The Leviathan Command Carrier loomed over the Tyrok Fields like a mobile bastion torn from the wall of a fortress and set upon treads.
Its armored flanks were slabs of adamantium and ceramite layered with command bunkers, auspex towers, vox-masts, anti-air mounts, and observation decks large enough to host an entire regimental staff. Even at rest, the machine growled. Its engines idled somewhere deep within the hull, sending a slow vibration through deck plates, boots, bones, and teeth.
Beside such a colossus, even the formidable Baneblade-pattern tanks looked like ants.
A Valkyrie dropship descended toward the landing pad atop the command carrier, engines howling as it fought Cadia's harsh crosswinds. The rear hatch of the dropship opened.
Creed stepped out first, one hand resting near his holstered bolt pistol out of habit rather than display. His coat snapped in the wind. His eyes moved across the command deck before both boots had cleared the ramp, measuring distance, personnel, weapons, exits, and expressions.
He spotted the two Castellans waiting near the forward viewing platform at once.
Castellan Marius, High Castellan of Cadia, stood in ornate carapace armor etched with the sigils of the fortress world. Age showed in the lines around his eyes and the weathered set of his mouth, but not in his posture. He carried himself like a man who had spent his life standing between Cadia and the Eye of Terror and saw no reason to begin bending now.
Beside him stood Vice Castellan Karwyn, younger by decades and sharper in manner. His armor was less ceremonial, his face stern, his gaze constantly moving. He had the alertness of a commander still proving he deserved to stand beside older legends.
Together, they welcomed the vanguard of the Volscani forces.
More than a thousand Volscani infantry stood in perfect formation on the command deck's mustering plates. They were silent, disciplined, and still to the point of discomfort. Their armor was polished but worn at the edges. Their boots were aligned with parade-ground precision. Their lasguns were held at regulation angle. Their faces showed neither fatigue from transit nor pride at being received by Cadia's commanders.
Their company commander stepped forward.
He was a lean man in dark dress armor trimmed with iron, his features hard and expressionless beneath a peaked officer's cap. He brought his fist to his chest and rendered the Aquila salute to the two fortress lords.
"You've endured much on your journey," Marius said, his voice measured and welcoming.
He gestured toward a nearby servo-skull.
The skull floated forward with a faint mechanical whine, suspensor units humming beneath its polished bone casing. A small tray had been fixed atop its cranium. Upon it rested a crystal decanter of amasec and several cut-glass goblets, each clear enough to catch Cadia's pale daylight and fracture it into hard amber gleams.
High Castellan Marius personally lifted the decanter, poured a measure, and offered the goblet to the Volscani commander.
"Thank you, my Lord Castellan," the commander replied without changing expression, "but we abstain from drinking before battle."
"As expected of one of the most resilient regiments ever to hold the Cadian Gate," Marius said, clearly pleased. He placed the untouched goblet back upon the tray. "Discipline first, celebration after victory."
The Volscani commander inclined his head.
"As you say, my lord."
Creed studied the company commander and his men; stoic, battle-hardened, hardly what one would expect from traitors.
"Your troopships must be close to making planetfall on the plains by now?" the High Castellan asked warmly. "The parade will begin once your Volscani Cataphracts arrive. This review is in your honor."
"Yes, my lord. They are nearly here. When our dropship departed, the troopships were already initiating deployment."
The commander's tone remained neutral. Respectful, but flat. It carried no warmth, no excitement, no irritation at ceremony before battle.
Creed could not decide whether the man was simply disciplined or hollowed out by something worse.
"Excellent. Very good." Marius nodded and exchanged a look with Karwyn. The Vice Castellan's severe expression softened by a fraction. Both men were clearly looking forward to the arrival of the Volscani Cataphracts.
Cadia had been calling its children and allies home from across the stars. Every regiment mattered. Every banner mattered. A formation as famed and heavily equipped as the Volscani was not merely reinforcement. It was a statement that the Imperium still had steel to spare for Cadia's defense.
After offering a few more measured compliments to the Volscani commander, the Castellans turned their attention to Creed and the Talon merchant standing beside him.
Marius gave Creed a polite smile.
"Why isn't the 8th Regiment in formation yet?"
"Some unforeseen issues," Creed replied casually.
It was the kind of answer that said nothing while implying enough inconvenience that a courteous commander would not ask for details in public.
Marius did not press. He had not summoned Creed to reprimand him. The High Castellan clearly intended to include him among the officers observing the parade from the command deck, perhaps out of respect for the 8th, perhaps because Creed's reputation had already grown enough that even senior commanders preferred to keep him within sight.
