The Warp parted like a curtain reluctantly drawn.
The Watcher Above emerged bleeding fire from her drives, her hull cracked and darkened by the storm's passage. Where other ships screamed in madness through the sea of unreality, she had moved in near silence, guided by a steady mind and a will that refused to break.
Kael stood at the center of the bridge as realspace bled back into existence. The warp's residue still crawled faintly across his armor — oily wisps that dissolved when touched by light. His black eyes reflected the blue-gray sphere that hung before them in the void.
Terra.
The Throneworld. The cradle and the tomb of the Imperium.
"Translation complete," Joras said, voice hoarse with exhaustion. "All systems returning to realspace configuration. Gellar field stable. No daemonic incursions."
Kael nodded, gaze fixed on the distant planet. Even from here, he could see the scars of war. Whole sections of orbit were ablaze, debris fields glittering like dying stars. Battle stations ringed the planet — Phalanx foremost among them, the fortress-monastery of the Imperial Fists, its engines burning like suns as it repositioned for the next wave.
"Status of the Sol fleet?" Kael asked.
Malchion's fingers danced across the holo-projector. "Fragmented but holding. Loyalist elements remain active across Luna and Mars. Reports confirm traitor fleets striking at the Jovian line. We've missed months of war, Captain. The Heresy's teeth are already at the Emperor's throat."
Kael's voice was calm, but cold. "Then we'll pull them out, one by one."
The bridge crew worked in silence. They knew their Captain's tone — that measured cadence that came just before violence. Even the shadows along the deck seemed to steady, tightening like drawn sinew.
A faint chime broke the stillness. Vox transmission. Malchion frowned. "Incoming hail — encrypted Sigillite pattern. Origin point: Luna."
Kael's eyes flicked up. "Malcador."
"Confirmed," Malchion said. "He's calling us directly."
Kael's jaw clenched. "Patch it through."
The hololith flickered once, twice, and then steadied into the faint, ghostly image of Malcador the Sigillite. The old man looked older still — his once-sharp features drawn thin, his eyes dim with sleeplessness and the weight of command. Even his psychic presence, once vast and sharp, was a candle guttering in its own wind.
"Kael," Malcador said, his voice more brittle than Kael remembered. "You've been busy."
"Deliverance needed help," Kael replied. "I gave it."
"I know," the Sigillite said softly. "I felt it. Corax reached out after. He spoke well of you."
Kael inclined his head. "He's earned the right to speak freely."
Malcador's lips curved faintly, almost a smile. "He said you arrived before the trap was sprung. That you saw it coming. How far ahead do you see now?"
Kael's gaze hardened. "Five seconds. The same as before."
"Five seconds," Malcador repeated. "And yet you always seem to appear when the galaxy needs an hour."
Kael said nothing. The silence stretched, heavy and knowing.
Finally, Malcador continued. "The walls of Terra are nearly sealed. Dorn holds the Throne. Guilliman is lost in Ultramar. The Lion is still silent. Sanguinius... holds the line where even angels fear to tread. But the end is coming, Kael. You understand that, don't you?"
Kael's voice was steady. "Endings are necessary."
Malcador's eyes narrowed slightly. "And yet you still come back. You always come back."
"I told you I would stand in the dark so the light could fight," Kael said. "I'm keeping my word."
The Sigillite studied him for a long moment. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he lifted his hand. Something shimmered in the air — a thin, translucent projection of armor blueprints, rotating in soft golden light.
"I had meant to give you this long ago," Malcador said. "But the galaxy doesn't keep its promises anymore."
The image resolved into a full suit of artificer armor — sleek, angular, reminiscent of the old Night's Children pattern but refined beyond anything the Mechanicum had ever produced. The chestplate was sculpted into interlocking plates of void-black ceramite, traced with faint veins of silver circuitry that pulsed like veins under skin. Its helm resembled the skull of a bat, its eyes like molten stars. Etched along its collar were runes of warding written in Malcador's own hand.
"The Aegis Tenebris," Malcador said quietly. "The Shield of Night. Forged on Mars before its fall. Designed for you — and for those who still follow you."
