Under a hazy, polluted, orange sky, Marsh Silas picked his way through the ruins of a great fortress. Thunder rumbled and tore across the sky. Streaks of lightning pierced the tumultuous, roiling black smoke columns, striking the barren, orange landscape. A light but steady rain fell, turning the destroyed countryside into mudflats. Thousands of shell craters and kilometers of dilapidated trenchworks filled with water. Hundreds of destroyed and rusted Leman Russ tanks, Centaur utility vehicles, Gorgon AATs, and countless self-propelled artillery pieces permeated the landscape. Some were half-sunk in the mud or had become submerged in the craters. Scattered between the wrecks, strewn in the fields, piled in trenches, caught in the layers of barbed wire, were thousands upon thousands of uniformed skeletons.

  The destruction of the fortress itself was so complete, not even the metal bones remained. Every wall, bunker, and tower had collapsed. Naught was left by a great mountain of bricks surrounded by the dilapidated battlefield. Hades Breaching Drills, still half-buried in the spots they emerged from, stood lonely vigils among the blasted remains. No vestiges of the life that went on within its walls were evident. All the Imperial iconography was buried or destroyed as well as the traitor idols. There were only mounds of rockcrete bricks, metal pilings, and decomposing corpses.

  Someone was waiting for him in the center of the ruin. Marsh Silas strode up to this figure and waited. This man wore a mud-splattered dark gray trench coat and a dented helmet. The ends of his jacket and his pant legs were in tatters. In one hand, he held a better Lucius-pattern lasgun and an Mk. 22c shotgun. A broken bayonet was affixed to the lasgun and the barrel was warped from overuse. The shotgun’s stock was dented, broken, and hanging on by splinters. His breath, muffled by his gas mask, was calm and steady. He looked up to watch the lightning strikes as they fell.

  “It is the light of the Emperor returning to this place,” he said to Marsh Silas. “This heresy was close, too close, to one of His bastions. Gaze upon these remnants and recall the man you once called a friend. So close to you, so close to us all, having plotted and planned. You believe he has gone astray. To stray, one must be lost, to have drifted off the path. Amilios is not lost. He knows where he is going and what he must do for his dark god.”

  The soldier turned around. Lightning flashed and struck nearby. Thunder exploded right over their heads. In those instances of light, blank eyes stared through the tinted glass of his visor. “Do not forget what you are fighting for, Inquisitor.”

  Marsh Silas blinked, then looked down. His khaki uniform was gone, replaced by dark trousers, a black leather trench coat, and a silver cuirass. When he reached up, he felt long locks of hair flowing with the wind. He touched his face, finding not his square jaw but one more sharp and lithe.

  “I am not—” He stopped. This voice did not belong to him.

  Marsh Silas awoke. The light above him was stark and bright. Groaning, he lifted his right arm and shielded his eyes. When his eyes finally adjusted, he looked from side to side; the blank, white walls of Fort Carmine’s medicae wing. He’d seen it plenty of times since he became a Kasrkin.

  His left arm felt heavy. Marsh craned his neck forward and found it wrapped in a cast. At the end, he counted all five of his exposed fingers. A heavy breath of relief passed his lips and his head dropped onto the pillow. Smiling, he gazed at the ceiling and laughed a little.

  “I am whole,” he whispered. Placing his uninjured hand over his heart, he shut his eyes and drew breath. “My Emperor, I thank You for preserving my life once more. You have, as always, my everlasting loyalty and servitude, for granting me Your protection, and bequeathing me with courageous, valorous, and erstwhile companions who carry out Your will. I am undeserving of your Blessings.”

  He clutched the icon hanging around his neck tightly, then brought it to his lips to kiss it. “All I ask is You continue to look after my fallen brothers, my papa, my beloved Lilias, and, if he is ever found, my dear friend Barlocke. Please, please, keep them close, and I will forever be Yours, my Emperor on Holy Terra.”

