Slumped against the shattered remains of a wall, Elissa fought to steady her breath. Her heart pounded against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that refused to settle.

  Nearby, Tara tilted a canteen toward Koron's lips. More water spilled down his chest than into his mouth as he gasped for air, the scent of burnt flesh and scorched metal still clinging to him. Wisps of smoke curled from his arms, remnants of the battle they had barely survived.

  Kade, Doc, and Kala had dispersed in search of survivors—Doc heading toward the watchtower to retrieve Milo. Kade had offered, but Doc, not unkindly, pointed out that his sheer bulk might bring the whole structure crashing down.

  One by one, the remaining townspeople trickled in, huddling together in the thin shade of the ruined settlement. Dust and dried blood clung to them, their silence heavier than any words could be.

  Too soon, Kade returned, shaking his head.

  "I'm not picking up any more lifesigns," he muttered, lowering himself onto one knee before Elissa. "Aside from us… there are twenty-four survivors in total."

  The words landed like a hammer to the gut.

  Twenty-four. Out of a hundred and ten.

  Elissa's fingers curled into her palms, nails biting into flesh. The weight of the number pressed on her chest, cold and suffocating. She tilted her face upward toward the cavern ceiling, blinking hard. She wouldn't break. Not here. Not now.

  Several seconds passed before she forced her hands open, barely noticing the thin smears of blood on her stubby fingernails.

  "Okay… okay." Her voice wavered, but she pushed through it. "We—uh—we need to get out of here. Can your ship still fly?"

  Kade gave a short nod. "Yes. I'll get it started." Without another word, he rose and strode toward the askew Thunderhawk.

  Elissa curled inward, pressing her forehead against her knees. A tremor ran through her shoulders—just once, just enough to let the weight of it all settle before she shoved it down.

  A warmth pressed against her side, soft and steady.

  Tara leaned into her, resting her head on her mother's shoulder.

  Elissa exhaled, wrapping an arm around her daughter, pulling her close. They sat in silence, bound by exhaustion, grief, and the unspoken promise of moving forward.

  The distant whine of the Thunderhawk's engines spiraling to life pulled her back to the moment.

  Elissa squeezed Tara's shoulder once before pushing herself to her feet. The others were watching, waiting. They needed certainty, not doubt. She straightened, forcing steel into her spine and swallowing the lump in her throat.

  "Let's go."

  Slowly, the survivors stirred, helping one another to their feet as they moved toward the ship. The Thunderhawk's passenger bay, once overcrowded and suffocating, now felt vast and empty. Their footsteps echoed in the cavernous space, too few for what had once been a bustling settlement.

  Her daughters moved through the cabin, checking restraints, offering quiet reassurances. Elissa stood at the ramp as it began to close, the engines kicking up a storm of sand, dust… and the dead.

  Her braid whipped in the wind as she took one final look at what remained of her home.

  Her fingers clenched at her sides. "I'm sorry," she whispered. The ashes of Dusthaven swirled in the ship's wake, the remnants of a life turned to ruin. She swallowed hard against the grief clawing at her throat. "We'll make this right. I swear it."

  Taking a steadying breath, she turned and strapped herself in. The ship angled upward, breaching the sky, leaving Dusthaven behind.

  -

  As the Thunderhawk climbed through the upper layers of the atmosphere, it fell into formation with the Lighter, the looming forge-city of Anaxis growing larger in the distance. Beneath Elissa's boots, the ship's hull thrummed, turbulence rattling through the cabin like distant thunder.

  Her gaze drifted across the bay, settling on Koron.

  Even battered and bruised, his one unswollen eye found hers. He lifted a hand to give a tired wave before offering a thumbs-up.

  She keyed her vox to a private channel, keeping her voice low. "How you doing?"

  "I think I should be asking you that." His voice was rough, jagged, like glass ground over steel. "But I'm okay. Sasha filled me in. I'm sorry… I wasn't able to help."

  A ghost of a smile flickered at the edge of her lips. "You were half-dead from stopping a reactor meltdown at the time."

  A short laugh escaped him, only to collapse into a pained cough. He pressed a hand to his ribs, grimacing. "Yeah… would've looked bad on my work history if I let that happen."

  The moment of levity passed too quickly, replaced by the crushing weight of reality.

  "Hey." His voice was steady despite the pain. "I won't give you some empty platitude. But you were in an impossible situation. And people got out because of you."