While Marius spoke with Creed, Karwyn drifted toward Klein and the merchant guards accompanying him.
The Vice Castellan's interest sharpened as his gaze moved over their power armor. Unlike most Imperial armor, the suits were compact, clean-lined, and unnervingly practical. Their plates lacked devotional excess. Their joints moved with quiet servo-assisted precision. Their weapons were integrated with the confidence of engineers who expected them to be used rather than admired.
Karwyn circled one of the guards with restrained fascination.
"This is not standard Militarum issue."
Klein smiled with the easy confidence of a man who could smell a sale through a sealed voidship bulkhead.
"No, my lord. Talon manufacture. Custom-fitted. Void-rated, battlefield-tested, and available in several configurations depending on your operational requirements."
"Purchasing options?" Karwyn asked.
Klein's smile widened.
"Several."
Creed heard enough of the exchange to know Klein was already mentally pricing Cadia's officer corps by rank, influence, and desperation. Under other circumstances, that might have amused him.
Today, his attention remained elsewhere.
The sky above the Tyrok Fields darkened as five massive troopships breached the upper atmosphere. They descended slowly through Cadia's thin cloud cover, their hulls glowing dull red from entry heat. Each vessel was large enough to carry tens of thousands of soldiers and enough armor to break a lesser world's rebellion by landing alone.
Engines thundered across the plains. Dust rose beneath them in spreading curtains. Vox traffic intensified, clipped voices passing clearance codes, landing vectors, formation assignments, and ceremonial timing.
"The Volscani are arriving," Marius remarked, glancing skyward.
He activated his vox-bead with a touch.
"Let the parade commence."
Below the Leviathan Command Carrier, regiments already drawn up in formation began their procession. Infantry blocks marched past in perfect synchrony, boots striking the field in rolling cadence. Armored columns advanced beside them, engines rumbling, turret barrels elevated in salute. Banners snapped in the wind. Regimental drums and brass horns fought against the deeper thunder of engines.
It was not a celebration in the soft sense. Cadia did not soften war for ceremony.
This was a display of readiness. A reminder to every soldier present that they stood among countless others, that discipline still held, that the fortress world had not been left alone.
Atop the command deck, officers and staff moved toward the viewing edge. Marius led them with Karwyn at his side. Senior aides, vox-officers, honor guards, and visiting commanders followed. Even hardened soldiers could not entirely resist the pull of such a spectacle.
Klein was transfixed by the sight. His eyes remained locked on the impeccably drilled units marching before the carrier's massive prow. For all his Talon confidence and merchant cynicism, even he could not look upon Cadia's mustering fields without understanding why the fortress world had become legend.
Creed stood beside the two Castellans, but he was not watching the parade. His attention remained fixed on the Volscani contingent.
The Volscani did not watch the review either.
The company commander and his soldiers stood utterly motionless. No eyes followed the passing banners. No shoulders shifted with pride. No murmured recognition passed between men seeing sister formations parade under Cadia's sky. They stood like statues, silent and expressionless, their stillness too perfect to be natural.
Time passed.
On the plains, the Volscani troopships touched down one after another. Ramps opened like armored jaws. Soldiers poured out in disciplined streams: first thousands, then tens of thousands, then more than the eye could easily count. They marched from their landing zones into ordered squares with astonishing speed, forming dense blocks of infantry and armored support across the Tyrok Fields.
Hundreds of thousands of Volscani Cataphracts assembled beneath Cadia's sky.
Marius watched with unmistakable admiration. Karwyn's eyes gleamed with professional approval. Even through magnocular distance, the precision was impressive. Whole regiments moved as if drilled by a single will. Vehicles aligned. Standards rose. Officers took their places.
The arriving army became a formation almost before the dust had settled around its transports. Creed's eyes never left the commander beside them.
His own hands were clasped behind his back, but his right thumb rested near the break of his coat, ready to drop toward his bolt pistol. He had positioned himself so that a single step would give him a clear line of fire. His breathing remained slow. His face gave nothing away.
Still, nothing happened.
The commander made no move. His soldiers did not shift. No hidden weapon appeared. No vox-code triggered an assault. No assassin lunged toward the High Castellan.
If their true purpose was a decapitation strike against Cadia's high command, Marius's invitation to the command deck should have provided the perfect moment. The Castellans were close. Their guards were ceremonial, not deployed for full combat. The parade had drawn attention outward. The noise below could mask the first seconds of violence.
And yet the Volscani commander did nothing.
Creed felt the first cold edge of doubt slide into his thoughts.
Could the Lord of Talon have misread the signs of his prophecy?
