"You realize I will remember this, yes?" Kade grumbled, his voice edged with dry irritation as he stared through his visor at the slate-gray clouds overhead.

  The servitors carrying him trundled forward, their servo-arms holding the immobilized Marine aloft with mechanical indifference.

  Koron stood nearby, watching as the last of the unconscious Adeptus Mechanicus personnel were loaded into two of the remaining Aquila Landers—Kade placed unceremoniously alongside them. The distant hum of engines filled the air, mingling with the occasional crackle of vox chatter from the shuttles preparing for departure.

  "I know," Koron said. "But this way, I can be sure you won't attack me."

  The servitors, their task complete, turned and marched back into the buried ship without a sound.

  Kade flexed his trapped fingers as best he could. "I presume your machine will fly us back to the forge city?"

  "The flight plan's already set. Your armor will unlock five minutes after liftoff, but just so you know—controls are locked in."

  "And the people?"

  "Already back at Anaxis with the rest. Doc's got them in the shuttles. They should be ready to leave by the time you arrive."

  Koron hesitated, his fingers twitching at his side—a fleeting war between impulse and reason. The words balanced on the edge of his tongue, unspoken yet insistent. He exhaled, barely audible over the wind.

  "I know we're not parting on the best of terms," he said, quieter now, his voice carrying the weight of things left unsaid. "But for what it's worth… take care of yourself, alright?"

  The narrow slit of Kade's helmet remained unreadable. Then, at last, the barest fraction of a nod.

  "May your tricks carry you further than fate would allow, swift runner."

  A soft hiss filled the air as the ramp sealed shut, cutting off any chance for reply. The engines rumbled to life, their deep vibrations swallowed by the howling winds. Outside, the desert stretched empty once more, as if the exchange had never happened at all. The landers lifted off, their silhouettes shrinking against the ashen sky, leaving only dust and silence in their wake.

  -

  It was strange.

  Little more than two hours had passed since she had left, yet as Elissa stood at the top of the lander's ramp, staring out over the ruins of Dusthaven, it felt like a lifetime.

  The wind howled through the empty streets, kicking up ash and dust, carrying the acrid scent of scorched metal. What had once been a bustling settlement was now nothing but skeletal remains of buildings, jagged and hollowed out, their edges blackened by fire. No bodies. No remnants. Nothing left of the people who had lived here—only the ghostly imprint of their existence, etched in soot and silence.

  Elissa's fingers tightened around the small disc Sasha had given her. It was deceptively simple, smooth and light in her palm.

  "Just behind your ear," Sasha had told her. "It'll do the rest."

  She pressed it into place.

  A pulse of warmth spread across her skin. She stiffened as thin, invisible filaments wove outward, adapting to her body—blending. A faint shiver ran down her spine.

  The world changed.

  Soft blue lines flickered across her vision, tracing the ruins before fading into transparency. Readouts appeared and vanished in the periphery of her sight: temperature gradients, air composition, wind speed. The layout of Dusthaven unfolded in subtle overlays, damage assessments highlighting weak structures, pathways ranked by stability.

  Then—

  A voice.

  "Hello, Elissa."

  It was female, warm but precise, familiar in a way that made her chest tighten. Sasha. Or something like her—a fragment.

  Elissa swallowed hard. "You're still here?"

  The voice softened, as though shaking off grogginess. "Sorry, sugar, I'm just a fragment of a fragment. Too little room in here for all of me. But I am here to help—always. Now, let's get your gift."

  She exhaled slowly. "And what's that?"

  A faint glow pulsed in her vision, guiding her gaze toward a pile of collapsed scrap near what used to be the outer edge of town. A faint silhouette, outlined in green. Koron's ramshackle home.

  "Come on, darlin'. We don't have much time."

  Elissa frowned but obeyed, stepping carefully over the rubble. Every movement felt smoother, more precise. The HUD adjusted subtly, marking footholds before she even needed them, predicting her steps before she took them.

  She reached the pile—and saw it for what it was. Koron's garage. Caved in, warped, but still intact enough that something beneath remained hidden.

  Her HUD highlighted a section buried under the debris.

  Elissa crouched, gripping the edge. A quick heave—metal groaned, sand spilled outward.

  Koron's bike.

  The engine was off, the grav-plating silent, but somehow, despite the destruction around it, it remained unmarred.

  She stared, heart pounding. "He left this?"

  "For all you gave him, this is all he had left to give."

  The words made her throat tighten.

  "She's yours, to do with as you please. Sell her for wealth. Strip her for parts. Keep her." A pause. "No matter what, he hopes she'll help."

