The war for Stormhold had raged for six relentless months. Its battlefields were drowned in fire and blood, its skies forever choked with ash. The cost was staggering—mortals and Astartes alike had fallen in numbers unmatched by any single war of the Crusade. Yet still, the conflict showed no sign of ending.
"So, Stormhowl have pulled out?" Atharion asked, seated within the command center, his thunder hammer resting against the dais beside him.
"Yes, my Lord." His mortal equerry replied, arms laden with data-slates. "The Space Wolves suffered unexpected losses during their strike. The Ork numbers were far greater than anticipated, and there was a sizeable Nobz element entrenched within the sector."
The equerry hesitated before adding. "Because they deployed by drop pod, they were unable to bring in their heavy weapons and armored support. Without that firepower, their initial gains collapsed under counterattack. Their losses forced them to withdraw."
"Grand Master Gideon arrived just in time to cover their retreat. After a brief respite—and with Grand Master resupplying them—Stormhowl launched another assault with the Grand Master. Together, they successfully conquered the castle."
"Understood," Atharion nodded, his golden eyes narrowing in thought. "Send word to Stormhowl—ask them what they require. If it can be provided, see that it is delivered."
The equerry bowed his head. "As you command, my Lord."
He then slid another datapad across the command table. "This is the report from the Obsidian Jaguars. They have secured Passageway Zeta, but the Guard regiments accompanying them have taken severe losses. They are requesting fresh regiments to rotate into position."
Atharion pick up the datapad and put his signature into it. "Granted. Assign the rank 3 regiments to them. These will be enough to hold the Passageway."
The equerry nodded, collecting the signed slate and setting another before him. "The colonel of the 54th Regiment reports heavy resistance along Line Twenty-Four. He requests reinforcements to break through."
Atharion read quickly. The 54th's advance had stalled against a series of heavily reinforced Ork fortifications. Though classified as a line infantry regiment, the 54th was unusually robust—equipped with multiple armored platoons and attached artillery batteries. Its manpower was also larger than most regiments, rivaling even the strength of the Auxilia. It was for that reason Atharion had ordered them to spearhead the advance along that axis.
"Assign the 12th and 19th Auxilia to reinforce their line," Atharion ordered. "And inform the colonel he has my permission to call in the 657th Bomber Squadron. I want those fortifications reduced to rubble before he pushes again."
The equerry bowed his head swiftly, marking the order. "At once, my Lord."
For the next hour, the command chamber was filled with the steady rhythm of work—datapads being passed, sealed, and dispatched as Atharion gave judgment after judgment. When at last the flood of reports slowed, the equerry gathered the final stack and departed, a small procession of servitors trundling after him, their mechanical arms clamped tight around bundles of slates and data-scrolls.
Outside the reinforced doors of the chamber, a lone figure waited. The equerry halted, dipping his head in respect.
"Lady Selina." He greeted, bowing slightly. The servitors behind him paused as if acknowledging her presence, their augmetic limbs adjusting in a crude mimicry of the gesture.
Selina inclined her head in return, her emerald cloak shifting with the movement. "Alex." She said. Her eyes flicked over the stack of datapads clutched by the servitors before settling back on him. "You have been keeping our Lord busy, I see."
"Indeed, my Lady." Alex replied. "The war grinds endlessly, and so too the demands of command."
Selina's expression softened and smile a little. "Make sure these reports reach their destinations without delay. I would not have our Lord's decisions wasted on inefficiency."
"As you command," Alex bowed once more, then turned sharply, leading the servitors down a side corridor. The shuffle of their mechanical limbs soon faded into silence.
When the sound was gone, Selina stepped forward into the chamber. The massive doors shut behind her with a heavy thud, sealing the room in quiet.
Atharion still sat at the command table. His golden eyes were fixed on a datapad, brow furrowed in rare frustration as lines of tactical data scrolled across the display.
"What troubles you, young master?" Selina asked as she walked toward him, her steps soft against the stone floor. She seated herself across the table, her gaze steady on him.
Atharion raised his head, surprise flickering in his expression at the sound of her voice.
"Why are you here?" He asked, setting the datapad aside. "Shouldn't you be on our future home, ensuring its construction proceeds without delay—or problem?"
"With Xaxir garrisoning the world, few would dare cause problems," Selina replied softly. A faint smile touched her lips. "After all, they all know well how he reacts when your plans are hindered."
Xaxir—Lord Sergeant of the 10th Company, and one of Atharion's equerries—was not a man easily crossed. Though he bore the rank of Lord Sergeant, no squad marched beneath his direct command. Instead, he had been entrusted with authority over several Auxilia platoons, a duty he wielded with merciless efficiency.
Now, his responsibilities had grown even heavier. Elevated to Castellan of Camelot—the heart of Atharion's realm, Camelarion—Xaxir oversaw the construction of the future capital itself. His presence alone ensured order, and his reputation for ruthless discipline made certain no hand dared falter in their work.
Not all of Atharion's equerries were Astartes. Many were mortals, drawn from the Auxilia or elevated from the Chapter's own serfs. Yet the greater number came from noble bloodlines—sons of officers and lords who sought greater prizes in the Crusade by serving at Atharion's side.
To outsiders, the common view of these scions was one of arrogance and incompetence, pampered creatures chasing glory without substance. But in truth, many proved themselves to be capable administrators, tireless in their service and meticulous in their duties.
Still, when entrusted with the governance of entire worlds, even the most competent of them found themselves strained. Planetary rule was a beast of countless heads—trade, logistics, defense, faith, law—and much of it remained beyond their control.
Selina, too, had been entrusted with greater burdens. She now bore the title of Castellan of the Rose Keep, charged with the vital duty of overseeing sustenance and supply. From her hand flowed the provisions of food and drink, the medical stockpiles, and all the necessities that sustained the Dark Knights and their future successor Chapters across their fortress-monasteries and bastions.
