Fire in the Soul, Steel in the Flesh
Location: Chapel Arming Hall, Battle Barge Emperor's Grasp
Time: T-minus 3 hours to warp translation
The scent of burning incense hung thick in the air, curling in silver strands around ancient banners and cracked marble pillars. Flickering votive candles cast shadows like dancing ghosts across the adamantine walls. It was quiet — reverent — save for the occasional hiss of sanctified oils being sprayed across power armor.
Brother Catalin the 2nd stood before the armor shrine, stripped to the waist, body etched with scars like a map of battles won and survived. Servo-arms descended from the ceiling, unlocking the seals of his war-plate — piece by piece, the armor opened to him like a loyal beast.
In his hands, he held the censer — letting smoke drift over each armor segment, purifying it with prayer and will.
> "I can't believe this is real…" he muttered aloud, voice a low rasp.
He wasn't speaking to anyone in particular — only the silence, and maybe, to the lingering memory that clung to him like an echo.
> "Graia. The war. The chainsword. The blood. I've done this... a hundred times."
His eyes drifted across the gleaming armor laid out before him. Not standard Astartes plate. Reinforced. Customized. Heavier. Taller. Forged to match his mutated frame — the result of a rare reaction to the gene-seed during his initiation. While others bore the wrath of Dorn, Catalin bore something more.
Three meters tall. Twice the strength of his kin. A walking dreadnought in flesh.
He reached for his plasma repeater, gently brushing his gauntlet across the weapon's casing. The machine spirit within purred with energy, as if recognizing his touch. Beside it lay his bolter — scarred and burnished with kills — and the chainsword, his most trusted companion.
> It vibrated subtly as he picked it up.
As if it had a soul.
> "You've missed the fight too," he whispered, gripping it tight. "Soon."
Other Iron Wrath warriors chose storm shields, power fists, or standard-issue chainswords — tools of siege, not speed. But Catalin... he was different. Always had been. Where they were walls, he was a battering ram wrapped in lightning. The Techmarines had reinforced his war-plate, tuned his servos to higher response rates, and still he moved like a storm given form.
> "All that's missing is a personal shield..." he muttered with a grin.
"Maybe after this mission. If I get enough credits — or enough corpses."
---
Location: Fleet Command Channel – Secure Vox Transmission
Across the Iron Wrath fleet, commanders issued final orders. On the bridge of the Iron Gale, Librarian Alexander raised his hand — and the final countdown began.
> "All ships — form up around the Emperor's Grasp. Warp translation in T-minus 180 seconds. Final coordinates locked. Faith holds the void at bay."
Engines across the flotilla roared to full output. Warp vanes turned like titanic fangs toward unreality. Gellar Fields thrummed to life. Inside every ship, Tech-Priests chanted litanies of shielding, and crew fell to their knees in silent prayer.
---
Location: Drop Bay 9, Emperor's Grasp
Catalin stood now in full armor, helm locked in place, weapons magnetized to his sides. His presence filled the room — even among other Space Marines, he was a colossus. A few initiates stepped aside without thinking. His sheer size made the deck groan slightly underfoot.
The vox chimed.
> "Catalin the 2nd, report to the Reclusiam for final warp blessing."
> "Already done," he said quietly, glancing back toward the chapel.
"We'll see if the Warp remembers me the way I remember it."
---
⚠️ Warp Jump Initiating…
The final klaxons sounded.
Across the fleet, lights dimmed. Gellar fields screamed to full intensity. In the void, space cracked — a wound in reality tearing open before the fleet's prows.
And then — the jump.
The fleet vanished into the Immaterium as one. Iron Wrath steel, Fire of Dorn, and the fury of ten thousand wars all riding the tides of madness.
Catalin stood unmoved.