Beneath Thrysa's scorched earth, the forest broke open into a realm untouched by humans.
The Underwoods stretched out like a pocket of another world, a sanctuary hidden by threads of ancient craft. Massive roots, gnarled and black as iron, formed vaulted halls that twisted downward into the earth, their surfaces shimmered faintly with runes burned into the bark.
Luminescent fungi climbed the trunks, casting soft hues of blue and violet that danced across the chamber walls. Fireflies droning around, covering the area in warm light.
The silence here was thick, not dead but alive with presence. Every sound—every breath, every footstep—was muffled, carried away by unseen currents. Even the vox unit hummed quieter beneath its makeshift altar of roots, as though reluctant to break the stillness.
—
Bergelmir lay still upon what passed for an altar, though it was no shrine of men. The slab was grown from roots that had twisted together into something harder than stone, its surface polished smooth by centuries of patient growth.
Against it, the Grey Knight's form looked almost sculpted, an effigy of silver ceramite and scarred flesh, carved like some grim sarcophagus idol.
Even in stillness, one gauntleted hand curled as though around a weapon long since torn away. He did not release the grip, even in unconsciousness, as though refusing surrender.
His wounds, though long since closed, bore the signature of a Null's touch. Flesh knit, bone sealed, but the mind lay dormant, locked behind a pall of silence.
Each scar glimmered faintly under the twilight glow of the soulstone gems, like cracks in marble filled with molten silver.
When Shadowgaze passed close, the faint light of his scars flared — not awakening, but reacting, like a blade sharpening itself against unseen stone.
—
Shadowgaze moved with the grace of one born to twilight places, her tall form trailing the faint shimmer of a wraithbone charm at her hip.
She circled the altar with deliberate care, fingertips brushing over rune-etched roots, as though tuning a silent instrument.
Each touch coaxed a faint chime from the living wood, the chamber answering her alone.
Her expression was unreadable — not pity, not reverence, but something colder: the patience of one who had seen relics break and warriors fall for centuries uncounted.
Yet once, she paused. Her hazel eyes lingered on Bergelmir's helm, tilting slightly, as if listening to voices only she could hear.
The stillness stretched, the silence pressing, before she moved again — the gesture passing without comment, alien and untranslatable.
—
For Helsin, watching from the chamber's shadowed edge, it was a bitter sight. A Grey Knight reduced to silence, bound not by daemoncraft but by absence itself.
He drew his coat tighter as the whispers of the soulstones scraped against his nerves. Shadowgaze glanced his way, eyes narrowing faintly.
—
Helsin slowly walked to the altar, his gloved hand resting against the edge. Bergelmir lay still, more statue than man.
The Inquisitor's brow furrowed.
"It's the null. His flesh is whole, but his essence is muted. As if the strike silenced more than his body."
—
Shadowgaze tilted her head, hazel eyes narrowing.
"Then wake him. Your kind are never far from their hymns."
—
Helsin's jaw clenched. He shook his head once.
"I doubt conventional treatment would work, and I don't know his Chapter's canticles. The Grey Knights keep their rites sealed even from us."
he trailed off, gaze dropping back to the unmoving warrior.
"Without them, he'll remain like this. Suspended. Waiting."
—
Shadowgaze's fingers brushed a soulstone embedded in the edge and the gem pulsed faintly in response.
"There are ways. Not of your corpse-god, but of resonance. Spirits can be coaxed to stir the embers."
—
"That," Helsin said coldly,
"would rouse him into fury, not clarity."
—
Shagozegaze circled around, a faint smile touched her lips.
"Fury is a form of clarity, mon-keigh. It would be enough to draw his eyes open."
—
Helsin's eyes lingered on the Grey Knight's still hand. The fingers twitched faintly, more reflex than will. He exhaled through his nose.
"Where is his hammer?"
—
Shadowgaze looked at him, faint curiosity flickering in her eyes. "In his chamber. Locked away with his effects."
—
"Then bring it here," Helsin said at once. His tone left no room for doubt.
—
The Eldar's lips curved with the faintest smile, sharp as the edge of glass.
"You believe a relic will stir him when even your prayers cannot?"
—
"I believe," Helsin said, voice low and flat,
"that a warrior of Titan deserves his weapon at his side."
—
For a moment Shadowgaze only studied him, measuring something in his words.
Then she turned, calling for someone, murmured orders that was barely audible, then two of Xenos melted into the roots, vanishing toward Bergelmir's quarters.
When they returned, they carried it with reverence despite its alien hands — a massive Nemesis daemon hammer, its haft bound in prayer-script, its head inscribed with wards that glimmered faintly even here in the Underwoods.
—
Helsin stepped forward, took it carefully, and placed it in Bergelmir's open grip. The Grey Knight's fingers curled faintly around the haft, as if even unconscious, instinct clung to the weapon's weight.