  Elissa ran a hand along the frame, the metal cold beneath her fingertips. This wasn't just a gift—it was a relic. A piece of something far beyond her world. A machine crafted by hands that understood things she never would.

  She could sell it, like Sasha said. Walk away with more money than she'd ever dreamed.

  That would be the smart thing. The safe thing.

  And yet… she couldn't shake the feeling that doing so would mean losing something more than just a machine.

  Or—

  She looked back at the ruins of Dusthaven. The emptiness of it. The home she had lost.

  She ran her fingers over the smooth metal.

  He had called this one 'she,' too. Like Sasha. Like the ship.

  Like all the things that had ever truly mattered to him.

  "Gonna be hard to hide it aboard the ships."

  She could hear the grin in Sasha's voice. "Put your hand on the handlebars."

  Elissa obeyed—then yanked her hand back as the bike shifted beneath her palm.

  She watched, wide-eyed, as the vehicle shrank into itself—plates shifting, thrusters folding, entire sections disappearing as if swallowed by their own shadows. No grinding gears, no harsh clicks, just smooth, calculated efficiency. In seconds, the machine was gone, replaced by a sleek bar of metal no larger than a dataslate.

  Picking it up, she marveled at how light it was, a soft grin tugging at her lips. "Still cheating I see."

  After a moment, Sasha spoke up once more. "Come on darlin. Let's get you all back to the city before they leave you behind."

  "Yeah..." Sliding the bar into her backpack, she turned toward the lander, her people watching.

  The HUD flooded her with information—emotional cues, subtle tremors in their breathing, the strain in their expressions. It even suggested medical treatments.

  "Sasha," she said aloud.

  The response didn't come from the external comms—it came from inside her head.

  'Just a heads up, sugar, you don't need to speak for me to hear you. We're linked now, you and I. Easier that way for me to help you.'

  'Well, that's… odd. Can you dial back the stuff I'm seeing? It's kinda overwhelming.'

  'Can do, sugar.'

  The readouts faded, though faint traces still lingered at the edges of her vision.

  Elissa turned to the survivors. She gestured toward the ruins. "We don't have much time. If there's anything you want to say, or anything you need to get, now's your chance."

  Lines furrowed in weary faces. Some of the men nodded, peeling off to scavenge what little they could carry. Others lingered, whispering prayers for the dead.

  Too soon—far too soon for Elissa's liking—Sasha's voice cut through the silence.

  'El, we gotta go.'

  The remaining survivors climbed aboard, fragments of their lives clutched in their hands.

  The forge city waited.

  -

  The atmosphere aboard the Hammer of Nocturne was tense as the newest arrivals disembarked from the shuttles. The evacuees of Morrak Two—nobles, high-ranking officials, and tech-priests—descended the ramps in slow, measured steps, their retinues close behind. Their presence was unmistakable: richly embroidered robes, polished armor, and mechanical limbs gleaming under the harsh lumens of the battle-barge's hangar bay.

  They carried themselves with the rigid poise of those who had never known true desperation, even in the face of their world's ruin. Servants and bodyguards flanked them, their eyes wary, hands hovering near weapons as if expecting an ambush in the heart of an Astartes warship.

  And then, there was Dusthaven.

  Elissa stood among her people, watching as the nobles passed. She recognized the moment their eyes found her group—because their expressions shifted immediately.

  Distaste. Mild curiosity. Thinly veiled disgust.

  A nobleman with an ornate cybernetic ocular implant gave an exaggerated sniff, as though merely breathing the same air as the Dusthaven survivors was an affront to his senses.

  "By the Emperor, do they expect us to share quarters with the labor caste?" he scoffed. "This is a warship, not a manufactorum dormitory."

  A woman, her robes embroidered with the sigil of some noble house, waved a delicate, servo-assisted hand in the Dusthaven group's direction. "They reek of engine grease and sweat. I thought we had proper filtration aboard this vessel?"

  Another noble, younger but no less entitled, made a mocking gesture toward Elissa's patched and worn clothing. "Fascinating," he mused, "I was unaware that rags had come back into fashion."

  Laughter rippled through their ranks.

  Elissa's jaw clenched, but she said nothing.

  The Dusthaven survivors had endured worse than petty insults. But something about the sheer casualness of it, the effortless cruelty, made her fingers twitch.

  And then a familiar, emerald giant entered the room.

  "Everyone, follow me. You will be quartered in the lower decks," Kade announced, his voice even, but impossible to ignore.

  The amusement in the nobles' eyes faltered. A few glances were exchanged. One particularly pompous adept cleared his throat, as if preparing to argue.

  A tall noble, his bald head adorned with electoos that shimmered under the lumens, took a step forward. His smile was carefully crafted, the expression of a man who had never been denied anything in his life.

