"Angels of the Emperor.
"You saved Avalonis—you saved us…"
Marshal Haraga of the sector Astra Militarum's defense forces came in person to thank the Fallen for their aid.
She was a severe, gaunt woman in her middle years, black hair streaked with ash-gray at the tips, a crescent tattoo arcing along her cheek.
After the former planetary governor went mad in the wake of the Great Rift, Haraga had executed him and assumed the world's administration, ruling the system as marshal and acting planetary governor.
She had led her armies through many assaults, often present on the line herself.
Until this time.
A Greater Daemon of Chaos had descended and, in the span of a breath, torn the defense grid apart.
Super-heavy tanks had been toys before the fiend—one sweep of its claws, one wash of warp-rot, and they were wrecks.
Only the timely stand of the Emperor's Angels reversed the tide and spared the world from total defeat.
They had saved hundreds of millions in Xerxes City.
"Marshal, that is our duty.
"We are bound to protect the Emperor's subjects—to protect life."
Knight-Captain Avka spoke with respect for this high commander of the Guard—or rather, for the way Haraga had behaved under fire. She had earned the Fallen's regard.
Not every sector noble had the nerve to face Chaos.
Many were bags of wine and wind, masters of intrigue who trembled in their gilded palaces the instant an enemy appeared.
"If I may ask something forward—when you arrived on Avalonis, why did you not follow procedure and contact us?"
Haraga kept her tone level as she broached it.
Subsequent inquiry showed these Angels had hidden in Xerxes' under-hives and only revealed themselves when the daemons struck.
That was not normal procedure—and certainly not the profile of a world worth such a concentration of Angels for a black mission.
Her gaze skimmed over Avka and the others, just a hair sharper as it passed the battered plate and scarred, distorted heraldry.
She had heard a forbidden rumor—that among the Angels were traitors—and that the Dark Angels hunted them without cease.
Rumors. No proof.
Yet looking at these Angels, she began to believe. No Adeptus Astartes should be this ragged.
As soon as she finished, the Fallen behind Avka—busy wiping their weapons—lifted their heads.
Shfft.
Those towering warriors' eyes put the flanking guards on edge; hands drifted to lasguns by reflex.
Useless reflex.
At this distance, the Fallen could slaughter the marshal and acting governor—before anyone drew a breath.
Haraga raised a hand, stopping her guards from escalating. That path led only to blood.
But she held Avka's gaze, waiting for an answer.
"You already have your suspicions, Marshal," Avka said at last. His worn face barely moved; he had heard such questions too many times.
"Please understand.
"I need a definite answer. Knowing every possible threat is my duty—and it's for Avalonis' safety."
She pressed on, determined to pull the mask away.
Avka's brows tightened.
Such was the lot of Astartes in the Imperium—often mistrusted, often unwelcome. From the highest offices, fear only sharpened.
If that was true for "ordinary" Space Marines, it was truer still for the Fallen.
When their identity was guessed or exposed, they were typically driven from whatever bolt-hole they'd carved—by threats, denunciations, or politely phrased pleas.
Governors dared not harbor "traitors" among the Emperor's Angels.
They found ways to make them leave—lest the stain spill over onto their world.
After a silence, Avka spoke.
"Your guess is correct. I am what the madmen call a traitor—a wanderer among the stars.
"But our loyalty to the Emperor has never wavered. That is beyond question."
He looked down at the marshal who neither groveled nor blustered. "So—is this the part where you expel us? Ask us to go?"
"You saved Avalonis. That cannot be denied."
Haraga let out a small breath, thinking of those whispers. "As planetary governor, I do not want you to leave.
"Avalonis cannot do without you now. We need you against the deeper dark—against the claws of Chaos.
"But speaking only for myself, I want you to go. Not long ago we seized a spy trying to vox-cast your presence off-world.
"There may be more like him. Your position is compromised, and danger is coming.
"I would not see the heroes who saved Avalonis fed to it."
She paused, then met Avka's eyes—open, earnest.
"You may already be set on leaving. Still, I beg you to stay.
"Stay as our guardians—and protect this world that the dark would swallow.
"But if you choose to depart, I will provide ships. I know your vessel is damaged…"
She didn't know what the Fallen would decide.
She had come to petition them to remain—and knew even as she asked that it was unfair to the heroes who had bled for her world.
But as marshal and acting governor—for the billions on Avalonis—
She had to ask.
Not only she; the Guard nearby watched the Fallen with the same pleading in their eyes.
The last strength that could shield them.
Avka traded a look with Holok and the others. In their eyes—a flicker.
Subdued. Hard to see. But there.
They had lived like plague-bearers in the Imperium—hiding, enduring suspicion, interrogation, resentment, fear.
Branded traitors, stripped of honors—yet still loyal—but never honored for it.
"Marshal, we will remain and fight the servants of Chaos."
Avka's voice was formal—and firm. Then he added, "And do not worry for us. Perhaps the madmen will not come so quickly."
What he did not say: they were bone-tired of running.
They would stand for this world, to keep it from sharing Caliban's fate.
Even if it meant death.
His gifts whispered of the dark—how deep it was, how it made the spirit shiver.
But if they were to die, they would die as warriors with honor.
Not as "traitors."
"Guardians, on behalf of Avalonis, I thank you for your courage and your sacrifice."
Haraga's face grew solemn. She bowed in her people's highest rite of gratitude—an old tribal gesture.
Avalonis had industrialized under the Imperium's hand, but many customs endured—tattooed faces and the honors that went with them.
