Both sides in the Tyrone Hive War maneuvered for victory, marshalling their forces for the next brutal engagent.
The Governor’s fleet, still beyond the system’s reach, had yet to return.
The orbital shipyard, a prize that could tip the balance, remained undeployed.
No one noticed the subtle shift in reality—a wound carved into the fabric of existence.
A warp rift, edged in violet fla, sundered the void at the Talon-Systems Mandeville Point.
A jagged tear, raw with the howling madness of the Immaterium, bled into realspace.
From its swirling depths, a battered Sword-class Frigate erupted, its hull scarred and blackened from the hellish journey through the Sea of Souls.
The ship trembled as if exhaling in relief, its Gellar field flickering weakly before stabilizing.
For a long, breathless mont, the only sound aboard the frigate was the rasping breath of its crew—
Survivors of a voyage that should have ended in madness or damnation.
With a groan of grinding servos, the tal shutters covering the bridge’s observation windows slowly withdrew, revealing the endless, uncaring void of realspace.
A mont of stunned silence.
Then—a single, ragged cry, raw with relief.
"Ah… Praise the Emperor!"
The ship’s captain dropped to his knees, his voice trembling with fervor.
"By the God-Emperor’s divine will, we have survived!
We passed through a warp storm—this must be His hand guiding us! A miracle! Praise Him! Praise the Emperor!"
"Praise the Emperor! Praise the Emperor!"
The bridge crew followed suit, bowing their heads toward the Imperial Aquila etched into the bulkhead, whispering fervent prayers of thanks.
The distant clatter of boots on steel echoed through the chamber as the bridge doors hissed open.
Ten figures entered—officers clad in dark green carapace armor, their violet eyes gleaming like polished gemstones in the dim light.
They took in the starfield beyond, the realization of survival settling over them, and soon joined in the prayers of gratitude.
For those who braved the warp, survival was never certain.
A warp storm was no re hazard—it was a terror beyond reckoning.
To be lost within its depths was a fate worse than death. Entire fleets had been swallowed whole, their ships twisted into shrieking abominations, their crews enslaved—or consud—by the horrors lurking in the Sea of Souls.
The warp did not obey the laws of the material universe. Distance, ti, causality—these were concepts it ignored or twisted into cruel parodies. A ship might plunge into the Sea of Souls and erge years—or centuries—later, light-years from its intended destination. Or worse, it might return to the right coordinates… but in the wrong century. So erged too late, their minds shattered by the whispers of the Neverborn.
And even for those who escaped the storm’s grasp, there was no true salvation. The warp left its mark—deep and festering. So returned changed. Others brought sothing back with them.
Sothing that should never have crossed into the realm of the living.
For those who survived a warp storm, rely being alive was not the end of the trial.
It was only the beginning.
Because the question was always the sa, always whispered in hushed tones as the Gellar Field fell silent and the void returned:
Where are we?
....
One of the officers, his expression wary, finally broke the silence.
“Which system are we in?”
The captain stepped forward, eyes scanning the familiar constellations beyond the viewport.
"Talon," he muttered. "I’ve been here before. Did so trading."
The officer’s expression darkened. His fingers curled into a fist.
“Oh… so you really are a rchant?” The officer’s voice turned sharp with anger.
“We deployed an entire regint to reinforce your world, and you send us back ho on a damn Frigate?"
The captain smirked, arms crossed, unfazed by the accusation.
"What do you want to do? Execute ? Or do you want to make it back to Cadia?"
Tension rippled through the chamber. The officers’ expressions darkened, their rage restrained but not extinguished.
A slow exhale. One of them unclenched his fists, forcing down his frustration.
"Can we return to Cadia now?"
The rchant shook his head, his amusent never fading.
"Not yet. This ship took damage—we need a safe harbor for repairs."
The officer’s jaw tightened, but he knew the truth: without the vessel, his regint was at the rcy of the void.
With a curt nod, he turned to his n.