  "My dear Captain," he said, as if addressing a slow-witted servant, "surely there is some oversight? These… individuals lack the necessary education and refinement to exist alongside the upper caste."

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  Kade turned his helm slightly, the dark slit of his visor locking onto the noble like the barrel of a bolter.

  "I am not a Captain," Kade corrected, his tone neutral. "I am a Sergeant."

  The noble's expression flickered—then shifted into something resembling smug satisfaction.

  "Ah. A Sergeant." The word rolled off his tongue like a man realizing he had just discovered leverage. "Then you are not the ranking officer aboard this vessel. You merely enforce orders, do you not?"

  His smile widened, confident now. "I assume, then, that your Captain—or whoever commands here—would be more reasonable regarding the matter of accommodations. Perhaps it would be best if I spoke with them directly?"

  A few of the nobles nodded approvingly, as if the matter had been settled.

  Kade did not move.

  "You assume incorrectly."

  The noble blinked. "Excuse me?"

  "You mistake me for one of your house guards, or perhaps a ranking officer in your petty court." Kade took a single step forward, and though his voice did not rise, the air in the hangar seemed to tighten.

  "I am an Astartes of the Salamanders. That means I outrank you, your family, and every noble aboard this ship—by birth, by duty, and by fire."

  The noble's smile withered. His jaw worked slightly, but no words came.

  Elissa wasn't sure he had ever been spoken to like that in his life.

  Kade waited precisely two seconds before continuing. "You will take the accommodations provided."

  Silence.

  And then, stiffly—"Of course, Sergeant."

  As the nobles turned, one of them muttered under his breath, clearly not quiet enough: "Savages, all of them. This is why one does not entrust war-beasts with governance."

  Kade didn't react.

  But Elissa saw his gauntleted fingers flex once before relaxing.

  She smirked. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all.

  As Kade moved to join them, his attention shifted to the Dusthaven survivors. If he felt anything about their presence, he didn't show it. "We'll place them in one of the auxiliary habitation blocks," he said, his voice low. "Away from prying eyes."

  Doc replied with the slightest nod. "That'll keep them out of trouble."

  "Out of sight, out of mind," Elissa muttered, exhaling.

  Kade's visor tilted down toward her. "For now."

  She met his gaze—what little she could see of it behind his helmet—and for a moment, she thought he was going to say more. Instead, he turned back toward the assembled evacuees, motioning for them to follow.

  The Dusthaven people fell in line behind him.

  They didn't belong here.

  But for now, at least, they had a place.

  -

  The tombs command center was vast, a hollowed-out chamber of blackened metal and undying light, where flickering glyphs hovered in the air like trapped phantoms. The intricate latticework of arcane technology cast strange shadows against the walls, shifting with an eerie rhythm as vast streams of data pulsed through the chamber like an artificial bloodstream.

  At its center stood Orykhal the Luminous Calculant, surrounded by floating projections of Dusthaven, glyphic representations of battlefield data, and the ghostly remains of the Harvester, now reduced to little more than flickering static. The Cryptek's icy green gaze remained locked on the shattered calculations, the impossible equation before him still unsolved.

  It had been one shot. One impossible, unexplained shot.

  "Your obsession wastes time," growled Lord Zareth, the Ruinous Tide, his form a hulking specter of death at the chamber's edge. His hovering bulk vibrated with the barely restrained urge to be elsewhere, to be killing something, his glowing crimson eyes locked on Orykhal with something close to contempt. "The only question that matters is how long it will take to reduce this world to silence."

  Orykhal did not so much as turn. "Your impatience does you no credit, Destroyer," he said coolly, his metallic fingers shifting to adjust the data-streams cascading before him. "There is an equation here that has not yet been solved. A weapon capable of annihilating a Harvester in a single instant—without leaving a trace of its origin—does not simply appear from the void." His filigree-etched exoskeleton gleamed as new glyphs manifested in the air, each one detailing the scattered anomalies already recorded—the lasgun variants, the Dusthaven force field, the overcharged energy dispersal that had cored a Night Scythe in mid-air.

  But this… the destruction of a capital ship? That was something else entirely.

  "It does not concern me," Zareth stated.

  "No," Orykhal agreed, with something approaching amusement. "It does not. But it should."

  Zareth's claws twitched, the hum of his gravitic drive intensifying. "I will burn this world regardless. What does it matter what tools the insects wield? They will be ash all the same."

  Orykhal's fingers flexed, dismissing a sequence of glyphs before conjuring others. "And yet you still breathe." His tone was devoid of mockery, but the statement landed with the weight of one. "This city still stands. The humans still escape." A pause. "Is it that you fear their weapons, Lord Zareth?"

