The void around Terra burned.
Kael had fought in wars that spanned continents, seen battlefields stretch from hive-world cathedrals to the hollowed cores of moons—but he had never seen anything like this.
The Siege of Terra was not a war. It was the death of an age made manifest.
The Watcher Above emerged from the dark side of Luna into a maelstrom of light and ruin.
Titan guns flared from the surface of the moon, carving swaths through the void. The Phalanx loomed like a golden citadel in the distance, firing from every battery. Beyond it, the traitor fleets closed in—great, burning worlds of metal bearing the eye of Horus.
The Sons of Horus. The World Eaters. The Death Guard. The Emperor's Children.
The half of the galaxy that had forgotten honor.
The vox crackled with endless, overlapping orders—Dorn's iron baritone cutting through the din. "Hold the orbital line. No retreat. The walls must not fall."
Kael listened to the voice with a strange stillness. Rogal Dorn spoke like the world was already dead and his duty was to bury it correctly.
Malchion stood beside him, helm in hand, his new armor still gleaming where it hadn't yet been scarred. "You realize," he said dryly, "this might be the one time the rest of the Imperium actually needs us."
Kael's gaze didn't leave the burning world below. "Then let's make sure they remember who came when the light failed."
Joras turned from his console. "Incoming hail from the Phalanx. High priority. Identification code matches Dorn's personal command channel."
Kael raised a brow. "He didn't strike me as the type to make social calls."
The holo-projector flickered. Dorn appeared in golden armor, his expression carved from stone and wrath. The bridge crew froze. Even as a projection, the Primarch's presence weighed on the air like gravity.
"Kael Varan," Dorn said without preamble. "You took your time."
Kael inclined his head slightly. "I had to stop a Primarch from losing his soul before I could come save yours."
For a moment, the silence between them was a physical thing. Then, unbelievably, Dorn almost smiled. "You sound like the Sigillite."
"I learned from him," Kael replied. "You called, Lord Dorn?"
"I didn't call. I commanded," Dorn said. "The outer ring is collapsing. We need a mobile strike element to hold the Saturnine corridor long enough to reinforce the Phalanx's flanks. Your ship is fast enough to hit them before they reach firing range."
Kael's black eyes narrowed. "The Saturnine corridor is a death run. You're asking us to hold it with one ship."
"I'm not asking," Dorn said. "Malcador vouched for you. Prove him right."
The transmission ended.
Kael stared at the empty holo-field for a moment, then turned to his men. "You heard him. Warm the engines. Plot the intercept vector."
Joras's mouth twitched. "So that's it? 'Go die buying time for Dorn'?"
Kael's tone was level. "No. We go remind the galaxy that the night still bites."
The Watcher Above came alive with sound and fury. Servitors chanted binharic hymns as weapon decks lit up. Power conduits hummed with contained violence. The ship's hull, black as the void itself, seemed to pulse in anticipation—as if the darkness around it leaned closer to listen.
Kael's company assembled in the drop bay, armored forms glinting faintly in the crimson emergency lights. Each wore the new Aegis Tenebris armor, the silver runes glowing faintly along their plates. Their eyes, all black, all without sclera, gleamed like predatory stars beneath their helms.
Kael walked among them, silent. His presence alone steadied hearts and quickened resolve. When he reached the center of the bay, he spoke—not loud, not booming, but in the tone that cut through chaos like a scalpel.
"The traitors think this war is for gods and fathers," he said. "They think loyalty is a lie. Let them. We will show them what loyalty looks like when the light is gone. We will show them the dark that fights back."
He drew Veilrender. The blade's edge shimmered faintly, drinking the light. "You are the Emperor's night. Remember that when the void screams."
The men struck their breastplates with their fists in unison, the sound echoing like thunder through the ship.
"Night remembers," they said as one.
Kael gave a single nod. "Then go. Burn the stars."
---
The Watcher Above roared through the void, cutting toward the Saturnine corridor at full burn. Ahead, the traitor fleet moved like a tidal wave—three heavy cruisers and a swarm of escorts, banners bearing the Eye of Horus and the eight-pointed star of corruption. The void between them glowed red with lance fire.
Kael stood at the forward viewport, the ship's hum resonating in his bones. The darkness answered his presence, slithering across the deck in shapes that were almost human, almost memory.
