Space.
After years entombed beneath the rotting skin of Valthrex Prime, the void was a revelation-an endless, silent cathedral stretching beyond mortal comprehension. Beyond the fractured viewport, the stars burned cold and remote, scattered like diamond dust across a velvet shroud. Nebulae blossomed in the distance, veils of color swirling around the silent bones of dead suns. The planet they had fled was already a fading memory, a diseased marble lost among the galaxies
Here, in the hush between worlds, time itself seemed to slow. The only sound was the gentle thrum of the Thunderhawk's wounded engines and the faint, irregular breathing of survivors. They felt it... the weight of possibility-a future unwritten, suspended in the infinite black.
And as the Thunderhawk sailed deeper into the void, the Blood Angels stared out into the endless night, uncertain, exhausted, but alive.
---
The interior of the Thunderhawk was a cathedral of war, a fortress carved within adamantium and ceramite, designed to carry the Emperor's angels into the heart of battle and bring them home-if fate allowed. The air was thick with the scent of machine oil, burnt circuitry, and the faint metallic tang of blood. Flickering emergency lights cast long shadows across the bulkheads, their hars glow reflecting off the scarred armor of the Blood Angels.
The flight deck, perched high above the assault hold, was a cramped hive of consoles and holographic displays, each flickering with vital data. Panels hummed with the Machine Spirit's restless presence, guiding ancient craft through the void with a will of its own. The pilot's and co-pilot's seats were worn but sturdy, surrounded by banks of switches, buttons, levers, and targeting arrays that controlled the Thunderhawk's fearsome arsenal-turbolasers, heavy bolters, missile racks, and the dorsal cannon capable of leveling entire city blocks.
Below, the assault hold stretched wide, a cavernous chamber lined with racks of ammunition, power packs, and weapon crates. The walls were scarred from countless deployments-scorch marks, dents, and the occasional smear of blood telling silent tales of brutal landings and desperate firefights. The reinforced assault ramp, still stained with the grime of recent battle, was flanked by twin heavy bolters, their barrels blackened from sustained fire, ready to clear the landing zone for the Space Marines' furious charge.
Corridors branched off to maintenance tunnels and storage bays, their steel floors echoing faintly with the distant thrum of fusion reactors. The faint vibration of triple Mars-pattern fusion engines thrummed through the hull, a constant reminder of the raw power contained within this war machine. Despite the damage and wear, the Thunderwak was alive-an ancient beast still roaring defiantly against the void.
In the quiet moments between battles, the ship's interior was a somber sanctuary, where warriors prepared for war, tended wounds, and whispered prayers to the Emperor. It was a place of steel and spirit, where the fate of the galaxy often hung in the balance, carried on the shoulders of those who dared to ride the thunder.
---
Inside the battered Thunderhawk, the Blood Angels finally found a moment of uneasy respite. The air was thick with the scent of blood, promethium, and scorched ceramite. Without a word, they began the ritual of survival-cleaning, tending and preparing for whatever the void would bring.
Thaddeus peeled off his ruined gauntlets and wiped the blood from his face with a scrap of torn cloth. He moved stiffly, pain etched deep into every motion, but discipline kept his hands steady. Cassian retrieved a canister of healing salve and growth stim from the med-kit, smearing the thick, cool gel over the worst of Vorn's wounds. The gel hissed as it met torn flesh and broken skin, accelerating the superhuman regeneration that pulsed through their veins. Vorn grunted, teeth clenched, as ceramite splinters were plucked from his thigh and a cauterizer sealed the wound with a flash of blue light.
Cassian checked his own injuries, binding a deep gash in his arm with a strip of synthskin. Thaddeus, helmetless and battered, pressed a clotting patch to his forehead, the blood already beginning to slow as the patch worked its alchemical magic. The three warriors moved with practiced efficiency, tending wounds that would have killed ordinary men, their bodies already knitting themselves whole.
Once their wounds were managed, they turned to their gear. Thaddeus cracked open an ammunition locker, checking each bolt shell for dents or corrosion. He refilled his magazines-each one heavy with mass-reactive death-then passed spare rounds to his brothers. Vorn checked the teeth of his chainsword, scraping away congealed ichor and shattered necrodermis, while Cassian reloaded his bolter with the last of their precious ammunition.
