The long-range vox unit sputtered and whined as Servius adjusted the dials, its ancient mechanisms groaning with the effort of bridging the vast distances of the Warp. The fortress’s communications chamber was a warped, jagged space filled with rusted cogitators and disused machinery, the air thick with the stench of oil and blood. Warp-light flickered across the walls like dying embers, casting sinister shadows over the hulking, heretical symbols carved into the stone.

  Servius’s sharp green eyes narrowed as he leaned over the control panel, his claws dancing over the unfamiliar controls. He was no tech-priest, but his time in the Nexus had taught him how to feel his way through even the most alien devices. The threads stirred faintly within him, guiding his hand as he fine-tuned the vox to the correct frequency.

  The crackling static wavered, and finally, a distorted voice cut through the interference.

  “...This is the Bastion. Who's calling? State your identity.”

  Servius’s ears flicked forward, his tail twitching behind him as he leaned closer to the vox transmitter. “This is Servius. The fortress is ours. The gate is secured, but the warband is still active. Bring everyone.”

  There was a pause on the other end, the static crackling faintly as the voice processed his words. “Servius? We weren’t expecting a report so soon. Say again—did you say the gate is secured?”

  “Yes,” Servius said flatly, his voice sharp and cutting. “But the warband still has numbers. You’ll need every able body if you want to hold this place.”

  Another pause. This time, Servius could hear muffled voices in the background, tense and hurried. Then the voice returned, more focused. “Understood. We’re mobilizing now. ETA, thirty minutes. Hold until we arrive.”

  “We’ll hold,” Servius replied, cutting the transmission before they could say anything else. He stood straight, the weight of the situation settling over him like a heavy cloak. His sharp eyes scanned the room, taking in the signs of battle—the bloodstains on the floor, the broken chains dangling from the ceiling, the twisted bodies of cultists who had fallen in defense of the vox chamber.

  He exhaled slowly, holstering his bolt pistol as he turned back toward the corridor where Adrasta was waiting.

  Servius stood at the edge of a broken balcony overlooking the fortress’s outer wall, his sharp green eyes fixed on the horizon. The Warp sky churned with its endless storm of colors, the swirling hues bleeding into one another like a festering wound. In the distance, he could just make out the faint silhouette of The Vigil’s Ember, an ancient landing craft, breaking through the maelstrom, its battered hull glinting faintly in the distorted light.

  Adrasta leaned against a cracked pillar nearby, her injured arm bound tightly with makeshift bandages. Her gray eyes followed Servius’s gaze, narrowing as she spotted the incoming ship. “They actually came,” she muttered, her tone laced with grim satisfaction. “About damn time.”

  “They know what’s at stake,” Servius said quietly. His tail flicked once behind him, a sharp, deliberate motion. “They’ll fight like cornered animals if they have to.”

  Adrasta chuckled faintly, though the sound was strained. “Let’s hope they brought enough firepower. The Ebon Claws won’t go down easy.”

  “They won’t have a choice,” Servius replied, his voice cold and resolute. He turned to face her, his expression unreadable. “You should stay back when the fighting starts. You’re in no condition to lead.”

  Adrasta’s smirk twisted into something sharper, almost defiant. “I’ve been in worse shape and still put down heretics,” she said, her tone daring him to argue. But when she met his gaze, her smirk faded, replaced by a flicker of understanding. “But... I’ll stay out of your way. For now.”

  Servius gave a slight nod, satisfied. “Good.”

  The sound of engines grew louder, the survivors of Bastion descending toward the fortress like predatory birds. Their shuttle hulls were riddled with scars from countless battles, weapon mounts bristling with heavy bolters and autocannons. The sight was both reassuring and sobering—a reminder of how much blood would be spilled before this day was over.

  The first dropship touched down in the courtyard below, its ramps lowering to reveal a motley crew of survivors armed with lasguns, stubbers, and scavenged melee weapons. Among them was the wiry figure of Jaren, his helmet glinting in the Warp-light as he barked orders to the others. His voice carried over the din, sharp and commanding despite the chaos around him.

