Within the battered hull of the Dauntless, a heavy, uneasy stillness settled over the survivors. The Imperial Guardsmen, their uniforms stained by ash and blood, sprawled in exhausted heaps along the cold metal corridors and makeshift bunks fashioned from ration crates and torn tarpaulins. Some clutched their lasguns even in sleep, fingers curled protectively around the battered grips, while others lay with arms draped across their chests, faces slack and pale, in the dim emergency lighting.
A handful of sentries stood outside the Dauntless, their silhouettes stark against the ruin-lit gloom of Gethsemane IV's night. They paced in slow, weary circuits around the ship's battered landing struts, boots crunching softly on scorched earth and broken plasteel. Their eyes, red-rimmed with fatigue, scanned the darkness for any sign of movement, breath clouding in the chill air.
Inside, civilians huddled together for warmth and comfort. Children, some still streaked with grime, slept curled against their mothers or older siblings, clutching bare blankets or battered toys salvaged from the wreckage. Their small faces, so recently twisted in fear, were now softened by the peace of exhaustion. Here and there, a child whimpered in a nightmare, only to be soothed by a gentle touch or whispered reassurance.
Vorn, the towering Blood Angel, rested in a shadowed alcove near the ship's aft, his massive frame slumped but still imposing even in repose. His armor was battered, the crimson dulled by soot and battle scars, his features set in a rare moment of uneasy calm. The rise and fall of his chest was slow and deep, the only sign that even an Astartes could be claimed by fatigue.
Elsewhere, Colonel Voss had found a quiet corner of the ship to claim as his own for the night. He slept lightly, one hand resting on the butt of his sidearm, his cap pulled low over his brow. Even in rest, the lines of command and worry were etched deep into his face, a testament to the burdens he bore.
Throughout the Dauntless, the only sounds were the distant hum of the ship's dormant systems, the occasional muffled cough or shifting of bodies, and the soft, rhythmic breathing of hundreds who, for a brief moment, could forget the horrors they had suffered.
Only Thaddeus remained awake amidst the quiet slumber of the ship's occupants. Kneeling alone in a dim corner of the Dauntless, he closed his eyes and began to murmur the sacred prayers of his Legion, his voice barely more than a breath, weaving through the stillnes like a fragile thread of steel:
"By the blood of Sanguinius,
We stand unbroken,
Through fire and shadow,
Our souls forged in sacrifice.
We carry the flame of the Angel,
A beacon in the darkness,
Until the Emperor calls us home."
The words grounded him, a shield against the storm of memories and doubts swirling within. Rising slowly, every movement measured and deliberate, he felt the weight of duty settle upon his shoulders anew. He needed strength-mental clarity-to face what awaited him outside the ship.
Without haste, Thaddeus began to walk through the silent corridors, the soft echo of his boots the only sound breaking the night. He knew exactly where he was going.
Vorn stirred, his eyes snapping open as he noticed the sergeant's departure. Rising from his resting place, the towering Blood Angel's gaze followed Thaddeus's retreating form. "Where are you going?" he asked, his voice low and rough.
"To eat," Thaddeus replied without turning, the weariness in his tone belying the simplicity of the words.
Vorn's expression hardened as he stepped closer, sensing the storm within his brother-in-arms. "Brother, don't..."
The silence stretched between them, thick with unvoiced fears and shared pain. Vorn's jaw clenched, tension rippling through his broad shoulders. After a long moment, he nodded, his voice low and resolute. "I... I understand, brother."
Thaddeus continued his path. Vorn, as he watched him go, decided there that he would follow Thaddeus till his death...
---
Thaddeus, after telling the sentries to go rest because he trusted his sense of danger, then moved across the ravaged battlefield of Gethsemane IV, his boots crunching on shattered ceramite and bone. The air hung thick with the stench of fires and decay, the sky choked by ash and smoke that blotted out the stars. Ahead loomed the lifeless hulk of the Night Lords' Dread-Contemptor, its adamantium carcass half-buried in mud, its sarcophagus cracked open like a grotesque flower.
