The world shook.
The ground beneath Terra's walls had become a single endless tremor, a heartbeat made of artillery. Every breath was dust, every horizon was fire.
Kael moved through it like a figure carved from the war itself, black armor veined with silver, his sword Veilrender dripping ash and ichor in equal measure.
Around him, the Silent Company advanced through the ruins of the outer ring. Behind them, the Watcher Above circled, half-wounded, her shadow cannons still spitting lines of annihilation into the void.
The Iron Warriors were coming again.
They never stopped.
The sky above the Saturnine Gate was lit with tracer fire and the molten arcs of macro-shells. The Iron Warriors advanced behind a walking wall of siege tanks, their armor scorched but unbroken, their ranks moving like clockwork — iron hearts beating to the rhythm of their Primarch's hatred.
Kael watched them come through the haze. His black eyes caught the mechanical gleam of their augmetic limbs, the warp-sick glow of corruption clinging to their weapons. They were not men anymore, nor even Astartes. They were structures given thought.
"Report," Kael said, voice steady.
Malchion's reply came through the vox, sharp under fire. "The Imperial Fists' right flank is holding for now, but they're being pressed hard. Sigismund's line is collapsing. The Iron Warriors have breached the trench line."
Kael's jaw set. "Then that's where we go."
He turned to his men. "Move. Reinforce the Fists. We'll hold until the angels arrive."
The Silent Company surged forward.
They ran through hell — the trench lines a labyrinth of corpses and fire. Loyalist banners burned beside traitor sigils, both half-buried in mud. The air tasted of promethium, blood, and rust. The loyalists who still lived fought like ghosts — skin gray from exhaustion, armor cracked and blackened by soot.
Kael vaulted the final barricade and landed amid them. The defenders were Imperial Fists — yellow armor reduced to gray under the soot of endless bombardment. At their center, a figure stood with sword raised, his armor golden, his helm crowned in a black crest.
Sigismund.
The First Captain of the Imperial Fists.
The Emperor's Champion.
Kael had met him only once before — long ago, before the Heresy had a name. They had trained together under Dorn's watchful eye. Then, Sigismund had been all discipline and doctrine; Kael, all silence and shadows. Yet now, standing in the ruins, they looked like brothers carved from the same war.
Sigismund turned, blood streaking his pauldron. "Night's Child," he said, voice low but unafraid. "I didn't think you'd come back from your ghosts."
Kael stepped forward, eyes cold. "You didn't think I'd leave them."
Sigismund's mouth curved, almost a smile. "Good. We're surrounded."
"Then we're in the right place," Kael said.
Sigismund looked out over the battlefield. "They're coming again. Perturabo's beasts."
The ground shook as the Iron Warriors began their charge.
Kael looked at the line of loyalists — fewer than two hundred Astartes holding a kilometer of wall. "Hold formation," he said. "We'll buy you time to reinforce."
Sigismund's voice was iron. "You'll have it."
Then the Iron Warriors hit. It was not a clash — it was a collision of worlds.
Bolters roared, the sound rolling through the trenches like thunder. Lascannon beams carved molten paths through armor. Kael met them head-on, his blade a ribbon of shadow that tore through ceramite and flesh alike.
The first Iron Warrior to reach him swung a chainfist the size of a man — Kael caught it, twisted, and drove Veilrender through the warrior's heart.
He fought beside Sigismund, their styles opposites and mirrors. Where Sigismund was a sun, Kael was a void. Sigismund's blows were righteous fury, bright arcs of golden light; Kael's were surgical shadows, each cut preordained by foresight.
Together, they killed like music played by gods.
A thunderclap split the air — the Iron Warriors' front line collapsed, but another immediately filled its place. Behind them, a figure strode through the smoke — taller, heavier, his armor blackened steel etched with the eight-pointed star.
His helm bore the mark of a warlord. A chain-axe hung from one fist, its teeth slick with blood.
Malchion's voice came over the vox. "Captain—heavy contact. Identified: Warsmith Dravak Korr. Perturabo's left hand."
Kael stepped forward, voice low. "Mine."
Sigismund glanced at him. "Don't die in my trench."
Kael's eyes flashed. "Don't let them take it while I'm busy."
He advanced through the smoke. The Warsmith's vox-grill crackled with laughter.
"So," Dravak growled, "the Emperor sends his hounds of night. I expected Dorn's lapdogs, not Curze's castoffs."
Kael didn't answer. He simply raised Veilrender.
The Warsmith charged. The ground split under his steps. His chain-axe came down with a shriek of metal teeth. Kael moved — his precognition flared, showing a dozen deaths, a dozen ways to fall.
