The return to the Thunderhawk passed mostly in silence.

Locari had only spoken once, recounting what he had experienced while distracting the xenos—Calsin now had names for their types: Unicorn, Pegasi, and “Earth pony,” still no name for the pink one Locari killed—even then, his words were sparse, his mind elsewhere. His voice lacked its usual sharpness, every sentence spoken like it was being pulled from somewhere far off.

Calsin didn’t press him about his sudden despondency. Whatever was stealing his Brother’s thoughts could have him for the time being. The quiet worked for Calsin. It allowed him to plan. He would address the change of behaviour once they set off.

Their course was clear, the weight of their next steps pressing against his thoughts. The Thunderhawk was dead weight now, a hollowed vessel that would decay in this alien land until scavengers picked its bones clean. They would not return once they left; there was nothing left for them here but a gravesite.

They needed to travel light, move efficiently. The xenos were organized; it was only a matter of time before the city’s kin noticed its destruction.

Calsin mentally sifted through their resources with the precision of long-ingrained habit. Bolter ammunition remained adequate for now, bolstered by what he had retrieved from Procuran and Queren’s bodies. If they maintained their current rate of fire, their supply would last a week—less if they became careless.

He glanced toward Locari, who during the latter half of the trek back had occupied himself with watching the skies for any Pegasi unfortunate enough to stumble across them.

“Ration your bolts from now on,” Calsin said, noting that Locari only had a single magazine of his pistol left on his belt—his rifle fairing slightly better with thrice the number. “Unicorns get priority. Pegasi only if necessary.”

They wouldn’t take chances with the Unicorn type. From what Calsin had observed and what Locari had learned, Unicorns and whatever the royal alien was seemed to be the only members of the race that used sorcery—the only ones that could manifest it with mere thought. It reminded Calsin of the Astropaths, if only for the genetic mutation that gave the breed of psyker their gift. He assumed the horns on the ponies heads was caused by a vaguely similar mutation, and was what allowed them to channel the warp.

Locari gave a grunt in affirmation. Calsin grew slightly irritated by the ongoing behavior of the younger Astartes.

Calsin continued anyway. “The Earth ones…” he let the word settle, “…we cut them down by hand.”

Locari’s response was a simple, “aye.”

Calsin suspected the gloom over his Brother was the result of the Crystal Heart and whatever reaction it had to Locari’s touch. Another reason to investigate, Calsin thought.

Calsin’s fingers traced the worn grip of his plasma pistol as they neared the Thunderhawk. It was still a powerful tool, but a limited one. Every shot used was irreplaceable. He had already traded Locari for Procuran’s bolt pistol—the only other weapon properly suited for a Firstborn—to take its place. Plasma would be reserved for anything a bolt couldn’t break. He could use Primaris weapons but found them annoying to wield—he remembered an adage about old dogs and thought it fitting for his preference on weapons.

Locari, ever favoring his bolter rifle, would enjoy hoarding the rifle rounds.

Calsin almost said as much. It was the kind of remark that would’ve drawn a comment from Locari on any other day—Locari seemed to enjoy wit and converse of that type—but not today. Calsin would likely fail attempting the humor anyway.

Rations were a lesser concern. They had enough to last a month, longer if they stretched it. Their bodies could endure far beyond mortal limits. Even when hunger gnawed at their strength, it wouldn’t slow them. They only needed that month to find prey big enough for their needs—the ponies might be enough, but neither Astartes wanted to stoop to Fenrisian barbarism just yet. Water was abundant. Any stream, river, or puddle would do.

When they reached the Thunderhawk, Calsin stepped inside without a word, moving with the cadence of a plan already set. Locari drifted to his own space, his silence heavier now, as though the sight of the Thunderhawk—and more likely what rested within—had pressed a new weight onto his shoulders.

Calsin let him be.

Locari settled into routine. He focused on maintaining his arms, setting his bolter aside as he began cleaning the chainsword of any bone or meat still stuck to the teeth. His movements were precise but lacked the usual rhythm. He purposely sat in a direction facing the exit of the ship, so he wouldn't stare too long at the dead.

Calsin busied himself with the supplies, grabbing and laying out everything not bolted to the walls, methodically sorting their gear. He made sure to step carefully as not to disturb the dead at his feet. Everything chosen had to earn its place—no wasted space, no unnecessary weight. What they could not take would be destroyed.

His hand brushed against the final explosive charge, confirming its presence. It had been left for this very purpose.

The silence stretched between them again, too long this time. Long enough Calsin grew sick of it.

“Locari.”

The younger Marine didn’t look up from his work. “Brother.”

Calsin’s voice stayed level, but there was something quieter beneath it. “How’s the shoulder?”

Calsin had asked a similar question earlier, noticing his Brother constantly rolling the appendage on their way back. Apparently two Pegasi managed a hardy hit on his pauldron—somehow not crushing themselves at the speed they went—and while the attack left no permanent damage it was enough for Locari to still feel it afterwards.

Locari paused for half a second, feeling the soreness. “Fine. Merely sore.”

Calsin didn't pester further, but he didn’t look away either. The shoulder wasn’t the problem, neither was it the actual question he was meaning to ask.

He resisted an exhale and returned to his work.

Their destination was set. During their movement to and from the xenos city, Calsin had been tracking the other beacons besides Queren's. Caedus had gone dark, his signal vanishing after a sudden disruption, it returned later a significant distance west of where it was. Marnel, southeast, remained steady, and Calsin used his signal to make an estimate of the distances he was working with. Though still far, Marnel was closer than Caedus. Their path was decided.

Another matter remained.

The shards.

Calsin removed the pouch from his belt, holding it in his palm and unlatching the leather to expose the inside. The fragments shimmered under the sun's light, catching the faint reflection of his armor. Unknown. Dangerous. He had taken them for a reason, but he wasn’t going to allow them so close without proper measure any longer.

The Cuprum Lords did not take xenos relics lightly. They did not hoard alien artifacts for curiosity’s sake, nor did they allow unchecked study. Knowledge was a weapon, but one to be wielded with care. Every artifact they took was cleansed, examined, then destroyed. No exceptions. Corruption, taint, the insidious touch of the warp—these things festered in the tools of the alien, waiting to take root in the minds of those weak and unprepared.

Calsin moved to the Thunderhawk’s storage and retrieved a containment unit. It was a tool of the Indomitus Crusade, originally designed for securing Tyranid bio-samples. Its function had since expanded. The device hummed softly as he placed the shards inside, the field generator activating, locking them in stasis.

“It's dangerous to keep those with you,” Locari spoke at last. His tone was sharp, his gaze fixed on the container. “Without the Chaplaincy to cleanse it.”

The sword once in his hand now rested on the seat beside him—clean of major debris. His empty bolter lay in hand, its chamber exposed as he ran through inspections—but his attention was now elsewhere.

Calsin sealed the unit, ensuring the locks were tight. “I know the risks,” he replied evenly. “If this thing was so important to them, I want to ensure it won’t be a threat. If there are more, we need to understand them. Then it will be destroyed.”

A pause hung in the air.

Calsin looked at Locari a moment longer. His gaze drifted—not to the armor, but to the subtle, stiff way Locari moved. The quiet signs of pain. Apparently the familiar comfort of the Thunderhawk let Locari lower his guard ever so slightly. Just enough for Calsin to see the clear sign of an injury being hidden.

The few new scratches of ceramite were nothing to fret over, but the hole in Locari’s undersuit? That was something to fret over.

Calsin blink-clicked a rune in his helm’s retinal-display, his vision washed with green and the clear sight of what Locari seemed to be hiding.

Before Locari could reply, Calsin moved closer. Without hesitation, his hand clamped onto Locari’s pauldron, yanking him slightly forward. Locari barely had time to register the movement before Calsin’s other hand gripped something embedded in his abdomen and tore it free in one swift motion.

Pain flashed, sharp but brief. Locari inhaled sharply, his hand clenched. Calsin straightened, holding a jagged crystal shard between his fingers, its edges glistening with fresh blood.

Locari exhaled, voice tight and louder with displeasure. “Was that necessary?” He chambered his weapon closed and left it on a seat beside him. His fingers brushed the spot where the pain lingered. He hadn’t noticed the wound—had assumed it was a strained muscle or bruise too minor to bother with.

Calsin crushed the crystal into dust. “It was necessary the moment you failed to report an injury.”

Locari leaned left and right, testing the wound. Already, it was sealing. “It was minor. You could’ve warned me at least.”

“No wound is minor,” Calsin said, voice edged with irritation. “Especially not to me. And quit your whining.”

Locari scoffed. “You worry over me like a mother bird to her hatchling.”

A spray left Calsin’s belt and into his hand. He sprayed disinfectant into the wound as he checked for any unusual signs. No chances were to be taken, regardless of their physiology.

He set the tool back to his belt, satisfied Astartes healing would finish what remained.

“I worry over you like a brother,” Calsin corrected. “You didn’t complain this much when you were put before me on the operation table.”

Locari smirked, flexing his shoulder once more before letting it rest. “After the first few cuts, I didn’t have the voice for it.”

Calsin snorted. “Yet you still had the throat to yell throughout the whole night. Be glad you weren't as bad as some of the other Aspirants.”

The exchange felt familiar. Almost normal. But the normality didn't last long enough to savor.

Locari shook his head amusedly, but the amusement settled as his gaze drifted back to the contained shards.

