With a deafening bang, the crudely reinforced doors burst inward, their shattered metal and splintered wood carried with them a mist of blood and shredded flesh—the remains of the unfortunate greenskins standing too close.
Atharion stormed into the hall, his advance silent save for the roar of battle around him and the thunder of his own wrath. His thunder hammer swung in great arcs, each strike a detonation of caged lightning and raw force. Every blow reduced Orks to pulp and ruin, spraying gore across the stone walls and adding fresh heaps of flesh and armor shards to the blood-slick floor.
The greenskins bellowed their war-cries and surged to meet him, but none could withstand the storm. Each swing of the Supreme Grand Master's hammer carved a path of ruin through their ranks, every impact another thunderclap echoing through the vaulted chamber.
"My Lord." Viktor said with his cold mechanical voice. "Please stay with us closely, we don't want anything to happen."
He said as he stand beside Atharion. With him, the rest of the Honor Guards move past them, killing any Orks that try to get close.
"Don't be so strict." Atharion said as he put his hammer down and starting to shoot the Orks with his plasma gun. "They can't hurt me with only this."
Viktor said nothing more, but his helm turned slightly, as though scanning for threats even his Lord had dismissed. He is the another Lord Sergeant of the Honor Guards, which already renamed as Argent Wardens.
"Hmmm," Atharion muttered, his voice low but carried on the vox for his warriors to hear. His gaze swept the vaulted chamber, the high ceilings disappearing into shadows far above. "It is… unusually large. Even if nobles wished to flaunt their wealth, they would not build a hall so vast. Not without reason."
Indeed, this was no mere throne room or feasting hall. The walls stretched wider than any fortress chamber should, reinforced with massive supporting buttresses that seemed almost… excessive. And this was not the first anomaly. Every great keep they had scanned, every castle they had taken in fire and blood, shared the same trait—built to a scale far beyond human need, as though shaped for giants.
"The Orks may infest these halls now," Valentus added, his blade dripping green ichor as he rejoined the line. "But they did not raise them."
Viktor's vox-filter gave a cold, metallic edge to his reply. "Perhaps these walls were not meant to house men… but for something else."
"Well," Atharion exclaimed as he pull his thunder hammer back up. "We will know after we cleanse this world of Orks."
Around them, multiple tactical squads have taken their position, ready to advance with the Wardens. The air was heavy with the ozone tang of discharged plasma, the acrid stench of burnt Ork flesh, and the distant echoes of war. From outside of the hall, the muffled thunder of battle still raged, punctuated by the growl of engines and the screams of dying greenskins.
"Forward." Atharion raised his hammer as he strode ahead, signaling the final push.
The Argent Wardens advanced in a wall of storm shields and ceramite, their thunder hammers striking down any Ork foolish enough to charge them. Greenskin axes and choppas glanced harmlessly off their shields before being answered with bone-crushing blows that left little but ruin in their wake.
Behind them, the Tactical squads moved with precision. Bolters cracked, each shot finding its mark in the snarling mobs beyond. Squads split off in twos and threes, methodically clearing side corridors and chambers, ensuring no lurking Orks could threaten the advance. The disciplined firepower of the line kept the flanks secure, cutting down any Boy that tried to slip past the Wardens' brutal shield wall.
Step by step, the force drove deeper into the fortress. Every corridor they passed was littered with broken bodies, blackened walls, and the stink of burning flesh. The deeper they pushed, the louder the guttural roar of the Ork Boss and his retinue grew, echoing from the colossal doors at the end of the hall.
When they arrived at the front of the towering doors, only Atharion and the twenty-one Argent Wardens remained. The Tactical squads had peeled off, clearing the side chambers and securing the rear, ensuring no enemy could fall upon their backs once the battle with the Boss began.
Raising one gauntleted hand, Atharion drew upon the Warp. Blue-white arcs of energy crackled into being, dancing across his palm and crawling along the haft of his thunder hammer. The air grew heavy, the stone beneath his boots shuddering as the chamber itself seemed to recoil from his power.
The Wardens braced behind their shields, forming a wall of adamantine and faith around their Lord. None spoke, but their silent vigil told of their readiness to follow him into whatever waited beyond.
Atharion's voice was low, a growl that resonated through his helm vox.
"Let no greenskin leave this place alive."
