The underhive of Valthrex Prime was a festering abyss, its sump-chamber a grave of twisted cogitators and blood-drenched rockrete, where flickering lumens cast shadows like Slaanesh's whispers. Talos slumped against a rusted wall, his crimson ceramite slick with blood leaking from his helm's seals, the chest wound-stabilized by Vorn's sealant - dripping defiance. His breaths rasped, each a battle against death's claw. Thaddeus Valen, knelt beside him, the Crimson Veil heavy across his shoulders, its adamantium threads glinting. His bolt pistol hummed in his left hand, chainsword eager in his right. Cassian crouched nearby, bolter braced, cracked helm hiding unease from the Keeper of Secrets' psychic pull. Born's plasma pistol glowed, stoic eyes scanning, while Serek's missile launcher rested, fists shaking with rage.
"No!" Talos rasped, his voice splintering through pain, blood flecking his visor as he straightened against the wall, ceramite creaking under effort. "Don't separate, brothers. Hide me here - give me a weapon... go, all of you. His gauntlet clenched, eyes blazing with a Blood Angel's fire, duty unbowed.
"What are you saying, brother?" Serek barked, launcher shifting, his grim voice fracturing. "We can't leave you to die!" His fists trembled, Kael's death, searing his mind, Talos's plea a lash on raw grief.
"What is our duty, brother?" Talos coughed, blood spurting, staining crimson plate, his gaze piercing Thaddeus. "What is our duty, Crimson GUardian? You're Warden of the Crimson Veil - we're your Warden squad! I'll manage... for Sanguinius!" His voice faltered, strength ebbing, but will burned, a beacon in Valthrex's dark.
Thaddeus's eyes hardened, grim resolve etching his face as he donned his helm, crimson lenses flaring. His senses caught distant plasma hums and traitor steps. Talos's plea warred with caution - split or unite? Duty to cannons, Ezekyle, reinforcements clashed with brotherhood, his guardian's heart - forged aiding brothers, not chasing glory - prevailing. "Your will binds us, Talos," he said, his voice like ceramite. "We arm you, hide you, strike as one. We'll return." He handed Talos a bolter, magazine full, his strength steadying the grip. Serek rigged frag grenades around the nook, tripwires glinting, and Vorn set a krak charge under debris, a final guard. Cassian gripped Talos's pauldron, muttering, "Hold fast," and Thaddeus led them, bolt pistol raised, the Crimson Veil a bloodied oath.
The squad surged through the underhive's veins, tunnels choked with corroded pipes, air thick with plasm's ozone and betrayal's stench. Thaddeus's boots crunched slag, his senses tracking ozone trails, pistol sweeping, chainsword humming. Cassian flanked left, bolter ready; Vorn right, plasma glowing; and Serek rear, launcher primed. The control hub loomed - a nexus of sparking cogitators and plasma relays, its pulse feeding the cannons that felled the Fury of Terra. Thaddeus smashed the plasteel door, his strength shattering rust, and they charged, havoc unleashed.
Thaddeus's bolt pistol roared, his accuracy guiding rounds to burst a Word Bearer's helm, gore spraying. His chainsword screamed, cleaving another's chest with ferocious speed, blood soaking the Crimson Veil. Cassian's bolter thundered, dropping an Emperor's Child, purple plate cracking. Vorn's plasma flared, vaporizing a zealot's arm, blue fire searing, while Serek's missile launcher roared, a frag round shredding a gantry, traitors tumbling in flames. Foes were few - too few, a handful where legions should guard.
A shadow struck - an Emperor's Child Champion, purple armor filigreed, power sword blazing with disruption fields. "For the Gods!" he snarled, blade flashing, meeting Thaddeus in a storm of sparks. The sword danced, a lethal art - Thaddeus's parried, his strength straining, but a thrust grazed his vambrace, ceramite sizzling. His pistol fired, rounds glancing off ornate plate, gene-seed precision thwarted by skill. The Champion lunged, blade arcing - Thaddeus dodged, speed saving him. Cassian's bolter roared, punching the Champion's flank, blood spurting, and Thaddeus struck, chainsword biting neck, gore fountaining as the foe fell, sword clattering.
