The Honour of Calth moved through the void not as a vessel, but as a doctrine given form. It was a five-kilometer monument to logic, its every corridor and chamber a testament to the cold, practical genius of Roboute Guilliman. The ship was an extension of the Ultramarines themselves: austere, utilitarian, and utterly without flaw. Its vaulted passageways were lined with soaring columns of grey plasteel, their surfaces polished to a mirror sheen. The air, recycled through humming, perfectly calibrated systems, was sterile and cool, carrying none of the incense-and-oil scent of a Blood Angels' battle-barge. Here, there were no gothic frescoes depicting angelic primarchs, no shadowed alcoves for quiet prayer. There were only perfectly spaced lumens that banished all shadow, and holographic banners that cycled through tactical axioms from the Codex Astartes. It was a fortress of ruthless efficiency, a city of war that possessed a terrifying, soulless perfection.
For the survivors of Gethsemane IV, it was a gilded cage.
The Imperial Guardsmen, the remnants of the 43rd Ironbacks, were quartered in vast, spartan holds. They moved with a dazed, mechanical obedience, their grime-caked uniforms and battered lasguns a stark contrast to the pristine environment. They ate their nutrient paste in silence, the memory of screams still ringing in their ears. Colonel Voss, a commander now without a command, spent his hours trying to maintain the morale of his broken men, his own authority feeling hollow in the shadow of the Astartes' unyielding discipline. The civilians, huddled in separate, equally sterile chambers, were a study in quiet trauma. Mothers held their children tight, their eyes distant and haunted. The children themselves, once witnesses to unspeakable horrors, were now unnaturally quiet, their games played with scraps of discarded wiring in hushed, somber tones. They were safe, but they were adrift, fragments of a broken world lost in a fortress of cold, blue steel.
In their designated quarters—a room that felt more like a holding cell—Thaddeus and Vorn endured the silence. The single blue lumen cast their crimson armor in deep, bruised shadows. They had been disarmed, their bodies healed by the emotionless efficiency of the Apothecarion, but their spirits remained raw. Thaddeus spent his hours in a state of deep, controlled meditation, reciting the litanies of Baal, forcing the whispers in his mind into submission. Vorn, restless and brooding, paced the length of the chamber, his new blue bionic arm a constant, foreign presence. He would clench and unclench the perfect fingers, the silent whir of its mechanisms a grating reminder of their hosts' detached generosity. They were guests, but they were also prisoners, their warnings and their very existence a problem to be categorized and contained by the masters of this logical, unfeeling ship.
On the bridge of the Honour of Calth, Captain Ortan Cassius stood before the central hololith, its cool blue light illuminating his stern features. The ship moved with silent grace toward the coordinates of the Iron Hands' distress call, every system functioning with the flawless precision the XIII Legion demanded. But Cassius's mind was not on the battle ahead. It was on the anomaly he had caged in his ship's belly.
The astropathic choir had delivered its message. The signal, woven through the warp and deciphered in the ship's scriptorium, now lay on a dataslate before him. It was a response from the Hall of Records on Terra, cross-referenced with a priority dispatch from the Librarius on Baal. As he read, his stoic composure began to fracture, replaced by a profound, logical disbelief.
The dataslate contained the service record of Sergeant Thaddeus Valen, IX Legion.
Subject: Thaddeus Valen, Recruit Cohort 930.M30
Age (Terran Standard): 32 Years
Homeworld: Baal Secundus
Status: Active (Previously designated Missing in Action, Presumed Lost)
Commendations & Recorded Actions:
[933.M30] - Gorgona Secundus Campaign: Subject Valen demonstrated exceptional valor during the purgation of Ork and nascent New Tyranid threats. Cited for single-handedly defending Sergeant Kael from Ork Nob assault. Key role in the destruction of a Tyranid Zoanthrope, earning the informal honorific 'The Crimson Guardian' among his peers.
[943.M30] - Post-Campaign Commendation: Awarded the Crimson Veil, a Master-Artisan adamantium cloak, by Captain Raldoron of the 1st Company for exemplary courage and leadership. Title conferred: 'Warden of the Crimson Veil'.