  The Destroyer's optics flared dangerously, and the chamber shook as his gravitic thrusters pulsed in agitation. "I fear nothing."

  "Then you should have no objection to gathering intelligence before we eradicate them," Orykhal replied smoothly. His own optics glowed steadily, his voice composed, detached. "I do not propose mercy. I propose understanding."

  Zareth scoffed. "Understanding is a fool's errand when extermination is the only necessity."

  The silent presence that loomed over both of them—the specter of their true master—was the only thing keeping their argument from boiling over. The Overlord of their dynasty still slumbered beneath the great tomb-fortress at the heart of their reclamation efforts. His awakening would be a matter of decades, perhaps centuries, but in the cold calculus of the Necron mind, that was soon.

  And when he awoke, he would not tolerate failure.

  Orykhal had no interest in being caught unprepared when that moment came. The anomaly must be studied, quantified, and accounted for.

  Zareth had no interest in anything but bloodshed, but even he understood the risk of allowing something so powerful to exist unchecked.

  A long silence stretched between them before Zareth finally snarled, "Say your piece, Calculant. But when your curiosity fails you, I will be the one to cleanse this world."

  Orykhal inclined his head ever so slightly. "Then by all means, prepare your legions. But not with blind fury. The humans are scattering—we will track them, follow the threads of this mystery to its source. Only when we understand will we annihilate them."

  Zareth turned with a bitter growl, his thrusters burning a searing path as he stormed from the chamber, disappearing into the darkened halls beyond.

  Orykhal turned back to the swirling glyphs.

  The anomaly was out there. The weapon, the strategy, the technology that had broken the expected balance of power.

  He would find it.

  And when he did, he would decide whether it should be destroyed… or claimed.

  -

  The wind howled across the Sea of Rust, sweeping ribbons of sand over the fallen colossus. Buried beneath the shifting dunes, Unto the Unknown lay still, its broken hull hidden from sight. No fires burned now. No gunfire echoed across the sky. The battle was, for her, finished.

  Koron stood on a ridge of twisted iron and stone, his gaze locked on the final feed from the ship's cargo hold.

  Five thousand, eight hundred and sixty souls.

  They lay in rows, arranged with the dignity they had earned in life. Their armor and uniforms had been cleaned as best as time allowed, faces left uncovered where possible. The failing overhead lumens flickered softly, casting long shadows over them.

  No voices, no breath, no heartbeat, just the rush of wind across the dunes, the distant crack of jade lightning.

  Yet still, they were there.

  He remembered every name—their laughter in the halls, the firm clasps of hands after a battle well-fought, the bellowed stories of homeworlds long lost to time. He let those memories fill his mind, holding onto them as the countdown in his visor pressed forward.

  At its edge, a golden orb pulsed softly.

  Sasha's projection hovered, her usual bright shimmer subdued, dimmed in the wake of what was coming. She had been silent for the past minute, watching the feed with him.

  "I archived their logs," she said finally. Her voice, normally edged with wry amusement, was quiet now, a ghost of its usual self. "Their messages, their letters—what was left of them. Just in case someone, someday, remembers to look."

  Koron swallowed. It was a small thing, perhaps. But it was something.

  He nodded, slowly. "Thank you."

  Another long silence stretched between them, save for the distant wind and the soft hum of her systems.

  "You all lived up to the old girl's name after all." He whispered, hoping the dead might hear.

  Sasha's glow flickered, as if in agreement.

  The countdown continued.

  Ten.

  Nine.

  The ship did not groan, did not shudder in its final moments. There was no fear, no protest.

  Just acceptance.

  Seven.

  Six.

  Koron exhaled, a faint, tired smile tugging at his lips.

  "Be sure to leave me a trail to follow, won't you?"

  Zero.

  The Unto the Unknown roared one final time.

  A sun was born upon the desert.

  Fire erupted from deep within the ship's ruined heart, searing through ancient decks and bulkheads, vaporizing metal and memory alike. The sky turned to blinding white as the shockwave ripped across the dunes, a final, deafening cry before silence reclaimed the wreck.

  And then—nothing.

  Where once a titan lay, now only ash remained.

  The wind stirred, dragging the dust of the fallen into the night.

  Sasha drifted closer, her glow faint but steady. She did not speak. She did not need to.

  Koron exhaled, slow and measured, letting the silence settle.

  For a long moment, he remained still. The wind pulled at him, dust swirling around his boots, as if the ship's final breath had not yet faded.

  Then, finally, with one last glance at the pyre where the ship had once been, he turned and walked away.