  “Why search when he is right here?” said a flighty voice. Marsh Silas opened his eyes and pursed his lips. Craning his neck again, he looked at the single chair in the medicae chamber. Barlocke’s fragment sat crossed legged, flashing his self-satisfied and smug smile. Coal-black eyes glittered with delight. One finger lazily curled a long, dark, lock of hair around it.

  Barlocke stood and strode over to Marsh’s beside. He sat on the edge and rested his hand on Marsh’s chest. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I had another one of those dreams. A part of your memory. Except, this time, I was you.” Barlocke’s smile faded. He took his hand off Marsh’s chest and stared at the wall. He appeared wistful and forlorn, as if confronted with some pale news. This deepened into sorrow and the fragment’s visage shrank somewhat. When Barlocke’s gaze fell, his dark locks obscured his face.

  “I am sorry.”

  “When we were in that tanker at Kasr Fortis, I asked you if I would still be me. You told me I would and I trusted you. Does this dream signify anything? Am I changing? Is your fragment infecting my spirit?”

  “Part of me will be with you, always. I live in you as a fragment—a piece of my mind, my will, my soul, my psycho resonance, all weaved together. But just that, a fragment; it shall never overpower you, especially a soul as strong as yours. This fusion has, however, exposed you to some of my memories.”

  “But not all of them, otherwise I would have seen more of your past.”

  “Correct. Although, I must admit, some of this fragment’s memories are fractured.” Barlocke lifted his head and clutched a clump of his brown hair. “I try to hark back to certain times. Sometimes, I can, but most often, I can only find my way back to a few. The Siege of Monn Fortress, parts of my time in the slums of Riccone, much of my time with you on Army’s Meadow. But there are gaps, holes, empty darkness on a road of light. It hurts to remember sometimes.”

  Barlocke looked at Marsh Silas sadly. “It frightens me sometimes. Most often, I am frustrated this coil was subtracted from my mortal self. My power is so thin. My ability to draw on the Warp is fleeting. I wish I could be of more use. Even to create this visage or to pool through your deepest memories is quite challenging. I can only go so deep. Why do you think I spend much of my time eavesdropping? Entertainment, you see.”

  Marsh Silas took Barlocke’s hand in his own and squeezed. Once, it was strange to touch this ethereal figure. Knowing this image was a mere projection was painful to accept, especially when he felt warmth in his friend’s palm. But Marsh Silas made his peace years ago and held him tightly, satisfied to have this moment of contact in an air of quiet.

  “Do not pity yourself, my good friend. I knew you better than anyone else when you were still here. You were never one to seek or receive pity.”

  “Yes, you are right. Thank you.”

  “I am disturbed no longer. Thank you for being here now that I have awoken. Throne, the one time I am wounded and there is not a line of people waiting to see me! But, I must know one thing. Who was this Kriegsman? What was his name?”

  Barlocke took Marsh’s hand away and gently placed it back on his chest. He smiled fondly despite his distant, gloomy eyes.

  “Not all Kriegsman are blessed with a name. Some ascend to a point of prominence in which they earn them. Others live long enough to receive it. Many just live and die as a number. The one you saw had fought at my side from the first day of the siege until the terrible night he and I reclaimed the ruins from Amilios. He was already a survivor of many battles, campaigns, and slaughtered regiments.”

  Barlocke spoke wistfully but his voice did not break. His tone was bittersweet, as if the memory delighted him but the sharpness of its beauty hurt him. Every so often, he blinked or his eyes twitched. Marsh thought those were the painful vestiges assaulting him as he recalled.

  The fragment’s visage drew a deep breath and looked up. “Urban, we called him. During that siege, in a dank bunker or in a flooded trench, we often spoke. Not too dissimilar from our many conversations at Army’s Meadow. Urban minced no words. Kriegsmen never do. I learned more about my failures from him than I ever did from Romolo or any other authority figure. Everything I had done wrong regarding my pursuit of Amilios, every mistake I made leading up to my friend’s rejection of the Emperor’s light, Urban illuminated that. To speak to him was akin to seeing a flare at night; the shell pops and the night is driven away as the lights slowly descend. He demanded I remain vigilant both in my pursuit and my efforts to maintain a greater Imperium.”

