The atmosphere in the sacred chamber was heavy with the scent of incense and the low hum of ancient machines. High Priest Adriel, garbed in his crimson and gold robes, stood at the center of the circular room, his face worn from months of vigilance. He had watched over these aspirants since they entered their sarcophagi nearly six and a half months ago, enduring the painful transformation that would shape them into true warriors of the Emperor.
Of the thirteen who had begun the journey, half had perished under the strain. Each death weighed heavily on Adriel’s soul. Their bodies, though strong, had succumbed to the violent visions and the grueling changes demanded by the gene-seed implantations. The silent forms within the remaining sarcophagi were a constant reminder of the fragility of life in service to the emperor.
On the fifth day of the sixth month, as the hours stretched into the silence of the darkened chamber, something different began to stir.
A low rumble emanated from one of the sarcophagi—Cassius'. Adriel had been monitoring the aspirant’s vital signs closely, his readings erratic but stable. Now, the tomb shook violently, its ancient mechanisms groaning under the pressure. The youth inside screamed a guttural cry that pierced the stillness of the room. The other Priests in attendance, clustered near the chamber’s edge, looked to Adriel for guidance, their faces pale.
"High Priest," one of them whispered, his voice barely audible above the sound of rattling machinery. "His tomb... it’s reacting violently."
Adriel raised a hand, his gaze fixed on the sarcophagus as he stepped closer, the data slate in his hand streaming real-time information on Cassius’ vitals. Despite the aspirant’s screams, his life signs were not yet in the danger zones.
"He still lives," Adriel said, his voice both solemn and hopeful. "The warp flux around him grows, but his body endures."
The sarcophagus shuddered again, and the runic symbols etched into its surface flickered with a faint glow—an unnatural light, neither mechanical nor holy, but something in between. A pulse of raw energy rippled through the air, causing the incense burners hanging from the ceiling to sway and the candles to flicker. The warp was pressing in on the chamber, testing the aspirant within.
Adriel could feel it, the taint of the Immaterium pressing against the sanctity of the room. He muttered a quick prayer to the emperor, seeking guidance and protection.
"Brother Althon," he called to the nearest priest, "increase the psychic dampeners around Cassius' sarcophagus. We must contain this flux."
Althon moved quickly, adjusting the controls on the nearby console. The hum of the dampeners increased, but still, the sarcophagus rattled as if something inside was trying to break free—something more than just a youth transforming.
Cassius’ screams filled the chamber again, louder this time, but laced with words. Though twisted by pain, the High Priest could make out fragments—fire, wings, burning. Adriel’s brow furrowed. The words weren’t random—they were images, visions. The warp was flooding into the boy’s mind, distorting his perceptions.
Suddenly, the screaming stopped. The room fell into a profound silence, broken only by the steady hum of the machines.
Adriel stepped closer, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the change in the air, a palpable shift, like the eye of a storm. He placed a hand on the sarcophagus, feeling its cold, trembling surface.
“Aspirant” he murmured, almost as if speaking to the boy directly. “Do not falter. The emperor is with you.”
The sarcophagus gave one last violent shake, then abruptly stilled. For a moment, the silence seemed absolute.
Then Cassius’ voice—weak, but coherent—came through.
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“I saw him.”
Adriel’s breath caught in his throat.
“The Phoenix…” came the reply, voice trembling with awe. “Bathed in golden fire”
Adriel's eyes widened. He turned to the other priests, his voice firm. “Prepare for the final awakening protocols. Cassius is not lost—he is transcending.”
“But the warp flux—” one of the younger priests began to protest, fear etched in his voice.
“No!” Adriel interrupted; his tone sharp with conviction. “This is no mere warp disturbance. This is the will of the Primarch himself. The boy is seeing what we cannot—a vision granted by Sanguinius’ blood. We will not abandon him now.”
The priests scrambled into action; their hesitation replaced by purpose. Adriel kept his hand on the sarcophagus, feeling the warmth emanating from within now as if the flames of the Phoenix itself were kindling inside. He knew the risk, the strain Cassius’ body was under, but he could also sense the potential—the strength of the visions coursing through the boy, reshaping him, forging him anew.
“We must be ready,” Adriel said quietly, more to himself than to the others. “This one… he may be more than just an aspirant. He may be”... He dear not finish his thoughts but he knew one thing others must have felt him in the warp, He expected to hear from the High ones on Baal soon.
