They traveled to the ducal palace in nearly unbroken silence. Derrida, a true military man, did not ply the angel with unnecessary questions. Still, the giant could see he was curious, even fascinated. In this benighted era, most soldiers, even senior commanders, lived and died without ever meeting one of the God-Emperor’s own Adeptus Astartes. In the aftermath of Cadia’s destruction, such encounters would surely grow rarer still.

  Cadia, or, more specifically, Cadia Prime, was the chief world in a planetary system of the same name. A fortress world, it bristled with troop placements and armament systems. Indeed, perhaps no world in the Imperium was better defended against the threat of Chaos. Cadia owed its fortified nature to its strategic importance. The planet guarded the only stable path leading in and out of the Eye of Terror, a supermassive spatial anomaly caused by the Warp, the shadow realm inhabited by sorcerous and arcane demonic entities. For millennia, Cadia held back the tides of Chaos, undaunted by the horrors which streamed forth from the Eye.

  That had all changed just days ago. Abaddon, the thrice-damned champion of Chaos, formerly an Astartes himself, surged forth from the Eye at the head of a Black Crusade. The Imperium of Mankind mustered every available force to meet the crusade, calling Militarum, Navy, Sororitas, and Space Marine detachments from across the segmentum and beyond. The angel’s own Space Marine Chapter, the Storm Warriors, committed the entirety of their own considerable might to the world’s defense.

  It had not been enough. Cadia fell, its fall precipitating an unprecedented expansion of the Eye, which now stretched its blight along the length of the galaxy itself. The Astronomican, the psychic beacon which allowed Imperial voidships to navigate faster-than-light travel through the Warp itself, fell dark. The Imperium’s forces, the Storm Warriors among them, fled in scattered disarray as numberless legions of enemies poured out of the Immaterium.

  The angel knew he must bear this message to Luce Prime’s planetary governor. A world celebrated for its munitions production, this world hovered on the edge of ruin. Abaddon’s armies would no doubt turn their hungry gaze on the planet before long. He might wield the might of uncounted demons, but the Warmaster of Chaos would still require military supplies for his considerable army of conventional troops. Luce Prime, Throne help its people, offered Abaddon the chance to resolve this problem and satiate his legions bloodlust at the same time.

  “We’re approaching now, milord,” said Derrida, breaking the angel’s reverie.

  The Imperium contained many hive cities, sprawling masses of habtowers and manufactorum complexes. On Luce Prime, the city and the world were one and the same. The city stretched out to the horizon in every direction, a vast, teeming sea of human and verminous life. Lighters and bulk transports swam through its orange skies, which twinkled with the passage of the planet’s famous shimmer eels. The angel privately admitted that he found the sight beautiful. Unlike so many other Imperial worlds, Luce Prime exhibited strong signs of cleanliness and order. He found it difficult to reconcile the world he saw through the glasscrete with the one he encountered in the underhive. Up here, the world seemed totally organized. Perfect, even.

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  So what had he seen below its surface? Every city had its underbelly, but few boasted scavengers desperate or foolish enough to challenge a Space Marine.

  The lighter dropped into a slow descent as it approached the palace, a business and leisure complex enveloping its central courtyard and four towering spires. The Arvus flew towards the northernmost of these, its pilot exchanging docking clearances with the air controlman, a professional-sounding sort of fellow.

  As the ship landed, Derrida rose from his seat, looping his arm through a balance cord hanging from the hull ceiling, and addressed himself to the angel. Even standing, he found himself at eye level with the seated Space Marine, whose armored bulk had made the metal troop bench whine in protest when he sat down. The men on either side of the angel sat in quiet, anxious discomfort. They were brave men, but enough brave men are as children in the presence of an Astartes. Derrida, by contrast, addressed the Space Marine in the same calm, composed voice he had spoken with earlier. “Forgive me, milord, but regulations require us to log the identity of every passenger upon departure and arrival. May I have your name, rank, and chapter?”

  “No need to apologize captain,” the angel began, then grunted with frustration as his vox again distorted his speech. Removing the helm, he began again. “No need to apologize, captain. I admire your men’s commitment to proper procedure. I am Elazar Melancthon, Brother Warrior of the Storm Warriors.”

  The crew gawped at Elazar’s bare face. Hard lines and considerable scarring marked features distorted by his gene-therapy imposed gigantism. He wore a shaved scalp, the litany of hate tattooed across its tanned surface.

  Derrida took in the angel’s fearsome appearance without exclamation, though one white eyebrow lifted in something that might have been amusement. Elazar decided that he liked this man. Derrida’s relaxed, laconic nature mirrored that of Elazar himself. He hoped that before the end they would fight in the God-Emperor’s service side by side.

  “Thank you, lord,” the man said simply. “Do you have need of medical attention now that we have arrived?”

  Elazar shook his head, “I do not. But it is imperative that I speak to the planetary governor, immediately and without delay.”

  Derrida nodded, “Of course, he will be eager to meet with you. We have not had a Space Marine on Luce Prime in generations. In better times, we might have honored you with a planetwide celebration. As it stands, the populace is on high alert, and no such ceremony is possible.”

  “No ceremony is necessary, Captain. Tell me, what is the cause for this alert?”

  “Communications with the rest of the system collapsed several standard days ago. And the Navis Nobilite insists that some kind of Warp storm is interfering with their perception of the Astronomican. It’s a grim business, if you’ll pardon my comment. Does your arrival relate to this crisis, lord?”

  Elazar glanced meaningfully at the other men in the transport before responding. “Yes, Captain.”

  The man nodded again, his mustache twitching almost imperceptibly. “I see. Well then, I’ll contact the duke personally and ensure an immediate audience.”