“That wasn’t just some piece of xenos tech or a random artifact,” Locari said. His voice was lower, more measured. “What it did… I worry just where it derives its energy from. If it still holds surprises.”

Calsin regarded the shards himself. He had seen it as well. The surge of light, the power that had flared to life the moment Locari had touched it, the cold Calsin felt run up his spine as the energy froze his brother in place, leaving him shouting while kneeled. That couldn't happen again. Had the enemy activated the Heart sooner they may have had both Astartes at their mercy.

“If any more surprises happen, we destroy it immediately,” he said, his tone final.

Locari studied Calsin a moment longer, then nodded. “Good to hear.”

Daedryn and the others lay peacefully in the hold of the Thunderhawk, their bodies gathered in solemn procession. Even in death, they remained unbowed.

The cracked ceramite, the warpflame-scorched plating, the bloodstains that would never be washed away—these were the marks of their final battle. Their deaths had been brutal. Unfitting. With no victory to give their efforts meaning.

They could not bury their dead, nor burn them in a proper pyre—there was no time, and they could not draw attention so soon. Their bodies would be consumed when the Thunderhawk was destroyed, their remains erased along with the vessel.

It was not the sendoff they deserved, but it was what the circumstances allowed.

Their souls, however, would be given their due.

Calsin knelt beside Daedryn first, placing a gauntleted hand on the fallen Techmarine’s chest. The cold metal met cold armor, but the weight of the gesture was not lost. He murmured the recitations, the words heavy with the weight of tradition.

His voice was steady. It did not falter.

Calsin had performed these rites more times than he cared to count. Each name spoken was a weight he carried, but his duty did not allow for hesitation. An Apothecary did not waver in the face of death. These brothers deserved more than a weak-hearted man incapable of giving them their rites without pause or stutter.

But Daedryn was different.

The red of Mars adorned his armor alongside the gray and copper of the Cuprum Lords, a symbol of his dual allegiance. Most Techmarines grew distant over time, their minds slowly aligning more with the cold logic of the Omnissiah than the flesh-and-blood brotherhood of their Chapters. Many among the Chapter shunned them; considered them barely above outsiders.

Daedryn had never fully embraced that distance.

Calsin remembered a moment in the quiet aftermath of another battle won, aboard the Sworn Under Dawn, the flagship of the 7th company. The Thunderhawk’s machine spirit had been uncooperative, its systems aggravated and restless after having survived a freak artillery shot by a now dead group of traitorous mortals. Calsin had watched the ongoing repairs in the edge of his sight, his own task overseeing the cargo of gene-seed he had amassed from the battle. It was a particularly nasty conflict, Calsin had remembered.

Daedryn had been working on the reactor's diagnostic core, his mechadendrites weaving through tangled cables with inhuman precision. Calsin had made a remark, half in jest, about the Techmarine’s binary incantations.

"All those chants, yet it still sputters like a dying servo-skull, is it getting anywhere?" Calsin had said, watching the Techmarine mutter strings of Machine Cant.

Most of Daedryn’s peers would have responded with doctrinal rigidity, a lecture on the Omnissiah's will or the sacred rites of maintenance. But Daedryn had simply paused, his green optics flicking toward Calsin.

"The Machine Spirit listens, but sometimes it just needs a firm hand," Daedryn had replied, his vox-grille distorting what might have been a dry chuckle.

Then, after a beat, he’d added, "Not every spirit bends easy to prayer. Some things respond better to understanding. Or a wrench."

It had been a small thing—but it had stuck with Calsin.

Daedryn wasn’t just a tool of the Mechanicus, another freak sacrificed to the Machine Cult. Calsin would come to find that brotherhood won over Omnissial superstition in Daedryn's mind; Calsin respected him for that and more.

And now, the man who had once kept their Thunderhawk flying against impossible odds—kept their armor and armaments pristine—lay still, his work unfinished. And it never would be finished.

Calsin’s hand lingered on Daedryn’s chestplate for a moment longer than usual: out of respect.

For Locari, this was different. He had dealt with the dead before. He had his brother dying in his arms more times than he wished. But not like this, not so many.

He lingered over each body, taking in the names engraved on their armor. These weren’t just warriors—they were men. Men with lives and histories he’d never had the chance to fully hear.

Altheon. A man who enjoyed good wit and banter. That was Altheon’s gift—cutting through the grimness of war with humor that actually landed.

There was even a rumor—one that Altheon wore like a badge of honor—that he had once managed to get a chuckle from Captain Leontus. The very thought was absurd—Leontus regarded comedy as he would a tumor—but no one had ever managed to disprove it, and Altheon wore that rumor with pride, as if it were the greatest accolade he’d ever earned. Perhaps it was in a way.

Brother Vartus.

When Locari had first met him, there had been no complicated impressions, no layers to peel back. Vartus was an arse. Plain and simple.

From the moment Locari joined the squad, Vartus had made his opinion on the new blood painfully clear. His words were sharp, often dismissive, and he had a way of pointing out flaws that grated the nerves. It wasn’t that he lacked respect for his brothers—he simply had no patience for anything less than absolute perfection.

“If you’re going to fight like that, Venathor, make sure you’re the first to die. Saves the rest of us the trouble.”

Those had been Vartus’ first words to him after a joint training exercise. No preamble, no camaraderie—just brutal honesty delivered without flinching.

Locari disliked him for it.

But over time, he came to understand that Vartus wasn’t cruel. He was uncompromising. His abrasiveness was a push to be better. The bar he set for himself was impossibly high, and he expected no less from his brothers. If you could survive his lip, you could survive anything.

Locari could still remember the first time Vartus had shown him something resembling approval: After a grueling engagement against a xeno warband, Locari had held a defensive line alone—a sudden break in fortifications the Guard had failed to hold despite their efforts—his armor cracked and his bolter down to its last magazine.

After the battle, Vartus had clapped a heavy hand on Locari’s shoulder, his gauntlet pressing into the fresh dents in Locari’s pauldron.

“You didn’t die,” Vartus had said gruffly. “Shame. I was starting to like the idea of less competition.”

It was the closest thing to a compliment Vartus had ever given. It meant a lot to Locari. He had grown to admire Vartus, for never hiding his opinion behind worthless niceties or manners. Every conversation, Locari would learn from.

But no more.

Then there was Brother Serrian.

Serrian had been an Initiate of Lord Hadran, same as Locari, though they had little interaction—different squads. A brother connected by lineage, by shared lessons, by the same voice that had once guided them both. Locari felt a tightness in his chest—a weight heavier than what he would soon carry.

He remembered overhearing Serrian during training exercises, reciting Hadran’s teachings with a quiet reverence that mirrored his own. They had shared a bond, even if unspoken—a shared respect for the Chaplain who had shaped them both.

Locari had heard the whispers of Serrian in the barracks one day, the quiet conversations between Neophytes after lights out. Serrian had almost been taken by Sol’s Touch.

Sol’s Touch, Ember Curse by some, was something every Neophyte endured after surviving the gene-seed surgeries. Locari remembered his own trial—the searing heat radiating from every inch of his body, his muscles locking as if his very bones were aflame. The pain had been indescribable, a torment that bent even the strongest minds toward madness.

It wasn’t just the heat. The agony twisted the mind, making it impossible to make sense of the surroundings. Initiates became violent, lashing out at anyone nearby. To prevent harm to themselves or others, they were restrained with chains bolted to the ground. The iron bit into flesh as much as it did into sanity, holding them down while the body decided whether to accept the Emperor’s gift—or reject it.

Locari had survived it.

Others did not.

Neophytes taken by it suffered a cruel death. Their bodies would combust, consumed by flames that no amount of suppression could save them from. Even if the fire was extinguished, it didn’t matter—the gene-organs would violently reject the host, tearing them apart from within. Once the fire began, death was inevitable.

Serrian had come close. Too close.

Locari had heard that Serrian’s skin had blistered to the point of rupture, that his restraints had groaned under the strain of his thrashing. But he avoided the final death toll. Somehow, he had pulled back from the edge.

Most would have seen that as a victory. It was a victory. One among the many Serrian Veilen would earn.

Now all that was left was the corpse below his boot. How he wished for the small mercy to grant Serrian a proper pyre, in the very least.

What would Hadran say if he saw this?

Locari’s jaw clenched beneath his helm. He wished he had known Serrian better. There was a sense of failure gnawing at him—not because he hadn’t fought hard enough, but because he hadn’t listened enough. He hadn’t asked. He hadn’t learned their stories, their victories, their ambitions.

They were more than names etched into copper-cored chain links, but that’s all they were to him now. And that felt like betrayal.

He felt an emptiness without Altheon’s wit, Vartus’ judgment, Serrian’s comradery.

Locari knew by now the 7th company would be finished mourning these men. He didn’t know how to feel about the fact that they mourned him. He wanted to believe some would know the truth, but that would be a ridiculous idea.

He would have to be the one to illuminate the living on that matter. He would ensure some justice came to the truly dead.

With the rites completed, they turned to the irons draped over the dead.

Calsin retrieved them from the fallen, the links heavy in his hands. He added the recent dead to the long line of honored men. Each one bore the name of its owner, and a mark of their place among the Chapter. These would not be left behind—never were they left behind. No Lord was ever forgotten.

Locari stood before him, waiting. By the standard of tradition, as the surviving member of the squad, he was to carry them. Calsin held them out, but Locari hesitated.

