the Saint in fractured pixels. Not a man. Not a god. Something else.

"Full healing. Scars gone. Ink too." Michael gestured, light swirling around his fingers. "Clean slate."

Abrar's hand drifted to his chest, where Cadia's crest was tattooed over his heart. Faded ink, older than the Maelstrom rot. Scars gone. The shrapnel ridge on his shoulder from Vryks. The burn on his thigh from the Siege of Hive Gamma. All of it—gone.

"Why?" The word rasped out of him, rough, disbelieving. Too simple. Too easy. Felt like a goddamn trick.

"You're no use to me crippled." Saint's answer, blunt, practical. Utterly lacking in ceremony. Like he was talking about battlefield logistics, not divine intervention. "Need you at one hundred percent, Lord Marshal. Minimum."

Ratzeimer's laugh was a dry, whetstone rasp. Humorless, cynical. Cadian humor. "Cadia didn't need two legs to hold the line." Didn't need perfect lungs to breathe ash-choked air, didn't need unscarred flesh to bleed for the Emperor. Cadia needed bodies. Loyalty. Grit. Two legs, one leg, no legs at all – didn't matter, as long as you could still point your lasgun in the right direction.

"No, it didn't." Saint conceded the point, that unnervingly gentle kindness still in his eyes, even as he talked about battlefield efficiency. "But you will be holding more than Cadia on your shoulders now, Lord Marshal. You'll be holding Sectors." Sectors. Plural. Suddenly, the weight of it hit him. Not just this godforsaken planet, not just this Ork Waaagh. Something bigger. Something… else.

"You know what?" Ratzeimer shrugged, trying to sound casual, even though his gut was twisting with something he couldn't quite name. Awe? Disbelief? Maybe a sliver of… hope? "Sure. Do your healing thing. Whatever. Just… leave me the eye." Gestured to his bionic replacement, the cold, efficient click of servos in his skull. "It's better than the old one. Sharper. More… useful." Pragmatism. Always pragmatism. Even when facing down a miracle.

"I can do that." Saint nodded, simple agreement. Then he moved. Not physically moved, not really. More like… shifted. One blink, Saint Michael standing there, solid, real. Next blink… healed. Less than a second. No flash of light this time, no crackle of energy, no goddamn lightshow. Just… done. Felt it more than saw it. The subtle hum of the bionics in his leg just… ceased. Replaced by sensation. Warmth. Pressure. Flesh. Blood. His cybernetic leg, suddenly, impossibly, gone. Replaced by meat and bone and nerve endings firing back to life after decades of cold, unfeeling metal. Felt… wrong. And yet… undeniably, impossibly… right. Like a ghost limb finally remembering it was supposed to be there.

He stamped his foot, testing it. Ferrocrete rang under his heel. Solid. Stable. Felt… good. Better than good. Better than he'd felt in… Sanguinus, decades. Hundreds of tiny aches, phantom itches, stiffness in his joints, the constant low-grade thrum of pain that had been background noise for half his life… just gone. Vanished. All the accumulated damage, the wear and tear of decades of Imperial service, just… rewound. Like time itself had just shrugged and decided to give him a goddamn do-over.

"That was anticlimactic," he said, voice still raspy, but lighter now. Looser. Massaged his leg, fingers sinking into warm, living flesh where cold metal had been. Felt… strange. Unsettlingly strange. And yet… yeah. Revealing. Revealing in the fact that there was no longer cold, unyielding metal there, just… him. Warm flesh and blood. Human again. Or… human-ish

"Not everything has to be a lightshow, Lord Marshal." Saint grinned then, a flash of something genuinely… human across those sharp, almost sculpted features. "Though this next offer… might be a bit showy." Hint of something in his voice then. Something… knowing. Something that made Ratzeimer's gut clench again, this time with something that felt a lot like… anticipation. And maybe, just maybe, a flicker of something that could almost be called… excitement. Felt like standing on the edge of a goddamn precipice.

"What more?" he asked, keeping his voice flat, Cadian-stoic. Trying to sound like he was just asking about the goddamn weather, not about to be offered… what exactly?

"I can make you into a paragon." Saint's words hung in the air, heavy, resonant. "Take what's inside you, Lord Marshal. The… grit. The… fire. And elevate it. Amplify it. To new heights." Gestured vaguely, wings of light shifting behind him, casting flickering shadows across the pockmarked training field. "What it entails… only the Emperor truly knows. It will make you into… something more. Human still, yes. But… above the rest. To shoulder their burden, Lord Marshal. So it doesn't crush them."

Paragon. Elevate. Above the rest. Burden. Words… big words. Too big. Ratzeimer's Cadian pragmatism kicked in, instincts honed in a thousand command briefings screaming red flag, bullshit alert. "What's the catch?" he asked, voice still flat, still wary. "Do I sell you my soul? Sign over my firstborn? Start wearing robes and chanting hymns at sunrise?"

"No." Saint chuckled again, that same low, almost human sound. "I can only elevate, Lord Marshal. Not enslave. Not my style." A pause, a shift in tone, something hardening in those golden eyes. "But no, it's not a free lunch. This path… this elevation… it's based on who you are. On what you are. And should you betray it, Lord Marshal… should you betray yourself…" Voice dropped, went colder, sharper. "Well, let's just say it will have a fair bit more bite than just… depression." Just depression. Casual understatement hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken implications.

"I see." Ratzeimer did. Or… he was starting to. Something big. Something dangerous. Something… transformative. "And you think… this will help me keep my men alive?" Cut to the chase. Always cut to the goddamn chase. That was the Cadian way. That was all that mattered. Men under his command. Keeping them breathing. Bringing as many of them home as possible.

"It will not hurt, Lord Marshal." Saint's reply, carefully neutral. Deliberately understated. "Worst case scenario? You become a walking tank. High Command will be thrilled to get you back to the front lines. Guaranteed."

"But you don't think it's likely." Ratzeimer stated it, not a question. Reading between the lines, always reading between the goddamn lines. That was also the Cadian way.

"I am a good judge of people, Lord Marshal." Saint's eyes held his, steady, unwavering. "And I don't think your path… will involve becoming a breathing, living tank." A pause, a flicker of a smile, almost too quick to catch. "Sleep over it, Lord Marshal. Consider the offer. Tell me in the morning. My offer… will always be open to you."

"I don't need to."

Ratzeimer surprised himself. The words tumbled out, raw and certain, before he'd even thought them through.

"Don't need to sleep on it."

He looked straight at the Saint, forced himself to meet those damn golden eyes head-on. No flinching, no second-guessing. Cadian steel in his spine, even if his gut twisted like he'd just swallowed a live grenade.

"You're right," he said, voice firm despite the roaring in his skull. "I can't be selfish here. Can't refuse something that… might save my men."

A deep breath—his first in what felt like years without pain—filled his lungs. It was an old sensation, one he barely recognized. Strange how you got used to the ache, to the weight of exhaustion settling into your bones like it belonged there. But for the first time in too long, it was gone. A clarity cutting through the fog.

"So," he said, setting his feet, driving his heels into the cratered training ground as if planting roots. "Do we do this, then? Do we… become paragons?"

Saint Michael didn't answer with words. Just moved. Crossed that sliver of pockmarked training field separating them like it wasn't even there. Hand came up, touched Ratzeimer's forehead. Cool touch, strangely… grounding. Other hand moved too, settling on his chest, right over his heart.

Then everything shattered.

One second, Ratzeimer stood on bloodied soil, staring into the eyes of a man who shouldn't exist. The next, he was nowhere. Everywhere. Drowning in himself.

Memories exploded into being, colliding like tank shells on an open battlefield. His mother's face, her calloused hands tucking his fatigues just right before his first drill. The towering black pylons of Cadia, immutable and unbreakable—reaching for a sky that was always, always threatening to crack open and spill out hell. The shouted war songs of his regiment, boots pounding in perfect unison. The old childhood games of Hunt the Heretic in the streets, their pretend-executions eerily foreshadowing the real thing. Battlefields stretching across the stars, the comrades lost, the ones who made it through. Xenos filth and the righteous fire that cleansed them. Priests screaming prayers into the void as lasbolts tore through their ranks. The dead. The dying. His men. All of it. Every goddamn second of it, slamming into him, through him, at him, all at once, no mercy, no goddamn pause button.

And beneath it all—himself.

The cynicism that had built up like armor, a shield against the galaxy's indifference. The arrogance, earned and sharpened, of a Cadian born to fight, to hold the line against the Archenemy when all others broke. The raw, burning madness that others mistook for bravery. The strange, buried instinct to understand, even those he fought. Even the worst of them. And, through it all, his faith. Unyielding. Untouched. The Emperor's truth seared into his marrow.

And through it all… himself. Laid bare, stripped raw, no ceramite armor, no Cadian stoicism, no Lord Marshal's rank to hide behind. Just… Abrar Ratzeimer. The kid who'd played war games in the shadow of the Pylons. The recruit who'd sworn an oath to a god-Emperor he barely understood. The veteran who'd watched friends die, worlds burn, and hope flicker and fade in the endless night of the 41st Millennium.

Cynicism. Yeah, mountains of it. Built up layer by layer, scar by scar, to shield himself from the uncaring void of the galaxy. Arrogance. Cadian pride, bred in the bone, born of knowing you were the first, last, and only line against the howling darkness. Madness. That Cadian thing, that refusal to break, to bend, to goddamn yield, that off-worlders called 'bravery' but felt a lot more like… self-immolation. Empathy. Yeah, buried deep under the layers of scar tissue and cynicism, still there. That unexpected, unwanted ability to actually see the faces of the white-shields, the green recruits, the scared kids just barely old enough to shave, to see the human in them, even as he sent them to die in droves.

Even… yeah, even for the xenos. Sometimes. Sometimes, in the quiet moments after the killing stopped, he could almost… sense the alien wrongness as something… almost… tragic. Almost. And faith. Unshakeable, unyielding, buried deep beneath the layers of doubt and despair, but still burning. That core of Cadian belief, that bone-deep certainty that even in the face of utter, goddamn nothingness, the Emperor endured. And therefore, so could they.

He stood in the center of it, the eye of his own storm. And there was no choice, not really.

He took it all in. Owned it. Every mistake, every triumph, every hesitation and every last stand. He didn't reject a single piece. Because this was him. And he would not bow to fate.

Senses snapped back. Abruptly. Like waking from a dream, or maybe… being born. Saint Michael stepped back, hand lifting from his forehead, hand pulling away from his chest. Chronometer in his bionic eye flickered, digits resolving themselves. Standard hour. Hour. That… illumination, that psychic goddamn maelstrom of self, had taken roughly a standard hour. Felt like a lifetime. Felt like a heartbeat. Felt like… everything.

Saint looked at him. Face… neutral. Mask of carved stone. Nothing leaking through. No flicker of emotion, no hint of judgment, no goddamn thing. Wondered then, suddenly, sharply, if the Saint knew. Knew about the… shift. This new sense, blooming in his mind, unfolding like a psychic goddamn sunrise. Sense of… everything. All the men under his command. Every single Guardsman, every Paladin, every tech-adept, scattered across twenty-one planets, twelve-star systems. All of them. Connected. Linked. He knew. Knew where they were. Who was fighting, who was falling back, who was holding the line. Who was resting, who was wounded, who was already goddamn dead. Supplies. Ammunition. Fuel levels in the tanks. Morale readings, flickering like candle flames in a storm. Readiness levels, unit cohesion, tank repair schedules, vox-frequencies, goddamn everything. All of it, flooding into his mind, not as data-slates and vox-reports, but as… sensation. As knowing. Instinct. Pure, unadulterated, battlefield awareness on a scale he hadn't even dreamed of. Saint had been right. His path… not frontline warrior. Not some walking tank. War leader. General. Commander. That's what he was meant to be. That's what he was. And that's what he'd goddamn be.

"Welcome back, Lord Marshal." Saint Michael said, that stone mask cracking then, breaking into a smile. Bright. Almost… proud. Yeah. Proud. Like a goddamn mentor watching his student finally, finally get it. "Welcome back."