He whispered to the ship—not in words, but intent. Strike where they least expect. Bleed them where they're blind.
The ship understood.
"Enemy augur locks," Joras said. "They've seen us."
"Good," Kael murmured. "Let them think we're one ship."
At his gesture, the Watcher Above split its emissions field into fragments. On the enemy's scanners, it became ten ships, each broadcasting false readings, each weaving through the chaos in random vectors.
The traitor fleet adjusted formation—too late.
"Fire."
The void erupted. The Watcher Above's lances carved through the first escort before it could react, vaporizing it in a single flash. Boarding torpedoes followed, streaking toward the nearest cruiser like black comets.
Kael and his strike teams launched a heartbeat later.
The boarding torpedo screamed through the void, slammed into the hull of a Sons of Horus warship, and punched through. The doors blew open in fire and shrapnel, and Kael stepped through into hell.
The corridors were narrow, filled with smoke and screams. The air stank of promethium and blood. Traitor marines poured from every junction, their eyes glowing with malice, their armor defaced with runes and blasphemies.
Kael raised Veilrender.
The blade whispered through the air, each motion fluid, perfect, surgical. It cut through ceramite and bone as easily as shadow through light. Kael's precognition danced at the edge of his mind—five seconds ahead, every strike anticipated, every bullet avoided by fractions of a second.
A chainaxe screamed past his ear. He turned, caught the wrist holding it, and drove the blade through the gap in the gorget. Blood misted across the walls.
Behind him, Malchion and Joras fought like the twin halves of inevitability. Malchion's shots were methodical, each bolter round a prayer answered in detonation. Joras fought with savage grace, his one hand moving faster than most men with two. The Silent Company advanced like a storm, precise and pitiless.
"Engine deck secured," Malchion voxed. "Resistance heavy, but breaking."
"Press the advantage," Kael ordered. "Leave none of them alive."
"Understood," came the grim reply.
Kael moved toward the command deck, his pace relentless. Every step brought another corpse, another broken oath. He felt no anger—only a deep, consuming focus. These men had once called the Emperor father. Now they spat on His name.
When he reached the bridge, the enemy captain was waiting. A towering figure in green and gold, his helm crowned with a crude replica of the Eye. His voice was distorted through his vox-grill.
"Night Lord filth," the traitor snarled. "Curze would flay you for fighting beside the false God"
Kael's voice was quiet. "Then he should have stayed his hand before I took his lesson."
The traitor lunged, chainsword roaring. Kael parried, the force of the blow cracking the deck beneath them. Sparks flew as Veilrender met the chainsword's teeth. Kael's five-second sight flared—he saw every angle, every feint, every death that could happen and chose the one that didn't.
He stepped into the strike, turned his blade, and cut the traitor's arm clean off. The chain weapon fell to the deck. The traitor stumbled, roaring curses.
Kael caught his throat in one hand and lifted him effortlessly. "Your fear feeds the Throne," he said softly. "Be grateful."
He drove his sword through the man's heart.
The light in the bridge flickered and died.
"Target neutralized," Kael voxed. "Joras—ignite the engines."
"Aye, Captain."
A moment later, the entire ship shook. The traitor cruiser's reactors went critical, its spine snapping under the stress. Kael and his team teleported out in a burst of blue light as the vessel tore itself apart behind them.
Back aboard the Watcher Above, Kael watched the explosion through the viewport. The Sons of Horus fleet reeled, disoriented and leaderless. The remaining loyalist elements pushed forward, their guns blazing.
"Signal from the Phalanx," Joras said. "Dorn sends his acknowledgment."
Kael smiled faintly. "That's as close to thanks as he'll ever get."
He turned back to the burning horizon of Terra. The air shimmered with the fires of a thousand ships. Every orbit was a battlefield. Every heartbeat, a death.
Malchion stepped beside him. "That's one corridor held. For now."
Kael's eyes were fixed on the planet. "The walls won't hold forever. But we will."
He rested a hand on the cold glass of the viewport. The shadows shifted beneath his boots, restless, eager.
"Let them come," he murmured. "We'll make them remember what it costs to march through the dark."
The Watcher Above turned its prow toward the next wave of enemy ships, engines glowing faint blue against the fires of war.
And Kael Varan—the Emperor's shadow—walked again into the storm.