1

  Snap-cracks of supersonic rounds screamed past Evrys’ head, forcing him to duck as impacts chewed into the berm above. Hunched low, he threaded his mechadendrite into the data socket set into the rim of the Terminator helmet cradled in his hands. His vision blurred as the connection went live, a flood of diagnostic runes and glyphs cascading across his mind's eye in a chaotic, indecipherable jumble. The sheer volume of data defied even his augmented understanding, and he furrowed his brow, frustration gnawing at his concentration as another round whined overhead.

  A deep, rumbling voice cut through the tension. “Well, Brother-Adept?”

  Evrys glanced up, pulled from the data stream by the looming figure of a giant in battered ceramite plate. The warrior sat on a weathered crate, snapping a fresh magazine into a storm bolter chained to his wrist. The ceramite of his gauntlets was caked in gore and mud, the filth trailing past the joints as he worked. With a grunt, he yanked the charging handle back. The bolt slammed home with a metallic crunch, making Evrys flinch as he heard the grinding of grit and oil churn into paste.

  Gritting his teeth, Evrys forced himself to refocus. He pressed mentally into the machine spirit of the helmet, forcing a reboot as the warrior stood, drawing a notched power sword from its battered scabbard.

  The lenses of the helmet flickered, then blazed to life with a sharp, emerald glow, reflecting the light of a flare arcing up high above the chaos, followed by the thunder of heavy bolters firing into the enemy line.

  “It's now or never, Brother,” the giant rumbled, looking out into the havoc beyond.

  Evrys stood, disconnecting from the helmet as he approached the giant. He did his best to brush mud out of the mounting points, stopping in front of the battered brass aquila across the chest of the Terminator.

  “Brother-Cap- apologies, milord. Honored Chapter Master,” Evrys spoke gently over the din, fitting the helmet roughly into Justinian's armor. It snapped into place, and servos dragged it into place with a crunch of grit and a hiss of displaced air.

  “Don't worry, Brother. This is new to me, too.” Justinian rotated his shoulders, the servos whining with his movements, making Evrys cringe again.

  “That suit is going to take me weeks to fix, milord,” Evrys muttered darkly. He swapped magazines in his bolter, charging the weapon with a rough yank of the charging handle.

  “Nevertheless, Brother.” Justinian keyed into the priority vox, broadcasting to every Song of Sorrow on the field. “Sons of Sorrow, to me! For the Emperor and Sanguinius!”

  “Death! Death! DEATH!” The battle cry reverberated up and down the line, as Astartes in crimson and onyx leapt over the edge of the trench, some borne aloft on plumes of flame and smoke, others on foot.

  Justinian led the way over the top, roaring with fury as he fired and advanced, Evrys close behind. Both fired at targets of opportunity, with blue streaks of supersonic fire sparking off of the duo’s armor, turned aside by master-crafted plate. Evrys fired at one Fire Warrior fumbling with a reload, blowing a cavern through his blue innards. The xenos dropped with a cry, and his fellows filled in the line around his cooling body.

  Justinian moved like quicksilver, bellowing orders as he waded into the enemy line, carving a swath of destruction in his wake. He was an avatar of wrath, gracefully laying waste to the xenos with titanic swipes of his sword, shredding flesh in arcs of alien vitae. His vox amplified his voice to an ear-shredding level, cowing the Tau with his fury.

  Evrys stayed close, unloading his Bolter at point blank range into a Fire Warrior, spattering him in gore. He switched targets as the Fire Warrior slumped to the ground, killed, drawing his short power axe to cleave a straggler from shoulder to groin. Whipping around, another xenos fell, head cleaved from its shoulders.

  Justinian kicked a kneeling, armless alien to the ground, caving in its chest as he turned to fire into the retreating foe. The rest of the line was creating the lip of the enemy trench, firing wildly into the mass of alien flesh, and carving them apart with combat blades and chainswords. Justinian had already crested the back line of the trench, bellowing into the vox as Evrys drove his fist over and over into a dying Tau warrior. The alien’s grotesque babbling ceased, but Evrys continued pounding the dead alien’s skull into pulp, his fists driven by something deeper than duty- rage, shame, grief- all mashed together at once.

  A red haze clouded Evrys' vision as he stood, reloading his bolter while blood roared in his ears. He could hear Justinian through the vox, but in a far-off distant way, his voice distorted along with the clank of his bolter chambering a round sounding almost tinny.