Finally, hunger gnawed at them. Cassian reached into a compartment on his power armor and withdrew a ration tube-a thick, high-calorie nutrient paste dense with protein, fat, and iron. The paste is almost sickeningly sweet, a concentrated fuel designed to keep a Space Marine's enhanced metabolism burning even in the void. They consumed it in silence, the taste metallic and cloying, but it filled the emptiness in their bellies and restored a measure of strength.
No words were needed. The rituals of cleaning, tending, and arming were as sacred as any prayer. Blood was siphoned away. Wounds were sealed. Magazines were filled. The last of the ration paste was swallowed.
---
The Blood Angels gathered in the battered hold, the void pressing in on all sides, the Thunderhawk's failing systems casting a pall of desperation over their council. Thaddeus set the Staff of Zarathul across his lap, its alien surface flickering with cold, unnatural light. The weapon was a trophy-but also a question, and perhaps a curse.
Cassian broke the silence first, his voice hoarse. "That staff... it's more than a weapon. The Mechanicus would kill to study it. If we could get it to them, maybe they could unlock something to help us fight." He eyed the artifact warily, recalling how it had unleashed arcs of energy and freezing death, how it had nearly ended them all.
Vorn shook his head, his face grim. "We're not even sure what it can do. For all we know, it could lead the Necrons right to us. Or worse, corrupt our own machine spirits." He looked out the viewport, the stars uncaring and cold.
Thaddeus nodded, fingers tightening around the staff. "This is a relic of the enemy, but also a beacon. If there's a chance it can help the Imperium, we must try. We'll keep it safe and, if the Emperor wills, deliver it to the Mechanicus. We also must warn the chapters. The Necrons are awake on Valthrex Prime. If we don't send word, more worlds will fall."
Cassian's expression darkened. "We have auspex logs, pict-feeds, data from the auspex, and our own records. If we survive, we'll send it all-every scrap of evidence, every warning. The Chapter Masters must know. The location of Valthrex Prime, the scale of the Necron threat, the traitors, and the fate of our brothers..."
Vorn's jaw clenched. "And the gene-seed. We left too many behind. If there's a way back-if we can return with reinforcements, we must recover what we can. We owe it to every fallen Angel."
But the Thunderhawk groaned beneath them, a dying beast. Cassian checked the consoles, frustration etched deep. "We're running on fumes. The engines are failing; the navis logis is dead. No vox, no astropathic signal. We're lost adrift in the void, and the fuel won't last."
The silence was thick, heavy with dread and exhaustion. For a moment, it seemed the void would swallow them whole.
Then Thaddeus stood, the Staff of Light in his grasp, his battered armor shining dully in the emergency glow. His voice was iron, unbreakable. "We are Blood Angels. We do not cower in the dark, nor do we drift aimlessly. We will spend what fuel we have and see where fate takes us. If we find only more darkness, we will fight until our last breath; we will become the light in that darkness. We will not falter. We will not turn from our duty. Whatever comes, we face it-as sons of Sanguinius."
Cassian and Vorn nodded, grim but resolute.
---
Gethesemane IV - Imperial Army Outpost "Iron Resolve"
Planet Type: Polluted Forge World (Secondary)
Strategic Value: Manufactorum Complexes Producing Plasma Reactor Components
Imperial Commander: Colonel Elias Voss (43rd Gethsemane Ironbacks)
Ghetsemane IV's skies were suffocated beneath a choking pall of ash and smoke, the air thick with the acrid stench of charred flesh. The planet's once-proud manufactorum spires lay shattered and broken, their skeletal remains clawing futilely at a blood-red sun that hung heavy and oppressive in the sky.
Inside the command bunker, Colonel Elias Voss stood rigid, his uniform smeared with grime, sweat, and the dried blood of his fallen comrades. His eyes, bloodshot and haunted, scanned the flickering holographic displays as the relentless thunder of artillery shook the ferrocrete walls.
"They're in the trenches!" a vox-operator screamed, voice cracking under the weight of terror. "Sector Gamma has fallen! The traitors are-" The transmission was cut abruptly by a burst of static, followed by the sickening wet crunch of chainaxes tearing through flesh and the agonized screams of dying soldiers.
