The wind over Colossi Valley was made of dust and screams.
It howled through the skeletal ruins of what had once been manufactorum spires, stripped bare by bombardment, their ribs jutting into a blood-red sky. The land was a scar—jagged trenches carved by orbital fire, rivers of molten slag cooling into black stone.
The entire valley reeked of ozone and charred promethium. In the distance, the Palace's walls rose like a mountain of gold and agony, their flanks wrapped in fire and smoke.
Kael Varan stood atop a broken ridge, the remnants of his company fanned out behind him—barely a hundred Astartes left now, armor cracked, blackened, and smeared with ash. They looked less like soldiers and more like revenants summoned from an older war.
The vox hissed with static and distant screams.
"White Scars elements holding the northern mouth," Malchion reported. "Blood Angels in the valley itself. Imperial Army lines are gone—swept aside. The traitors are pressing hard."
Kael's helm tilted toward the horizon. Even through the haze, he could see the flashes—bolter fire and lance strikes, the flickering dance of jump packs weaving through tracer storms.
The Watcher Above had dropped them two klicks from the front line before returning to orbit to duel enemy cruisers. Now they advanced on foot, step by step, through the ruins.
Each pace echoed in Kael's skull like a heartbeat.
"Joras," Kael said quietly.
"Aye, Captain?"
"If you see anyone not wearing our colors or the gold of angels, you shoot first. Then ask their corpse what god they prayed to."
Joras chuckled dryly. "Wouldn't be the first time."
They moved down the slope.
The air grew thicker with every step. Smoke clung to them, oily and hot, alive with static. The ground was a mosaic of crushed ceramite, broken banners, and pools of coagulated blood. Kael's boots left prints that immediately filled with ash.
His armor's vox picked up fragments of transmissions—battle prayers in High Gothic, death oaths in Nostraman, screams in dialects long dead. Each one bled into the next until the entire soundscape became a single, endless wail.
He tuned it out.
They passed the wreck of a Storm Eagle. Its fuselage was scorched, its wings broken and half-melted. The cockpit was gone. A single Blood Angel was slumped against the hull, crimson armor dulled by soot. His helm was off, revealing features carved like marble but streaked with black blood. His chest had been pierced clean through.
Kael knelt beside him. The wound was too precise to be random. A spear strike—likely Emperor's Children.
He reached down and closed the man's eyes.
"Another saint for their cathedral," Malchion said quietly.
Kael stood. "They'll find no saints here. Only brothers."
The vox cracked suddenly, a burst of words cutting through the static.
"—White Scars to all loyal elements! Colossi is falling! Angels engaged—enemy armor breaking through the second trench! We need fire support now!"
Kael's black eyes narrowed behind his visor. "Mark the source. Move."
The Silent Company broke into a run, their boots hammering against metal and bone.
The closer they got, the louder it became—the roar of engines, the scream of jump packs, the thunder of bolters. Then came the sound Kael had learned to hate: laughter, musical and vile.
The Emperor's Children were here.
The first one they saw was dancing on the hull of a wrecked Predator, slicing open a dying White Scar and humming to the rhythm of his screams. His armor gleamed purple and gold, adorned with flayed skin and chains of polished bone. His helm was sculpted into a sneering mask of beauty.
He looked up as Kael approached. "Oh… you," he purred through the vox. "I've heard the song your legion sings. So much sorrow in the notes. Let's make it a duet."
Kael didn't answer. He simply shot him through the chest.
The traitor's body crumpled without ceremony.
"Keep moving," Kael said, stepping over the corpse.
They reached the front line within minutes.
The Colossi Valley was a cauldron. Blood Angels and White Scars fought shoulder to shoulder against the Iron Warriors and the debased remnants of the Emperor's Children. The air was a storm of tracer fire and sonic distortion.
The Iron Warriors' siege tanks bombarded the cliffs, shaking the valley floor with every impact. The Emperor's Children darted through the chaos like gleaming serpents, their weapons singing in shrill ecstasy.
Kael's arrival barely registered at first. His company melted into the fray like ink into water—dark shapes flowing through the smoke, bolters flaring. The contrast was stark: black and red, shadow and flame, despair and radiance.
A Blood Angel sergeant turned, crimson armor battered, golden wings scorched black. "Night's Children?" he said over the din.
Kael strode past him. "Brothers," he said simply.
They pushed forward.
Kael's blade cut through the smog, its dark edge tracing clean lines through the filth. Every movement was measured, every strike deliberate. His foresight had returned, flickering in fragments. He saw five seconds ahead—enough to know where to stand, when to strike, when to kill.
A sonic blast tore past him, liquefying a wall. He turned and saw a Noise Marine raising his weapon again, a massive organ-pipe rifle humming with discordant energy. Kael extended his hand. The shadows at his feet surged forward, coiling up the traitor's legs like living smoke. The weapon screamed once, then imploded, taking its bearer with it.
The White Scars' warcries echoed across the ridge as they struck from above—jetbikes and jump troops roaring through the clouds like thunder spirits. The valley became a kaleidoscope of movement: red and white blurs weaving through iron ranks.
Kael moved among them like a fixed point, his every step deliberate.
Then he saw him.
