Loud, unrelenting thunder rolled across the battlefield as explosions tore through the sky, shockwaves rippling outward and shaking the ground beneath armored feet. Vulcan mega-bolters roared without pause from the Warhounds, their streams of fire scything through the Orks still charging forward. Entire mobs were reduced to red mist, while buildings were shredded apart—both to deny the greenskins cover and to make room for the Titans' advance.
The Eagle Warriors and the Auxilia began their withdrawal beneath the towering god-machines. High Command knew—or believed they knew—what was coming next. Space Marines and mortals alike would gain nothing by standing directly in its path.
The Auxilia fell back to a safe distance, disciplined and orderly despite the chaos, prepared to wait out the coming storm. When the battle was done, they would advance once more and reclaim what remained.
The Eagle Warriors, however, chose differently.
They stayed.
Locking formation with Legio Solaria, the Space Marines advanced alongside the Titans, boltguns raised and chainswords snarling. They would provide close infantry support, ensuring the god-machines were not overrun or boarded while engaged with the true threat ahead—the Gargants and Stompas now emerging from the smoke.
The ground trembled as the Ork war engines revealed themselves.
Ten Gargants strode forward like walking fortresses, their crude frames stitched together from looted armor plates and shrine-sized cannons. Each step sent shockwaves through the ruined city, their weapons already spitting fire in wild, defiant salvos. Glyphs and jagged banners hung from their hulls, and the roar of their engines was matched only by the howling of the Orks within.
Seventeen Stompas followed in their wake—smaller, faster, and no less lethal. They clanked and lurched across the battlefield, saw-blades screaming and gun-arms hammering the ruins into dust as they surged ahead of the Gargants, eager to close the distance.
Princeps commands flashed across Legio Solaria's noosphere.
Target priorities were assigned in an instant.
Reactor outputs climbed.
Plasma coils screamed as volcano cannons reached critical charge, and the Warhounds broke into a flanking run, their Vulcans spinning up as they darted toward the Stompas' exposed sides.
The Reavers behind them unleashed the first salvo the moment clear lines of sight were established.
Two Reavers armed with twin-linked turbo-lasers fired in perfect unison. Lances of blinding energy tore through the battlefield, punching clean through crude Ork armor. Metal vaporized, reactors ruptured, and two Stompas were engulfed in roaring fire, their crews screaming as the war engines collapsed in molten ruin.
Three more Reavers opened up with their gatling blasters. Though the storm of shells failed to immediately cripple their targets, it shredded armor plates, blew away pistons, and jammed exposed joints. The Stompas' advance slowed, their gait faltering as they struggled to maintain momentum.
That hesitation was all the Warhounds needed.
Two Warhounds armed with plasma blasters accelerated to full stride, engines howling as they charged straight into the kill zone. Warning runes flared across their command thrones as the plasma weapons reached overload, containment fields straining to hold.
At optimal range, both Titans fired.
Sun-bright plasma surged from their barrels, engulfing the crippled Stompas in roaring waves of annihilation. Armor slagged and ran like wax, internal ammo stores detonated, and the Ork war engines vanished in thunderous explosions that flattened nearby ruins and hurled burning debris skyward.
Four Stompas were gone in seconds.
The remaining Ork war machines bellowed in response, unleashing wildly inaccurate but terrifying barrages of shells and rockets. Explosions blossomed across void shields as Legio Solaria advanced without pause, their god-machines wading through fire like avatars of destruction.
And behind the Stompas, the Gargants continued their advance—unhurt, unbroken, and very much aware that now, the real battle had begun.
As the clash of god-machines raged on, the Eagle Warriors turned to their own task: shielding the Titans from the swarming Orks below.
Bolters barked and chainswords roared within the ruins, the sounds echoing through shattered hab-blocks as the Astartes engaged large mobs of Ork Kommandos attempting to move unseen through the wreckage. Grapnels bit into ceramite, crude breaching charges detonated against Titan plating, and Orks hurled themselves forward in reckless waves, desperate to board one of the god-machines.