"So, what trouble you?" Selina ask again with a small smile.
Atharion sighed as he leaned back, his thunder hammer resting against the chair beside him. "There is much to do, and too little time to spend. Camelarion must be built swiftly, and built completely. But with the Crusade still raging, and the damage already suffered in this endless process, the resources and time required for it… grow heavier with every passing day."
"Even now as we engaged the Warlord forces, theres another Warboss wandering outside, and multiple systems that haven't being reconquer." Atharion sigh again. "So many things to do."
Selina's gaze lingered on him, her tone soft yet edged with steel. "Do you think He forged all of this in mere days? Or that Roboute Guilliman raised Ultramar in a handful of years?" Her eyes sharpened, locking with his golden ones. "No, young master. Even greatness requires time. You know this better than anyone."
'Yes, of course I know, but time is one thing that this universe didn't offer to anyone that try their best to save it.' Atharion though bitterly. Yet for Selina's sake, he forced the weight from his features, masking it with a faint, easy smile.
"You're right." He said at last, his tone deliberately calm, almost relaxed. "I shouldn't burden myself with every grain of sand slipping through the glass."
Selina tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing with quiet curiosity. "Then tell me, young master… when will this Crusade end? Or, more precisely—when will the Warlord be slain?"
Atharion leaned back, the chamber's dim lumen-light catching in his golden eyes. He was silent for a long while, as if weighing not only the question but the truth it demanded. At last, he exhaled slowly.
"Soon," He said. "We are already in the final two phases of our plan. If everything proceeds as intended, we will be engaging the Warlord within three months."
Selina sighed softly, the sound carrying both relief and sorrow. "Three months… It feels so near, yet so far. So many will die before that day comes." Her eyes lowered briefly, the weight of countless lives flickering across her expression before she met Atharion's gaze again. "I only pray you will still be standing when the Warlord falls."
Atharion's expression remained steady, but there was a flicker of warmth behind his golden eyes. "Do not waste your prayers on me, Selina. Save them for the men and women who march at our side. My fate was bound the moment I become an Astarte. Theirs still holds hope."
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Three months passed in a flash, marked by fire, steel, and endless bloodshed. The Dark Knights and their allies pressed ever deeper into Stormhold's scarred lands, fortress by fortress, stronghold by stronghold, grinding the Ork horde down piece by bloody piece. Each victory was bought at a staggering price, yet each step drew them closer to the heart of the beast.
Finally, at the end of third month, the Warlord and his personal warhost have been cornered into their last fortress. A colossal citadel of scrap-iron, stone, and stolen engines of war, bristling with guns and echoing with the howls of countless greenskins.
Just eighty kilometers from its jagged walls, the Crusade host had gathered for the final assault. Astartes from the Dark Knights, the Imperial Fists, the Red Talons, and the Obsidian Jaguars stood together—1,243 Space Marines in all. And even then, that number was only what Atharion permitted to be shown on record, for the true strength of his Chapter and their hidden assets was not something he revealed lightly.
With them marched thousands upon thousands of Guardsmen, their banners snapping in the ash-laden wind. Lines of infantry stretched to the horizon, supported by hundreds of armored vehicles—Leman Russ squadrons rumbling forward, Chimeras bearing their regiments to war.
Not all who had begun the Crusade remained. The Space Wolves, bloodied by grievous losses, had withdrawn at Atharion's request. Their ranks could ill afford such ruin, bound as they were to the harsh traditions of Fenris and the unforgiving trials that allowed so few new warriors to ascend. Better to preserve their strength than bleed them out upon alien soil.
The Raven Guard too had departed. The 2nd Company, summoned back by their Chapter Master himself. Shadow Captain Corvane inform Atharion that their Chapter Master had located the last great Warboss beyond this area, and their Chapter Master plan to strike it with full force before it could rise to power.
At the front of the attack were the armored elements. Tanks from both Astartes and Guardsmen filled the plain in a wall of steel. Predators and Razorbacks advanced in unison beside the Leman Russ squadrons. Their advance was slow, methodical, each vehicle firing as it moved, pounding the fortress with disciplined volleys, making sure the Orks can't execute an efficient counter-fire.
Behind them came the transports—Rhinos and Land Raiders bearing the might of the Astartes, their armored hides scarred but unbroken, advancing in steady formation. Alongside them rumbled the Chimeras of the Guard, packed with regiments of infantry, their guns already spitting fire into the smoke ahead. The ground trembled with the weight of their advance, a relentless tide of armor and steel pushing toward the Ork stronghold.
As the columns getting closer towards the fortress, the Orks firing become more concentrate and more dangerous, but most of it didn't destroy any vehicles, but only damage a couples.
Inside one of the three Spartans that also participate in the final assault, Atharion is waiting for the signal, the signal that tell Atharion to launch a full assault.
Minutes passed. Reports came through the vox of damaged tanks, immobilized transports, burning wrecks. Atharion listened, but his gaze never shifted from the tactical display hovering in the air before him.
Then it came. Seven colossal explosions ripped across the fortress walls, vast plumes of black smoke twisting into the sky. The ground trembled beneath the shockwaves.
"Gavran, fire now." Atharion said into the vox.
The order was answered at once. A blinding lance of incandescent energy tore down from the horizon—the Volcano Lance of the Crimson Oath, screaming like the judgment of the Throne. It struck the fortress gate in a single thunderclap of annihilation. Metal, stone, and crude scrap were vaporized in an instant. When the glare faded, a vast breach gaped open in the citadel's front, molten slag dripping from shattered walls.
"Warriors of the Crusade! The breach is open. Advance—and let no Ork draw another breath within these walls!"