And for the first time in years, Ratzeimer didn't feel like he was waiting to die.

---

The air reeked of ozone and the acrid tang of warp-tainted iron. Gabriel Drathus stood at the edge of the staging grounds, his Terminator armor a shadow beneath the flickering lumen-globes. "Michael gets me in the most interesting situations." Gabriel Drathus exhaled, slow and measured, the sound like the grinding of ceramite plates shifting against each other. The battle before him stretched like the maw of some titanic beast, hungry, endless, filled with death. He had walked into the jaws of war for three hundred years, each time knowing he would outlast all but the mightiest foes. Today would be no different.

His mission was simple: keep Huron alive. A task easier said than done, considering the man's penchant for wading into slaughter like a demi-god out of ancient Terran legend. Huron was changed. Not merely enhanced, not merely uplifted—he was something else now, something Michael had wrought with his own strange, divine hand. Gabriel knew what the Saint had done to him, how his body now burned with the power of a Paragon, but whatever had been done to Huron was... different. It unsettled him, and Gabriel Drathus was not a man easily unsettled.

The Chapter Master of the Astral Claws stood like a colossus, dwarfing even his own Custodes bodyguards, who themselves were apex predators among mankind's warriors. Encased in Terminator plate the color of a storm-lit ocean, covered in purity seals and hexagrammic wards, Huron exuded an aura of sheer, unrelenting dominance. His mere presence twisted the air with menace, a raw pressure that made even the warriors of the Deathwatch edge slightly away. The Custodes flanking him, golden titans who had stood sentinel over the Emperor's will for ten thousand years, seemed almost muted in comparison. Almost.

Gabriel knew strength. He had measured it on countless worlds, had shattered it when necessary, and had bent it to his will when required. This was different. Huron had always been formidable, but this? This was something else entirely.

And yet, despite his newfound power, despite the reality of what he had become, the Custodes still watched him with the same calm wariness they did all Astartes. They were the blade against treachery, after all. Huron had merely become something they had not categorized yet. Something they had not yet decided to kill.

He glanced at the humans scurrying at the periphery—Tech-priests, Guardsmen, serfs. Fragile things. Gabriel had seen too many die screaming to let their faces linger in his mind. Yet their faith, their fire, was a weapon as keen as his blade. Let them chant for the Saint. Let them believe.

Gabriel turned his attention to his own weapon. He did not know if he would ever match Huron's strength, but his gift—the Saint's gift—was a blade in its own right. Any weapon he wielded could shear through sorcery, tear apart the immaterial, cleave through the wickedness of the warp as though it were paper. The implications of such an ability were staggering, yet he did not allow himself the luxury of doubt. He had a fortress to break, and within that fortress, more than enough witches to test the limits of his newfound power.

His gaze swept the gathered force, warriors of many banners, some real, some false. A full company of Astral Claws, two companies' worth of Black Templars—gruff, pious, and eager for battle. They had taken quickly to fighting beside the Astral Claws, believing them distant kin through the blood of Dorn, a truth Michael had whispered into their ears. Gabriel had no need for whispers; he knew what lay beneath the surface of such alliances. Faith and blood mattered little compared to duty and the weight of a sword in hand.

Thirty Deathwatch operatives, their blackened armor adorned with the trophies of slain xenos, stood apart from the others, silent and watchful. They had come for the alien mercenaries the heretics had recruited, and Gabriel had no doubt they would be precise and merciless in their extermination.

Then, there were his own brothers—three companies clad in the colors of the Dark Angels, the Angels of Vigilance, and the Angels of Absolution. A lie, of course. Every one of them was First Legion, brought from the void beyond the Imperium's borders to serve the Saint's war. They were scattered across the battlefronts, disguised as their descendants, whispering secrets, guarding truths that could sunder the Imperium if ever exposed. Their presence here was necessary, but it was also dangerous

All were armed for war, wielding weapons that could tear apart a fortress in moments. Volkite, plasma, power weapons, and storm shields—each warrior carried the might of a god of battle. They bore relics replicated perfectly by Michael's will, artificer-forged masterpieces indistinguishable from the originals. Where others might have questioned the presence of such a wealth of sacred arms, Gabriel merely accepted it. The Saint provided, and that was enough.

He shifted his grip on the haft of his Terranic greatsword, its weight an old friend. The blackened blade had tasted the blood of traitors across centuries. He had wielded it in the dark places of the galaxy, cutting down those who had turned from the Emperor's light. Now, with the Saint's gift, it would taste something new. The very essence of the warp itself.

Huron moved forward, his footfalls heavy, purposeful, the floor beneath him seeming to tremble under the weight of his newly bestowed strength. His Custodes bodyguards followed in his wake, grim shadows of gold and crimson, each a monument to the Emperor's will. Gabriel watched them closely, his own mind calculating, dissecting. What did they make of all this? What did they see when they looked at Huron, a mere Astartes standing on the edge of something more? Their faces, hidden behind those emotionless helms, betrayed nothing.

"Brothers, cousins," Huron began, his voice carrying easily across the gathering. Gabriel had to admit—loath though he was to praise arrogance—the Tyrant of Badab possessed a presence few could match. It was more than just the power swelling within his reforged frame. There was something raw about him, something hungry. "I know well that we have no need for pre-battle speeches. We are blades of the Emperor, our oaths sworn long ago, our purpose set in stone. But indulge me a few words before we begin our grim duty."

A few chuckles rippled through the gathered warriors. Gabriel smirked beneath his helm. The speech was unnecessary, true, but it was tradition, and the Astartes were creatures of ritual, no matter how often they pretended otherwise. His own thoughts drifted, just for a moment, to the Custodes. How did they feel about Astartes calling themselves the Emperor's blades? The thought amused him.

Huron continued, his tone sharpening. "You are briefed, of course, but let me etch the truth of this day upon your minds. What foe we face, what blasphemy we must scour from this star-cursed place." The chapter master straightened, his expression darkening like a storm gathering above a doomed city. "The Archenemy has dared—dared—to sully the honor of the Astartes. They have drawn from the depths of their accursed realm a creature of sorcery, a lie wrapped in stolen flesh, a twisted facsimile of me. With it, they seek to fracture our unity, to poison our bonds with doubt."

A murmur ran through the warriors, a low growl of revulsion and anger. Gabriel felt it too. The very thought of such trickery was an insult beyond words.

"It did not work," Huron continued, and now his voice rang like a hammer striking an anvil. ""for even their sorcery cannot replicate the Emperor's Companions, these golden brothers who walk always at my side. They stand with me now, their presence proof of the lie. But that they dared such an act, that they believed they could… this is an affront that cannot stand! But that they even dared—that they even thought themselves capable of such a thing—demands reckoning. It demands vengeance. And today, that debt will be paid in blood."

Gabriel folded his arms, his gauntlets rasping against the ancient ceramite of his armor. Good way to hide the fact that this is personal for you, he thought dryly. Huron could dress it in righteous fury all he liked, but Gabriel knew the truth. This was about more than just war. It was about defiance. About proving something.

"Today, we strike at the fortress where this abomination cowers. It has withstood our best efforts so far," Huron admitted, pacing now, his presence a prowling beast among giants. "But our best efforts have never before included such a force as this. We stand together, Astartes of many lineages, bound by duty, sharpened by war. And together, this fortress will fall, like all others before the Emperor's judgment. Today, they pay the blood tithe."

A pause. Then a roar.

"FOR THE EMPEROR!"

"VENGEANCE!"

"SUFFER NOT THE UNCLEAN TO LIVE!"

The cries shook the hall, a thunderclap of raw fury and righteous wrath. The air thrummed with it, as though the very walls understood the magnitude of what was to come. Gabriel stood still amidst the tide of sound, letting it wash over him, letting it settle deep in his bones.

The mortals would be watching. The serfs, the scribes, the menials scurrying about like insects before the storm. They would bear witness as warriors of the Emperor made ready for war. And they would remember. They would whisper of this day in hushed, reverent tones, long after these halls had been emptied of all but ghosts.

Across the planet , three other strike forces stood on the precipice of war, their numbers mirroring his own. Each a hammer raised high, poised to fall. Soon, the Maelstrom would burn. And Gabriel Drathus, blade of the First Legion, would carve his mark upon the madness.

There were no more words to be said. Huron, a figure carved from dark blue and gold defiance, simply stepped forward, his armored bulk moving with the measured grace of a veteran killer. Then, with a shimmer that distorted the very air, reality yielded. It was as if a veil had been torn asunder, revealing not emptiness, but a swirling vortex of raw power. A Warp portal, a dark, gaping maw rimmed by bands of deep cerulean and gold, energies coursing like veins of lightning. Beyond, there was nothing but the blackness of the void, an absence so complete it seemed to drink in the light.

Gabriel Drathus had seen this sight too many times to be impressed. There had been a time, centuries ago, when he might have distrusted such sorcery, when the thought of stepping into the warp without the armored hull of a strike cruiser around him would have made him pause. But that was before he had walked in Michael's shadow, before he had seen what the Saint had wrought, what new weapons had been forged in humanity's name.

Now, he felt nothing. Not fear, not hesitation. Astartes did not fear. And even if they could, none here would. They had done this before, stepped through Huron's gates and emerged whole. It had been tested, refined in the crucible of war, never failing, never faltering, never betraying those who dared to tread their impossible paths. It was why they called him Huron of the Gates now, why even the most stubborn of warriors no longer balked at the thought of marching straight through the immaterial.

The warriors moved as one. Shields flared, the edges of the formation locking into place as the outer ranks activated their storm shields. Every single warrior wore a refractor or conversion shield of their own, but caution had kept more Astartes alive than raw defiance. And war was nothing if not a cruel teacher. The careless died. The prepared endured.

They stepped forward. One breath, then another, and then they were through.

The passage through the interstice between the paired warp portals was, in its own unsettling way, unremarkable. Emperor's Tears, the sacred gems embedded within the intricate workings of their power armor, pulsed with a soft, inner light, pushing back the insidious whispers of the neverborn, the denizens of the warp who clawed at the edges of reality, like fire drove back wild beasts. The journey became a descent into an eerily silent tunnel, a corridor of impossible geometry and kaleidoscopic colors that shifted and writhed in patterns that defied logic and reason. For a mortal, such a vista would shatter the mind, induce madness in moments. Even for an Astartes, forged to withstand the warp's touch, prolonged exposure to the tunnel's alien beauty could stir a disquiet in the soul, a creeping nausea that had nothing to do with the body, and everything to do with the unsettling truths of a cosmos far stranger and more hostile than humanity dared to imagine.

Then it was over. One step, then another, and hell welcomed them with open arms.

The planet was deep within the Maelstrom, a festering wound in the galaxy, where the archenemy had dug its claws deep. In another time, in another war, they would have simply stood back and burned it from orbit, unleashed Michael's anathema warheads and watched as the flames of unmaking spread across the surface, devouring corruption, growing stronger in the purge until only the untainted remained. But the heretics had adapted. Layers of void-shields, occult barriers, and countermeasures now choked the planet, smothering the cleansing fire before it could take root.

And so, the Astartes were needed once more. To carve a path through the filth, to find the nexus of these defenses and tear them down. Then, and only then, would the warheads fall, and the Emperor's justice would burn away the stain of heresy.

Before them loomed the bastion of heresy, the fortress they had come to drown in blood and fire. It was a monstrous edifice, a jagged scar upon the face of the tormented world. Walls of black iron, twisted and warped by the touch of Chaos, clawed at the sky, festooned with spikes like the spines of some colossal beast. Weapon emplacements, dark muzzles that promised death, bristled from every parapet, most angled towards the heavens, a challenge to any who dared approach from above, but many more were trained upon the ground, a grim welcome for any frontal assault.

