The low hum of the *GrimOne’s* warp engines reverberated through the cold, dimly lit corridors of the battle barge. The ship was a fortress in space, its vast halls lined with banners of the Cardinal Phoenixes and the weapons of their fallen brothers. Despite the stillness that had settled before the coming storm of battle, tensions ran high. In one of the vessel’s quieter rooms, tucked away in the left wing of the ship, Captain Tytus of the 5th Company stood in the shadows, waiting.
The door hissed open, and the robed figure of Chaplain Varkus stepped through, his skull-faced helm held at his side. The ancient warrior’s eyes locked onto Tytus with a calculating gaze, sensing the unease that had brought him to this clandestine meeting.
“Brother,” Varkus said quietly, his voice a low growl. “You summoned me. What troubles you so that you seek counsel in secret?”
Tytus glanced down the corridor, ensuring that no one had followed or overheard. He took a deep breath, his hand resting on the hilt of his power sword as he turned to face the Chaplain fully.
“There are things I cannot speak of openly, Varkus. But I trust you, as a brother and as the spiritual heart of our company. I need your guidance,” Tytus began, his voice tinged with uncharacteristic uncertainty.
Varkus’s expression did not change, though his brow furrowed slightly beneath his hood. “Speak plainly, Tytus. What weighs on your mind?”
Tytus hesitated for a moment, then finally spoke, the words coming out like a confession. “It’s this mission… *Throne of Galat*. I feel something is wrong, something hidden. This distress signal—it came too late. And now, we’re rushing headlong into an unknown world, trusting in information that feels… incomplete. Worse, I fear our Chapter Master is too eager for glory. Nix has led us well, but this… this feels reckless.”
Varkus’s eyes narrowed, though he remained still, listening. “You doubt the wisdom of Chapter Master Nix?”
Tytus clenched his fist, frustration flickering across his face. “I doubt the *circumstances* of this mission, Varkus. The Malefactus storm, the sudden Tyranid threat… none of it makes sense. If the storm is as dangerous as they say, how did this Chapter survive long enough to send out a distress signal? And why now, when the swarm is supposedly already devouring the planet?”
The Chaplain was silent for a moment, considering Tytus’s words. His presence was like a statue of judgment, unwavering, and bound by his role to the Emperor’s will.
“You fear this is a trap,” Varkus finally said, his voice level but pointed.
Tytus met his gaze. “I fear we are being sent into something far more dangerous than we’re prepared for. And I fear Nix is blind to it. He’s too focused on proving the strength of our Chapter, on restoring our honor after the battles we’ve lost in recent years. But this… rushing into an unknown war zone, without fully understanding what we face… it could cost us everything.”
Varkus moved closer, his skull helm glinting in the faint light. “Nix is our Chapter Master. His word is law, Tytus. You question his judgment, but you must remember, that the Emperor watches over us all. Have you lost faith in our Primarch’s guidance? Or is this doubt in your own heart?”
Tytus shook his head. “It is no doubt in the Emperor or our Primarch. I’ve served this Chapter with unwavering loyalty, and I will see this mission through, no matter the outcome. But as a leader of men, I must think of my brothers. We do not throw our lives away in vain. If Nix is blinded by his ambition, it is my duty to ensure that the 5th Company returns to fight another day.”
Varkus stepped back, his eyes narrowing. “And if Nix's judgment leads us astray? What then, Tytus? Will you defy him in the heat of battle? Will you take command yourself?”
Tytus’s jaw clenched, the thought of defiance weighing heavily on him. “No,” he said firmly. “But if my suspicions are right, if something is amiss when we reach *Throne of Galat*, I will do what I must to protect our brothers. I will speak to Nix again before we make Planetfall. Perhaps I can sway him to reconsider our approach.”
Varkus’s voice took on a sterner edge, almost a rebuke. “Do not mistake caution for cowardice, Tytus. But remember this: the Emperor has placed Nix at the head of this Chapter for a reason. His vision, his path, is guided by the will of the Imperium. If you act against him, even in silence, you risk far more than the lives of your men—you risk tearing apart the fabric of our Chapter itself.”
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Tytus exhaled, the weight of responsibility bearing down on him. He knew Varkus was right, yet his instincts screamed that something was wrong.
“I only hope,” Tytus said quietly, “that I’m wrong, and that this mission is as straightforward as it appears. But I will not lead our brothers to their doom blindly.”
Varkus regarded him for a long moment before placing a gauntleted hand on Tytus’s shoulder. “Brother, may the Emperor’s light guide you. We will follow you and Nix into the fires of battle, and if it is the will of the Emperor, we shall return victorious. But heed this: unity is our greatest strength. Guard your heart, and do not let doubt take root.”
Tytus nodded solemnly, though the flicker of doubt remained in his eyes.
As Varkus turned to leave, the Chaplain’s final words echoed in the chamber. “The Emperor protects. Trust in Him, and your brothers. Whatever awaits us on *Throne of Galat*, we will face it together.”
Tytus stood alone in the corridor for a moment, his mind turning over the possibilities. He would do his duty. But he knew—deep down—something was coming. Something far worse than they had been told.
The *GrimOne* continued its silent journey through the Warp, carrying its warriors ever closer to the unknown world, where secrets and bloodshed awaited.
