---
The Meeting room aboard the Vengeful Spirit smelled of scorched metal and old blood. The walls were lined with banners of broken legions and relics taken from dead heroes, reminders of past victories, and defeats.
At the center of the room, the Gothic Sector glowed in holo light: a sprawl of trade routes, hive worlds, fortress monasteries, agri worlds, naval bastions, all threaded together to form the current picture of the sector. Each blink of light was millions of lives waiting to be fed to a god.
They stood gathered, not as friends, not even truly as allies but as predators who, for now, hunted the same prey.
The warmaster kept them here, held by force of will as much as his plan of action.
Abaddon himself stood silent at first, black Terminator plate heavy on his body. The Talon of Horus hung at his side, ancient gold dulled by blood and age. His eyes moved across the hololithic stars, weighing them as one might weigh stones before choosing which to cast first.
"We've waited," he began, voice low, the words scratching at the iron walls. "The Eye of Night and Hand of Darkness are ours now. The Blackstone Fortresses will come next; their void shields would be shattered, their garrisons lost before they know they've fallen. But that alone won't break the sector. Fear will."
His gaze never left the glowing projection, but the weight of his voice made every warlord present listen.
Typhus shifted his mass, the stink of his armour and rust following. His voice was steady, cold. Impotent rage hid in his voice as he spoke.
"I have been informed that the Plagueclaw, the flagship of mine is gone. Destroyed. The merciful grandfather himself told me about this in my dreams."
For a moment, the council was silent, the hum of the holo projector the only sound. Typhus's quiet fury infected the atmosphere of the ship.
"I want the one responsible for this to be found," he said, his tone flat as a sealed tomb. "And when they are, I will see them rot from the inside out."
Zaraphiston lifted his head slowly. The runes etched into his helm pulsed with faint heat, their light fading into the gloom of the chamber. Behind the lenses, his eyes twitched slightly reading, interpreting, struggling.
"I can't see it clearly," he said at last, his voice flat, almost irritated. "Something's disrupting the divination. I'll need silence and time to try again."
He didn't look at anyone when he spoke. He didn't need to. Everyone in the room understood: the Warp wasn't just a weapon, it was a puzzle. And something was scrambling the process.
Ygethmor leaned forward, tapping ash from his gauntlet onto the table without caring.
"This sector isn't a battlefield. It's a bloodstream."
He pointed to Rebo V.
"That ore feeds half their industry. And also the place that a blackstone fortress is located."
Then to Draken.
"That planet grows their food. We can raid it for our use."
Then Naxos.
"That's where they build their ships. We don't attack those first. We bleed the routes. Use them for our own purposes, to maintain our own fleets and keep our army supplied. Enslave the population for our war effort."
His finger dragged across the holo-map, cutting through trade lines and supply paths.
"We cut there supply. Force them to panic. Watch them start moving fleets to guard convoys, not worlds. That's when we hit them hard."
He looked straight at Abaddon.
"The moment they spread thin, we unleash the planet killer to curb there morale No defenses left. Savavarn is the perfect planet for that, it is there spiritual stronghold. But first we must ensure that Rebo V falls."
Kossolax grinned, teeth red from warp.
"We break them… and then we butcher what's left."
He didn't care about tactics. Only the aftermath. Blood on altar stones. Screams in holy places. Saint skulls crushed under boot.
"Kill their heroes. Desecrate their icons. Burn their hope."
Urkrathos just laughed low, guttural like chains dragging across bone.
He didn't need to speak. He lived it.
Lucius just sighed hearing all this. Still feeling bitter from his previous defeats.
"Rebo V," Abaddon continued. Voice like stone dragged over stone. "Blackstone Fortress in orbit. We need it. Once it's ours, the sector will bend."
He didn't waste words as he spoke. As he agreed with Ygethmor.
Ygethmor brought up the tactical overlay over that particular planet. Blue runes, red lines, hard data.
"Fortress is protected by orbital batteries, system monitors, and three Dominator class cruisers. Enough fire to peel the hide off anything smaller than a moon."
He paused, eyes flicking to Abaddon.
"Unless we blind them first."
Abaddon looked at Zaraphiston.
"The Eye of Night."
Zaraphiston nodded once.
"We can use it to shut down every machine spirit in range. Shields, weapons, auspex all dead. We will have our shot then."
His tone was flat. As he explained the eye of darkness's functionality to everyone.
Typhus shifted, rust flaking from his Terminator plate.
"Plague fleet hits first. Distract their picket ships. Force them to redeploy. While they're scrambling, Kossolax and Urkrathos go in close, boarding teams ready."
"If we lose too many plague ships?" Kossolax asked, voice low.
"Doesn't matter," Typhus said. "We only need them alive long enough to open the gate."
Lucius cut in, voice as dry as old parchment.
"Once we're inside, we take the command deck. Kill everyone. Broadcast it. We don't just seize the fortress we show the entire sector it can be taken."
His gaze was bored, almost lazy. Like killing high command was just Tuesday.
But no one paid attention to him.
Abaddon's hand hovered over the fortress rune.
