High King Caligus slumped on his shattered throne, a broken figure. Once the pride of Darok, an ambitious lord crowned with hopes of glory, now he sat amidst the ashes of all he had built.
The fires of destruction raged across his kingdom, consuming everything — his vows, his dreams, his legacy.
How did it come to this? the High King pondered bitterly.
He thought of the sorcerer — a figure clad in a dark blue robe, adorned with bird feathers and runes beyond his comprehension. Perhaps it was fated the moment that agent of Chaos handed him the crystal orb in the palace halls.
Or perhaps it mattered not. Before the monstrous forces of Chaos and the Imperium, Darok was little more than a pawn — a plaything to be crushed at their whim.
The only real question was who would bring destruction: the hammer of the Imperium, the horrors of the Warp, or both.
No choice he made could have spared Darok from its doom.
Hatred, cold and venomous, gnawed at Caligus's heart.
When he overheard those crude Imperial soldiers brazenly discussing his fate — like he was already dead — rage overwhelmed him.
The dignity of a king would not suffer such humiliation.
"I will not accept your judgment! I will not be your captive! I was born in Darok, and I shall die in Darok. My body and soul belong to this world, and no one shall take them from me!" he roared, his voice like a storm.
"I spit upon you, soldiers! I spit upon your accursed Imperium! In my eyes, you are no different than the daemons of the Warp! Hahaha! Let us die together — I shall become a vengeful spirit, and haunt you to your graves!"
High King Caligus rose from his throne, his battered frame radiating a terrible grandeur. For a moment, he seemed once again the proud lord of Darok, golden hair whipping around him in the howling wind.
The Catachan commando captain sensed the change instantly.
"Stop him!" he barked.
He lunged forward — but he was too late.
With a mighty roar, the Iron Throne detonated. A pulse of invisible, destructive force tore through the air.
The crystal dome of the spire exploded, shards raining down like a deadly, jeweled blizzard.
The tactical team, clad in their Destroyer Armor, activated their shields immediately — but the sheer force of the blast hurled them bodily from the spire's heights.
Fortunately, their jetpacks were still functional. Even as they spun through the chaos, powerful thrusters stabilized them in midair, sparing them from lethal injury.
Suspended in the maelstrom, with the fire of his jetpack blazing behind him, Sly Marbo — legend of Catachan — surveyed the situation.
Outwardly calm, eyes sharp and predatory as ever, inside he felt a rare sliver of concern.
In the moment before the throne's detonation, he had seen it: the commando captain shielding Caligus with his body, triggering the armor's defense systems a heartbeat before the explosion.
The captain had taken the full brunt of the Warp-tainted blast.
Thunder and hellfire consumed him, tossing his body like a rag doll across the air.
Worse still, the captain's jetpack had been damaged — sputtering and sparking, unable to correct his fall.
All while protecting a prisoner — a traitor.
Without hesitation, Marbo moved. His rifle barked once, a single hyper-precise shot tearing into the heart of the unseen explosion.
A shriek split the air — something not of the mortal realm cried out in agony.
Instantly, the shockwave collapsed.
The hurricane winds fell silent. The lightning guttered out. Shattered crystal rained down, tinkling on the ruins of the spire's platform.
Marbo surged forward through the settling debris, catching the commando captain mere moments before he would have plummeted to his death.
It had been a close thing. The energy blast had nearly crippled the jetpack entirely — rupturing fuel lines and destabilizing the armor's systems.
Had the captain fallen unaided from the thousand-meter spire, not even the Emperor's mercy could have saved him.
Nearby, Caligus also lay sprawled and broken, coughing blood onto the ruined platform.
The Iron Throne was shattered, just as his ambitions were.
Without the protection of armor, the king's chest was crushed inward, his body wrecked. His once-proud robe was in tatters, soaked in blood.
The High King — or what remained of him — crawled in the dust, staring blankly at the wreckage of his reign.
Through cracked lips, he asked the soldier before him, his voice ragged with pain, "Why?"
Why save him? He had wished for death — yet here he still lived.
The commando captain, broken helmet hanging from his side, his scarred face bleeding freely, gave the only answer he knew:
"You do not get to decide your death. That right belongs to the Emperor — and to the Warmaster. Not to a traitor."
Caligus coughed blood, a twisted, bitter laugh escaping him.
"Madman," he spat weakly — and then collapsed into unconsciousness.