  He leapt up the embankment, only to be blasted backwards by a railgun shot landing in his breastplate with bone-rattling force, knocking the wind out of him and ringing his armor as if it were a cloister bell, deafening him as he desperately struggled to breathe.

  His rage boiled hot, spurring him up and over the edge. Evrys' bolter was gone, but his axe was in his hand, flickering angrily in the smoke as his greaves pounded into the dirt as he charged, bellowing wordlessly as another Tau fell, ripped in half at its skinny waist. Evrys ignored its screams, sprinting further to easily catch up to Justinian, who was in the midst of ripping one unfortunate alien limb-from-limb.

  One alien had lined up a shot at Justinian, aiming squarely at the center of his back as the Space Marines tore the xenos asunder. Evrys, moving as fast as a las-bolt, threw a punch that caved in the Tau's curved helmet, shattering the eye-lenses with the fury of his passing. The shot went wide, landing in the chest of another Tau raising a skinny blade that was shorter than an Astartes combat knife, which spun to the ground in a flash of steel.

  Evrys slew the last Tau with a swipe of his clawed fingers, ripping out its throat. The alien fell to its knees, gurgling impotently as it fell clutching its throat. Blue vitae ran through its digits, and it landed face-first into the dust to die.

  Shaking the gore from his hands, Evrys' relished the moment, leering at the retreating Tau, while his brothers cut them down at range, rallying around Justinian. He was barking orders over the vox, one Evrys wasn't on, leaving him free to see to his duties; first and foremost his bolter.

  He trudged back to the previous line, stepping over cooling Tau corpses and smashed alien weaponry. Evrys pulled a face, taking a moment to crush a carbine with a severed four-fingered hand still gripping the pistol grip. Putting his full weight behind it, he stomped, getting a satisfying crunch from under his boot. He moved onward, killing a gut shot survivor the same way, threading through the bodies.

  There were a fair few bodies clad in the red and onyx of his Chapter, and enough to make his hearts drop. A stray white helm was pierced in the center of its forehead, the edges of the hole scorched with the passage of the plasma-shot. Evrys picked it up, spying its owner a few paces back towards his brothers at the front. The inside of the helmet was a ruin of meat and blood, with tiny white flecks of shattered bone peppering the foul mix throughout.

  Sighing, Evrys dropped the helmet. Too many lost, and at this point…

  He trudged onwards, sliding down the side of the trench where he had been shot. He spied his bolter laying discarded, having landed close to where he had left a crater impact with his ass. Grunting as he stooped, Evrys scooped up the weapon, checking the chamber with a tug of the charging handle.

  Empty. He ejected the sickle magazine, locking another into place before charging it, and slinging it over his shoulder. He clambered up the slope of the trench, his eyes peeping over the top just in time to see the burst of a railgun shot spear through an Assault Marine, shooting him out of the sky.

  “Nine hells,” he swore, clambering back over the top. He had just gained his footing when another railgun round streaked past, coming inches from his thigh.

  Another coarse oath, and he was off at a full sprint, zigzagging past cover as more fire streaked past, and into his mostly undefended brothers ahead. Muzzle flashes were in the distance, too few by Evrys’ liking or reckoning. He sprinted, diving behind a wrecked xenos personnel carrier as another round went for his head. Mind racing, he grabbed the first thing he reached on his belt, pulled the pin, and flung it as hard as he could.

  A crump of displaced air and angry hissing urged him to move out towards his brothers. More fire, this time plasma bolts flew past, shot wildly into the impermeable smoke laced with heavy metals to resist preysight. Evrys held his fire, ducking down as rounds came close, but never stopping. He could hear the report of bolter fire now, and could almost make out a towering figure in the haze.

  Evrys gravitated towards it, winding his way through the miasma until he came to a dead stop, his blood cold.

  A towering machine, one of the xenos constructs, was in the middle of the smoke, laying waste to his brothers. Its rotating cannon made a sound like ripping fabric as it shredded them, the blue flashes of light throwing the faces of the unhelmed into a ghoulish relief. Anguish and agony was on the faces of the dead, and Evrys, unthinking, drew his power axe high above his head, and charged.

  Leading with his bolter, he let off a string of shots that impacted the construct's back, where a belch of flame and smoke poured out of the vents set in its mechanical mockery of wings. The head snapped 180 degrees, locking onto Evrys as he dove to avoid the fire from the torso that locked into him an instant later.