  “Form up! Secure the perimeter! Keep those bastards off our backs!”

  Servius descended the crumbling staircase leading to the courtyard, his movements fluid and deliberate. As he approached the newly arrived group, Jaren turned to face him, his expression tense but focused.

  “Servius,” Jaren said, nodding in acknowledgment. “You weren’t kidding about this place. It’s a damn death trap.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Servius replied, his voice flat. “The gate is secure, but the warband still has reinforcements. We’ll need to hit them hard if we want to hold this place.”

  Jaren’s jaw tightened, his grip on his lasgun firm. “What’s the plan?”

  Servius’s sharp eyes flicked toward the fortress’s inner halls, where the last remnants of the Ebon Claws still held ground. “We push in. Take out what remains. Once we have the fortress secured, we’ll figure out what’s next.”

  Jaren nodded, his expression hardening. “Understood. I’ll rally the others. We’ve lost too many to turn back now.”

  Jaren moved with purpose, his sharp voice cutting through the chaos as he rallied the survivors into some semblance of order. Around him, the motley force of Bastion survivors scrambled into position—worn faces hardened with grim determination, their weapons clutched tightly in scarred hands. The warp-stained air trembled with the distant roars of the remaining Chaos warband. This was the last stand, and every single one of them knew it.

  “Form up!” Jaren barked, his helmet catching the faint, sickly glow of the Warp-light as he scanned the courtyard. “Heavy weapons on the walls! Lasguns up front! Ogryns, you hold the damn line, or we all die here!”

  The gruff voices of the survivors answered back in the affirmative, a guttural, unified roar of determination. Two hulking Ogryns—grimy, battered, and eager to fight—took their places near the shattered entryway, massive ripper guns resting against their shoulders like oversized clubs. Behind them, men and women armed with lasguns and autoguns crouched in the shadows, their weapons trained on the darkened corridor leading into the heart of the fortress.

  From his position on the fractured balcony, Servius watched the scene unfold with sharp, calculating eyes. He was a hunter by nature, not a commander. This battle wasn’t his to lead, nor did he have any interest in doing so. But his gaze lingered on Jaren, the wiry man moving through the ranks with a mixture of authority and raw, unrelenting will. For all the odds stacked against him, Jaren carried himself like a man who believed victory was still possible.

  “The indomitable will of humanity,” Servius thought, his tail flicking once behind him as he adjusted his sniper rifle—the Longlas he’d scavenged from a fallen cultist earlier. Its barrel was warped, its scope cracked, but it would serve well enough to cover the survivors. He wasn’t here to waste his strength or ammunition on a battle they had already claimed as their own. His role, for now, was to watch and intervene only when necessary.

  The faint crackle of a vox-link cut through the tension, Jaren’s voice booming from the comms clipped to each squad leader’s belt. “They’re coming! Hold the line! No one breaks, no one falls!”

  The survivors answered with a unified roar just as the first wave of cultists poured into the courtyard.

  The Ebon Claws cultists swarmed out of the fortress like a tide of madness, their bodies clad in patchwork armor and their faces twisted with Warp-infused zealotry. Many carried crude melee weapons—chainswords, axes, and jagged blades still slick with dried blood—while others wielded lasguns and stubbers scavenged from fallen Imperial forces. Their voices rose in a cacophony of war cries and blasphemous chants as they charged headlong into the Bastion survivors’ line.

  The first wave collided with the Ogryns like a hammer striking an anvil.

  “STAND!” one of the Ogryns roared, his massive voice shaking the air as he raised his ripper gun and fired. The weapon barked thunderously, its oversized shells tearing through the bodies of the cultists with brutal efficiency. Blood and viscera sprayed across the broken stone, but the Ogryn didn’t flinch. He swung the weapon like a club, the barrel smashing into the face of a screaming heretic and shattering his skull in a single blow.

  The second Ogryn let out a guttural laugh as he stepped forward, his ripper gun spitting fire into the horde. “LITTLE MEN! YOU TINY! OGRYN SMASH!”

