Above Thrysa,
the void was a canvas of deep, unfathomable black, punctuated by the cold, unblinking eyes of distant stars. Below, the planet itself was a swirling kaleidoscope of blues and greens, marbled with vast, wind-swept deserts and glinting ice caps, all partially obscured by swirling atmospheric currents.
Here, suspended in orbit, hung the Animositas, the Loki-Class Q-Ship, its presence a defiant, sickly green glow against the cosmic tapestry. Its hull, a patchwork of hastily applied armor and arcane sigils, pulsed with a faint, almost organic light, a stark contrast to the sterile gleam of Imperial vessels.
Inside the Animositas's dimly lit bridge, the air hummed with the steady thrum of the ship's engines and the low murmur of duty.
A vox-master, hunched over his console, his face illuminated by the data-scrolls scrolling across his screen, tracked the plummeting signature of the Valkyrie they had just launched.
It was punching through Thrysa's upper atmosphere, a fiery streak aimed for the target coordinates below.
Suddenly, his eyes, usually impassive, widened in alarm.
"Anti-Aircraft fire—groundside!" he barked, his voice cutting through the bridge's quiet hum.
His fingers flew across the controls, zooming in on the distant craft. For a terrifying second, the Valkyrie held its shape against the burning friction of re-entry.
Then, jagged flashes erupted from the planetary surface, unseen but undeniably present. A hidden anti-aircraft tank, perfectly concealed, spat death into the sky.
A silent explosion blossomed in the heavens, followed by secondary, smaller detonations as autocannon shells ripped into the Valkyrie's frame.
The silhouette disintegrated, breaking apart into fiery fragments that scattered like embers from a dying fire, tracing brief, incandescent arcs before being consumed by the thick, swirling clouds below.
"Valkyrie down," the vox-master reported, his voice flat with disbelief.
"It just... went down."
The helm-master's eyes widened in shock, his hands shaking. He gripped the wheel tight, then ordered,
"Initiate, Broken Wings Protocol now!"
—
"Are—Are you sure? Helm-master?" The young Vox-Master asked, his form bending over the Hololithic display.
—
"Do it now, Reggie! This is the protocol, not a drill!" the Helm-master shouted over the vast space.
The instant he finished speaking, around them, multiple battle-class void ships emerged from the void and surrounded them.
"This—This is Vox-Master, Reginal Carter, initiate Broken Wings Protocol. Dorsal crewmen, arm the null-pulse array! Everyone else, brace for impact and pray to the Emperor that we make it!"
—
"Lady Navigator, make course for Positive Sector 66, Grid Point 9°47'30" by 98°46'36"." The Helm-master relayed to Lady Elysia, the ship's navigator.
In the navigator chamber, Lady Elysia sat upon her seat, wires injected into her form.
She closed her eyes and placed her hand on the third eye on her forehead, pausing for a second.
"66? But That is where—"
Boom!
Before she could finish speaking, an explosion could be heard. A lance's round from an enemy ship struck, but it was absorbed by the Animositas's shields.
"Why do you people question the fucking Protocol! Just do it, NOW!" The Helm-master ordered again.
"Is the Null Pulse Array ready, Reggie?"
The Vox-Master listened to the chaotic channel for a second, then shouted to Helm-Master,
"Armed and readied, waiting for the final call, Helm-Master!"
—
"Lady Elysia, bless us with a countdown and recalibration." The Helm-master ordered again.
—
"Calibrated for Positive Sector 66, Grid Point 9°47'30" by 98°46'36"." Lady Navigator muttered, her vision guiding her to a safest path in the warp.
"Three."
"Two."
"One."
"—We are ready."
——
The ship vibrated violently. The Helm-master's face was sweating; he grinned against the nervousness.
"Dorsal's crewmen, Now!"
Simultaneously, the enemy ships surrounding them had begun to charge their colossal weapons, their prows glowing with nascent energy.
Animositas' dorsal spine pulsed once — an unlighted burst of anti-thought screaming outward through void and soul alike. Within moments, Xarcarion's helms flickered into blindness, their Navigators clutching bloodied eyes.
Just as a searing lance beam lanced out from the closest enemy vessel, striking a defiant spark against the Animositas's rapidly fading shields, the Loki-Class Q-Ship, with a final, shuddering thrum, vanished into the swirling chaos of the void.
