C O U N C I L
The tactical hololith cast its pale light across the war room of the Unbreakable Vow, painting the faces of those assembled in shifting blues and ambers. Consul Tymon Graegar of the Imperial Fists stood at the head of the stone table, his yellow plate dulled by months of void warfare, scoring from plasma and las-fire marking his right pauldron like tallies of survival.
Beyond the reinforced viewports, the Beta-Garmon cluster burned. Not with the clean light of stars, but with the diseased luminescence of the Ruinstorm—that great psychic cancer Horus had carved into the galaxy’s flesh. They had been trapped here for seventeen months. Seventeen months since the skies had screamed and the Warp had become a thing of teeth and madness.
“The intelligence is sound,” Tymon said, his voice the grinding of slate on stone. “The Word Bearers vessel yielded before it died. Their astropath broke under considerable interrogation. A supply fleet, twelve vessels, moving through the Vandris Passage. Light escort. Destined for the traitor siege lines at Beta-Garmon II.”
He looked at each of them in turn. Brother-Sergeant Khayven of the Raven Guard, his armor matte black even in the hololith’s glow, seemed to fade into shadow whenever Tymon’s gaze moved past him. The two Ultramarines— Optae Sulla and Optae Marcellus, from different expeditionary fleets caught in the same storm—stood with the rigid bearing of Guilliman’s sons, though Tymon noticed Sulla’s clenched fist, the subtle tremor of a warrior too long denied battle.
The Blood Angel, Captain Azkaellon’s lieutenant Damian, bore the red and gold of the Revenant Legion, his face a mask of barely controlled fury that had nothing to do with the enemy and everything to do with the storm that kept them from their gene-father’s side. Beside him stood Wolf Guard Bjornsson of the Sixth, his grey armor hung with pelts and totems, tusks and bones clicking softly as he shifted his weight.
The Dark Angel said nothing. Paladin-Commander Althaeus simply watched, his sable plate immaculate, his face carved from marble and old secrets.
But it was Lord Castellan Vorkhan of the Imperial Army who spoke first, his ornate uniform a jarring splash of ceremony amid the transhuman warriors. “Lord General Bollivar sends his regards, Consul. The Fassadian Third and Fifth stand ready. Twenty thousand men and three armor companies. We’ve been bleeding for nothing while traitor supplies slide past us in the dark.”
“We’ve been bleeding to survive,” Tymon corrected, though not unkindly. “The Ruinstorm doesn’t discriminate, Castellan. Every ship that ventures beyond our defensive sphere is a ship we lose. But you’re right. We cannot simply endure while the traitors tighten their noose around Garmon II.”
“A raid,” the Raven Guard said, his voice barely above a whisper yet cutting through the chamber like a knife. “Strike from concealment. Cripple their engines, sow confusion, withdraw and let them rot in the void.”
“I say we harry them to death,” Bjornsson growled, grinning through his beard. “Wolves never kill a stag in one blow. We bleed it. We chase it. We tear it apart piece by piece until it falls. Would you have us peck at their engines, Raven?”
Khayven refused to bristle, but nevertheless his cold gaze filled the space.
Optae Sulla stepped forward, his finger tracing the hololith’s projected route. “The Vandris Passage narrows here, at the Mordax Strait. Asteroid fields. Debris from the old void stations. We could mine it. Force them through a killing field.”
“And when they adapt? When they simply go around?” Marcellus challenged, ever the tactician. “We have limited ordnance, brother. Every mine is a torp we won’t have later.”
“Then we use what we have now,” Damian hissed, his words tight with controlled rage. “How many months have we sat here? How many brothers have we lost to waiting, to patience? I say we take every ship that can fly, we hit them with everything we have, and we make them pay for every meter of void they cross.”
Silence fell. The Blood Angel’s fury hung in the air like heat from a forge.
“Passion without precision is waste,” Althaeus said quietly, his first words of the council. “But passion channeled is a weapon. We know their route. We know their strength. The question is not whether we strike, but how completely we can destroy them before they scatter or call for aid.”
Tymon studied the hololith, watching the projected enemy fleet crawl through the stellar map like parasites through flesh. Twelve vessels. Supplies heading for Beta-Garmon II, where the siege ground on in its grinding, endless attrition. Ammunition for traitor guns. Fuel for traitor ships. Food for traitor bellies. Reinforcements that would prolong the slaughter on that blighted world.
“We split our force,” he said at last. “The sixth and nineteenth move ahead, void-capable assault teams. You infiltrate the asteroid field, set demolition charges, create false signatures. Make them think the field is full of threats. The first and ninth form our hammer— strike craft and rapid assault boats. You’ll hit their escorts hard and fast, disable their engines, leave them for the main fleet.”
He turned to the Ultramarines. “Sulla, Marcellus—your companies will provide our anvil. Hold the Mordax Strait with the Unbreakable Vow and the Fist of Inwit. When they try to scatter, you cut them off. Nothing escapes. Lord Castellan, your forces remain here to guard our own supply lines. I’ll not have us vulnerable if this is a trap.”
“And if it is a trap, lord?” Vorkhan asked.
Tymon’s smile was grim. “Then we spring it together, and the traitors learn what it means to face the Emperor’s loyal sons when they have nothing left to lose.”
Bjornsson laughed, a sound like boulders tumbling. “I knew I’d end up liking you, stone-face. Then come to my battle-barge, Raven Guard. We plan. When do we begin?”
“The fleet enters the passage in forty-one hours. We move in twenty. Update your companies. Make your preparations. And remember— we are the Emperor’s vengeance in this forsaken storm. We may be trapped here, but by Terra, we will make the traitors wish they had never sent their pawns through our domain.”
They saluted as one—fist to chest, the old unity, the brotherhood that transcended legion colors and primarch oaths. As they filed out, Tymon remained, watching the hololith’s cold calculations.
Outside, the Ruinstorm raged. Somewhere beyond it, Rogal Dorn fortified the Imperial Palace. And below, on Beta-Garmon II, loyalist and traitor alike died in their thousands while the siege consumed them all.
But here, in the void above that tortured world, Consul Tymon Graegar would do what an Imperial Fist did best: he would hold the line, exact a price in blood for every traitor ambition, and ensure that not one bolt shell, not one drop of fuel reached the enemy lines below.
The enemy would come. And they would learn that stone does not break.
It endures.
I figured I’d create some characters to write around for our upcoming campaign at Komma next year. I mostly look forward to noting the names of my fellow player’s commanders so they can interact with this little coterie of supporting cast :)