  Behind them, the survivors opened fire. Lasgun beams lit up the darkness, their crimson streaks slicing through the ranks of the cultists. Autoguns chattered, their bullets tearing into flesh and bone, while scavenged stubbers barked with staccato fury. The air filled with the acrid stench of burning flesh, the screams of the dying mixing with the endless chanting of the Warp-addled zealots.

  Servius tracked the battle from above, his longlas pressed against his shoulder as he scanned the chaos below. His sharp green eyes locked onto a cultist armed with a crackling plasma gun, the heretic’s weapon aimed toward the rear of the survivors’ line. Without hesitation, Servius exhaled slowly and pulled the trigger.

  The shot struck the cultist cleanly between the eyes, the force of the impact snapping his head back and sending his body crumpling to the ground. Servius readied to select a new target, his tail flicking sharply as he shifted his aim to a heavy gunner standing near the entrance of the fortress. Another shot rang out, the Longlas’s beam punching through the heretic’s chest and reducing his torso to charred slag.

  The battle raged on, but it wasn’t long before the sound of metallic boots reverberated from within the fortress. Jaren’s sharp gaze snapped toward the entryway, his knuckles tightening around his lasgun as two towering figures emerged from the shadows.

  The final two Astartes of the Ebon Claws stepped into the courtyard, their crimson eyes glowing with malice behind the jagged visors of their helmets. One wielded a massive flamer, its pilot light spitting tongues of fire as he stepped forward, while the other carried a wickedly serrated chainsword that dripped with blood. The corrupted ceramite of their armor was adorned with the sigils of Chaos, their blasphemous presence exuding an aura of dread.

  The battle seemed to pause for a moment, the survivors faltering as the Traitor Marines surveyed the field. The flamer-wielding Astartes raised his weapon, the hiss of compressed promethium cutting through the air as he prepared to unleash hell.

  “Keep firing!” Jaren shouted, his voice cutting through the fear that gripped the survivors. “Take them down! They bleed like the rest of us!”

  The survivors obeyed, their lasguns blazing as they poured fire into the advancing Astartes. But the bolts of light barely left scorch marks on their corrupted armor, the Traitor Marines marching forward with grim inevitability.

  Servius shifted his aim, his sniper rifle tracking the flamer Marine’s helmet. He exhaled slowly, steadying his grip as he prepared to fire—but before he could pull the trigger, the Astartes unleashed a torrent of fire.

  The promethium roared, engulfing a section of the survivors’ line in a wall of flame. Screams filled the air as men and women burned, their bodies writhing in agony before collapsing into ash. The flamer Marine laughed, the sound guttural and cruel as he continued his advance.

  Servius’s tail flicked sharply, his sharp eyes narrowing. This is getting worse by the second.

  He adjusted his aim, his green eyes locking onto the weak point in the flamer Marine’s armor—a vulnerable gap at the base of the neck. Servius fired, the Longlas’s beam streaking through the air and striking true. The Marine’s helmet snapped back, the force of the shot cracking the corrupted ceramite and exposing scorched flesh beneath. The Astartes staggered, but he didn’t fall.

  “Jaren!” Servius barked from above, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Get your people out of the open!”

  Jaren’s gaze snapped toward the balcony, his expression grim. “We’re holding the line!” he shouted back, his lasgun spitting fire as he aimed for the chainsword-wielding Marine. “We don’t run!”

  Servius cursed under his breath, his claws tightening on the Longlas. Below, the battle surged on, the survivors locked in a desperate fight for their lives against the overwhelming might of Chaos. The cost of victory would be steep—but the indomitable will of humanity refused to break.

  The courtyard was an inferno of chaos, blood, and determination. The survivors of Bastion fought like cornered beasts, their lasguns blazing and their voices roaring with defiance against the overwhelming tide of heresy bearing down on them. Jaren was at the heart of it, his battered lasgun spitting beams of crimson light that struck with precision even as the two Chaos Marines advanced.