  The thing tracked him as he dodged, closing the distance between himself and the terrible machine. Another pair of shots landed home on the machine’s shoulder, the railgun side dropping dead and floppy at its side. Dashing at full speed, Evrys' struck with the axe, aiming for the knee. The construct moved at the last moment, and Evrys felt his power axe dragged from grip as it embedded in the thing's thigh.

  He rolled, dodging a clumsy blow from the live arm, coming to a stop kneeling and firing. Rounds impacted into the machine’s chest, most detonating harmlessly against its metal hide, but one landed home in the thing’s head.

  The machine reeled, bracketing Evrys’ general direction with a hail of plasma-bolts as it flailed. He dove for cover, his gun empty. Reaching for a magazine, his hands came up empty.

  Wordlessly, he dropped his bolter and ripped the combat knife from its sheath on his thigh, bracing himself as the machine lurched, tipping over drunkenly as it fired with wild abandon. Plumes of dirt flew where the plasma bolts landed, spraying Evrys as he ducked low, and cut in sharply under the machine’s hail of death.

  He had one shot, he figured. Justinian lay on his back, armor smoking from minute impacts from his feet to armored dome, the angry maw of his armor quiescent as he lay, the helm’s eyes dark.

  Evrys was close, but the machine was deadly fast. As soon as he got close, the live arm swung around, bashing him hard where the railgun shot had hit earlier, sending him tumbling away as the machine honed in on him. Landing and rolling, he could feel broken ribs grinding together as his ragged breath rose and fell, and he skidded to a halt in a jumble with another dead Astartes.

  The machine had him. Evrys saw the arm zero in on him, with quick bursts of fire to tease him out. The first burst landed short, the second was closer, the third-

  Justinian came from nowhere, his sword flashing as it cleaved through the barrels of the alien machine’s cannon. Crackling with overcharge, the gun began to overheat, the blue-white discharge building as the gun overheated.

  With a shrill scream of superheated plasma, a tiny sun bloomed to life for a split second, blowing the machine’s arm apart, spraying shrapnel and molten alloys everywhere. Justinian took the brunt of it, staying standing in the concussion as it lifted the layer of dust laying across the landscape in a sphere of displaced air.

  And yet, the machine stood tall, albeit shakily. Evrys spied the missile pod and carbine spliced into the shoulder mount, and was on his feet in an instant. Combat knife in hand, he bolted towards the machine. The carbine crackled to life, firing into Justinian, the rounds sinking into the dull surface of his pauldron, searing the weathered paint into ash as it lit into him, shoving him back a pace with a grunt.

  Justinian raised the storm bolter in his fist, the twin barrels chattering as spent brass fountained from the gun. The rounds detonated harmlessly on the machine’s plate, but granted Justinian some breathing room as the machine reeled, hooting angrily.

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  Evrys dashed past Justinian, dropping into a slide to rip free his power axe from the construct’s thigh. Coming up, he swung as hard as he could with his augmented strength, burying the plasteel head in the machine’s back.

  Justinian closed the distance, ramming his power sword through the chest of the machine, eliciting a satisfying crunch of shredded electronics. He ripped it upwards, shredding alloys, avionics, and the Tau pilot with his fury. The machine slumped forward, draining oil and ichor as the pilot died, leaving the machine without input.

  “Die in pain, xenos filth,” Justinian spat, stalking around the machine’s limp form.

  Evrys ripped his axe free as Justinian angrily kicked the machine over. Sweeping his eyes around, Evrys beheld the crumpled bodies of his brothers, his heart heavy.

  “How many more, milord?” Evrys’ helmet betrayed no emotion, but his voice was thick with emotion.

  “Their sacrifice was not in vain, Brother-Adept. The second line is en route, and we’ll resume the advance.” Justinian sheathed his sword, and kneeled heavily next to one of his prone brothers.

  “Give me a hand with this, Evrys, this one still lives.” Delicately, he undid the helmet’s latch, supporting the head of the wounded Space Marine.

  “Aye.” Evrys stalked over, his servos arm whirring to life. The pauldrons were next, but one practically crumbled in Evrys’ grip as he whispered to the machine spirit of the armor.

  “Glorious machine, rest easy now, for thy burden is done,” he whispered, pulling a riveted vambrace off, discarding the cracked armor plates aside for later collection.