Thaddeus panted, scanning the hub - cogitators sparked, bodies strewn, too few. "This is fishy," he said, the daemon's laughter a psychic scar. "Didn't they want to attract more ships and destroy them? Where are the guards?" Cassian grunted, "Trap's deeper - cannons bait." Vorn's voice cut in, "Relays live - end them." Serek growled, "That thing is playing with us." Thaddeus nodded, disbelief raw - heretic Astartes, a trap beyond reason, his guardian's heart vowing to shield his brothers.
In a spire's defiled chapel, the Keeper of Secrets lounged, its pastel hide glistening, four claws dripping ichor from revelry with the Emperor's Children. Their purple-clad forms knelt, sonic weapons keening, eyes lost to Slaaneshi bliss, Laer-taint a feast. The daemon purred, savoring their fall, but its amethyst eyes gleamed - the tomb demanded ruin, yet pleasure beckoned. It dismissed Fulgrim's sons with a lustful leer, their hymns fading, and turned to a prize - Ezekyle, his grey defiance burning the spires. "Wolf," it hissed, craving his mind broken, a vision of Horus fallen, despair forced until he begged. The Blood Angels, ants stirring below, could wait - their cannons irked, but Ezekyle's soul was sweeter. It glided forth, Warp-taint trailing, claws clicking, hunger sharpening for the Luna Wolf's torment, Kael's pain a mere appetizer.
Thaddeus Valen, stood amidst traitor corpses, bolt pistol warm in his left hand, the fallen Emperor's Child Champion's power sword glinting at his feet. Cassian scanned the door, bolter low, cracked helm hiding unease from the Keeper of Secrets' psychic pull.
"How much ammo remains?" Thaddeus asked, voice low, his helm's crimson lenses sweeping the squad, senses catching their fatigue, their resolve.
Cassian tapped his belt, grim "Six rounds, Warden - barely a burst." Vorn checked his plasma pistol, voice steady. "Two charges - enough for precision." Serek patted his launcher, dour. " One frag, one krak - knife's ready." Thaddeus nodded, his jaw clenched as he was calculating each shot's worth.
Thaddeus unhooked his chainsword, its teeth blood-caked, and thrust it to Serek. "Take it, brother - better than your knife." Serek's eyes widened, gripping the blade, its weight a vow, ceramite gauntlets steadying as he nodded, reverence in his gaze. "For the Warden squad," he rumbled. Thaddeus turned to Cassian. "We're low - use it wisely. Take their guns, Cassian; traitors won't need them." Cassian scavenged a Word Bearer's bolter, rounds half-spent, muttering, "Heresy's heavy." Vorn grabbed an Emperor's Child's sonic blaster, discarding its profane grip with a grimace.
Thaddeus knelt, lifting the power sword, his strength steadying its balance. He thumbed the activator, and it blazed to life - a disruption field flaring blue, casting his helm's lenses in stark relief, the Crimson Veil rippling like blood aflame. The squad froze, awed, as energy hummed, a low hymn of wrath. "We'll use everything," Thaddeus said, his voice cutting the gloom, "to end this." His precision steadied the blade, but his guardian's heart turned to Talos. "Back to our brother," he ordered, sword glowing, pistol raised, leading them into the dark.
Time bled in the underhive's depths, hours lost as Thaddeus's squad struck the hub. Above, in a spire's shattered arteries, Ezekyle of the Luna Wolves fought with forty brothers, their grey ceramite bloodied, chainaxes roaring. The last traitor - a Word Bearer, crimson armor rune-scarred - fell under Ezekyle's axe, gore splashing rusted decking. The Fury of Terra's loss burned in his mind, vox silent, something jamming the signals. "Find the blocker," he growled, leading his Wolves through corridors choked with slag, bolters barking at stray Emperor's Children, their purple plate splintering under fire. Forty strong, they carved a path, loyalty to Horus their shield.