The Eagle Warriors met them head-on.
Disciplined bolter volleys cut down entire mobs before they could close, while chainswords tore through the survivors in brutal close combat. Bodies—green and blue-armored alike—fell among the rubble as the fighting devolved into savage, point-blank slaughter.
They succeeded in stopping the Kommandos.
But the cost was heavy.
The battlefield was chaos incarnate. Falling debris, shockwaves from Titan weapons, and the thunder of collapsing structures claimed lives as readily as Ork blades. Brothers were crushed beneath tumbling masonry or hurled aside by concussive blasts meant for far larger targets.
Worse still, the Eagle Warriors' sergeants lacked direct vox-links to the individual Princeps.
Orders came late—if they came at all.
When Titans shifted course, fired main weapons, or advanced without warning, the Space Marines were often forced to react on instinct alone. One squad was obliterated outright when a Reaver's gatling blaster swept low to clear its path, the Princeps unaware that loyal warriors were still fighting in the line of fire.
By the time the smoke cleared, only scorched ceramite and broken bodies remained.
Still, the Eagle Warriors did not falter.
Bloodied and diminished, they reformed their lines, knowing full well that if they failed—even for a moment—the Orks would reach the Titans.
And that was something they would not allow to happen.
===
The targeting runes aligned, crimson sigils dancing across the Princeps' vision as the Apocalypse Missile battery cycled to readiness. Ahead, the Ork Gargants lumbered through the ruins, vast and obscene silhouettes wreathed in smoke and muzzle-flash. One volley would not kill them—but it would slow them, stagger their advance, buy the god-engines time.
Fire.
The command hovered on the edge of his thoughts.
Then the auspex chimed—anomalies at ground level. Friendly transponders. Too many. Too close.
She magnified the view.
Astartes.
Eagle Warriors fought in the shadow of the Warhounds, their gold-and-white armour dulled by ash and blood, moving with desperate precision through the wreckage. They were impossibly small from this height, yet unmistakable—cutting down Orks that swarmed toward the Titans' legs, standing where no mortal should dare.
"Hold fire," the Princeps snapped, fingers tightening on the command throne. The Moderati hesitated, machine-spirit snarling at the denied release.
Before another word could be spoken, the ground to the left shuddered.
A Warhound broke into a bounding stride, its Princeps reacting to a perceived flank threat. Tons of adamantium shifted without warning. The ruined street vanished beneath its feet.
The Princeps saw it all in horrifying clarity.
Two Eagle Warriors were locked in combat with a knot of Orks when the Warhound's foot came down. There was no scream, no chance to evade—just a brief flare of transponder signals, then nothing. Warriors and xenos alike were reduced to shattered bodies and pulverized stone, erased beneath the careless momentum of a god-engine at war.
Silence filled the command cradle.
The Princeps tasted bile.
They had survived the Orks. They had survived the Gargants. And still they had died—unseen, unheard, crushed by the very engines they had sworn to protect.
The Apocalypse Missile targeting reticules blinked insistently, machine-spirit demanding blood.
"Mark new firing solution," the Princeps said at last, voice ironed flat by discipline. "Adjust trajectory. I will not fire on our own."
The Gargants continued their advance.
Below, fewer Eagle Warriors now held the line.
Still, they fought on.
And the Princeps swore—by the Omnissiah, by the Throne—that their sacrifice would not be wasted.
As the missiles began to launch, the Princeps turned toward Moderatii Primus.
"Connect me to all the Princeps currently fighting here," she said, her tone tight, eyes immediately look back on the Astartes battling below when the Moderatii look back at him. "Also, send a message to the Captain in my name. Inform him what's happening to his men."
"Your will, my Princeps," the Moderatii replied, fingers dancing over the cogitator.
After a moment, one of the screens flickered to life, displaying the faces of each Princeps—some very young.
"Why have you contacted us?" one of them asked, her screen shaking as he maneuvered her Warhound to evade a Gargant attack. "Do you know some of us are pretty occupied right now?"