  “Joris will never let this happen again,” Justinian joked, daubing the Sergeant’s eye with analgesic. Evrys said nothing as he ran diagnostics on the prone Sergeant’s armor, focused.

  “We'll have to splash this suit,” Evrys muttered, disconnecting his mechadendrite and pulling off armor plates. “Every panel is cracked and riveted back together, the core is completely depleted, and I think the helmet is missing a lens.” Evrys picked up the ivory helmet, turning the beaked armor over in his hands.

  Justinian sighed. “Are you sure? We can't-”

  “Milord, the armor should have been retired a year ago, forget today.” Evrys’ tone was flat, a matter-of-fact statement. “Nearly eighty percent of our armor suits are redlining on the regular. If we were only-”

  “Enough, Evrys. I know,” Justinian said, his voice low. “I know. After this campaign, if there's anything left… Anyway.”

  Grunting, with a tortured whine of servos, Justinian stood. He was silent, but animated; the Sanguinary Priest, Michel, was in the second line, Evrys figured. He busied himself with Joris’ wargear, tossing plating that had outlived their usefulness.

  But, he heard a sound that nagged at his consciousness, a nagging feeling at the back of his mind. He swept his gaze at the backline, searching for movement.

  Nothing.

  He turned over his shoulder, and his blood ran cold when he saw the trio of dust clouds advancing towards him, the dun armor of the hover tanks at odds with the muddled dark brown of the landscape.

  “Justinian.”

  Evrys’ voice was flat as he stood, his movements methodical. He bent down, prying Joris’ bolter from his comrade’s nerveless hands. A quick inspection revealed it was still functional, though it had seen better days. With steady hands, he loaded it with a magazine scavenged from Joris’ belt, the faint scrape of metal on metal audible even over the distant roar of the battlefield.

  “Eh?” The voice came sharp with confusion before recognition struck. “Oh, by the Throne...” Justinian swore, his power sword sliding free of its scabbard with a hiss of displaced air. He twirled it over in his hands with a deliberate, measured motion, his weapon catching the pale light of the overcast sky.

  “How long has it been?” Evrys asked, his tone resigned as he racked the charging handle of the borrowed weapon. The muted click was a sound he had grown too familiar with over the decades.

  “One hundred and nine years.” Justinian’s voice carried an edge, though not of anger. It was the weight of memory, laden with battles fought and brothers lost. He turned the sword over in his hand, its blade tracing a fluid arc that seemed to cut through the air with purpose.

  “And still no word from Terra,” Evrys murmured, his eyes narrowing behind his helmet's lenses. The words weren’t a question; they were an acknowledgment of the silence that had become a fixture in their lives.

  Justinian tilted his head slightly, his shoulders rolling in a fluid, almost feline motion as he tested his sword’s balance. “Everything in its own time, Brother.” His voice softened, carrying a note of unyielding resolve. “Never lose hope, or our work will always fail.”

  Evrys gave a curt nod, the faintest flicker of acknowledgment in his otherwise stoic demeanor. “Aye, milord,” he replied, his servo-arm retracting with a metallic clank. His helmet’s sensors painted a stark image of the approaching tanks, the railguns beginning to hum as they charged.

  “If we die here,” Evrys said coolly, his gaze still fixed on the horizon, “Joris takes your mantle. He has seniority.”

  “He can have it!” Justinian’s chuckle was dry and humorless, a sound that spoke more of weary acceptance than mirth.

  The pair fell silent, their words giving way to the muted symphony of war: the distant rumble of artillery, the whine of machines cutting through the air, the muffled cries of men dying far from home. The tanks crested the rise ahead, their armored hulls gleaming, their weapons swiveling like predatory beasts scenting blood.

  Evrys’ mind wandered as he stood beside his Chapter Master, the weight of the bolter in his hands a grim reminder of the countless battles that had come before this one. His thoughts strayed to the schism that had shattered their Chapter, tearing apart the bonds of brotherhood as if they were paper. He remembered the Hereticus Inquisitor’s cold satisfaction as orbital fire rained down upon their homeworld, glassing it into oblivion. And he thought of the traitors—those who had once been his brothers, now damned by their own choices.

  Through it all, Justinian stood tall, his crimson armor battered but uncowed. Evrys cast a sidelong glance at him, the man who had borne the weight of their shattered Chapter for over a century. They would fight. They would die, if that was what fate demanded. But they would never falter.

