Dwarfed by the colossal Imperial battle cruiser, the Dauntless frigate seemed insignificant against the backdrop of space. The battle cruiser was a 5-kilometer behemoth of adamantium, a floating metropolis of war. Its hull, thick and layered, bore the scars of countless battles, with deep gouges and blackened patches testament to its long service. Rows of macro cannons protruded from armored embrasures, and lance batteries sat like predatory spines along its length. Missile silos punctuated its hull, ready to unleash their deadly payload. The superstructure was a gothic labyrinth of towers, spires, and fortified sections, punctuated by communication arrays and sensor dishes. Void shield generators, humming with power, formed a visible barrier around the warship.
Adorning the battle cruiser was the heraldry of the Ultramarines, a legion prominent during the Warhammer 30k era. The deep ultramarine blue of the legion's livery covered much of the ship, interspersed with gold trim and accents. The Imperial Aquila, the double-headed eagle, was prominently displayed in gold on the prow and other key points, its wingspan vast. Each company within the legion had its own unique markings, and tactical designations were visible in stylized numerals and glyphs. Honorific scrolls and battle standards flew proudly, recording the ship's history and the legion's achievements. Personal heraldry and squad markings added further detail to the vessel's imposing appearance.
Colonel Elias Voss felt a surge of relief. At last, a moment of respite. His uniform bore the dry stains of blood, a mix of his own and that of his fallen comrades.
---
The hangar bay of the Honour of Calth was a cathedral of war, its scale and order a stark rebuke to the chaos they had left behind. The deck plating, polished to a mirror sheen, reflected the harsh, steady glow of the overhead lumens. Ranks of Ultramarines in pristine blue ceramite stood at attention, their bolters held in perfect alignment, their discipline a silent, unyielding testament to the will of their Primarch, Roboute Guilliman. Servitors moved with silent, programmed efficiency, their mechanical limbs whirring as they unloaded supplies and guided the dazed survivors toward the med-bays.
Colonel Voss stepped onto the deck, his boots leaving dusty footprints on the immaculate floor. He looked around, his eyes wide, a man who had stared into the abyss now finding himself in a hall of gods. The sheer difference between the battered, bleeding Dauntless and this immaculate warship was staggering. His shoulders, slumped with the weight of command and grief, straightened almost involuntarily.
Thaddeus and Vorn followed, their crimson armor a brutal splash of color against the sea of ultramarine blue. Their armor was a tapestry of their journey—dented, scorched, patched with scavenged metal, and stained with the blood of traitors, xenos, and brothers. Vorn's chainsword-arm, a crude but effective piece of battlefield engineering, drew more than a few sharp, appraising glances from the disciplined Ultramarines. They were a raw, visceral presence in this temple of polished steel and unwavering order.
A figure detached himself from the ranks and strode toward them. He was a Captain of the XIII Legion, his armor a masterwork of Artificer craftsmanship, its blue depths highlighted with trims of gleaming gold. A white-and-red helmet was tucked neatly under his arm, revealing a face that was stern, noble, and etched with the certainty of command. His hair was cropped short, his jaw square, and his eyes, the color of a winter sky, missed nothing.
"Colonel Voss," the Captain said, his voice calm and measured, carrying the quiet authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. "I am Captain Ortan Cassius of the Ultramarines 4th Company. Welcome aboard the Honour of Calth. My Apothecaries will see to your men and the civilians. You have endured a great ordeal."
Voss, momentarily speechless, managed a salute. "Captain. Thank you. We... we thought we were lost."
Captain Cassius nodded, a flicker of empathy in his otherwise stoic gaze. He then turned his attention to the two Blood Angels, his eyes sweeping over their battle-ravaged forms. He noted Thaddeus's shattered helm, the tattered remains of the Crimson Veil, and Vorn's brutal prosthetic.
"Sergeant," Cassius addressed Thaddeus, his tone shifting from sympathetic to professional. "Your distress call spoke of an assault by the VIII Legion. A grave matter."
Thaddeus stepped forward, Vorn a silent shadow at his back. He met the Captain's gaze, the weariness in his own eyes warring with the burning intensity of his purpose. "Captain Cassius. I am Sergeant Thaddeus Valen of the IX Legion. The traitors on Gethsemane IV were indeed Night Lords."
"Treason is a plague we are duty-bound to purge," Cassius stated, his voice as hard as ceramite. "But your report was fragmented. What was the full extent of their force? What were their objectives?"
