And for those who prove worthy, the emperor sends forth his angels. even in the face of death we shall not submit, in battle he offers us redemption. suffering is our prayer, faith is our armor.
Lucan Varr stared upward at the falling drop-pods—bright scars of fire descending through the ash-dark sky. He waited with calm patience, hands folded before him, as though the roar of incoming ordinance were nothing more than weather. The signal had been sent. A vessel would come for them soon enough. They need only endure this wretched ruin of a place a little longer.
Beside him, Lieutenant Hart watched the "meteorites" streak downward, their incandescent trails mirrored in her wide eyes. In the few days since humanity had made contact with this so-called Imperium, the world's greatest intellectual authorities had been left in a state of profound contemplation.
The aliens were… weird.
they were not as they had expected.
they were not grotesque, neither insectile, nor synthetic horrors born of cold stars as they had imagined aliens to be.
Instead, they were painfully—unnervingly—close to human. And that was just referring to their physical traits.
Secret briefings from intelligence agencies, clandestine footage of their ships and uniforms, and classified dossiers of their weapons and banners had only deepened the world's confusion. The similarities were too specific, too deliberate.
looking at footage of their ships looming in orbit, those that could be observed all bore a striking symbol. the double-headed eagle, an ancient symbol found carved into Roman standards, Byzantine mosaics and imperial crests across Eurasia. Scholars debated for hours—how could a species from beyond the stars bear a sigil so deeply tied to Earth's own historic and imperial heritage?
that was not the only symbol that appeared uncannily familiar.
On certain ships, they spotted emblems that were part mechanical, part sacred—uncannily echoing the gears and halos of medieval Christian art, the technological symbols of the Renaissance, and even the mystical wheels seen in ancient Mesopotamian designs.
Other parallels surged in: the gothic architecture in which the looming colossuses of metals portrayed as if their very purpose was not to navigate the stars but to spawn terror in their observers. the very theme bore significant similarities to that of the gothic era of the early 12th century.
It was as if some civilization had taken the entire tapestry of human symbolism—from Rome to Byzantium, from gothic Europe architecture to recent modern iconography —and elevated it into a cosmic empire spanning the stars.
Almost as though they had been here before.
But there was no proof. At least not yet.
Lieutenant Hart was not a religious woman, not in any traditional sense. Yet the sight of those fiery pods descending from the heavens clawed at something primal within her. Lucan Varr's repeated description—they are as angels—had planted a seed she could no longer ignore.
What if?
"My superior has sent transport," she said, turning to Lucan Var. "They will be here in five minutes."
"That will not be necessary." Lucan responded
His hand rose, pointing skyward.
A metallic shape tore across the clouds—sleek, angular and brutal. Thrusters ignited in white gouts, leaving contrails of superheated steam behind. The sonic booms rolled across the urban wasteland like distant artillery.
Hart swallowed hard.
"I'm sorry," she said, voice trembling despite herself, "but it has to be one of our gunships—or they'll shoot it down."
She hoped—prayed—that diplomacy would hold. The failed jumplink malfunction before had prevented any announcement of their extraterrestrial guests ahead of time. No officer on this side of the timeline apart from the Norad base manned by colonel Forrester expected an alien craft to simply descend into their airspace. To many, it would be a threat.
quick to remedy misunderstandings, she called it in.
"Come in, this is Hart. Do you read?"
Dzzzz…
"We read you, Lieutenant. Gunship ETA three minutes… dzzzz."
She exhaled—then stiffened.
"Change of plans, ma'am. They insist on bringing their own craft. I recommend an escort."
there was a long pause.
Only static.
"…Very well. You have a great deal to explain, Hart. Redirecting gunship mission… dzzzz."
Relief flooded her.
"Thank you, ma'am."
She lowered her comms. The escort was cleared. A path to base camp was open.
Then....
A thunderous shriek split the air.
WHAAAAAAMMMMMM—THRUM-THRUM-THRUM-THRUM—!!!!!
The shrill howl of grav-jets hammered the air as the descending Thunderhawk gunship approached—its armored frame wreathed in vapor; its wings marked with the black-and-white iconography of the Adepta Sororitas.
