SOL SYSTEM
HOLY TERRA
DAYS AGO
Above Terra—where the void burned with the glow of orbital ring-cities and the skeletal silhouettes of construction docks—a great fleet assembled, an armada so vast no pict-feed could hope to contain it. It was not the measured formation of patrol flotillas, nor the swelling ranks of a crusade's vanguard, but something stranger: the slow, inevitable gathering of a force meant for more than war.
At its heart drifted a vessel that dwarfed all others. From a distance it seemed to rival a continent in size, its vast hull painted the deep, ritual crimson of Mars. This was the Veritas Invicta. Its tiered spires rose like mountains crowned with starlit cog-halos, each tier veiled in drifting incense vapour. Along its flanks, ringed coils turned with stately precision, catching the light of Sol and casting molten reflections across the void like liquid sculpture. At the prow, a cathedral-ram glimmered with the dim inner fire of its reactor-core, as though it held a caged sun. Though an Ark Mechanicus by class, its silhouette was subtly wrong—altered by the secret hand of the Sigillite's hidden order, and by the will of the Emperor of Mankind Himself.
Beside it moved another titan, black as the void between the stars. Its blade-like form seemed to drink in starlight, rendering it a silhouette of living night. Colossal statues stood along its flanks—armoured warriors with heads bowed, frozen in eternal vigil—between which macro-batteries and lance arrays gleamed faintly like the eyes of watchful saints. High atop its dorsal spine rose a golden-spired cathedral crowned with an unfurled Aquila, wings spread to their full span, haloed in the thin mist of exhaust-incense. Every few moments a slow, deliberate pulse of light ran the length of its grand nave. This was the Oath, newly renamed by the fleet's commander. The name was more than symbolic—it was a vow.
And yet, leading this formation was a vessel wholly unlike either. Slender, predatory, out of place at the point of the spear, it bore no ostentatious statues nor gilded spires. Instead, faint ripples of distortion shimmered along its dark metallic skin, bending the light of nearby stars into ghostly shapes. The Spear of Chronos was a singular creation, built for something no other ship in the fleet could achieve.
They drifted in perfect formation through the deep silence of the void—until reality cracked. A fissure bloomed in the fabric of space, revealing the howling, roiling mouth of the Immaterium. Without hesitation, the fleet plunged in, vanishing into madness.
Aboard the Oath
The Oath was as much fortress as starship. Her corridors resonated with the deep, steady hum of plasma conduits; her decks thrummed faintly beneath the boots of her crew. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of incense and machine oil, laced with the faint metallic tang of recycled atmosphere. Every surface bore the sigil of the Aquila, carved deep into adamantine bulkheads or inlaid in beaten gold.
The bridge was a vast amphitheatre of adamantine decks and tiered command galleries, its expanse rivalled only by the throne-chambers of lesser worlds' rulers. At its heart stood the Lord-Captain's dais—yet in place of that mortal authority stood Tribune Maloris of the Adeptus Custodes. He occupied the post without speaking, flanked by two of his kind whose golden war-plate radiated an almost physical weight. Crew passing below risked furtive glances at them, for most would live and die without ever standing in the Custodians' presence.
Officers moved in quiet precision between hololithic projectors and brass-edged auspex consoles. They wore leather and ceremonial crimson, their voices low, their eyes never still. Servitors clanked along the galleries, incense trailing from their fluted exhaust vents, their dead eyes reflecting endless streams of scrolling data.
At the prow end of the bridge, the Navigator's sanctum glowed faintly—a sealed dome of crystal and warded steel. Within, the Navigator sat upon a throne like a fossilised monarch, skin pale and waxy from centuries adrift in the warp, third eye locked upon the Astronomican's flame.
The vox-net murmured with clipped, ritualised exchanges:
"All escorts holding formation."
"Trajectory variance: zero-point-zero-zero-zero-three degrees. Compensating."
"Psy-shields stable. Veil Choir maintaining concealment."
Each report was acknowledged in the formal chant of the void, no word wasted, no tone raised.