"Their numbers were legion," Thaddeus said, his voice low and steady. "Led by Captain Malchior Vire and a sorcerer, Sibilant Kraal. They were not conquering, Captain. They were... playing. Sowing terror. They rigged the primary reactor to freeze the planet and herded civilians inside."
Cassius's brow furrowed. "Savagery typical of the VIII Legion. But you drove them back. A commendable feat for so few."
"We did not act alone," Thaddeus said, the words heavy. He gestured to Vorn, and then to the memory of the fallen. "We were three. Now we are two." He paused, letting the weight of the loss settle in the pristine air of the hangar. "We received aid from the Imperial Army, under the command of Colonel Voss."
A flicker of doubt crossed Cassius's face. It was subtle, but Thaddeus saw it. The logical, ordered mind of an Ultramarine struggled to reconcile the report. Three Astartes and a handful of Guardsmen forcing a Night Lords Captain and his warband to retreat? It strained credulity.
"Your courage is noted, Sergeant," Cassius said carefully. "But you must understand the gravity of your claim. To accuse a Captain of a Legion of such open treason... we require more than battlefield reports. We require proof."
"Proof?" Vorn growled, taking a step forward, his chainsword-arm whirring softly. Thaddeus placed a hand on his brother's pauldron, a silent command to stand down.
"My word is my proof, Captain," Thaddeus said, his voice cold. "The word of a Blood Angel. But if you require more..." He took a breath, the whispers in his head stirring at the memory. He would not speak of the brain, of the forbidden rite. "I interrogated one of their ranking officers before his... expiration. A Dread-Contemptor. I learned of their next target."
Captain Cassius's eyes narrowed. "You interrogated a Dreadnought of the VIII Legion? Alone?" The skepticism was no longer subtle. It was a tangible presence between them.
"I did what was necessary," Thaddeus replied, his gaze unwavering. "The Carrion Prince, Malchior Vire, has set his sights on the XVIII Legion. He moves to ambush the Salamanders."
The name of another Legion hung in the air, a challenge and a dire warning. Cassius fell silent, his mind processing the information. The Salamanders. If what this battered Sergeant said was true, another Legion was walking into a trap. Protocol demanded verification, but the risk of inaction was too great. The cold logic of the Ultramarines dictated that a potential threat of this magnitude had to be addressed, even if the source was questionable.
Yet, the questions remained. How could so few have learned so much? How could they have survived? The Blood Angels were known for their ferocity, their... artistic temperament. But also for the whispers of a flaw, a darkness that ran in their veins. Cassius looked from Thaddeus's intense, almost feral gaze to Vorn's brutal, improvised weapon. They did not carry the clean, ordered discipline of the XIII Legion. They were raw, savage, and perhaps, unstable.
"Your warning has been heard, Sergeant Valen," Cassius finally said, his voice a mask of command. "I will relay it to Lord Guilliman. The fate of the Salamanders is a matter of utmost urgency." He turned to a nearby Lieutenant. "Escort Sergeant Valen and his brother to the Apothecarion, then to designated quarters. They are to be given full amenities, but they are not to leave their assigned sector without my express permission."
The order was polite, but the meaning was clear. They were being quarantined. Honored guests, but prisoners all the same.
As two Ultramarines, their blue armor immaculate, stepped forward to escort them, Thaddeus felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He had brought the truth, a warning paid for in the blood of his brothers, and in return, he had received suspicion. Vorn fell into step beside him, a silent, brooding mountain of loyalty, his very presence a defiance of the polished order surrounding them.
They were led away from the hangar, leaving Colonel Voss and the survivors in the capable hands of the Ultramarines. As the blast doors hissed shut behind them, separating them from the rest of the survivors, Thaddeus looked back one last time. He saw the faces of the children he had fought for, now safe. It was a victory, of a kind.
But as he walked deeper into the gilded cage of the Honour of Calth, he knew a different battle had just begun. He was no longer just a warrior fighting traitors. He was a harbinger of a terrible truth, a truth that even the most loyal sons of the Emperor might not be ready to believe. And the whispers in his mind seemed to laugh at the irony of it all.
---
As the two Blood Angels were led away, their crimson armor a visceral wound against the sea of immaculate blue, Captain Ortan Cassius watched them go, his expression a mask of cold calculus. The Sergeant, Valen, was an anomaly. His tale of survival was... improbable. His ferocity was undeniable, but it bordered on the uncontrolled zeal that the Codex Astartes warned against.