Voss's grip tightened on his laspistol, knuckles whitening. Why? The question gnawed at him like a ravenous beast. Why us? Gethsemane IV was no strategic jewel. It was a backwater forge world, grinding out reactor components for ships that might never return. Yet here they were-imder siege by the VIII Legion, the Night Lords-howling madmen clad in midnight-blue armor, their faces twisted into permanent grins of cruelty and madness.
For days, Voss's men had held the outer trenches with stubborn defiance, using artillery barrages, razorwire, and mines to stem the tide of terror. But ammunition was running dangerously low. The bodies of the dead piled high, their blood soaking into the cracked earth, mixing with the ash and grime. Hope was a distant, flickering candle in a storm of despair... No reinforcements...
A young lieutenant burst into the bunker, face pale and eyes wide with panic. "Colonel... the western bastion-they've broken through. They're inside the defenses. We can't hold-"
Voss cut him off with a sharp gesture. He grabbed a lasrifle from a nearby rack and sprinted toward the breach, the roar of battle growing louder with every step.
Outside, the world was a living nightmare. The air reeked of burning flesh and spilled promethium. Traitor drop pods had cratered the ground, their twisted metal shells smoking and cracked. Night Lords stalked through the smoke and ruin, their chainaxes roaring as they butchered Voss's soldiers like cattle.
A berserker charged at Voss with a guttural scream, his face a mask of rage and maddness. Voss fired a lasbolt straight through the traitor's eye lens. The monster collapsed, twitching, but before Voss could breathe, three more surged forward, snarling and relentless.
Why? Voss fired again, desperation sharpening his aim. Why us?
The screams around him grew louder-soldiers torn apart, their agonized cries echoing across the shattered battlefield. Men fell screaming, limbs severed, blood spraying in crimson arcs. The Night Lords reveled in the carnage, their voice a chorus of madness and blasphemy.
"RUN, LITTLE MEAT!" one snarled, hurling a severed head at Voss's feet. The eyes of the corpse stared blankly, the tongue replaced with a scrap of parchment scrawled with mocking words: Repent.
Voss fired again, each shot a prayer and a curse...
But the enemy never ceased. Night Raptors screamed overhead, talons ripping through armor and bone. A towering Contemptor Dreadnought, adorned with flayed skins and bone trophies, stomped through the ruins, its chainfist grinding men into pulp.
Voss's men broke ranks, panic spreading like wildfire. "HOLD THE LINE!" Voss roared, voice raw and ragged. "HOLD, OR I'LL SKIN YOU MYSELF!"
They held-not out of courage, but fear. Fear of the Night Lords. Fear of death. Fear of the Emperor's judgment.
Yet the traitors pressed on, pouring through every breach, every shattered wall. A squad of Night Lords erupted from a sewer grate, bolters spitting death. A Night Lord sorcerer unleashed a torrent of warpfire, melting men where they stood, their screams blending into the cacophony of war.
Voss retrated to the command bunker, his body trembling with exhausion and rage. Blood coated his hands-his men's, his enemies'. his own. The hololith flickered with static, frozen images of officers caught in their final moments, faces twisted in terror.
He opened a rusted locker and pulled out his last relic-a plasma pistol, its core unstable and humming with lethal energy, the grip stained with the charred handprints of his predecessor.
"Colonel!" a scout staggerend in, missing an arm, eyes wild with fear. "The primary reactor they've rigged it to blow! They're herding civilians inside!"
Voss closed his eyes, the weight of command crushing him. He saw the faces of the innocent lost, the madness of the traitors, and the cold silence of the Emperor.
"Gather the remaining men," he said, voice steady despite the chaos. "We retake the reactor. Or we die trying."
The scout hesitated. "But sir-there are hundreds of them!"
Voss ignited the plasma pistol, its blue glow casting eerie shadows. "Then we make sure they choke on every last one of us."
The screams of the dying rose to a fever pitch as the battle raged on-a desperate symphony of death and defiance beneath the blood-red sky of Gethsemane IV.
