The First Legion. Dark Angels.
Their name was a whispered curse across the galaxy, a legacy of conquest built upon a throne of xenos bone. Even Hilda—a Shadowguide of Saim-Hann who had once outmaneuvered Drukhari Succubi and suppressed entire squads of nightmares—felt the suffocating weight of their presence.
The First Legion didn't just wage war; they conducted extinctions. Their fanatical obsession was so absolute that they would pursue a single traitor into the heart of the Dark City of Commorragh itself.
To know the secrets of the First was to invite a swift, silent death. Even the Inquisition treaded carefully; those who delved too deep into the Legion's shadowed history had a habit of vanishing alongside the "Fallen" they sought to investigate.
Hilda gripped her power blade, her knuckles white. "Emrys," she hissed, her voice trembling with psychic resonance, "if we survive this... I am going to kill you myself."
If she had known the Vigilance Fortress housed the Fallen, she would have dragged Emrys back to his ship in chains. Dealing with the First Legion was a death sentence written in black ink.
"Patience, Hilda," Emrys said, his voice eerily calm. He didn't seem to care that he was surrounded by dozens of ancient, embittered super-soldiers. He actually smiled.
"Gentlemen," he began, his tone conversational. "As you can see, we carry no heavy armaments. We are no threat to warriors of your... vintage. Perhaps we could lower the bolters and speak as civilized men?"
"We do not negotiate with xenos," the rasping voice echoed from the gloom. The killing intent in the room spiked. "I will ask one last time, mortal. How did you find us?"
Emrys tilted his head as if considering the question.
BANG.
A bolter round screamed through the air, grazing Emrys' cheek before detonating against the far wall. The supersonic backwash left a bloody line across his face. He didn't flinch.
"You have one more breath to speak," the voice threatened. "The next bolt takes your head."
The rhythmic clack-clack of bolters being chambered echoed from every shadow. Hilda's eyes glowed with a fierce, sapphire light, her psychic presence flaring like a sun. "You can certainly try, traitor!"
"An Aeldari witch?" The voice sneered. "I have slaughtered hundreds of your kind. One more soul for the void matters little to me."
Emrys wiped the blood from his cheek and let out a soft, chilling chuckle. "I admire the directness, truly. But I dislike the lack of perspective. You think to kill me? I should mention that an entire Chapter of Dark Angels is currently stationed in Siluria Hive. They are very close, and they are very... motivated."
A ripple of genuine panic swept through the shadows. The hulking silhouettes shifted uneasily.
"You... you led them here?!" the voice roared, now laced with fury and alarm.
"Kill them now! We must evacuate!" another shouted.
For the Fallen, the name of their loyalist brothers was a source of pure, unadulterated terror. They knew the legends of Interrogator-Chaplains like Asmodai. In the Dark Angels' lore, a Chaplain earned a black pearl for every Fallen soul they forced to repent.
Asmodai was famous for having the fewest pearls—not because he was failing, but because his methods were so violent that his "patients" usually expired long before they found the breath to beg for forgiveness. To fall into his hands was to suffer a fate far worse than death.
"Wait!" a voice commanded, cutting through the burgeoning violence. "Something is wrong. If he had informed the Unforgiven, they would be here already. They would never have let a Rogue Trader arrive first. They would have burned this fortress to ash from orbit."
The tension remained, but the bolters lowered slightly. The Fallen realized the logic held.
"Who are you?" the leader asked, stepping fully into the dim light of the consoles.
He was a giant in midnight-black power armor, his surface scarred by ten millennia of war. A tattered, bone-colored surcoat hung from his shoulders. "I am Olsen, commander of this brotherhood."
"I am Merlin Emrys, heir to the Emrys Rogue Trader Dynasty," Emrys replied with a courtly bow. "And I have come to offer you a deal."
"A Rogue Trader?" Olsen's bionic eye glowed red. "What business could a merchant have with us that requires hiding from the Dark Angels?"
"I want to talk about your recent correspondence," Emrys said, his smile vanishing. "Tell me, Commander Olsen... did you truly believe Abaddon the Despoiler would keep his word once you handed him the Void Claw?"
Olsen recoiled as if struck. The shock was visible even through his helm. "How... how could you possibly know of that?"
They had reached out to the Warmaster of Chaos, hoping to trade the gravitational weapon for sanctuary—a desperate gambit to escape the eternal hunt of the First Legion. It was a secret known only to the inner circle of their brotherhood.
"Because I know the nature of betrayal," Emrys said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming heavy with authority. "You have betrayed the Imperium. You have sought to hand a world-killing relic to the Archenemy. You are twice-damned."
Emrys stepped forward, his eyes locked onto Olsen's vox-grille. "Now, I offer you two paths."
"First: Atone. Swear your blades to my dynasty. You will become a hidden Chapter under my command, embarking on a crusade of penitence until your sins are washed away in death and glory. I will provide the shroud that keeps the Dark Angels from your door."
"Second: Continue with your plan to join Abaddon. But understand this..." Emrys reached for a control on his gauntlet. "Before you can even transmit your coordinates to the Black Legion, I will ensure not a single one of you leaves this fortress alive."