[Tarvitz needs to drop. I am organising a subterranean fallback for the outer defensive sectors, but we are blind to the orbital grid. You need to turn the Eisenstein around, break orbit, and take the Warp jump. You have to carry the warning back to Terra, or the Imperium burns before the month is out. Forget everything you think you know, because it just turned useless and pointless in the face of what is coming. This is but the first of many atrocities....]
[KKK---ZZZZ... van V... *ell th* **per*r... ot ... More traitors on... Isstva* V...!!!]
"Repeat, Alexei! What was that about Isstvan V?! Come again!"
[The betrayal does not end in the Choral City! Horus has woven a grander web than you can fathom! Beware the secondary force sent to battle the traitor! Seven Legions are *******----ZZZZZZZ----- ***** of loyalty only to butcher those who truly stand for Terra! They are wolves in the Emperor's armour!]
The line buckled, a wave of distortion cutting through his words before Alexei managed to force one final, chilling sentence through the link:
[The ----- ZZZZZZZ----- op is a trap! Beware the executioners who wear the ma** ** *alvation, for they will drive their blades into the **** ** **** brothers! ZZZZ------ tell the Emperor -----ZZZZZZ---- the galaxy is about to burn!]
The voice from the trenches clicked off, leaving a ringing silence over the line.
For Garro, the final piece of the nightmare snapped into place. The ground confirmation from his own Legion's member stripped away his last shred of doubt. However, he didn't know anyone by the name of Alexei, so this might also have been a terrible ploy.
But for some reason, he didn't believe that. The message and what Tarvitz had told him... he knew in his heart that it was true. He turned to his bridge crew, his voice dropping into a register of unyielding authority.
High above the grey cloud layer, Tarvitz braced for the final, incinerating blast as the fighters closed in for the kill. He cut the throttle, throwing out the air brakes to force a desperate, tumbling dive. The cockpit juddered violently as laser fire sheared away portions of his hull.
Suddenly, the control over his Thunderhawk was stripped away from him, and all the screens fizzled and flickered for a moment before settling into place again.
The Thunderhawk performed a masterful and superhuman level of agility all of a sudden, as if it knew automatically where the attacks were coming from and dodged all those shots. Then it turned around, performing impeccable manoeuvres, and started shooting down the previously attacking crafts.
The tracking icons of his pursuers had turned into the prey and then vanished into a cloud of electromagnetic debris and trash.
[Saul] Garro's voice returned, heavy with profound sorrow. [You did it. That was impeccable flying. The skies are clear. Drop down, my brother.]
"Nathaniel… how? What just happened? That wasn't me. I have no control over the Thunderhawk."
[Someone has answered,] Garro murmured. [I will report to the fleet logs that your craft was incinerated in the high-atmosphere crossfire. The thermal bloom should buy you enough time to make landfall. But the choice is made, Saul. If you have spoken falsely, I have damned my soul.]
"You are right to trust me, Nathaniel," Tarvitz said softly, fighting the controls to stabilise his descent. But the ship had its own course and was doing its own thing.
"Do you remember what you told me about Terra? Of the empires of old being swept away so the Emperor could forge something lasting out of the ashes?"
[I remember,] Garro replied, a grim note of finality settling over him. [That is the empire I stand for. I will not watch it be strangled in the dark.]
"Nor I," Tarvitz swore. "What is your vector now?"
[The anonymous voice from the mud was correct,] Garro said, glancing at the shifting navigation sub-routines on his cogitator. [Once your signature fades, I will break the grid. I will rally the staunch brothers among my crew. Those who stand with the Warmaster will be erased. We will drive the Eisenstein out of the Isstvan system before the fleet realises our defection, and we will carry the word of this atrocity straight to the throne itself.]
"May the luck of ancient Terra ride with you, Nathaniel," Tarvitz whispered as his port engine let out a terminal, sparking groan.
The Vox link severed into static.
That mysterious individual was aiming the nose of the crippled Thunderhawk directly toward the sprawling, majestic spires of the Precentor's Palace. He plunged into the burning atmosphere of the Choral City, a lone spark of defiance racing down to meet the coming apocalypse.
.
