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The Phoenix Infantry Regint's temporary command post was nothing more than a shack, reinforced canvas stretched over tal fras, barely fit for purpose.
Inside, ssy stacks of parchnt scrolls covered every surface. A few aging cogitator arrays clattered away, spitting out punched paper tape.
Cold-white light tubes hung from the ceiling, flickering at steady intervals, bleaching the cramped space a sickly pale.
Kaelen strode through the threshold.
The two ard guards at the door moved to block him. They were shoved aside before they got the chance, squeezed out of the way by two mountains of flesh pressing in behind him.
"Sergeant!" The commissar of the Phoenix Infantry Regint looked up from behind his desk and slamd his quill down. "You'd damn well better have a reason that convinces not to send you to a court-martial."
The man had high, sharp cheekbones and a crisp black greatcoat, his chest layered with honor dals of every size. Dogma and fanaticism had sharpened his features into sothing resembling raw iron.
Kaelen planted both hands on the desk and leaned in.
"Sir, I'll keep this short. Sothing terrible is about to happen at Landing Pad Three. I recomnd sounding the highest alert imdiately and turning every nearby unit's guns toward that pad."
The commissar stared at him like he'd lost his mind. "Have you gone insane?"
"The Voskany Ironclad Regint are traitors." Kaelen spoke fast, every word clipped and clean. "They've already turned to Chaos. This review ceremony is about to beco a one-sided slaughter."
The mont the words landed, the command post went dead silent.
Communications soldiers stopped mid-task, staring at this loudmouthed recruit as if he were already a corpse.
It was an utterly absurd scene.
A recruit who hadn't even drawn his full kit was pointing at the most elite armored regint in all of Cadia, in the entire sector, and dropping the full weight of heresy on their heads.
In the Imperium's bureaucratic machinery, the higher a unit's rank and the more storied its battle honors, the greater its political immunity. No one wanted to believe that yesterday's heroes could beco today's traitors.
The commissar's chest heaved.
He didn't sound the alarm. His rage curdled into a mocking laugh instead.
"The Voskany Ironclad Regint? The glorious bulwark of the Imperium? The ace unit personally awarded the Astra Militarum Cross of Honor 3 tis by the Governor himself?"
He stood, flicked open the hem of his greatcoat with one hand, and walked around the desk.
"You, a newly enlisted recruit, a rookie sergeant who's never even seen the front lines — co into my command post to slander an honored force that has survived a hundred battles?"
Kaelen didn't step back.
"Sir, any caution at all works in our favor! If we wait until traitors shove their cannon barrels down the command post's throat, neither of us will survive what cos next!"
"I request an investigation into the Voskany Ironclad Regint!"
"Shut up!"
No hesitation. He drew his gun.
The pitch-black muzzle of a bolt pistol pressed dead against Kaelen's forehead.
The cold tal sent a numbing crawl across his scalp. One twitch of that finger, and Kaelen's head would bloom into a rotten red flower.
"This is outright heretical speech. Disrupting morale. Slandering our allies."
The commissar's features were twisted. At this range, Kaelen could see every red vein crisscrossing the whites of his eyes.
"In the na of the Emperor of Mankind, Sergeant Kaelen. Retract your ravings and go kneel before the Voskany Ironclad Regint to atone. This is your final chance."
The barrel jabbed forward, pressing a red mark into his skin.
Worth noting: at the exact second the commissar drew his weapon, the air behind Kaelen stirred.
Kullen's patience had been overdrawn to nothing. He could not stand a mortal commissar pointing a gun at soone right under his nose. And Kaelen, of all people, was the one the Emperor of Mankind had specifically nad in the dream, the one to be protected.
The right arm wrapped in heavy canvas rose without a sound. His large hand had already locked onto the commissar's cervical spine. Snapping a mortal's neck was easier for an Astartes than breaking a twig.
"Don't move."
A low voice, carrying absolute authority, sounded right against Kullen's ear.
A large hand pressed down on his shoulder without a sound. The force was absurd, imnse, pinning Kullen's surging killing intent dead in place.
Horus.
The Warmaster watched this farce coldly from behind his faceplate.
If they moved now, the infantry regint would explode into chaos on the spot. Before the external enemy fired a single shot, their own people would be tearing each other apart.
Reveal the primarch's identity? On Cadia, already sunk deep into pre-war fanaticism, an uncorrupted Lupercal appearing out of nowhere would trigger panic and chaos worse than a small-scale rebellion. They would be buried under endless firepower. The plan to block the traitor advance would turn to ash.
Reason. Restraint.
These were the qualities the Warmaster had been most praised for during the Great Crusade.
Horus believed the situation still had room to turn. He believed Kaelen could handle it. And if this commissar truly ant to pull the trigger, he was confident he could get Kaelen out alive.
Kaelen's palms were soaked in sweat.
Having a loaded bolt pistol pressed to his skull, to say he wasn't scared would be pure bullshit.
His brain ran at full speed, cycling through options.
Make a bet, then.
By his count of the timing, it should be just about ti.
"Sir." Kaelen held the muzzle's gaze without flinching. "Since you have such confidence in Voskany's loyalty, why don't we listen to what's happening outside?"
"What?" The commissar sneered. "A coward who slanders others, and now you want to stall for ti, "
He didn't finish.
The soaring ceremonial welco music cut out.
Then ca a roar that nearly burst every eardrum in the room.
That was no ceremonial blank. That was the full-throated thunder of heavy artillery firing live.
The piercing shriek of high-energy lasers tore through Cadia's air defense net. Through the command post's half-open tent flap, everyone saw it with perfect clarity.
On the distant landing pad, a small blood-red mushroom cloud erupted. Its violent shockwave swept the entire field flat. Flas punched skyward and tore every surrounding structure apart.
The blast wave hit like a wall. The shack shook violently. Light tubes strobed and flickered. Dust rained down in sheets, coating the commissar's face and head.
Reality's slap landed hard.
The commissar went completely blank.
The face that had been burning with righteous indignation a second ago was now frozen in a look of pure, comical horror.
CLANG!
The bolt pistol slipped from his fingers and hit his military boot.
No one spoke. Outside, the chain of explosions and screaming continued without pause. Inside, the only sound was the idle hum of instrunts.
Then the main communications console's wide-area channel blazed red.
Through a wall of electromagnetic static, a voice clawed through, shrill, cracked, desperate:
"Mutiny! They're firing on us!"
"The Voskany Ironclad Regint are traitors! They shelled the reviewing stand!"
"The First and Second Castellans are dead! All of them, dead—"
"SKRRRZZZ—"
The dead-air shriek of electromagnetic static cut the line. And with it, the commissar's last illusion.
➤ Next: Counterattack, Creed — The Fight Begins
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