  Elissa's jaw tightened. Her fingers curled around the seat's harness as a flare of white-hot anger surged through her gut.

  "It's also my fault they're dead." The words escaped on a breath, raw and unforgiving. "If I had—" Her throat tightened. "I should have done better. Left earlier. Gotten more out sooner."

  "Maybe." His reply was maddeningly calm. "Or maybe the bastards would've attacked the moment we started moving. We don't know why they waited. Why they let us be as long as they did."

  His gaze never wavered.

  "Don't take the blame for something you couldn't have known."

  Elissa inhaled sharply, held it, then let it go. "Koron, I appreciate it, but can we just not talk about this right now?"

  Koron sighed, shifting against the bulkhead. "Sure thing, El." His voice was quiet—understanding, but unshaken. She turned away, eyes fixed on the floor, but the weight of his words lingered.

  Silence settled between them, thick, but not oppressive. After a long pause, Elissa finally spoke, her voice quieter than before. "Speaking of Sasha—where was she? I thought she was running overwatch. How did the bastards manage to slip past her?"

  "They hit her first," Koron said, his tone edged with something unreadable. "Tracked her somehow and hit her hard. From what she told me, she spent most of that fight locked in her own battle—and it wasn't easy."

  A faint burst of static preceded Sasha's voice crackling over the vox. "I'm sorry, sugar. I ain't what I used to be. Today… made that painfully clear."

  Elissa's frown deepened, unease curling in her stomach. "Not what you used to be? Sasha, what happened?"

  Sasha hesitated for a fraction too long. "It's part of the story we owe you," she said at last. "I haven't forgotten. We'll explain everything once we have some time."

  Elissa exhaled, frustration flickering across her face. "You mean like right now?"

  A soft chuckle tinged Sasha's reply, but there was no humor in it. "Darlin', we're gonna need more than fifteen minutes to tell this story."

  Elissa sighed, rubbing at her temples before glancing at her side. Kala's small hand rested in hers, the girl's breath slow and even as she slept, the steady roar of the Thunderhawk masking the sound of her soft snores. Elissa gave her fingers a gentle squeeze, giving herself a moment.

  "All the same," she murmured, "thank you. You saved us."

  Koron's voice came quiet but steady. "No," he corrected. "We saved each other. That's what matters."

  -

  Kade observed the familiar spectacle of survivors reuniting—grief-stricken embraces, the anguished cries of those who had lost loved ones. No matter the epoch or the species, the emotions of loss and mourning remained constant.

  The Salamanders, as a Chapter, had long internalized this truth. Unlike many other Astartes, who had distanced themselves from the weight of mortality, they carried the burden of empathy as both a strength and a curse.

  Nearby, the Interrogator conferred quietly with senior Magi, disentangling the bureaucratic complications that had arisen in their absence. Kade paid them little heed, his attention fixed on the vox as his battle-brothers relayed reports from the ongoing skirmishes against the xenos.

  The Necrons had not deployed their full strength. Instead, they conducted a war of attrition—hit-and-run strikes, utilizing teleportation grids and Night Scythes to evade direct engagements. It was a strategy of patience, one designed to bleed their foes dry before striking decisively.

  As Kade processed the reports, movement at the crowd's periphery caught his attention. The techmonger was returning, his stride uneven, a residual limp betraying his injuries. Despite the damage to his carapace armor, its craftsmanship remained apparent, the pale blue plating stark against the muted browns and grays of the gathered survivors.

  Kade stepped forward, his heavy tread deliberate. Even among ordinary men, Koron was imposing. Yet compared to an Astartes, he was merely chest-high. The crimson glow of Kade's visor locked onto Koron's opaque helmet.

  "Well met," Kade intoned. "I've heard much about you, Koron."

  Koron paused before responding, his voice measured. "Well met, Marine. You have me at a disadvantage—what is your name?"

  "Sergeant Vulkanis Kade." The greeting was perfunctory, bereft of warmth. "I will be direct. I have questions regarding the technology employed in the defense of your settlement—specifically, the field emitter and the lasrifles."

  Kade had faced the great drakes of Nocturne. He knew this moment well—the quiet recognition between predator and prey, the sharpening of reality as violence loomed just beneath the surface. It was an exchange not of words, but of presence.

