275.947.M30 – Eremus Gate
The journey to Eremus Gate passed with little incident. The ship shuddered often, yet none of this interfered with our duties. To the Astartes, the warp is of no concern. To the mortals... they seem strangely affected, afraid almost. Surely they know that Warp travel is perfectly safe in a ship as well-maintained as this?
We drilled. Every day. Squad by squad, then legion against legion. The Wolves tested our lines with their brute joy, the Fists stood like iron walls, and the sons of Fulgrim sought precision. Even the Alpha Legion fought, though they revealed nothing of themselves in doing so.
At times, drills gave way to feasts in the mess, where auxilia and crew watched us in awe. Then came the cage fights. Bare chest, blade in hand, the taste of blood and steel on the tongue. I fought enough to satisfy my Legion—scoring more strikes than I took. Some of the others... Erastes and Oskyr in particular seem oddly caught up in the spectacle, as if the cage matters more than war itself.
Sergeant Calvien remains the most dangerous among us. In the cage, he moves like inevitability. Yet he fights without joy, without spectacle, only enough to honor his Legion’s name. That, I think, makes him the truest killer aboard.
The command crew are a varied lot. Captain Varenius, stern as any Fist. His first officer, Ghent, all discipline and hard words, though he looks down with respect when any Astartes draws near. Magos Rhadamantin wrought in steel and whispering binharic. The Navigator Iskandra, crown of her head rising to my chin, her headdress tall as my helmet, pale but resolute. I observe them as I would fellow warriors. Mortals, yes—but without them, the Ashen Promise would be nothing but a drifting hulk.
It was through the Magos that I found my way into the Societas Solis—a circle of those born under the Sun of Sol. Terra, Mars, Jupiter's moons... of the home systems trillions, nine have found their way, only the Ashen. We talk, we play games of strategy, we sharpen not just our weapons but our minds. I find it… welcome, enlightening even. To sit with men, not brothers, and be seen as something other than weapon or warden.
When the Immaterium finally released us, battle stations were sounded. Standard procedure, yet the crew tensed all the same. The Eremus Gate is no calm passage but a storm of shattered stone and the bones of ancient ships. The void filled our augurs with debris—and then came the shells.
Macrocannon fire tore through the void. Boarding pods slammed against the hull. The Ashen Promise reeled as Captain Varenius clawed for distance, yet it was too late. The Orks were upon us. Hundreds. Thousands. Screaming for slaughter, tearing at bulkheads, feasting on the flesh of those they slew.
We met them in the port landing bay. My half-squad, with Halcyd at my side, swept the decks clean in blood and fire. More Granite Guard reinforced us, and together we descended to the gun decks. The greenskins had overrun the crews there, but we pushed them back, purging the guns in bolt and blade. When their mining charges began to bring the decks down around us, we withdrew in good order.
From there, to the heart of the ship—engineering. The corridors were slick with blood. Dead Fists lay where they had made their stand, their bodies unbowed even in death. The orks were waiting among the engines, desecrating them with their crude devices. We carved them apart.
And then—the device. A thing of scrap and savagery, bound with stolen promethium cells and wired into the plasma lines. I do not know how I knew, but I knew. Mere seconds remained, but I remembered my training, and there was no fury of plasma, only a whimper.
Victory. Glory. The orks slaughtered, the Ashen Promise spared. Yet it is victory written in blood. An entire gun deck lost. Auxilia dead by the hundreds. Crew butchered. Fists fallen at their posts. Even now the air smells of promethium and iron.
We stood against the green tide and did not fall. The Emperor will know. My Primarch will know.
But at what cost?
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