"Would you bear some of them?" Locari asked, his voice softer now. "I wish for them to be beside you as well. To aid you, even in death, to guide you alongside the Emperor.”

By chapter traditions Brother-Apothecaries did not bear the weight of many chains in their service. When a warrior met their end their chains were removed from their person, and in the best scenario would be taken to the Chaplains of the company. They would bless the chains as they added the link of the man who died, including them in the line of honored dead.

There were only a few possibilities for who they would go to. The squadron the marine served, a dear friend among brothers, a specialist of shared profession, or the man they had selected to replace them should they have held rank.

To put it simply, the Apothecary was the one who carried the hallowed adornment to their new bearer. Rarely was it for them to take on the weight themselves.

Calsin regarded him for a moment, then nodded. He separated the links, dividing them between them. He removed a tool from the vessel, a stamping tool, to affix the chains to their armor.

In better times, such a sacred practice would be carried out in the quiet halls of the company shrine. Incense holders would burn special mixes into the air; sermons written for that moment would be sung by the Chaplain overseeing the process.

Oaths would be written and wrapped around the chains, said parchment drenched in oils that seeped to the metal, binding oath to iron. Only the grandest of chapter relics held a purity and power that bested such a thing. Of all the embellishments a warrior could hold, the chain stamped to their plate was regarded most above all.

Calsin took his set and stamped the chains onto Locari’s pauldron, securing them with a firm press, another set stamped to his chest, and another wrapped to his right arm, where they would remain. Locari did the same, stamping the links onto Calsin’s left vambrace, and another set joining the ones already wrapped around his belt.

The weight of them was almost unfamiliar. It had been long since he had to take on the burden. The chain wrapped around his belt was aged and worn, some as old as the armor he wore.

They had been his brothers. Men he knew so long ago, and now these men he fought alongside so recently.

Now they would go where the living walked. Beside them in battle, even in death.

Locari retrieved the last charge from its container. He set the device at the Thunderhawk’s core.There was no hesitation. The ship had served its purpose—it would not fall into enemy hands.

The charge was set on a timer, long enough for them to be far beyond the blast radius. By the time it detonated, they would be little more than shadows among the trees.

Locari straightened, his helmeted gaze sweeping over the vessel’s interior one last time. The Thunderhawk had been their bastion, their refuge after every engagement. It had carried them across the void, across countless battlefields before even his own time, its hold once filled with the voices of their brothers. How many men had this vessel seen? How many wars has it fought and won? It was hollow, now. A tomb, waiting for its final breath.

His gaze lingered on the fallen for a moment longer—not in sorrow—in acknowledgment. They were at peace now. They had served their Emperor with honor.

He left the Thunderhawk, stopping just outside of its entrance. He opened a pouch, removing a long red bundle of rolled fabric: Procurans heraldry. He let the loincloth unfurl, moving lazily with the cold wind.

“Will you burn it with the rest?” Calsin asked from behind.

Locari gave the thought a moment to mix with his own. Without precedent, the choice was his to decide.

“No,” was the decision he settled on. “It goes with me. And if we—by the Thrones grace—return, I will have it displayed to honor him. Honor all of them.”

He took the cloth, leaning his chained pauldron forward enough to reach the chains on it. He worked in silence, securing the cloth beneath the tightly wrapped iron, weaving it under the chains as if binding it to them. The fabric settled there, tucked under it. It was wrapped in a way that one would still see the heraldry clearly.

Locari turned, grabbing the bag of supplies set aside for him and his weaponry, securing his pistol in its holster, sword to his thigh plate, bolter to his back plate, and the bag’s strap resting on his shoulder. Calsin was already set to go, taking the lead as they stepped into the forest.

The noises of the forest had grown quiet, the only sound echoing throughout the wilds was the rattling of chain on plate and the heavy steps of their boots. They moved at an easy marching pace, thirty kilometers an hour, they had to be wary of shrapnel.

Minutes passed in silence. Then—

A sudden, violent eruption tore through the forest.

A searing white light flared behind them, bright enough to carve their shadows into the trees ahead. The ground shuddered beneath their boots as a shockwave ripped through the air, sending a rolling wind howling past them, scattering leaves and branches like chaff. A moment later, sound caught up—an earsplitting detonation—had they been without their helms—not a mere explosion but an unmaking.

The Thunderhawk did not burn. It ceased to exist.

Where it had rested, there was now only a billowing column of fire and pulverized earth, reaching skyward in a roiling plume. Molten shrapnel—some chunks thick as the heavy logs—shot through the trees, sizzling as it embedded into bark and dirt. The sheer force of it left a pressure in the air, pressing against their armor even at a distance.

Calsin did not look back. Neither did Locari.

They moved forward, the forest swallowing them once more.

Their last tether to their original mission was erased.

Gone were the snow-laden woods near the Thunderhawk’s resting place. As they moved further south, the land beneath their boots softened, the thick frost giving way to patches of damp earth where ice had begun to melt. The air lost its northern bite, turning heavier, wetter.

The trees, once skeletal with frost, now dripped with meltwater, their trunks dark and slick. What had been a silent, frozen forest was now alive with the quiet sound of water dripping from branches, pooling in the undergrowth.

A distant murmur of moving water reached their ears—a river ahead. The northern winds failed to reach here, leaving the normal climate to win out.

Locari barely noticed.

The weight of the new chains against his armor was an ever-present reminder of their burden. With each motion, the links jingled softly—a familiar sound, yet not one that soothed him. He had always carried the dead with him, but today, their presence did little to temper his thoughts.

His mind had not been clear since they left the city.

It was the voice.

That was what had been gnawing at his thoughts. Not the battle. Not the blood. Not even the weight of the dead.

That voice.

He still didn’t know what to make of it.

It was powerful—not in force or volume, but in presence.

It carried weight, not like a High Chaplain’s sermon or an officer’s command, but something else. Something undeniable. It had not commanded him. Had not tried to bend him to its will. It simply was.

And that was what disturbed him most.

Daemon whispers had a tell—there was always something unnatural about them, a sickness that clung to the words, twisting into the mind like barbed hooks. Sorcery left a mark, an aftertaste of filth that even the purest flame could not scrub away.

But this?

This voice had been clean.

“…a bastion… against the dark…”

“…in their unity… it shall burn…”

“…in their love, it shall forge a shield… no evil can breach…”

“…remain steadfast… no shadow shall claim them…”

Locari’s jaw clenched. He remembered the words too clearly, burned into his thoughts like a brand. It wasn’t just the words, either. It was what came with them. A feeling. A weight lifted.

That was no comfort.

His whole life had been one of weight—of purpose pressing against him like unrelenting stone. Duty was a weight, faith was a weight, the memory of the fallen was a weight. But they were his weight to bear. He had never felt the absence of them before, and now, for the first time, he did. A weight he never even knew to be there, a pressing on his mind, now gone.

And he despised it.

His mind was forged in fire, hardened against the horrors of war. He had seen monsters beyond reason, had cut down things that would have shattered a mortal’s sanity. He did not falter. He did not dwell on foolish thoughts, especially not the echoes of some dead xenos artifact.

Yet, he still remembered.

Not the words exactly—only the few he could gain through the blinding light—but the feeling.

And every time his eyes flicked toward Calsin’s belt, toward the container holding the shards, that feeling came creeping back.

He exhaled sharply, his frustration crackling through the vox like static.

He was letting nonsense distract him.

He forced his thoughts elsewhere. The world around him was changing, and he forced himself to see it.

The snow had faded, retreating into slushy hollows. The ground beneath their boots was soft and damp, not the brittle frost-covered dirt they had grown accustomed to. Water dripped lazily from thawing branches, pooling in the thick roots of ancient trees. The air carried a different scent now—earthy, rich, alive.

It was strange, how the world had gone from frozen silence to this quiet renewal.

Good. Focus on that.

Not on the shards.

Not on the voice.

And certainly not on the unsettling feeling in the pit of his gut that refused to leave.

His gaze shifted to Calsin, and then to the blinking light on his Narthecium.

A notification.

“Your cogitator calls for you,” Locari said, his tone flat, though the words felt like a small anchor pulling him back to the present.

Calsin raised his arm, glancing at the small display on his gauntlet. “How could I have forgotten,” he muttered, more to himself than Locari, though there was a faint edge of annoyance in his voice—whether at the oversight or the data, Locari couldn’t tell.

Locari tilted his head slightly. “What is it?”

"The blood analysis," Calsin said. The sample had been fully processed hours ago, but the chaos of the mission had pulled his focus elsewhere.

Calsin pulled the vial from his belt, examining it for a moment before speaking again. “It needs cleaning anyway.” His tone was dismissive, but Locari could hear the underlying curiosity in his words.

Calsin popped the stopper and let the fluid drain onto the ground, the dark liquid pooling briefly before being absorbed by the damp earth.

The further they walked, the more the snow faded, shrinking into slush-filled hollows beneath the trees. The ground turned soft, the frozen crunch of their boots replaced by the muffled steps of damp soil.

“Are you always this thorough with waste?” Locari asked after a moment, his voice cutting through the quiet. It wasn’t mockery or a real question—just an attempt to shake off his own lingering thoughts.

Calsin didn’t look up. “Thoroughness is why we’re still alive, Brother.” His tone was measured, but there was a faint hint of dry amusement there.

Locari snorted, his lips curling into the briefest of smirks beneath his helm. “Here I thought it was our charming personalities.”

“If that were true, we’d have died long ago.”