He chose none of them. He ducked under the swing, countering with a horizontal cut that sliced through Dravak's thigh plating, drawing a roar of rage.
"You fight like your father!" Dravak snarled. "All fear, no faith!"
Kael's reply was a whisper. "Fear's a language. I speak it better than you."
The Warsmith swung again. Kael parried, sparks erupting like stars. They circled, titans amid chaos. Around them, men died and screamed, but the duel became its own world — a microcosm of the Heresy.
Dravak lunged. Kael's foresight flickered — too many futures at once. The chain-axe struck his pauldron, biting through armor. Kael's ribs cracked under the impact. Pain flared, sharp and real. He didn't step back. He leaned in.
He drove his head into Dravak's helm, the impact ringing like a bell. The Warsmith staggered. Kael struck. Veilrender flashed — a black arc that severed the Warsmith's left arm at the elbow. Dravak bellowed, swung the axe one-handed, and scored Kael's flank. Blood poured from the wound.
Both men bled, both refused to yield.
Dravak raised his remaining arm, his voice a roar of fury. "Perturabo will burn your world!"
Kael met his charge with silence. When the axe came down, he stepped into it — and drove his sword through the Warsmith's chest.
The blade burst from the traitor's back.
Dravak's breath caught. His eyes flickered with disbelief, then hatred, then nothing at all. Kael tore Veilrender free, letting the corpse fall into the mud.
He looked down at it for a long moment. "Then let him try."
Behind him, Sigismund's line held. The Imperial Fists had rallied — their banner stood against the storm, tattered but unbroken. Kael turned back just as the next wave broke.
And among them, something worse came.
The Emperor's Children.
They flowed into the trenches like liquid sin, armor gleaming violet and gold, their movements graceful, obscene. Their weapons weren't just blades — they were instruments. Sonic cannons shrieked like organs. Their armor hummed with perverse resonance.
One among them moved differently — taller, elegant, his armor adorned with silver filigree and flayed skin. His helm was shaped like a mask, smooth and featureless. A power sword in one hand, a whip of shimmering energy in the other.
He bowed mockingly. "Kael Varan," he said, voice like honey over glass. "Ah, the loyal monster. I am Lucion Vale, favored of Fulgrim. I've heard the Emperor keeps you in the dark. How poetic."
Kael lifted his sword. "Then you'll die poetic."
They clashed.
Lucion's blade struck in a blur — every motion accompanied by music, every strike punctuated by laughter. Kael countered, precise, unrelenting. His foresight showed him the rhythm of the duel, the beats hidden in the melody.
The Emperor's Children fought to be admired. Kael fought to end the song.
The duel tore through the trench. Lucion's whip lashed out, coiling around Kael's sword arm. He pulled, sparks flaring as the energy field bit into armor. Kael twisted with it, pulling the traitor off balance, then cut the whip in half.
Lucion lunged with a smile. Kael drove his shoulder into the man's chest, breaking his rhythm, then slashed across his midsection. Blood — bright, beautiful, wrong — sprayed into the air. Lucion laughed, even as he bled.
"Oh, exquisite," he hissed. "You still believe you're fighting for something pure."
Kael's reply was cold. "No. I fight because someone has to."
His next strike cut through Lucion's helm, splitting the mask and the skull beneath. The laughter stopped.
Kael let the body fall beside Dravak's, two champions of ruin laid to rest in the same mud.
He turned back to the line. Sigismund met his eyes. For a moment, amidst the carnage, they shared something like understanding.
Sigismund raised his sword in salute. "Well fought, Night's Child."
Kael nodded once. "You too, Sword-Templar."
Above them, the Watcher Above screamed through the sky, raining fire upon the retreating traitors. The Iron Warriors pulled back to regroup. The Emperor's Children retreated, their songs broken, their perfection marred.
The trenches were quiet — for now. Only the dead spoke, their silence louder than the bombardment.
Sigismund turned to Kael. "You bleed, brother."
Kael glanced at his flank. The armor smoked. "So does the world."
Sigismund's grim smile returned. "We'll hold it a little longer."
Kael looked toward the Palace — golden and bleeding, its walls scarred but still standing. The sun was a smudge behind the smoke, its light barely touching the ground.
He sheathed Veilrender. "Then let's remind the gods that Terra belongs to the living."
Sigismund nodded once, and together they turned back to the line — two sons of the Emperor, forged in opposite crucibles, standing shoulder to shoulder against the apocalypse.
And for a moment, the darkness held.
But far above, beyond the burning clouds, the warp shimmered — and the voice of a god whispered, "It is not over."
Kael didn't look up. He only muttered, as if answering something unseen:
"Neither am I."
The storm rolled on. The siege continued. And the night — the Emperor's night — endured.