Black smoke seeped out of burning huts, pouring into the clear blue sky from a dozen smouldering billets. Charred bodies lay where they fell whilst pitiful figures clawed out their last breath through ash-filled lungs, crawling aimlessly along the scorched earth. Platoons of brown-uniformed soldiers moved ever onwards, the smoke clawing at their eyes and lungs and sending them into fits of clammy coughs. Most ignored the burnt figures, confusing them for corpses or ignoring them entirely, focused on the task to come. Some men looked down in revulsion, struggling to keep their head, whilst others paused with tears in their eyes. All were quickly hurried on by sergeants, directed back into their columns and onwards towards the enemy.

Soon, another group passed this macabre tableau; led by a woman in a flowing stormcoat they moved with professional detachment, utterly ignoring the grizzly remains. They were an eclectic group of Arbites and Soldiers, lead by the psyker and flanked by two stormtroopers in beetle-like armour whose glowing red eyes scanned through the rubble for any remaining threats. The sounds of machinery lay behind them, the deafening noise of rotor aircraft taking off and landing, whilst the crack of rifle fire lay to their front. As they marched ever onwards, they were passed by a steady stream of walking wounded; men who had lost limbs or taken glancing hits hobbled along, supported by the man next to them and on pure adrenaline. They were a sorry sight, but each man stood a little straighter as he passed the agents of the throne.

Amelia’s mind was racing; fear gnawed at her, amplified by the steady stream of dead. The Cazadores had bled hard to reach even this point, and now they would be looking to her to break the enemy lines. As she took in the sight of her soldiers, in their cloth uniforms and steel helmets, she found herself comparing them unfavourably to the advanced weaponry of their foe. She looked up, and saw the three-story ziggurat that housed the camp’s headquarters rising up before her. An imposing edifice of stone amidst a forest of prefabricated buildings it lay at the heart of the camp, whatever secrets the Raptor’s Nest held would be found there.

The enemy had dug themselves in, a lifetime of training making itself known in successive lines of hastily built fortifications behind which lay alleys that concealed hidden strike teams, waiting to ambush the Cazadores as they passed. The only advantage the PDF had was that very few of the enemy were trained in open warfare; most of the enemy were house guards, who held ceremonial roles whilst engaging in covert raids on rivals, or Death Cultists, who excelled in the tight confines of vertical hive cities, but whose black synthskin and delicate weaponry simply made them a target a long range. Only the enemy PDF Kill Teams were wholly prepared for this attack, and they seemed to have been given the role of officers, coordinating the defence.

The sounds of battle grew louder and louder until Amelia rounded a corner and saw a makeshift command post laid out amidst a mess hall. A nest of radio equipment had been established amidst overturned tables, and a small group of officers and runners streamed in and out of the building, relaying orders to the units in combat. At the centre of this flow of people was a major in a well-maintained uniform, hunched over a table upon which a map lay. All activity in the room ceased when Amelia entered, until a gesture from her sent them all scurrying back to their tasks. The Major saluted Amelia as she approached, before demonstrating their plan of attack on the paper map. Amelia would have dearly liked to wait in this building a while, to muster up her courage, but she was needed on the front and every moment she idled the more soldiers would die for her ambition. She left the headquarters, turning to see the company that had followed her from the landing grounds. A hundred and twenty soldiers, plus eight Arbites and her two trusted stormtroopers, they watched her with expectant eyes, ready to follow her as she struck at the heart of the enemy.

Huddled behind dozens of cabins and innumerable sandbags, the 2nd Battalion, 43rd Cazadores waited for the signal. They had pushed far further into the camp than their counterparts in the 1st Battalion, who held positions on the other side of camp, and as such they were stretched thinner. Still they outnumbered their enemies, who lay behind similar cover around the sides of buildings, or down one of the Nest’s main thoroughfares. Both sides lay still, taking shots at anyone foolish enough to expose themselves or, for those whose weapons could be recharged, firing simply to keep the opposition in cover. The Cazadores watched in disinterested silence as platoons of men moved past them, reinforcements from the landing grounds come to push the offensive, then watched with rapt attention as the Throne Agents passed them by. They stared in open admiration at these off-worlders bedecked in intricate technology, and bowed their heads in respect at their leader, her fiery red hair catching the sun.

