"Lord Marcelus, I’m low on ammunition," a battle-hardened Decimus reported through his communicator. The Lord Commander kept charging through the labyrinthine corridors—without responding. It already felt like a game of chase. At every corner, more traitors awaited, but the moment they saw him, they disappeared deeper into the ship.

  "This has to be a trap," he thought. Though certain of that realization, he couldn’t stop. Rage had gripped him. Even the act of running happened on its own. He swung his blade relentlessly. With every drop of blood spilled, he became further entangled in his own violence.

  Massive projectiles—meant to take out tanks—hurtled toward the Custodes. Their impact caused momentary stumbles, but the ceramite armor held firm. A grenade exploded next to Decimus—shrapnel tore through the air—and the servo-motor in his right leg was damaged. Even with a limp, his speed far exceeded that of a normal man.

  When Marcelus vaulted over the next barricade and butchered the rebels behind it, he glanced toward Decimus. There was no corridor ahead now, only a large gate.

  "Beyond this should be the Chapter Cathedral. Be on guard—someone or something will be waiting for us."

  Decimus simply nodded. They approached the gate. Its ornate engravings had been desecrated with scratches and cracks. They were about to enter what was once a holy cathedral of the Ordo Reliciam. To carry any weapon—apart from ceremonial daggers—into such a place was one of the gravest sins for any faithful Imperial servant.

  The Lord Commander took a deep breath—both his hearts pounded in his chest. He knew it. He couldn’t suppress the feeling. He was certain coming here had been a mistake.

  He cast one last glance to his side. Through his red lenses, he looked at Decimus. Then he shattered the gate open with a thunderous crash.

  As expected, they found themselves in a grand hall. Towering pillars—like those in Marcelus’ own throne room—but these were still adorned with reliefs. Bullets were still sizzling on the altar. Candles were burning. A living house—but where were its inhabitants?

  Marcelus reached for his laser pistol. The glow of the cooling rods would’ve aided sight in the darkness, but their helmet visors were already equipped with night vision.

  Decimus checked his current ammo supply on a display. It wasn’t much.

  Then, Marcelus felt an unnatural chill. His vision flickered. For a moment, his senses were blocked—and that was all they needed.

  A bright beam of concentrated energy cut through the cathedral. Metal melted, flesh burned. When he looked down again, a part of his forearm had been ripped off. Before he could even react, his armor’s life-support system activated. A dose of Oncorex was injected into the surrounding tissue. Cells began to multiply rapidly, and the gaping wound closed at alarming speed.

  The Lord Commander sought the fight—but his senses held him back from blindly rushing to death. The Custodes took cover behind the massive support pillars.

  Marcelus tried contacting the Iron Fury through his communicator, but something was jamming the signal.

  Decimus fired his last rounds in the attackers' direction—to no effect. A glaring plasma beam sliced through the air. The marble pillar held, to everyone’s surprise. The flickering light danced across the gloom-soaked hall.

  They were trapped. Marcelus searched desperately for a way out.

  When he glanced to his right, he noticed something was wrong with Decimus. He was twitching—not out of battle-lust. A dark presence clouded his mind; Marcelus could feel it. Decimus struggled with his thoughts. His memories pierced his brain like deep black needles. Bit by bit, he succumbed to madness.

  Marcelus saw it all. He had witnessed much in his time—but a Custos so thoroughly consumed in battle—something abnormal was at play here. He had felt this shadow looming over them before. He couldn’t take it anymore.

  Decimus hurled himself from cover—eyes glowing red, veins swollen, foam at the mouth. But it didn’t take long for him to find release. Another shot tore through the darkness. The weakly armored neck joint shattered. For a moment, he could feel the cool air inside his carotid artery. He stumbled. The wound began to close quickly, but it was too late. His lungs had filled with blood. He coughed. Decimus stopped breathing, knowing he would suffocate. He fell. The loud thud of his fall echoed through the entire wreck. The ornate floor splintered under his weight.

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  These were his final moments—he knew it. At least he was no longer tormented. He was free. But one final act remained—for duty.

  Marcelus threw him his laser pistol. Right in front of Decimus, the oval barrel of a plasma cannon loomed. He looked into his death—and spat in its face. The shots fired. Two glowing energy beams spiraled past each other.

  Decimus' left half of his head was torn off—the eye lenses shattered first, then the thin ceramite followed. Marcelus jumped from cover. Unconcerned for his own safety, he ran to his dying brother.

  He lay there gasping, patches of his flesh still aflame. He looked at Marcelus with one tired eye that said: “Please end my suffering. Grant me release.”

  Marcelus couldn’t bring himself to kill a friend. He leaned his head back and breathed. He savored the silence.

  But even that broke.

  The echoing steps disturbed the peace. Light footsteps, followed by the sharp tap of a wooden staff on stone.

  The Lord Commander turned.

  There he saw him—cloaked in a long black robe. Talismans hung from his withered neck, grotesquely mimicking the wreaths of the Ordo Reliciam. Gray, decayed skin stretched over his frail hands. A small crystal atop his staff emitted a bright light. First white, then bluish, before finally settling on a blood red.

  The shaman began to chant dark hymns, but Marcelus wasted no time. He charged forward—Invictus followed in a high arc.

  But the strike never landed. Black lightning tore the weapon from his grip and engulfed him in pain.

  He tried again. His body froze—trapped in a moment that refused to pass. He wanted to fight, but darkness stole his vision. His mind drifted—to another, safer place. A point far in the past.

  The glaring evening sun bathed the land in deep red. The gray battlements reveled in the blood that coated them. Bells tolled. Pilgrims from across the galaxy sang hymns of praise. Here—in the holy city.

  Marcelus stood at the railing, enjoying the warm air. It was so peaceful, so far from war. His fists were clenched in frustration.

  “Beware,” came a calm voice behind him.

  He turned toward his fatherly figure. The man was like him—and yet not. His long hair was silver, his cheeks slightly sunken, and yet his gaze was proud.

  “Beware your rage, Titian,” his master soothed.

  Marcelus looked at his armor and saw his youthful reflection. He now realized what he was seeing was only a dream—a memory.

  The man before him was Lucen Gabriel, the first Lord Commander of the Second Legion. His yellow ceramite plates were adorned with heraldry and embellishments.

  Gabriel stepped closer. The servos of the first-generation armor groaned with each step. He placed a hand on Marcelus’ shoulder.

  "You know, sometimes when someone grips your fist tightly, pushing back harder doesn’t help. Sometimes it’s better to yield. To let go. To slip free from the grasp of anger."

  The young Marcelus had taken his master’s words deeply to heart—and so did the old, seasoned one.

  He stopped resisting in fury. He let go. He relaxed.

  His vision blurred. He returned to reality.

  The dark, crushing shadow was no longer on him. He had broken free of its chains.

  Now was the time to act.

  The Lord Commander’s hand darted forward and gripped the shaman’s head. With a swift closing of his servo-enhanced fist, he crushed the weak psyker’s skull. A punch to the torso shattered every bone into fragments. Organs spilled across the once-sacred floor.

  As the corpse hit the ground, Marcelus’ communicator crackled to life.

  "Lord Commander, can you hear me?" came a desperate voice from the other side.

  "Loud and clear. I just had to deal with a few insurgents down here."

  He betrayed neither grief nor anger.

  "I’m returning to the Iron Fury now. What’s the situation?"

  "Well, everything’s still fine... but we’ve detected another unidentified ship contact."

  “How far and how many?”

  "One hundred eighty thousand kilometers and, uh... forty ships."

  Marcelus’ eyes widened.

  “I’m coming.”