"Each of you will take a squad and visit the planets in the Talon system. Speak with their governors—see if they can aid our repairs."
“And if they refuse?” soone asked.
The officer smirked. “Then we negotiate. Offer them sothing in return—perhaps assistance in their war effort.”
His gaze settled on a scarred man at the back of the room.
"Creed," he said. "You and the White Shields will head to Tyrone. I know you’re persuasive."
“Yes, sir.” Creed saluted.
The officer reached into his coat, pulling out a lho-stick. He pressed it into Creed’s palm.
"Light this when you et their Governor. With your face and that Cadian glare, he’ll assu you’re soone important."
Creed allowed himself a rare smirk.
“Aye, sir. Just hope he’s the kind that still respects a burning stick and a hard stare.”
....
The dropship detached from the frigate, its thrusters roaring as it plunged toward Tyrone’s murky atmosphere.
Inside the cockpit, Creed stood behind the pilot, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the sprawling hive city below.
"Open the side hatch," he ordered
The others exchanged puzzled glances but complied.
The thick, stale air of the lower atmosphere rushed in, carrying the scent of oil, sweat, and industry.
Creed stepped forward, gripping the edge of the open hatch, scanning the urban sprawl below.
Like most hive worlds, Tyrone’s natural environnt was beyond ruin—though unlike many others, its decay wasn’t purely the result of industrial pollution.
The planet had always been barren, its land poor and infertile.
At the very least, the air here was still breathable—just barely.
Yet sothing was wrong.
"Hold off on landing," Creed ordered. He turned to the others.
"Look. Tell what’s missing."
The soldiers peered down.
No nobles. No officials.
Only soldiers.
Thousands of them.
The upper spires, where the ruling elite should have dwelled, were swarming with rowdy, undisciplined troops. But this was no occupation. This was an installation.
Bunkers. Barricades. Supply depots.
Whoever was in control of Tyrone had turned the Upper hive into a fortress.
“We should leave,” one of his n muttered.
“No. We’re heading lower.” Creed placed a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “Take us into the Lower Hive.”
....
The pilot found a breach in the hive’s outer walls—just wide enough for a risky entry.
"Brace for impact, boys," the pilot muttered, strapping on his helt.
The ship roared forward, engines flaring. tal scread against tal as they ramd through, forcing their way into the Lower Hive.
The n inside hardly reacted, accustod to such rough landings. As the shuttle ground to a halt, they climbed out, stepping into the dimly lit depths of Tyrone Hive’s Seventh District.
Civilians gathered, wary and uncertain. Their eyes flickered between the unfamiliar Cadian armor and the scars of war surrounding them.
Then—a patrol arrived.
Creed clocked them instantly.
Not PDF. Not standard troops.
Power armor.
Their gear was too advanced for local militia—likely the personal guard of a high-ranking official, perhaps? A noble’s retinue?
He stepped forward, ready to speak—
"Thump∼!"
Sothing heavy landed before him.
Heavy. Powerful. Ard.
A warrior, clad in ornate armor, his bulk casting a long shadow in the gloom.
A shoulder-mounted cannon tracked Creed’s every movent, humming with restrained lethality.
His helted gaze bore down on Creed and his n.
"Who are you?" His vox-amplified voice echoed through the street.
Creed remained still.
No fear. No hesitation.
“A group of Cadians caught in a warp storm,” Creed answered.
“We require aid. Take to your commanding officer.”
"I don’t know what a Cadia is," the armored figure said flatly. "I just know you’re intruders."
Even though many of Creed’s troops were fresh White Shields, their combat discipline was impeccable. Within monts, they had taken cover, lasrifles raised and trained on their targets.
Before the standoff could escalate, Creed stepped forward, directly into the line of fire.
"I am Colonel Ursarkar E. Creed of the Cadian 8th Regint."
His voice carried the weight of a place etched into every fiber of his being.
"We an you no harm."
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