"I'm aware." She said as her Reaver fire the Melta cannon at a Stompa. "but I must inform you, that there's Astarte fighting under us."
The revelation hit the Princeps on the other screens like a shockwave. Many of them—those not still dodging attacks—halted mid-stride.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"You can't be serious."
"There are still people here? I thought they all retreated."
Voices overlapped in disbelief and anger. The younger Princeps reacted first, their shock bleeding into outrage, while the veterans immediately ordered their Moderatii to verify the data through secondary auspex and noospheric feeds.
Yet beneath the confusion, a single, unsettling thought took hold of them all.
Why had the Titans not warned them?
There were times—many times—when the god-machines spoke first. Through instinctive impulses, machine-spirit urgings, or subtle corrections to movement and targeting, the Titans guided their Princeps. This was especially true for Legios that favored close combat. The Machine Spirit would whisper of dangers beneath their feet, threats to the flank, or the correct moment to strike.
But now…
Nothing.
No warning. No resistance. No hint.
The thought barely had time to settle before reality intruded.
A Reaver's void shields flared violently as a Gargant's cluster blaster struck home. One of its four shields collapsed in a cascade of flickering energy, alarms screaming through the command throne as the Titan staggered a half-step.
"We don't have time to dwell on this," snapped the Princeps of the struck Reaver as her command chamber shook. "Proceed with caution. Avoid stepping on friendly units where possible. If necessary, we'll order the Captain to pull his men back."
A brief pause—then acknowledgements rippled across the channel.
"Understood."
"Confirmed."
"Continuing mission."
As the others disconnected one by one, the Princeps turned her attention back to the battlefield. Her Reaver leveled its metal cannon and fired. The beam struck a charging Stompa, reducing it to a collapsing mass of molten scrap in seconds.
"I'll speak with the Captain myself," she added quietly.
Moments later, Moderati Primus turned from her console.
"My Princeps," she said. "The Captain is requesting a direct channel."
She inclined his head.
"Patch him through."
The hololithic display shifted. Where tactical runes and Princeps faces had been, a new image formed.
An Astartes Captain appeared—his face calm, but tight with strain. Augmetic ports traced his temples and jaw, his voice resonating with the faint distortion of machine integration.
"Princeps Senioris," the Captain said. "I received your warning. However, I need to inform you—at this moment, I am unable to recall my men."
He paused, helm lenses flickering as data streamed across his vision.
"The Orks are attacking on multiple fronts. Captain Galdien has ordered an all-out counterattack, aiming to halt them where they stand."
The Princeps stared at the projection in disbelief.
"Your men are dying," she said, her tone sharp, almost accusatory. "Some have already died because of us. Yes, they protected us from Ork boarding parties—but now they hinder our ability to fight freely."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable.
"Recall your men, Captain," the Princeps said at last, her voice cold as stone. "I will not have more of them crushed beneath our feet."
Her gaze locked onto the Captain's eyes.
There was nothing there.
No hesitation. No anger. No fear.
Only emptiness—an unlit stare, as cold and distant as the void.
Slowly, the Captain shook his head.
"I cannot," he replied. "While they have suffered high casualties, those losses remain within acceptable parameters. They will continue to fight and deny the Orks any opportunity to launch boarding actions."
He paused.
For a brief moment, the Princeps caught it—a faint spark of light in the Captain's eyes. Humanity, perhaps. Or resolve.
Then it vanished.
"I have relayed after-action records from the Great Crusade," the Captain continued, "accounts of battles where our ancestors fought alongside Titans. The Sergeants will adapte accordingly. They will adjust their formations."
The Princeps glanced at the tactical feed.
It was already happening.
Some Astartes squads tightened their spacing, moving close to the Warhounds—near enough to intercept Kommandos and assault teams, yet far enough to react to the massive adamantium feet. Others pulled back, taking elevated positions and engaging only at long range, their fire disciplined and precise.
It was not ideal.
But it was workable.
