In an audience chamber within the Imperial Palace, the setting of which was simple but the atmosphere heavy as iron, the mountainous figure of Rogal Dorn stood opposite several Wolf Lords from the world of Fenris.
They were clad in thick wolf pelts hunted on the harsh ice wastes, their presence carrying the scent of Arctic winds and bonfire smoke, a stark contrast to the chamber's austere solemnity.
Dorn dispensed with any ceremonial pleasantries. His voice was steady and hard, as undeniable as his own presence.
"The enemy is corrupting the Imperium from within," he cut straight to the core, his gaze sweeping over each Wolf Lord. "Certain Navigator Houses are abusing their ancient privileges, weaving webs in the darkness."
"In the High Lords Council, some place their own profit before the will of the Emperor."
"The Rogue Traders were given the freedom to explore the stars; now they seek to turn the Imperium's future into another commodity stockpiled in their cargo holds."
He paused slightly, allowing the weight of his words to settle into the silence.
"Your mission is this: Locate the vipers among the Navigators and remove their venom. Make those overly-verbose High Lords understand that sometimes silence is the greatest contribution to the Imperium. As for the Rogue Traders who cross the line, use the only language they understand, iron and blood, to carve the Imperium's boundary back into their bones."
The Wolf Lords listened in silence, their eyes like those of ice wolves locking onto prey, shining with cold, focused intensity.
Low, guttural sounds, as if emanating from the depths of a glacier or an ancient longhouse, echoed in the room, signifying their unconditional acceptance of the command.
To cleanse the enemies hiding in the shadows of civilization was the duty bestowed upon them, and the method they excelled at.
However, when Dorn turned to the last and most difficult issue: "In addition, within the Martian Mechanicum, the voice of opposition is growing. They view this technology as a challenge to their ancient authority. They must be suppressed to prevent them from taking more extreme action..."
At this point, Wolf Lord Yorick 'the Butcher', the leader of the group, a veteran with white hair and beard, whose face was etched with the marks of age and battle yet whose fighting spirit remained sharp, stepped forward.
Yorick stood straight, his posture showing the appropriate respect for the Primarch, yet lacking any trace of timidity.
His voice was deep and steady, bearing the hallmark, rock-solid conviction of the Fenrisian people: "Lord Dorn, your instructions are clear. Cleansing the vermin in Terra's shadows is the inescapable duty of the Fenrisian Pack. Those Navigators, politicians, and profiteers will soon learn that the Emperor's Hounds are at their throats."
He shifted his focus, his tone turning more pragmatic, like a seasoned warrior evaluating a different battlefield: "But Mars is a separate domain. That is the territory of the Mechanicum, filled with data-networks, steel dogma, and their ancient, rusted pacts."
He looked up, meeting Dorn's gaze honestly: "Our cousins of the First Legion are better suited to that kind of battleground. They possess the patience to handle those mysteries and their own means of solving them. Give Terra to us, and we will make those things in the shadows pay. As for Mars, it would be more fitting for the First Legion to handle it."
Dorn listened in silence. His weather-beaten, stone-like face betrayed no expression, but the sharp depth of his gaze was rapidly assessing the situation.
Yorick's analysis hit the nail on the head, dealing with Mars required more than just force; it demanded understanding and the ability to penetrate that complex system. The secrecy, discipline, and instinct for hunting ancient secrets possessed by the Dark Angels were indeed the more suitable tools for this task.
After a moment, Dorn made his decision, his voice still steady, but carrying the weight of finality: "Your judgment has merit, Wolf Lord Yorick. Then, the cleansing of Terra is entirely your responsibility. As for Mars..."
He did not elaborate further, but action had already begun, with another encrypted communication having been dispatched.
With the decision made, action unfolded as swiftly as a Fenrisian storm.
The Space Wolves did not trumpet their arrival but, like a wolf pack slipping into a forest, silently integrated into Terra's vast and complex ecosystem.
The Wolves' actions were swift and lethal, executed with the precision and efficiency unique to the pack. Their methods appeared brutal, yet they were far from blind; every strike aimed directly at the core of the problem, achieving strategic objectives through the most simple and direct means.
In the depths of a spire used by a certain Navigator House for secret plotting, a clandestine meeting aimed at disrupting the Astropathic Choir's communications was underway.
Suddenly, the heavy reinforced glass window shattered, not from an entrance breach but from a precise external strike.
Accompanied by flying crystal shards, several towering figures, clad in wolf pelts and power armor that still carried the chill of the void, burst into the room.
The roar of chainaxes instantly replaced the hushed conspiracies.
There was no warning, no negotiation, only targeted elimination.
When the surviving family members recovered from the terror and carnage, they found that the core members most actively planning the sabotage lay dead in pools of blood. The assailants had already quietly withdrawn, leaving behind only claw-like marks and a potent stench of blood as a warning.
Concurrently, the opulent hive-spire residence of an official who was highly active in the High Council, having repeatedly used "procedural review" and "budget allocation" as excuses to obstruct the Warp Drive project, was subjected to a targeted raid.
A squad of well-equipped Grey Hunters, carrying melta weapons, breached the mansion's security with clean efficiency.
They did not harm the official's family but precisely destroyed his private data core and all external communication equipment, and thoroughly pulverized his treasured model of an antique starship.
The only clue left at the scene was a crude, Fenrisian-style iron wolf-tooth insignia, a warning that spoke for itself.
That same night, several orbital warehouses, flagged by intelligence for illegal trading and hoarding of critical supplies with Rogue Traders, simultaneously erupted in eerie green flames.
The fires caused by this specialized accelerant were extremely difficult to extinguish. When the fire suppression ships arrived, they could only watch the warehouse structures, along with all the goods inside, silently turn to ash in the vacuum.
Subsequent investigators discovered non-standard bolt casings among the ruins, and deep, claw-shaped indentations left by powered weaponry on the floor.
This series of events triggered a profound shockwave within Terra's specific power circles.
The message spread rapidly across the shadow network: "The Wolves have been unleashed."
Everyone understood that this marked the execution of Rogal Dorn's will through the most undeniable means.
The voices of opposition visibly retracted, and many previously active factions began reassessing the risk, causing the surface wave of dissent to subside into an unnatural lull.
However, this was merely the prelude.
The Space Wolves' claws had only ripped away the outermost disguise, revealing a deeper darkness beneath.
The genuine threat involving forbidden technology within Mars, and the deep, ten-thousand-year-old network of resistance within the Navigator Houses, continued to surge in the darkness.
The real confrontation had only just begun. The Wolves' clearing action was more of a clear declaration, establishing the boundary for the far more complex and dangerous struggle to come.