Time had no meaning in the warp. It might have been hours of transit or days. And yet… there were no visions, no psychic tempests, no prowling warp-spawn scratching at the Geller fields. Only silence, broken by the rhythm of command.
One of the Custodians spoke at last, voice resonating from behind his helm's vox-grille like a sermon echoing through a tomb:
"It is as though the currents themselves have stilled… as if the great predators of this abyss have withdrawn."
The other inclined his head slightly.
"The absence of danger is its own omen. Only fools take still waters for safety."
Maloris gave no outward sign of agreement or denial, but his gaze did not leave the Navigator's dome.
The ship's captain approached—Chalstrom Indilix Kox, chosen to lead the flagship for this mission. His bearing was rigid with discipline as he halted at the dais.
"My lords, we near the sector you designated."
Maloris studied the man for a long moment. Malcador's instructions had been precise only in coordinates: Sector 643, system Ndu'r. No explanation. No further orders.
Finally, the Tribune spoke.
"Prepare the fleet for emergence."
"Compliance". captain Chalstrom replied.
And with those words, the bridge moved as one, each officer snapping into motion, their voices merging into the low, constant murmur.
Coordinates: Sector 643, system Ndu'r
The Oath moved with the stately inevitability of a drifting fortress through the silent warp-lanes. No psychic storms tore at her shields, no shadows pressed against her hull. The silence was almost holy, as though some vast, unseen presence had swept clean the currents ahead of them.
Then, slowly, the warp began to thin. The swirling void outside the Navigator's dome faded to a shadowed grey, ripples of distortion trembling against the Geller fields. Vox reports came in short bursts—
"Emergence vector holding."
"Transitional grav-flux stable."
"All ships matching velocity."
Maloris stood unmoving, helm tilted slightly toward the forward hull, golden fingers resting against the rail of the dais.
The ship shuddered, just faintly, as if something immense had brushed past it.
And then—He was there.
No door opened. No light heralded His coming. The Master of Mankind simply was.
One heartbeat He was absent. The next, He stood upon the command dais. His height dwarfed even the Custodes. Auramite and cloth-of-gold draped His form, every thread seeming to drink and refract light in impossible ways.
Crew froze mid-step, voices stilled mid-command. Officers stood rooted to their stations, eyes wide in disbelief, yet none turned their gaze fully upon Him, as though to look too long might be a trespass. Even the servitors faltered, cogitators stuttering before resuming their tasks in perfect silence.
Maloris lowered his head in silent reverence. The Custodians beside him followed, auramite armor ringing softly. None else dared move.
The Emperor descended from the dais without a word, each step ringing upon the adamantine deck like a tolling bell.
thum!, thum!, thum!
He crossed the bridge with measured, grace until He stood before the great viewing vault at the prow of the ship. Beyond lay the dim, shifting void of the outer warp.
He raised His right hand.
VRRR~~~~~!!!
The warp shuddered.
Light blazed from the Emperor's outstretched palm
The Immaterium before the fleet split wide, tearing in a perfect arc.
A portal opened, vast enough for a dozen Gloriana-class battleships to pass abreast. Through it lay not the familiar darkness of the void, nor the storming madness of the warp, but an expanse of lightless unknown — a realm uncharted
The bridge was utterly silent.
The Emperor lowered His hand. His gaze swept slowly across those assembled — not lingering, not searching, simply seeing. When His eyes passed over each soul, it was as though their very essence had been weighed, measured, and recorded.
Then, as suddenly as He had appeared, He was gone.
No flash. No sound. No ripple in the air. One heartbeat He was present — the next, absence swallowed Him.
For a moment, no one moved. The void outside was alive with the impossible wound the Emperor had left, its light casting long shadows over the bridge.
Maloris straightened, helm tilting slightly toward the fleet's command officers.
His voice cut through the silence like the edge of a spear.
"All vessels, advance."
The bridge crew jolted into motion as if they had awoken from stupor. Vox relays crackled across the armada, each ship aligning toward the vast, vortex ahead.
The Oath surged forward, following the spear of chronus ,the rest of the fleet following in formation.