The Commissar and the Priest stood side by side, backs pressed to the great doors of the Grand Chapel.
Around them lay the last of the militia—brave men and women who had given everything. Some still clutched their weapons. Others stared blankly skyward, their duty fulfilled in silence. Smoke and dust lingered in the air, the bitter scent of battle hanging thick.
Across the courtyard, the Genestealers gathered.
Eyes gleamed in the shadows, and weapons scavenged from the fallen were raised. For a single moment, there was quiet—just the soft hum of power cells and the faint rattle of wind through broken stone.
Then the horde charged.
The Priest stepped forward, his eviscerator roaring to life. With a sweeping motion, he met the charge head-on, scattering the first wave with righteous fury. The Commissar fought beside him, striking with precision and speed. One blow stopped an attacker cold; the next deflected a strike meant for his heart.
The Priest raised his boltgun and fired, sending a short volley into the advancing swarm. It slowed them—barely. Then they were surrounded once more.
Steel clashed. Boots pounded. The two stood firm—one fueled by faith, the other by unshakable duty.
The Priest ducked under a heavy swing, rolled through the gap, and struck cleanly at a towering foe. The Commissar parried a wild strike and answered with a swift counter, forcing his enemy back. Around them, the circle of enemies closed tighter, each second more desperate than the last.
Another burst from the Priest's boltgun rang out—his last. The magazine clicked dry and dropped to the stones.
Still, they held.
Breathing heavily, the Priest raised his holy icon overhead. "By the grace of the God-Emperor!" he cried.
A golden light pulsed from the relic, casting a warm glow across the courtyard. For a fleeting instant, the cultists drew back, hesitant.
But the moment passed.
The horde returned.
The Priest turned—and saw the Commissar fall.
A four-armed Genestealer had crashed into him, bearing him to the stone. The Commissar struggled, blade in hand, trying to drive the beast back. The Priest charged, raising his blade, and struck hard. The chainsword carved through the creature's back, forcing it off the fallen officer with a shriek before it collapsed.
The Priest dropped to a knee beside him.
Too late.
The Commissar was still. His insides lay strewn about his body.
Alone now, the Priest rose slowly, the light of his relic dimming in his hand.
One last breath. One last prayer.
And then he turned, lifted his blade—and walked into the tide.