Shrill whistles sounded along the line, as the attack began. The men had been standing alert for some time now, clutching their rifles tight in their hands and bracing themselves ready to charge. With the whistles came smoke pouring out of canisters across the enemy lines, canisters launched from mortars or thrown forwards by infantry. Through this haze a great roar sounded as men poured out, following the flash of their officers’ swords. Most met a wall of lasfire as the defenders fired aimlessly into the smoke, the tight avenues of the camp guiding their shots, and men fell in their droves, those following them clambering over their bodies desperate to reach the next set of cover. Once their they hunkered down, the will to fight having fled them entirely.

At the furthermost edge of the advance, where the smoke had not yet reached, soldiers from the Nobility hunkered down behind overturned lockers and sandbags, training their eager eyes down the road in preparation of the enemy’s advance. As the first wisps of smoke curled into their sight the first man fell. His comrades could only watch in horror as an ethereal blade coated in blood appeared out of his neck, as if some phantom had stabbed him. As comprehension dawned, they saw the blade shimmer into existence. It was a long sword a meter long, held by a ghostly woman whose long coat and red hair danced amidst psychic wind. Her collar was framed by blue balefire and her eyes were glowing the warm blue of a gas burning stove. As the energy surrounding her faded, her companions, now clear to see, drove bayonets and shock mauls into the other defenders until only loyalists were left standing.

Amelia withdrew her sword, trying not to flinch at the sickening sound of steel against bone, and wiped the blood off on the dead man’s scarlet coat. Ignoring her gruesome surroundings, Amelia spoke quickly into her earpiece before turning to advance further into the camp. Some fifty meters back, the Major assigned to her command raised his sword and, with two quick chopping motions, set his men into motion. Two companies of Cazadores advanced in utter silence, a hundred and forty men set loose behind enemy lines. Eagerness, and the sounds of gunfire further down the line, spurred them into motion; every one of them knew that they were the only hope the diversionary force had of surviving their doomed attack.

Amelia and her advance force, her stormtroopers and arbitrators, advanced ahead of the main group at a steady pace, her psychic powers warning them of the enemy that lay ahead. Through this foreknowledge, the assault team were able to sneak up on the next enemy position entirely undetected. A team of death cultists sat in a circle atop tins of ammunition, each had another open crate beside her and they worked ceaselessly with autogun rounds, loading the caseless ammunition into magazines before handing them off to a runner, who would bring the resupply up to the men on the defensive positions, and bring the empties back. The cultists own weapons, delicate needlers and slender blades, were ill suited to mass assaults and lay unused by their side. Should the Imperium break through, they would take up those weapons and form a guerrilla force.

Amelia paused beneath the raised struts of a prefabricated building, watching the cultists at work. Eventually, she made up her mind, and sent her squad to the side of the building, ready to act when she gave the word. Gathering up her power, Amelia reached out to one of the cultists, a girl in her late teens with mousy brown hair, who wore decorative pauldrons formed from two human skulls. Slowly she seized control of the girl’s muscles, using the routine formed by loading magazines to disguise her efforts, making the girl think her actions were her own. Once she had enough influence to control the girl’s facial features, Amelia dropped her hand to the ground, reaching for her needle pistol whilst suppressing the flash of fear emanating from the girl’s mind. She quickly drew up the pistol, keeping them movement as discreet as possible while using muscle memory to disengage the safety and fire in one fluid motion. A silent, invisible beam burned through the skull-shaped mask of the cultist opposite in an instant, propelling a delicate needle of crystallised toxin into her skull, where it dissolved amidst the brain fluid. In an instant, Amelia had done the same to another cultist, and she felt despair radiating from her puppet. These are sisters, Amelia realised with a start. She had just forced this girl to kill two of her older siblings.

That moment’s hesitation gave the third sister time to realise something was wrong and she leapt atop Amelia’s puppet, pinning her to the ground even as the other two slumped to the floor, the toxins having scrambled their brains. Sergeant Flavius and his men took this as their signal, storming into the clearing before eviscerating the remaining cultists with lasbeams and bolt shells. The Arbites swept throughout the space, securing it as if they were on a narcotic bust, before hunkering down at the alley’s entrances, keeping their bolters pointed downrange towards their foes. As each runner came into the clearing looking for ammunition, they were seized by waiting arbitrators and summarily executed by the two stormtroopers.