—
For a terrifying, disorienting moment, the Animositas was nothing but a speck caught in a maelstrom of raw, psychic energy.
Colors bled into impossible hues, screams of warp-spawned entities clawed at the edges of sanity, and the very fabric of reality seemed to twist and tear around them.
Then, with a jarring lurch that sent unsecured crewmen sprawling, the chaotic kaleidoscope snapped back to the familiar, if still indifferent, black of realspace.
The bridge lights, which had flickered violently, now steadied. The void-darkness outside the viewport was no longer filled with the hostile silhouettes of Xarcarion's fleet.
Instead,
The Vox-Master clenched his jaw, his eyes widened, shocked,
"Isn't this—"
—
Before he could finish, the Helm-Master replied,
"Yes. This is what is left of Artine."
Outside the ship,
the view was a stark testament to utter devastation. Where a desert world once orbited, now only a vast, tumbling debris field remained.
Chunks of rock, some the size of small moons, others no larger than a man's fist, spun in a silent, slow dance.
They were the shattered remnants of continents, the crystallized ashes of a civilization.
A thin, ghostly ring of pulverized dust and ice encircled the phantom orbit of the vanished planet, a mournful halo marking where Artine had been.
—
Meanwhile,
on the bridge of the commanding ship, The Dullahan's Grace, chaos had erupted.
The moment the Animositas's null-pulse screamed across the void, an invisible, crushing force had descended upon their fleet. Helmsmen cried out, clutching their eyes as their vision blurred into static or flared into blinding pain.
Navigators shrieked in their chambers, vital connection to the Warp severed or warped into agonizing torment, blood seeping from their third eyes.
Console lights flickered erratically, data streams corrupted, and the seamless coordination of the fleet dissolved into a cacophony of panicked reports and desperate shouts.
"Sensors are blind!"
"Our Navigators... they're incapacitated!"
"The target—it's gone! Vanished!"
Through the pandemonium, a commanding figure on the central dais, his face grim, slammed a gauntleted fist onto a console.
The hololithic display, which moments ago had shown the Animositas trapped, now displayed only fractured, unreliable data, the phantom signature of their prey fading into oblivion.
"Order! and give me full report, Damnit!" his voice cut like sharp knife through the noise, demanding order from the disarray.
—
Thud-Thud-Thud.
Thud-Thud.
-Thud...
The rhythmic sounds of heavy footsteps could be heard from outside the towering adamantium door leading to the bridge. The commanding figure on the dais looked toward it, his jaw set.
With a soft hiss of pneumatics, the massive door parted, and two figures emerged into the chaotic space.
"Are you here to give me a report, or simply waste my time?"
The commanding figure asked the newly arrived.
—
"I bring a report from the closest ship, Master Arken," one of them answered, bowed slightly then nodded to the other one.
He retrieved a dataslate and with a quick swipe, put its content on the hololithic display in the middle.
The hololithic display flickered, showing a grainy but clear image of the "merchant ship."
A small, previously unseen array emerged from its dorsal spine, flared with an unholy, unseen burst of energy for a quick second, and then everything on the display went dark, connection abruptly cut.
"That was not a simple merchant ship, my lord," he muttered.
Arken's eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on the now-blank hololithic display.
"A disguised...?" He whispered, the realization dawning.
"A Q-Ship?"
"Do you have a clue on who would have such an advanced ship, Herman?" Arken asked.
"They would need extreme wealth and resources, possibly another house or an Inquisitor, my lord," Herman answered.
—
"Very well, get back to Farell and tell him to investigate into this matter," he ordered.
herman nodded, turning to leave.
"Wait, what of the mole's hunt?" Arken interrupted.
He turned around, answered swiftly.
"I believe it is still ongoing, the council is in full lockdown at the moment, my lord."
—
"Hm, I hope you do not take after your traitorous father, boy," Arken muttered.
—
Herman simply smiled against the vile accusation,
"Of course not, my lord. What Ulysses did, was out of his violation, not a collective wills of Ruber."
"And I have been proven loyal, since I was the one that reported him." He finished.
—
"Tsk, Just take your leave." Arken muttered, waving his hand in dismissive.
Herman bowed once more, a subtle glint in his eye, before turning sharply and exiting the bridge, the heavy door hissing shut behind him.
The other figure followed him out, leaving the Xarcarion alone amidst the simmering chaos of his bridge.