"Here, old friend," Helsin murmured. He rested a gloved hand on the knight's armoured gauntlet, a gesture closer to solidarity than faith.
"Wherever you are, protect us from evils."
—
For a heartbeat, the soulstones along the roots flickered brighter, their whispers shifting tone, as though something had stirred within the Grey Knight's dim soul-light.
Shadowgaze arched a brow but said nothing.
—
Before silence could settle again, the vox unit crackled from its resting place in the roots.
HIZZZ...
Static hissed, then a voice broke through—
"Dead Rogue to Inquisitor. Do you read?"
—
Helsin stepped quickly to the set, thumbing the rune. "Acknowledged. What is it?"
—
"Sighted movements," Kochav's voice came through, distorted by distance but steady.
"They're pulling back."
—
Helsin's jaw tightened. He turned toward the altar, toward the unmoving Grey Knight, and then back to Shadowgaze.
"Something big is coming."
—
The vox-bead hissed in Kochav's ear, Helsin's voice low and unflinching:"Kill as much as you can."
—
For a moment the words hung there, heavy as an executioner's axe.
Around him, the beastmen shifted restlessly, stamping hooves into frozen soil, tusks gnashing as the scent of prey drifted up from the valley below.
Mira's presence at his side was silent, but absolute. The beastmen's eyes flicked to her before meeting his, and the restless growls stilled. She gave no command — only the weight of her gaze, as cold and sharp as steel.
The Red Tusks — massed in the shadows of the jagged ridge. Their numbers stretched back into the forest gloom, thousands strong, a tide of muscle, horns, and crude iron.
Behind them the mountains loomed, black teeth gnawing at the pale sky.
Ahead stretched the tundra, bleak and exposed, its snows swept thin by a biting wind.
—
There, trudging northward, the Xarcarion columns crawled across the valley floor.
Their sunburst banners still hung upright, defiant against the gale, but their discipline sagged with distance. Wounded troopers stumbled at the rear. Hauling servitors wheeled burdened carts through drifts, their limbs jerking stiffly in the cold.
The neat geometry of an army had collapsed into a long, faltering line.
Kochav's hand lingered near his blade. His heart thrummed with the weight of the title they had given him — Apex. The horde was his now, and every eye, every horned face, waited for him to loose them.
He tilted his head to Mira. She said nothing, only held his gaze, the fireless steel in her eyes reflecting back his choice.
Kochav raised the vox-bead once more, speaking into the static."Understood."
—
Kochav turned, lips curling into a grin as he raised the crude amplifier to his mouth.
His voice boomed across the ridge, echoing through the valleys so loudly even the retreating Xarcarion heard it.
"The invaders run from us, but there is no escape! Their blood is waiting!"
—
The beastmen roared and bellowed in excitement, their howls shaking the frozen air, echoing from crag to crag until the sound seemed to come from the land itself. Down in the valley, troopers glanced back, spines stiffening at the chorus of savage voices rolling toward them.
Kochav thrust the amplifier high, shouting proudly:"Those who get more than ten kills get to shake my hand!"
—
The reaction was… muted. The horde grunted, shifted, eyes flicking past him.
One deep-voiced beastman barked:"What about the Queen, Apex?"
—
Kochav's grin faltered. His pride stung.
He shot Mira a sharp glance, narrowing his eyes at her in annoyance.
"Huh?"
—
Mira froze for a second, calculating, then lifted one pale hand, counting slowly, deliberately.
Two fingers. Then a closed fist.
The meaning rippled instantly through the horde.
Twenty kills.
—
The beastmen's eyes widened with frenzy. A howl went up like a storm breaking over the ridge, tusks clashing, blades raised high. Word spread from fang to fang, shouted in their guttural tongue:
"Twenty kills for the Queen's hand!"
—
The horde surged with renewed hunger, their roars now deafening.
Kochav lowered the amplifier, his expression tight, pride wounded.
—
The war-cries swelled, thunder rolling from the ridge like the heartbeat of the land itself. Louder, closer, until the air itself trembled.
Below, Xarcarion soldiers stumbled in their march, banners wavering as the cries echoed through the barren valley. Fear crawled up their spines.
Then,
through the mist and snow, the first shapes emerged.
A hundred beastmen, mounted on hulking canine beasts with matted fur and slavering jaws, thundered forward. Spears glinted in their hands, crude iron tips aimed like a jagged wall.
The mounts howled as one, their paws striking the tundra with a cadence like war-drums. The beastmen howled back, tusks flashing, eyes alight with the Queen's promise.
—
The Xarcarion vanguard barely had time to form a firing line. Bolters barked, lasfire slashed through the haze, but still the tide came on.
The ground shook as the riders smashed into the flank of the column, iron spearheads and gnashing jaws tearing through men and armor alike.