---
The Thunderhawk tore through Gethsemane IV's ash-choked atmosphere like a dying comet, its hull screaming, engines belching black somke. Inside, Thaddeus Valen gripped the shuddering bulkhead, his gauntlets denting the metal. The stench of burning circuitry and promethium filled the compartment, but it was nothing compared to the rage boiling in his veins.
Cassian shouted over the din, "Enignes at 12%! Landing will be... violent!"
Thaddeus didn't reply. His green eyes-glowing faintly with the Red Thirst's precursor fury-fixed on the hololithic feed. Below, the Night Lords swarmed like carrion beetles, butchering Imperial soldiers in trenches choked with corpses. He saw a colonel, lasrifle in hand, rallying broken men against a Contemptor Dreadnought sheated in flayed skin.
The Thunderhawk struck the ground with a metallic scream, skidding sideways through a hab-block, crushing traitors and ruble alike. The ramp jammed halfawy open, but Thaddeus was already moving, power sword ignited, the Crimson Veil billowing behind him in charred tatters.
"Leave the staff" he growled, tossing Zarathul's relic into the cockpit. "It stays with the ship, we'll come for it later."
Cassian hesitated. "But the Mechanicus-"
"Now," Thaddeus snarled, his voice a blade.
They followed.
---
Thaddeus moved like a storm. A Night Lord lunged from the smoke, lightning claws crackling. Thaddeus parried with his sword, severed the traitor's arm at the elbow, and drove his bolt pistol into the monster's snarling face. The round detonated the helm, painting the ash with ceramite shards and brain matter.
"FOR SANGUINIUS!" he roared, though the prayer felt hollow.
Cassian and Vorn fought at his flanks, their armor-a patchwork of scavenged plating and battle-damage-gleaming dully in the firelight. Vorn's chainsword-arm whirred, chewing through a traitor's spine, while Cassian's bolter barked, dropping Night Raptors mid-leap.
But Thaddeus barely noticed. His vision tunneled. Every traitor's laugh, every scream of butchered soldiers, fed the rage. He fought without helm, his face a mask of blood and ash, green eyes blazing like warpfire.
---
Colonel Elias Voss staggered back, plasma pistol overheating in his grip. The Contemptor Dreadnought advanced, its chainfist revving, trailing gore from a dozen butchered soldiers.
This is it, he thought, finger tightening on the trigger. Make it quick-
A streak of crimson.
---
The ground trembled beneath the iron tread of the Night Lords' Contemptor Dreadnought as it crashed through the shattered manufactorum wall, its hull draped in the flayed skins of the fallen and trophies of bone. The monster's cyclopean eye glared balefully across the battlefield, its chainfist revving, its heavy bolter already spitting death into the ranks of the Imperial defenders.
Thaddeus saw it emerge, a living nightmare silhouetted against the burning sky. The Dreadnought's vox-grille boomed with a voice like a daemon's growl, "ALL FLESH IS WEAK! ALL HOPE IS LIES!" as it swept its chainfist through a squad of Ironbacks, reducing them to a crimson mist. Men screamed-"AHHHHH!"-as the machine's heavy bolter tore them apart, their bodies flung like ragdolls.
"Covering fire!" Thaddeus roared, and Cassian and Vorn unleashed a volley of bolter shells and plasma, the rounds sparking harmlessly off the Dreadnought's ancient plate. The monster turned, its gaze locking onto Thaddeus, and advanced with thunderous steps, each one cracking the ferrocrete beneath its feet.
Thaddeus sprinted forward, ducking a hail of bolter fire. The Dreadnought's chainfist came down in a blur-he rolled aside, the weapon smashing a crater where he'd stood, sending shards of rockcrete slicing through his armor. He came up swinging, his power sword blazing with blue fire, and struck at the Dreadnought's knee joint. Sparks flew, but the blade barely bit into the adamantium.
The Dreadnought lashed out, catching Thaddeus with a backhand from its massive arm. Pain exploded in his chest as he was hurled through a pile of rubble, his breath torn away. He forced himself up, blood running from his mouth, just as the Dreadnought's heavy bolter raked the ground, chewing a trench toward him.
