"I know what you're planning."
Before Leman Russ could finish explaining, Alaroth cut him off. "But I need you to understand something—the Mist of Deception doesn't work the way you think it does."
"What do you mean, the way I think?" Russ growled, amber eyes narrowing as frustration bubbled within him. A low rumble emerged from his throat, a telltale sign of his mounting irritation. Leman Russ, the Primarch of the Space Wolves, rarely felt helpless, but this was one of those times. The last time he'd experienced this level of frustration was during the Horus Heresy, particularly when Guilliman's overly rigid Codex led to one of their infamous arguments.
"You think the Mist of Deception can help you sneak into the Chaos camp, confront the Everchosen Mortkin, and fight him one-on-one?" Alaroth shook his head repeatedly. "No, no, my esteemed Wolf Lord. The Mist isn't some magical panacea."
"It's not that magical? What does it actually do, then?" Agrim Ironfist interjected, curiosity mixed with skepticism.
"The Mist of Deception is a divine artifact granted to me by Lileath in her guise as Ladrielle," Alaroth explained, pulling out a large purple vial. Inside, an ethereal glow shimmered like captured starlight. "Its purpose is to allow me and my personal forces to disengage from battle in emergencies or shift the battlefield conditions at critical moments. It's not meant for offensives or champion duels. The Mist cannot be used during daylight, and if there are too many enemies or if a powerful foe disrupts the Winds of Magic, it may fail entirely."
"It only lasts about 30 to 40 minutes," he continued, "depending on the Winds of Magic and your movement speed. That's hardly enough time for you to cut through ten thousand Chaos warriors, reach Mortkin, and escape from hundreds of Chaos champions and warlords unscathed."
The hope in Russ's heart chilled, like ice creeping into his veins.
While Russ's physical stature, wolf-like aura, and commanding presence were undeniable, he was painfully aware of his limitations in combat among the Primarchs. He wasn't in the league of Horus, Sanguinius, or Angron, who excelled in massive engagements. Even within the second tier of fighters like Perturabo and Fulgrim, Russ knew his capabilities didn't quite measure up. His strength lay in leadership, cunning, and the unity of his warriors—attributes that made him a charismatic and inspiring leader, but not an unmatched duelist or crowd-slayer.
"Does this mean... we can't do anything?" Russ slumped onto the steps of Bull Keep, resting his massive frame on the cold stone. He sighed, a rare expression of vulnerability from the usually indomitable Wolf King.
The sky over Ostermark mirrored his mood: overcast and oppressive. Decades of warfare in the Warp had taught Russ more than he wished to know—knowledge of forbidden truths, dark secrets, and burdens no one should carry.
But for the Emperor, Russ would bear any burden. He'd never regretted his decisions, even when they led to isolation or loss. He knew what his absence would mean for Fenris and his sons. He knew their grief, their recklessness, their inevitable spiral into ruin.
Russ chuckled bitterly, thinking of Oleg and his ill-fated expedition. "Burn someone's home, and they'll come to burn yours in return. Isn't that right, Magnus?" he muttered to himself, recalling the destruction of Prospero and the promise of vengeance Magnus would undoubtedly pursue against Fenris.
For a moment, Russ's mind wandered through the snowy peaks of the Central Mountains and the bloodstained history they bore. The jagged peaks, like a wolf's teeth, had devoured countless lives—foes and humans alike.
Russ, Alaroth, and Agrim sat silently, staring into the horizon, letting the chaos of the city fade into the background.
The ruins of villages, towns, and fortresses scattered across the landscape were slowly being reclaimed by the forest. Once-proud bastions of Charlemagne's Empire had crumbled under centuries of war and neglect, a testament to the relentless cycle of civilization succumbing to barbarism.
Still, the Ostermarkers refused to give up. Their resilience, honed by 3,000 years of defending the Empire's northern border, earned Russ's respect. He knew that as long as even one Ostermarker lived, their sacrifices and legends would endure. Around hearths, under rooftops, and over mugs of beer, their tales would be sung, their spirits kept alive.
Russ recalled a conversation with a young Wolf Guard:
"Wolf stories must be remembered forever. Generations will hear them and learn from them."
"Yes, my lord. I'll keep them all in my memory," the young warrior had replied earnestly.
"Good. They're our soul. I won't always be here to guide the Sons of Fenris. One day, when I'm gone, the stories must continue, and new ones will be written."
"You'll leave us? How could that happen?"
"It will happen, child. It always does."
The memory drew a somber smile from Russ. "My life's been a failure," he thought.
"I failed to shield my sons from mutation.
I failed to save my brothers from their folly.
I failed to protect Father and Ferrus."
"Guilliman writes codices and governs. Vulkan invents and builds. Dorn fortifies. Even Clarkson sneaks around! Hell, even the youngest brat, Ryan-Malcador, helped resurrect Father.
And me? What have I done? Nothing. Nothing at all."
"Why are you smiling at a time like this?" Agrim's gruff voice snapped Russ out of his brooding. The Slayer King laughed heartily. "You're a real wolf, Russ! Even knowing the odds, the dangers, and the impossibilities, you're still itching to challenge the Everchosen? That's dwarf-worthy courage!"
"Don't get ahead of yourself, shorty," Alaroth said, inspecting his quiver. "Ninety-eight arrows. Good enough for now. Speaking of which, what's with that little list of yours?"
"Oh, this?" Agrim held up the crumpled parchment. "It's from Thorgrom. A ranking of famous lords and generals worldwide. Three numbers—administration, diplomacy, and combined personal and military prowess. Scales from 0 to 6."
"Zero means they're an idiot; six means they're practically a god. Only dwarves get a seven, though. Humans and elves max out at six, and if they're exceptional, we mark it with a star."
"Figures," Alaroth muttered, annoyed at the implied slight to his kin.
As dusk settled, the conversation turned grim again.
"Chaos will be here by the evening after tomorrow," Alaroth said quietly.
"What did you just say?" Russ perked up.
"I said they'll arrive by the evening after tomorrow."
Russ froze, his mind racing. "Evening after tomorrow... maybe... just maybe..."
"What is it?" Agrim asked as Russ stood abruptly.
"I'll go to Herzig. I'll bring Ryan's reinforcements. His army is Wolfenburg's only hope!"
"Are you insane?" Alaroth blocked his path. "Herzig is 150 kilometers away! Even if you somehow make it, Ryan's army can't march fast enough. They won't reach us in time!"
"They will if I go," Russ growled. "Move aside, elf. Give me the Mist of Deception!"
"But—"
"Give it to me!" Russ roared. "If you care about the 380,000 souls in this city, if you want to stop Chaos from reaching your homeland, then trust me! Ryan will listen to me. He's my brother!"
Alaroth hesitated, torn between self-preservation and his duty to Lileath. Finally, he handed Russ the vial.
"How do I use it?" Russ demanded.
"Pour it over yourself. When the mist shrouds you, it's active."
"Good." Russ gripped the vial tightly. "Hold the city. I'll bring reinforcements."
With that, Russ dashed out of Wolfenburg, disappearing into the snowy wilderness.
Agrim watched him go, then turned to Alaroth. "Looks like it's just us now, elf."
"Indeed," Alaroth replied with a sly grin. "How about a contest? Let's see who kills more."
"By Grungni, that's a fine idea! Let's do it!"
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