Thin streams of water carved winding paths through the underbrush, pooling in shallow puddles that rippled as droplets fell from overhead branches. The scent of wet bark and rich earth hung thick in the air, replacing the dry sting of frost.

The wind still carried the last breath of the cold north, but here, deeper in the woods, the chill couldn’t reach the land.

Calsin approached the river they had been following and plunged the vial into the cool waters. He watched as the remnants of the blood mixed with the current, swirling briefly before being carried downstream.

An alien fish darted past, its scaled body glinting in the filtered light. It vanished the moment Calsin shifted his gauntlet beneath the surface.

Locari watched from a few paces away, his gaze flicking between the river and the container strapped to Calsin’s belt. The shards sat silent, but the memory of the voice gnawed at him.

Calsin pulled the vial from the water, shaking off the excess before tapping his gauntlet interface.

Hours had passed since he had begun the analysis, yet with everything that had transpired, it had been left to idle within the machine’s memory. Finally having a moment of quiet, Calsin could satisfy his curiosity.

He raised his arm, tapping through the interface.

Lines of data unfurled across the small screen—readouts of biological structure, chemical compositions, and genomic sequences. At a glance, nothing unusual stood out.

"Nothing too notable," he murmured, mostly to himself.

Locari shot him a glance. “Are you disappointed?”

Calsin didn’t respond immediately, his focus locked on the data. “A little. With them resembling Equines so much I had expectations for a surprise. I guess such a similar hemoglobin somewhat satiates that want.”

It was standard—predictable. The hemoglobin structure was functional for a terrestrial vertebrate, its oxygen-carrying capacity efficient but unremarkable. Enzyme profiles aligned with creatures adapted for endurance, metabolic rates consistent with their stature. Skeletal density, calcium retention—everything as expected.

Calsin’s voice was low, almost clinical as he spoke aloud. "Hormonal regulation is standard for a vertebrate of their stature. Neurological structuring aligns with quadrupedal coordination. Even their skeletal calcium retention is predictable given their apparent dietary habits.”

Locari let out a dry chuckle. “You sound like a Magos Biologis giving a sermon.”

Calsin’s lips twitched faintly, but he said nothing.

Then he stopped.

The words had left his tongue without thought, a routine continuation of a process he had done a thousand times over. But now, as his mind caught up with what his eyes were seeing, he felt his breath still in his chest.

The screen had flagged something.

At first, he thought it a mistake—some insignificant irregularity, an anomaly to be dismissed with further testing. He adjusted the parameters, refining the scan.

The readings returned unchanged.

Calsin narrowed his eyes.

He was looking at something fundamental—something that should not have been.

The genome sequencing had completed, each chain mapped, each data point analyzed and categorized within the cogitator’s vast library of known structures. The system had already run its comparisons, cross-referencing with the exhaustive biological records stored within the Narthecium.

That was where the problem lay.

It wasn’t xenos.

It wasn’t alien.

It wasn’t other.

He scrolled back, isolating the comparative analysis, confirming what his instincts had already told him.

The genetic structure was Terran.

His gauntlet stiffened as he gripped the vial tighter. His thoughts slowed, filtering through the information with clinical detachment, yet his body remained tense.

Xenos did not share genetic structure with humanity. It was a fact so ingrained, so absolute, that it had never needed questioning. In all his years as an Apothecary, in all the records of xeno studies, in all the histories of mankind’s encounters with the other, never had a species shared the sacred genetic foundation that marked those of Terra’s origin.

Yet here it was.

Base-pair formations. Protein synthesis patterns. Molecular replication processes. Every fundamental aspect of this blood—of this creature—aligned with the life forms that had once walked upon mankind’s cradle.

Not a facsimile. Not an approximation.

A match.

Calsin exhaled slowly, barely aware of the movement. His hands worked mechanically, retrieving disinfectant, clearing the vial with crisp efficiency, but his mind was elsewhere.

He ran the comparison again. The data returned the same. Every time.

He had known.

Somewhere, deep beneath his rationale, beneath his assumptions, he had known.

Even before the results.

Because the moment he had seen them—the moment he had laid eyes on their forms, on their world, on their expressions—some small part of him, some unconscious fragment of memory buried within the depths, had whispered a single truth.

They were not xenos.

They were Terran.

Calsin didn’t dwell on the thought. He rarely did. But there had been a flicker of something familiar when he first saw them. Not in their faces, nor their colors, but in their shapes—the way their bodies moved, the way they carried themselves, the noise of their hooves on the ground, the animal noises they made in fear of him. It had stirred something he hadn’t thought of in centuries.

Before he had become Astartes, before the endless wars, he had been the son of a Feudal World nobleman—the name of both long lost to him. Horse riding had been as natural to him then as wielding a bolter was now. The creatures he’d once ridden—noble, strong, loyal—remained in his memory. He kept an image of one in his quarters, he believed it was what his horse had looked like.

The ponies of this world were not horses. But they were close enough that some deep part of him had recognized the difference. They were too similar. Too familiar.

It hadn’t registered then, not fully. But now, with the data in front of him, he could no longer deny it.

They were not xenos. They were Terran.

The thought settled over him like a weight, heavy, immovable. It was not shock, not disbelief. It was something colder. Something deeper.

This changed everything.

And yet—

His grip tightened around the vial.

It changed nothing.

Mutation. Corruption. Divergence. The sins of genetic deviation; diverging from the Emperor’s will. For that, then, they will die.

They were abominations, a twisting of what should have been sacred flesh. No matter how close their blood aligned with humanity, they had strayed too far from His vision. The Imperium’s will was clear: the mutant, like the heretic and the witch, must be purged. It was a simple truth, ingrained in him since his earliest days as an Astartes. They had shared man's cradle once, but they were not human. They were a stain upon what the Emperor built.

The knowledge settled in his bones like steel. He did not hate them, they were mere animals. He would not feel pity. He only felt action to be taken.

He had faced horrors across the galaxy—daemons of the warp, the filth of the xenos, the arrogance of the traitor. These creatures were another footnote in the ledger of necessary extermination.

Calsin stood slowly, his mind still parsing through the weight of what he had just confirmed. His gauntlet flexed around the vial, he returned it to its pouch.

He thought back to what Locari had said before, ‘some human presence.’ Calsin wasn’t certain, but he knew Locari’s idea had more credence now. He wondered why; why were these things, these offshoots of Terran life here? Were they made purposely? Was this world one of the many that had not survived the perils of Old Night, where humans had only been able to leave their markings behind?

His mind was still sorting through the implications. He noticed Locari’s gaze facing the sky, his attention firmly on distant specks.

“Seems they noticed the detonation,” Locari observed.

Calsin followed Locari’s gaze to the sky. A group of Pegasi circled over the billowing smoke rising to the clouds. Even from so far away he could see the glint and color of golden war-plate on their bodies. A different unit, perhaps? He couldn’t say with certainty what the armor change meant, if it meant anything. It could be another faction. For now it didn’t matter.

What mattered was that they hadn’t seen the Marines, and Calsin doubted they could from this distance.

Calsin straightened to his full height. “A blast of that magnitude would have drawn attention from kilometers away.” His tone was flat, clinical. “It will serve as a fine distraction—we’ll have all the time we need to make distance.”

Locari grunted in agreement. His gaze lingered on the distant figures a moment longer before shaking his head. “Still, that took them long enough.”

Calsin let out a quiet exhale through his vox. “They are not trained for war—not ours, in the least.” His tone carried the weight of certainty. “Even the ones that fought us lacked true discipline. Their response time is sluggish.”

Locari scoffed, his amusement tinged with something harder. “You say that now, but I suspect they’ll be faster next time.”

Calsin didn’t give it a response. Locari wasn’t wrong. These creatures were organized enough to build cities; it would be foolish to assume they couldn’t adapt.

They walked in silence for a time, the distant river murmuring beside them. The only other sound was their own: the rhythm of chains, their stomping steps, the whirring of power packs, the noises that came standard with forcing heavy material to move so fluidly.

But Calsin hadn’t forgotten what he noticed about his brother. The quiet and temperament.

Calsin had seen it before: the way a brother withdrew into himself, letting his thoughts fester in the silence. The mission was done, but Locari’s mind was still in that city. Whatever held Locari’s thoughts had done so long enough.

Calsin wasn’t one for idle chatter, but he knew when it served a purpose. If the silence gave Locari’s thoughts too much room to grow, then conversation would fill that space. Even if it was just banter, it might help.

So, he spoke.

“Something is on your mind, Brother. Would you share it with me?”

Calsin let the question linger. He would allow Locari to decide.

“We need a name,” Locari said suddenly.

Calsin tilted his helm slightly, caught off guard but seizing the opportunity. “A name?”

“For the xenos.” Locari adjusted his grip on his bolter. “We need to call them something.”

Calsin noticed the change. He was glad for it. “They already have a name. We heard it.”

Locari shook his head, the motion slight but definitive. “I’m not calling them ‘ponies.’” He repeated the word, slower this time, as if tasting it. “It feels wrong. Almost childish.” He glanced at Calsin. “You called them something before. Something with ‘equine.’”

Calsin considered for a moment. “Equine, yes.” His voice was even, detached. “A broad designation for quadrupedal, hoofed organisms. Their proportions match those of Terran equines, but with anatomical variations. The horns and wings, for instance.”