  The tanks roared closer, the ground trembling beneath their advance. Evrys tightened his grip on the bolter, his finger brushing against the trigger.

  “Whatever comes next, milord,” he said quietly, “we face it together.”

  Justinian nodded, his power sword raised in silent agreement, its blade gleaming like a shard of vengeance against the stormy sky.

  Even Evrys had to admit, it was difficult to see the end of their penance at this point, though. Terra marched to the beat of its own drum, and no errant Successor Chapter could change that.

  The dust trails were getting larger, fast. The whine of their grav-engines was audible at this point, and the buildup of energy was clearly visible through the auspex. A trickle of sweat ran down Justinian’s temple, his eye twitching as he rolled the sword over in his fist, the notched tip jumping as he fidgeted.

  Evrys stood almost languidly, eyes locked on the approaching armor. His heartbeats were even, without any hurry as he dug deep into himself, the bolter’s handguard creaking as he kneaded it.

  The silence was heavy, a thick blanket laying over the air between the two as the whine grew louder. They were almost in range of the railguns, but to the naked eye (which Evrys switched to with a twitch of his cheek), they were still gleaning dots on the horizon.

  It felt like a great burden had been taken from Evrys’ shoulders, and a deep peace settled into his veins.

  “Only in death, does duty end,” he whispered, caressing the bolter one last time.

  A plume of dirt erupted short of the tanks', making the right one divert from its frantic path. The crump of erupting air and detonation a second to reach him, knocking him soundly from his reverie. A half-second later, a second explosion came to life, then a third, hitting the middle tank square on, where it tumbled to the dirt, throwing debris and dirt airborne as it ground to a halt in a flash of fuel and plasma.

  The tanks guarding the sides had only a moment to divert, but were far too late, dying spectacularly in flashes of artillery fire. Evrys shot a glance at Justinian, who was distracted, head cocked as he listened to a priority vox.

  More artillery shells came to a halt in a bass rumble of distant thunder, obliterating the Tau vehicles, pulverizing them into the dirt. A deep sigh fell from Evrys' lips, and his adrenaline crashed, leaving his skin clammy and his hands rife with tremors. His knees were weak as he returned to Joris’ side, dropping his bolter heavily into the dirt as he kneeled by the wounded Space Marine’s side, organizing the destroyed armor plates from the relatively intact ones.

  Justinian cut the vox-feed, turning to consider the kneeling Techmarine. His back betrayed no emotions, but the minute shake of his hands was a tale to Justinian’s eye. He sheathed his sword, walking up behind the junior Astartes to lay a hand on his shoulder.

  Evrys hesitated, hand above a spiderwebbed plate. He said nothing, cocking his head to his Chapter Master.

  Justinian nodded, and trudged off to sit, leaning against a small rock on his haunches, pulling his helmet off to stare off into the distance at a new sight: crimson and onyx Astartes with white upon their helms advancing steadily through the wastes towards them.

  2

  Justinian conversed with Captain Milosh in a low tone, low enough Evrys couldn't hear. He pulled his gaze away, focusing on the heavy bolters laid out before him, swinging his censer of holy incense over the weapon’s battered casing. A plasma-bolt had broadsided the humongous slab of metal, marring the ejection port enough that even with his enhanced strength, he couldn't clear the gun.

  He tagged it for the servitors to take, stepping back to allow the mindless helots to bear the weapon away on their reinforced shoulders. They wordlessly stumped over, and grasped the weapon in their clamped appendages, and quickly bore the weapon away to a waiting Thunderhawk. Evrys swept his eyes up and down the azure craft, still bearing the sigil of Ultramar on its mighty wings, the paint perfect, and the engines running without a hitch or stutter.

  He secretly wished he could inspect it, but being on loan from the Ultramarines forbade it. Then, he spied servitors bearing litters loading the troop bay with the wounded and dead, as Priest Michel kneeled over a dead Space Marine, his narthecium whirring as it chewed through ceramite. Spatters of blood flew to stain the already weathered white enamel around the Sanguinary Priest’s wrists. Evrys looked away, his bile rising.

  He couldn't watch, no matter how much the act needed to happen. A xenos, a traitor, another Astartes of a different Chapter dying painfully never phased him, but this? The succession, the act of cutting out the very thing that gave him life, the iota of Sanguinius that sustained him, was too much.

