The roar of the Space Wolf echoed like a prelude to war, the bellow of a warrior born amidst frost and fury. As his voice faded, fresh waves of Genestealers surged from the gloom, claws glinting in the dim light of the underhive.
Snowpelt's bolter thundered, its explosive rounds ripping a temporary gap in the advancing xenos. But more came—relentless, swarming.
Sister Shivara ignited her flamer, bathing the corridor in purifying promethium. The Battle Sisters fell into formation, unleashing disciplined volleys from their boltguns. Their armor shone dimly in the flickering firelight, the holy symbols etched upon them defiant against the xenos tide.
Still, the Genestealers came.
They charged through the inferno with reckless abandon, driven not by instinct alone, but by a malignant will pulsing behind their coordinated assault. There was no mistaking it—some form of command presence lurked in the darkness.
Amongst the scattered casings and choking fumes, xenos shrieked and burned. Yet they did not break. They pressed forward like puppets dancing to an alien rhythm.
"Fall back! Regroup in the sanctum!" Shivara's voice cut through the din, sharp and commanding.
They needed to reassess, to gauge the true extent of this infestation.
The Sisters obeyed without hesitation, retreating in formation while maintaining suppressive fire. These warriors of the Psychic Guard were no novices—they had fought alongside their Primarch since the campaigns of Ophelia VII. Hardened by decades of battle, their faith was steel.
The Space Wolf followed, grenades in hand. As they moved, he detonated charges at the tunnel's ceiling, collapsing stone pillars to slow their pursuers.
Once inside the sanctum, the Imperial forces restructured their defense. The Sisters and the Space Wolf formed a firing line near the narrow entryway.
The first wave of Genestealers surged in—and died. In that chokepoint, fire discipline and blessed bolter rounds tore through them faster than they could advance.
Eventually, the assault faltered. The tide ebbed.
Then, silence.
From the dust-choked tunnel emerged a figure, upright and cloaked in ornate robes stained with alien ichor. Around its emaciated frame crawled Genestealers like beasts, but it walked like a man. On its exposed flesh pulsed a grotesque sigil—a thorned worm curling around a third eye.
Its head was monstrously swollen, veins bulging like writhing serpents. It radiated power—corrupt, ancient, and psychic.
"You are not welcome here," it said, but not aloud. The words stabbed into the mind, bypassing flesh and armor.
Shivara flinched as her nerves flared in agony. To a lesser soul, the pain might have shattered reason. But she was forged for this. Her will surged like a living blade, pushing back the intrusion.
"You tread upon the soil of the Imperium," Shivara growled, eyes narrowed. "And dare to drive away its masters?"
"The world of Vigilus belongs to us," the xenos replied with cold certainty. "The rise of the Starborn is inevitable. Resistance is futile."
It glided forward, not walking but hovering subtly above the ground.
"Vigilus attracts every fool who overestimates themselves," Shivara spat, leveling her bolter. "Come then, alien filth. Let's see you bleed."
The creature didn't respond to the insult. One of its six arms lifted—and the air twisted. Shivara's limbs locked up, her finger stiff on the trigger. Her breath caught.
"You see now," the creature murmured inside her skull. "The Children of the Stars are unstoppable. The Imperium cannot halt us. The greenskins cannot halt us. Even the servants of the warp cannot halt us. We are endless. We are justice. We are the true lords of this realm."
But it had underestimated her resolve.
With a grunt of effort, Shivara broke free of the psychic paralysis, ripped a krak grenade from her belt, and hurled it.
The Sisters and the Space Wolf dove for cover as the explosion tore through the sanctum, shaking the chamber's foundations. Rubble crashed from above. Smoke choked the air.
The alien was gone.
Only a shrill psychic wail lingered.
Then came the swarm again. But their numbers were thinned, their fury diminished. The Battle Sisters and the Wolf made short work of the remnants.
"Where did the bastard vanish to?" the Space Wolf asked, eyes scanning the rubble.
Shivara said nothing. She moved to the jagged crater left by the blast and peered down.
The alien had escaped—by clawing through solid rock in mere moments.
The others joined her. The Wolf tossed down a flare. Its light dropped into a vast cavern beneath them.
A hidden lair.
The flare revealed a corpse sprawled on the cavern floor—its twisted form unmistakably that of the psychic monstrosity.