Locari hummed thoughtfully. “Better. Sounds more fitting.” He gestured vaguely to their surroundings. “This place feels strange to me—wrongly familiar, as if I’ve seen it somewhere before. Maybe it’s because of them.”

Calsin did not respond immediately. He took a measured breath, his mind still sifting through the weight of his discovery. It had taken only moments for the truth to reveal itself, but already, its implications stretched further than he cared to acknowledge.

Locari noticed the silence and turned his head slightly. “What is it?”

Calsin kept his gaze forward. “They are not xenos.”

Locari’s steps faltered slightly, but he recovered quickly. His voice was calm, but there was something unreadable beneath it. “They aren't?”

Calsin exhaled through his nose. “The blood analysis. I confirmed it.” He tapped his vambrace. “Genetically, they are not alien. They are Terran.”

Locari was silent. His pace had not slowed, his expression unreadable behind his helm. But Calsin could feel the weight of his thoughts.

When he finally spoke, it was with careful deliberation. “Mutants, then.”

“Yes.”

Locari was quiet for a long moment. His next words came slowly. “How’d that happen?”

Calsin looked down thoughtfully. “Perhaps an echo of Old Night? Maybe some event closer to our time, considering their Gothic; if there were answers I doubt we could find them. But it is unmistakable. Their structure is Terran in origin.”

“Then this world—” Locari gestured around them, to the rivers, the forests, the animals he now viewed differently. “It was ours.”

Calsin nodded. “At some point, yes.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant whisper of the river and the rhythmic clink of chains. The realization settled like cold iron, but neither spoke of it further—not yet.

Eventually, Locari scoffed, shaking his head. “By the Throne,” he muttered. “A world of degenerate mutant animals.” He let out a dry chuckle. “What exactly are they mutants of?”

Calsin didn’t immediately reply, his helm dipping slightly in thought. “Technically, they would be closest to a ‘horse.’”

Locari glanced at him. “A what?”

Calsin turned his helm slightly toward Locari, as if ensuring he had actually heard what was just said. Locari, in turn, looked at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

Calsin exhaled slowly, his tone flat. “A horse. A larger equine. Common on certain Imperial worlds. They have been used as mounts since before the His Crusade.”

Locari frowned, tilting his head slightly. “A mount.” His tone was skeptical, then after a moment, realization flickered. “Wait—those creatures some Guard regiments ride?”

“Among others.”

Locari made a sound of vague acknowledgment. “I saw them once. They looked ridiculous.”

Calsin let out a slow breath. “They are durable. Reliable.”

Locari raised a brow. “Durable? They seemed fragile to my eyes. Not much use compared to a transport.”

“Not everything requires ceramite plating.”

Locari scoffed. “Maybe not, but I saw one get hit by stray fire and collapse instantly. Didn’t even have the chance to scream.” He shrugged. “I don't see what use there is in taking such a useless animal along. Replace it with something that can take a hit, I say.”

“There's less to lose in a dead mount than a destroyed vehicle. The Guard have their reasons. The victories have proven the strategy sound,” Calsin Countered. “There is a nobility in braving the battlefield, with only sword and steed to fight with. Any loyal mortal with such courage has earned remembrance among their own.”

“There's no argument there,” Locari relented.

He continued, his tone shifting slightly. “So, these things—” he gestured vaguely around them, “are just smaller horses?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Locari hummed in thought. “Strange.” A pause. Then, casually, “Did you ever ride one?”

Calsin looked down in thought, catching Locari’s attention.

“Yes,” Calsin answered simply, but there was a softness in the word that didn’t escape Locari’s notice.

Locari’s helm tilted slightly, intrigued now. There weren’t any horses on Cupris, or if there were any he doubted they survived long, they certainly wouldn’t survive the hive. He waited, as if expecting further elaboration. None came, he assumed that was the end of that conversation.

Locari let out a short breath. “Mutants, then,” he repeated, as if testing the word, turning it over in his mind. His fingers tapped against his bolter, a slow, thoughtful rhythm. “I wish I had known that before.”

Calsin glanced at him, his helm barely tilting. “Would it have changed anything?”

Locari exhaled through his nose, eyes scanning the treeline ahead. “No.” His answer came without hesitation. He stepped over a gnarled root, his stride unbroken. “But I do not deal in uncertainty. If I am to kill, I do so knowing what stands before me.”

He gestured ahead with a flick of his gauntlet. “Alien. Mutant. Heretic. I know their kind. This?” He shook his head slightly, his tone edged with something unreadable. “It’s irritating—how little we know.”

Calsin’s voice was flat. “It does not matter. Xenos and mutants die the same.”

Locari nodded slightly. “They do.” But there was a weight to his voice now, something lingering beneath the words. His next step was heavier than the last. “But a mutant deserves acknowledgement above the xeno.”

Calsin let out a sharp exhale, the sound crackling through his vox. “Spare me.”

Locari continued, unfazed. “A xeno is an insult to mankind, by existing it slights us. The mutant… it is the same, but not entirely.” stepped over a fallen branch, his boots crunching into the frost beneath them. “Before mutation, its lineage was once pure. Once perfect under His light.”

Calsin’s fingers flexed slightly. “And then tainted. A thing that was human—or animal—but no longer is. Their blood is their heresy.”

Locari nodded. “I do not deny that.” His voice had lost the casual edge it carried before, turning colder. “I abhor the mutant. I will not hesitate to bring His justice upon them.” His next words came slower, his pace matching his thoughts. “But I have seen them, Brother. I have seen them, closer than I believe you have.”

Calsin’s helm turned slightly toward him, his crimson lenses flickering in the dim light of the canopy. “And what do you know of mutants?”

“More than I wish.” He set his bolter away, resting its strap on his shoulder. “The underhives of Cupris. The depths nobility never need to look at.” His tone was almost mocking now, but there was no venom in it—just a knowing amusement. “Where men rot, desperation festers. Down there, He is the only light they have.”

Calsin said nothing, but the slight shift of his helm indicated he was listening.

“Down there,” Locari continued, “I saw men twisted by the malice of the galaxy.” He adjusted the strap of his bolter, his fingers brushing against the well worn metal of the gun. “Men who were made victims. They did not choose it. They did not ask for it. Some were barely men at all when they were robbed of their humanity.” His voice was quiet now, almost distant. “I have seen them beg for forgiveness. Pray for the Emperor’s mercy as they extinguished themselves from their miserable lives—the lucky ones were killed young, before they knew what they were.”

They moved through a break in the trees, stepping into a small clearing where the river ran shallow. Few chunks of ice flowed along it, pieces carried away from the colder half of the forest.

Calsin’s voice did not waver. “Mutants are abominations. Their existence is a stain; to think anything else on the matter is a waste of time.”

Locari nodded, leaning forward briefly to gaze into the river, seeing what looked to be a fish swimming, before crossing. “And I will purge them all the same. But I will acknowledge that they were once something greater. That is the tragedy.”

Calsin hummed in thought. “Sentimentality does not suit you.”

Locari chuckled darkly as he stepped into the rushing water, the current lapping against his greaves. “Sentiment? No.” He looked over his shoulder at Calsin, his voice carrying a dry amusement. “Sentiment is sparing them. I do not spare them. I give them the only thing left to take—recognition.” His eyes flicked back to the other side of the river. “The closest to sentiment I will give is His mercy.”

Locari’s thoughts went back to their current foe. “But that is the mutant stripped of humanity. These ponies never had it. They are mere animals.”

Calsin let Locari’s words settle in his mind, giving them thought. He followed Locari across. “You think too softly. I’ve seen where such ideas lead lesser men.” Calsin stepped back onto dry land a moment after Locari. “But you aren't a lesser man. You were taught by Lord Hadran, I presume. Such a philosophy would come from him.”

Locari’s grip tightened on his bolter, his words held a hint of nostalgia. “Not just taught. He was my Initiator.” He stepped onto the shore, shaking the river water from his boots. “All manner of things to being Astartes—I learned from his tutoring.”

Calsin gave a slight nod, as if that answer was expected. “He certainly holds uncommon views among the Chaplaincy.” Calsin stepped out from the water soon after, not bothering to shake the mud from his white-plated legs.

A gust of wind cut through the trees, hitting the two head-on—it was warmer. Calsin’s fabrics and parchment followed the gust lazily. Locari listened to the whistle the wind made going around his chains and armor, letting the silence stretch for a moment before speaking again.

“I learned much from him. His words carried a weight beyond any man beside him, few among us have a greater presence.” His voice was quieter now, reflective. “I remember a time with Lord Hadran. I was still a Neophyte, fresh from Sol’s touch. We had taken new ground from rebels on Kartheos, and I stood among a mountain of their corpses. He had taken time to gaze upon the felled.” He exhaled sharply. “I expected a speech of wrath. Of fire and vengeance.”

“Instead, he knelt beside the dead and said, ‘What a waste.’” Locari shook his head slightly. “At the time, I thought it weakness. It took me time to understand.”

Calsin knew Lord Hadran well, and knew the man's philosophy. “He saw the cost taken for treachery. The wasted lives.”

Locari nodded. “He saw men. Not just enemies. Not just numbers. Men who should have been warriors, should have been honorable soldiers for the Imperium. But instead, they became obstacles to be cut down. Mindless traitors stolen from His light, some willing, some not.” He scoffed. “I used to think it made him soft. Now, I know it made him wise.”

Calsin’s helm tilted slightly. “And yet, they still died.”

Locari nodded. “Of course. That was never in question. By Sol and Throne, Brother, I will never shy from duty.”