Amelia sat atop a crate of ammo, surveying her handiwork. The eyes of the girl she had puppeted stared up at her, accusing even in death, and she considered reaching down to close them before dismissing the thought. After what felt like an eternity, the first of the Cazadores detachment arrived, and were directed to the enemy lines. Amelia watched in silence as the men hurried by, before her attention was again drawn to the ziggurat. It seemed as if the structure was visible from any point in the camp, and Amelia couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease as she looked at it, similar to the unnatural wrongness that came from those Imperial servants who had preserved their own life through Juventat treatments, but magnified a thousandfold. There was something ancient in that building.

Across the length of their defensive line, the members of the Warrior Lodge found themselves surrounded. PDF kill teams firing lasguns with professional detachment as they watched the enemy throw themselves into their fire found themselves raked from behind by bullets, the force of the impact on their flack armour winding them, before successive rounds drove the armour apart. Soldiers from a dozen noble houses found themselves faced by enemies on both sides and with no ammunition left to use. Death cultists, caught unawares and under the cold light of day found their lithe black bodysuits merely made them an easier target whilst their slow needle pistols were outmatched by force of numbers. The sound of cheering rang out up and down the line as the advance companies met with the battered remains of the rest of their companion, their losses temporarily forgotten as they celebrated this small victory. On the other side of the flank, men who had been unable to gain any ground found their way suddenly cleared as the enemy pulled back to positions closer to the ziggurat.

The 43rd began their uneasy advance through the camp, men pacing forward slowly in an extended line that covered the length of the entire camp. Men checked each building as they passed it. Every now and then startled shots would ring out as the teams ran into a nest of cultists laying in ambush only to be replaced by the crackling of flames as the zealots were burned out of their holes, either dying in flames or to the shots of encircling troops. Inch by painstaking inch the Cazadores advanced until they were standing almost in the shadow of the ziggurat. Weary men looked to each other for support, preparing for one last push that would see them to victory.

Amelia advanced with the regimental headquarters, Colonel Forjaz engulfed in radio communications to her right, and stared up at the ziggurat before her. The aged mind had not faded, indeed it seemed as if it was stronger now than before. Suddenly, the sharp crack of bolt rounds snapped her out of her fugue, and she saw the Colonel’s face pale as panicked reports reached his ears. Amelia caught snippets from the air, ‘it’s a monster…’ ‘we can’t hold…’ ‘Emperor forsaken us…’ ‘Astartes!’ That last word was shouted from the lips of the communications officer, who looked about ready to die.

Colonel Forjaz and the rest of the staff looked as if they were about to turn tail and run at the revelation. The man stood stock still whilst dozens of Officers pleaded with him for order, for directions, for anything. Amelia reached out with her mind to cool his flaring emotions, restoring his frayed nerves and trying to bring back the hardened professional who had brought them this far, who had taken his regiment from nothing and turned them into a first-rate fighting force. She silenced the braying officers and willed them to take a step back, giving the Colonel the space, he needed to plan.

It took him a few seconds before he turned to face the expectant crowd. His countenance was ashen, but there was determination in his eyes.

‘Fourth company is to continue engaging the Astartes, they are to buy us as much time as they can. All other companies are to dispatch their melta teams to the location of first company, second battalion. Mamzel, I request that you lead first company against the foe, use your abilities to get the melta teams as close as you can and we may still stand a chance against this thing.’

It was a dangerous plan, Amelai thought, a deadly one. Fourth company were dead already, there was no way they could face an Astartes, and everyone there knew more companies would have to be sent to keep holding the monster. Amelia was afraid. Warp, she was terrified. The Astartes were death incarnate, everyone knew that. Still, she had not come this far only to fail now, and the concentrated melta fire of the entire regiment might just be enough to do it. Amelia shook the Colonel’s hand, before marching off to face the angel of death,

Screams filled the air as Amelia advanced, mixed in with the sharp cracks of rifle fire and the meaty bursting of bolt rounds in flesh. Before her marched twelve men carrying melta guns, slowly pacing forward in an extended line, while another twelve followed in her wake. The men were terrified, and Amelia had to constantly work to keep them from running away. It was far subtler than the puppetry she had used on the cultist, but the right balance of emotions can turn fear into grim determination, and warp faint hope into courage. These men would not run before they met the enemy, though what happens in combat is another matter entirely.