  Predators did not always announce themselves. They did not roar or charge blindly. Instead, they waited—still, coiled, a force barely restrained. The absence of movement was, itself, the warning.

  That same presence now settled over Koron.

  He had not shifted, had not braced himself, had not exhibited even the subtlest signs of tension.

  Yet Kade felt it.

  Like the first trace of heat before an inferno, the breathless moment before a strike.

  Something within Koron had switched on.

  Not as an act of defense. Not as an act of aggression.

  Simply complete, utter focus.

  Kade's muscles tensed instinctively. His fingers curled, his breath slowed. This was the reaction to something inherently dangerous taking him seriously.

  Koron's posture remained carefully neutral. That was the problem. The stillness was unnatural, deliberate.

  Not hesitation. Not uncertainty.

  Calculation.

  The man was injured, weary, still bearing the weight of battle. But beneath that exterior, Kade sensed something tempered. Something cold.

  A certainty lodged itself in Kade's gut.

  Koron was not grasping for explanations.

  He was not grasping at all.

  He had already seized control of the conversation before it had begun.

  And Kade was uncertain when that had happened.

  But the Salamanders were known for many things—unyielding resolve foremost among them.

  Kade exhaled slowly, centering himself. "The lasrifles used by your militia—where did you acquire them?"

  Koron answered immediately, his tone smooth. "They were already in Dusthaven's armory when I arrived. I assumed Elissa sourced them through trade or salvage. The town has a long history—I doubt even she knows the origin of everything in its stockpile."

  Beneath his helmet, Kade frowned. "And the field emitter? That was of Imperial origin?"

  "As far as I know," Koron replied evenly. "I received the components from a Magos named Ferral-Ka when Doc and I first arrived to warn them of the Necron threat."

  Kade's skepticism could have smothered a sun. "A Magos entrusted you with Necron-resistant field technology?"

  Koron's expression remained concealed, his voice unwavering. "I was just as surprised as you are. But he seemed eager to observe its performance. I assumed it was an experimental design, and given the circumstances, I had no reason to refuse it."

  Kade filed the name away for further scrutiny. "You identify as a techmonger, not a soldier. Where did you receive your training with the Mechanicus?"

  Koron did not hesitate. "Here and there. I had mentors, but no formal education. Just learning what was necessary to survive."

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  Kade stepped forward, the sheer weight of his presence casting a shadow over Koron, dwarfing him further.

  "What are you withholding?" Kade pressed.

  Koron's opaque visor betrayed nothing.

  "I apologize, Sergeant," he replied smoothly. "But I do not understand your meaning. Have I not answered every question posed to me?"

  "You have." Kade let the words linger. "Precisely, in fact."

  "Then if there is something further you wish to ask, I remain at your disposal."

  A long pause.

  "The men of your settlement claimed you modified their weaponry. Did you?"

  "If by 'modified' you mean repaired them from near-useless to functional, then yes."

  "And you made no other alterations?"

  "Not in any meaningful way."

  Silence stretched between them. Kade's instincts screamed that something was being omitted. Yet instinct alone was insufficient.

  At last, he gave a slow nod. "Very well. Thank you for your time."

  Koron inclined his head slightly. "Of course, Sergeant."

  Kade turned on his heel, striding back toward the Interrogator. The conversation replayed itself in his mind, a puzzle demanding deconstruction.

  He was no diplomat, no wordsmith.

  But he was no fool either.

  He would sift through the ashes of Koron's words.

  Somewhere within them, the truth lay smoldering.

  -

  Doc's argent visor reflected the dim sunlight filtering through the thick pollution, casting an eerie glow beneath the sickly green Necron-infused clouds. She stood firm, arms crossed, her tone edged with steel. "Frankly, Magos, I don't particularly care if you consider them menials, low priority, or anything else. They are few enough in number to be no burden, and you have more pressing concerns than harassing me about my personnel."

  "With all due respect, Interrogator, the Omnissiah's sacred works take precedence over the works of flesh," the Magos intoned. "The forge world's data-racks are of far greater importance and should be evacuated first."

  Before Doc could respond with a scathing retort -one informing the Magos exactly where he could put his data-racks- a piercing alert chirped in her headset. The same signal echoed through Kade's comms and those of the surrounding tech-priests. A cold, mechanical voice followed, devoid of emotion:

  Warning. Xenos spacecraft detected.