  The chainsword-wielding Traitor Marine carved through the front line with horrifying ease. His weapon roared as its serrated teeth chewed through flesh and bone, leaving a trail of mangled bodies in his wake. Each strike was brutal, methodical, and calculated to instill terror. And yet, the survivors didn’t break. They pressed forward, throwing themselves into the fray with a ferocity that defied reason.

  The flamer Marine continued his relentless advance, sweeping arcs of fire across the courtyard. Screams of agony rose as survivors were incinerated, their bodies consumed by the cleansing flame of Chaos. Still, the survivors held their ground, ducking behind cover, firing, and moving with grim determination.

  Above it all, Servius tracked the battle from his perch, his eyes sharp and unyielding as he followed the movement of the Traitor Marines. The Longlas in his hands felt light, almost weightless, compared to the immense gravity of the battle playing out below. He exhaled slowly, his tail flicking behind him as he lined up another shot.

  The flamer Marine’s helmet filled his reticle, the exposed crack from his earlier shot still visible. Servius adjusted his aim slightly, centering the weak point. His clawed finger tightened on the trigger, and the Longlas fired.

  The beam of focused light lanced through the air, striking the flamer Marine directly in the exposed crack of his helmet. The shot pierced through flesh and bone, exiting the back of his skull in a spray of corrupted viscera. The Astartes staggered, his flamer lowering as his massive frame tilted forward. With a deafening crash, the Chaos Marine collapsed to the ground, his corrupted armor sending up a plume of dust and ash.

  One down.

  Jaren caught sight of the Marine’s fall and roared to his comrades. “They can bleed! Take them down!” His voice carried over the din, rallying the survivors. A wave of renewed determination surged through the line, and they redoubled their efforts, firing at the remaining Marine with reckless abandon.

  The chainsword-wielding Marine, however, was undeterred. He roared in fury, his voice a guttural snarl distorted by his helmet’s vox grille. “You think this changes anything? You are insects! You will die screaming!”

  He surged forward, his chainsword cutting down another survivor in a spray of blood. The survivors’ fire bounced harmlessly off his armor, their lasguns unable to penetrate the thick ceramite.

  Servius cursed under his breath. He lined up another shot, but the angle was bad. The Marine was moving too erratically, cutting through the survivors with brutal efficiency. His clawed hands tightened on the rifle as he tracked the movement, waiting for an opening.

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  Jaren saw the carnage firsthand. The Chaos Marine was tearing through his people, and their fire wasn’t enough to stop him. His mind raced, the weight of command pressing down on him like never before. He wasn’t a leader—he’d never been one—but the survivors were looking to him now, and he couldn’t let them down.

  “On me!” he shouted, rallying a small group of fighters. “Keep firing! Aim for the joints! Slow him down!”

  The survivors around him obeyed, their lasguns firing in disciplined bursts. The concentrated fire did little more than scorch the edges of the Marine’s armor, but it forced the Traitor to raise his chainsword defensively, slowing his advance.

  Jaren took a breath, his hands steady on his lasgun as he aimed for the Marine’s knee joint. He fired, the red beam striking the weak point and forcing the Astartes to falter for half a step.

  The Marine turned his burning gaze toward Jaren, his corrupted voice rumbling like thunder. “You dare to defy me, mortal? I will carve the life from your bones!”

  Jaren’s jaw tightened, his knuckles white as he gripped his lasgun. “Come on, then,” he muttered under his breath. “Let’s see how you like this.”

  He reached for his belt, his fingers closing around the handle of a krak grenade. With a practiced motion, he armed the explosive, the faint hum of its activation vibrating through his hand. He glanced over his shoulder at the survivors behind him, his voice sharp and commanding. “Fall back! Now!”

  The survivors hesitated, their eyes wide with fear and uncertainty.

  “Go!” Jaren roared, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Get back! Now!”

  The survivors hesitated for only a moment before obeying, retreating toward the edges of the courtyard under the withering gaze of the Chaos Marine. The Astartes strode forward, his corrupted armor groaning under the weight of his movements, his chainsword raised high. Its teeth spun in a howling roar, promising death as it bore down on the mortal defying him.