The two of them walked in silence for a time, the river now behind them, the sky above dimming as dusk began to settle over the land. The conversation lingered between them, not fully closed, but not needing to be.

Calsin adjusted the weight of his chains, the iron tapping against his vambrace. “Lord Hadran, with all his splendor and greatness, was an odd one. Every conversation with the man seemed illuminating. It's as if a great tome of the greatest minds were forged into a man.”

Locari looked up with reverence to old memories. “Yes. I think the Chapter would be worse without men like him.”

Calsin did not disagree.

The canopy began to wane, the thick trees giving way to thinning woodland before finally breaking apart entirely. The towering pillars of the forest, which had enclosed them in their cold embrace for so long, now stood behind them like a wall of blackened limbs, their branches stretching toward the sky in vain. Ahead of them, the landscape unfurled, untouched and vast.

They crested a shallow hill, and there, spread out before them, the world opened like an old scroll.

The plains stretched outward, a vast sea of green and gold, with rolling hills that rose and fell in gentle undulations. The wind swept across the grasslands, carrying the scent of wildflowers and distant rivers. It was a sight Locari hadn’t expected—a world fit for the label Paradise. Untouched in all manners he knew.

It was rare to see such beauty. Too rare.

His life had been forged in the fires of battle, the ugliness of war and decay. To see something this pure felt like staring at a lie. A beautiful one, but a lie all the same.

But it wasn’t the plains that caught his attention.

To their right, a single mountain rose high above the horizon, its peak piercing the clouds like a blade. It wasn’t the height that drew Locari’s gaze—it was the city clinging to its side.

He paused, narrowing his eyes behind his helm. Even from this distance, the strange architecture was unmistakable. But the details were too far to see clearly.

With a blink-click, Locari activated a rune in his helmet, his lenses sharpening as they zoomed in. The city resolved in his view, and what he saw gave him pause.

The city wasn’t just nestled against the mountain—it was built into it.

Elegant spires rose skyward, their ivory walls gleaming faintly in the fading light. The rooftops were tipped with gold, catching the last rays of the setting sun and casting them in a warm, ethereal glow. Bridges and walkways crisscrossed the city, connecting towers that seemed to defy gravity, some of them appearing to hang precariously over the sheer cliffs.

Streams of crystal-clear water cascaded down the mountain’s edge, flowing through the city, as if the very stone had been carved to accommodate them. The falls shimmered, refracting the light into prismatic hues that danced across the rooftops.

Locari felt something stir in his chest—a strange, fleeting sense of admiration. A shame this world isn’t under Imperial rule, he thought. The Imperium could’ve made a Paradise World from this, such beauty earned preservation. Preserved under the Emperor’s light, where it belonged.

It was rare to see something like this beyond the limits of a painting or through the reinforced glass of a voidship. Worlds like this didn’t last. Not if his chapter's presence was needed there.

His helm clicked as he zoomed out slightly, shifting his gaze to the sky beside the mountain.

And there, floating impossibly in the air, was something even stranger.

Another city. But this one wasn’t built of stone or metal.

It was made of clouds.

Massive, billowing structures of pure white hung suspended in the air, their edges curling and swirling like mist caught in a breeze. But it wasn’t just the fact that the city floated—it was the order of it. The clouds weren’t random or chaotic; they were shaped, structured, crafted with purpose.

Towers of condensed vapor stretched skyward, while wide, curving platforms spun lazily around their bases. Bridges of cloudstuff connected the structures, and archways formed from thicker masses of mist gave the illusion of solid ground.

But the most striking feature of this floating city was the rainbows.

Brilliant, multicolored streams poured from the city’s edges, cascading down like waterfalls of light. The colors were vivid—far more vibrant than any natural rainbow Locari had ever seen. They shimmered and danced in the air, defying the laws of nature, bending in impossible ways.

Locari’s helm clicked again as his helm zoomed out fully, the full scope of the two odd cities settling into view.

For a long moment, neither he, nor his brother, spoke.

Locari broke the silence.

“Weird clouds,” he muttered, his tone somewhere between amusement and wariness. The sight was beautiful, yes—but it also felt unnatural. Sorcery or some abhorrent technology, no doubt.

Calsin snorted quietly through his vox. “Weird, indeed.”

Locari’s gaze lingered on the cities a moment longer. “It’s a shame,” he said, his voice low, almost reflective. “This world... it could’ve thrived under Imperial rule. It’s rare to see something like this. So untouched.”

Calsin’s helm turned slightly toward him, his tone sharper, more pragmatic. “I’d prefer a Death World.”

Locari glanced at him, not too surprised by the bluntness. “You would?”

Calsin nodded. “At least there, you know what to expect. The threats are clear. You don’t have to wonder when something will strike—it just does.” His gaze drifted back to the floating city. “This... peace. It’s irritating.”

Locari chuckled softly. “I can understand your feelings; I share them too. We’ve been in the field too long, Brother.”

“That we have.”

Worlds like this—worlds without the Imperium’s touch—made them wary. It grated on their instincts, the quietness of it all. The calm before a storm they couldn’t see yet.

Far off, movement caught their attention—specks of shadow passing through the sky. They were too distant to make out details, but their motion was deliberate, their forms sleek: more Pegasi.

They were far—too far to be a concern for the time being, but some were heading north in their direction.

They would need to move soon.

Locari exhaled through his nose, watching the distant figures drift through the sky. He let his gaze return to the land before them, taking in the vastness of it all.

It was rare, seeing a world like this. But rarity didn’t mean safety.

His helm tilted slightly upward. A flock of creatures—birds, perhaps, or something akin to them—moved in formation across the sky. Their flight was clean, purposeful, undisturbed by anything beyond the wind that carried them. There was peace in it.

And for just a moment, Locari let himself take it in.

Another silence stretched between them, but not an uncomfortable one.

Calsin was the first to turn away. He had seen enough.

“Let's not keep the journey waiting,” he said, already shifting his stance to move.

Locari took one last glance at the sky before following, eyeing another rune as he did so. A faint click snapped in his helm, only heard by him. He’d kept an image of the city. Its design pleased him, even if he would likely have to tear it down later.

They kept to the edge of the forest, where the tree line ran parallel to the plains. If anything approached, the trees would give them cover—a tactical advantage if needed.

They had no desire to shy away from a fight. But unless there were more rounds waiting for them at the journey’s end, they would take the excuse to save ammunition; Locari felt a twinge of annoyance at that.

He followed Calsin, finally taking his eyes away from the city.

An hour more in distance and the sun finally fell—far faster than it should have—replaced by the pale moon. Had they kept their sight on the city, they might’ve seen the cause.

The room was steeped in a heavy, almost oppressive quiet. The soft, magical glow of the lamps cast long shadows on the ancient stone walls, their flickering light giving the space an uneasy, shifting quality. It wasn’t just the figure on the table that caused the tension—it was the feeling in the room. The air was thick with something unspoken, something ancient.

Luna stood beside her sister, her gaze fixed on the massive figure lying still on the reinforced table. The giant’s armor was battered but still imposing, its strange, angular symbols catching the faint light. The longer Luna stared, the more those symbols seemed to pull at the edges of her thoughts. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t place them. They felt like a name she’d heard in a dream and forgotten the moment she woke.

Her eyes drifted over the figure’s broad chest plate to the double-headed eagle etched into the metal. That symbol was the worst of it. It stirred something in her, like a whisper at the back of her mind, but the meaning remained just out of reach. It was familiar—uncomfortably so—but alien all the same.

She glanced sideways at Celestia, who wore her usual calm expression, but Luna knew better. She could feel the subtle tension in her sister’s posture, the slight furrow of her brow. Celestia was unsettled, even if she wouldn’t show it openly.

The silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken questions.

Then, the door creaked open.

Both sisters turned as Twilight stepped inside, and Luna’s heart clenched.

Twilight looked… fragile.

Her steps were slow, dragging slightly against the stone floor. Her wings drooped at her sides, her mane was unkempt, and dark circles shadowed her tired eyes. But it wasn’t just the physical exhaustion that struck Luna—it was the look in Twilight’s eyes. That distant stare of someone carrying a burden too heavy for their shoulders.

Luna’s throat tightened. She’d seen that look before, in herself, after her return from the moon. It was the weight of guilt and loss pressing down, suffocating in its silence.

“Anything?” Twilight’s voice was rough, strained, but it carried a flicker of desperate hope.

Celestia’s eyes softened, and she shook her head gently. “Nothing, I’m afraid. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Luna’s gaze flicked back to the figure. “It is… unlike anything we have encountered,” she echoed, though her mind was far from settled.

Twilight let out a breath, more a sigh of frustration than relief. She moved toward the table, her legs trembling slightly under her own weight. Luna caught the subtle stumble in her step. Twilight was pushing herself far beyond her limits.

But she didn’t stop.

Twilight’s eyes drifted to the figure on the table. The giant’s armor was scarred, but the skin beneath—bronze-tanned and marred with old wounds—looked untouched by decay. The face beneath the helmet was unsettling in its stillness, heavily scarred with a portion of the lower lip missing, revealing sharp white teeth. Molars, canines, incisors. An omnivore. She’d noted that earlier, and the realization hadn’t sat well.

Beside the table, a smaller workstation held the evidence Twilight had recovered from the Crystal Empire: metal casings, each stamped with that strange, twin-headed bird symbol. She didn’t recognize it, but the precision of the markings spoke volumes about whoever—or whatever—had made them.

