The bridge of the Dagger's Oath was a storm of sound and strained nerves.
Vox-channels spat machine-code strings, desperate status reports, and shouted damage alerts. Holographic tactical displays flickered, updating second by second as icons winked out — bright blue for friendly hulls, crimson for the foe. And the crimson was growing.
The ceaseless bass thrum of void shields absorbing energy strikes vibrated through the deck plates, a cold reminder of death scraping at the ship's hull.
Admiral Alaric Voorn stood at the command dais, jaw clenched so tightly it felt as though his teeth might crack. Sweat pooled beneath his collar seals despite the bridge's recycled chill.
His storm-grey eyes never left the towering crimson icon, the Vengeful Spirit.
A Gloriana-class monster, once a jewel of the XVI Legion's fleet, now cutting through his formation like a predator through shoals of lesser prey.
He'd faced Huron Blackheart, warbands of the Red Corsairs, piratical scum.
The chos lord didnt bled him like this.
The Vengeful Spirit danced. Every maneuver Voorn ordered, textbook pincer moves, counter-flanks, layered torpedo net ambushes, met counteractions Abaddon had prepared before the Exiles even moved.
Always, that monstrous crimson icon moved where Voorn least wanted him.
The admiral's grit in teeth in frustration.
"Damn you, Abaddon," he growled.
A tremor ran through the deck. Vox-stations shuddered. Runes flickered.
"Void shield contact! Starboard forward quarter, multiple heavy impacts!" a deck officer reported.
"Status!"
"Shields holding 84%… 81%… 78%."
Before Voorn could order a correction, another staff voice snapped in from the comms pit.
"Warp surge, new contact, starboard flank. Two Legion cruisers, one escort frigate. Identification matches pre-Heresy black legions logs."
The bridge's collective breath caught. Teeth clenched. Throats tightened.
Voorn didn't glance away from the holomap. He already knew. Abaddon's flanking move. Again.
"Where are my Third Steel Cordons?!"
"Engaged by a secondary Legion fleet, Admiral. They're committed."
The deck shuddered again. A sharper vibration as a titanic impact struck the shields, warping them visibly in the bridge's secondary viewport — a shimmering ripple against the void.
"Direct hit," called another officer. "Estimate, 50-meter plasma projectile."
The impact echoed through the Dagger's Oath. Warning runes flashed amber. The acrid stench of scorched circuitry hung in the air.
A cold, inhuman voice chimed in.
[Shield integrity: 77.2%. Critical systems operational.]
Voorn's gut twisted. A predator's instinct. The scent of inevitability.
"Iron Cohort's fleet defense screen compromised!" the vox-adept's voice cracked. "Multiple Black Legion ships passing through, boarding craft en route to Blackstone Fortress!"
The hololith change to shows multiple ships penetrating deep unto the exile formation.
A sharp curse escaped Lieutenant Sarven at the command spire. "They'll breach the inner bastions, Admiral. The Fortress won't hold."
Voorn's stare cut to her like a thrown blade.
"There's no one coming to save us," he said flatly. "We're the only and last line. Redirect Iron Cordon approach vectors make sure those crafts eliminated. Ram it if they must. Order their fighter wing for intercept missions."
Ensign Vale's fingers hesitated a fraction of a second over his console before jabbing down onto the runes. Commander Haldron's jaw twitched, the muscle jumping along his cheek.
No one objected. Not now.
"AI, projection vector on enemy assets."
The ship's AI answered in clipped, emotionless binary.
[Projection: enemy fleet forming interdiction arc. Recommended action: disengage priority second-line assets. Shield primary fleet elements. Acceptable attrition: 31.2%.]
Voorn's lips peeled back.
"To hell with acceptable attrition."
He turned to his command staff, voice slicing through the din.
"We hold this line. Every ship. Every hull. No retreat unless ordered by my hand. The moment we fall back, Abaddon drives a spear through our hearts and takes back that fortress."
The officers met his gaze. Pale faces. Tight jaws. But no one flinched.
A junior vox-officer's voice cracked.
"Sir, First Steel Cordon cohort at sixty percent effective. Calls for disengagement."
Voorn's fist crashed against the hololithic table, shattering a dataslate and sending a sharp burst of static through the speakers.
"No withdrawal!" he roared. "They bleed. Or we all bleed together."
Another impact. The bridge tilted before inertial dampeners corrected. Dim panels flickered, klaxons gave a hollow groan.
"Void shields down to seventy-five percent."
Voorn's gaze returned to the hololith. His fleet, superior in mass, number and technology is being outplayed at every turn.
He ground his teeth. His gaze turn to the vengeful spirit.
"He's toying with us. He is toying with me."
For a bitter instant, Voorn remembered dueling instructors in his youth. None of them had done this. Not like Abaddon.
He spat on the deck.
"Fine."
He keyed the shipwide command vox.
"All ships this is Admiral Voorn. No retreats. No mercy. You die, you drag a traitor bastard down with you. Steel Cordons, hold the line. Iron Cordon, plug that breach."
The bridge officers straightened. Lieutenant Sarven wiped a smear of sweat from her brow, her face tight but unyielding. Commander Haldron flexed his hand once before gripping the spire. Ensign Vale allowed himself a single glance toward the viewport as another Exile cruiser died in a flare of plasma and torn hull plating. He knew some of them. Didn't matter now. He turned back to his station, jaw tightening.
The Dagger's Oath creaked under another barrage — but the line held.
Then the AI spoke.
[Data compiled: enemy flagship tactical pattern identified. Estimated probability of maneuver repeat: 72.3%. Initiating countermeasure algorithm.]
A flicker of hope. Voorn's head snapped up.
"Speak."
[Abaddon employs predictive displacement tactics based on archaic son of horus great crusade-era naval doctrine. Deviation from standard engagement vector within defined intervals. Countermeasures uploaded to command nav-array. Warning: algorithm deployment will overload secondary cogitator cores. Risk of system failure: 14.6%.]
Silence.
Commander Haldron's knuckles whitened on the weapon spire. Lieutenant Sarven's gaze flicked to the overhead power readouts.
Voorn's expression didn't change.
"Acceptable risk," he growled. "Deploy it."
Ensign Vale's shoulders stiffened as the cogitator banks groaned under the new load, amber runes flickering. He gritted his teeth and kept working.
The hololith flickered. New icons bloomed — counterflank patterns, interdiction arcs, kill zones.
"This either saves us," Haldron muttered, voice dry, "or gets us dead faster."
Voorn didn't look away.
"We'll find out."
"Execute counter-strategy. All Steel Cordons adjust vector. Reserve ships prepare for a pincer movement. Iron Cohort, fire torpedoes as they reposition. Dagger's Oath to lead wedge advance."
The hololith shifted. Crimson icons found themselves caught in anticipated firing arcs.
A Black Legion cruiser strayed and three lance batteries struck it in unison, its icon blinking out. Another flank move countered.
Not a rout. Not a victory.
But the bleeding slowed.
Voorn's lips curled into a wolf's grin.
"Bleed him for it."