The communicator blocker - a Mechanicus vox-jammer, its spire crowned with profane antennae - hummed with Warp-taint, Word Bearer sorcery twisting its signal to silence loyalists. Ezekyle's Wolves shot shadows, a traitor's helm bursting here, a sonic wielder crumbling there, their advance relentless. Through a cracked viewport, a distant cannon's glow flickered out, its plasma arc stilled. Ezekyle nodded, grim pride flaring. "Thaddeus's work - six Blood Angels, and they've hit the control hub." His vox crackled, useless, but the cannon's fall meant no more ships would die. Reinforcements, he calculated, were three to five days out - Ultramarines, perhaps, or Dark Angels, if someone answered.
Ezekyle's face hardened, chainaxe revving. The hub's loss stopped the cannons' charge, but Valthrex festered - traitors... "Secure the jammer," he barked, leading his forty to the spire's peak, unaware of the storm brewing beyond. The squad - Garvox, Torm, and thirty-eight others - fanned out, bolters ready, a gray bastion in the gloom.
But reinforcements would not come. Across the galaxy, whispers stirred - Word Bearers spoke of "new truths" in shadowed halls, and vox channels hissed with static, hiding treachery's birth. On distant worlds, loyalist fleets faltered, ambushed by kin turned foe, their calls unanswered. The Great Crusade's unity frayed, a rebellion's seed - sown in Davin's shadows, nurtured by Erebus's lies - taking root, unseen by Ezekyle's loyal heart. He fought for Horus, for the Emperor, blind to the Heresy's dawn, its tendrils coiling to choke Valthrex's hope.
Ezekyle led forty Luna Wolves through corridors of twisted plasteel, their grey ceramite bloodied, chainaxes roaring. The Mechanicus vox-jammer - a towering spire of profane antennae, its frame etched with Word Bearer runes pulsing Warp-taint—loomed ahead, its signal choking loyalist vox. Forty-two traitors guarded it - twenty Emperor's Children, purple armor filigreed, sonic weapons keening; twenty-two Word Bearers, crimson plate scarred, bolters chanting "For the Gods!" Ezekyle signaled ambus, his Wolves striking from shadows, a surprise honed on Ullanor's fields.
Chainaxes screamed, cleaving Word Bearer helms, blood fountaining across rusted decks. Bolters roared, punching purple ceramite, Emperor's Children crumplin as sonic blasts answered, shattering Wolf vambraces, ceramite splintering. Ezekyle's axe bit a zealot's chest, gore spraying, his transhuman strength relentless. A sonic wail staggered Garvox, blood trickling from his helm, but Torm's bolter burst the foe's face, crimson mist rising. The jammer's taint writhed - runes flaring, vox static screeching, uncontrollable as traitor sorcery defied Mechanicus logic. A Word Bearer lunged, plasma pistol scorching Ezekyle's paudlron, but his axe swung, spine severed, body slumping. Forty-two fell, forty Wolves fought - twelve died, theyr grey forms torn by claws, sonics, zeal. The last traitor, an Emperor's Child, screamed as Ezekyle's boot crushed his throat, silence falling save the jammer's hum.
"It ends," Ezekyle growled, planting krak charges on the jammer's core, runes sizzling under heat. The blast roared, antennae collapsing, Warp-taint fading as plasteel rained. Vox cleared, a fleeting breath of hope. "Thaddeus, this is Ezekyle," he voxed, voice cutting static. "Where's your squad? Status?"
Thaddeus's reply crackled, strained, his heart racing for Talos. "Ezekyle, we need an Apothecary - fast. One brother's injured and he's fading. His bolt pistol hummed, power sword glowing blue, ready for threats.
"Send your position," Ezekyle said, helm scanning his Wolves - twenty-eight now, twelve lost. He signaled Torm, three warriors - Vargus, Kren, Dax - and Apothecary Zorath, narthecium gleaming. "Go," he ordered, coordinates locked - a sump-chamber, Talos's refuge. " They're on their way," he voxed Thaddeus. "We'll find a ship, escape, return with reinforcements. We don't know the traitors' numbers, Thaddeus. Rendezvous at the primary landing pad, grid alpha-nine." His axe revved, mind heavy - cannons down, but Valthrex festered.