"Vox-Master! Order planetary entry, meet with Jaeger, search and capture any survivors." Arken ordered.
—
"Yes, my lord." The Vox-Master responded, his voice snapped as he moved to execute the command.
In the hallway,
Herman and his companion were walking toward the hangar. The metallic clang of their boots echoed in the sterile, dimly lit corridor, a stark counterpoint to the distant alarms and the frantic hum of the ship around them.
Herman's face, usually composed, held a hint of frustration, a brief flicker of emotion that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
His companion walked silently beside him, an officer of source.
"Must be hard, eh? Being a traitor's son. I mean," his companion asked, a subtle edge to their voice.
—
"My frustration is only directed to the mention of his name," Herman answered, turning to meet his companion's gaze.
"He may be my father, but his actions have put my family at risk. That is enough to make anyone hate him, no?"
His companion just shrugged as they entered the hanger, walked toward an Aquila lander, the heavy ramp hissing opened then shut behind them.
Within moments, the familiar roar of engines vibrated through the chassis, and they felt the gentle lurch as the lander disengaged from the capital ship.
Just as they left the Dullahan's Grace, the void around them filled with the sight of numerous transport ships.
They peeled away from the fleet, their engines flaring brightly as they began their descent, fiery needles against the vast blue and green marble of Thrysa.
"Where to, Mister Ruber?" The pilot asked.
—
"Back to Twenty Sails." Herman replied, his eyes looking into the occupied space outside the viewport, observing the streaking transport ships, his gazes slowly shifted toward a small voidship amongst the fleet.
"Then to the capital."
—
Groundside, the screaming roar of the Valkyrie's death throes had been swallowed by the planet's turbulent atmosphere.
Next to the camouflaged Hydra flak tank that took down the Valkyrie, the man in a black coat ordered into his vox,
"Pack and Ready to move." As he spoke, the sky before him, previously a swirling canvas of clouds, now filled with the dark silhouettes of multiple transport ships descending, blotting out the distant starlight. These were the very vessels Arken had ordered into the atmosphere.
He climbed onto the Hydra, tapped the side, signaling the driver to move.
The tank's engine roared, and it moved with destructive force, destroying floras in its path. Behind it, a squadron of unknown soldiers of unknown affiliation followed suit.
The soldiers seemed less disciplined and more relaxed than any of the Imperium, as they moved they shot and killed local fauna and collected them like trophies, laughing and chatting among themselves.
"Let's get back to base and receive our employer." The man muttered, turning away from the chilling spectacle of the inbound fleet.
—
They arrived at the outpost shortly after.
Before the tank, a Commissar greeted them, the pommel of his sword was filled with blood. A Fitz, another cousin of Renoir.
"Mercenaries, I'm here to give you order." The Commissar said, his eyes narrowing, disdain emitting from him.
"What is your order?" Jaeger asked.
—
"Locate any survivors, if any. Then capture them." The Commissar said, his hands crossed behind him.
—
"Given we share common master, what am I supposed to call you?" Jaeger asked again, portraying no emotions.
—
"Commissar Reyvis Fitz." He replied, "and right now I am your master."
He then pointed to the darkening sky, now filled with the silhouettes of numerous transport ships beginning their descent.
"Those men are my men. And they will map the area, build a relay tower and all necessities for us." He then looked back at the mercenary leader before him.
—
"What is the point of them, they would die by the locals within minutes anyway." One of the merc muttered.
BANG!
A bolter round flew past Jaeger's ear and hit the speaker's torso, separating his body.
"Only speak when it is important, understood?" Reyvis muttered, then holstered his bolt pistol.
—
"Yes." Jaeger answered, unfazed, his men behind him became tense, possibly due to anger or fear.
True to the dead man's words, screams and distant explosions began to echo from various points on the horizon as the transport ships made landfall.
Some landed roughly, their descent uncontrolled as they clipped unseen obstacles or were hit by unexpected ground fire.
Others were swarmed the moment their ramps dropped, dark, agile forms of abhuman tribefolks pouring from the dense flora, their crude weapons glinting, while unseen predators, large and swift, dragged away struggling figures into the undergrowth.
The vox-channels, if Fitz had them open, would be a cacophony of terror and distress signals, quickly cut short.
Commissar Fitz's narrowed eyes did not widen, nor did his expression shift from disdain. He observed the unfolding carnage in the distance with a cold, almost analytical detachment, as if confirming a hypothesis rather than witnessing a disaster.
