496.947.M30 – Droskael System, Ashveil Reach
The Ashen Promise slipped from the Immaterium like a blade drawn from its sheath, the star of Droskael burning a cold orange before us, wreathed in great loops and bands of red.
Iskandra was triumphant. The xenos charts and the repaired astralabe conspired to deliver us safely to our destination.
That she and I had briefly… rewritten time itself was a secret known only to the two of us. Outwardly, all was as it should be. Inwardly, I knew better. The Third Legion walked the decks, men who had died by their brother’s hand now alive. A superstitious man would perhaps think some god had taken pity on them. Or perhaps it was the universe merely sought to restore a symmetry too deep for mortal minds to comprehend. I did not pretend to know the universe's mind, nor do I accept false gods among us.
There was a sense of purpose aboard the ship. Repairs were underway, morale was high, and the Magos was content, muttering to himself about data yields and exploration protocols.
Then came the summons.
Sergeant Kallin of the Imperial Fists—military leader of the expedition—called me to his command chamber near the bridge. He told me, in his characteristically dry tone, that I was to assume command of a squad. “Acting sergeant,” he said, though I could see the satisfaction in his eyes. He had already sent several dispatches to my Legion praising my performance, and it pleased him to see me rewarded.
I declined the honorifics and the chevrons—our Legion does not adorn its warriors like parade pieces—but the title clung to me nonetheless. Everyone began calling me “Sergeant” within the hour.
Kallin’s only condition was that my squad draw from several Legions, a gesture of unity. No Fists, of course; there were too few of them left, and he needed every man. I selected Daecrus of my own Legion—a fierce youth, untempered but brave—Oskyr of the Space Wolves, whose laughter I have come to appreciate, Karyth of the Alpha Legion, and Erastes of the Emperor’s Children, who now calls me friend. That last choice raised some eyebrows, but I trust the man. In this version of the world, at least, he has earned it.
We trained together in the ship’s training vaults. The satisfaction of commanding men came to me naturally—giving an order and seeing it carried out without hesitation. The squad began calling themselves “the Dragon’s Shadow.” I forbade the name, of course. The 11th does not indulge in such vanities. Nevertheless, someone—Erastes again, I suspect—applied a thin tracery of gold to the edges of our armor plates. From a distance, it forms the shape of a dragon in flight. I have chosen not to notice.
The Droskael system unfolded before us like the pages of a ruinous chronicle. Over two standard weeks, we mapped its worlds and belts, proceeding with the patience of stone. There was no rush; every mistake here could mean extinction.
Malis and its moons teemed with orks, their crude engines burning emerald across the void. The Hadranis Belt glimmered with 44-R activity—those mechanical abominations moving between the asteroids like ants around a corpse. Droskael Minoris was a shattered tomb, its habitats and domes broken, its air long since bled away. Droskael Majoris, once a proud world, lay half-ruined and half-alive: the xenos walked its streets, but somewhere beneath the ash and ruin, humans likely still cling to life.
Most curious of all was Cthonis, the inner world. A colossal ship, shrouded by the glare of the sun, hung in low orbit there, so vast it could be mistaken for a moon. We approached it cautiously, every weapon primed. What we found were not orks, nor 44-R, nor the remnants of any human empire—but the Kar-Kesh Holdfast, a roaming city of the demiurg. Squats, the ancient kin of mankind, but changed by long exile. They had been crossing the void for half a millennium, a slow pilgrimage through darkened warp-lanes, unaware that the Imperium even existed.
Their leader, Adnis the Younger, Thane of Kar-Kesh, met us with wary respect. His people value strength and trade in equal measure. He agreed to speak with Captain Varenius and the Magos, provided we granted them mining rights to the Cthonian crust. They offered, in return, the service of their forges and hullwrights. The Ashen Promise’s wounds could be mended—at a cost. The negotiations are ongoing, but I sense goodwill in them. The demiurg are rough, proud creatures, but they understand honor. Perhaps the Emperor’s dream still lives, even in them.
Later, a new contact appeared on the augurs—a ship emerging from the warp far too close to the system’s heart. No sane Navigator would attempt such a jump. Kallin ordered pursuit. When our batteries locked on, the vessel froze in place, broadcasting a surrender code in Imperial cipher.
We boarded her.
The ship was small—a modified Viper-class corvette, scarred and pitted by decades of poor maintenance. Her name was Black Comet.
Her captain, Yurian Drex, was a gaunt man with the eyes of someone who has seen too many voids. He claimed allegiance to the Emperor, and I believe him, though it is an allegiance worn thin by hunger and fear. The Comet, he said, was once part of the 813th Expedition—the first to attempt entry into the Cindral Reach. They were lost twenty years ago. The rest of their fleet was destroyed or consumed by the warp; only the Comet survived, too damaged to return, condemned to wander the Reach ever since.
How they endured, I cannot imagine. Two decades of scavenging, raiding, and evading xenos fleets. Their crew looked half-feral, their ship held together by superstition and scrap. Yet when we came aboard, they saluted the Imperial aquila and fell to their knees.
Drex was quick to pledge his loyalty. He offered their charts and their knowledge of the Reach, claiming that they had mapped corridors and anomalies unknown to us. He also offered the service of his “navigator,” one Lieutenant Fran Khel—a sanctioned psyker of low grade who somehow managed to guide the Comet through the warp without ever losing his way. Perhaps he sees patterns where others do not. One wonders and observes.
The Comet was woefully undermanned, her systems failing. We transferred crew and soldiers from the Ashen Promise to bring her up to strength. She now serves as our escort, her guns covering the Promise’s damaged flank. A fitting companion: two wounded ships journeying together through the dark.
We are far from home, yet the Dragon's work continues.
The Emperor requires no miracles of us—only endurance.
And endurance, at least, we have in abundance.
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