W A I T I N G
I stand with my back to the bulkhead, arms crossed over my chest plate, hearing the chrono tick its slow path toward the hour. Captain Ashurhaddon will return when the Warmaster dismisses him, and not a moment sooner. Until then, I wait. The Sons of Horus understand patience—we are the tip of the spear, yes, but even a spear must be drawn back before it strikes.
The ready room hums with the ship’s systems, a bass rumble that settles into your bones after enough hours aboard a vessel this size. Four other equerries share this vigil, each waiting for their lords to emerge from the strategium where the fate of Beta-Garmon is being decided.
Across from me, Lieutenant Phaedos of the Iron Warriors leans against the wall with his arms folded, his expression carved from the same granite as his primarch’s heart. He hasn’t moved in twenty minutes, hasn’t even shifted his weight. Efficiency in all things, even in stillness. The IVth Legion pride themselves on their siegecraft, and why shouldn’t they? But pride alone doesn’t win wars—the Sons of Horus learned that lesson at the Emperor’s side, before the old man’s vision failed him.
“The disposition of forces troubles you, Lieutenant Phaedos?” I ask, more to break the silence than from any real curiosity. I already know what the Iron Warrior thinks. His eyes—cold, calculating—slide toward me. “The assault plan is sound. Three primary worlds, fourteen lesser targets. Standard siege doctrine applied at scale.” He pauses, then adds with the faintest edge, “Though I question the deployment of certain legions to critical theaters.”
Before I can respond, a dry chuckle comes from the corner where Brother-Epistolary Theron of the Thousand Sons sits cross-legged on the deck plating, his ornate armor glinting with hermetic symbols. “Your concern is noted, brother, but perhaps you place too much faith in conventional warfare. The Fifteenth understands that some fortresses are not broken by walls collapsing, but by minds opening.”
Phaedos’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “Sorcery.”
“Knowledge,” Theron corrects gently, though his eyes flash with something less than gentleness. “But I sense your true concern lies not with my legion, but with the deployments to Beta-Garmon II.”
“The Alpha Legion and the Emperor’s Children.” The words come from Brother Ghast of the Death Guard, standing near the viewport with his arms behind his back. His voice rasps through his helm’s vox-grille like wind through a crypt. “An… interesting pairing.”
I push off from the bulkhead, unable to resist joining the conversation properly now. “The XXth excels at infiltration and intelligence warfare. The IIIrd are among the finest shock troops in the Warmaster’s arsenal. What troubles you about their assignment?” Phaedos speaks first, his words clipped and precise. “The Alpha Legion operates without clear command hierarchies. Their operational security exceeds paranoia and enters dysfunction. In a siege requiring coordination—”
“They will act as they always do,” I interrupt, unable to hide my irritation. “With results. The Warmaster trusts them, as do I.”
“And the Emperor’s Children?” Ghast’s question hangs in the air like the stench of gangrene.
That gives me pause. Lord Commander Eidolon and his perfection-obsessed warriors have grown… strange. Even we have heard the rumors filtering back from the conquest of the Laer worlds. But I keep my voice level. “They remain loyal to the Warmaster. Their skill at arms is beyond question.”
“Loyalty.” Theron’s voice carries an odd inflection. “Yes. Though I wonder sometimes what shape loyalty takes when filtered through the pursuit of sensation. My brothers have… glimpsed certain futures. Possibilities. The warp shows us—”
“The warp shows you lies and madness,” Phaedos snaps. “Which is why Lord Perturabo counsels against its use in tactical planning.”
A sound cuts through the room—a low, animal growl that raises the hair on the back of my neck even through my armor. We all turn toward the corner we’ve been carefully ignoring.
Veteran Sergeant Kol of the XII sits hunched on a reinforced bench, his hands gripping his knees so tightly I can hear the servos in his gauntlets whine. His head is bowed, and his entire body trembles with barely suppressed violence. The Butcher’s Nails, those cursed implants, bite into his brain stem, driving him toward rage with every passing second.
“Kol.” My voice is carefully neutral. “Your captain will return soon.”
His head snaps up, and through his helm’s eye-lenses I see bloodshot eyes swimming with pain and fury. “Talk,” he forces out through gritted teeth. “Keep… talking. Need… distraction.”
The others exchange glances. We’re all Astartes, all post-human, all weapons of war—but the World Eaters walk a different path. They’ve carved away the parts of themselves that made them anything but killers, and in doing so, they’ve become something we can barely recognize as brothers.
Theron, surprisingly, speaks with compassion. “The siege will be glorious, brother. Your legion will have ample opportunity to—”
“Not helping,” Kol grinds out. A thread of blood runs from beneath his helmet seal. “Strategy. Talk… strategy.”