  A ripple of disbelief coursed through the gathered crowd, their heads tilting skyward in unison. The air thickened, crackling with the weight of impending catastrophe.

  Doc's pulse quickened as her visor adjusted to the blinding emerald glow above. A crescent-shaped hull loomed in the sky, sleek and predatory, slicing through the darkness like an executioner's blade, the long thin body protruding behind, while three fins extended from its center to form a perfect triangle.

  She knew that silhouette all too well.

  A Harvest Ship.

  A vessel designed for a singular purpose—to strip entire worlds of life.

  It took battlecruisers to bring down ships of that magnitude.

  And the strongest Imperial vessel above them was only a battle-barge.

  Doc didn't glance at Kade. She didn't dare take her eyes off the lances of jade energy ripping through the Imperial fleet, the sickly beams carving through void shields and armor alike. The Salamander ships bore the brunt of the assault, enduring as they always did—but even they could not last forever.

  Slowly, deliberately, she removed her helmet. The silver helm slipped from her fingers as she sank onto a nearby crate, pressing her hands to her face.

  The murmurs of the crowd escalated into frantic whispers, then half-shouted demands for answers.

  A hand settled on her shoulder.

  "Doc, what's wrong? What's happening?" Elissa's voice was steady, though Doc could hear the fear beneath it.

  She couldn't bring herself to respond.

  Kade did.

  "A capital-class enemy ship. One my brothers above will not be able to defeat." His voice carried the weary weight of a man who had seen too many battles end in failure. "They will be forced to choose—die here or abandon us below. Captain Tavos will hold as long as possible, but once the outcome is certain, he will withdraw."

  His armored helm turned toward Elissa, unreadable.

  "We have an hour at most before he is forced to retreat. When he does, the city will burn in his wake, denying the xenos their prize."

  Elissa's heart pounded. She swallowed, her throat dry. "Is… is there any chance we can still escape to them?"

  A metallic voice rasped from behind her, its cadence like a saw grating against metal.

  "Xenos fighter craft are swarming the fleet. Probability of successful docking with the Forge Tender is at… seven-point-three percent."

  Elissa's stomach twisted. She turned, scanning the faces around her, desperate for an alternative.

  "So that's it? Nothing we can do? Won't we even try? Seven percent isn't zero—we can still make it!"

  Kade studied her for a long moment before inclining his head.

  "Your resolve… is worthy of a Salamander." He reached up, removing his helmet. "If you truly wish to make the attempt, I will carry you and your people."

  Before Elissa could respond, a sharp crack rang out—metal against metal.

  Her head snapped toward the sound.

  It came from the nearby shipping containers. A dull, echoing boom followed. Then another.

  She rounded the corner alongside Kade—

  And froze.

  Koron stood rigid before the battered plating, his fists hammering into the dented metal with relentless force. Each strike sent a dull reverberation through the air, his breathing ragged, uneven. Every exhale carried the weight of something unspoken, something festering just beneath the surface. His movements, erratic and uncoordinated, bore no resemblance to the deliberate, calculated precision Elissa had come to expect from him. The space around him felt charged, as if the very air held its breath, waiting for him to shatter.

  Another strike. Another. The steel bore the evidence of his fury—deep indentations where knuckles met metal.

  "Koron!" Elissa's voice sliced through the thick silence. "What's wrong?"

  He froze mid-motion, shoulders rising and falling in heavy, uneven bursts. His fists remained pressed against the plating, fingers curled inward as though bracing for something unseen.

  His helmet turned toward her, the visor dark, unreadable.

  "Nothing," he rasped.

  A feeble, transparent lie.

  Elissa took a step closer, but he remained rooted in place, his grip tightening against the plating. She could see the tremor in his fingers, the way his shoulders locked as though he were holding himself together through sheer force of will. He inhaled sharply, but the breath stuttered—fraying at the edges before exhaling in a slow, unsteady release.

  "Just—"

  A new voice cut through the moment, sharp as broken glass.

  "Sugar, if you don't tell them, I will."

  Koron stiffened, his entire frame going rigid.

  "Sasha—"

  "No, darlin'." Sasha's voice was firm, almost gentle, but it brooked no argument. "We don't have a choice anymore. We got maybe forty minutes before that bastard rips those ships outta the black."

  She let the words settle, heavy and inescapable.

  "And you know what we need to do."

