Five Forges to Stand, A World to Burn
Location: Aboard Battle Barge Emperor's Grasp – Strategium Deck
Time: Day 1.5 of transit to Graia Prime Orbit*
The glow of data-hololiths cast a pale light over the Strategium chamber. Commanders stood in tense silence as vox officers translated encrypted signals from the edge of Graia's orbital perimeter.
One by one, the updates came in.
Each more damning than the last.
> "Graia's planetary defense fleet is shattered," intoned the vox-serf. "Only one damaged frigate remains, supported by seven crippled escort ships. They have taken refuge behind Graia's orbital manufactorum ring. They cannot engage. Hull breaches and reactor failures across the board."
Alexander paced slowly behind the central war table, his psychic hood glowing with stress fields. His eyes burned with restrained fury.
> "The Orks dropped in mass?"
The reply came instantly.
> "Yes, Librarian. Reports indicate tens of thousands of Orks fell from orbit in the first wave. Meteor strikes, aerial assaults, and boarding pods. City-habs collapsed. Defense networks overrun in hours."
Another data-scroll unspooled.
> "Eighty percent of Graia's population… dead or missing."
A silence fell over the chamber. A silence thick enough to choke on.
---
Catalin, standing beside the war table in his reinforced warplate, clenched his fists.
> They always ignore the threat. Until it's too late.
I've seen this before. Always the same arrogance, the same false confidence — and the same slaughter.
---
The room stirred again as a new voxline flared active.
> "Transmission from Graia surface. Origin unknown. Fragmented."
Static hissed through the chamber, then:
> "…they never stopped… we thought it was over… the walls melted — the walls melted — Titan forge Theta-3 is still holding — they're coming from beneath, not just above—"
> "—Drago is gone. No word. Fabricator-General is pulling all forces back to the forge cores—"
> "—if you're hearing this, don't land on the spires. Don't land—!"
Then silence.
---
Alexander's expression hardened.
> "Only five Titan Forges remain active. The enemy focuses on them. That is where we will strike. That is where we hold."
> "We are not here to defend walls," he continued coldly. "We are here to make graves."
One of the captains stepped forward — Captain Varnax of the strike cruiser Torch Unending.
> "The Ultramarines have responded. A frigate of their 4th Company and a few escort ships just reached the crippled defenders in orbit. Their commander has acknowledged our presence. But they are wounded. Badly."
Alexander nodded once.
> "Log it. We will use what we can. But this is an Iron Wrath operation. The Angels of Macragge are not here to save this world. We are."
The Price of Delay
Location: Graia Sub-System, 18 Hours from Orbit
Status: Constant Engagement – Ork Boarding Raids, Interception Skirmishes
Fleet Condition: Holding formation, moderate damage to three destroyers, 10+ Ork transports destroyed
The Iron Wrath fleet crawled through the void like a wall of blades. Every few hours, a green blip appeared on the augur — an Ork transport, Rok fragment, or looted ship — and moments later, the fleet's lances would reduce it to drifting slag.
But they were still coming. A hundred at least. Probably more.
---
Aboard the Emperor's Grasp, Strategium Deck
Librarian Alexander stood hunched over the war table, eyes flickering with warp-burned exhaustion. Every new transmission from the surface carved fresh lines into his soul.
> "The PDF is annihilated."
"The 24th Cadian regiment reports dwindling supplies."
"Vox contact lost six hours ago."
"Orks now control all planetary anti-ship defenses. No friendly surface-to-orbit guns remain operational."
Alexander didn't answer at first. He stared into the projection of Graia — once a jewel of the Mechanicus, now a blood-streaked corpse waiting to be picked clean.
> "Where are the Titans?" he asked again, voice like steel dragged through a furnace. "Why haven't they deployed?"
No one in the chamber could answer.
---
The report from Mechanicus observers had arrived an hour ago.
> Of the seven original Titan forges, only five remain functional.
Two are completely dark. Entire sectors offline.
The Orks are massing around the foundries, desperately trying to breach the god-machine vaults.
And worst of all?
> Every Titan is dormant.
Even the Imperator-class Titan Invictus — the god of Graia itself — sat cold and inert beneath the mountain vault.
Alexander's gauntlet slammed down on the war table.
> "They had two Imperators. And they sit still. While Graia dies."
He turned to his adjutants, the glow of the Strategium painting his expression in hellish reds.
> "I swear upon the soul of Dorn — I will drag the Fabricator-General from his forge and strangle him with his own servo-arms if this cowardice continues."