  Jaren didn’t flinch. He stood his ground, gripping the krak grenade tightly in his hand. His breaths were steady, his expression sharp with determination. Around him, the screams of dying comrades and the roar of lasfire filled the air, but he didn’t waver.

  The Astartes’s vox-distorted voice growled out, mockingly low and dripping with disdain. “Your courage is meaningless, mortal. Your blood will be added to the offering.”

  Jaren’s lips curled into a fierce smirk. “You talk too much.”

  With a roar of his own, Jaren surged forward, dodging the first massive swipe of the chainsword with an agility that belied his wiry frame. His boots skidded across the blood-soaked ground as he lunged at the Chaos Marine’s side, slamming the grenade into the exposed gap beneath the Marine’s pauldron. The audible click of the detonation timer reverberated through the carnage.

  The Chaos Marine bellowed in rage, swinging his massive chainsword in a vicious arc. But Jaren was already moving, darting back as the weapon’s teeth missed him by mere inches and tore into the ground instead. He didn’t wait for the blast.

  The explosion ripped through the courtyard with deafening force. The krak grenade’s concentrated charge obliterated the Marine’s pauldron and tore deep into the flesh beneath, blasting apart the joint where armor met corrupted sinew. The sheer force of the detonation sent the hulking form of the Chaos Marine stumbling backward, smoke and black ichor pouring from the gaping wound.

  The Marine staggered, his burning red eyes locking onto Jaren with pure hatred. He raised the chainsword for one final swing, but his body betrayed him. With a guttural snarl, he crumpled to his knees, the corrupted life leaking out of him in torrents.

  The courtyard fell silent save for the crackling flames and the groans of the wounded. The survivors stared in stunned disbelief at the fallen Marine, their weapons slack in their hands. For a brief moment, they had glimpsed the impossible: one of the Emperor’s darkened Angels of Death brought low by mortal hands.

  Jaren, still steady on his feet despite the explosion, lowered his lasgun and glanced back at the other survivors. “See?” he called out, his voice ragged but triumphant. “They bleed like anything else. Now get moving!”

  The shout broke the trance of disbelief. The survivors erupted into action, shouting, cheering, and surging forward with renewed vigor. The last remnants of the Ebon Claws’ resistance faltered, their cultists scrambling for cover or retreat as the human tide bore down on them.

  Servius descended from the balcony with measured steps, his sharp green eyes surveying the scene below. His tail flicked once as he watched the survivors regroup and secure the courtyard. The bodies of Chaos cultists and survivors alike littered the ground, a grim testament to the cost of their victory.

  Jaren was at the center of it all, rallying the remaining fighters with an energy Servius hadn’t seen before. Despite the weariness etched into his features, he stood tall, his lasgun slung over one shoulder and his other hand gesturing as he barked orders.

  Servius approached him silently, his presence unnoticed until he was a mere step away. Jaren turned sharply, his body tense until he saw who it was.

  “Cat,” Jaren said, his tone a mixture of surprise and relief. “Didn’t think I’d see you come down here.”

  Servius’s gaze flicked to the wreckage of the Chaos Marine behind Jaren, the shattered remains of his armor still smoldering. “You didn’t need me,” he said flatly. “You handled it.”

  Jaren’s lips curled into a faint, prideful smirk. “Damn right we did. Didn’t think a krak grenade would actually work that well, but here we are.”

  Servius nodded, his expression unreadable. “You fought well.”

  Jaren tilted his head slightly, studying the feline warrior’s calm demeanor. “What about you? This isn’t your fight. Why’d you stick around?”

  Servius glanced toward the distant Warp Gate, its pulsing light casting long, eerie shadows over the courtyard. “I needed to see this through,” he said simply. “And now it’s done.”