Kael stepped closer to the projection, his expression unreadable. "What does it do?"
"It listens," Malcador said. "And remembers. The machine-spirits are bound to your own genetic and psychic resonance. The armor feeds on shadow, draws power from the absence of light. It will not fail you in darkness."
Malchion exhaled softly. "How many sets?"
"Enough for your company," Malcador said. "You'll find them waiting aboard the Watcher's Hold — a Mechanicum freighter orbiting near Luna's dark side. Its crew are mine. Loyal. Take the armor, Kael. You'll need it before the end."
Kael's gaze lifted to the Sigillite. "You always seem to know when the end is near."
Malcador smiled faintly. "It's my only talent left."
He leaned closer, his voice lowering to a whisper that carried across the void.
"When the walls fall — and they will fall — you will do what you always have. You will fight unseen. You will save who you can, destroy what you must. And when the Throne burns, you will be where the Emperor cannot."
Kael's jaw tightened. "You speak as though He will die."
Malcador's eyes were unreadable. "Everything dies, Kael. But some things take longer to stop breathing."
The image flickered. The Sigillite's final words were little more than a sigh.
"Go. The Emperor will not call for you, but He will need you. And when He falls silent, listen to the dark. It will tell you what comes next."
The transmission ended.
Silence reigned.
Malchion was the first to speak. "He's dying."
Kael didn't answer. He turned toward the viewport, the faint blue light of Terra reflecting in his eyes. "He's been dying since the day He chose to make us."
The shadows rippled faintly at his feet, as if stirred by his thoughts.
"Plot course to Luna's far side," Kael said at last. "Let's retrieve our gift."
Joras made the sign of the Aquila before responding. "Acknowledged."
The Watcher Above banked hard, its engines flaring pale and silent as it broke through the planetary defense net. No loyal guns fired on it. Either Malcador had cleared the path — or the Emperor Himself looked the other way.
As they moved through the dark side of Luna, the Watcher's Hold came into view — a Mechanicum vessel of immense size, its surface a forest of antennae and transmission arrays. It looked like a dead god carved from iron, drifting in silence. The vox-net was quiet. Too quiet.
"Any signals?" Kael asked.
"None," Joras said. "No life signs. No active power beyond minimal maintenance systems."
Malchion frowned. "Could be a trap."
Kael shook his head. "No. It's a tomb. He said it would be waiting."
They docked without resistance. The airlock opened into a cathedral of steel and silence. Rows of sarcophagi lined the walls — not coffins, but storage vaults. Each one bore the seal of the Sigillite. Each one contained a suit of armor.
Kael approached the nearest vault and pressed his gauntlet to the seal. It hissed open. Within, under soft white light, lay the Aegis Tenebris — sleek, black, and terrible. It seemed to drink the light around it.
He reached out and rested his hand against its chestplate. The metal was cold, but beneath the surface, something stirred — a faint heartbeat, echoing his own.
Behind him, his brothers stood in reverent silence. Even Malchion, who had seen everything worth fearing, bowed his head.
Kael spoke quietly, the words carrying through the chamber like a benediction.
"We were made to be monsters. Now we wear the night not as chains, but as armor."
He turned to them, his black eyes gleaming faintly. "The time for shadows is over. We will stand in the light — and remind them why they fear the dark."
The company began donning their new armor, one by one. The chamber filled with the hiss of seals and the thrum of awakened machine-spirits. The air itself grew heavier, charged with potential.
When Kael sealed his helm, the world dimmed to a sharper clarity. The armor whispered to him — not in words, but in intent. It was loyal. It was alive. It was his.
He looked to his men. To Malchion, to Joras, to every soul that had followed him from the depths of Terra to the edge of the galaxy.
"Form up," he said. "We go to war."
The Watcher Above detached from the dead Mechanicum ship and turned toward the burning jewel of Terra. Its engines ignited, and for a moment, the void around it flared white — as if the darkness itself were making way.
Ahead, the Siege of Terra was beginning.
Behind, Deliverance burned.
And in between, Kael Varan — the shadow that served the Emperor — prepared to make his stand.