The commando captain remained kneeling there, breathing heavily, crimson running down his battered face.
The Destroyer Armor had spared his life — but barely.
Unlike the blessed power armor of the Adeptus Astartes, the human-grade armor was far more vulnerable. Its cheaper construction and weaker plating were not meant to withstand daemonic sorcery.
Still, he had survived.
For now.
The storm earlier had nearly claimed his life.
Two Catachan commandos carried High King Caligus away, while urgently summoning the medical team for their wounded leader.
Captain Devona, commander of the Catachan assault team, felt his vision darkening. His body, numbed by pain and exhaustion, gave way, and he collapsed to the deck.
Before he fully lost consciousness, he could hear the panicked voices of his comrades calling out his name — raw, desperate.
"Why are you howling? I'm not dead yet," Devona muttered to himself, almost amused, before sinking into a deeper darkness.
In the twilight between sleep and death, a vision seized him — one unlike anything he had ever known.
Above the shattered skies of Darok, beyond the veil of stars, an immense and sacred Eye stared down upon him. It was one of countless eyes upon a vast, rotating wheel that spanned the heavens. Yet even as a single mote in that endless array, its gaze alone was enough to see all of Darok — and Devona himself — with terrifying clarity.
The eye's abyssal pupil burned with an infinite crimson fire. Yet Devona, hardened warrior of Catachan though he was, felt no fear. Instead, an overwhelming courage filled his heart, a flame no lesser than the fires within that divine gaze.
"Devona, your name," intoned a voice, echoing through his very soul — the voice of a thousand legions of heroes, of humanity's endless march through blood and suffering.
"Yes. That is my name," Devona answered, pride swelling within him. It was an honor beyond words.
But then the vision shifted. His body fell — as if cast down from a height beyond imagination, a plummet through endless void. He fell, faster and faster, until gravity itself crushed him.
When he struck bottom, the weight of the material world returned.
Devona snapped awake.
The harsh glare of surgical lamps stabbed at his eyes. Blinking painfully, he realized he was aboard an Imperial warship.
Pharmacists from the Medical Order surrounded him, administering emergency care.
"By the Throne, he's awake!" one of them gasped in disbelief.
"Apologies, my lord," the man said more meekly, realizing his outburst. "Given the brain trauma... the odds of your survival were less than twenty-two percent. Even if all went well, we expected you to wake in several months. This is... a miracle. Emperor protect."
Devona said nothing. His mind lingered on the colossal Eye and the flames of the abyss. Had it been real? A vision from the Emperor? Or merely the fevered dream of a dying man?
He returned his focus to the present — the sharp sting of a needle dragging him back to the now.
"What are you injecting?" he asked hoarsely.
"Anesthetic," the pharmacist replied calmly. "Your injuries are critical. While your exterior appears intact, inside... your organs are like minced meat wrapped in flesh. We nearly gave up on you."
Devona: "..."
He wanted to protest, to say he still had some fight left — but before he could speak, the anesthetic took hold. Darkness claimed him once more, and the apothecaries set to work cutting out the shattered wreckage of his body.
Despite the skilled hands of the Medical Order, they could not guarantee full recovery. Devona would require long, painful rehabilitation — and even then, lingering damage would follow him for the rest of his days.
The chief apothecary later advised him, in soft and careful tones, to consider retirement.
With his service record and battlefield honors, Devona could live out his life in peace, free from want or hardship, enjoying comforts most citizens of the Imperium could scarcely dream of.
But Devona was not ready to lay down his blade. Half a lifetime spent in war could not be so easily set aside. Yet in his current broken state, he knew he had to face reality.
On the first day after surgery, when the anesthetics faded, the pain was unimaginable. Even lying still in a hospital bed was torture.
As he endured the agony, sleepless and alone in the sterile ward, Devona wrestled with the terrible decision: to fight against fate, or surrender to it.
But by the second day — something impossible happened.
The moment the ship's bell tolled, the pain evaporated. His body, once crushed and broken, was whole.
Driven by a mixture of disbelief and hope, Devona rose from the bed and ran through a full Catachan training regimen — push-ups, squats, burpees — and found himself stronger than ever before.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he realized: he had not only recovered, he had surpassed his old strength.
A miracle.
Yet in the Imperium of Man, miracles often carried the stench of heresy.
