“There is no glory in the shadows, only duty. The Emperor’s will moves in silence, and through it, unseen hands guide the fate of mankind. It is not for us to be remembered, only to ensure that the light of His vision endures. In the dark, we do what must be done... so that others may live unknowing of the abyss beneath their feet.”

-Malcador the Sigillite

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The Orks retreated in disarray, their guttural roars fading as they were driven back into the wilderness beyond the walls of the makeshift stronghold. The ground was slick with the blood of both greenskins and Astartes, and the air was thick with smoke and the stench of death.

Tytus stood on the wall, his chest heaving beneath his armor, his eyes scanning the battlefield with grim satisfaction. The day had been theirs, but the price was high. His voice crackled over the Vox, cold and authoritative.

"Secure the breach. Get the wounded inside. Salvage what we can from the fallen."

Around him, the surviving Cardinal Phoenixes moved with purpose, reinforcing the walls and retrieving their dead and wounded. The once-chaotic battlefield slowly began to settle as the Orks disappeared into the horizon, their retreat a reprieve. Yet Tytus knew better. They would come again, and next time they would bring even greater numbers. The Orks never stopped.

Gaven Acastus, blood splattered across his faceplate and armor, strode up beside Tytus. His plasma pistol was still hot in his hand, its barrel smoking. He surveyed the battlefield for a moment before speaking.

"That was too close," Gaven said, his voice edged with frustration. "If the Warboss had breached deeper, we would have been overrun."

Tytus nodded, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. "But we held. Malek bought us that much. His sacrifice will be remembered."

Gaven clenched his fist. "He was young, untested... and he fought with honor. But we can't keep losing brothers like this, Tytus. The Orks grow stronger every day. Their numbers swell, and we’re barely holding this position."

Tytus turned to face Gaven, his face grim beneath his helmet. "I know. But the tide is turning. Magos Toté has reestablished communications with the Battle Barge. The Chapter Master is aware of our situation. Reinforcements will come."

Gaven grunted in response, his skepticism clear. "We don’t know when they’ll arrive. We could be holding this stronghold for weeks—months. And the Orks will be back long before then."

Tytus’s gaze hardened. "Then we’ll make this fortress unbreakable. We’ll dig in, fortify every inch, and bleed them dry before they even reach our walls."

A distant rumble echoed through the air. The ground beneath their feet trembled. Gaven’s hand immediately went to his Vox.

“More of them?” he growled.

Before Tytus could respond, a figure limped out from the smoke and ruins of the battlefield. It was Malek, his battered armor covered in dirt and blood, his face pale and drawn but alive. His chest plate was cracked, and the ceramite armor buckled under the massive blow of the Warboss's power klaw.

Tytus' heart surged at the sight. He had assumed the young Battle-Brother had fallen.

"Malek!" Tytus barked, rushing forward. "You're alive."

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The young Marine staggered, clearly on the edge of collapse, but his eyes burned with fierce determination. "The Warboss... he’s dead," Malek rasped. "But the greenskins... they won’t stop. They’ll be back, stronger."

Tytus clapped a gauntleted hand on Malek’s shoulder. "You fought with valor today, Malek. The Chapter will honor your deeds."

Malek nodded, his breath shallow. "I... did what was needed."

Before Tytus could say more, the unmistakable sound of engines thrummed overhead. The dark sky parted, revealing the descending shape of Thunderhawk gunships from the **GrimOne**. The reinforcements were arriving—finally.

Tytus and Gaven exchanged a look, both understanding what was to come.

"We need to be ready, Gaven. The Orks won’t let us rest for long," Tytus said, his voice firm. "They’ll return with more of their filth. But now, we have reinforcements."

The Thunderhawks landed outside the stronghold, and squads of Cardinal Phoenixes disembarked in perfect order, their red-and-gold armor gleaming in the low light. Among them were veteran brothers, clad in Terminator armor, their hulking forms imposing even among their kind.

Tytus raised his sword, its edge gleaming in the dying sun. "Brothers, today we bled the Orks. Tomorrow, we drive them from this planet. We show them the might of the Emperor’s chosen! We are the Phoenixes!"

"For the Cardinal Phoenixes!" the warriors roared in unison, their voices echoing through the stronghold.