---
Meanwhile, new plans were being drawn.
The Ultramarines — impetuous, arrogant, or perhaps desperate — had jumped the gun.
> Their frigate and escort ships broke formation and charged into low orbit, attempting a rapid deployment.
The Mechanicus denied orbital fire support, citing sacred ground protocols.
What followed was a massacre.
> Ork flak cannons — now controlled by looted systems and squig-fueled generators — lit up the sky like fireworks.
The Ultramarine landing craft were blown out of the void one by one.
Only a few squads made it to the surface — and even they were immediately surrounded in the shattered hives.
The Ultramarine fleet?
> Gone. All but one escort ship, venting plasma and limping away from the inner atmosphere.
---
💢 The War Within Alexander
He paced.
> Too many boarding raids. Too many losses.
Every ship was now stretched thin, redeploying Astartes squads to repel Ork incursions in the void. Hull breaches. Vox sabotage. Crude teleport attacks.
As a result, Alexander had only 100 Iron Wrath Marines left under his direct command — the rest tied up across the fleet, holding the line.
And now he had to choose.
> "We need to land. We need to clear those surface guns. And we need to wake the god-machines."
The Trojan Spear
Location: Strategium, Emperor's Grasp
Time: 16 Hours from Planetfall
The holomap of Graia flickered under the weight of fresh data — blurred red zones showing where Orks held surface guns, forge-cities overrun, and titanic forges swarmed by green tides.
Alexander stood silent before it, teeth grinding beneath his hooded cowl. No vox from Drago. No word from the Fabricator-General. And the Mechanicus still refused orbital bombardment, fearing damage to their sacred sites.
Behind him, Catalin stood like a statue — three meters of transhuman war-beast still and unreadable.
Yet something sparked in his mind — a sliver of brutal logic.
And then he spoke.
> "Lord Alexander," he rumbled, voice calm, too calm. "May I speak?"
Alexander turned, surprised. Catalin rarely spoke in strategy briefings.
> The last time he did, half a city burned and the enemy commander's head ended up on a pike at the drop zone.
He gave a short nod.
> "Speak, Catalin. Any bright ideas to help clear this mess?"
---
Catalin stepped forward, shadows clinging to his massive form. Alexander couldn't help but think of him as a walking siege engine — one that Dorn himself might've sculpted out of wrath and iron.
Catalin gestured to the map.
> "The planetary defense fleet still has one cruiser left — battered, but it still holds. Hull integrity low, but shields remain. It can still fly."
He paused. The room went still.
> "The Ultramarines lost ships trying to breach the surface. Dozens of Thunderhawks. Hundreds of men."
He looked Alexander in the eyes now.
> "Why not lose only one?"
---
Alexander narrowed his eyes. "Explain."
Catalin turned to the hololith, marking a descent vector through the densest Ork flak zone.
> "Use the battered cruiser as a spearhead. Load it with Astartes — fully armed. Rig it for controlled descent, like a drop ship."
> "It crashes through atmosphere, draws the fire of Ork surface guns, looks like a kill. But the moment it slams into the forge ring, the doors open… and we spill out."
He slammed a massive fist onto the edge of the table.
> "Not running. Not deploying. Not landing. We hit them. Like a god-damned meteor."
---
A moment of silence passed.
Then, mutters. Shocked glances. Calculations.
> "Insanity."
"It might work."
"Controlled crash vector?"
"They'd never expect it."
Captain Xinoxis spoke up.
> "We'd lose the cruiser."
> "We'd lose that cruiser anyway," Alexander growled.
Catalin remained unmoved.
> "It has no role left in orbit. Shields are failing. It can't dogfight. But its hull is intact, and it's still Mechanicus-built. A coffin for the green scum to stare at — until the coffin opens."
---
Alexander looked down at the table again.
The remaining cruiser: Gloria Dona — once proud, now cracked, barely afloat.
> "What's your angle of descent?" he asked, as if it was already happening.
Catalin reached out, tapped the map with his gauntlet.
> "Here. Forge Theta-5. Southern plateau. They won't expect anything to land there. Wind shear's high. Mountain crossfire. They'll be watching the primary spires."
He leaned in.
> "We land there. Blast open the hull. Pour out. Clear the forge ring. And from there — get to the Titan vault. Wake the god-machines."
Alexander was already calculating in his mind. Then he looked up.
---
Catalin, standing silent in the rear of the room again, had heard it all.
His mind was already running hot.