Vorn charged in, chainsword-arm shrieking, carving a line of sparks across the Dreadnought's shin. The machine kicked him aside like a toy, sending him sprawling, armor dented and bleeding. Cassian fired a plasma shot at the Dreadnought's sensor cluster-the blue-hot bolt exploded against its faceplate, blinding it for a heartbeat.
"NOW!" Thaddeus roared, leaping atop the monster's back. He drove his power sword into a seam behind the sarcophagus, the blade biting deep. The Dreadnought howled, thrashing, trying to shake him off. Its chainfist swung blindly, smashing through a support pillar and sending the roof crashing down in a storm of dust and debris.
The machine staggered, sparks cascading from its wound. Thaddeus clung on with one hand, wrenching the blade deeper, feeling the ancient machine's fury vibrate through his bones. The Dreadnought slammed itself into a wall, trying to crush him, but he held fast, teeth gritted, vision tunneling with pain and rage.
Cassian and Vorn poured fire into the monster's joints, plasma and bolt shells detonating at close range. The Dreadnought's vox-grille shrieked, "I AM DEATH! I AM NIGHT!" as it spun, trying to tear Thaddeus free. With a final, bellowing cry-"AHHHHHHH!"-Thaddeus ripped his sword free and plunged it into the sarcophagus itself. The blade pierced ancient adamantium and the coffin within.
The Dreadnought convulsed, its chainfist spinning wildly, then collapsed to its knees. Thaddeus leapt clear as the machine toppled, the ground shaking with its death throes. The monster's eye flickered, then went dark.
Silence fell, broken only by the ragged breathing of the survivors and the distant screams of battle. Thaddeus stood over the ruined Dreadnought, his armor battered, the Crimson Veil in tatters, but his eyes blazing with undimmed fury.
---
Voss froze. The Dreadnought was gone like that...
The leader stood helmetless, his face gaunt and fury-twisted, eyes glowing and unnatural green. His armor was a mosaic of scars and burns, a tattered adamantium cap clinging to his shoulders like the wings of a martyred angel. To his left, a warrior with a chainsword grafted to his arm. To his right, a grim-faced angel reloading a bolter with ritual precision.
Blood Angels.
Colonel Voss's breath caught in his throat. For a heartbeat, the battlefield's chaos seemed to hush, all eyes drawn to these crimson giants. He raised his plasma pistol, uncertain, but the leader strode forward, radiating a command that brooked no hesitation.
The Space Marine halted a few paces from Voss, towering over him. His voice was iron and thunder.
"I am Sergeant Thaddeus Valen, Warden of the Crimson Veil, Blood Angels Legion." His eyes burned with a terrible, righteos fury. "You command here?"
Voss nodded, struggling to steady his voice. "Colonel Elias Voss, Gethsemane Ironbacks. What's left of them."
Thaddeus wasted no time. "Situation, Colonel."
Voss wiped grime from his brow, glancing at the ragged survivors rallying behind him. "The Night Lords are led by a monster-Captain Malchior Vire, they call him the Carrion Prince. He's a butcher, but it's their sorcerer who's the real horror. They call him Sibilant Kraal. He's been... twisting the dead, sowing terror, calling storms of darkness. They've rigged the main reactor to blow and are... herding civilians inside. We're being slaughtered."
Thaddeus's jaw tightened, his gaze flicking to Cassian and Vorn. "We break their hold on the reactor. Cassian, you and Vorn secure the civilians and clear the easter flank. Colonel, your men will hold the perimeter and cover our advance. I'll lead the assault, if the Carrion Prince comes or the Sorcerer we'll manage..."
Voss hesitated, then nodded, hope flickering in his eyes for the first time in days. "Aye, Sergeant. We'll hold. Emperor willing."
Thaddeus placed a gauntleted hand on Voss's shoulder-heavy, reassuring, final. "We are the Emperor's wrath, Colonel. This night will not claim you."
He turned, voice a clarion call through the chaos. "Soldiers, with me! For Sanguinius! For the Emperor!"
As the battered defenders and crimson giants moved to their posts, the ruined Thunderhawk sat silent in the distance. Deep in its shadowed hold, the Staff of Zarathul pulsed with a sinister, emerald light-its energy growing, unseen, a beacon in the night.
Far above, in the cold void, something ancient stirred.