Lucius, Captain of the 13th Company of the Emperor's Children Legion, skidded across the smooth, intricately tiled floor of the grand throne room, his eyes scanning the chaos with a manic intensity. The inlaid mosaic work was incredibly detailed, showing elaborate scrollwork that almost seemed to writhe and move beneath the flashing storms of gunfire.
Suddenly, an overwhelming wall of sound roared around him, echoing through the sky-high central spire of the Precentor's Palace. It was a shattering cacophony, music which the enemy weaponised.
Suspended from the granite ceiling far above, giant crystal chandeliers vibrated with the ferocious battle raging across the palace levels.
Orchestral instruments lined the hall, each operated by a cybernetic servitor explicitly rebuilt to broadcast the devastating sonic frequencies of the Isstvanian Warsingers, which caused the defenders to show no fear and even pose a real threat to the Space Marines, despite still losing badly.
Massive organ pipes stretched upwards, standing alongside gilded bell towers and rows of bronze cages packed with shaven-headed choristers who sang with blind, fanatical adoration. It looked like a mix of a weird, corrupted throne room with a choir and a large organ smashed inside.
Even as bolt rounds smashed through the wooden frames, cutting harp strings and breaking the sides of the great organs, the rackety music blared on.
For a man like Lucius, this deafening roar didn't induce fear; surprisingly, it filled him with an absolute, intoxicating rush of adrenaline and battlelust. Every crashing note and explosive shot amplified his deep, borderline sadistic desire to do violence and swordfighting.
Peering around the edge of the harpsichord, Lucius took a breath, feeling both exhausted and completely exhilarated by how quickly they had breached the inner sanctum.
As Captain of the 13th Company, his unmatched obsession with blade-work and physical perfection had brought him straight into the mouth of the meat grinder.
Ever since his youth on the bleak world of Chemos, Lucius had possessed a sickeningly natural talent for mastering nearly any skill he touched. He had gravitated toward the absolute perfection of swordsmanship, earning prestigious sponsors among the planetary elite while secretly indulging an early, cruel streak, brutally killing individuals he claimed were "beggars and brigands" who had forced his hand.
In a way, Lucius and Travitz were two sides of the same 'perfection' coin that their Primarch stood for.
He had always been a poor teacher, a proud and childish master who frequently blinded or scarred his pupils in convenient "accidents" just to prove his superiority.
It was that exact, cold perfection that had saved him. During an annual duelling tournament on Chemos, a younger Lucius had taken a devastating blow to the stomach from a famed champion twice his age, only to snap and systematically dismantle the older man piece by piece.
When the champion's enraged disciples rushed the arena to kill him, a towering Sergeant of the Emperor's Children had stepped from the shadows, executing the crowd and claiming Lucius for the III Legion.
This wouldn't prove to be the only time that fortune favoured him. Now, that same arrogance drove him forward.
Looking across the second ring of ruined instruments, he locked his eyes on the Precentor's Dais. A massive, gold-and-emerald throne sat facing away from him, surrounded by tall lecterns holding heavy volumes of musical notation.
On the far side of the throne room, the remaining palace guards had massed into a defensive wall. They surrounded a towering figure clad in brilliant gold armour... Vardus Praal himself, whose back was fanned out with a complex rig of acoustic tubes and amplified loudspeakers.
A storm of silver energy lances flew from their strange weapons, cutting down several Space Marines as a fresh wave of guards flooded through the side entrances, throwing themselves into a desperate melee with the Emperor's Children.
If Lucius were not who he was, he would have taken a moment to breathe and plan this out, to find the 'perfect' counter to this clearly supernatural phenomenon.
"They have courage, I'll give them that," Lucius muttered to himself, his lips curling into his trademark haughty, unimpressed sneer.
To Lucius, the proudest and most foolhardy warrior of the III Legion, this wasn't a tragedy at all; this was his stage where he would perform another act of brilliance and kill the obstacle in front of him.
He considered himself completely unmatchable in swordplay. His ego was a colossal, fragile thing, still deeply bruised by the solitary defeat of his life: a duel against Captain Garviel Loken of the Luna Wolves, who had bypassed Lucius's elegant guards by simply punching him squarely in the face.