He paused, his green eyes narrowing. The whispers began again-faint at first, like distant static, then swelling into a chorus of fragmented voices. They coiled around his thoughts, insistent and alien, though their words remained just beyond comprehension. He had heard them since the daemon, and after the last fight with the Necron Lord Zarathul, he felt them sharper, colder, as if the void itself were speaking.
Was this corruption? The question gnawed at him.
Ignore them. Focus.
He activated his power sword, the blade's hum cutting through the silence. With methodical precision, he carved deeper into the Dread-Contemptor's sarcophagus, sparks cascading around him. The stench of rotted flesh and machine oil billowed forth as the plating gave way, revealing the mummified remains of the traitor within.
He clenched his jaw and reached inside, gauntlets closing around the traitor's desiccated brain. The organ shriveled, threaded with cybernetic filaments, its surface glistening faintly in the gloom.
He held the barin aloft, its weight insignificant but its implications vast.
A Space Marine, if it consumes a part of another corpse, if it's a brain, even better, can gain access to memories, thanks to one of their unique organs; it doesn't matter if the consumed victim is alive or dead. But for the Blood Angels, this act carries a terrible risk. They might fall deeper into the Red Thirst, losing themselves to madness. Some become trapped in an endless frenzy, suffering both psychological torment and horrific physical mutations, doomed to wander the battlefield as monstrous shadows of their former selves, and executed by their brothers.
"Oh, traitor brother," Thaddeus murmured, voice low yet heavy with sorrow and resolve. "Let's see what you have left to tell."
Thaddeus bit into the traitor's brain, the taste of rancid fat and corroded metal flooding his senses. Instantly, agony lanced through him-a visceral echo of the Dreadnought's existence: suffocating confinement, the grinding pain of fused flesh and machinery, and the relentless thrum of a dying reactor. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to swallow.
The second bite unleashed a torrent of heresy. Thaddeus's nose bled freely now, crimson droplets spattering the ash-choked ground, but he pressed on.
Another bite. Another surge of pain. Fragmented visions seared his mind: a Salamanders strike force stranded on a planet, they went to help on a false distress signal, and the Carrion's Prince's next objective after playing here.
He bit again, deeper. Coordinates flared Baal. Terra, Macragge... key planets. They plan to strike at the heart of the imperium.
Thaddeus's power sword slipped from his grasp, clattering against the broken ceramite at his feet. He fell to one knee, the remnants of the traitor's brain slipping from his trembling fingers, his gauntlets slick with gore and ichor. His jaw clenched so tightly his teeth threatened to shatter, the metallic tang of blood sharp on his tongue. His hands shook-a violent, betrayer's tremor-as ragged, searing gasps tore from his throat.
The urge to scream clawed at him, raw and primal, but he swallowed it, forcing the fury down into the depths of his being. He closed his eyes, blood trickling more from his nose, and began to recite the prayers-not just to the Emperor, but to Sanguinius, to the Legion, to the unbroken spirit of Baal itself:
""By the Angel's wings, we rise...
By his light, we endure...
Let the blood of traitors nourish
our resolve...
Let their lies.. fortify... our truth...""
The words came in fractured gasps, each syllable a battle. Visions of Baal flooded his mind-the red sands, the soaring spires of the Angel's fortress-monastery, the faces of brothers long lost to the Thirst. Home. He needed to return to warn them... But....
Thaddeus inhaled deeply, the air of Gethsemane IV filling his lungs-acrid with ash, thick with death. He exhaled slowly, mastering the tremors in his hands, the fire in his veins. The cold night wind stirred around him, rustling the tattered remnants of the Crimson Veil and tousling his sweat-dampened golden hair. He knelt there for hours, motionless, as the battlefield's artificial night gave way to a pale, sickly dawn.
When the sun rose-a dim, blood-orange smudge through the haze-Thaddeus opened his eyes. They gleamed with something feral, something wild, like the untamed deserts of his homeworld. But beneath the storm, there was clarity.
He rose, retrieved his sword, and turned toward the distant Dauntless. The decision was made, a decision that will change the course of all these betrayals.