The screams and the distant, percussive thuds of combat did not seem to touch him.
—
"Get to work."
He ordered, his voice cutting through the distant sounds of carnage with quiet finality. With that, he turned, his black coat swirling around him, and walked with unhurried strides toward the makeshift outpost, leaving Jaeger and his grim-faced mercenaries standing amidst the fresh bloodstain on the ground.
Jaeger offered no verbal response, his face a mask of practiced indifference. His gaze flickered once to the mangled remains of his fallen mercenary, then swept across the tense faces of his remaining crew.
A silent command passed between them, a grim understanding born of years operating in the fringes where life was cheap and orders were absolute.
The fear and anger that had briefly tightened his men's shoulders seemed to coil into a hard, dangerous resolve.
Without a word, the mercenaries began to move, their previous lax demeanor replaced by a professional, almost brutal efficiency.
Weapons were checked, gear adjusted, and grim nods exchanged. The Hydra tank, still rumbling faintly, received new commands, its driver shifting it to face one of the Valkyrie's crash sites, a fresh scar on the distant horizon marked by a column of dark smoke.
The mercenary squadron, their movements now sharp and purposeful, formed up behind it, no longer lingering or chatting.
The previous casualness had been brutally purged. The Thrysa was proving to be a hungry, unforgiving world, and now, with the Imperial hammer falling, it was about to get a lot bloodier.
The low growl of the Hydra's engine intensified as it began to lumber forward, its heavy treads crushing the alien flora underfoot with a grinding insistence.
The mercenaries followed, their boots kicking up dust, their eyes scanning the dense, alien wilderness.
The air, already thick with the scent of damp earth and strange vegetation, now carried the faint, metallic tang of burning fuel and a subtle, unsettling aroma that might have been blood carried on the wind.
Distant, sporadic gunfire still echoed from the varied landing zones of Fitz's forces, a reminder of the unseen threats that lurked within Thrysa's wild interior.
—
The Commissar Fitz watched the distant plumes of smoke and heard the faint, desperate crackle of vox-static that quickly faded to silence. The losses were undeniable, a grim tally to the dead man's prophetic words. Yet, his expression remained perfectly placid, devoid of anger, frustration, or even surprise. The blood on his sword pommel seemed to gleam in the low light, a silent testament to his uncompromising nature.
"Get to work." He ordered, his voice cutting through the distant sounds of carnage with quiet finality. With that, he turned, his black coat swirling around him, and walked with unhurried strides toward the makeshift outpost, leaving Jaeger and his grim-faced mercenaries standing amidst the fresh bloodstain on the ground.
Jaeger offered no verbal response, his face a mask of practiced indifference. His gaze flickered once to the mangled remains of his fallen mercenary, then swept across the tense faces of his remaining crew. A silent command passed between them, a grim understanding born of years operating in the fringes where life was cheap and orders were absolute. The fear and anger that had briefly tightened his men's shoulders seemed to coil into a hard, dangerous resolve.
Weapons were checked, gear adjusted, and grim nods exchanged. The Hydra tank, still rumbling faintly, received new commands, its driver shifting it to face one of the Valkyrie's crash sites, a fresh scar on the distant horizon marked by a column of dark smoke. The mercenary squadron, their movements now sharp and purposeful, formed up behind it, no longer lingering or chatting. The previous casualness had been brutally purged. The Thrysa was proving to be a hungry, unforgiving world, and now, with the Imperial hammer falling, it was about to get a lot bloodier.
The low growl of the Hydra's engine intensified as it began to lumber forward, its heavy treads crushing the alien flora underfoot with a grinding insistence. The mercenaries followed, their boots kicking up dust, their eyes scanning the dense, alien wilderness. The air, already thick with the scent of damp earth and strange vegetation, now carried the faint, metallic tang of burning fuel and a subtle, unsettling aroma that might have been blood carried on the wind. Distant, sporadic gunfire still echoed from the varied landing zones of Fitz's forces, a reminder of the unseen threats that lurked within Thrysa's wild interior.
Weeks later,
The journey had been a relentless grind through unforgiving terrain—swamps that swallowed men whole, dense jungles teeming with aggressive, chitinous life, and jagged mountain passes carved by ancient, unseen forces.