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The relay station loomed in the void above Bitter Hold, its vast skeletal structure aglow with the flickering lights of servitors and tech priests working tirelessly to finalize the last adjustments. It had taken four months of relentless labor, but the magos and their teams had done it.
A creation of arcane technology, the station would act as a conduit, stabilizing the turbulent warp and allowing communications to reach beyond the storms that had severed the Chapter’s connection to its forces on Throne of Galat.
Veteran Commander Illmar stood on the bridge of the Sorrows Way, staring out into the darkness where the relay station floated. The weight of the last ten months—months of isolation, uncertainty, and mounting fears—hung heavily on his shoulders. Bitter Hold had endured without its Chapter Master and many of its finest warriors for what felt like an eternity, and now, at last, they had the means to reach them.
Behind Illmar, Magos Kryvos, the tech-priest responsible for overseeing the relay’s construction, approached, his mechadendrites twitching and humming with barely contained anticipation.
“Commander,” Kryvos intoned in his flat, metallic voice. “The relay is operational. All systems are functioning within acceptable parameters. We are ready to initiate the first transmission.”
Illmar nodded, his gaze never leaving the viewport. “You’ve done well, Magos. This may be our only chance to reach Chapter Master Nix and the others. Begin the transmission.”
Kryvos gave a curt nod, the lights of his bionic eyes flickering in acknowledgment. He moved to the central console, where a group of lower-ranking tech priests and adepts monitored the relay’s systems. His mechanical fingers danced over the controls, inputting the necessary codes to align the relay station with the warp rift in the system’s outer reaches.
The atmosphere on the bridge was thick with tension. The station was untested—an experimental piece of technology born of necessity and desperation. If it failed, months of work would be for nothing, and the Cardinals on Throne of Galat would remain lost in the warp’s chaotic tides.
The hum of the ship’s systems seemed to fade into silence as the relay activated. A pulse of light rippled across the station’s surface, illuminating the void with a brief, dazzling flash. On the consoles, data began to stream in—a torrent of warp-energy readings, complex and volatile. The tech priests worked in unison to channel that energy into a stable conduit, focusing it into a single transmission.
Illmar watched the process intently, his jaw clenched. "This is it," he murmured under his breath.
Magos Kryvos spoke again, his voice resonating through the bridge. "The warp signature is stable. Initiating transmission to the Throne of Galat system."
The moment stretched into eternity. The relay station vibrated as it funneled the warp energy through its channels, bending the immaterium to its will. A signal, strong and steady, pierced the warp storm that had shrouded Throne of Galat, carrying a message—Illmar’s message—to the lost forces of the Cardinals.
A soft chime sounded from the communication array on the bridge.
“Transmission sent,” Kryvos reported, his voice tinged with a hint of satisfaction. “Now we wait for confirmation.”
Illmar exhaled slowly, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The message had been sent, but whether it reached its destination—and whether they would receive a response—was still unknown. The warp was fickle, and time within it flowed unpredictably.
He stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he spoke softly, as if to himself. "Nix, if you can hear me… we’re coming for you. Hold on."
The tension on the bridge was palpable as they waited, the tech priests monitoring every fluctuation in the relay station’s output, every shift in the warp. Minutes felt like hours, and Illmar could feel the weight of the Chapter’s fate pressing down on him. They had made their move, but now it was in the Emperor’s hands.
Suddenly, the vox system crackled to life. The signal was faint, distorted by the warp, but it was there—a response.
A voice, distant but unmistakable, cut through the static.
“...This is Chapter Master Nix… receiving transmission… forces still operational… status critical… Orks entrenched… awaiting reinforcements…”
Illmar’s heart leapt. They had made contact. The Cardinals on Throne of Galat were still alive, still fighting. But the message was clear time was running out. The Orks had entrenched themselves deeply, and Nix’s forces were facing overwhelming odds.
Magos Kryvos turned to Illmar, his voice calm but urgent. “Transmission complete. The signal is weakening. We may not be able to maintain a stable connection for long.”
Illmar nodded grimly. "We don’t need long. We know where they are, and we know what we must do." He turned to his officers, his voice rising with authority. “Send the 6th and the 8th Companies through ”.