[943.M30] - Dreadnought Kael: Veteran Dreadnought, interred post-Gorgona campaign, awarded the Laurel of Defiance for actions against a Tyranid Carnifex. Kael was assigned to Sergeant Valen's command squad.
Last Known Assignment:
[945.M30]: Sergeant Valen and Warden Squad assigned to investigate a distress call from the Emperor's Children and Word Bearers on the hive world of Valthrex Prime.
Vessel: Transferred to Luna Wolves Strike Cruiser Fury of Terra under Captain Ezekyle.
Last Transmission: Fragmented vox-burst from Fury of Terra indicating fleet engagement and subsequent destruction. No further contact.
Designation: Sergeant Valen and Warden Squad (including Dreadnought Kael) listed as Missing in Action.
Cassius read the report three times. Thirty-two years old. A sergeant for less than two. He had been given a relic of the Legion and a title of honor by one of the Blood Angels' most revered captains. He had fought and survived a Swarmlord, a foe of mythic proportions. And he had vanished seven years ago after answering a call from legions that, in hindsight, were already turning to heresy. So he's thirty-nine years old...
The variables did not compute. This was a narrative of myth, not a battlefield report.
He keyed the command console. "Magos Varnus, to the bridge. Immediately."
The tech-priest glided into the chamber moments later, his mechadendrites clicking softly. "Captain. You require an update?"
"The dataslates from the Blood Angels' Thunderhawk," Cassius said, his voice tight. "Your full analysis."
A mechadendrite plugged into the hololith, and the star chart was replaced with fragmented data streams—pict-captures of skeletal xenos, energy readings, and corrupted log entries.
"The subjects, designated 'Necron,' are a Tier-1 technological threat," Varnus droned. "Our analysis of the salvaged logs confirms the Blood Angels' vessel was grounded on a single world for approximately 7.1 Terran years. The world is designated Valthrex Prime."
The name hit Cassius like a physical blow. Seven years. They had survived on a world infested with these undying machines for seven years.
"The slates detail a prolonged guerrilla campaign," Varnus continued, his voice a synthesized monotone that made the horrors he described seem all the more chilling. "They document the systematic destruction of the planet's traitor garrison by the Necron forces. The logs also detail the awakening of a high-tier Necron entity, a… 'Lord.' The final entries are corrupted, detailing a desperate escape attempt."
Cassius stared at the data, his mind, trained in the logic of the Codex, struggling to build a coherent picture. A thirty-year-old Sergeant, a hero of his Legion, disappears for seven years on a Necron tomb world after being betrayed by two other Legions, only to crash-land on another planet and single-handedly turn the tide against a third traitor Legion. It was impossible. It was illogical. And yet, the evidence was before him.
"This… Sergeant Valen," Magos Varnus rasped, a flicker of something that might have been curiosity in his synthesized voice. "His survival parameters are statistically improbable. He is not a normal biological specimen, even for an Astartes. He is a fascinating data point."
"He is more than a data point, Magos," Cassius said, his voice low. He turned to the hololith, bringing up the image of the tattered Crimson Veil. "Can this be repaired?"
"The adamantium weave is compromised," Varnus stated. "But my servitors can re-thread it. It will not be as it was, but its integrity can be restored. It is a complex and resource-intensive task."
"Do it," Cassius commanded. "I want it ready." He felt a shift within himself. The suspicion had not vanished, but it was now overlaid with a profound, grudging respect. This was not a renegade to be caged. This was a warrior forged in a crucible he could barely comprehend.
He turned to his lieutenant, who stood silently by the command throne. "Send an astropathic message to Baal. Highest priority. Inform them we have found Sergeant Thaddeus Valen and his remaining brother. Await their confirmation and instructions." He paused, his gaze resolute. "And Lieutenant… if the response is positive… return their weapons to them."
The lieutenant nodded, a flicker of surprise in his own eyes. The Captain was granting the Blood Angels a measure of trust.
Cassius looked back at the star chart, at the distant, blinking icon representing the Iron Hands' plea. His duty was clear. He would answer the call. But once that was done, before going to help, he would speak with the Warden of the Crimson Veil. He needed to hear the full story, from the beginning. He needed to understand the man who had walked through seven years of hell and emerged not broken, but burning.