Devona feared the worst — a curse from the Warp, a corruption of the soul — and resolved to report himself to the Chaplains for judgment.
But before he could act, the door to his room hissed open.
A woman entered.
With her arrival, the simple chamber seemed transfigured — suffused with an ethereal brilliance, as if the very air shone in reverence.
Devona looked up and forgot to breathe.
She was flawless, her silver hair and pale skin seeming to catch and refract the light like living crystal. Her silver eyes — ancient and fathomless — looked upon him without judgment.
Holiness radiated from her like the light of the Astronomican itself.
Devona knew her at once — the commander of the Imperial task force on Vigilus, the Saint of the Order of the Soul, the Seraph of the Warmaster — Saint Efilar.
Ashamed to meet her gaze, he bowed awkwardly, his rough Catachan manners colliding with the presence of divinity.
"No need to be so formal," the Saint said gently, her voice clear as a bell. "I only wished to visit the hero who captured High King Caligus. You seem well — or... have you already recovered?"
Devona hesitated, anxiety flickering across his scarred face.
How could he explain? He himself did not understand what had happened.
"Don't worry," the Saint said warmly. "Perhaps it is your loyalty that has brought about this miracle."
Devona watched the pure white light streaming from her silver eyes. His heart, heavy with unease, slowly calmed. If even a Saint recognized his loyalty, there was no need to burden the priests with his doubts.
"Devona, you did well. Mabo gave me a complete report on the battle. Thanks to your valorous sacrifice, the Imperium will obtain vital intelligence."
At her praise, Devona flushed slightly.
Yes, he was embarrassed — but there was no shame in that. Before a living Saint, even the hardest sons of Catachan were no more than children.
"For your exceptional conduct and steadfast command under fire," Efilar continued, "I have submitted a request to the Warmaster. You are hereby appointed commander of the First Catachan Destroyer Mech Regiment. Sly Mabo and your squad will be transferred with you. You will fight together once more."
"Ah?"
Devona blinked, stunned into silence. Just the day before, he had been considering retirement — now he was being offered command of an elite force?
"You're not thinking of refusing, are you?" Efilar teased gently. "I cannot imagine a Catachan warrior — brave and unyielding — quailing before duty."
"No! I accept!" Devona blurted, nearly tripping over his own words in his excitement. Of course he would not refuse.
Everything he had feared — being crippled, being separated from his comrades — was gone. He had awoken healed, promoted, and given a new purpose in service to the Emperor.
It was almost too perfect. It scarcely seemed real.
Efilar smiled softly, gave him a nod of blessing, and turned to leave.
Yet as she turned, her expression darkened, the brightness of her features fading into a mask of grim contemplation. Not because of Devona — she honored his bravery — but because of the situation unfolding across the world of Darok.
What had seemed, at first, a mere rebellion was anything but simple.
The crystal tower of High King Caligus. The Nine Steps. The crystalline dome. The fragmented sphere that Devona had recovered and carried back in his tactical satchel.
All of it pointed to something far fouler than mortal ambition — the mark of the Changer of Ways, Tzeentch.
When the schemes of the Architect of Fate were involved, no matter how small the signs, no matter how subtle the trail, matters would never remain simple.
Recognizing the potential danger, Efilar had urgently petitioned for the best interrogator the Imperium could offer.
The request had been granted — and the response exceeded even her expectations.
Asmodai of the Dark Angels was coming.
The Master of Repentance. The oldest and most feared Interrogator-Chaplain in the history of the Chapter. His very name inspired terror, even among the most hardened heretics and traitors.
Efilar had not expected him to come personally — but she was not entirely surprised. Rumors among the Sisters whispered that Asmodai had recently fallen afoul of the Lion King, Primarch Lion El'Jonson himself.
Allegedly, the conflict stemmed from Asmodai's relentless persecution of one of the Angels of Absolution — an act that had drawn the ire of the Lion.
Of course, none of this gossip was confirmed. Even among Sisters of Battle, rumor-mongering was a guilty pleasure — and Efilar had simply heard it through whispered conversations among her sisters. Whether there truly was a rift between Asmodai and the Lion, she neither knew nor cared.
All that mattered was this:
If anyone could rip the darkest secrets from the mind of High King Caligus — even if that mind was twisted by Tzeentchian sorcery — it was Asmodai.
And soon, he would be here.
...
TN:
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