Twilight moved closer, her horn glowing faintly as she levitated a small notebook from the table. Her notes were scattered, hurried, the usually neat writing now erratic and cramped. She hated disturbing the dead. But this thing—its kind had hurt her ponies. She would do what she had to.

“It’s strange,” she murmured, her voice cutting through the silence. “Their weapons, their armor… everything about them resists magic.”

Luna’s brow furrowed slightly, but she remained quiet, observing.

Twilight pressed on, her words gaining momentum even as her body betrayed her. Her legs wobbled again, and Luna saw the brief flicker of dizziness in her eyes. But Twilight wouldn’t stop.

“Even bringing him here was a struggle. My magic wouldn’t take hold. It was like trying to grab a greased stone.” She frowned, her eyes narrowing. “I had to pour far more energy into the spell than should have been necessary.”

To demonstrate, Twilight’s horn glowed brighter as she cast a simple levitation spell on the giant’s form. The glow enveloped the body, but the spell struggled, pulling only at the lightest adornments—the pouches on the figures belt, the strange trinkets embedded in the plating. The wax sealed parchment, a strange box on the belt, and wrappings on its still present arm didn't move at all, the magic seeming to be repulsed from them. It was as if the body itself fought her magic.

Twilight gritted her teeth, she frowned as she poured more magic into the spell. Slowly, the figure began to lift, the effort was clear in her expression—it was like trying to lift a boulder with body alone, and no Earth magic to do it. Forcing The spell she managed to lift it entirely off the ground.

She let the figure settle back onto the table with a dull thud and stumbled back, her breath ever harder.

“I think I figured out why,” she said, moving to a separate table where more artifacts had been laid out.

She gestured to a long, thin piece of ancient-looking parchment with a wax seal. Next to it was a gold and copper metal container, inside of which were carefully wrapped bones. The air around them felt… different. Thicker. As if the very presence of these objects bent the flow of magic around them.

“When these were removed,” Twilight continued, her voice growing weaker but her determination unshaken, “my magic worked just fine.”

To prove her point, she focused her magic on the helmet sitting nearby. It rose easily into the air, floating weightlessly in her grasp without the slightest resistance. She set it down again, her expression troubled but unwavering.

As she worked, Twilight absentmindedly pulled out another piece of parchment—a folded sheet she’d found tucked inside the giant’s armor. She had tried and failed to decipher it hours ago, and it had been relegated to the growing pile of mysteries she didn’t have time to solve. But she placed it on the table without thinking, her focus elsewhere as she organized the rest of the evidence.

Celestia’s gaze, however, caught on the parchment immediately.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she scanned the strange, angular script sprawling across the page. At first, it was just curiosity, but as her eyes followed the lines, something… clicked.

The letters twisted in her mind, falling into patterns that shouldn’t have made sense—but did. The more she read, the clearer it became. Her mind, sharp and ancient, moved like clockwork, piecing together the structure, the syntax, the rhythm of the language.

Luna noticed the shift in her sister’s expression and leaned in, her own eyes scanning the parchment. And she felt it too. The same strange understanding blossomed in her mind, like a puzzle she hadn’t realized she knew how to solve.

Neither of them spoke at first, too absorbed in the strange, unnerving realization.

Finally, Celestia broke the silence.

“It speaks of a ruler,” she murmured, her voice soft but firm. “A vast nation. And a… brotherhood. Warriors bound by some higher cause.”

Luna nodded slowly, her brow furrowed. “There are names here. Titles, perhaps. But the structure… it mirrors our own language in ways that are too deliberate to be coincidence.”

Twilight’s ears perked up at their words. She turned sharply, her eyes wide with disbelief—and something close to hope. “You can read it?” she asked, her voice breathless.

Celestia hesitated, then nodded. “Not fully. But enough to understand the basics.”

Twilight’s heart pounded in her chest. They had something. Finally, they had something.

But Luna’s eyes didn’t leave the parchment. There was a tension in her gaze, a quiet unease that settled like a shadow over her features. She wasn’t sure why they could read this language—but the fact that they could at all felt wrong.

Twilight didn’t notice. She was already gathering more artifacts, her hooves shaking slightly as she organized the papers. Her breath quickened, her focus blurring at the edges, but she wouldn’t stop.

“You need to rest, Twilight,” Celestia said gently, stepping closer. Her voice was soft, but the firmness beneath it was unmistakable.

Twilight shook her head, her jaw clenched in defiance. “I can’t rest. Not while those things are still out there. They could attack anywhere, at any time.” She swallowed hard. “And we finally have something. We can’t stop now.”

Luna stepped forward, her voice calm but carrying the weight of centuries of wisdom. “Equestria needs a leader with a clear mind, Twilight. You’re doing more harm than good by ignoring your own needs.”

Twilight opened her mouth to argue, but before she could speak, Luna suddenly froze.

Her eyes widened, her gaze snapping eastward as if she could see through the walls. Her ears twitched, and for a brief moment, her expression shifted—from calm to something sharp and unsettled.

Celestia noticed immediately.

Luna’s mouth opened as if to say something, but Celestia gently placed a hoof on Twilight’s shoulder, drawing her attention back.

“She’s right, Twilight,” Celestia said softly, her voice carrying that serene authority that had once ruled a nation, but layered with a deep, personal care. “Rest now. Let us handle this for the moment.”

Twilight’s resolve wavered under the weight of her mentor’s words. She looked between them, her lips pressed into a thin line, but the exhaustion in her eyes betrayed her. She sagged slightly, the fight draining from her posture.

“Alright,” she finally whispered. “Just… wake me if anything changes.”

“We will,” Celestia assured her, offering a small, comforting smile.

Twilight gave one last lingering glance at the figure on the table before turning and slowly trotting out of the room, her steps unsteady as the door clicked shut behind her.

The moment she was gone, Celestia turned to Luna. The softness in her expression faded, replaced by quiet scrutiny.

“What was it?” she asked, her voice low.

Luna didn’t answer immediately. She stared at the armored giant, her eyes narrowing as if she were trying to see something beyond its physical form.

“A new soul,” she murmured at last, her voice distant. “It’s… sleeping. Its mind has joined the dreamscape.”

Celestia’s brow furrowed. “Is it one of them?”

“I would need to see it. But… perhaps.” Luna’s gaze lingered on the double-headed eagle, its stern visage catching the dim light, casting long, sharp shadows that danced along the walls. The symbol felt like a whisper at the back of her mind, elusive yet familiar, as if there was a name she would know for it.

“Did you feel it, as I did?” Luna’s voice was quieter now, laced with an unease that seldom touched her words.

Celestia followed her sister’s gaze, her eyes resting on the symbol carved into the giant’s chest plate. She didn’t speak immediately. The silence stretched, filled only by the faint hum of lingering magic in the room.

Then, in a whisper barely louder than the shadows themselves, Celestia answered, “Yes.”

The word hung heavy between them.

There was something about that symbol—something that stirred in them at the sight of it. It was like catching the edge of a long-forgotten dream, the feeling of knowing something without being able to grasp it. They felt there was a name to call it, but said name eluded them, slipping through their thoughts like sand through hooves.

Luna’s eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest tremor running through her voice. “It reminds me of him.”

Celestia’s gaze shifted sharply to her sister. She didn’t need to ask who.

Luna continued, her voice steady but low. “The atrocity in the Crystal Empire… It’s like the days when Discord tormented the world. The chaos, the senseless destruction, leaving nothing but ruin in his wake.” Her eyes darkened, memories flickering behind them like distant storms. “But this… this feels colder. More deliberate.”

Celestia’s jaw tightened at the mention of Discord. Even now, centuries after his destruction, his shadow lingered in their memories. His very presence had twisted the land, corrupted the minds of the innocent, and left scars that had never truly healed.

It had taken all their strength—and the strength of another—to finally destroy him. But even with his being erased by the Elements, the world still kept the scars he made.

Luna’s voice softened, but the tension in her posture remained. “This feels like that, Celestia. Different… but familiar. The same kind of wrongness.”

Celestia didn’t answer immediately. She stared at the figure on the table, at the strange symbol carved into its chest, and felt that same flicker of unease stir within her. But this wasn’t Discord’s chaos. This wasn’t mindless destruction for the sake of it. Otherwise, there’d be no survivors.

This was purpose. Cold, calculated purpose. Whatever they were, they had a goal beyond mindless slaughter.

“I worry for her, Sister,” Luna said suddenly, shifting her thoughts away from the dark memories. Her gaze softened as it moved toward the door Twilight had left through. “Twilight… I fear for her health. She’s lost so much, and I see the weight of it in her eyes.”

Celestia’s heart ached at her sister’s words, and she closed her eyes for a brief moment, allowing herself to feel that sorrow. Twilight Sparkle, her faithful student, her brightest star, was now burdened with a weight that no pony should have to carry. The loss of her family, her people shattered—it was a grief that could ruin even the strongest soul.

“She’s strong,” Celestia whispered, as much to herself as to Luna. She opened her eyes, her gaze steady but tinged with quiet pain. “Stronger than she realizes. But strength doesn’t mean she should carry this alone. That is why we’re here.”

Luna nodded, but her expression remained clouded. “I wish…” She hesitated, the words heavy on her tongue. “I wish we still ruled. If only to spare her this burden.”