  A Landspeeder roared overhead, the grav engines spooling down as it banked low around the impromptu landing zone. Evrys didn't recognize the Chapter or its colors, but the purple and white was a stark contrast to the dusty brown and grey of the flat warzone. It hovered next to the Thunderhawk, lowering itself and settling down in a cloud of dust, choking the few red-hooded serfs scurrying about.

  Shooting a glance at Justinian, Evrys stepped away from the servitor’s lumbering procession. Treading heavily, he weaved through the throng of battered scarlet and ebon armor, some sitting mute, others knelt in prayer. His eyes lingered on an icon of the Omnissiah, glorious in His Golden Throne, a twinge crossing Evrys’ hearts as he passed.

  The pilot, clad in crimson armor much like Evrys’, had unstrapped himself and was standing alongside the speeder. With a start, Evrys noticed the filigree on every panel of his and the passenger’s armors, and the fine detailing on the wide, flat panels of the Landspeeder.

  The Techmarine noticed Evrys, raising a hand to hail him. Without his helmet, he couldn't hear the other Astartes over the shutdown cycle of the speeder, but the vox-grille of the other was plain as day.

  “By the Throne, are these the sons of the Angel?”

  The voice cut sharply through the din, loud enough to make Evrys falter mid-step. He continued forward, though irritation pricked at the edges of his mind. The tone was weighty with disdain, but he forced himself to focus, pushing the surge of emotion aside.

  “Aye, the Sons of Sorrow, milord,” the Techmarine replied meekly, inclining his head slightly as he spoke to the purple-clad Astartes. The gesture made Evrys’ jaw tighten. Was a son of Holy Mars groveling? The idea evoked a disgust he couldn’t fully explain. He shook the thought from his mind and strode forward, raising a hand in greeting as he called out in a steady voice.

  “Hail, sons of Guilliman. I am Evrys, Brother-Adept of the Sons of Sorrow. How can—”

  “I will speak with your leader, and no other,” the Guillimanite interrupted, his voice clipped and imperious. “Take me to him.”

  Evrys slowed. Rage flared hot and bright in his chest, but he pushed it down, keeping his face neutral. “I would be glad to, but Lord Justinian is seeing to our—”

  “I gave you an order, cog,” the other Astartes spat, his hand drifting meaningfully toward the holstered pistol at his hip.

  Evrys froze. His own hand twitched toward the haft of the power axe hanging at his waist, the grip looped through reinforced Ork hide. His servo-arm clicked softly, almost as if sensing the tension. The two Astartes locked eyes, their postures rigid with unspoken challenge.

  The Guillimanite tilted his head, his contemptuous gaze flicking over Evrys’s battered red and black armor. He smirked faintly, as though daring Evrys to act.

  “Very well,” Evrys finally said, his voice carefully measured. “I will take you to him. Follow me.”

  Turning sharply, Evrys began walking, the faint hum of his servo-arm underscoring his suppressed fury. As the Guillimanite fell into step behind him, Evrys’ thoughts churned. He knew his Chapter desperately needed the support from Macragge, but to be lowered like this? Servile and mewling as the Techmarine following closely at the upstart's orders. It sickened him.

  He led the ‘leader’ through the encampment- the pilot staying behind with the landspeeder- weaving through servitors and serfs, all of whom scurried out from underfoot of the odd pair. The other Astartes seemed to relish seeing them scatter, his eyes delighting in the human’s scurried movements, until he caught Evrys watching over his shoulder at him. A strange, rictus grin stretched his face sideways, baring his teeth. With some shock, Evrys realized- he was smiling.

  Evrys resumed uneasily, weaving past Priest Michel, nodding curtly to the man as he transferred harvested progenoids into storage, in a container papered almost entirely in purity seals, to be taken to the Chapter Battle-Barge hanging in high orbit above. His eyes lingered on the canister, the long parchment flapping gaily in the wind that blew through the dusty flatlands. Generations of Astartes, locked away behind sacred wax seals and decree. His heart ached, but he trudged on.

  A voice from behind came floating over his shoulder, thick with contempt.

  “I had heard you lot were under penance,” the purple Astartes remarked, almost gloating. “What, were your paintings not up to the standard of Dante? Or did you and your kin burn what you were supposed to save?”

  Evrys rounded on the other Space Marine, fist balled as his off hand was already reaching for the pistol on his thigh.

  “I would counsel you to watch your words, Son of Guilliman,” Justinian barked, loping his way between Evrys and the other Marine. “I am Justinian, master of the Sons of Sorrow. State your business.” Justinian's face was a storm, jaw working with barely restrained fury.