Before Cassius could turn his full attention to the survivors, a new figure approached, moving with the eerie, gliding gait of the Adeptus Mechanicus. It was Magos-Explorator Varnus, his red robes stained with grease and holy unguents, his face a cold fusion of pale flesh and gleaming augmetics. A dozen mechadendrites snaked from his back, their tips clicking and whirring as they tasted the air.
"Captain Cassius," Varnus's voice was a dry, synthesized rasp, devoid of emotion. "My acolytes have completed their preliminary scan of the Blood Angels' vessel. The findings are… significant."
"Report, Magos," Cassius said, his gaze sharp.
"We have data of a vessel, a Thunderhawk Gunship, registered a catastrophic energy discharge congruent with a contained warp-core event, yet its power source is mundane fusion. The epicenter of this discharge was a xenos artifact." A mechadendrite unspooled, projecting a shimmering hololith of Zarathul's staff. "This… scepter. Its energy signature is unlike anything in our databanks. It is not of the warp, yet it manipulates reality on a quantum level. It is… fascinating."
Cassius stared at the alien weapon, a knot of unease tightening in his gut. "And the Blood Angels brought this aboard my ship?"
"Affirmative," Varnus droned. "Furthermore, we recovered several dataslates from the vessel's memory core. They contain fragmented combat logs, pict-captures, and tactical analyses of another xenos race, designated 'Necron.' The data suggests a technologically advanced, skeletal species with regenerative capabilities and energy weapons of terrifying potency. A fascinating paradigm of inorganic existence."
The word 'fascinating' grated on Cassius. The Magos saw a scientific curiosity; Cassius saw a new and terrible threat to the Imperium.
"There is more," Varnus continued, his optical lenses focusing on Cassius. "The Dauntless. Its Gellar Field logs show multiple instances of failure. We detected residual traces of… warp-based biological corruption within the civilian holds. Minor, and since purged by our purification teams, but present. There were more civilians aboard that frigate when it began its journey, Captain. Far more."
The final piece of the puzzle slotted into place, solidifying Cassius's suspicion into cold certainty. The Gellar Field failure, the corruption, the impossible survival against the Night Lords, the presence of an unknown, reality-bending xenos artifact... It all painted a picture of a squad touched by forces beyond the Emperor's light.
"We should interrogate Colonel Voss," the Magos suggested, his tone clinical. "His testimony may provide a logical framework for these anomalous events."
"I will speak with the Colonel," Cassius agreed, his mind already working through the tactical implications. "Magos, secure the artifact and the dataslates. I want a full analysis. And place the Blood Angels' Thunderhawk under the strictest quarantine. Let nothing in or out."
"By the Omnissiah's will," Varnus replied, turning to glide away, his mechanical limbs already whirring in anticipation of dissecting the new data.
Cassius stood alone for a moment in the echoing hangar, the disciplined order of his Legion a comforting presence. The Blood Angels were a problem. A dangerous variable in a war that demanded absolute logic and control. He would use them, as the Codex dictated all assets should be used, but he would not trust them.
The walk to the Apothecarion was a journey through another world. The Honour of Calth was not a ship; it was a statement of doctrine made manifest in adamantium and plasteel. The corridors were wide and vaulted, their lines clean and severe, echoing the architectural principles of ancient Macragge. The floors were polished grey stone, inlaid with the golden Omega of the Ultramarines. There were no gothic gargoyles or shadowed archways here, only soaring columns, perfectly spaced lumens that banished all shadow, and holographic banners displaying excerpts from the Codex Astartes.
Thaddeus felt a profound sense of alienation. The Blood Angels' vessels were flying cathedrals, their walls adorned with frescoes of Sanguinius's deeds, the air rich with the scent of incense and the sound of chanted litanies. They were places of art and passion, where fury and beauty coexisted. This ship… this was a fortress of pure logic. It was impressive, magnificent even, but it felt cold. It had no soul.
Vorn walked beside him, a brooding storm in crimson. His makeshift chainsword-arm scraped against a bulkhead, leaving a faint scratch on the pristine surface. One of their Ultramarine escorts glanced at the mark with a flicker of disapproval before his face returned to its impassive mask. Vorn noticed, and a low growl rumbled in his chest. Here, even their scars felt like a flaw.