The Princeps felt a measure of relief and turned back to the vox, ready to voice his approval—
When the Captain spoke again.
"With these adjustments," he said calmly, "they can continue fighting without hindering your advance. And even if they are struck down by a god-engine's step or fire—"
The Princeps stiffened.
"—their sacrifice will be acceptable, " the Captain finished, his voice flat. "So long as the enemy is destroyed."
For a heartbeat, the command chamber was silent save for the distant thrum of the reactor and the roar of battle bleeding through the hull.
The Princeps closed her eyes.
Before she could speak, the Captain's voice cut in one last time, calm and implacable.
"If that is all, Princeps Senioris, I still have matters to attend to."
The hololithic image vanished, the vox-channel snapping shut with finality.
The Princeps remained still for several seconds, fingers resting against the command throne, feeling the pulse of the god-machine beneath her. The Titan's machine-spirit stirred—restless, eager, uncaring for the fragile lives moving beneath its stride.
"…Matters," she murmured.
She opened his eyes.
"Relay this information the others." She said as she begin controlling his Reaver and advance on the Orks. "Be watchful if the Astarte are below us, I don't want any of them died from friendly fire."
"You will." The Moderatii Primus answer.
As the battle continue, the Princeps realize that each time one of them move or attack, there's no one Astarte died from it.
It's possible that the Princeps have become more careful on where they walk or fire, but their combat effectiveness didn't change. As if the Astarte know when the Titans will move and where they stepping, or where they firing.
Even the Machine Spirit now is giving him hints if their movement or attacks will kill or even wound of the Angels of Death.
Then—without warning—the world fell away.
A vision seized him.
She was still within the Reaver. Still felt the heat of the plasma core, the thunder of weapons, the bone-deep tremor of war. Orks still died by the thousands beneath her guns.
But the battlefield was different.
Ultramarines fought alongside her Titan—blue and gold shapes advancing in lockstep with god-machines. Titans marched among them, not towering apart, but with them. Each step was measured. Each shot precise. The Astartes moved as if guided by unseen hands, and the Titans answered in kind.
No ceramite was crushed beneath adamantium feet.
No Astartes were burned by plasma or torn apart by macro-fire.
They fought on the same ground, in the same killing zones, without a single death caused by Titan hands.
Perfect harmony.
A harmony that have loss since the Horus Heresy ended, since the Legions are separated into Chapters, since the Titan Legios retreat back to their forge-keeps, rarely deploy to battles.
Before the vision can continue, she got thrown out with a shouting voice from the Moderatii Primus.
"My Princeps, the Orks are breaking through!" She shouted as the chamber shook.
The command chamber lurched violently as the Reaver took a heavy impact. Warning runes flared crimson across the Princeps' vision, the machine-spirit roaring in fury as void shields buckled under sustained fire.
The Princeps drew a sharp breath, snapping fully back into the present.
"Stabilize all system," she commanded, voice steady despite the chaos. "Bring the Titan about. Target the breakthrough."
The Reaver responded instantly, massive legs grinding as it pivoted toward the breach. Ahead, five Ork Stompas surged forward through the shattered manufactorum streets, clawing their way toward the Auxilia lines.
The Princeps' hands tightened on the controls.
"Fire the melta cannon."
A blinding lance of incandescent energy erupted from the Reaver's arm. It struck the lead Stompa square in the torso. Scrap-metal armor ran like wax, internal systems flash-boiling in an instant. The Ork engine let out a distorted, metallic howl before collapsing into a molten heap, its crew reduced to vapor.
"Fire the missiles."
The Reaver's carapace missile pods irised open. A split second later, a storm of warheads screamed toward the remaining Stompas. Explosions rippled across the battlefield as missiles impacted in rapid succession, tearing limbs from walkers, shattering gun platforms, and blasting apart ranks of Orks scrambling beneath their feet.
One Stompa staggered, its leg blown clean off, crashing into a manufactorum wall and bringing the structure down with it. Another vanished in a rolling fireball as its ammo stores detonated. The last two reeled under the barrage, armor stripped away, systems sparking and failing as they collapsed into useless wreckage.