With a sudden surge, he hurled the gathered Warp-fire at the gates. The blast struck with the force of a meteor, detonating in a blinding flare. Metal screamed as rivets tore free and stone split apart, the titanic doors blasted inward in a storm of fire and shattered iron.
Beyond lay the Boss's lair—an immense hall blackened with smoke, lit by the crude glow of Ork glyphs and torches. A sea of greenskins filled it, shoulder to shoulder, their guttural cries rising in a deafening roar. At the far end, looming above them all, was the Ork Warboss, clad in a mountain of scrap-iron armor and gripping a massive klaw crackling with stolen power. His yellow fangs gleamed in the firelight as he bellowed his challenge.
"Purge them."
At Atharion's command, the Argent Wardens surged forward like a living wall of ceramite and thunder. Their storm shields locked together, forming an unbreakable phalanx as they crashed into the sea of Orks. The chamber shook with the violence of the collision—greenskins crushed beneath adamantine boots, others hurled back by the first hammer blows that detonated like rolling thunder.
The Wardens fought with grim precision. Every swing of a thunder hammer broke a body, every raised shield deflected a choppa or slug round. Where one wavered, another closed the gap, their formation a bulwark of unyielding fury.
Atharion strode at their center, his presence a blazing beacon. Each swing of his master-crafted hammer erupted with lightning and shockwaves, pulverizing Boyz by the half-dozen. Orks hurled themselves at him with reckless abandon, their crude weapons sparking off his armor, but none could endure his wrath for more than a heartbeat.
From the dais at the far end, the Boss bellowed louder than the din of battle, his voice rattling the very stones. He shoved lesser Boyz aside as he stomped forward, klaw snapping hungrily. With each step, the greenskin tide parted around him, their roars turning to frenzied chants of "WAAAGH!" that made the hall quake.
Atharion raised his hammer high, arcs of lightning crawling along its haft as he charge towards the Boss.
The Boss thundered forward, klaw snapping with brutal hunger, each footfall shaking the stones beneath him. He swung wide, a blow that could have torn a Dreadnought in half—
—but Atharion was faster.
With a sidestep born of centuries of battle, the Supreme Grand Master's hammer came down in a blazing arc of caged lightning. The crackling head struck the klaw at the joint, shattering it in a single thunderclap. The massive weapon spun away, torn from the greenskin's grasp.
The Boss roared in shock and rage, swinging a meaty fist the size of a boulder. Atharion didn't flinch. He drove forward, hammer rising once more.
One final swing.
The impact struck squarely against the Boss's chestplate. For an instant, the world flashed white with the brilliance of unleashed energy—then the hulking monster was gone, reduced to a broken heap hurled across the hall, his armor shattered, his body crushed beyond recognition.
Silence fell in the chamber, broken only by the dying groans of lesser Orks. Those who still lived faltered, their will collapsing with the fall of their leader.
Then the storm broke.
From Atharion's thunder hammer erupted a searing cascade of lightning, forking outward in a blinding web of psychic wrath. The very air shrieked as arcs of azure fire leapt from greenskin to greenskin, vaporizing hundreds in a single instant. Flesh burst to ash, crude armor plates split apart, and the stone floor itself blackened.
At this signal, the Orks began to run. Their already broken morale crumbled into full collapse, the terror of the storm scattering them in blind panic. They shoved and trampled each other in their desperation to flee, their war-cries now twisted into screams.
The Argent Wardens pressed the attack with renewed fury. Casting aside their storm shields, they gripped their thunder hammers with both hands, each swing faster, heavier, and more precise than before. The chamber shook as their weapons crushed greenskins like wheat beneath a scythe.
From their customized Cataphractii, concealed systems roared to life and their attached weapons make their wrath know. Plasma blasters spat searing bolts that punched smoking holes through the Orks' ranks, while storm bolters thundered in disciplined bursts, cutting down those who thought distance could save them. The Wardens advanced like an unstoppable wall of fire and steel, every step driving the enemy further into chaos.
And just like that, the south pole castle was cleared. The Dark Knights had taken four hours of brutal, unrelenting battle to purge the greenskins from every hall, chamber, and wall. Corpses lay heaped in mounds, green blood soaking into cracked stone, while the banners of the Imperium now hung where crude glyphs had once defiled the walls.
Atharion now stood inside the Great Hall, where the Boss's lair had once been. Now, the chamber was nothing but ruin—its walls scorched black, the floor littered with shattered weapons, and the stench of charred flesh heavy in the air.