  Hours later, the fortress was theirs. The survivors of Bastion had fought tooth and nail for every inch of it, and now the blood-soaked halls stood eerily silent, a grim reminder of the cost of their victory. Chaos cultists lay dead or bound in chains, the last remnants of the Ebon Claws either slaughtered or driven into the Warp Gate itself.

  Servius stood at the base of the Warp Gate, its pulsing, unnatural light casting long shadows across the chamber. The air hummed with energy, thick with the essence of the Immaterium. To most, the Gate would have been a symbol of salvation or damnation—hope or horror. But to Servius, it was simply a tool, a thread in a tapestry far too large to see the edges of.

  He stepped closer, his sharp green eyes narrowing as he studied its glow. The threads of the Nexus stirred faintly within him, brushing against his consciousness like phantom hands. The Warp Gate was active—alive—but something in its energy felt... wrong. Not broken, but warped in a way that defied comprehension.

  Behind him, the surviving leaders of Bastion approached. Jaren, still dirty and battle-worn but alive, led the group with his lasgun slung over one shoulder. Beside him Adrasta, the woman now wrapped in proper bandages and arm in a sling. A handful of other survivors trailed behind, their expressions wary as they took in the sight of the Gate.

  “This is it,” Adrasta said, her voice low and weak. “Our way out.”

  Jaren glanced at Servius, his gaze steady but questioning. “What do you think? Can we use it?”

  Servius didn’t respond immediately. He stepped closer to the Gate, extending a clawed hand toward its flickering energy. The air around the Gate seemed to ripple, resisting his touch as though it were alive. The ache in his fingertips returned, faint but unmistakable, as the Nexus’s threads coiled tighter around him. The Gate would work for the survivors, but for him...

  “It’s stable,” Servius said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “You can use it.”

  “And you?” Jaren asked, stepping forward. “You’re coming with us, right? You earned that.”

  Servius’s tail flicked sharply, his green eyes narrowing. “I don’t think I can.”

  Jaren frowned, his brows furrowing. “What do you mean? We fought for this—together. You’ve got just as much right to leave as the rest of us.”

  Servius didn’t answer right away. He stepped even closer to the Gate, his claws grazing the edge of its energy. A faint resistance pushed back against him, not physical but... intrinsic, as if the Warp itself were barring his passage. The threads of the Nexus tugged at him, silent but insistent.

  “This place,” Servius said finally, his voice low and distant, “it won’t let me go. Not yet.”

  Jaren stared at him, disbelief etched across his features. “That’s ridiculous! You’ve done more for this fight than any of us. You don’t have to stay here.”

  Servius turned to face him, his expression calm but unyielding. “I have my own path to follow. This isn’t the end for me—it’s just another step.”

  Adrasta, standing slightly behind Jaren, nodded grimly. Her voice was quiet but resolute. “We’ll take it from here, then. You’ve done enough.”

  “More than enough,” Jaren added, his voice heavy with emotion. He extended a hand toward Servius, his grip firm despite the weariness in his frame. “Thank you, Cat. For everything.”

  Servius stared at the offered hand for a moment before gripping it firmly. “Make it count,” he said, his voice sharp but not unkind.

  Before anyone could respond, a voice cut through the silence—gravelly and deliberate. “We will.”

  Arkyn stepped into the chamber, his bionic hand resting on the hilt of a sheathed sword. His scarred, milky-white eye reflected the Gate’s light as he walked toward the group. He moved with an air of authority that silenced even Jaren, whose questioning gaze quickly turned to quiet respect.

  “You’re a hard one to keep track of, Servius,” Arkyn said, his tone carrying a faint note of dry humor. “But I’m not surprised to find you here.”

  Servius’s sharp green eyes locked onto Arkyn, his expression unreadable. “You should’ve stayed on the ship. The fighting’s over.”

  “Exactly,” Arkyn replied, stopping a few paces from the Gate. “Which means it’s time to secure what we fought for. This Gate—this fortress—everything here belongs to us now.”

  “And you think you’re ready to lead them through the Warp?” Servius asked, his voice edged with skepticism.