As the preparations for the next stage of the war began in earnest, Tytus felt the weight of the battle to come, but he knew they had the strength and unity to meet it head-on.

But in the back of his mind, a dark question lingered "How long could they hold this planet?"

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Felix strode ahead of his squad, his armor shimmering in the low, muted light filtering through the thick, twisted branches of the valley. He moved with the surety of a warrior born to the blade, his hands resting lightly on the pommel of his master-crafted power sword, **Valiant Oath**. His helmet’s optics scanned the surroundings, constantly feeding data into his enhanced mind. The terrain was rugged, jagged rocks jutting out of the earth like broken fangs, but that didn’t slow the Cardinal Phoenixes.

Behind him, A Chapter Chaplain, Brother Cyrius, advanced with grim purpose. His black-armored form was covered in sacred litanies and purity seals, his Crozius Arcanum crackling with restrained energy. The other Marines hardened warriors of the Chapter, spread out in a combat formation, their bolters at the ready. They were prepared for battle, but the silence around them was unsettling.

Felix's Vox clicked softly as Cyrius opened a channel. "We are close," the Chaplain intoned, his deep voice echoing in Felix’s helm. "The foul Orks were here. But something has silenced them."

Felix nodded, his jaw set behind his helmet. The mission had seemed straightforward enough. Chapter Master Allteranius had tasked them with eradicating an Ork infestation that had been harrying the western flanks of their base valley. However, as they approached the site, it became clear that something had beaten them to it.

They crested a rise, and Felix halted, raising a hand to signal the squad. Below them lay a scene of carnage.

The Ork encampment was decimated. Hulking greenskin bodies lay strewn across the ground, their crude weapons shattered and broken. Some of the bodies were torn apart as though by some great force, others bore the unmistakable signs of bolt-round detonations—precise, lethal, and surgical. The thick stench of Ork's blood hung in the air, and Felix could see the swarming flies already moving in.

“What in the Emperor's name happened here?” Brother Arcturus asked, stepping forward. His voice carried a mixture of confusion and caution. "The Orks are never this silent."

Felix crouched beside one of the corpses, studying the wounds. "They didn’t die fighting each other," he murmured. "This was done by someone trained. Precision, discipline. Not Orks."

Cyrius moved to stand beside Felix, his hand resting on the Crozius at his side. "These wounds... They are too clean for greenskin weapons. Bolter fire." He gestured to a shattered Ork skull. "Astartes work."

"Astartes?" Felix echoed, standing slowly, his mind racing. "No Chapter of the Imperium has been reported operating this far west. And certainly not on Throne of Galat."

The squad spread out, securing the perimeter while Felix and Cyrius examined the scene. There were no signs of survivors—no Ork, no Imperial forces. Just death, methodical, and complete.

"Whoever did this, they moved fast," Felix said. "Orks would have put up more of a fight if they had time to react. But this was a slaughter."

Cyrius’s eyes narrowed behind his helmet’s visor. "And we are not the only predators on this world."

Felix straightened, his gaze shifting toward the west, where the valley sloped down toward a denser patch of forest. Beyond that, the remains of an ancient ruin could be seen, half-buried in the undergrowth. "We follow the trail," Felix decided. "Whatever killed these Orks came from there."

The squad moved in silence, their footsteps soft and purposeful as they made their way deeper into the valley. The ruin grew closer, its twisted, crumbling architecture a testament to an age long forgotten. Vines and moss clung to the broken stone, and the wind whispered through the gnarled trees surrounding it.

As they approached, something caught Felix’s eye—a faint, worn symbol etched into one of the fallen pillars. He moved closer, wiping away the dirt and grime with his gauntleted hand.

Cyrius stepped up beside him, his voice filled with quiet reverence. "That is... an Imperial Aquila."

Felix’s heartbeat quickened. The faded sigil of the Imperium of Man was unmistakable, though aged and worn from time. He ran his fingers over it, noting the grooves beneath the filth. "This ruin—it was once an Imperial outpost."

Cyrius knelt beside him, his voice a whisper. "But who could have been stationed here?"

Before they could ponder further, a faint, low sound echoed through the ruin—a distant, rhythmic hum, like machinery far beneath the earth. Felix stood his senses on high alert.

"Brothers," he said, his voice tight. "We are not alone."