Other than the Dark Knights, three knights of House Taranis had arrived to meet with Atharion. Their helms were removed, tucked beneath their arms, revealing faces stern with duty. Each of the brothers shared the same features—brown eyes that held the weight of battle, and dark brown hair.
"My Lord." Gavran spoke first, bowing slight with his brothers in unison. "Congratulations on your victory over the Xenos, with the strength you showing this war will end in no time."
Atharion regarded them in silence, his thunder hammer resting against the scorched floor. He knew what Gavran was attempting. As scions of the most prestigious Knight House, the brothers of Taranis would have studied every scrap of record on how to address the Adeptus Astartes—how to speak with them without offense, how to honor them without seeming insincere.
But Atharion was not like the others. He did not care for such courtesies. Words meant little to him, yet he still felt a quiet satisfaction when respect was given freely, without fear.
"You flatter me, Sir Gavran." Atharion finally replied, his vox-filter carrying a cold, metallic weight. "It's not by one person effort to a war. It's need all within and outside the war to work together, and only then will one win a war."
"So, Sir Gavran, what's bring you and your brothers here?" Atharion speak quickly, not willing to waste more time on courtesies.
The three knights exchanged brief glances, silent words passing between them before Gavran stepped forward once more.
"We have a request, Lord Atharion." Gavran said, his tone measured and deliberate. "We seek governance of this world—its stewardship, under our banner."
Atharion didn't said anything, instead he take off his helmet, and look into the eyes of Gavran with his own golden one.
"Why would you want this world?" Atharion asked, his voice quieter now. "There are countless worlds more prosperous, less broken. Even when we burn out every greenskin nest here, you know they will return. They always return."
He paused, tilting his head slightly, as if the thought amused him.
"Though…" Atharion's tone softened into something almost careless, "it would serve as a fine proving ground. A hunting ground for you—and for the sons of your line who will follow."
"So," Atharion lean forward. "Why do you want this specific world?"
Gavran pursed his mouth, seemingly thinking how to answer the question.
Suddenly, Gavrix step forward, standing shoulder to shoulder with his older brother.
"My Lord," He lower his head. "Forgive me for my rudeness, but we hope that this can be discussed just between us." He look into Atharion eyes, trying his best to now cower under a gaze of a Space Marine, one that have just kill a Boss in one swing.
For a long, heavy moment, Atharion did not reply. The chamber seemed to still, only the sound of the crackling fire from the burning Orks corpses, and the distance roar of the flamers.
"All leave us." He commanded.
The Argent Wardens hesitated for a heartbeat before bowing and filing out, their footfalls echoing until only Atharion and the three brothers remained in the vast, ruined hall.
Atharion's golden eyes narrowed, fixed upon Gavrix. "Speak then. You have my attention."
"According to our House's ancient records," Gavran said at last, his voice steady though his grip on his helm tightened, "this world may well be Stormhold—a Knight World, once founded when one of Mars' exploration fleets during the Old Night arrived at this region."
He drew in a slow breath before continuing. "The Magos of the exploration fleet also have founded a Forge World somewhere within this region, but because Great Crusade didn't move towards this region and the exploration fleet didn't carry with them anything special, both worlds didn't get discover."
'Forge World, that should be the one Nine discover.' Atharion though as he said another thing.
"So, you saying that the scions of the Taranis is the founder of this Knight World, and you all wish to reclaim it?" Atharion ask. "Is this what you meant?"
"No my Lord." Galric spoke suddenly, now also standing shoulder to shoulder with his two older brothers. "We didn't want to reclaim it for Taranis, we want it to be ours," He then look at the other two. "For us three."
Atharion nodded, but ask a question that they hasn't answered yet. "But why this world? As I said before, it can't help you and require lot of resources just to make it return to its normal course." He stop just a little before continue. "But, I'm able to divert some of the colonies and resources here if you all still want it."
"Your generosity honors us, my Lord," Gavran said, and together the three brothers dropped to one knee before him. "We are in your debt."
"Raise." Atharion said as he use his psychic power to gentle push them up. "You all have prove yourself and you will fight more in the future. This is the least I can do for you."
Once they stood straight again, Gavran spoke, his voice carrying an eagerness that had been restrained until now.
"The reason we chose this world… is because of what was left behind." His eyes glinted with restrained pride. "Let me show you."
The three brothers moved toward the shattered wall on the left side of the hall. Atharion rose, following with deliberate steps, his golden eyes narrowing with curiosity.