With the immediate threat broken, the Princeps shifted his focus, pulling back from the narrow kill-zone to take in the wider battlefield through layered auspex feeds and the Titan's own towering sight.
Stompas lay everywhere.
Some were nothing more than smoking craters filled with molten scrap. Others still stood, crippled—weapon mounts destroyed, legs shattered, reactors dead—reduced to hollow metal idols rising uselessly from the ruins. Orks swarmed around them in confusion, firing wildly or simply fleeing as the reality of their defeat set in.
Only the Gargants remained.
Ten of them.
They advanced slowly, inexorably, massive silhouettes cutting through the smoke. Their armor was barely marred—no more than scorched plating, dirt, and crude glyphs scratched and painted across their hulls. Their void-shield equivalents shimmered unevenly as they absorbed distant impacts, their engines growling like caged beasts.
The Princeps felt the Titan's machine-spirit stir again.
Not with restraint.
With hunger.
She smiled.
It had been a long time since she had felt this—since a god-engine had answered her so completely, so eagerly. The last time had been on Tigrus.
Their home.
She remembered the burning skies, the forge-spires collapsing one by one, the screams of mortals and the howls of wounded Titans echoing through the noosphere. She remembered the failure most of all—the moment when she realized they could not save it. Not the world. Not the Legio. Not the countless lives bound to both flesh and steel.
Legio Solaria had survived that day.
But only just.
Now, at last, they had a chance for vengeance—against one of the most dangerous Ork empires ever recorded. A chance to reclaim their honor. Their pride. To prove that the Imperial Hunters were more than refugees clinging to faded glories.
But, this not the fight she can take, or any of them here can take.
Especially when one of the Warhound both void shield shatter just from one blast from the Gargant.
But they're not alone.
A chorus of warhorns thundered from behind them—deep, resonant, and unmistakably familiar. The sound rolled across the battlefield like an executioner's drumbeat.
Her display flared to life.
"How long do you plan to keep walking in circles?" Princeps Senioris asked, a rare smile breaking through the tension as the new contact resolved.
The face of Princeps Maximus Mankata filled the screen.
"Long enough for all of you to understand just how fragile you are," Mankata replied, her voice edged with sarcasm—yet accompanied by a wide, unrestrained grin.
As her words echoed through the noosphere, ten colossal silhouettes emerged through the smoke.
Warlords.
All of them.
Their void shields flared to full strength, reactor signatures blazing like miniature suns. Banners unfurled from towering carapaces, snapping violently in the shockwaves of their advance. Volcano Cannons cycled. Plasma annihilators roared to life. Apocalypse missile racks unlocked with predatory intent.
At once, the Reavers and Warhounds of Legio Solaria peeled away, striding to either side with practiced precision, opening a clear avenue of advance.
A killing road.
Straight toward the enemy.
Ten Warlord Titans advanced in perfect formation.
Ten Gargants answered, bellowing challenges in crude vox howls, their massive weapons swiveling to meet the threat.
God-machines faced war-engines.
Ten Warlords.
Ten Gargants.
"Ten targets," Mankata said calmly, her voice cutting through the noosphere like a blade. There was no hesitation in her tone—only certainty. "Just enough for each one of us."
Acknowledgements flickered back at her in machine-code bursts and ritual cant. Pride. Hunger. Resolve. The Princeps of Legio Solaria answered as one, their god-machines resonating with barely restrained wrath.
Mankata's Warlord took another thunderous step forward. Void shields flared as the first Gargant opened fire, shells screaming past in incandescent arcs. The Titan did not slow.
"Imperial Hunters," she voxed, her voice carried across every command throne. "Remember Tigrus. Remember the fires. Remember those we could not save."
The targeting runes locked in, one by one.
"Now," she said softly, almost reverently, "we hunt."
The warhorns of ten Warlords sounded together.
The battlefield erupted in fire.