At the heart of the Blood Angels' defense, surrounded by his finest, stood a figure that shone even through the ash. His armor was gold over red, his helm sculpted like a tear-streaked face. His presence was a weapon—radiant and terrible.
Azkaellon. Captain of the First, guardian of Sanguinius.
Kael approached as the Blood Angel cut down two Iron Warriors with sweeps that were almost art. The Captain turned, eyes bright as burning suns behind his visor.
"Night's Child," Azkaellon said, voice smooth but edged. "I'd heard rumors you still drew breath."
Kael inclined his head. "Rumors are all we have left."
Azkaellon's gaze lingered a moment, studying him. "You bleed shadow. Yet you stand beside angels. Curious."
"I bleed what's left of humanity," Kael said. "Same as you."
The Blood Angel's expression was unreadable. "Then let us bleed together, Kael Varan."
They turned as one.
The enemy was surging again—a combined push of Iron Warriors and Emperor's Children, their madness and discipline clashing yet united in purpose.
The Iron Warriors formed the wall, the Emperor's Children slipped between the cracks. Behind them loomed siege automata and daemon-engines, their shrieks blending into the noise of battle.
Azkaellon raised his sword, its golden edge flaring with light. "For Sanguinius!"
Kael raised his own. "For the Emperor."
The two lines collided.
Kael's company struck from the left flank, moving through the smoke like phantoms. The Blood Angels met the charge head-on, their wings of gold and red turning the battlefield into a storm of fire and grace. The White Scars struck from above, their thunderhawks strafing the Iron Warriors' artillery lines with plasma fire.
It was chaos, but it was beautiful.
Kael fought beside Azkaellon, their blades carving twin paths through the enemy ranks—light and darkness intertwined. Kael's foresight painted a storm of trajectories in his mind; Azkaellon's intuition filled the gaps with divine precision.
At one point, Kael saw Azkaellon falter—a stray Iron Warrior breaking through his guard. Without thought, Kael moved, intercepting the blow. His sword met the traitor's axe, sparks showering them both. The force staggered him, but Azkaellon recovered instantly, cleaving the Iron Warrior in two.
The Blood Angel turned, helm lenses flaring. "You have a habit of saving angels."
Kael's reply was dry. "You should stop needing it."
A faint chuckle crackled through Azkaellon's vox. "I'll see what I can do."
For hours—minutes—years—it felt like forever, they fought. The sun was gone behind the smog. The world had turned gray and red, as if the sky itself had begun to bleed.
Then came the scream.
It wasn't human. It wasn't mortal. It tore through the valley like a siren from hell.
A towering shape descended from the haze—purple and brass, its armor gilded with blasphemous runes, its face a sculpted parody of perfection. A Daemon Prince of Slaanesh, wings like torn silk unfurling behind it.
The thing landed with a crash that sent men flying.
"Children of the false God!" it shrieked. "Sing for me!"
Kael's helm cracked from the psychic pressure. His ears bled. Around him, lesser Astartes dropped to their knees, their senses overwhelmed.
Azkaellon roared, raising his sword. "Hold! The angels do not kneel!"
Kael's shadows flared violently, reacting to the daemonic presence. They writhed and reached toward the creature as if recognizing a rival.
The air thickened, the warp bleeding through. Kael felt his foresight collapse into chaos—a thousand possible deaths cascading through his vision.
He shut it out.
"Captain," Malchion's voice came through the vox, strained. "That thing—our weapons aren't—"
"Then we use something older," Kael said, stepping forward.
Azkaellon turned. "You can't mean to face it—"
Kael met his gaze. "You hold the line. I'll keep its song short."
Before Azkaellon could answer, Kael moved.
He leapt through the smoke, his armor flaring with runic light, his shadow trailing behind him like a cloak of night. The daemon turned toward him, its laughter rising in a crescendo.
It struck first, its claw the size of a tank. Kael rolled aside, the impact shattering stone. He came up beneath it, Veilrender cutting through its thigh. Black ichor sprayed across the ground, sizzling where it touched.
The daemon shrieked, voice harmonizing into chords that made the world tremble. Kael's armor cracked; blood ran from his eyes. But he didn't stop. He climbed the creature's leg, each step a defiance of gravity, each motion fueled by fury.
He reached its chest and drove his sword home.
The daemon screamed—a note that tore the clouds apart.
Then it exploded in a burst of violet flame.
Kael was thrown across the field, hitting the ground hard enough to crater it. His armor's systems died. He lay there for a long time, vision blurred, the world distant.
When he finally rose, the daemon was gone. Only ash remained.
Azkaellon stood nearby, surrounded by his warriors. His armor was scorched, his blade dripping molten ichor. He turned to Kael, voice solemn. "You fight like a god, Night's Child."
Kael wiped blood from his jaw. "I fight like a man who's tired of devils."
Azkaellon nodded once, then extended his gauntlet. "Then you have my brotherhood. For what little that's worth in this graveyard."
Kael clasped his hand. "It's worth everything."
Above them, the sky was still burning, the Palace still bleeding light. The war was far from over. But for a single breath, amid the ruins, the angels and the shadows stood together.
And in that moment, Kael Varan believed—for the first time in years—that maybe, just maybe, loyalty could still mean something.