"Ezekyle," Thaddeus rasped, "an abomination-be...careful...Kael's dead..." Static surged, vox choking, a screech swallowing hope. Ezekyle's fist clenched, chainaxe revving. "What interference? The jammer's gone." A sickly musk flooded the air... The Keeper of Secrets emerged, pastel hide glistening, for claws dripping ichor, amethyst eyes blazing. Ten Daemonettes skittered - claws hissing, Warp-aura pulsing - flanked by Emperor's Children, purple armor keening sonic hymns, and Word Bearers, crimson plate chanting "For the Truth!" Their presence, laced with traitor rites, jammed vox anew, sorcery's breath in Valthrex's gloom.
Ezekyle froze, a Slaaneshi pull clawing his mind - bliss, surrender, a psychic barb promising release. "Hold fast!" he roared, axe raised, but six Wolves staggered forward, bolters slack, drawn to the daemon's gaze. Twenty-two stood firm, axes howling. The massacre erupted - Daemonettes leapt, claws tearing ceramite, ripping one Wolf's arm, blood fountaining. Sonic blasts shattered another's helm, brain-matter spraying, while Word Bearers' bolters punched chests, grey forms crumpling, crimson pooling. Wolves fired, bolters bursting Daemonette skulls, ichor splashing, chainaxes cleaving zealots, five fell, then eight, screams drowned by keening.
Tom's squad pressed on, Dax and Zorath forging toward Thaddeus, narthecium ready for Talos. Vargus and Kren froze, commotion echoing - screams, sonics, claws. "Throne's mercy," Vargus growled, turning back, Kren beside him, bolters raised. They reached the spire's edge, glimpsing horror - grey brothers torn, blood flooding decks, Ezekyle alone amidst carnage , they decided to hide.
Ezekyle roared, he fought like a beast - two Daemonettes burst, ichor splashing; a Word Bearer's spine snapped, gore flooding decking. A sonic blaster cracked his pauldron, but his axe carved purple plate, blood raining. Visions struck - Horus broken, kneeling in ash; Luna Wolves dust; Terra burning, screams unending. "No!" Ezekyle screamed, voice splintering, childlike, axe flailing at nothingness - phantoms of brothers, shadows of betrayal - swings wild, desperate, a warrior undone. Veins bulged, jaw clenched, sweat mixing with blood as he struck air, panic cracking his roar.
The Keeper purred, "Wolf, your fight amuses," claws dancing - pincers flayed vambrace, ceramite peeling, pain its feast. Visions tightened - Horus's eyes, accusing, fading. Claws tore chestplate, flesh parting in crimson ribbons, ribs snapping, organs spilling as screams turned to whimpers, childlike dread. Psychic barbs ripped - soul offered to Slaanesh, loyalty shredded - claws plunged deeper, hearts bursting, blood pooling as muscle unraveled. The daemon lifted his helm, crushing skull, brain oozing, soul flayed in a psychic wail - a grothesque hymn to Slaanes' lust. It moaned, licking ichor, and spoke, Ezekyle's voice twisted, "Let's go destroy this planet," a mocking laugh echoing.
Vargus and Kren flinched, wrath faltering - a Word Bearer, voice thick with fervor, hissed nearby, "This world burns for the Truth - spires fall!" The planet's doom sank in, the daemon's mind-play - unbeatable. "We can't fight that," Vargus growled, Kren nodding, jaws tight. They sprinted, bolters raised, to Thaddeus's sump-chamber. Minds raging - "Throne's mercy!" - they carried the truth: the daemon's voice, Valthrex's ruin, a psychic horror no blade could slay. They had to warn Thaddeus, urge escape - leave this cursed world, or fall to Slaanesh's game, its tomb a shadow they couldn't grasp.