They had landed as close as Huron's portals would allow. Void Shields, mere shimmering curtains of energy, were as nothing to Huron's Gates, but the burning blasphemous glyphs of sorcery that writhed upon the fortress walls… those were another matter, their presence clawing at Gabriel's mind, an itch that pressed against his thoughts like nails dragging across bare bone.

The architect of this wretched place had left his mark for all to see. Countless bodies, impaled upon the ramparts, adorned the walls like grotesque trophies. They were human, or had been, once. Now, they were screaming effigies, trapped in eternal agony, their tormented cries carried on the tainted winds. Lesser neverborn, grotesque mockeries of life, flitted and feasted upon the writhing flesh, stripping flesh and sinew only for it to regrow, twisted and cancerous with the Warp's foul touch, only to be devoured again in an unending cycle of torment.

Banners of flayed human skin, stretched taut upon dark metal frames, hung limply from the battlements, blasphemous glyphs scrawled upon them in what could only be blood, heir meanings better left unknown. Grim humor flickered through Gabriel's mind—these fools thought to horrify Astartes with such grotesqueries? The galaxy was a dark place, and there were worse things than death. These heretics had made their choice. Judgment had come.

A screech tore through the air, a chorus of enraged fury. Flying neverborn, winged horrors that resembled carrion birds twisted by nightmare, had finally taken notice of their advancing formation. With guttural cries of alarm, they launched themselves from the fortress walls, a black cloud descending upon them. No one even bothered to raise a weapon. Three years of brutal combat in the Maelstrom had taught them economy of ammunition, the brutal efficiency of faith. Why waste bolter shells on such lesser abominations when the very aura of the Emperor's Tears gems, embedded within their armor, would unmake them with a thought? The first of the daemons hit the aura of their Emperor's Tears, the slivers of divinity embedded in their armor. Their screeches turned to wails of agony as they were unmade, their bodies burning like dry parchment, dissolving into howling motes of dying embers. One by one, hundreds perished, the storm of shrieking hunger silenced before it could even reach them.

The warriors marched on, unhurried, relentless.

They moved inexorably towards the massive fortress doors, a tide of dark blue and gold, black and silver, green and bone white power armor, weathering the storm of fire that now rained down upon them. They had closed the distance, drawn within the fortress's killing embrace. The larger siege cannons, those monstrous weapons designed to shatter voidships and level cities, could no longer depress enough to target them. But the fortress bristled with smaller guns, turrets that spat las-fire in searing beams, autocannons that hammered explosive rounds, and worse, weapons that crackled with warp-tainted energies. They advanced through the inferno unscathed. Interlocked storm shields, held by the warriors at the formation's vanguard, rippled and flared, contemptuously deflecting the incoming fire, energy blasts washing harmlessly around them, autocannon shells detonating against shimmering force fields, leaving nothing but scorched earth and lingering smoke.

Huron did not waste words. He did not need to. The battlefield was his voice, and his deeds spoke louder than any proclamation. With a flick of his gauntlet, he wove open small portals in the air—silent gateways swallowing incoming fire and returning it to sender. Lasbolts and plasma bursts flashed back to their origin, detonating turrets, incinerating gunners. Astartes answered with disciplined bursts, reducing firing slits to smoldering ruins, burning heretics from their positions with methodical efficiency.

And then they stood before the great gate.

It was monstrous, a thing of dark iron and leering skulls, vast enough to swallow a Knight Walker whole. It pulsed, veins of red light coursing through its surface, Warp energy woven into its structure, binding its frame with dark sorcery. It was built to withstand orbital bombardment, to hold against legions.

A Custodes stepped forward, plucking a small glass orb from his belt. A delicate thing, milky and swirling with something that should not be. Michael's alchemy, Gabriel recognized. The Saint's touch, bottled and refined.

The orb struck the gate and shattered, releasing a quiet hiss as its contents seeped into the metal. Then came the fire.

Not a fire of flame and heat, but a fire of unraveling. White veins spread like cracks across the surface, burrowing deep, devouring. The gate shuddered, let out a deep groan as though the metal itself was howling, and then, with a sudden whispering collapse, it was gone. Only drifting embers remained, and for a heartbeat, the heretical glyphs remained suspended in the air, pulsing, screaming in defiance.

Then they too turned to ash, swept away by the wind.

The way was open.

The yawning gate led not to salvation, but into the churning maw of hell itself. Beyond the shattered threshold stood a mass of abomination, a blasphemous gathering of the wretched and the damned.

Mutated Loxatl slithered forward, their scaled hides bulging with unnatural tumors that pulsed with the touch of the Warp. Towering Rak'Gol, already monstrous in their natural state, had been further twisted by the dark powers that lurked within this accursed fortress. Daemon Engines, blasphemous fusions of metal and daemonflesh, stalked through the xenos ranks, their cannons spitting warpfire, their treads grinding over the corrupted flagstones. And amidst this chaotic horde, defiling the very idea of Astartes, stood a trio of Traitor Sorcerers, their power armor defiled, their eyes burning with dark pacts, the air around them crackling with sorcerous energy. A welcoming committee worthy of hell itself. Decent effort, perhaps, in its sheer, overwhelming vileness. But insufficient. Utterly insufficient to halt the Emperor's wrath.

Their opening salvo struck like a storm upon the shield wall of the Astartes, but it was no storm that could break them. Lascannon beams, chattering flechettes, howling bolts of arcane power—none found purchase upon the unyielding defense of Storm Shields, their ancient fields drinking deep of the enemy's fury. The Astartes returned fire with grim precision. Plasma and volkite bolts scythed through the ranks of the foe, reducing lesser creatures to ruin before they had taken two steps forward.

Gabriel felt the gift of the Saint awaken within him, a righteous warmth spreading through his limbs, flowing into his Terranic greatsword. The weapon hummed, eager, as he stepped forward, intercepting bolts of pure midnight that spat from the outstretched hands of the sorcerers. Their dark conjurations came apart like mist before the rising sun, sliced cleanly by the Emperor's light suffusing his blade. He grinned behind his helm, blood singing, the old thrill of battle coiling around his heart like an old friend returning home.

With a roar that echoed in the confined space, Drathus launched himself over the shield wall, a dark angel descending into the swirling chaos of xenos and heretics. His brothers saw his intent, understood his target. Astartes fire shifted, plasma bolts and volkite beams carving paths through the enemy ranks, clearing a lane for their Knight-Captain, thinning the xenos horde before him, a storm of righteous fire preceding his charge.

Those xenos who remained in his path, the mutated Loxatl and twisted Rak'Gol, met his blade. The first wave broke against him. They came howling, slashing with bladed limbs, gnashing fanged mouths, but they were nothing. Not one among them was worthy of his time. His greatsword sang, slicing through bodies as if he waded through water. Flesh parted, bone shattered, the ground became slick with the ruin of his foes. Not a single one could even slow his stride as he carved a bloody swathe towards the trio of Sorcerers, his greatsword a whirlwind of death in his hands.

And then the sorcerers were before him.

They had been Astartes once, long ago. Perhaps once they had even been worthy warriors, before corruption had rotted them from within. Now, they were clad in robes of ruin, their once-proud armor defaced by the sigils of their daemonic patrons. They moved swiftly, each drawing a cursed Crozius, but Gabriel was swifter.

he first Sorcerer, his features twisted in a mask of hate, barely had time to raise his weapon before Drathus was upon him. The Terranic greatsword, a blur of motion, sheared through the traitor's neck, ceramite and corrupted flesh offering no resistance to the Saint's gift. The Sorcerer's head, severed clean, bounced on the corrupted flagstones, dark ichor spilling from the ruined gorget of his armor his severed head still locked in an expression of outrage. The sorceries, the dark pacts, the warp-granted protections that should have shielded him from such a blow, were as nothing before his blade

The other two reacted, conjuring a storm of warp-spawned flame, but Gabriel was already in motion. His wrist-mounted plasma casters fired, the blue-white bursts of energy slamming into their defenses, obscuring their vision for the barest fraction of a second. It was enough. He closed the gap in a heartbeat, parrying their sorcery with the enhanced edge of his power sword, turning their own malefic force against the xenos around them, the warp-tainted energy redirected into the ranks of the xenos horde, detonating in a burst of dark fire that consumed a score of screaming creatures.

They fought back, but they were slow. Their skills had withered, dulled by decades spent whispering to the entities they had sold their souls to. Worse, they were disjointed, uncoordinated—a thing that sealed their doom. Gabriel deflected one warlock's strike into his companion, forcing the fool to stagger back, defenses open. Three swift blows ended him. The last barely had time to recover before his head exploded in a spray of gore, taken by a heavy bolter round that thundered across the battlefield.

Gabriel turned, knowing before he looked who had fired the shot. Huron loomed in the ruin of the battlefield, his Companions beside him, their golden plate immaculate despite the carnage. The Tyrant of Badab strode forward as though he merely walked through a garden, his power claw slick with the ruin of xenos and traitors alike.

Huron of the Gate stared at the fortress, his enhanced eyes glinting like molten iron in the hellish light. "Adequate," he grunted, though the word carried the weight of a death sentence. The walls ahead seethed with traitors—rotted bodies grafted into battlements, flesh-mouths howling curses from rusted gunports. Defiance hung in the air like corpse-stink. The Chapter Master raised his claw, talons crackling with borrowed lightning. "Forward, brothers. Burn the abominations."

A single gesture, the slow unclenching of a gauntleted fist, and the warriors at his back surged forward, their voices rising in a battle cry that rolled like a storm across the blood-soaked ground.

"FOR THE EMPEROR!"

"DEATH TO THE TRAITORS!"

"IN HIS NAME, WE STRIKE!"

Gabriel marched among them, his Terminator armor thrumming with repressed fury. The Black Templars' chant clawed at his resolve: "No pity! No remorse! No fear!" Their zeal was a furnace, scorching the air. He his jaw tighten. It was not the oath itself that unsettled him—there was no sin in righteous hatred—but the men who spoke it.

The First Legion remembered the Emperor's words, the true words, unvarnished by dogma, unburdened by the weight of a galaxy's desperate faith. They knew, from the Lion and from the Emperor's own lips, that He was no god. Liege Lord, yes. Master of Mankind, undeniably. The only being worthy of absolute fealty. But god? No. That path led to madness, to the very darkness they fought against. A flicker of movement caught his eye, a minute shift in the stance of the Custodes beside him. You feel it too, Gabriel thought. This… heresy of devotion.

But orders were orders. Loyalty was a blade, and Gabriel had honed his for three centuries. "For Terra and the Throne!" Drathus bellowed, and with that, they advanced as one, shoulder to shoulder, their march a relentless tide of ceramite and steel, his voice joining the thunder. Hypocrisy was a small price for unity after all.

The fortress swallowed them whole. The fortress's innards were a cathedral of madness. Gabriel's boots sank into floors of fused bone and weeping metal. Halls wide enough to swallow regiments narrowed suddenly, walls pulsing with cancerous growths that spat acidic bile. Xenos hybrids—part human, part things unspeakable—lunged from the shadows, only to be obliterated by volleys of plasma and the singing edges of power swords. Here, where five Leman Russ tanks could roll abreast without scraping the walls, heresy festered like an open wound.

The enemy came in waves—twisted xenos, corrupted humans, grotesque amalgamations of both. They died in droves. The Astartes carved through them like fire through dry grass, the Custodes at the fore, golden titans whose every movement was a death knell for the foe. And always, just ahead of them, Huron led the way, a whirlwind of destruction, his will made manifest in rivers of blood that marked their passage.

At last, the killing floor narrowed, funneling them toward a vast doo—a door of blackened metal, massive as the gates of a forgotten underworld, a grotesque mosaic of plasteel and screaming faces. Human bodies had been hammered into the metal, their limbs twisted into rivets, their mouths frozen in endless silent shrieks.

And beyond it, waiting in the darkness, the abomination they had come to kill.

A thing that should not be.

A mockery of flesh and thought, woven from malefic sorcery, bearing Huron's face but none of his soul.

The doppelganger breathed. But soon, it would not.