They entered the Apothecarion, and the sterile environment intensified. The chamber was a laboratory of gleaming white, its air smelling of antiseptic and ozone. Banks of advanced medical cogitators hummed softly, and servo-medicae arms hung from the ceiling, their chrome surfaces reflecting the cold, blue-white light.
An Ultramarine Apothecary, his white armor immaculate save for the blue pauldron of his Legion, approached them. "I am Apothecary Titus. Your injuries will be tended to." His voice was as sterile as his surroundings.
He gestured for Vorn to be seated on a large diagnostic slab. With a series of precise clicks and whirs, a servo-arm descended and began to carefully dismantle the crude chainsword-arm Cassian had built. Vorn watched in silence as the amalgam of scrap and scavenged parts was removed, leaving the scarred stump of his real arm exposed. He felt a pang of loss for the brutal weapon; it had been ugly, but it had been forged by a brother's hands.
Apothecary Titus examined the wound. "The nerve damage is extensive, but reparable. We will fit you with a new bionic." The servo-arms went to work, grafting a new arm into place. It was a marvel of Mechanicus design—sleek, powerful, its fingers capable of crushing plasteel or manipulating the smallest switch. Its surface was the same ultramarine blue as the ship around them. When it was done, Vorn flexed the new fingers, the bionic moving with silent, perfect efficiency. It was stronger, better. But it was not his.
Next, Titus turned to Thaddeus. His wounds were less severe but numerous. The Apothecary expertly cleaned and sealed the cuts, injected synth-flesh into the deeper gouges, and set the cracked ribs with a sonic welder. The pain receded into a dull, manageable ache.
"Your helmet is beyond repair, Sergeant," Titus stated, holding up the shattered remains of Thaddeus's helm. The golden angel wings were bent and broken, the crimson plate fractured beyond recognition.
"I am aware," Thaddeus said, his voice flat.
"We have replacements," the Apothecary continued, gesturing to a rack of spare equipment. "We have no crimson plate aboard this vessel."
A servitor glided forward, presenting a new helmet. It was a Mark IV Maximus pattern helmet, its azure surface polished to a flawless sheen, adorned with the white Omega symbol of the Ultramarines and a single red stripe denoting a Sergeant.
Thaddeus stared at it. To wear the colors of another Legion… it felt like a betrayal. A betrayal of Sanguinius, of Cassian, of the very blood that ran in his veins. The helm was a symbol of the suspicion he was under, a brand of the legion that held him in this gilded cage. For a moment, he thought of refusing, of walking bare-headed into whatever came next. But that would be a fool's pride. In battle, a helmet was life.
His gaze flickered to the reflection in the polished deck. He saw his own face, streaked with grime, hair matted with blood, eyes burning with a weary fire. He saw a survivor.
With a slow, deliberate movement, he took the helmet. The weight felt foreign in his hands. He raised it, the scent of fresh paint and new circuitry filling his senses. He paused, his heart a heavy drum in his chest. Then, he lowered it over his head.
The world resolved into the cool blue of an Ultramarine's tactical display. The fit was perfect. The Machine Spirit integrated with his armor systems seamlessly. He was whole again. He was safe.
But as he looked out through the azure visor, the world seemed colder, more distant. He was a Blood Angel, a son of the Angel, clad in the color of the sea and the sky. A crimson warrior wearing a blue helm. He was alone.
---
The interrogation chamber aboard the Honour of Calth was a void of polished obsidian and cold, blue light. It was a place designed to strip away defiance, to render a soul bare under the weight of unblinking logic. Colonel Elias Voss sat on a simple steel chair, its unyielding surface a stark contrast to the mud and ruin he had called home for weeks. Opposite him, behind a broad adamantium desk, sat Captain Ortan Cassius. The Ultramarine did not glower or threaten; he simply observed, his sky-blue eyes as analytical and dispassionate as a cogitator.
"Let us begin again, Colonel," Cassius said, his voice a calm, level river of sound that promised to wear down stone. "You state that two Astartes of the IX Legion appeared on your world. From where?"
"I don't know," Voss repeated, his voice raspy with exhaustion but laced with an unshakeable thread of defiance. "One moment we were being butchered, the next they were there. They crashed. Their ship was already a wreck. They came from the sky and waded into hell for us."
"A crashed Thunderhawk," Cassius mused, steepling his fingers. "With no prior contact, no distress signal of your own to answer. They simply… arrived. And you accepted them without question?"