  Koron's breath hitched. His fists clenched so tightly the servos let out a strained whine.

  "We don't even know if it still works!" His voice was raw, unraveling at the edges. "The damage is spread across every system!"

  Sasha didn't flinch.

  "Then what's your plan? A seven percent chance? You wanna gamble everything on that bitch rolling the dice in our favor?"

  Silence stretched between them.

  Then, softer now:

  "We need to deal with the capital ship, sugar. And she's our best shot."

  Koron trembled.

  He stood there, motionless, suspended in the weight of an impossible decision—

  Then, suddenly—

  His fist struck the container once more, but the force was gone.

  "I can't—" The words caught in his throat. His shoulders tensed, his breath shuddering. "I won't go back into that ship."

  His voice broke.

  The rage bled from him, draining away like water slipping through fractured steel.

  Slumping against the wall, his shoulders quaking. His fingers dug into the metal floor, as though clinging to something just out of reach.

  Then—

  A whisper.

  "Please…"

  One word.

  Small.

  Fractured.

  Human.

  It twisted in Elissa's chest, sharp, cruel.

  Kade stepped forward, lips parting.

  She placed a hand on his arm, met his gaze, and shook her head. A silent plea.

  Kade hesitated, his fingers flexing as if resisting the urge to step in. But after a long moment, he relented. With a slow nod, he stepped back, his armored boots making a soft, deliberate retreat. The sound of his footsteps faded into the distance.

  Elissa turned back to Koron.

  She had no words.

  How could she?

  How could she reach someone unraveling before her, someone being swallowed by a weight she couldn't see but could feel in every ragged breath he took?

  And then—

  It was so simple.

  She almost laughed at herself for not realizing it sooner.

  She stepped forward.

  Took his hands in hers—cool metal against warm skin. The contrast sent a shiver up her spine.

  Her thumbs traced slow, deliberate circles over the plating, a gentle touch.

  "Koron?" she murmured.

  No response.

  She squeezed his fingers, just slightly.

  "Stand up," she said softly. "I want to show you something."

  For a long moment, he didn't move.

  Then, slowly, hesitantly—

  He let her pull him upright.

  His hands trembled.

  She reached up, unlatched his helmet, and let it drop. The dull thud as it met the ground felt final, like shedding a weight he'd carried for too long.

  She cupped his face in her hands.

  And pulled him into a hug.

  The contrast was almost absurd. Koron had to bend nearly in half to meet Elissa's embrace, his body initially rigid, unyielding, caught in the last grips of whatever war raged inside him.

  Then—

  The tension ebbed, like a breath he had been holding finally exhaled.

  His hands hovered, fingers twitching as if resisting—then, with slow inevitability, they wrapped around her.

  He held on.

  Just held on.

  A voice broke the moment.

  "Sasha said you needed—oh!"

  Kala.

  She and Tara rounded the corner, their eyes wide with surprise.

  They didn't hesitate.

  They rushed forward, their arms wrapping around both of them, pressing their warmth into Koron's side. The impact forced a breath from him—shaky, uneven. His arms instinctively tightened, pulling them closer.

  A slow, shuddering breath escaped him.

  A small, wry smile flickered at the corner of his lips.

  "You're not playin' fair, Sasha," he mumbled, half his face buried in Elissa's hair.

  A warm chuckle crackled through the vox.

  "Never do, sugar."

  Elissa exhaled and stepped back, her hands lingering just a moment longer before she let go. She bent down, retrieving his helmet, and held it out to him.

  "Feel better?"

  Koron didn't answer immediately.

  His gaze flicked to the twins still holding onto him. Their faces were streaked with ash, their eyes dark with exhaustion.

  But warmth remained.

  Life remained.

  He took the helmet from Elissa's hands and nodded.

  "Yeah," he murmured. "Just… needed a reminder."

  Tara pulled away first, gently guiding Kala back with her. "A reminder of what?"

  Koron turned the helmet over in his hands, his fingers running over its worn edges, tracing something unseen.

  Then, with a sharp click, he locked it back into place.

  When he spoke again, his voice was steady.

  "That the living come before the dead."

  Kala hesitated. "What does that mean?"

  Koron lifted his gaze to the sky.

  To the massive, obsidian crescent looming above.

  To the ship that would bring silence to this world.

  "It means we're going to kill that ship."