Lucius had eventually won the rematch, but the insult to his pride had never truly healed. Even his closest friend in the Legion, Tarvitz, had grown deeply wary of the Child of Chemos, recognising the childish, dangerous rot beneath his polished exterior.
This made sense because Tarvitz was mentally stable and healthy, while Lucius was not.
A sharp splatter of blood snapped Lucius back to the present. One of his elite Nasicae bodyguards fell heavily beside him, the silver darts having punched straight through the warrior's skull.
Only three of his personal guard remained alive, and they were completely pinned down, cut off from his position.
Lucius reached up, slamming his hand against his helmet's vox-link.
"Ancient Rylanor, engage! Secure me a baseline of suppressive fire! Tactical squads, converge on the dais and draw the palace guard into the open! Purity and death!"
"Purity and Death!" the surrounding Astartes echoed, their superhuman discipline taking over and following orders.
With the terrifying, seamless coordination that defined the Emperor's Children, the tactical squads pushed forward from their cover. Their bolt guns boomed, shredding a silver-armoured guard and throwing his bloody remains across the tiles.
The Space Marines advanced squad by squad, volley by perfect volley, marching directly through the wall of acoustic fire as only the third legion could. But that wasn't necessarily a compliment.
Unsheathing his ornate, antique sword, a priceless relic forged by the artisan masters of the Terrawatt Clan during the Unification Wars on ancient Terra, Lucius broke cover. He bolted headlong into the whirlwind of silver sparks and weapon fire, a manic, bloodthirsty grin hidden beneath his helmet.
Behind him, the massive form of the Venerable Dreadnought Rylanor smashed through a large bulk of drums and bells. The sheer, deafening sounds of the instruments and fortifications shattering were appalling as the Dreadnought's heavy assault cannons spun up, blowing a devastating line of fire through the enemy.
In response, the elite acrobatic guards darted and leapt through the air like lethal dancers, showing agility beyond normal human capabilities. They flipped over the sweeping chainblades and exploding bolt rounds, using the room's chaos to close the distance, their monofilament wire-blades slashing through the air as they attempted to cut off the Astartes' limbs.
Lucius watched them. His heart was beating with predatory joy. This was it, his stage was set, the music was playing, and it was time to show them what absolute perfection looked like.
He ducked and wove through the blinding storm of fire, expertly closing in on the gold-armoured figure. Shrapnel flashed against the energised edge of his relic sword.
The governor's armour was ancient and energised, a testament to craftsmanship rivalling the lord commander of the Emperor's Children. He wielded a mechanical spear that generated lethal sonic waves.
Lucius fluidly ducked beneath a sweeping strike, pirouetting to bring his blade upward toward his opponent's midriff.
In a swift motion that surprised the Astartes, the spear reversed direction, unleashing a concussive blast of sound that knocked Lucius's sword aside. He moved backwards, dodging a wave of sound that blasted a small hole through the floor.
The throne room was a chaotic mess of blood, purple armour and silver fire. A palace guard fell at Lucius's feet, while another was cut down by a Nasicae. Several tactical Space Marines, localised and moving forward to assist, were waved back by Lucius.
This was his duel... his kill.
With a fast leap, he bounded onto the throne pedestal. The spear descended toward his neck, but he ducked and countered, thrusting upwards with his blade. An acoustic wave deflected his strike, and the spear grazed his armour, damaging it.
As the battle raged around him, Lucius focused only on Vardus Praal, the leader of the rebellion and the goal of his achievement. He spun behind Praal's guard, slashing his blade, cutting through the speaker tubes on the governor's back and ending that annoying area of attack.
Satisfaction surged within him as he did it, but a pressure wave from the damaged pipes hurled him off the dais, slamming him onto the floor. However, the music, which was still booming through the throne room, intensified, fuelling Lucius with a wave of intoxicating power.
This should have made him pause and question how that came about. But he wasn't thinking straight. Not that he ever truly was.
For a man obsessed with perfection, this sensation was the height of... pleasure. The corruptive melody grabbed his soul, and he started to desire it more than anything.
The chaos of Chemos mirrored his dark desire as he rose from the ground, seeing music manifest as swirling lines of power.
With a tightened grip on his relic blade and a savage grin, he spoke to the governor.
"Now you die."