He disliked the word prophecy. It belonged to priests, witches, and fools who wanted uncertainty to sound sacred. But Qin Mo's warnings had not been easy to dismiss. The man had been right too many times, and wrong too rarely, for Creed to ignore him outright.
Even so, soldiers did not live on omens. They lived on evidence.
And the evidence in front of Creed was beginning to look uncomfortably ordinary.
His muscles, held tense beneath practiced stillness, relaxed by the smallest degree.
"Don't stand there like a statue," Marius suddenly called, turning toward the Volscani commander. "That's an order. Come join us and observe the parade."
The commander looked at him.
"I am only a company commander, my lord. My orders were to arrive ahead of the main force and report our imminent deployment."
The response deepened Creed's doubts.
If this was an assassination plot, then the High Castellan had just created the ideal trigger. The commander had been invited closer, publicly and without suspicion. Refusing would draw attention. Obeying would place him within arm's reach.
Still, the man did nothing.
Marius chuckled.
"I gave you an order. Are you refusing a command from a Castellan?"
"My Lord Castellan…"
"Enough. Don't be so stiff. This is a review, not a battlefield. Not yet. Get over here."
A faint pause followed.
Not hesitation born of fear. More like a mechanism waiting for the next gear to turn.
"…Very well."
The commander removed his sidearm, combat knife, and ceremonial short blade with methodical care. He handed each weapon to a subordinate, then walked toward the vacant space beside Marius. His steps were even. His hands remained visible. He did not glance toward Creed.
Creed watched the entire exchange. He had not fully lowered his guard, but irritation began to creep in beneath his suspicion. He was already thinking about the message he would send through Klein after this was over.
Please tell the Lord of Talon not to send any more of his damned prophecies.
Marius turned back toward the parade as the commander reached his side.
"What do you think of the review?"
"I am only a company commander. My opinion is irrelevant."
"No, no. Don't be modest," Marius said. "Your superiors must trust you greatly to send you ahead of the entire regiment. You are clearly a capable young officer. Your opinion matters."
"I still do not feel qualified to comment on such a grand display," the man replied. "But on behalf of the entire Volscani Cataphracts, I thank you for the honor."
Marius studied him for a moment, perhaps amused, perhaps disappointed by the lack of warmth.
"I see."
The commander's answers were humble and reserved, yet something in his posture betrayed a strange impatience. His fingers moved to the iron epaulette on his shoulder, rubbing at the edge as if the ornament irritated him beneath the armor strap.
Creed noticed the motion. So did no one else.
Marius's attention remained on the fields below.
"I once visited your Volscani training yards in my youth," the High Castellan said. "Your regiment invited me to inspect a class of new recruits."
A faint smile touched his face.
"The Volscani have always had an incredible affinity for steel. Everything you make seems forged in iron."
"Indeed," the commander said. He tapped the iron epaulette on his shoulder. "Even our epaulettes."
The remark was dry enough that Karwyn gave the faintest snort of amusement. Marius smiled. Klein glanced over briefly, then returned his attention to the parade and to whatever purchasing scheme he was composing around Cadia's senior officers.
Everyone on the command deck, except Creed, was now focused on the spectacle below.
Even the newly disembarked Volscani Cataphracts held strict formation on the plains. Not one rank broke posture. Not one unit shifted without formal order. Their discipline was so flawless that it began to look less like discipline and more like control.
Marius's gaze moved from the marching regiments to the distant Volscani formations.
Several standard-bearers were making their way through the regimental squares, carrying tall banners wrapped around their poles. The wind caught the cloth, unfurling sections only briefly before they snapped back against the staffs.
From this distance, the details were impossible to make out.
But the banners were black.
Marius frowned.
Were the Volscani colors black?
The thought struck him as strange enough that his hand moved toward the magnoculars strapped at his belt.
The motion did not go unnoticed. The Volscani commander stopped rubbing his epaulette.
His face remained expressionless, but his eyes changed. The dull stillness vanished. Focus replaced it, sharp and dark and utterly committed.
Creed saw the shift. His hand moved.
Not fast enough.
A heartbeat later, the commander tore the iron epaulette from his shoulder. The decorative plate came free with a sharp metallic snap, revealing a concealed razor edge worked into its underside.
It was not an ornament.
It was a blade, thin, curved, and honed bright enough to catch the pale Cadian sun.
The commander stepped in close and slashed Marius's throat in one smooth motion.
The attack was brutally efficient. No flourish. No shout. No wasted movement.
The blade crossed flesh before the High Castellan could turn, opening his throat in a red line that immediately became a flood.
His speed was so astonishing that even Creed, who had been watching him the entire time, could not react in time.
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