  He laughed fondly, shaking his head. “I enjoyed Urban very much. I wanted him to come with me. But, like you, he refused in the end. You were the only two who did not accept my offer. I dwell upon him, sometimes. I wonder if he is still alive, fighting out there, somewhere. Oh, Urban…”

  Marsh rested his head on the pillow and gazed at the light. He smiled slowly.

  “One day, I will try to find him for you. When this grand work is complete, when the soldiers of the Imperium may lay down their arms forever, I will have the immense honor to shake his hand and send him home to rest.”

  “Sweet Silas, I marvel still at the beauty of your heart. But, that is not for a long way off, and like so many of his brother Kriegsmen, Urban will not bow so…” Barlocke lifted his head and looked to the door. “They approach.”

  “Who?”

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  “I feel Hyram, and that man Haight, but two more…” The door handle turned. “...too late.”

  Barlocke faded away like pipe smoke in weak light. The door creaked open and Hyram appeared first. His whiskered face brightened and he held his arms out.

  “There he is,” he chortled. “My perpetually wounded brother.”

  “Fuck you,” Marsh groan as he reached out. Hyram snatched his hand and shook it before he leaned in for an embrace.

  “Stubborn fool. You should have taken a bionic. Now you’ll be unfit for combat duties for months.”

  “Shit, don’t I know it?” Marsh said. Major Haight smiled affably and pulled up the chair.

  “That does not sound too bad. The brave Knight here fights often and well, he deserves a long rest. It’s damn good to see you looking so well.”

  “As well as you, Major. Seathan, tell me, what happened upon the hill?”

  Hyram and Haight explained that after Marsh was evacuated about forty minutes into the defense, Gabler took command of both platoons until Prince Osgood arrived with more reinforcements. With the added weight of heavy weapons, they were able to further absorb attacks and draw the enemy into the open. From there, it was a matter of directing the Valkyries and Vultures on gun runs which were highly effective.

  However, the enemy did seem to perceive the strategy and resorted to other tactics. First, they withdrew their heavy anti-aircraft weapons and relied more on small, highly mobile teams of rocketeers. Although the airspace was in total Imperial control, enemy rockets made the attack runs more dangerous for the Valkyries. More than one was aborted, allowing the Hydra Flak Batteries to be towed away and for troops movements to go unassailed. To further thwart Imperial air superiority, the ambushers in the valley attempted to overrun the convoy.

  Gabler made a bold decision to leave half her force with Prince Osgood on the hilltop while she led the Kasrkin down the sheer drop. They all made it to the bottom, traversed dozens of hillocks and low ridges, and relieved the convoy in a daring counterattack. Bloody Platoon accompanied her and distinguished themselves alongside 3rd Platoon. Although they held the hill and enemy dead amounted to over one hundred fifty, they escaped with most of their anti-air batteries. It was also suspected the enemy force was able to sustain these casualties without losing their long-term combat effectiveness.

  “It was very queer,” Hyram explained. “I arrived with Prince Osgood to partake in the fighting. On the way in, our transports engaged ground targets but they melted away. It’s like they knew where our birds were going to attack. Haight was with me, he can confirm this.”

  “Yes, I couldn’t understand. For every battery or position the Valkyries destroyed, three more escaped unscathed. Throne, it was frustrating.”

  “Did everyone make it out?” Marsh finally asked.

  “Aye. A few more wounded but no deaths. Gabler pressed the attack to the enemy compound after the hill was secure but it was deserted. No meaningful intelligence was recovered, just a small cache of stolen small arms. She has had her critics in regimental command.”

  “She made the right call. Those men in the convoy needed help,” Marsh replied, frowning. He sat up and scratched the growing stubble on his cheeks. “Well, seeing as I’ll be rehabilitating for some months, will you take over Bloody Platoon?” he asked Hyram.

  “It would be my honor,” Hyram said, bowing his head. “I look forward to it. It will be like old times.”