Celestia’s eyes softened, and she stepped closer to her sister. “Taking it from her would be cruel. You know that as well as I do. Stripping her of that responsibility would only worsen this for her. She needs to find her own way through this”

Luna sighed, her wings shifting restlessly at her sides. “But how can she find her way? She hasn’t even had the chance to grieve her brother, her sister-in-law! She moves like a pony made of glass, brittle and hollow. I see it in her eyes—she’s holding everything in, it may be too much for her.”

Celestia saw the truth in Luna’s words. Twilight had always carried the weight of Equestria with grace and determination, but this was something different. This wasn’t a problem to be solved or a villain to be defeated. This was loss.

“We need to be there for her,” Celestia said quietly. She turned to Luna, her gaze steady. “She needs time to grieve. We need to give her that chance.”

Luna’s eyes shimmered for a brief moment, reflecting the weight of her own grief. “We need time too,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “The world feels… different now. I thought after everything Equestria would be past such dark times.”

Celestia placed a gentle hoof on Luna’s shoulder, grounding them both. “We grieve together, Sister. For Twilight, for ourselves, for everypony. But we stand tall. We’ve faced darkness, and we’ve always found the light. We’ll do it again. For her sake, for theirs.”

Luna’s gaze met Celestia’s, and for a moment, the weight between them felt lighter—not gone, but shared.

They turned back to the silent figure on the table, the shadows casting long lines across the room.

“We will be what we’ve always been,” Celestia said softly. “For her. For everypony.”

Luna nodded, her expression steady. “For Equestria.”

The night had claimed the sky, casting its cold light over the world below. The moon hung high, painting the hills and trees in a pale, ethereal glow. They had marched for hours, until even the distant memory of the Thunderhawk's smoke had been swallowed by the horizon. Now, the landscape stretched around them in silent indifference, the air cool and still.

If Calsin’s estimates were correct—and they usually were—they were halfway to Marnel’s position. The beacon’s signal still pulsed steadily in his helm, an unwavering reminder. But even Astartes had limits—as difficult to reach as they were. Calsin wasn’t about to ignore them.

Calsin stood at the edge of their makeshift camp—and by makeshift, two logs for seats—his gaze fixed on the faint outline of a town far in the distance, opposite of the rails they had been following. The glow of lanterns flickered softly in the dark, little pinpricks of life nestled between the rolling hills and sparse trees. Even from this distance, his lenses picked out details—a crooked roof here, a faintly glowing window there. The town was small, unremarkable, but its presence gave him something to gaze at.

Behind him, Locari had finally succumbed to rest, his form leaned against the gnarled trunk of a tree, bolter within easy reach. It had taken some convincing—Calsin had nearly pulled rank to make him relent—but eventually, Locari had given in, exhaustion winning over stubbornness. Calsin could hear the slow, even rhythm of his breathing beneath the weight of his armor, the occasional shift of metal against bark as he unconsciously adjusted in his sleep.

Calsin’s gaze never left the town.

There was no movement in the streets. No flicker of activity beyond the soft glow of lights from shuttered windows. It was as if the town itself was holding its breath, waiting for something it couldn’t name. Even the usual nocturnal creatures—the rustle of wings, the distant howl of predators—were absent. The land felt still.

His helm’s lenses zoomed in slightly, focusing on one of the houses closest to the edge of town. A small, square building with a thatched roof and a crooked chimney. The window glowed faintly from within, and through the slight gap in the curtains, Calsin could just make out the shapes of movement.

Ponies.

He watched as a smaller shape—likely a child—pressed its face against the window, peering into the dark with wide, searching eyes. The child’s ears twitched, straining to hear something beyond the walls. Calsin could almost imagine the whispered conversations happening inside—the parents trying to soothe fears they couldn’t quell, promising safety they couldn’t guarantee.

The child lingered at the window, eyes scanning the shadows of the night.

But they wouldn’t see him. Their lesser eyes might only have noticed his red lenses—unfortunate for them if they ever did.

Calsin’s expression, hidden beneath his helm, remained neutral. There was no satisfaction in their fear, he didn’t care too much how they felt. They were wise to be afraid. Fear kept mortals alive.

He shifted his gaze to another house, further into the town. The same scene played out—a light flickering behind closed curtains, shadows moving cautiously within. No one was outside. Even the bravest, it seemed, had learned to fear the dark.

Calsin exhaled softly through his vox, the sound barely audible in the stillness.

Their fear was well-founded. The killing at the crystalline city had left its mark, even if the ponies here hadn’t witnessed it firsthand. News had traveled. Faster than he expected. The ponies had a network, a means of communication that spanned distances far beyond what simple messengers could achieve.

Annoying. But manageable.

It was a complication, certainly, but not an insurmountable one. The more he observed, the more he understood. The ponies were organized in ways that spoke of structure and hierarchy. Their fear wasn’t just for themselves—it was for their kind, for their communities. That made them predictable.

Calsin’s gaze drifted back to the child at the window. The small face was still there, eyes reflecting the faint glow of the lantern inside. Watching. Waiting.

Merciful, he thought absently, that they wouldn’t waste time on such a place. This town, with its small lives and fragile walls, wasn’t their concern. Their mission lay elsewhere. These ponies were spared for the night.

After a while, the child disappeared from the window, the glow from within dimming as the lantern was snuffed out. The town fell into deeper silence.

Satisfied, Calsin reached up and released the seals of his helmet, the soft hiss of depressurization breaking the stillness. He lifted the helm from his head, setting it down beside him with a muted thud as he finally seated himself on the dead but sturdy log behind him.

For the first time since their arrival, Calsin inhaled the unfiltered air.

It was different from the recycled atmosphere inside his warplate. The scent of damp earth, distant wildflowers, and faint wood smoke from the far-off town filled his senses. It was clean. It reminded him briefly of his mortal home. He could remember that the air smelled of flowers, too. He couldn’t recall which kind.

His gauntleted hand rose, fingers scratching thoughtfully at the scruff along his jawline, going over deep scars he earned in the years past. A faint scowl tugged at his lips. A shame he hadn’t brought a razor. Stubble under a helmet grew irritating quickly.

The moonlight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the three service studs embedded in his forehead—marking three centuries of service. His features were sharp, weathered by war and time. His skin, a bronze-tan lighter than Locari, from the gene-seed mutation all of the chapter carried, was marked with lines and faint but present wrinkles.

Short, wavy black hair framed his face, streaked with gray at the sides—a subtle concession to the years behind him. His expression was calm, but his eyes betrayed more. They were an almost luminescent green—such that if one could see him, they would see the faint glow of his irises—vivid and sharp, like the life of plants thriving in harsh soil. Eyes that had seen too much, but still searched for more.

Sol’s Mark, was the term used for the Gene-Seed mutation the caused the iris of every Cuprum Lord to reach a bright shade of their original color, and casting a dim luminescence. It was another mystery, another trait he'd spent many years on, but like his predecessors, eventually only took it as a sign of stable genes in the Initiates brought to him.

He looked back to his cogitator. The beacons were still lit, the same as before. A part of him wondered where they’d go after they put their brothers to rest. The simple answer: kill until they were killed, cleansing until this world's heresy was wiped clean. But things never were so simple, were they?

Another question crossed his thoughts: Luvenus and Rakian. Neither of their beacons had shown. Either they were lost to the warp or made it here in a state the beacons wouldn’t light. The thought gnawed at him, though he kept it tempered. He had to focus on what could be done.

He toggled his vox to an open channel, a hollow gesture at this point. As always, the only signal found was the brother beside him—Locari’s signal pulsing steadily like a heartbeat in the void. The vox link was only to register a live connection, Locari's vox was otherwise dormant.

Perhaps he would know their fates in time. Perhaps not. It was a question for another day. The Emperor’s blessings on you both, was his final thought on the matter.

Calsin exhaled through his nose, his gaze shifting back to the quiet earth beneath his boots. As his mind drifted from the unanswered questions, something else caught his attention—a break in the monotony of grass and soil.

A plant.

He frowned slightly, his curiosity piqued against his better judgment. Botanist. The title echoed in his mind, unbidden and unwelcome. He loathed the term, though his brothers in the Apothecarion had thrown it at him more than once, half in jest, half in acknowledgment of his knowledge—they did enjoy the spices produced from it. A meditative study, he’d always argued. Not a passion.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, he found himself kneeling, his gauntleted fingers carefully brushing away the dirt around the odd plant. It grew in the soft earth, its leafy green top giving way to an orange, conical shape beneath the surface.

Calsin plucked it from the ground, turning it over in his hand. The texture was familiar enough—root vegetable, perhaps—but its exact nature eluded him. The Imperium cataloged countless flora across its worlds, yet this one didn’t register in his memory. A brand new plant species, all for him to discover. He felt a tinge of joy from that idea.

Without hesitation, he snapped a chunk of the orange vegetable off. The dirt that clung to it didn’t bother him, he slipped the piece between his teeth and bit down.

The taste surprised him. Crisp, slightly sweet, with a hint of earthiness. He chewed thoughtfully, his mind already categorizing the plant’s properties. The Neuroglottis found no poison. Edible. Safe.

He’d make a note of it.

Author's Note

Thanks to Mr_Casual for reading over the chapter. Give their content a look.

This one took me longer than I expected. College has started for me so updates will be slower from now on, but I will still try and get these out as soon as I can.

Would anyone know where I can commission some good cover art? While I'm okay with a pencil, my digital art skills are pretty bad.

Until next time.