As the tribe leader honed her skills in flying the Thunderhawk and the tribe familiarized themselves with their new weapons, Azraelius devoted his free time to expanding their ranks. He set out to conquer smaller tribes in the surrounding area, using his psyker abilities to bend them to his will and incorporate them into the main tribe. Over the course of a week, he had subjugated five smaller tribes, swelling their numbers to over 500 people.

However, this process took a toll on Azraelius. The constant use of his psyker powers left him physically and mentally drained, with each subsequent conquest proving more challenging than the last. Despite the exhaustion, he pressed on, knowing that their growing strength would be crucial in the face of the impending conflict.

In the meantime, the main tribe continued to fortify their defenses, using every scrap of metal and resource at their disposal to prepare for the coming storm. The once simple camp had been transformed into a formidable stronghold, surrounded by walls and guarded by newly trained warriors.

As the days passed, tension hung heavy in the air. The tribe, now a united force, anxiously awaited the arrival of the trader's boss, unsure of what to expect from this enigmatic figure.

Finally, the day arrived when a shadow fell over the camp. A Bastion Class Commerce Vessel, a behemoth of a ship, loomed overhead. Its presence was both awe-inspiring and terrifying, a testament to the power and resources of the trader's mysterious boss. The tribe, now a small army, braced themselves for the inevitable confrontation.

The massive ship dispatched a small shuttle, which descended gracefully toward the ground just outside the tribe's fortified position. As the shuttle's hatch opened, a skinny, slimy-looking individual appeared to glide out of the vessel, approaching the tribe's gate with an air of arrogance.

"Oi! Name's Varnus!" the man announced, addressing the guards at the entrance. "I'm lookin' for one of our traders. You lot seen 'im around?"

His voice betrayed the fact that he already knew they were holding the trader captive, and Azraelius decided to confront the man directly. He left the stronghold, walking toward Varnus with determination in his step.

"He's being held prisoner for attacking me," Azraelius said flatly, indicating the scar on his leg where the wound had healed rapidly, a testament to his Astartes origins.

Varnus raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "And what, pray tell, led to this confrontation?"

Azraelius did not hesitate. "I was unwilling to trade some items I had found, and your man took exception to that."

Varnus scoffed dismissively. "Well, then. Just make the bloody trade and be done with it."

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Azraelius refused once more, this time even more resolute, knowing that they wouldn't simply leave once the trade was made. Varnus' expression darkened, his patience clearly wearing thin.

"Very well," Varnus replied coldly, retreating back to his shuttle.

As the hatch closed behind him, an ominous silence fell over the camp. Azraelius knew that this exchange was far from over, and he could sense the unease among the tribe members. They had come so far, but they knew that the greatest challenge still lay ahead. The standoff with Varnus and his crew had only just begun, and the tribe would need to rely on every ounce of their newfound strength to face the coming storm.

As the battle raged on, a familiar humming sound began to rise above the din of combat. Azraelius turned to see the Thunderhawk approaching from the rear, its engines roaring as it swooped low over the battlefield. The tribe leader had taken to the air, ready to provide the much-needed support.

The Thunderhawk's guns roared to life, spewing a hail of deadly fire upon the mercenaries below. Explosions ripped through their ranks, killing dozens in mere moments. Smoke and debris filled the air as the tide of battle shifted dramatically in favor of Azraelius and the tribespeople.

With renewed vigor, the defenders pressed their advantage, cutting down the remaining mercenaries with ruthless efficiency. The Lasgun fire intensified, the sound echoing through the battlefield as the defenders pushed forward. The mercenaries, realizing they were outmatched, began to falter.

Soon, the last of the mercenaries threw down their weapons, surrendering to the overwhelming force of the tribe. Cheers erupted from the defenders as they celebrated their hard-fought victory, the air filled with a mixture of relief and triumph.

However, the moment of joy would be short-lived. Azraelius, ever vigilant, turned his gaze skyward to the looming Bastion Class Commerce Vessel. He could hear the faint sound of weapons systems powering up, the hum growing louder and more ominous with each passing second.

Azraelius, sensing the imminent danger, shouted for everyone to head for the landed shuttles. Panic set in as the tribespeople and even some of the surrendered mercenaries scrambled out of the stronghold, running towards the shuttles as fast as their legs could carry them. The air was thick with fear and urgency, as everyone knew that time was of the essence.

Azraelius and Lysandra reached the closest shuttle, the hatch opening with a hiss as they beckoned for people to pile in. The tribe leader, seeing their desperate flight, landed her Thunderhawk and began loading people on board, the engines rumbling beneath them as they hurried inside.

In the chaos of the moment, the lines between friend and foe blurred, with some of the former mercenaries joining the tribespeople in their escape. There was no time for grudges or distrust; survival was the only priority now.

The merchant's vessel loomed overhead, its weapons systems fully powered and ready to unleash destruction. As the stronghold came into its sights, the vessel began raining down fire, the impact of the explosions shaking the earth and sending plumes of smoke and debris into the sky.

With all the shuttles loaded, they lifted off, engines roaring as they rose into the air. Azraelius, Lysandra, the tribe leader, and their ragtag group of survivors set their sights on the Bastion Class Commerce Vessel, determination etched on their faces as they prepared for the next stage of their battle. The skies were filled with the sounds of engines and the ominous hum of the enemy vessel, its menacing presence casting a dark shadow over their desperate flight.