They reformed ranks, a square of six hundred Astartes, a wall of power armor and righteous fury. Those at the fore, the shield-bearers, raised their storm shields, interlocking the energy fields, bracing themselves for whatever horrors awaited beyond the gate. A single Custodes stepped forward, a golden giant moving with effortless grace. In his hand, he held a glass vial, no larger than a man's thumb, yet within its fragile confines, Drathus could see a storm raging, indigo light swirling and crackling like trapped lightning.

With a flick of his wrist, the Custodes hurled the vial. It struck the monstrous door with a sharp, ringing crack, shattering upon impact. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, a torrent of indigo light erupted from the point of impact, washing over the gate in a blinding wave, tendrils of pure energy snaking across the corrupted metal, tracing the obscene glyphs etched into its surface. The light intensified, burning brighter, hotter, until the air itself shimmered with the heat. And then, with a sound like the death-cry of a titan, the gate imploded. Not shattered, not broken, but utterly inverted, the massive portal collapsing inwards upon itself, twisted and compressed into a molten ball of slag, a smoking sphere of ruined metal no larger than a Leman Russ battle tank.

The Astartes formation flowed forward, a tide of purpose, circumventing the still-smoldering remains of the gate. They flowed into the chamber like a tide of ceramite and wrath, storm shields locked, weapons humming. Six hundred warriors, yet the vaulted space swallowed their presence whole. The walls pulsed with veins of warp-tainted brass, and the air reeked of burnt honey and rotting roses. At the center stood a single figure, draped in shadows that clung to him like loyal hounds.

The Blackheart.

Michael had named it so, and no other name could have fit. The thing standing before them wore the twisted parody of a venerable Terminator's war-plate, its once-sacred form now a grotesque blend of black and crimson, lined with blasphemous etchings that seemed to crawl as one looked upon them. His right hand ended in a barbed power claw, its energy field crackling softly in the silence. The rest of his frame bore no weapons, yet there was no sense of vulnerability in him. He stood at ease, like a man greeting guests in his own domain, the dim glow of corrupted lumen-strips casting deep shadows across his scarred face.

It was a face nearly identical to Huron's own. And yet, where the Chapter Master radiated controlled, storm-chained fury, this mockery exuded something else entirely—something far more dangerous. A confidence without arrogance. A certainty that did not need to be spoken.

"You are early." Blackheart purred, his voice smooth as poisoned wine. He smiled—a knowing, indulgent expression. "But I am nothing if not a gracious host, and I am prepared to welcome you nonetheless."

"Welcome us, abomination?" Huron's voice boomed, amplified by his armor's vox-casters, a thunderclap of righteous fury. Without another word, the Chapter Master unleashed hell. His heavy bolter, a weapon designed to tear apart tanks and fortifications, roared to life in his gauntleted hands. Mass-reactive shells, each the size of a man's fist, screamed towards the Blackheart, a barrage of explosive death that would have pulverized any lesser foe.

The platinum-colored force field shimmered into existence, a sudden wall of energy that bisected the titanic chamber, splitting the corrupted space in two. For a fraction of a second, the shield pulsed, visible, tangible, as it absorbed the full force of Huron's barrage, the mass-reactive shells detonating against its surface in a series of deafening explosions, the shockwaves rippling outwards. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the shield vanished, fading back into the invisible spectrum, leaving no trace of its existence save for the lingering echoes of the detonations and the faint scent of ozone in the air.

"Patience, dear twin," he chided, waving a hand. The shield dissolved into motes of light that swirled around him like fireflies. "Must we skip the pleasantries? I've prepared a feast of truths for you. Lies, too, if you prefer."

Gabriel's fingers tightened on his sword. The doppelganger's madness was a quiet thing, coiled beneath his poise like a serpent under silk.

Huron snarled, his enhanced frame trembling with barely leashed fury. "You're a stain. A puppet. And I'll scrape you from my boot when this is done."

Blackheart laughed—a sound both melodic and unhinged. "Oh, Huron. Still swinging that rusted moral compass, I see. Tell me, do your Custodes friends know you begged the Saint for that… gift?" He gestured to the Chapter Master's swollen frame. "Or that you wept when your Chapter's geneseed first rejected it?"

The real Huron froze. Gabriel saw the crack in his armor—the twitch of a nerve, the dilation of a pupil. Clever, he thought. Aim for the soul, not the flesh.

Blackheart turned to the Custodes, spreading his arms in mock reverence. "And you… Golden statues. Do you still hear His voice? Or is it just the wind, howling through your hollow heads?"

The two Custodes moved. Not with the crude haste of mortals, nor even the lethal precision of Astartes—their motion was a blur of inevitability, golden spears carving arcs of annihilation. Gabriel's transhuman eyes barely tracked them. Like watching gods duel lightning, he thought. They moved as one, a coordinated strike force of two, their target undoubtedly the platinum shield, the sorcerous barrier that protected the doppelganger. They would shatter it, Drathus knew, Custodes weaponry was designed to unmake gods, let alone mere force fields.

But certainty was a dangerous thing.

The trap was sprung before the first strike could land. With a groan of shifting metal, the floor beneath them simply ceased to be, vanishing like mist before a storm. Plates of warp-twisted metal yawned open, swallowing the Ten Thousand whole. Gabriel glimpsed them below—a sea of chitinous xenos and bloated daemon-kin surging upward. The Custodes landed in a ring of fire, spears rising, already spinning into a killing dance. They did not fall; they made war wherever they stood. Even so, the floor reformed, closing over them in thick slabs of metal, sealing them away from the battle above.

A slow clap echoed through the chamber.

Blackheart leaned against the far wall, his expression one of amused detachment. His armor, a perfect dark mirror to Huron's, gleamed beneath the dull light. His face was a masterwork of arrogance and poise, his smile edged with something dangerous—something just slightly unhinged, like a blade too finely honed, waiting to snap.

"So rude," Blackheart sighed, brushing imaginary dust from his corrupted armor. "But predictable. Gold has ever been a brittle metal."

Huron's growl vibrated through Gabriel's vox-bead. "Techmarines. Scan. Now."

The formation rippled, three red-clad brothers advancing with auspexes humming. Gabriel watched them work—methodical, silent—as the Astartes fanned into a crescent, storm shields angled, bolters tracking shadows.

"Tell me, twin," Blackheart purred, pacing behind his shimmering shield, "why cling to that rotting carcass of an Imperium? Duty? Duty is the lie men tell when they lack the spine to seize greatness."

Huron's claw flexed. "Loyalty needs no justification."

"Ah, the Lion's words!" Blackheart clapped slowly, the sound like bones rattling in a tin. "How quaint. Tell me, does loyalty warm your dreams when you kneel before your Saint? When you beg him to make you more than the runt your Legion's geneseed birthed?"

Gabriel's blade twitched. The insult to the First Legion's heritage pricked him, but he held. Let the viper spit. Every word revealed its nest.

The Techmarines froze. One gestured—a jagged rune glowing on his auspex. Traps. Dozens. Warp-mines fused into the chamber's bones.

Blackheart noticed. "Oh, don't spoil the fun. I worked ever so hard on the surprises."

Huron ignored him. "Disarm them."

"But where's the sport?" The doppelganger's voice sharpened, madness bleeding through the silk. "You stride into my domain, armed with borrowed power and borrowed faith, and think to rules-lawyer the game?"

Gabriel stepped forward, sword raised. "Your 'game' ends when your head rolls."

Blackheart's laugh was a scalpel. "Spoken like a true son of secrets. Tell me, Dark Angel—do your brothers still hunt the Fallen? Or do they whisper of them in chapterhouse shadows, savoring the shame?"

Three centuries of discipline kept Gabriel's face stone. He knows nothing. He cannot know.

"Ah, that silence." Blackheart leaned close, his breath fogging the shield. "The First Legion's true currency. But I? I trade in truths. The Maelstrom cannot be 'destroyed,' little king. It is a mirror. And your Saint's promises?" He grinned, teeth too white, too sharp. "He's using you to wipe the glass."

Huron surged forward, claw slamming the barrier. "Enough! You're a phantom. A joke."

"Am I?" Blackheart's voice dropped, the silken tones replaced by something colder, sharper, like the edge of a void-ship's hull scraping against rockcrete. "Naïve, perhaps. But not a fool. I am what you could be, Huron. What you crave to be, deep down in the shadowed corners of your soul. Two centuries… unshackled. Two centuries of… seeing. Of understanding. The Maelstrom, my dear twin… it is not a wound. It is not a weakness to be purged. It is a weapon. And I, unlike you, have learned to wield it."

"Is that why you crawl before the abominations?" Huron spat, the word laced with contempt. "Or will you spin me some pretty lie, tell me it was not the Unborn Prince of Broken Gates who dragged you from whatever warp-hole you festered in and brought you here, puppet?"

Blackheart's smile froze, the air around him thickening like clotting blood. "Bow?" he repeated, tilting his head as if deciphering a child's scribble. "Oh, Huron. Still thinking in such… small terms." He paced behind his shield, fingers trailing along its shimmering surface. "The Prince of Broken Gates didn't bring me here. I invited it. Offered it a seat at my table. Do you think daemons feast on souls? No. They feast on desperation. And I? I am famished."

Huron's claw twitched, the air reeking of ozone and barely leashed fury. "So you're a slave with a prettier collar."

"Slave?" Blackheart laughed—a sound like glass shattering in a vacuum. "You mistake alliance for servitude. The Prince is a… conduit. A means to unmake the chains you still wear." He leaned forward, eyes blazing with fractured light. "Tell me, twin—when you kneel before your Saint, do you feel those chains? Or does his light blind you to the weight?"

Gabriel watched, silent. The doppelganger's words slithered, probing for cracks. A surgeon of doubt, he thought. Cutting where armor is thinnest.

Huron bared his teeth. "You speak of greatness. Yet you wallow in the filth of gods who'd spit you out like gristle."

"Gods?" Blackheart waved a dismissive hand. "Ephemera. Tools. The Warp is a forge, and I am the smith. Duty?" He spat the word. "A leash for lapdogs. Brotherhood? A crutch for the weak. Loyalty?" His gaze flicked to Gabriel, sharp as a scalpel. "A lie the First Legion tells itself while burying its own sins."

Huron stepped closer, his enhanced frame casting a shadow that swallowed Blackheart's corrupted armor. "You're a temporal hiccup. A puppet dancing for a patron who'll discard you the moment you bore it."

For the first time, Blackheart's poise flickered. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "You… dull thing. You think me a pawn? I crafted this moment. Carved it from the carcass of fate itself." He spread his arms, the chamber's warp-brass walls shuddering in response. "This fortress? The Maelstrom's heart? Mine. The Prince's 'gifts'?" He grinned. "Stolen. Repurposed. Perfected."

The Techmarines hissed over the vox. "Traps disarmed. For now."

"Last words, abomination?" he asked, voice like steel dragged across stone.

Blackheart sighed, head tilting ever so slightly, as if genuinely weary. "Is this where we are, then? Pity." He spread his arms, the very image of regret. "We could have been kings, you and I. True sovereigns of a galaxy built upon its own lies. Instead?"

He snapped his fingers.

The chamber screamed.

A shadow moved, thick as oil, coiling and unfurling from behind Blackheart. Darkness sloughed away like dead flesh, revealing a shape that should not have been. It towered over the Astartes, four meters tall at least, shifting in and out of focus like a thing glimpsed in a nightmare.

It was… something… that might once, in some forgotten age, have been an Antlerdon, a Monarch of its species, a creature of primal majesty. But now… now it was broken. Corrupted. A mockery of its former glory. Obsidian antlers, once symbols of regal power, had twisted into jagged, spiraling shards of black glass, dripping with liquid paradox, a substance that seemed to defy the very laws of existence. They cut the air, those monstrous antlers, and the air bled – not blood, but portals, miniature tears in reality yawning open in their wake, vomiting forth greasy, flickering warp-light, the sickly luminescence painting the chamber in hues of madness. The thing pulled itself free from the shadows, a birth of horror into the material realm, each cloven hoof striking the corrupted plasteel floor with the force of a titan's hammer blow, denting the metal with every step.