Constant skirmishes with the cunning abhuman tribefolks and ceaseless vigilance against Thrysa's myriad predators had honed the mercenaries into lean, wary hunters.
Their uniforms were now frayed, caked with weeks of Thrysan soil and dried blood, their faces etched with fatigue and grim determination.
Finally,
the Hydra burst through a thicket of thorny, crimson ferns, and before them lay the wreckage.
It was indeed the front of the Valkyrie, a colossal, crumpled mass of ceramite and plasteel rammed deep into the ruddy earth.
The once-sleek assault craft was a testament to the brutal impact, its cockpit a shattered maw, wings sheared away, and weapon sponsons twisted into grotesque parodies of their former selves.
Weeks of Thrysa's corrosive atmosphere had already begun to work on it; metal hissed with creeping rust, and strange, luminous fungi bloomed in its shadowed crevices.
The air here was heavy with the metallic tang of old blood, mingling with the fetid sweetness of decay. A faint, lingering scent, musky and primal, suggested large predators had visited the site, or perhaps something even more unsettling.
Jaeger, unfazed by the gruesome scene, walked over to the side, his boots crunching on fallen debris. He strode forward to the jagged, broken remnants of the cockpit.
There, still strapped into his mangled seat, was the pilot, or what was left of him. His form was a skeletal, rotting silhouette, mummified by the Thrysan heat and gnawed by scavengers, a faint, nauseating odor of decay clinging to the stagnant air within the crushed canopy. He was clearly beyond help, or capture.
He walked around the front of the wreckage to the other side, his eyes methodically scanning the ground.
There, partially obscured by a patch of resilient Thrysan moss, he found it: a faint trail of congealed blood, smeared as if someone had dragged themselves away from the impact.
He followed it, his steps deliberate, eyes glued to the earth. The trail led a short distance, weaving through broken branches and crushed vegetation, before abruptly vanishing into the dirt, as if something had deliberately, or naturally, covered it up.
The soil here was disturbed, but subtly so, betraying no clear footprints.
Jaeger straightened, his gaze sweeping the immediate area. The dense, alien foliage seemed to press in, silent and watchful.
The vanishing trail, though frustrating, confirmed that at least one individual had survived the initial crash and moved away from the wreck.
"Check the perimeter, 200 meters wide, look for footprints, manmade items, blood trail, anything." Jaeger ordered, his voice a low, even rumble.
He turned, giving a curt nod to his men, a silent affirmation of the grim task ahead.
Immediately,
the mercenaries fanned out, their movements disciplined and precise despite their weeks of hardship. They moved with the silent professionalism of seasoned trackers, their eyes meticulously combing the undergrowth, weapons held ready.
They understood the stakes: in this unforgiving wilderness, every displaced stone, every broken twig, every discolored patch of earth could be a clue, or a trap.
The rhythmic thrum of the Hydra, parked near the wreck, provided a low background hum as its crew maintained watch.
The air itself seemed to hum with unseen life, and the rustling of leaves could be either the wind or the stealthy movement of Thrysa's dangerous inhabitants.
They moved as one, a grim, efficient cordon slowly expanding from the shattered remains of the Valkyrie, hunting for any sign of a survivor in a land that seemed determined to claim all who trespassed.
Shortly after, from the rustling undergrowth just within the perimeter, one of the men called out, his voice a low, crisp report.
"two sets of footprints."
Jaeger walked over to the man, his gaze immediately dropping to the ground.
Yes, two barely visible sets of boot prints, clear against the damp soil, leading away from the wreck.
But something else caught the edge of his eye, next to a gnarled, luminous tree root. More tracks. Hoofprints, they looked much fresher, less careful, as if whatever made them had been moving quickly.
The implication was clear. The survivors weren't alone out here.
And they likely had company they hadn't invited.
The bootprints were barely visible, though that was not the problem, because they could just follow the pursuers of their targets.
Jaeger grinned in satisfaction, a rare, almost predatory curve to his lips. This was a hunt with a clear quarry, and a clear path.
He nodded to one of the men.
"Vox-report to the Commissar. We got two strays."
The mercenary nodded, raising his vox-caster to his lips, his gaze already shifting to the dense foliage where the hoofprints led.
The air around them grew taut, the previous methodical search sharpening into a focused, silent pursuit. The mercenaries, their faces grim, re-adjusted their formations, now prepared not just for tracking, but for immediate engagement.
They then began their march.