But more unsettling was the cavern itself. Vast, sprawling—larger than any sub-level of a hive spire. A cathedral of infestation.
"It built this beneath our feet," Shivara murmured.
"The Warmaster won't let this go unpunished," the Space Wolf muttered grimly. "Looks like we'll be down here longer than we thought."
Shivara's gaze never left the abyss. "The Primarch once said—'if a single insect reaches your dwelling, then it's too late. Its brood already festers beneath the floor.'"
She primed her flamer.
"Warmaster Dukel's wrath aside, we're fortunate we didn't miss the true nest."
Together, the Sisters and the Wolf descended into the depths.
The cavern stretched endlessly. Tunnels twisted like a Tyranid's labyrinthine gut. From every shadow, countless glowing eyes stared back—patient, hungry.
And above, in high orbit over Vigilus—
The Soulfire cruised silently through the void. The venerable Queen of Glory-class battleship bore the war banner of the Second Legion—the Fate-Eagle of Carolos—its golden light burning defiantly across the star system.
A silent declaration:
The Imperium does not yield.
Warmaster Dukel sat in his command chamber, the weight of a thousand worlds pressing down with every page of the thick paper documents spread across his desk—battle reports sent from the various legion commanders.
The battlefield on Vigilus was not vast in scale, but in its chaos, it eclipsed all others Dukel had known.
Among the latest dispatches was a communique from Shivara: beneath the hive city's foundations, a vast Tyranid nest had been uncovered.
The Genestealers' organized ferocity made one thing clear—an immense Tyranid splinter fleet was on a collision course with Vigilus.
But the Tyranids were far from the only threat. Across the galaxy's fringes, the Adeptus Mechanicus and their heretical counterparts in the Dark Mechanicum clashed over the ancient tombs of the Necrons—tombs newly awakened.
And where ancient dynasties stirred, their Overlords would not be far behind.
Elsewhere, Asuryani raiding parties, Drukhari slave hunters, mutants, daemons of the Warp, two Daemon Primarchs, and other warp-tainted lords sowed madness.
Vigilus—a cursed jewel. On this one world, it seemed the entire galaxy converged.
Here, every race sought to plant their banners.
Yet, despite everything, the Imperium held strong.
Through flame and ruin, the warriors of the Imperium repelled wave after wave of invaders. Though the very landscape of Vigilus had been reshaped in fire and blood, its loyalty remained unbroken.
Under Dukel's command, the Imperial fleet began a strategic withdrawal from orbit.
Energy readings from the planet's surface had spiked into ranges previously thought impossible. All technological systems—except those reliant on the empyrean—had ceased functioning.
Lorgar's ritual had succeeded. Vigilus was no longer a mere planet. It was now a wound in realspace—an extension of the Immaterium itself.
In that regard, the Word Bearers had won. Though beaten in open war, they had achieved their purpose. They had transformed the world into a shrine to Chaos.
But Dukel saw it differently.
Lorgar had brought the Warp closer to the material realm—closer to the Imperium. Once, this would have spelled disaster. In those days, the Imperium was the victim. Chaos, the aggressor. Victims did not seek their tormentors.
But things had changed.
Now, humanity no longer contented itself with survival. It had become a predator in its own right.
If the daemons clung to their ancient assumptions, they would soon learn their error.
Through the great dome-lens aboard the Soulfire, Dukel stared down at the world below. The light of celestial energy surged from Vigilus's surface like a second sun.
An energy source like no other, Dukel mused.
If the Empire's largest Argentum-energy processing plant were built here, the yield would be unimaginable—even to him.
No longer would the Imperium need to scour the stars for raw material. Doom and Slayer—his twin forges—could focus purely on production.
He gave the order.
Within moments, directives were transmitted across vox and noosphere. A transport fleet would soon descend with all necessary resources.
The world was no longer habitable. The decision was clear.
All surface structures would be dismantled.
In their place, the Imperium's grandest Argentum energy refinery would rise.
Whatever Lorgar had hoped to unleash, the consequences of his blasphemous ritual would now serve the Imperium.
As Dukel studied schematics of the prospective facility, a familiar voice echoed in his mind.
"Your Highness. A Dark Angels agent requests a private audience. He brings word… of the Lion."
Dukel's eyes narrowed. Surprise flickered behind them.
So the Lion and the Archangel found something… Horus perhaps?
"Send him in," Dukel ordered, his voice sharpening with anticipation.