  “My apologies, Justinian. I am Lucian, of the-”

  “It is Lord Justinian. I command this Chapter in the Emperor's name, and I will not allow the name of the Angel to be disrespected by an outsider.” Justinian leveled his sword’s chipped point to Lucian’s chest, poking it directly into the golden eagle hammered into his chestplate. “Do you understand?”

  Lucian let out a thin, nervous chuckle, raising his hands as he backed up a half-pace. Justinian followed him, blade planted firmly in the warrior's gilded plate.

  “Ah, many pardons, Milord! I was unaware-”

  “Clearly.” Justinian’s countenance was murderous, his armored bulk towering over the cowering Astartes. “You know nothing of us, outsider. Take care where you cast judgement.”

  “Oh- of course Milord, please forgive me!” Lucian bowed low at the waist, making Evrys' eye narrow. Justinian shot him a withering look as he sheathed his sword, mouth downturned in disgust.

  “I assume you have a reason for antagonizing my men,” Justinian grunted. The Guillimanite rose, his face flushed.

  “Aye, milord. I have a message for you from my own master.” He shot a furtive look at Evrys as he fumbled with a scroll clasped at his hip, fingers scrabbling as he undid the silken rope tied around it. His hands shook as he offered it to Justinian, dropping to one knee as he did so. “I know not its contents, but I was ordered to carry it soon after a ship from Holy Terra arrived.”

  “Terra?” The word slipped from Evrys' lips, his hearts leaping in his chest. His gaze locked with Michel’s, who looked absolutely flabbergasted. “Blessed Angel, is it done?” he whispered.

  Every Astartes surrounding the finely-clad warrior came to a halt, their attention locked to Justinian. He reached out a trembling hand, taking the scroll into his massive hands. His breath hitched in his breast as he spied the golden wax seal stamped with the twin-headed Aquila, the parchment attached to it bearing the hallmarks of the message he had longed to receive for decades.

  A century.

  Hands shaking, he pried the wax seal away as carefully as he could. The scroll unfurled of its own accord, and the delicate, spidery High Gothic text made his eyes swim with tears.

  “Brothers, heed me.” His voice was a croak that carried across the dusty field. Every soul came to a stop, their full attention on the towering Chapter Master.

  Brushing his eyes with a dusty gauntlet, he smeared the particulate into mud on his cheeks as he spoke. “Brothers, I hold in my hands a writ from Holy Terra, directly from the offices of the High Lords.” Raising the parchment above his head, he continued.

  “It is done. Our century of penitence has ended!” He bellowed the last word, his cry taken up by every other Son of Sorrow. Evrys could feel his vocal chords almost shred with the force of his pride, his exuberance, but he didn't care. Michel had fallen to his knees, weeping as he clasped his hands together in prayer. Sorrow and joy were as one, and Justinian bellowed his triumph to the heavens.

  “Finally, we are redeemed!” he cried.

  3

  Evrys stood mute at the edge of the crater, the bellows of his brothers echoing in his ears as he spied the prone form at the bottom.

  Paint was burnt to ash, and gold gilding had run in shining rivulets across the plate where it had melted away with the heat of the lance's fury. The Terminator at the bottom was unmoving, but the armor’s systems managed to still cling to life. The command beacon flared in a slow pulse, and Evrys felt another piece of himself wither as he gazed down at his fallen brother.

  Justinian.

  Evrys slid down the side of the crater, sending a cascade of fouled earth tinkling about him as he shattered the dirty glass that had formed in the immediate corona of the orbital strike. Every movement destroyed more glass, but Evrys paid it no mind as he approached the prone statue.

  He figured grief would overtake him at any moment, but all he felt was a hollow pit deep in his belly. He approached slowly, trying to disturb as little as possible, to show some reverence. Something, anything to honor the man who had led him in battle for almost a hundred and fifty years. How many brothers had he lost along the way, he wondered?

  Too many. He knelt by Justinian’s side, reaching his hand out to touch him, but faltered a few inches from the ruined war plate.

  There were no tears left, at this point. Every brother lying dead was a knife in his hearts, another hammer-blow to his mind. He rocked back on his haunches, gazing up into the foul clouds above, while thunder boomed in the distance. Heat-lightning, he thought, and that was the final straw, as he cradled his helmet in his hands and wept.