"Once it's ours, we turn its guns outward. Next targets are Midgardia, Savavern and Draken. But Rebo V comes first. The fortress is the nail in the Imperium's heart."
He paused. Looked at each man.
"Questions?"
Ygethmor shook his head.
"Fleet can be in position in three standard days. Warp routes are clear. I'll guide the main thrust. The rest… we rely on the Eye."
"And the relic?" Typhus asked, turning to Zaraphiston.
"Ready," Zaraphiston said. "But it will take blood. A lot of it."
"Doesn't bother me," Typhus grunted.
Lucius leaned back, eyes half‑closed.
"And the one who destroyed the Plagueclaw?"
Typhus' jaw tightened. First time real anger showed.
"They're alive. Somewhere. And if they strike again, I'll see their skulls rot from the inside."
"You'll get your chance," Abaddon said. "Zaraphiston will find him."
Zaraphiston didn't argue. He just nodded once.
"I'll do a reading tonight. I'll find a name, or a face, or something we can hunt." He reassured him again.
"Good," Abaddon said. Then, after a beat: "Anything else?"
Abaddon looked at each in turn, reading them. Typhus, seething in quiet plague borne hatred. Zaraphiston, cold and curious. Ygethmor, Kossolax and Urkrathos, restrained murder waiting for the leash to slip. Lucius. Abbadon paused at the last person, thinking who let this useless person in the room before moving on from him not paying him much mind.
"The Planet Killer," Abaddon said at last. The hololith twisted, revealing the massive warship: slab sided, armored like a fortress, the Armageddon Gun at its front side a cannon designed to fracture tectonic plates, boil seas, erase continents.
"A relic of the Great Crusade, reforged by the Dark Mechanicum."
His voice was level, words coming slowly. As he spoke of further plan of action after destruction of Rebo V
"We burn Savaven after rebo V. A pilgrim world. We erase it in a day. The Imperium will reel governors screaming for reinforcement, admirals forced to reposition. That chaos opens the door."
Typhus then spoke to support Abbadon,
"While they stare at the ruse, my plague fleets will infect Draken and Vorga. Agri worlds burn slower than hive worlds and famine will kill as surely as blade or bolter."
His flies buzzed louder, as if echoing agreement.
Ygethmor added:
"We stage feints along the Naxos trade routes. Force the Navy to split, chase ghosts. Then the Blackstone Fortresses move real targets hit while they defend illusions."
Kossolax rumbled, eyes narrowing.
"And when their fleets are scattered, we strike fortress worlds: Midgardia, Kill the chapter keeps first; break the knights second. Every dead champion worth a thousand serfs."
Urkrathos grunted at that.
Lucius's tone was almost soft:
"When fear makes them desperate, they will send heroes. And I will meet them. One by one. Publicly. I shall avenge my honor."
He stepped closer to the table, talon scraping the stone.
"The Gothic Sector will be not won by force alone. It is won by terror, confusion, and doubt. We show them power they cannot fight. We blind their prophets, starve their worlds, and kill their heroes in front of their armies."
The hololith shimmered, showing the sector in flames.
"Then we offer surrender. Some will take it. The rest? We bury. Divide them further."
For a moment, the council was silent. Each saw the scale, the ruthlessness and understood it. This was not the plan of a frothing madman, but of a conqueror.
Even Typhus, foul as he was, recognized the genius. Even Lucius, selfish and vain, saw purpose.
Abaddon raised his head, gaze sweeping them.
"The gods think they hold our leashes," he said, voice quieter now, almost cold. "Let them. We use their gifts, their whispers, their daemons. But in the end, we decide where the blade falls."
The words hung there: defiance not just of the Imperium, but of the gods themselves.
---
One by one, they nodded. Not in loyalty none trusted the others but in shared hunger.
Typhus turned, plagueflies trailing behind.
Ygethmor gathered his staff, mind already moving fleets across the sector map.
Kossolax and Urkrathos exchanged a silent look: they would kill together again, soon.
Lucius traced a finger across the projection, already imagining his next duel.
Zaraphiston lingered, eyes thoughtful.
Abaddon remained last, alone before the stars.
The Gothic Sector awaited. Millions would burn. Planets would die screaming. And when the galaxy looked into the black, it would see his face.
The Warmaster's war had truly begun.
---
Later, in his chamber.
Zaraphiston laid out the psyker's corpse. The last heartbeat still warm.
He pressed the Eye of Night to the dead man's skull. Whispered words older than the fortress they planned to take.
Warp pressure built. Behind his eyes, flashes: metal corridors, blood, an unfamiliar face shadowed by something bigger. Symbols he didn't recognize.
A ship, hidden under stolen tech. Imperial, not Chaos. But Something hidden.
Vision slipped away, leaving a migraine pounding in his skull.
"Not ours," he muttered. "Not loyalist. Someone outside the board."
He wiped the blood off his hands. The Eye of Night pulsed once, as if mocking him.
"Doesn't matter. You'll be found," he told the empty room. "Everything leaves a trail."
He set the relic back in its case. The reading was done. The ship who broke the Plagueclaw was still out there somewhere. But so was the Eye.
And the fortress at Rebo V had days left to live.
---
Word Count: 1852
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