The hull of the Dona Brunging still groaned under its own broken weight as Captain Marius stood amid the smoke-filled hangar. Red emergency lights strobed across torn decks and twisted plating.
Around him, fifteen surviving Iron Wrath warriors gathered — their armor blackened, some dented, but their helms unbowed. The ship's machine-spirits hissed in protest as the Techmarines worked to coax the dormant engines of the tanks back to life.
"Catalin," Marius' voice came over the vox, roughened by exhaustion but still carrying command,
> "Three Predators are mobile. One Land Raider Ferrus Claw remains intact. The rest… scrap. We will move them through the breach once the bulkheads clear."
He turned toward the half-buried manufactorum skyline beyond the shattered hangar doors — a sea of rusting gantries and smog towers burning against the red sky.
> "Our mission stands. We clear a path through the ork lines and reach the Manufactorum Core. The Titan-class readings we intercepted came from beneath it — and if that god-machine still breathes, it belongs to the Emperor, not the xenos."
Catalin gave a short nod, his orange and gold armor catching glints of light as he holstered his plasma repeater.
> "Understood. I'll branch out toward the last known PDF command post — grid Theta-Seven. I'll make a corridor fast enough for armor to follow."
Marius slammed his fist against his chestplate.
> "Emperor guide you, Brother. The orks swarm these ruins like carrion. You'll have little time before they notice you."
> "Then I'll make them notice me," Catalin replied, revving his chainsword as the bulkhead doors finally gave way.
Through the smoke and dust, the surviving tanks rolled forward — treads grinding over debris, their engines roaring like caged beasts freed to hunt.
The Iron Wrath moved out in staggered formation:
Captain Marius with the armored spearhead, carving a route toward the Manufactorum gates.
Catalin and a small strike squad breaking off east, toward the ruins of Fort Saint Halvard, where the last PDF distress beacon had pulsed three days before.
Beyond the haze, distant green flares signaled ork warbands gathering — crude banners waving, engines howling.
Catalin's vox clicked once, calm but cold:
> "Iron Wrath — advance. Burn them from the Emperor's soil."