113.947.M30 – Bakka, Regio Tempestatum
Bakka is a world of docks and forges, metal spires stretching out to the void. I cannot help but marvel at the industry of the mortals who live and toil there. What will this world look like in a hundred years? A thousand? An impenetrable bastion, surrounded by great void-docks as far as the transhuman eye can see.
Brother Halcyd and I boarded the Glory of Kallast. A transport, not a warship, though Captain Arend Kairon treats her like the Emperor’s own flagship. His manner is… excessive. He dresses as though parading before a court rather than guiding a vessel through the warp. Yet, he claims gratitude to our Legion. He insists that Granite Guard saved his life on Armageddon. He pressed upon me a chainsword wrought of Armageddon adamantium. Its weight is perfect, its teeth bite true. I told him our Legion does not seek trophies. He replied that he is not my Legion. I accepted, for the honor of the Guard.
We travel not alone. Five other Astartes accompany us: a curious mix of Legions. The one who speaks most is Brother Erastes of the Emperor’s Children. His tongue is as polished as his armor, and he lectures on the perfection of form as though we had not all endured the same crucible of transformation. His sergeant, Calvien, is different: craggy features, eyes pale, a silent weight at the table, as if carved from stone. For one of Fulgrim’s sons, it is strange; he is what a Son of Fenris should be, but is not.
The mortal auxilia are everywhere. Three thousand men and women, vehicles, munitions—an army within the hull. They look upon us with awe, fear, and curiosity in turn. I confess I return their gaze. They are so fragile, and yet their lives burn with a fierce intensity. They drink, laugh, quarrel, and make peace again before the next meal. It is… mildly fascinating.
Among them are two Remembrancers: Cassian and Selene Orpheos, twins from Karthene. They record everything—our words, our gait, even the silences between us. My brothers and cousins seem to despise their presence; I do not. They are here by the Will of the Emperor, and we are here by our Master's command.
Two weeks of ship-time ahead. Six in the real world.
239.947.M30 – Port Helikos
Port Helikos is nearly abandoned. The Circle of Storms has kept the fleets at bay too long; now, only scraps of the 813th linger. A few transports, defense monitors clinging like barnacles, and a single frigate: the Ashen Promise.
She waits for us. Imperial Fist colors, dour and serviceable, without Captain Kairon’s flamboyance. Once we are aboard, we are split into our squads. One for each Legion—brothers bound by different bloodlines, yet given a single charge: scout the path into the Cindral Expanse, survey what lies within, and return. The words are simple; the task will not be.
Command falls to Sergeant Drevar Kallin. He is competent, and his will is steady. Whether the others will heed him remains to be seen. Fulgrim’s sons have their pride. The Alpha Legion remains inscrutable. Even the Wolves bristle at discipline not their own. The Fists endure in silence, as is their way. And we, the Granite Guard, will stand as stone between them.
The journey is expected to last twelve days ship-time. A month in the measure of the Imperium. Long enough for auxilia and Astartes alike to learn whether we are one force, or merely fragments forced into proximity.
I polish the adamantium-toothed chainsword as I write this. Gaze into the emerald eyes of the golden dragon's head that is its capstan. A weapon born of one man’s gratitude, forged from pieces of a broken world. Perhaps it will find its place in the Expanse, as I must find mine among these brothers-not-brothers.
The storm awaits.
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