Yet, even as it moved, it wasn't there. Not fully. Its hide shimmered, a heat-haze nightmare of flesh and metal, limbs phasing in and out of existence, flickering between realities. One moment, a cloven hoof, solid and real, the next, a clawed tendril, dripping with unholy ichor, then both, then neither, a constant, unsettling flux. Its eyes were not eyes, but collapsed stars, miniature event horizons, black holes of nothingness ringed by the fractured, obsidian antlers, pulling at the very light in the chamber, devouring hope and sanity with their very gaze. Its skin was a stomach-churning patchwork of metal and flesh, fused together in a blasphemous union, burning with an inner warp-light, a sickly green luminescence that pulsed with a life that was no life, a beast of dark, terrible majesty.

Blackheart turned his gaze to Huron, his expression one of serene satisfaction.

"Please," Blackheart purred, his smile widening, the madness in his eyes now a raging inferno, barely contained behind a thin veneer of suave amusement. "Allow me to introduce you… to your death. Broken Monarch," he gestured towards the towering abomination with a flourish, as if presenting a prize at a macabre game show, "meet your… prey. Prey," he turned back to face Huron, his smile now a predatory grin, "this is Broken Monarch. Please… don't die too quickly. I wish to… savor your end."

Huron did not reply with words. The Emperor's Angels did not waste breath on the pronouncements of madmen. They answered in the only language the Blackheart and his monstrous pet would understand: the language of fire. Weapons roared to life as one. Bolters thundered, plasma guns spat bolts of superheated fury, volkite weaponry unleashed beams of searing energy. Fist-sized mass-reactive shells screamed towards the Broken Monarch, a storm of death unleashed. And met… nothing.

No resistance. The platinum force field, the sorcerous shield, was gone. Deactivated. Brought down by the silent work of the Techmarines, their unseen war against the fortress's defenses finally bearing fruit. But the Broken Monarch needed no force field. The bolter rounds, the plasma bolts, the volkite beams… they swerved. Veered wildly off course, twisting in impossible trajectories, curving back towards the very Astartes who had unleashed them. The air itself seemed to bend, to break, around the monstrous creature, space warping and twisting in its wake, deflecting the incoming fire with casual ease. Storm shields flared, energy fields buckling under the redirected fire, but even the potent refractor fields woven into Astartes armor were insufficient against such warped energies. Four warriors, caught unawares by the sudden deflection, staggered, their armor breached, their bodies ripped apart by their own redirected fire, falling to the corrupted plasteel in crumpled heaps of ceramite and gore.

"One star may fade, but the constellation endures!" Huron's voice roared, his voice raw with fury and grief., the ancient canticle of the Ten Thousand Stars echoing through the chamber, a mournful yet defiant hymn to honor their fallen brothers, a promise of vengeance to the foe. "For every brother fallen, ten thousand rise!" He raised his power claw, the four blades crackling with disruptive energy, pointing it not at the Broken Monarch, but at his own warriors. "Brothers and cousins! The abomination warps space! Ranged fire is useless! Let us see how well it deals with the Emperor's Angels… up close! Close ranks! Blade and claw! Tear its heart out!"" And with a roar that ripped through the chamber, a sound born of righteous fury and centuries of unwavering duty, Huron of the Gates, Chapter Master of the Astral Claws, charged. And six hundred Astartes, brothers and cousins, sons of the Lion and blades of Dorn, followed him into the heart of the storm. A tide of power armor, a wave of righteous anger, crashing against the monstrous bulwark of Chaos.

In the periphery of his vision, a flicker of movement, a ripple in the air itself. Blackheart. Gone. Vanished in a vortex of swirling warp energy, a sudden implosion of shadow and light, leaving only a lingering taint of madness in the air. But Drathus had no time to dwell on the doppelganger's cowardly retreat. The Broken Monarch. The true threat. It was gone too. One moment a towering mountain of corrupted flesh and obsidian, the next… nowhere. And then, with a sickening lurch of reality, it reappeared. Not across the chamber, not at the edge of the fight, but within it. Amongst them. In the very heart of the Astartes formation. A teleportation, a warp-jump of terrifying precision and brutal intent.

Chaos erupted. Cloven hooves, each the size of a power-armored fist, lashed out with impossible speed, crystalline edges tearing through refractor fields as if they were gossamer, rending power armor like parchment. Two battle-brothers, caught in the sudden, brutal assault, were hurled aside, their armor breached, their life signs flickering and dying in the vox-net, extinguished like candles in a storm.

A monstrous swing of the antlered head, a blur of spiraling obsidian, reaped another bloody toll. Four more Astartes, brave warriors all, fell before they could even react, their bodies bisected, trisected, swallowed by the yawning portals that flickered into existence in the wake of the Broken Monarch's passage, sucked into the warp's maw, their screams cut short as reality itself devoured them. For a heartbeat, the portals remained, swirling vortexes of impossible color, then winked out of existence, leaving only emptiness and the lingering stench of the warp.

And from that emptiness, from the raw wound in reality, they came. Neverborn. A deluge of them, spilling forth from the rifts torn by the Broken Monarch's presence, a tide of claws and teeth and tentacles, a writhing mass of nightmare given form, things that defied description, abominations for which human tongues had no names. The lesser ones, the weak echoes of warp-stuff, burned to nothingness, incinerated by the silent, ever-present power of the Emperor's Tears gems woven into their armor, their immaterial forms dissolving in bursts of holy light. But the stronger ones, the more substantial horrors, survived. Screaming in pain, yes, wreathed in flames of anathema energy, but they endured, clawing their way into reality, a living wave of teeth and tentacles and things that defied all sane comprehension, crashing against the Astartes lines.

Drathus moved, a whirlwind of motion amidst the chaos, his Terranic greatsword a blur of silver light, cleaving through the lesser neverborn, scattering their ranks like chaff before the wind. But his true focus, his unwavering target, was the Broken Monarch. The Saint's gift, the sorcery-cleaving power, surged through him once more, a tide of righteous energy flowing into his blade. As a bolt of warp-lightning, crackling with malevolent energy, arced from a rift torn by the Monarch's very presence, aimed at a knot of Black Templars, Drathus intercepted it, his empowered greatsword meeting the sorcerous discharge, deflecting it harmlessly upwards, the warp-energy dissipating against the adamantium ceiling of the titanic chamber in a shower of sparks and crackling static.

He saw Huron, a dark blue and gold clad warrior-king, fighting closer to the beast now, wading into the heart of the storm, his power claw a whirlwind of destruction, his heavy bolter spitting mass-reactive death. The space-warping effect, the reality-twisting aura that radiated from the Broken Monarch, was clearly diminished around Huron, mitigated by the Chapter Master's own… gift, the Saint's blessing a bulwark against the warp's insidious touch. Even so, the Monarch was a creature of devastation. Its untainted kin were already dangerous enough—territorial, unrelenting, capable of goring even a Terminator through his plate. But this? This was something worse. Something made for slaughter.

He carved through the last two abominations that barred his path, twisted mockeries of humanoids, their forms a grotesque blend of flesh and metal, their eyes burning with malevolent hunger. Just in time. His empowered Terranic blade rose, intercepting a jagged antler, a spiraling shard of obsidian death, aimed directly at Huron's exposed flank, a blow that would have pierced even Terminator armor. The greatsword met the monstrous antler with a clang of power against unnatural strength, sparks flying, warp-energy crackling in the air.

"Having trouble, cousin?" Drathus greeted Huron, his voice amplified by his vox-grille, a sardonic edge to his tone, masking the grim satisfaction that surged through him as he saw, with a warrior's keen eye, that his empowered blade had scored a small, but significant, notch in the obsidian antler, a wound that even warp-tainted flesh was clearly struggling to heal, a testament to the Saint's power.

"No," Huron replied evenly, shifting his stance, the battle flowing around him like a war-god in motion. "Had everything well in hand. But since you're here—" He pivoted, forcing the Monarch to face him, its warp-light eyes narrowing. "Do me a favor. Cut its heart out while I keep it anchored long enough for you to do so."

Gabriel's grip tightened on his Terranic greatsword. The blade hummed, the Saint's gift coursing through it like liquid starlight. "Right away," he said, rolling his shoulders. The air around the Monarch writhed, molecules unsure whether to exist or unravel. It wasn't a beast. It was a blasphemy—a wound in the skin of the world.

He struck.

His greatsword, became a blur of bluish energy and black metal, a whirlwind of death unleashed. As he moved, the world around him seemed to ripple, distorting in the same unsettling way it did moments before one of Huron's warp portals tore open reality. Huron's gift, he realized, a fleeting thought in the heat of battle. The Chapter Master's presence, his own unique connection to the warp, was stifling the Broken Monarch's power, anchoring it, grounding it in the material realm, just enough… just enough for a blade to find purchase.

Drathus's blade carved through the thing's flank and leg, splitting hardened flesh that bled something thick and seething, a mixture of molten gold and black ichor. The beast shrieked, a sound that rattled in the bones, that clawed at the mind like fingernails on iron. The wounded leg buckled, yet even in pain, the Broken Monarch retaliated.

It reared and struck.

The crystalline hooves descended like the hammers of forgotten gods, their impact shaking the colossal chamber. Drathus barely raised his blade in time, the flat of the Terranic steel intercepting the blow meant to cave in his helm and ribs. It stopped the hooves, but not the force behind them.

Unstoppable, he thought, tasting blood. Even before corruption, these things could trample Land Raiders.

The world blurred. He was flung back like a ragdoll, smashing into the ground in a roll of ceramite and pain. The impact rattled his bones, and it took him a moment to find his footing. But he had no time to acknowledge the pain—his brothers were dying.

The Monarch had not been idle. In the few moments it had taken to rise, over two dozen Astartes had fallen, Lion's blood and Dorn's blood mingling on the stone, the price of their defiance. It moved through them with terrible grace, crystalline limbs lashing out, antlers raking through adamantine plate like parchment. The beast fought its way toward Huron, who stood motionless, every fiber of his will bent toward keeping it bound in the material realm.

Dozens upon dozens of wounds, carved by power swords and chainblades, las-burns and bolter impacts, marred the Broken Monarch's corrupted hide. But they were healing. Swiftly. Oozing streams of corrupted liquid, black and viscous, flowed into the damaged sections, bubbling, seething, forming a hardened, chitinous shell over the wounds, knitting flesh and bone back together with unnatural speed, the beast's regenerative powers fueled by the raw energies of the warp. But as he watched the horrific regeneration in action, something caught Drathus's eye.

Gabriel charged again, ducking under a swipe of antlers that split the air into shrieking portals. His blade found the skull of the beast as it lunged for a Black Templar, shearing through bone-matter that hissed like wet coal. The Monarch shook him off, his sword still lodged in its head, ichor cascading from the wound—and laughed. A sound like glaciers calving.

"The chest!" Gabriel roared, rolling clear as hooves cratered the ground where he'd stood. "Its heart—there!"

The Saint's gift burned behind his eyes, searing the truth into his mind: a pulsing knot of Maleficarum nestled in the beast's ribs, throbbing like a second sun. The Monarch turned, antlers blazing with warp-light, and understood.

He twisted his greatsword into the beast's skull, piercing through its warped brain, driving deep. For any lesser creature, it would have been a killing blow. But the Broken Monarch was no lesser thing.

It did not die.

It did not even falter

It turned its gaze upon him, comprehension flickering behind those abyssal eyes. Then it moved—impossibly swift, monstrously strong.

The blow struck like a siege cannon. One moment Gabriel gripped his sword, the next he was airborne, the world a blur of screaming warp-light and buckling stone. He crashed into a pillar, the impact shuddering through his ribs like a detonation. Ceramite cracked. Biolung fluid spattered his helm's interior, coppery and warm. His blade remained lodged in the Monarch's skull, jutting like a mocking standard. The beast shook its antlered head—casual, contemptuous—and Gabriel's sword might as well have been a thorn in a leviathan's hide.