"What was I to question, Captain?" Voss snapped, his composure finally cracking. He surged to his feet, his fist slamming down on the cold desk. "The angels of death who tore the heart out of a Contemptor Dreadnought? The Sergeant who rallied my broken men when they were cowering in the mud? The one who faced a warp-sorcerer so I could get a clean shot? Yes, I accepted them! They bled with us! They lost one of their own saving us!"
Cassius remained motionless, his gaze unwavering. "This… artifact," he continued, changing tack. "The xenos scepter. Sergeant Valen ordered it used against the enemy vessel?"
"He did," Voss confirmed, sinking back into his chair, the fire in him banking to embers. "Their tech-marine—no, their other brother, Cassian—rigged it. He fired it at the barge. The blast was… unnatural. It crippled them, forced their retreat. But it cost him his life." He lowered his head, the memory of Cassian's sacrifice a fresh, burning wound. "He died so we could live."
"A noble sacrifice," Cassius conceded, though his tone was clinical. He leaned forward slightly. "And this staff. It was already in their possession when they arrived on Gethsemane IV?"
"Yes," Voss said, looking up, his eyes filled with a weary honesty. "It was on their ship when they crashed. I don't know where they got it. I don't care. All I know is they saved every man, woman, and child you see on this ship. They are heroes, Captain. Whatever shadows you think you see, their deeds shine brighter."
Cassius leaned back, a long, thoughtful silence filling the room. The Colonel's testimony was impassioned, consistent, and utterly illogical. A crashed gunship appearing from nowhere. A xenos superweapon. A victory against impossible odds. It was a narrative filled with holes, yet Voss's loyalty was absolute. He believed it.
"You have fought with honor, Colonel Voss," Cassius said finally, his voice softening into something resembling dismissal. "Your testimony has been… illuminating. You may return to your men." As Voss stood to leave, Cassius added, his voice hardening once more, "However, the facts remain. The Gellar Field of the Dauntless failed. Your command, your men, and the civilians were exposed to the raw energies of the empyrean. You will all be tested for corruption. I trust there will be full cooperation."
Voss froze, the implication a slap in the face. But he saw the unyielding logic in the Captain's eyes and knew there was no room for argument. He simply nodded, a bitter taste in his mouth, and walked out of the chamber, a hero in the eyes of his men, a potential vector of corruption in the eyes of his saviors.
The quarters assigned to Thaddeus and Vorn were as spartan and immaculate as the rest of the ship. A single blue lumen cast a cold light over two simple bunks and a plain steel table. The air was recycled, sterile, and silent. It was less a chamber and more a cell.
Two Ultramarine sergeants stood by the door, their expressions impassive. One, a veteran with a service stud denoting a century of war, gestured to their weapons. "Your wargear will be taken for cleansing and inspection, as is standard procedure."
Vorn's hand went instinctively to his plasma pistol. A low growl rumbled in his chest. "We keep our weapons."
"That was not a request," the Ultramarine said, his hand resting on the pommel of his own power sword.
Thaddeus stepped between them, his new blue helmet held under his arm. "Vorn. Stand down." He met the Ultramarine's gaze. "We understand." He unbuckled his power sword and bolt pistol, laying them carefully on the table. The weapons felt like extensions of his own limbs; to be without them was to be crippled. Vorn, after a tense moment, followed suit, placing his plasma pistol and the scavenged bolter on the table with a heavy, resentful thud.
The second Ultramarine, a younger warrior with a sharp, inquisitive face, stepped forward and reached for the tattered remains of the Crimson Veil on Thaddeus's shoulders. "This too, Sergeant. It is heavily damaged and stained."
As his fingers brushed the fabric, he paused. His brow furrowed. "Adamantium weave," he murmured, his voice betraying a hint of surprise. He ran a gauntlet over the scorched, shredded material. "This is no standard-issue cloak. The craftsmanship… it is Master-Artisan work." He looked from the ruined cape to Thaddeus, a question in his eyes. An adamantium cloak was a relic, a treasure of a Legion, not the adornment of a simple Sergeant. And this one was utterly destroyed.
Thaddeus said nothing, his face a mask of stone. The Ultramarine carefully folded the tattered remnants and took them, along with the weapons, leaving the two Blood Angels alone in their gilded cage.
Vorn slammed a fist against the bulkhead, the sound a crack of thunder in the silent room. "They treat us like prisoners! Like traitors!"
"We are an unknown, Vorn," Thaddeus said, his voice quiet as he sat on the edge of a bunk. "To them, logic is law. And we… we are not logical." He ran a hand over his face, the whispers in his mind a faint, mocking chorus. They had survived, but they were more alone than ever.