One by one, every officer and Guardsman present bent low, hands folding slightly at the waist.
By the tens of thousands, they offered reverence to their heroes.
Avka and the hundred-odd Fallen stood stunned—staring out over that dark mass of bowed backs, lost for words.
Perhaps for the first time in ten millennia, the Fallen felt the weight of expectation—and acceptance.
Honor, returned to their hands.
"Guardians… is there anything you require of us?"
The ceremony done, Haraga glanced over the tattered warriors and couldn't help asking.
"You can see it—we need supplies."
Avka managed a crooked smile. It had been a very long time since the Fallen had seen proper resupply.
He tapped the plates of his near-ruined armor.
"Techs to patch our gear. Heavy weapons, ammunition, demolition charges."
If they could not have Astartes-grade arms, then mortal large-caliber would do.
Better than nothing.
"As you wish."
With formal respect, Haraga led them toward the desert encampment.
As the Fallen walked, soldiers saluted them—not with the Aquila, but with Avalonis' own gesture.
…
The desert camp.
The Fallen gathered to rest.
Avalonis' medicae and techs came to them—stitching wounds, hammering plates true, doing all they could.
"All the right choice," Holok murmured at last, looking to his Knight-Captain—a note of apology for having urged retreat earlier. "We shouldn't run any longer. That path ends in shame."
"We are knights. We do our duty."
Avka rubbed at his face, half-embarrassed.
While the medicae worked, someone had scrubbed the grime from his skin and trimmed his beard.
He had not felt this clean in years—and it felt… good.
He had never hoped to wash the brand of "traitor" from the Fallen. Impossible.
But they could choose how they met the end.
"Hey—then we crack skulls with these Chaos pups till the last.
"Even dead, I'll be smiling!"
Cayton thumped the ugly patchwork of his armor—fresh welds and a crude extra layer rattling—and grinned like a wolf.
From the set of the Knight-Captain's jaw as he stared at that black rift, Cayton knew the next battle would be beyond anything they'd faced.
So be it. The knights of Caliban never flinched.
A great fight loomed—and yet the Fallen were at ease. Something inside had unclenched, as if old sins had loosened their grip.
Then a shadow fell across the camp—vast, growing.
It pushed down toward low orbit, a weight that made the heart stutter.
"Look—what is that? Where did that ship come from?!"
Guardsmen craned their necks, staring up at the mass blotting out the sky—fear tightening their throats.
That silhouette did not look friendly.
"How? Our orbital monitors reported nothing—how did it get through?"
Haraga shot to her feet.
She stared at the dark-green hull high above, incredulity twisting her voice sharp.
A strange warship shouldn't have been able to slip past the picket stations and approach the world directly.
Worse—the uninvited guest was almost certainly a Dark Angels vessel.
Which meant war would come to Avalonis.
"That's a Dark Angels ship. They're using relic tech to screen your EM nets.
"If they arrived this fast, our location was already in their hands.
"So this is how we end? In humiliation?"
Avka's face slipped—disappointment, a helplessness against fate.
Around him, the Fallen wore the same look.
They had just chosen to meet the dark with honor—and here came their hunters.
Perhaps all of them would die as "traitors," after all.
"Guardians—come with me. The city's pad has ships. I can get you off-world."
Haraga's plea was earnest.
A commander born of the tribes, she prized bonds. She could not abandon Avalonis' heroes to the noose.
"We can't run."
Avka shook his head.
"Their warship has already locked this world. We won't get out."
This wasn't a squad. It was an Inner Circle strike force. Perhaps a Grand Master in person.
They would not allow the Fallen to slip free.
If the Fallen bolted for the pads, the Angels would likely answer with orbital fire.
The relic-grade macro-batteries onboard would not only swat the launching ships—they'd bring ruin down on Xerxes, especially the outer hives where the Emperor's poorest lived.
If the bombardment began, there would be no escape.
Avka did not doubt their resolve. Nor did he doubt they would purge witnesses afterward—
The marshal. The guards. Anyone who had stood too close to the Fallen—so the Chapter's secret stayed buried.
"Marshal—disperse your soldiers.
"Keep them away from us. No interference. No resistance of any kind."
Avka's orders were level—and final.
He turned to his brothers, all iron-faced and burning with bitter will.
"Move out. Even if we die in disgrace, let them learn our measure first. The knights of Caliban do not kneel."
The Fallen snatched up their gear and sprinted into the deep desert—toward the black rift.
There they would choose their ground—and spare the world what collateral they could.
At the same time,
A vox-cast boomed down from the warship above, voice like ice:
"Imperial officials and soldiery of Avalonis: the Dark Angels will conduct operations upon this world. Any who seek to disobey or obstruct will be executed.
"Any who aid Imperial traitors will be executed.
"Shut down all air-defense installations immediately. Failure to comply constitutes treason against the Imperium.
"Repeat…"
Here in the dark-side regions, the Dark Angels were the supreme blade. Since the Rift had cut them off from the Imperium's light, their writ had only grown—unchecked.
Haraga hesitated for a handful of seconds—then ordered the batteries silent.
She knew resistance would be futile. It would only draw annihilation from the "unassailable" Angels.
As the defense grid died, scores of flaming meteors ripped the sky—burning as they plunged for the deep desert.
Drop-pods. Wave upon wave.
Marshal Haraga and the Guard looked up, faces tight with sorrow.
They knew a tragedy was descending—one they could not stop.
(End of Chapter)
[Get +20 Extra Chapters On — P@tr3on "Zaelum"]
[Every 500 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter Drop]
[Thanks for Reading!]