It knows, he thought, dragging himself upright. And now it plays.

The Monarch danced back, hooves phasing through reality to avoid the Astartes' strikes Even grounded in reality as it was, the Broken Monarch remained a force of nature, a storm of chaos given monstrous form. And from the rifts it tore in reality, they poured forth. Hundreds of monsters, a fresh wave of neverborn horrors erupting into the chamber, a tide of teeth and claws and tentacles, of unnamable abominations surging towards the beleaguered Astartes. Most, the weaker echoes of the warp, were instantly consumed, incinerated by the silent, ever-present radiance of the Emperor's Tears gems woven into Astartes armor, their immaterial forms dissolving in bursts of holy light, their screams cut short as faith itself unmade them. But those that survived, the stronger, more substantial horrors, the alpha predators of the warp, they pressed onwards, a living wave of claws and fangs and tentacles, crashing against the Astartes lines, a brutal, overwhelming assault. Gabriel saw a Black Templar vanish under a tide of fangs, his storm shield buckling. A Dark Angel's roar cut short as a tentacle sheared through his gorget.

Distractions, Gabriel thought, bile rising. But distractions kill.

His body screamed. Ribs fractured. Left leg grinding bone-on-bone. Three centuries of war had taught him pain, but this—this was a forge, hammering his resolve to slag. He limped forward, blood pooling in his boot. Duty was all that moved him now. Duty, and the cylinder at his belt.

The Saint's voice echoed in his skull, cold and clear as a frost-bitten dawn: "When the hour is darkest, wield this. And strike true."

The Monarch carved toward Huron, antlers shearing through a Custodes' spear. The Chapter Master stood immobile, veins bulging as his gift strained to pin the beast to reality. Blood trickled from his nostrils, blackened by strain.

Now.

Gabriel ripped the cylinder free, thumbing the activation rune. The device hissed, unfolding, extending, shifting shape in his gauntleted hand, the metal cool and strangely light. And in his grip, where moments before there had been only a cylinder, now stood a bastard sword, a blade of pure auramite, gleaming with an inner light, radiating a palpable sense of purity. Ten Emperor's Tears gems, miniature beacons of faith and anathema energy, were embedded within the blade itself, winking points of celestial light, and two more, larger, more potent, adorned the cross-guard, flanking the hilt like watchful sentinels. Miniscule runes, barely visible to the naked eye, ran along the length of the blade, ancient wards and blessings etched into the auramite, whispering promises of power and protection.

It was smaller, lighter, than his beloved Terranic greatsword, less familiar in his hand, but it would suffice. It had to suffice. He channeled the Saint's gift, the raw power of anathema energy, into the blade, and it awakened. The auramite erupted in a blaze of bluish light, the gems flaring to life, their brightness increasing tenfold, casting a soothing, almost ethereal glow, a beacon of hope in the encroaching darkness.

Saint's steel, he thought. Last gambit of the desperate.

He charged.

The Monarch sensed it. Turned. Warp-light eyes narrowing as the sword's purity seared its corrupted soul. For the first time, the beast recoiled.

Gabriel struck.

No flourish. No war cry. A simple thrust, born of three centuries of killing. The blade slipped between ribs fused with warp-brass, piercing the malefic heart nestled in its chest.

The Monarch screamed. Not a sound—a void, swallowing light and hope. Its antlers disintegrated. Hide peeled away like ash from a dying fire. Gabriel held firm, the sword trembling in his grip as the beast's essence unraveled.

Then silence.

The blade clattered to the floor, unmarred, its gems dimming to a gentle glow. Gabriel collapsed beside it, breath ragged, vision swimming. Around him, the chamber lay in ruins—craters, glassed stone, the dead and dying. Huron knelt nearby, gauntlets braced on his thighs, blood dripping from his chin.

"Clean… kill…" the Chapter Master rasped.

Gabriel laughed, the sound raw as an open wound. "For… a herbivore."

The Saintsword lay gleaming amid the carnage, its auramite blade untainted by the filth of the battlefield. A beacon. A rebuke. Gabriel knelt beside it, blood pooling beneath his shattered leg, his breath ragged. Done, he thought. It's done.

Then the air curdled.

Huron vanished—not in a warp-flash, but in a coil of black smoke that stank of burnt sugar and rotting roses. From the haze stepped Blackheart, pristine in his corrupted Terminator plate, walls of platinum energy erupting around them. The chamber's chaos dimmed, muffled as though submerged in oil.

"Congratulations, spawn of Caliban," the doppelganger said, his voice velvet over a dagger's edge. He gestured to the Saintsword. "A pretty trinket. But you've won… nothing."

Gabriel moved. Instinct, not thought. He lunged for the blade as Blackheart's heavy bolter roared. Rounds screamed past his helm, chewing craters into the deck. His fingers closed on the hilt—

—And Blackheart was there, clawed gauntlet slamming down to pin the sword. Gabriel twisted, firing his plasma caster point-blank. Twin suns erupted. The doppelganger blurred, sidestepping the blasts with unnatural grace, his laughter a serrated thing.

"Tsk. Predictable."

Gabriel surged upward, Saintsword slashing. Blackheart parried with his claw, the impact shuddering through Gabriel's arms like a quake. Too strong. Three centuries of war had honed him, but this… this was something other. The doppelganger leaned in, his breath reeking of static and spoiled wine.

"Do you think me one of your petty Fallen?" Blackheart purred, madness glinting behind his civility. "A whelp to be gutted in some chapel shadow?"

Gabriel's plasma caster flared again. Blackheart danced back, heavy bolter stitching rounds that hammered Gabriel's conversion field into a dying shimmer. The Astartes charged, sword aimed for the heart—

—And found only air.

Blackheart materialized behind him, claw raking four furrows across his back. Ceramite split. Gabriel staggered, agony searing his nerves. The doppelganger circled, mocking, a predator savoring the maiming.

"A flesh wound," he sighed, examining Gabriel's blood on his talons. "How… quaint."

Gabriel roared, lunging again. Blackheart met him mid-stride, their blades clashing in a shower of sparks. Plasma bolts, heavy bolter rounds, the shriek of ceramite—all drowned in the thunder of their duel.

Then the bell tolled.

A single note, resonant as a dying star. Light erupted—golden, searing, pure—freezing both warriors mid-strike. Gabriel hung suspended, muscles locked, as Michael materialized between them. The Saint's wings blazed with celestial fire, his gaze piercing the veil of lies.

Blackheart's smirk never wavered. "Oh, cheater," he crooned, his form unraveling like smoke. In his place, Huron hung frozen mid-snarl, trapped in the same stasis.

The illusion shattered.

The platinum walls collapsed, the chamber's true horror laid bare—Astartes hacking at phantoms, their blades passing through wisps of warp-spun nothingness. Blackheart's voice echoed from the shadows, fading, amused. "I like him, Shadow. We'll dance again… when you're worthy."

Gabriel hit the deck hard, Saintsword clattering beside him. Pain flared—then vanished, wounds gone, flesh knitting as if they had never been. Even his battered terminator plate was whole once more, reforged not by steel or human hands, but by something far greater. A reminder, stark and undeniable, that the Saint was more than a warrior, more than an executioner.

Michael was both the Emperor's Wrath and His Mercy, bound into one unfathomable figure.

Three years by his side, and Gabriel still had not unraveled the mystery of him.

Michael stood at the chamber's heart, wings of golden fire casting long shadows over the carnage. The daemons—whatever nightmare remnants of the illusion had lingered—were incinerated in an instant. No spectacle, no drawn-out purge of fire and thunder. Just erasure. The work of a will too great to be denied. The kind of power that reshaped battlefields, that ended wars before they truly began.

"Apologies for the delay, lads," the Saint said, grinning like a rogue who'd just won a bar brawl. "Had to scatter a Waaagh on the way. You know how greenskins are—persistent guests."

Gabriel rose, flexing renewed limbs. Three years at Michael's side, and the man still defied understanding. Not a god. Not a man. A force, wearing a smile too human for the horrors it faced.

"I failed," Gabriel said, retrieving his blade. "Blackheart escapes."

Michael tilted his head, the motion of a scholar considering a flawed but fascinating text. "Failed? You bled his ambition dry. Slaughtered his pet abomination. His 'assets'…" He gestured to the glassed crater where the Monarch had fallen. "…are cinders. All he won today is regret."

Huron stirred, his claw crackling with restless energy. "I'll hunt him. To the Maelstrom's heart. To the warp's edge."

The Saint's smile faded. "That's his want, son of Badab. To make you a mirror. To see your fire gutter into his cold obsession." He stepped closer, golden light dimming to something softer—a forge's glow, not a sun's. "Blackheart isn't your future. He's your fear. A man who knelt to the weight of his own vigil."

The Chapter Master stiffened, a strange, unsettling note entering his voice, a flicker of doubt, a shadow of uncertainty in his usually unwavering gaze. "He said he was what I become."

"He's what you resist," Michael corrected, voice gentle as a scalpel. "Your bloodline… it burns, Huron. Burns so hot it consumes. The gift I gave you?" He tapped the Chapter Master's chest, where the Saint's blessing pulsed beneath the plate. "Wasn't portals or power. It was perspective. To see the cliff's edge before you raced over it."

Huron's gaze fell to his claw, its lightning muted. "And the portals?"

Michael chuckled. "A bonus. Like teaching a wolf to juggle."

Gabriel snorted. Three centuries of war, and the Saint reduced galaxy-shaking power to a tavern punchline.

The chamber trembled, dust sifting from the ceiling like ash from a dying pyre. Gabriel stared at the Saintsword in his hand, its auramite edge still gleaming with the afterglow of Michael's power. Around them, the fortress groaned, its warp-twisted bones buckling under some unseen strain.

"What now?" Gabriel asked, his voice gravel-scarred but steady.

Michael turned, his golden wings folding into embers. "Now," he said, nodding to Huron, "we let the dramatist work."

The Chapter Master raised his claw, lightning arcing from its talons. Reality rippled, bluish-white portals tearing open like wounds in the air. Through them marched the three other strike forces—Astartes in battered heraldry, their weapons smoking, their armor scorched. They lowered bolters as recognition dawned. Brothers nodded. Cousins clasped pauldrons. No cheers. No fanfare. Only the grim solidarity of survivors.

Gabriel's eyes flicked to the gaping hole in the floor where the Custodes had vanished. "And the Ten Thousand?"

"Coming," Michael said, as if announcing the dawn.

The deck shrieked. Plates of warp-brass erupted upward, and the Custodes ascended—golden, pristine, untouched by the carnage below. The pit beneath them told a different story: mountains of xenos corpses, lakes of daemonic ichor, the air thick with the reek of ozone and rot. The golden warriors might as well have walked through a summer glade.

"Now that they've satisfied their flair for theater," Michael said, flashing that infuriating grin, "we leave. This place has minutes left."

Huron's helm tilted. "Blackheart's last spite?"

"Proof he never planned to lose," Michael corrected. "Our… allies ensured his fortress—and every festering twin on this rock—will be swallowed by the planet's wrath. Geomancy. A cleaner purge than cyclonic torpedoes."

One Custodes stepped forward, his voice a basso growl. "Stoneborne?"

Michael shrugged. "If that's your name for them. They hide even from me. Masters of rock and ritual."

The Custodes stared, then jerked his spear toward the portals. "Move."

No one argued.

Huron's portals flared, their edges crackling. Astartes filed through, discipline unbroken even as the ceiling split, raining molten debris. Gabriel lingered, watching Michael. The Saint stood motionless, staring at the crumbling dark.

"You knew," Gabriel said. "About Blackheart's traps."

Michael's smile softened. "Knew? No. Guessed. And gambled."

"On us."

"On you." The Saint clapped his shoulder, warmth bleeding through ceramite. "Faith's a blade, Gabriel. Sharper than any fancy sword."

They stepped through the portal as the fortress collapsed behind them, its death-cry swallowed by the void.