  Arkyn’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “I didn’t survive this long on luck alone.” He raised his bionic hand, and for the first time, the survivors around him saw the faint glow of psychic energy swirling around his fingers. The air seemed to hum in response, a subtle but undeniable shift in the atmosphere.

  Jaren’s eyes widened. “You’re... a psyker?”

  Arkyn nodded, his expression grim. “A damned good one, too. And before you start panicking, let me remind you that this power is the only reason half of you are still alive. The Gellar field? The defensive barriers? All of it held because I held it. The Warp doesn’t scare me, Jaren. I’ve been staring into its maw for decades.”

  Servius’s tail flicked sharply, his green eyes narrowing. “So that’s how you’ve lasted this long.”

  “Partly,” Arkyn admitted. “The rest is sheer stubbornness. But I’m not just here to boast.” He turned to the Gate, his scarred face lit by its eerie glow. “This is our way out, and I’ll make sure we survive the journey. These people need a guide—someone who understands the Warp and how to navigate its currents. That’s where I come in.”

  The survivors exchanged glances, their wariness tempered by hope.

  “What about you?” Arkyn asked, turning back to Servius. “The Gate’s open. You could leave.”

  Servius shook his head. “It won’t let me. My path goes deeper into the Warp.”

  Arkyn studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Then I suppose this is where we part ways.”

  “It is,” Servius said. He stepped back, giving the survivors space as they prepared to activate the Gate. “You know what to do. Don’t waste this chance.”

  “We won’t,” Arkyn said firmly.

  As the Gate began to hum with energy, Servius turned away, his green eyes fixed on the distant horizon beyond the fortress. The Warp called to him, its whispers threading through his soul.

  Behind him, the survivors began their exodus. The roar of engines echoed through the area as the shuttles powered up one by one, their hulls battered and scarred from years of conflict. The Vigil’s Ember loomed just outside the courtyard, its massive frame ready to serve as the fleet’s command ship. Smaller shuttles—patched together with salvaged plating and reinforced with whatever scrap they could find—lined the courtyard’s edges, their ramps lowered as survivors loaded supplies and prepared for departure.

  Jaren barked orders over the noise, his voice sharp and commanding. “Get those crates secured! Ammunition, food, anything we can carry—don’t leave a damn thing behind!” His tone left no room for hesitation, and the survivors moved with purpose, hauling crates of scavenged weapons, rations, and fuel up the ramps of the shuttles.

  Adrasta, despite her injuries, oversaw the loading of one of the larger crafts. Her gray eyes were hard and determined as she directed her people, occasionally using her good hand to point out areas that needed reinforcement. “Don’t forget the medical supplies!” she snapped at a younger survivor struggling to carry a crate. “If anyone else gets hurt on the other side, we’re going to need them!”

  Arkyn stood near one of the shuttles, his bionic hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The faint glow of psychic energy flickered around his fingers, unnoticed by most but unmistakable to those who had already seen his abilities. He wasn’t shouting or rushing—his presence alone commanded respect, and the survivors moved with renewed focus under his watchful eye.

  The Warp Gate pulsed steadily, its energy building with each passing moment. The air around it crackled faintly, a reminder of the immense power it held. Servius stood apart from the others, his sharp green eyes fixed on the Gate’s unnatural glow. He could feel the Nexus’s threads stirring within him, their presence heavy but familiar. The Gate was a pathway, a bridge through the Immaterium, but it wasn’t meant for him. He knew that now.

  Jaren approached him, his lasgun slung over his shoulder, every step weighed down by exhaustion. But his eyes were sharp, defiant even, as though he were daring Servius to change his mind. “This is it,” he said, nodding toward the Gate. “Our way out.”

  Servius stayed silent for a long moment, his sharp green eyes tracking the survivors as they scrambled to board the final shuttle. The engines of The Vigil’s Ember roared to life, and the fortress shook faintly beneath its thrusters as the ship began to rise. Its battered hull caught the faint glow of the Warp Gate, the light refracted across its jagged edges like fractured glass.