In the med-bays and processing halls of the Honour of Calth, the grim work began. Chaplains in stark black armor moved among the survivors, their Crozius Arcanums held ready, their skull-helms impassive. Every man, woman, and child from Gethsemane IV was subjected to the rites of purity.
Psykers of the Librarius, their blue hoods drawn low, walked the lines of trembling civilians, their eyes glowing with ethereal light as they scoured each soul for the slightest taint of the warp. They held up psycho-active crystals that would flare with sickly light at the touch of a corrupted mind. Most passed the test, their fear pure and untainted. A few did not.
A grizzled Guardsman, who had fought bravely at the reactor, began to foam at the mouth, his eyes rolling back as a Chaplain approached. He screamed a string of blasphemies in a language no mortal tongue should know. A single, precise shot from the Chaplain's bolt pistol ended his torment. The crowd flinched, but no one protested. This was the Emperor's mercy.
A young girl clutched a doll made of rags. As a psyker passed his hand over her, the doll's button eyes seemed to weep blood. The psyker recoiled, his face pale. The girl was taken away, her small, confused cries echoing down the corridor before being abruptly silenced.
Around this grim theater, the ship's life continued its relentless, disciplined rhythm. Squads of Ultramarines performed bolter drills in the firing cages, their shots a steady, percussive beat. Tech-priests chanted litanies in the engine rooms, their voices a binary hymn to the Machine God. The ship was a perfect, ordered system, and the survivors were a chaotic element being ruthlessly categorized, purified, or purged.
Captain Ortan Cassius stood before the command hololith, reviewing star charts. The Ultramarine Sergeant who had confiscated Thaddeus's gear entered, carrying the folded, tattered remains of the Crimson Veil.
"Captain," the Sergeant said, laying the ruined cloak on the desk. "As I reported. The fabric is a master-crafted adamantium weave. Its condition is deplorable, but the quality is unmistakable. It is a relic, not a field garment."
Cassius picked up a fragment. It was impossibly light, yet its threads were stronger than plasteel. It was the kind of relic a Chapter Master might wear, or a hero of the Legion. Not a line Sergeant from a crashed gunship. Who was Thaddeus Valen? The warrior who fought with the fury of a daemon but the discipline of a master. The leader who inspired loyalty in a broken Colonel. The survivor of a story that made no sense.
"Everything about them is an anomaly," Cassius murmured to himself.
He turned to his communications officer. "Prepare an astropathic message. Highest priority, encrypted with the Guilliman cipher. Send it to the Librarius of the IX Legion on Baal, and cross-reference with the Hall of Records on Terra. I want to know everything about a Sergeant named Thaddeus Valen. His service record, his commendations, his lineage. I want to know who this 'Warden of the Crimson Veil' is."
As the officer hurried to comply, another alert chimed on the command console. "Captain, another distress call. It's… it's been verified by three separate listening posts."
A new sector of space appeared on the hololith, a single, unexplored world marked with the distress symbol. "Source?" Cassius demanded.
"A strike force of the Iron Hands, Captain," the officer reported. "They are under heavy assault on a world designated Xyphon. They report… Astartes traitors. The markings are unknown, not of the VIII Legion."
Cassius stared at the display. A new, verified betrayal. A different Legion. This was tangible, logical. It fit the pattern of spreading heresy. Thaddeus's warning about the Night Lords and the Salamanders was a single, uncorroborated report from a questionable source. This… this was a call to arms that the Codex demanded he answer.
His decision was made in a heartbeat, forged by the cold logic of his Legion.
"Set a course for Xyphon," he commanded. "We will answer the call of our brothers. The matter of the Night Lords will wait. The Blood Angels will remain under surveillance. Their tale does not align with the immediate, verifiable threats we now face."
The mighty engines of the Honour of Calth began to turn, pointing the warship not toward the ambush Thaddeus had warned of, but toward a new, unknown battlefield. Aboard, two Blood Angels sat in a cold, blue room, their warnings dismissed, their fates uncertain. And on the bridge, a Captain, acting with perfect logic and discipline, had just made a choice that could doom a Legion.
The first volume of a greater, darker saga had closed. The echoes of Gethsemane had faded into the void, replaced by the grim promise of a new war, and the quiet, gnawing doubt that would fester in the long night ahead.
END OF VOLUME ONE