---

The excavation pit yawned beneath her like a wound gouged into the planet's flesh, its edges jagged and raw under the pallid glare of lumen projectors. Their beams—stark, clinical—stabbed through ash-choked skies, barely holding back a darkness so thick it seemed to congeal in the lungs. Shiani stood at the precipice, her breath a measured rhythm beneath her rebreather's filtration hum, observing the ant-like procession below.

Thousands of servitors, their flesh welded to grinding machinery, scuttled across scaffolds and gantries, their monotonal chants merging with the ceaseless thrum of drills biting into rockcrete strata. Above them, skeletal cranes groaned as winches hauled their burden upward: a monolithic rectangular structure, its surface sheened in auramite alloy gone dull with the effects of entombment. Etchings coiled across its flanks—figures too precise for human hands, geometries that hurt the eye to follow.

"An extravagant diversion," came the voice, smooth as polished ceramite yet edged with frost. Inquisitor Mariel loomed beside her, his towering frame casting a blade-like shadow across the pit. Even here, amidst the particulate haze, his gilt hair cascaded unnervingly pristine, framing features so symmetrically sculpted they might have been lifted from a Ecclesiarchal fresco. Only his eyes betrayed the truth: twin voids of arctic blue, pupils contracting like targeting reticules. "The Saint's patience is not infinite, Shiani. Nor is the Imperium's mercy toward those who squander its resources."

She did not turn. Her gaze remained fixed on the artifact as it ascended, cables creaking under its impossible mass. "When a psyker of Ambrosius's cabal warns of a Maleficarum locus surviving lance bombardment sufficient to glass a hive city," she said, her voice as dry as the air tasted, "I consider excavation prudent. Unless you'd prefer another Scourge of Vaxxal?"

Mariel's chuckle was a sound without warmth. "Hyperbole does not become you, interrogator." He stepped closer, boots crunching over vitrified soil. "What have you truly uncovered? A reliquary? A tomb? Or merely the delusions of a mind frayed by warp-dust?"

Below, Magos Biologis Adepts clustered around the artifact's base, mechadendrites twitching as they scraped samples from its pitted surface. Data-slates chirped, their runic displays bathing red robes in corpse-light. Shiani's thumb brushed the activation rune of her disruptor pistol—a habit, not a threat. "You tell me, inquisitor. Your gifts perceive what mine cannot."

For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the distant whine of plasma cutters. Maelstroms of ash spiraled beyond the lumens, whispering of cyclonic storms yet to come. Mariel's presence thickened the air, a pressure at the base of Shiani's skull as his psyche extended. When he spoke again, his voice had shed its mockery. "There is… a resonance. Not active, but latent. Like a star collapsed into a singularity, its light trapped behind event horizons." His gloved hand flexed, as if to grasp the artifact from afar. "The Maleficarum here is not residue. It is contained. A vessel."

"Or a conduit," Shiani countered. "The Death Guard's corruption didn't sprout from spores alone. They sought something here. Buried it deep enough to survive extermination." She finally turned to him, her visor reflecting his flawless face. "You'd obliterate a weapon before studying it?"

"I would incinerate a plague before it spreads." His eyes narrowed, the first fissure in that porcelain demeanor. "This reeks of hubris, Shiani. The Yvax Contagion began with such a 'study.'"

A klaxon blared. The crane shuddered as the artifact cleared the pit, its base trailing clods of soil that reeked of rancid promethium.

"Then pray the Saint's wisdom illuminates what ours cannot," Shiani said, signaling to a waiting Tech-Priest. "But if this contains even a shred of the Enemy's design…" She met his gaze, unflinching. "...ignorance will cost more than caution."

Mariel's lip curled, a sneer etched by lifetimes of witnessing heresies unfold. "You mistake recklessness for resolve. This war consumes idealists swiftly, interrogator." He turned, his cloak swirling like ink in water. "Mark my words: that relic will be your epitaph."

Shiani's comm-bead crackled. A servitor's monotone: "Preliminary scans complete. Chamber detected beneath artifact. Organic residue detected. Genetic match: Frusx indigenes. Estimated age: M38."

She stared at the artifact, now suspended like a dagger above the pit. M38. Three centuries before the planet's recorded colonization. The numbers coiled in her gut, cold and serpentine.

Above, the ash-clouds parted—briefly—revealing a glimpse of the Sanctus Reach in high anchor, its lance batteries glinting like fangs. Waiting.

The stairway groaned underfoot, its rusted ribs trembling as Shiani descended into the pit's throat, each step stirring ochre dust that clung to her boots like static-charged mites. Behind her, Mariel's presence loomed—a shadow weighted with disapproval, his breath a rhythmic hiss through his respirator's filtration grille. Patience, she thought, the word a mantra against the tightening coil in her gut. Some poisons demand antidotes. Others, a sharper venom.

The artifact dominated the chamber below, its auramite face now fully exhumed, the etchings shimmering faintly as if charged by distant lightning. Up close, the comet-chariot carved into its surface seemed to writhe, its blazing wake not merely etched but burnt into the metal, the constellations in its path smeared into nebulous scars. Shiani's retinal augurs flickered, struggling to resolve the patterns into something quantifiable.

"An interesting artifact."

The voice emerged from the gloom ahead, smooth and resonant, as if the darkness itself had congealed into sound. Shiani's hand snapped to her plasma pistol, neural augurs flooding her synapses with combat protocols—before freezing mid-draw.

Lord Michael stood beside the relic, one gauntleted hand resting lightly on its surface. His armor was a void-black exoskeleton, its corded fibers mimicking striated muscle, pulsing with bioluminescent threads of gold and viridian. The light writhed beneath the carapace like trapped stars, casting serpentine shadows across his face—a face too youthful for the millennia etched into his gaze.

"My Lord," Shiani exhaled, thumbing her pistol's safety. "You came."

"When have I ever ignored your summons?" Michael replied, his voice carrying the faintest harmonics of amusement. His eyes—irises burning with captured supernovae—flicked to Mariel. "Inquisitor. Your restraint is noted. Few would dare question an Ambrosian psyker's instincts."

Mariel dipped his head, the motion precise as a servitor's. "Merely balancing zeal with pragmatism, Lord. This… curiosity seems unworthy of your attention."

"Does it?" Michael turned back to the artifact, his fingertips tracing the comet's trajectory. Where he touched, the auramite bloomed with phosphorescent afterimages, the chariot's wake momentarily igniting into holographic flame. "Shiani's scans date this relic to three millennia past, yes? A relic buried before Frusx's colonization. A paradox."

"You dispute the findings?" Shiani stepped closer, her boots crunching over glassy soil fused by lance strikes.

"The scans are not incorrect. Merely… deceived." Michael's armored fingers flexed, the motion triggering a subsonic hum from the artifact. "This object has existed for one year, two months, three days, eighteen hours, and sixteen minutes. A rounding error, in cosmic terms."

Mariel stiffened. "A temporal anomaly?"

"A forgery." Michael's voice hardened. "Crafted with exquisite care to appear ancient. The chamber beneath us—" He gestured to a fissure at the artifact's base, where blackened ash clung in fractal patterns. "—contains a martyr's circle. Human remains, incinerated mid-ritual. The bombardment disrupted their working, allowing the artifact's Maleficarum signature to briefly leak into the Materium. An oversight."

Shiani knelt, brushing ash from the fissure. The residue clung to her gloves, greasy and cold. "The Death Guard's doing?"

"Unlikely." Michael's armor flared as he crouched beside her, emerald light illuminating sigils scratched into the chamber floor—angular, recursive, their angles violating Euclidean geometry. "This script predates the Legiones Astartes. Predates us. The circle was a focusing lens, channeling warp-energies to rewrite the artifact's chronometric signature. To make it… palimpsest."

Mariel's boot scuffed the ash. "Then let us reduce it to slag and deny the Enemy their ploy."

Michael rose slowly, the motion fluid yet freighted with menace. "Do you know what this is, Inquisitor? Truly?"

A beat. The lumen arrays flickered, plunging the chamber into momentary darkness. When they stuttered back to life, Mariel's face was pale. "No," he admitted.

The chamber hummed with latent energy, a subsonic drone that vibrated in the marrow of Shiani's bones. The auramite tablet loomed like a sarcophagus of forgotten gods, its surface still weeping hoarfrost, fractal patterns spidering outward where Michael's touch had awakened something dormant. Lumen arrays flickered arrhythmically, their beams diffracted by the relic's crystalline patina into prismatic shards that danced across the walls—a macabre masquerade of light.

Michael's silhouette seemed to drink the illumination, his armor's corded fibers writhing with captured starlight. When he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of stellar cores. "A key," he repeated, the word curdling the air. "Not to a lock or a vault, but to the Enemy's calculus. Their endgame."

Mariel's breath fogged as the temperature plummeted, his exhales sharp and controlled. "You imply this war is but a feint. That billions have died for… symbolism."

"All wars are feints within feints," Michael said, golden eyes narrowing to slits. "The bloodshed? A font. The destruction? Kindling. This—" He gestured to the tablet, where the comet-chariot's holographic wake now pulsed in time with the chamber's thrum. "—is a sigil carved into reality's flank. A declaration."

Shiani's augurs scrolled damage assessments across her retinal display—localized chronometric distortions, thermal gradients inverted against entropy. She flexed her gloved hand, watching breath crystals settle on the leather. "A declaration of what?"

Michael's laugh was a dry crackle, like static over a vox. "Of dominion. This relic belongs to a Tarot deck that does not yet exist. The Maelstrom's architects are playing a long game, Inquisitor . Each card a cipher, a locus of stolen power." He pressed his palm to the tablet, and for an instant, the frost ignited into cerulean flame, revealing lines of Menuian script beneath—angular glyphs that squirmed like nematodes under glass. "The Chariot of Scattered Embers. In the Emperor's Tarot, its counterpart binds the Mechanicus Covenant. Here, it serves a darker liturgy."

Mariel edged closer, disruptor pistol still charged. "Legends speak of the Maelstrom Deck as a Chaos Lord's gambit—stories to frighten acolytes."

"Legends are fossils of truth," Michael countered. "The Deck is no mere gambit. It is a coronation. Each card forged in the confluence of specific atrocities—genocides timed to warp-tides, massacres mapped to celestial alignments. This…" He rapped the tablet, sending shockwaves through the frost. "...is a snapshot of butchery. The Death Guard's plague rituals here were no accident. They fed the card, then buried it under layers of chronomantic deceit."

Shiani's mind raced, cross-referencing battle reports. "The Epsilon Sector Massacres. The Siege of Vorkath. Each occurred under warp-storms bearing similar sigils."

Michael nodded. "Each event a brushstroke on the same canvas. The Princes of Broken Gates seek to manifest a court in the Immaterium—a seat of power that would make the Eye of Terror seem a candle against the sun. But to claim that throne, they require symbols of office. Hence… this."

Mariel's pistol dipped marginally. "Then destroying it would disrupt their designs."

"Would it?" Michael's gaze turned pitying. "This tablet is but a shadow. The true card exists in the warp now, etched into the screaming fabric of unreality. Reduce this to slag, and you accomplish nothing. The ritual is complete. The power… irrevocable."

The chamber lights failed entirely this time, plunging them into a blackness so absolute even Shiani's augurs strained. When illumination returned—stuttering, febrile—the Menuian script glowed faintly, as if radioactive.

"Then why safeguard the shell?" Shiani pressed.

Michael's armor flared, viridian light revealing the truth: the tablet was no longer solid. Its edges bled into fractal mist, the comet-chariot now a three-dimensional construct hovering above the surface. "Because I am the variable. The Enemy did not anticipate our… curiosity. This relic, though drained, remains a cipher. A way to trace the card's resonance back to its masters."

Mariel holstered his pistol with deliberate slowness. "You propose using it as bait."