  “They’ll follow you,” Servius said finally, his tone cool and deliberate. “If you’re steady. If you’re smart. Keep them alive.”

  Jaren frowned, his knuckles whitening against the stock of his lasgun. “And you?” he asked. His voice carried the weight of their shared battles, the thin veneer of disbelief cracking just slightly. “Are you just staying behind to disappear into the Warp? After everything, this is where you stop?”

  Servius’s tail flicked once behind him, a sharp and deliberate motion. “This isn’t my way out,” he said quietly, his gaze shifting to the Warp Gate. “And you already know it. There is something keeping me in this twisting realm for now. I’ve always worked better alone anyways.”

  Adrasta limped into view, her bandages soaked with blood that had long since dried, her movements slower but no less purposeful. Her sharp gray eyes fixed on Servius with an intensity that belied her weariness. “He’s not the kind of man who ‘stops,’ Jaren,” she said, her tone cutting but edged with understanding. “If he says he can’t leave, then he has something bigger dragging him forward. And I doubt even you could talk him out of it.”

  Servius tilted his head slightly, acknowledging the truth in her words. He met her gaze for a moment longer than necessary—long enough to see the faint smirk tugging at the corner of her scarred lips.

  “You’re a pain in the ass, Cat,” Adrasta muttered, her voice softer now. “But if we get through this... I expect to hear about what happens to you. You’ve got too many damn lives to waste them all out here.”

  “You won’t hear about me,” Servius replied, his voice cold but faintly tinged with something that might have been regret. “And if you’re smart, you won’t go looking.”

  Adrasta’s smirk widened, a sharp bark of laughter escaping her. “Right. I’ll take that as your version of ‘take care.’”

  Jaren watched the exchange in silence, his jaw tightening as his gaze flicked between Adrasta and Servius. Finally, he exhaled sharply, the tension leaving his shoulders as he extended a hand.

  “Whatever this path of yours is,” Jaren said, his voice steady, “just don’t let it swallow you whole. You pulled us out of hell today, whether you meant to or not. Don’t think I’m going to forget that.”

  Servius hesitated for a fraction of a second before gripping Jaren’s forearm tightly, his claws brushing against the fabric of the man’s sleeve. “Make it count,” Servius said, his tone sharp and deliberate. “All of this—every sacrifice, every loss. Make it worth something.”

  “We will,” Jaren replied, his voice hard with resolve.

  Adrasta stepped closer, resting her good hand on Jaren’s shoulder. She looked at Servius one last time, her gray eyes softening. “You’re good at surviving, Servius,” she said, her tone quieter now. “But you’re not so good at living. Try to figure that out before it’s too late.”

  The first shuttle began to lift off, its engines roaring as it rose toward the Gate. Its hull was patched and scarred, a testament to the trials its occupants had endured, but it held steady as it surged forward. The craft disappeared into the Gate’s pulsating light, its silhouette swallowed by the swirling energy.

  One by one, the other shuttles followed, each carrying its precious cargo of survivors and supplies. The air was thick with the sound of thrusters and the faint hum of the Warp Gate as it pulled them through. The Vigil’s Ember moved last, its massive frame groaning under the strain as it adjusted its course toward the Gate. Arkyn stood on the ship’s forward ramp, his scarred face lit by the Gate’s glow as he raised a hand in silent acknowledgment toward Servius.

  Servius gave a slight nod, his eyes locking with Arkyn’s for a brief moment. Then The Vigil’s Ember surged forward, disappearing into the Gate’s light.

  The area fell silent once more, the echoes of the shuttles fading into the oppressive hum of the Immaterium. Servius stood alone before the Gate, its unnatural glow reflecting in his sharp green eyes. The threads of the Nexus coiled tightly around him, their presence a constant reminder of the path he had chosen.

  Servius stood alone in the hollow silence of the fortress, the ache in his fingertips returning as the Nexus’s threads tugged faintly at his mind.

  It was quieter without them. And colder.

  https://youtu.be/5bps20rHUg4?si=Y3HQO9VISx866t2G