They stopped before what remained of a mural. Though cracked and defiled by neglect and Orkish desecration, much of its imagery endured. Atharion could still make out twelve towering Knights standing before a great fortress, their massive forms braced in defiance against some vast and alien monstrosity. Above, descending from storm-wracked skies, was a vessel painted in red and silver, possibly one of the exploration fleet ship.
At the mural's base, a weathered heraldic device still clung to the stone—the sigil of House Taranis, though dulled with centuries of decay. Gavran stepped forward, drew a dagger, and sliced his palm. Without hesitation, he pressed his bleeding hand against the device.
For a heartbeat, silence. Then came the grinding shriek of ancient gears long dormant, followed by the hum of awakening machinery. The wall shuddered, sank back an inch, and then slowly began to slide open.
A deep vibration rolled through the chamber, and from beyond the widening passage, a cold mechanical voice echoed in binharic-tinged Gothic.
"By the name of Omnissiah. Welcome back, scions of Taranis. Access granted."
Light spilled forth as lumen-strips crackled and flared to life, their glow pushing back centuries of darkness. The stairway stretched downward into the earth, lined with dustless metal walls that thrummed faintly with power—systems that had slumbered since the Old Night now stirring.
Atharion followed the brothers as they descended, their footfalls echoing in the silence. The air was cool, metallic, carrying the faint tang of sacred oils that had not evaporated despite millennia.
At last the stairway opened into a vast cavernous chamber, an underground sanctum untouched by time. Rows upon rows of Knight suits stood sentinel in the half-light. Knights of different pattern stood silently, even those that consider as rare are standing within in a sizeable numbers.
"This," Gavran said with quiet pride, his voice echoing against the vaulted chamber, "is the reason we chose this world."
Indeed, the truth was undeniable. With an armory such as this, the fate of the planet was already sealed—it would be recolonized, rebuilt, and reforged into something greater than it had ever been. And with its strategic position, its worth only grew clearer.
The world lay at the heart of the southern reaches of Atharion's realm, a keystone amidst the stars. Though it was far from the sector's central worlds, countless warp routes converged here, threading outward like veins to a dozen vital systems. Whoever held this world would command a nexus of power and influence, both martial and economic.
Yet as Atharion moved through the chamber, his golden eyes sweeping across the silent ranks of Knight suits, he knew much work remained before they could be roused to war. Many bore the scars of neglect—armor plating cracked, systems corroded, machine-spirits restless after centuries without proper tending. Without rites of maintenance and reforging, few could be awakened safely.
And even if the Knights were restored, another problem loomed. Pilots. These war machines had once answered to the blood of House Taranis, and those of that lineage would have the greatest chance of bonding with their machine-spirits. Outsiders might succeed, but the process would be slower, harsher, and far more dangerous.
"What about the pilots?" Atharion ask as he stood infront of a Cerastus Pattern Knight Lancer. "If there's no pilots, there just going to stand here without any use."
"Not to worry, Lord," Gavrix replied, his voice calm and edged with his usual coldness. "The three of us are sons of the main bloodline of House Taranis. And when we chose exile from Mars, many still followed us. Some were retainers of lesser birth… but many were our cousins—scions of the House who inherited nothing from their fathers."
He paused, his tone turning sharper, almost bitter. "That is the way of survival for branch line. For every heir who claims the Throne Mechanicum, there are brothers left with nothing but their blood. They cannot inherit their father's Knight unless fortune—or death—grants it. For them, opportunities such as this are not only a path to honor, but the only path to a name of their own."
Atharion inclined his head, golden eyes glinting in the cavern's light. "I understand. Then hear me well—I will bestow the lordship of this world to you three, once this Crusade is completed. You will govern it as your own, raise your banners here, and make it worthy of your line."
He rested his thunder hammer against the ground, the dull crackle of residual lightning echoing through the chamber. "But know this, there will be many who say you do not deserve such honor. They will whisper that you gained this world only through fortune, or through my favor. Prove them wrong. Build strength here, so that no one can deny your right."
The three brothers knelt as one, their voices joining in solemn vow. "By our blood and by our blades, we swear it."
"Good." Atharion nodded, satisfied with their oath. His golden eyes swept across the dormant Knights, their towering silhouettes looming like iron giants in the dark. "Then rise, Lords of Stormhold. This world shall be your proving ground, your legacy. Do not fail it."