I clear my throat. “Very well. Beta-Garmon is the gateway to Terra. Seven primary worlds, dozens of secondary installations. Imperial Army forces number in the billions. Orbital defenses are extensive. This will be the largest engagement since Isstvan V.”
“Which is why the Alpha Legion’s assignment makes sense,” Ghast says, picking up my thread. “While we prosecute direct siege operations, they can sow confusion, eliminate key commanders, disrupt supply lines. Classic force multiplication.”
Phaedos nods reluctantly. “And the Emperor’s Children can exploit breaches created by preliminary bombardment. Their speed and precision serve that function adequately.”
“Adequately,” Theron murmurs with amusement. “Such praise.”
“I praise what deserves praise,” the Iron Warrior replies flatly. “I criticize what deserves criticism. The Emperor’s Children have… changed. As have others.” His eyes flick to Theron, then to me. “The question is whether that change serves the Warmaster’s vision or something else.”
The temperature in the room seems to drop. My hand doesn’t move toward my sidearm, but the weight of it at my hip suddenly feels more pronounced. “Speak plainly, Lieutenant.”
“I speak only what Lord Perturabo observes,” Phaedos says, meeting my gaze without flinching. “That some of our brothers have found… new patrons. New sources of strength. And that strength carries a price.”
Theron rises in one fluid motion, his psychic presence suddenly heavy in the air. “Be very careful with your accusations, Iron Warrior.”
“It’s not an accusation,” Phaedos replies. “It’s a tactical assessment. The warp changes those who traffic with it. Your legion’s obsession with forbidden knowledge. The Emperor’s Children’s descent into hedonism. The Death Guard’s—”
“Endurance,” Ghast interrupts, his voice like stones grinding together. “We endure all things. As we always have. What my brothers on the other side of this war call corruption, we call adaptation. Evolution. The Emperor tried to keep us pure, and look where it led—to stagnation. And lies.”
“The Emperor,” I say carefully, “lost his way. He would have destroyed us all in the name of his vision of order. The Warmaster freed us from that. Whatever changes come, they come in service to humanity’s true future.”
A harsh laugh barks from Kol’s corner. “Future. Don’t care… about future. Only now. Only… the red. The nails sing and I…” He shudders violently. “Don’t want to hear.”
The moment of tension breaks. We’re not enemies here, not yet. We’re brothers in arms, bound by oath to the Warmaster, waiting in a ready room while our masters plan the greatest siege in human history.
“Garmon will bleed,” I say quietly. “However strange our methods have become, however much we’ve changed from what we were, we will take that system and open the path to Terra. The Warmaster will see to that.”
“The Warmaster,” Theron agrees, though something in his tone suggests he’s thinking of other forces at play.
“Lord Perturabo’s siege lines will hold,” Phaedos states with absolute certainty.
“Mortarion’s sons will endure,” Ghast adds.
We look to Kol. He’s bent double now, hands pressed to his helmet, fighting the implants’ insistent screaming. “Will… kill,” he manages. “Will kill them all.”
It’s not poetry, but it’s truth. The World Eaters will kill them all. The Iron Warriors will grind them down. The Thousand Sons will break their minds. The Death Guard will outlast their hope. The Sons of Horus will lead from the front, as we always have.
And the Alpha Legion and the Emperor’s Children? They’ll do whatever secret, terrible things they do in the shadows and the light respectively. The Warmaster has his reasons for sending them to Beta-Garmon II, and I trust those reasons even if I don’t understand them.
The strategium doors hiss open. Captain Ashurhaddon emerges, his expression unreadable. Behind him come the other captains—Forrix of the Iron Warriors, Typhon of the Death Guard, Ardeth of the Thousand Sons. Khârn of the World Eaters is last, and Kol practically leaps to his feet, desperate for orders, for purpose, for release.
“Beta-Garmon,” the First Reaver says simply, looking at me. “We deploy in three weeks. The final siege begins.”
I nod. “For the Warmaster.”
“For the Warmaster,” the others echo.
But as we file out of the ready room toward our separate ships, separate legions, separate fates, I can’t help but wonder if Phaedos was right. Not about loyalty—we’re all loyal to the Warmaster—but about change. We’ve all changed so much since the Heresy began. We’re not the same warriors who stood at the Emperor’s side during the Great Crusade.
Perhaps that’s what victory requires. Perhaps you must become something terrible to tear down something worse.
Or perhaps, a small voice whispers in the back of my mind, we’ve simply found new chains to replace the old ones.
I silence that voice. Captain Ashurhaddon is waiting, and the XVI have work to do.
The siege of Beta-Garmon awaits.
Stay tuned for some loyalist fan-nonsense from the other side! 🫣😂