  “I do feel sorry for what you went through, Silas,” Haight said. “I knew a QRF was necessary but had I known you were there to begin with…” the Security officer shook his head. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that. It was just meant to be a smooth, clean, surgical operation, not a grueling firefight. I promise the intelligence effort will not fail you or Gabler or anyone else again.”

  Marsh locked hands with the Major and he smiled boisterously.

  “Worry not, sir. We’re all on the same side. All we can do is resolve to do better for another next time.”

  Haight smiled warmly and clutched Marsh’s hand with both of his. Hyram’s pleasant demeanor became more somber, however.

  “But we’re not the only ones who came to see you. Major Bristol and the Prince are here to see you.”

  “Osgood?”

  “No, the other one.”

  “Oh,” Marsh said flatly. He took an uneasy breath. “I take it they have not come to observe my good health.”

  “They have not indicated the reason for their visit. I promised we would not belong. When they are finished, we will return.”

  Hyram and Haight left reluctantly. Before the door had even shut, it flew back upon with a bash! Bristol breezed through the entrance, his expression serious and gait strong. He folded his arms across his black tunic and stared stoically at Marsh. A moment later arrived the 10th Kasrkin Regiment’s executive officer, Prince Constantine.

  Officially a Lieutenant-Colonel, he was the rising lord of another prestigious Cadian noble family, one whose lineage harked back to the days of the first kasrs. Theirs was a name veiled in valor but moderated with political power and pure warriorship. Constantine was a name to love, respect, and fear. The family’s star prince relied mostly on the latter two facets.

  Luitpold Constantine was a dark and foreboding creature. He had skin tanned by the sun and shadowy, long locks which came down to his neck. Like Bristol, he was never-clean shaven, constantly sporting a sheen of stubble. He had a long, aquiline nose and handsome cheeks but a scowl of a smile. This was complemented by his one, grim, menacing eye that possessed the deepest shade of purple. His other eye socket was covered by an eyepatch rather than a bionic eyepiece. No one knew how he lost it. Despite his decades of service, he appeared young and robust of health. He did not have a single wrinkle, though there were many scars. He fought on every planet in the Cadian System as well as battlefronts in every Segmentum. The four golden skull pins on his Vulnerati Ribbon indicated over twenty different wounds.

  His uniform was resplendent but mysterious. Rows of medals ran across the left side of chest nearly to his midsection. In his career, he earned all of the Cadian Crest awards, culminating with the Golden Crest, permitting him to wear a vertical, golden fringe atop his helmet in combat. Across his tunic were four of the highest awards a Cadian earned without a medal; the great sashes. The top was the Most Honorable Scarlet Sash of Cadian blood, denoting great sacrifices to the Cadian people. Next was Illustrious Amber Sash of Valor, signifying an enormous deed for the planet during wartime. Below it was the Exalted Jade Sash of Meritorious Service, bestowed for a long and illustrious career to deserving senior officers. Finally, there was the Onyx Sash, showing the wearer had committed some dark, grave, unknowable act for the service of all Cadian kind.

  No one ever truly knew what the Onyx Sash was truly awarded for. Whatever deed or mission was accomplished was classified. Only the recipient and those who decorated him knew. For Marsh Silas, gazing at the dark and simple sash, this was a point of great trepidation. Constantine had, already, never even spoken to him and was rarely seen in public events such as regimental reviews and parades. One might have briefly witnessed him crossing the campus in the early morning or at sundown—a swift shadow. Other than that, his rare appearances were silent and brooding. A few times, Marsh caught the Prince’s stare and every attempt at acknowledgment was rebuffed by stillness.

  Constantine sat in the chair without a word. Bristol clicked his tongue and nodded.

  “Alright then, soldier, let’s not waste each other’s time. Prince Constantine has some questions for you, so listen up, speak only when spoken to, and answer the questions directly. You roger that?”

  “Solid copy,” Marsh answered flatly.