"As a scalpel," Michael corrected. "The ley lines you've detected are no accident. This nexus channels energy from every slaughter, every ritual conducted in the Maelstrom's shadow these past three years. Soon, that energy will form a cage—a corona around the entire zone. When it ignites…"

Shiani's gut tightened. "The warfronts. The battlefleets. They're not just fighting—they're fuel."

Michael's silence was confirmation.

The chamber's air thickened, charged with ozone and the metallic tang of decaying auramite. Shiani's breath crystallized as she spoke, each word hanging in the gloom like a shard of glass. Around them, the relic's frost-veined surface pulsed faintly, as if echoing the arrhythmic heartbeat of some slumbering leviathan. Lumen arrays cast pallid streaks across Michael's armor, the corded fibers of his black carapace shimmering with captured starlight, gold and viridian motes swirling like fireflies trapped in eventide. His presence dominated the space—not through force, but through gravity, a quiet intensity that bent the room's shadows toward him.

"Can we sever the lines?" she asked again, her voice steady despite the cold gnawing at her joints.

Michael turned slowly, his movements deliberate, each gesture a study in controlled economy. When his eyes met hers, they were no longer merely golden—they were windows into the heart of a star, swirling with coronae and magnetic arcs. "We could," he said, the words measured, as if weighed against eons of calculus. "But the backlash would tear through reality like shrapnel. Sectors vaporized. Warp drives sundered mid-transit. A billion souls extinguished before they could scream." He paused, the relic's frost creeping toward his boots in fractal tendrils. "Salvation demands payment, Interrogator. Always."

The auramite groaned, its internal structure succumbing to entropy. Somewhere in the depths of the pit, servitors chanted binary dirges, their voices blending with the whine of overstressed generators.

"In the Emperor's name," Shiani said, her gloved hand tightening around her pistol's grip, "their deaths would serve a higher purpose."

For a heartbeat, the chamber shifted. Light bent. Michael's form erupted into a corona of argent flame, wings of pure radiance unfurling behind him—not flesh, not energy, but something other, a manifestation of will that scorched the retina and seared the soul. The Living Saint's voice resonated in their bones, a harmonic beyond sound: "No. They would not."

The vision collapsed as swiftly as it arose, leaving afterimages burned into Shiani's augurs. Michael stood as before, though the air still crackled with sanctified static. "We do not sacrifice pawns to spite kings," he said, softer now, the mentor beneath the mythos resurfacing. "We channel the storm. Let the Enemy believe they've won. Let them pour their arrogance into the ritual's crescendo. Then—" He closed his fist, the motion snuffing out a cluster of frost-motes mid-drift. "—we sever the marionette's strings."

Mariel stepped forward, his earlier deference eroded by dread. "A poet's metaphor, Lord. Not a stratagem. To allow their working to near completion—"

"—is to ensure their focus becomes their flaw," Michael interrupted, his patience a blade sheathed in silk. "The warp is a mirror, Inquisitor. It amplifies intent. At the moment of triumph, when their grip on the ritual is tautest… that is when we strike. Not to disrupt, but to invert. The backlash will recoil through the Maelstrom, unmaking the architects instead of the innocent."

Shiani's mind raced, correlating battlefront data—the patterns of cultist uprisings, warp-storm migrations, the timing of Black Crusades. "A feint within a feint," she murmured. "They've woven inevitability into their design. So, we reweave it."

Michael nodded, approval glinting in his gaze. "Precisely. But to thread this needle, we must first let them pull it taut."

Mariel's laugh was a dry rasp. "A dangerous gambit, Saint. Even for you."

"All gambits are dangerous," Michael replied, his tone mild yet immovable. "But consider the alternative: sever the lines preemptively, and the unleashed energy festers. Warp anomalies. Unstable nexuses. The Enemy thrives on entropy—they would harvest that potential, forge it into fresh horrors." He gestured to the relic, now shedding crystalline flakes like a molting serpent. "This way, the fire burns only one house. Theirs."

The chamber's air had grown brittle, sharp with the scent of ionized metal and the ozone tang of decaying wards. Shiani's ocularis implant flickered, its psycho-synaptic augurs painting the room in overlapping spectra—Mariel's aura a cold, unyielding cobalt; Michael's a kaleidoscopic nimbus that defied categorization. The relic between them pulsed faintly, its auramite shell now laced with hairline fractures, each crack leaking a viscous indigo mist that pooled like spilled ink on the floor. She saw the truth of it now, through the gift Michael had etched into her soul: the tablet was a festering node in a vast, invisible web, tendrils of corruption stretching into the warp, binding star systems in a lattice of damned geometry.

Mariel's voice cut through the static. "And if your calculations err? If the ritual cannot be inverted?"

Michael turned, his movements liquid yet precise, the blackened fibers of his armor swallowing the lumen-glare. For a heartbeat, his form seemed to fracture—shadows elongating into memories of wings, of fire, of a sword that could cleft daemon worlds. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of dead civilizations. "I walked the Plague Gardens where Nurgle's children sing rot into being. I unmade the crimes of Old Night, those sins even your Ordo Malleus dare not name. I parleyed with the Aeldari as their craftworlds burned and dueled gods in the corpse of our most ancient colonies. Do you imagine this is the first apocalypse I've danced with, Mariel?"

Silence pooled, thick and syrupy. The relic's meltwater dripped like a metronome counting down to oblivion.

Shiani exhaled, her breath a wraith in the air. "What do you need from us?"

"Discretion," Michael said, the word a scalpel. "You will take this relic. Guard it with psykers, Sisters of the Argent Shroud, whatever zealous blades you trust. Then cast it into the furnace of the nearest star."

Mariel's aura flared—cobalt edges hardening to diamond. "But the tablet is inert. You said so yourself."

"To us, yes. To them?" Michael's golden eyes narrowed, galaxies dying in their depths. "They must believe us ignorant. Let them think we see only a trinket to be discarded, not a cipher to their grand design. Hunt these relics. Destroy them publicly. File reports boasting of disrupted heresies. Sow doubt in their arrogance."

Shiani's gift prickled, synapses firing as she parsed the room's loyalties—Mariel's aura remained unblemished, but threaded with skepticism's venom. Her own Dark Angels retinue stood sentinel beyond the chamber, their oaths to the Lion rendering them opaque even to her sight. "Your gift ensures no traitors walk among us," she said. "Yet you fear leaks?"

"Loyalty is no armor against cunning," Michael replied. "The Enemy needs no turncoats. A stray thought, a dream plucked from the warp, a synapse-ghost in a servitor's code… secrets bleed through cracks you cannot see."

Mariel's gloved hand twitched toward his disruptor. "Then purge our minds. Scour the knowledge clean."

Michael's smile was a blade sheathed in sorrow. "Unnecessary. Your psychic wards suffice, Inquisitor. Shiani's guardians occlude her from the Enemy's gaze. As for me—" The starlight in his armor brightened, fractal patterns swirling. "—I welcome their attempts."

The temperature plummeted. Frost colonized the walls, crystalline blooms spreading like mycelium. Shiani's implant flared warnings—chronometric distortions spiking, the relic's indigo mist now coiling into sigils that hurt to behold.

"This is insanity," Mariel hissed. "We gamble a hundred-thousand-star systems on subterfuge."

"All gambles are insanity," Michael said, his tone glacial yet oddly gentle. "But you wear the rosette, Mariel. Did you imagine it a badge of safety? The Imperium's survival is built on risks that would curdle lesser souls."

Shiani stepped between them, her voice steady. "He's never failed."

Mariel's gaze locked onto hers. She saw the calculations behind his eyes—the Inquisitorial calculus of lives versus victories. After a century-long moment, his shoulders sagged. "If this works… it would be a triumph unseen since the Emperor's Crusade."

"And if it falters?"

Michael's shadow stretched, engulfing the relic. "Then we sever the ley lines. Let the sectors burn."

A pause. The relic groaned, its fractures widening. Indigo mist pooled at their feet, forming shapes too fleeting to name.

"Very well," Mariel said, the words ash on his tongue. His cobalt-blue power armor, etched with hexagrammic wards, seemed to absorb the light, rendering him a silhouette edged in frost. "But at the first sign of—"

"—cataclysm?" Michael finished, his voice a low hum that resonated in the marrow. He turned, the starlight trapped within his armor dimming to a sullen ember-glow, as if the void itself draped across his shoulders. "Oh, you'll know." A gloved hand gestured toward the relic, the motion leaving afterimages that writhed like smoke. "Prepare the fleet. The Kaelis System's star will suffice for disposal. Its corona burns hot enough to unmake even this."

Mariel's helm tilted, lenses flickering as he scanned the servitors. "Good. I will purge the Magos and their constructs. Loose ends carry rot."

"Unnecessary." Michael's interruption was gentle, yet immovable. "Their minds are already scoured. Only fragments remain—a debate over disposal methods, your voice raised in doctrinal fervor. Nothing more."

Shiani's ocularis implant flickered, revealing the truth: faint psychic sigils, like burned fingerprints, lingered on the servitors' cortex nodes. Michael's work—precise, surgical, irrevocable.

"It would be… prudent," Mariel began, a hint of his usual cold pragmatism entering his voice.

"To kill them?" Michael's gaze was steady, contemplative. "No. Their souls would drift through the warp, carrying echoes of their final terror. And if some entity—one of the Neverborn, or worse—chose to pluck those memories from the ether?" He let the implication settle, the weight of it pressing down like a slow-moving avalanche. "No. Let them live. Assign as many agents as you see fit to monitor them, but harm them not."

Mariel made a sound in the back of his throat, something between exasperation and grudging acceptance. "You speak as if they are already beyond our control."

Shiani, who had been silent until now, exhaled through her nose. "Don't mistake his mercy for weakness, Mariel," she said. "I have seen what happens when he decides a world is beyond salvation. I have seen him erase a civilization for straying too far from His Light."

Michael inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the words without pride or remorse.

"A few dozen Magos, their Skitarii, their servitors?" Shiani continued, voice edged with something resembling wry amusement. "If he thought it necessary, they would be reduced to atoms before they even had time to scream. But that is not the path he has chosen."

Michael's gaze met hers, and for a heartbeat, she glimpsed the abyss behind his eyes—the weight of millennia, the cold fire of a thousand wars. "Conscript them to your retinue," he said, turning back to Mariel. "Let their ignorance be your veil. The tightrope we walk is frayed enough without adding fresh blades beneath."

"I… acquiesce." The admission cost him, his jaw clenching. "My retinue will secure the path to the hangar."

Shiani grinned, sharp and mirthless. "No need."

A sound like shattering glass split the air. Michael's form dissolved into a bluish-white nimbus, the light collapsing inward as if swallowed by a singularity. For an instant, the chamber's gravity inverted—parchment lifted, dust spiraled upward, and Shiani's stomach lurched. Then stillness, broken only by the drip of coolant from a fractured pipe.

"Does he always depart like that?" Mariel muttered, staring at the empty space where the Saint had stood.

"Only when he's feeling whimsical," Shiani said, brushing frost from her pauldron. The teleportation's residue clung to her skin, cold and electric, like the kiss of a dying star. "He says humor is the antidote to despair. Even if it's… theatrical."

Mariel's lip curled. "It's terrifying. No psychic signature. No warp residue. If I hadn't witnessed it—"

"—you'd doubt your own augurs?" Shiani finished. "He's not one for posturing. To him, it's as mundane as breathing."

The Inquisitor exhaled sharply, a sound almost like laughter. "Emperor preserve us from allies more inscrutable than foes."

Shiani blinked. Had the man actually joked? Beneath her helm, she allowed herself a faint smile. Perhaps Michael's influence was more contagious than she'd thought.

"Come," Mariel said, striding toward the blast doors, his armor's joints hissing like vexed serpents. "The Saint's gambit has just tripled our workload."

Shiani lingered, her gaze drawn to the relic one last time. The indigo fog had dissipated, but the air above it shimmered faintly, as if something unseen lingered—waiting, breathing, dreaming.

Patience, she thought, following Mariel into the corridor's throat. Some poisons take centuries to mature.

Behind her, the chamber's shadows deepened.