The agent, clad in a dark cloak bearing the symbol of the Unforgiven, entered the chamber at a near-run. His chest rose and fell with exertion, though he clutched the mithril message-case with unshakable determination.
Before the towering presence of the Warmaster, the agent bowed. His voice was tight with urgency.
"Warmaster. This is a report from the Lion himself."
Dukel looked up from the spread of dataslates and parchment. The grand star map above the war table flickered, showing the flame-swept galaxy in motion—sectors lost and held, stars burning.
At the Primarch's side stood the Saint—his silent advisor, radiating serene might. She regarded the agent with curiosity.
Dukel took the case and strode to the far end of the chamber. A mithril-and-glass cogitator stood ready, humming with power.
He inserted the case into its receiver. A control lever was thrown. The lumen-strips above dimmed.
With a touch of psychic will, Dukel activated the device.
Cogs turned. Ancient mechanisms clicked. A projection flared to life, flickering on the wall. The image, distorted at first, began to sharpen.
The voice of the First—Lion El'Jonson—was about to be heard once more.
A man's face emerged from the projection, his features unmistakable to the observing agent: a battle-scarred warrior of the First Legion's inner sanctum—the elusive Order of the Unforgiven. Word had long spread that he was an Angel of Absolution, a thousand-year veteran who had returned to Imperial service alongside the Lion El'Jonson himself.
Yet the agent had never imagined that such a storied figure—renowned across the stars for his resolve—could display fear and unease so openly.
"Warmaster," the Angel began, his voice reverberating with restraint. "We remain embedded within the Black Regions of the Dark Stars. The signs we have uncovered confirm your interpretation of the Son of Betrayal. The Lion has found deeper truths, truths darker than we feared. We've since disengaged from the Blood Angels fleet. What happens next…"
He hesitated—an unsettling pause for one so hardened by millennia of war.
"My lord, the events unfolding here defy belief. Even with all my training, even with all I have endured... I am shaken."
The veteran struggled with his words, as though resisting the instinct to redact the truth.
"You'll receive a full report through secure channels. The data-link has been encoded into the letter."
He straightened slightly, as though regaining composure through sheer discipline.
"Your foresight has proven true. The omens you deciphered were no coincidence. All records pertaining to our discovery are enclosed, sealed under Encryption Protocol Twenty-Two."
Then came the hammer blow.
"The Lion has confirmed it—Horus has returned. He is no longer myth or shadow. He advances through the Dark Stars."
The words hit like a seismic charge. Though the agent had prepared himself for many horrors, hearing that name—Horus, the Arch-Traitor, the Warmaster of old—shattered even his hardened composure.
He felt a sudden urge to sit, to retreat from this revelation, to process the impossible. But he remained standing, spine straight. This was the War Room of Dukel the Warmaster. There was no place for weakness here.
Yet even that shock paled compared to what came next.
"My Lord Warmaster..." The Angel's voice dropped to a haunted whisper. "I wish that was the only nightmare I bore. But there is something far worse."
The veteran inhaled slowly, as if steadying himself for sacrilege.
"The Lion has uncovered one of Fabius Bile's hidden laboratories. Inside, we found comprehensive experimental data—focused entirely on cloning Primarchs. The data was... disturbingly complete. While we cannot yet confirm success, we must assume that Bile may have succeeded."
The Angel's voice faltered again.
"Of course, until the Lion verifies it with his own eyes, we cannot treat it as more than speculation. But the data—"
He shook his head slowly, like a man confronted with his own death.
"Sir... The test records and parameters are embedded in this file. You will understand them better than any of us. You are, after all, the greatest scholar among the High Lords of Terra."
The projection cut off. The Angel of Absolution vanished, replaced by cascading lines of data—test results, genetic blueprints, field records—all slowly scrolling across the display.
The agent watched, helpless, as the Warmaster reviewed the information.
He could not understand the meaning behind the gene-charts or the ritual markings. He could only watch Dukel's expression—a face carved from iron and war—until, for the briefest of moments, the Warmaster's brow furrowed.
It was a tiny crease. But it was enough.
The agent's breath caught in his throat.
Something in that data had truly disturbed the Warmaster.
And if even Dukel could be shaken…
Then the Imperium might soon face something far worse than even the return of the Arch-Traitor.
...
TN:
Support me on P-com/LordMerlin