  “Gabler noted something in her after-action report we found intriguing. A battlecry issued by the attacking enemy force,” Bristol said. “What was it?”

  Marsh, confused, looked at Constantine. The Prince had not changed his emotionless expression.

  “Beg pardon, sir, but I thought Lieutenant-Colonel—” But Bristol cut him off with a groan. He shook his head at the ceiling and then glared at Marsh.

  “First thing out of your mouth is exactly what I told you not to do. Shit, mortar fragments slice off your ears too or was it just the arm? I would have thought some might have gotten lodged in your thick skull, then I remembered you ain’t go any fucking brains for a—”

  “Major Bristol,” Prince Constantine said in a smooth and direct tone. “Be silent.”

  Bristol was about to speak when Constantine glared at him sharply. “Be. Silent.” The Jakal pursed his lips and stared ahead. The Prince’s gaze lingered on the Major for a few moments before drifting steadily back to Marsh Silas. “Speak, Knight-Lieutenant.”

  “After my arm was nearly ripped off, they launched a direct assault on the hill. Just as they did, they shouted about an architect. Yes, that’s it, they said, ‘For the Architect of Fate,’ as far as I remember.”

  Bristol grimaced while Constantine made no indication whatsoever. The Prince leaned back, crossed his legs, and folded his hands upon his lap.

  “I see. Your recall is surprisingly accurate after several operations and countless medical inducements,” Constantine said. “Those were the exact words recorded by Lieutenant Gabler. Censored, of course, in the official report, for important reasons of…”

  “If it’s these fiends we’re dealing with,” Bristol said to no one in particular, “then we’re going to have—”

  “I do not recall speaking to you, Major,” Constantine said impatiently. “If there is one aspect of conversation I loathe so incandescently, it is being interrupted. By my command or your own volition, maintain your silence please, lest you tempt me to rasher methods.”

  Bristol bristled. Constantine never took his eye off Marsh Silas. He inhaled calmly before leaning forward to unsling his weapon. The Prince carried a Master Crafted Bolter; it was a beautiful weapon with a mirror-sheen black finish and a golden Aquila stamped on either side. He overheard from some chatting officers it bore no lavish name, it was merely known as the Black Bolter.

  Constantine ran his hand along the weapon. “I have been to many places and fought many foes. If it has walked, crawled, flown, or swam, you can be sure, I have killed it. These miscreants serve a being whose peons I have met before. I prayed for the chance to meet them again, as they are the most dangerous of the Archenemy for they fight with the mind. All battles take place within the mind, Knight-Lieutenant, and all battles must be fought with the mind. War is a crucible we endure within. It consumes us. It drives us. We must meet it if we are to prove we are worthy of the Emperor.”

  His smile was deep and dark. He stood and placed the Black Bolter over his shoulder once more. “I thank you for confirming this development. Heal quickly Cross, for you do not want to miss the opportunity to test yourself.”

  Prince Constantine stood up, turned sharply on his heel, and departed. Bristol remained, standing rigidly by the wall adjacent to Marsh’s beside. When the door finally shut, the Jakal released a breath.

  “That bloke unsettles me,” Marsh Silas admitted.

  “I can’t get a bead on that son of a bitch either,” Bristol muttered. He looked at Marsh Silas tiredly, almost sympathetically. He walked closer and put his hands on his hips. “Look, fellow, I don’t understand half the shit the Prince says. But I do know one thing, he’s fought the same scoundrels I have and they’re cut from the same cloth as these foes. He’s made a point. If you missed it, I recommend you start turning the volume of your Vox-caster up right now because this is the new broadcast.”

  Bristol leaned forward and gripped the edge of the bed. “We’re dealing with an enemy who fights with their brains, not by willpower or force of arms alone. You want to beat them? You’re gonna have to outthink them before you can fight them. So, start using your fucking head and quit wasting time trying to save everybody. This is war, some of us are not coming back.”

  He turned to leave and threw open the door. But he paused in the threshold and looked over his shoulder. “Best get back on your feet soon. You’re no good to anybody lying on your back.”