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The dimly lit chamber hummed with ancient machinery, its walls adorned with relics of the Chapter's long and storied history. This was the heart of transformation, where newly blooded aspirants, having survived the Proving Grounds, now underwent the final and most profound metamorphosis. Row upon row of sarcophagi lay before them, each one containing a neophyte, undergoing the brutal physical changes that would fuse them with the genetic legacy of Sanguinius.
In the shadows, watching over the aspirants, stood two figures. One, a towering giant clad in black and gold, was Brother Enoch, the High Chaplain of the Cardinal Phoenixes. His skull-helmed visage betrayed no emotion, though his presence was a palpable force as if his very essence exuded the weight of judgment. Beside him, equally imposing in stature, was the Chapter's High Priest, a figure known only as Adriel. His bone-white armor gleamed in the faint light, the sigils of the Blood Angels and their Chapter phoenix clutching the blood tear in its claws etched across his warplate in gold.
The two figures stood in silence for a time, watching as the sarcophagi hissed and hummed, the sacred machinery performing its work on the young neophytes within. Occasionally, the sound of muted groans could be heard from within, as the youths experienced visions—some, the divine fire of Sanguinius; others, the more disturbing echoes of the Black Rage. Each experience was personal, each vision unique to the soul of the aspirant undergoing it.
Adriel broke the silence first, his voice low, filled with both pride and concern. “They endure the burden of the Primarch’s blood well, for now. It is always a gamble, at this stage. Some will emerge from these sarcophagi as true Astartes, tempered by the flames of their trials. Others… will fall to the Rage before they ever raise a bolter in the Emperor’s name.”
Enoch nodded, his skull helm turning slightly to regard the High Priest. “The Rage is always a shadow at the edge of our souls, brother. But even more so for these neophytes. They carry within them not only the blood of Sanguinius but the weight of the expectations we have placed upon them.” He paused, watching one of the sarcophagi tremble slightly as its occupant writhed within. “Do you have doubts?”
Adriel let out a long breath, his eyes narrowing as he looked over the neophytes. “It is not doubt, but concern. These aspirants fought well on the Proving Grounds. They have shown their worth through blood and steel. Yet I cannot help but wonder if they are ready for the deeper truth of who we are. The visions are more potent than ever, Brother Enoch. The fire of the Primarch burns brighter, yes—but so too does the Rage.”
Enoch crossed his arms, the ancient symbols of his office glinting in the dim light. “The fire of Sanguinius must burn brightly. It is the only thing that will hold back the madness, Adriel. If they do not feel it, if they do not embrace the Primarch’s sacrifice, they are lost before they even begin.”
Adriel’s gaze shifted to one of the sarcophagi where a particularly young neophyte, Cassius, lay. His readings flickered with intensity, a sign that the visions were strong within him. “This one, Cassius… I sense something different in him. His lineage is noble, yes, and his strength is undeniable. But there is a fire in him that reminds me of the great lords of Baal, of Dante himself. He fights not only for survival but for purpose. His visions will be powerful, perhaps too powerful.”
Enoch followed Adriel’s gaze, the glowing runes on Cassius’s sarcophagus pulsing faintly. “Purpose is a double-edged sword,” the Chaplain said. “It can give a man strength beyond measure, or it can burn him alive from the inside. If this one has fire, we must ensure it is properly stoked—lest it consume him in the flames of the Black Rage.”
Adriel’s brow furrowed. “And what of the others? Kane, his companion, and the rest. They seem strong, but not all of them will survive this final trial intact.”
Enoch’s voice was hard, a tone of cold reality. “Not all are meant to. The Emperor’s path is not for the weak, nor is it for the hesitant. Each of these neophytes has been chosen by fate, by the Primarch’s blood itself. But fate is not always kind. Some will succumb to the Red Thirst, others to the Black Rage. And some will simply not be strong enough to endure the transformation.”
Adriel was silent for a moment, his hand resting on the hilt of his ornate crozius. “Do you ever wonder, Enoch, if we ask too much of them? The visions… the fire of Sanguinius… it is a blessing, yes. But it is also a curse. We carry the burden of a Primarch who was too pure for this galaxy, too noble for the darkness that consumes it. And now, his sons, ourselves included, are trapped in that eternal struggle—between the nobility of his legacy and the madness of our fate.”
Enoch’s helm turned to fully face Adriel, his tone somber but resolute. “We carry the burden of our Primarch because we are his sons. It is not for us to question the path we walk, only to walk it. Sanguinius gave everything for the Imperium, for humanity. If these neophytes are to survive, they must understand that same truth. They are not just soldiers; they are the inheritors of a legacy of sacrifice.”
Adriel nodded slowly, his gaze shifting to another sarcophagus. The neophyte within it was silent, but the readings indicated a violent mental struggle. “This one,” Adriel said quietly. “He is close to breaking.”
Enoch stepped forward, his gauntleted hand resting on the sarcophagus. “Then we watch. And if he breaks, we end it before he becomes a danger to the Chapter.”
The High Priest and High Chaplain stood in silence once more, the weight of their responsibilities pressing down on them as they watched the future of their Chapter writhe in the grip of their visions. Each neophyte’s mind would be tested, their bodies reforged, and their souls pushed to the brink.
Adriel broke the silence once more. “May the fire of Sanguinius guide them, Enoch.”
“And may his blood protect them from the darkness,” Enoch replied, his eyes still locked on the sarcophagi.