The beastmen dismounted as they struck, leaping into the fray with crude axes, blades, and bare hands. Mira advanced behind them, silent and unyielding, her presence turning frenzy into discipline, a tide with a single will.
Panic rippled through the Xarcarion ranks as the line buckled, the sheer weight of the assault threatening to collapse their retreat into slaughter.
And above it all, Kochav pressed forward like a storm given flesh, the Apex of the horde, blade flashing in the cold light as he carved a path into the heart of the enemy.
—
Kochav's dagger flashed, his revolver cracked, and his cursed hand burned with raw power, each motion taking another life. He moved like a storm of brutality, a blade sliding through armor, a bullet splitting a helm, a psychic lash snapping bones as though they were twigs.
Between the thunder of bolter fire and the guttural roars of beastmen, he cast a glance at Mira.
She fought barehanded.
—
One skull caved in beneath her fist, another body slammed aside like a ragdoll. Her every movement was efficient, silent, terrifying.
"Where the hell is your wargear?!" Kochav bellowed above the chaos.
—
Mira didn't pause. She drove a knee into a soldier's chest, sent him crumpling, then signed quick and sharp between strikes:
"On Animositas. Forgot."
—
BANG!
"Seriously?!" Kochav slashed a throat open and fired point-blank into another man's chest.
"How are you more popular than me?!"
—
The beastmen surged around them in a frenzy, their crude spears and axes drenched red, snarls echoing across the jagged valley walls. Mira, wordless, shattered another helmet with her bare hands.
"I'm pissed right now," Kochav snarled.
—
He slammed his cursed hand into the earth.
The ground convulsed. Jagged stone tore upward beneath his feet, raising him above the melee. Soldiers stumbled and fell as the land itself betrayed them, the sudden high ground jutting like broken fangs.
Below, the Xarcarions looked up, fear cutting through discipline. Kochav stood above them, revolver smoking, blood-spattered, his shadow stretched long across the fallen.
And for a heartbeat, he grinned, a savage beacon in the storm.
"so I'm taking it out on you bastards."
—
The vox crackled, shrill with static and desperation:
"—Crimson units broken—heavy losses—requesting immediate support!"
The plea cut across the channel, voices layered with panic, the sound of gunfire in the background.
—
Reyvis did not so much as glance toward the receiver. His jaw clenched once, his expression flat as the northern tundra. His gloved hand rested behind his back, the other tucked over it, posture unshaken.
Behind him,
the Ivory columns moved with machine-like rhythm. Soldiers clad in white armor advanced in lockstep, each squad precise, voices curt, their discipline unmarred by the panic that plagued their fellows.
Servitors lumbered through the snow, lifting vast pieces of adamantine as though they weighed nothing. A colossal drill head, black with frost and caked in grease, was slowly lowered into position.
Engineers in pale hoods barked orders, setting struts and girders into place, constructing the skeleton of something vast, a machine whose purpose was hidden beneath sheets of iron and vox-damped secrecy.
The sound of welding torches cut the air, sparks falling like fireflies in the snow. Hydraulic arms clamped into place with thunderous metallic clacks.
—
Another transmission hissed across the vox."Veylar! The left flank is folding! If you don't—"
—
CLICK!
With a flick of his hand, Reyvis silenced the receiver.
"Their souls" he said at last, voice low, almost conversational,
"will serve our Master."
—
The officer beside him, a pale-faced adjutant in crisp white, nodded without hesitation.
In the distance, through the frost-laden air, the roar of battle echoed still.
But here, amid the Ivory ranks, there was no chaos. Only the steady rhythm of work, the birth of a weapon wrought in silence.
—
Amid the blood-soaked ridge, Kochav was a storm given flesh.His revolver cracked like thunder, his dagger flashed silver arcs, and the cursed glow of his left hand tore through armored foes as though they were parchment.
Every gesture was violence, every step forward a ripple of dread.
On the jagged stage of earth he had wrenched upward with his will, he stood like a banner of defiance. The Xarcarions faltered, glancing up at him with eyes wide in terror.
—
Far beyond the smoke and screaming, another presence watched.
Perched upon a shattered crag, half-veiled in the falling snow, the spectator's gaze burned with malice not just its own.
Shadows coiled along the figure's shoulders, whispering.
"There he is," came the hiss, a daemonic voice reverberating within the marrow of the listener's bones.
"The coward's puppet."
—
The whisper hardened into command."Bring me his skull."
—
The figure convulsed, not in fear, but in hunger.
One clawed hand lashed out, seizing a nearby tree. With a crack like bone breaking, the trunk splintered, shearing clean in two.
In the ruin of its bark, the hand was revealed: skin red as blood, nails black and hooked like talons.
The tree toppled, snow scattering in the air. The figure's breathing deepened, a guttural rasp that fogged the frost before its face.