Dust spiraled violently as it descended, landing struts slamming against cracked asphalt:
BANG!!!
The shockwave rippled outward.
Distant screeches echoed from the ruins, yet no Whitespikes approached—something that had unnerved lieutenant Hart since arrival. She just couldnt understand why they hadnt tried to rip them to shreds since they walked out of the jumplink's rudimentary wormhole. It was a mystery she couldn't understand, but Lucan Varr seemed to take it lightly.
A pressurized seal hissed.
CLANG… HSSSSSSSS—KACHUNK!!!!
steam bellowed out like breath from some titanic furnace.
Front ramp lowered with a hiss of hydraulics and a choir of grinding metal. Red lumen-globes flared inside.
They emerged.
Sisters of Battle—ten towering figures in black power armour enameled with crimson, white, and gold. Fleur-de-lys and purity seals covered their ceramite; rosarius beads clattered against boltguns held like holy relics. Their faces, framed by white hair and black rebreather grilles, burned with absolute conviction. Every footfall rang like a cathedral bell. Incense and promethium smoke rolled from the censer-chalices built into their backpacks. They moved in perfect synchrony, hymnals already on their lips, yet silent in waiting.
Thung!! Thung!! Thung!!
thunderous metallic footfalls rung.
Then the temperature seemed to drop.
A final figure stepped into the light.
Gold.
Nothing but gold, worked into auramite plate that hurt the eyes with its perfection. Ten feet tall, maybe more. The Guardian Spear in his right hand looked capable of impaling tanks. A crimson crest of horsehair spilled from the helm like arterial blood. Every plate, every joint, every engraved oath-scroll radiated a presence that crushed the air from mortal lungs.
Adeptus Custodes. One of the Ten Thousand. A living god-machine forged in the Emperor's own image.
Lieutenant Hart's knees buckled. This was not awe; it was biological terror, the primate brain screaming that a predator from the top of the food chain had just noticed her. Breath locked in her throat. Vision tunneled. She smelled her own fear-sweat, acrid against gun-oil and ozone.
The Sisters of Battle instinctively shifted around him, forming a loose honor circle. The giant did not acknowledge them. Nor did he acknowledge Lucan Varr, who rushed forward—
—and dropped to one knee.
Thud!!!
The guardsmen beside Hart followed suit, kneeling in reverence. since beginning they had barely spoke or betrayed any sign of emotion. But now they knelt as though in the presence of a god.
"My lord," Lucan Varr said reverently, "I welcome you to Terra."
But the Custodian did not look at him.
His helm turned—toward empty space beside Varr.
He moved his hands in a series of precise, silent gestures.
Lieutenant Hart's blood ran cold.
Lucan Varr often signed in this manner—to unseen presences.
Now the golden giant did the same.
There is someone here I cannot see.
The realization hit her like a blade of ice.
Near Lucan Varr, a silent exchange occurred:
'Your vigil over this mortal is complete. The Tribune extends gratitude. From here, he is free of your charge.'
Two unseen heads nodded.
'We observe you have brought the Sororitas. Do they now assume our watch?'
A voiceless hand asked.
'Correct. They shall guide the envoy to mortal's encampment. You will follow me—we seek the source of the psychic disturbance you reported.'
The Custodian finally turned his gaze upon the kneeling envoy.
"Rise."
Lucan Varr obeyed instantly. The guardsmen scrambled up as well.
Lieutenant Hart remained frozen—unsure whether to kneel, keep standing or speak.
She understood nothing of their tongue. The Custodian's words were in High Gothic, a language both ancient and alien. Only Lucan Varr's translation vox had bridged the gap till now.
Thung !!Thung!!
The golden giant stepped forward.
Hart flinched— taking a few rapid steps backwards.
He paused and observed her deeply.
Then reached up with one massive gauntlet, breaking the seal of his helm.
HISSSSSSS—CLUNK!!
The helm lifted.
He looked upon her with human eyes—it was ancient, fierce, and impossibly soft in their depth.
And he spoke, in perfect English:
"Be not afraid." lieutenant hart's eyes widened.