The sounds of battle grew into a cacophony until Sergeant Flavius, who lead their column, dropped onto one knee and signalled to the to do the same. Amelia dashed forwards as quietly as she could, before kneeling beside her sworn soldier.

‘It’s around this corner, don’t think it saw me. That monster is chewing through our men, doesn’t look like fourth company’s had any effect.’

Amelia nodded before beckoning over Corporal Al’Said, who ran with a silence and grace that seemed impossible for someone so heavily armoured.

‘Corporal, stay here with the reserves and half the Arbites, the remainder will come with me out into the open. It’s the same trick we’ve pulled before, I’ll blind him then we strike. Understood?’

The pair nodded their mute acceptance before moving off to their posts. Amelia reached out to the Marine’s senses and blocked them from his vision. Soon a terrified line of troopers walked out into the square that lay before the ziggurat, and Amelia saw her foe for the first time. The titanic figure stood at the centre of the square whilst innumerable rounds pinged off his armour. He cut an almost contemptuous figure; he knew that his foes pathetic arsenal couldn’t harm him and so he stood with no regard for cover, pausing to send the occasional lazy brace of shells from a colossal heavy bolter. Each volley tore through the surrounding structures and thin red mists flowed out of the holes from where his shells burst within flesh. Each volley was matched by screams, or merely meaty thuds as his rounds met their targets. Not a single round missed.

The meltas moved closer, limited by the range of their weapon, and soon they could clearly see the monster’s armour. His rust red plate was a pale mockery of the armour that adorned statues across the Imperium, angular where it was smooth and inlaid with silver symbols that hurt the eyes to look at. An eight-pointed star surrounding a human skull on his chest piece, another on his left pauldron whilst his right bore a demonic visage in black metal, surrounded by flames set in polished gold. His helmet bore the likeness of an ancient warrior, raised pieces of metal creating the impression of a Corinthian helm like those worn on the Aegean colony worlds. Two horns of animal bone framed the helmet, curving down to end just below the chin.

Amelia felt the ground rush towards her as Sergeant Flavius knocked her aside, the two of them ending up on the ground just in time to see the monster turn with a grace that belied his enormous size, raking their line with bolt rounds that detonated in and amongst the melta operators. One round carried on through the torso to strike at the backpack that held the weapon’s fluid. Six men were engulfed in an explosion of atomic fire and the flames played over Amelia, shielded by Flavius who had fallen on top of her. Some men managed to fire off a few scant bursts of flame, and these streams played briefly across the marine’s armour before dying with their wielder. The armour glowed where it had been hit, but the weapons only seemed to cause damage to the joints of the armour, molten metal fusing them together. Amelia lay helpless with Flavius on top of her, the glowing eyes of his helmet meeting her own, as if willing her to silence.

Amelia began to feel warm liquid seeping past the gaps in her breastplate and began to look into Flavius’ eyes with horror. She could feel him dying, centimetres away from her, she could feel the agony of the bolt round that had pierced his armour and detonated within, she felt the blood leave his body through the entry wound even before it pooled onto her, she felt the searing pain from the atomic fire that had engulfed his back even as it fused his spine together. She could even feel each individual synapse in his brain fade as the flow of blood was cut. She looked away, and stared at the monster as he tried to wipe molten metal from his visor like it was rainwater, before giving up and unclasping his helm.

She had been expecting his face to be a rictus of rage and perverse bloodlust, she wanted something to explain the sick thrill with which he seemed to cut apart her men, which had killed the only person in the Inquisition she had once viewed as a friend. Instead his face was utterly emotionless, holding an air of professional detachment that matched the emotions she had seen in Flavius beneath the precinct. Only the eight-pointed star carved into his forehead divided them.

Sanctioned Psykers must always balance their emotions, to keep them from succumbing to demonic influence or losing control of their powers. This is often achieved through the use of a limiter that keeps the brain from experiencing emotion above a certain level. Since her promotion, Amelia had relished the feeling of feeling by keeping the limiter off. It meant the only barrier to her emotions was herself, but she believed that she was capable of fending it off. Now, however, she gave in to the niggling voices that had been crying out at her, all her fear, all her sorrow and all her rage.

Blue balefire burned around her as she glared at the monstrous marine. She leapt into his mind, his ageless and foreign nature only increasing her rage, and the amount of power she drew from the warp. She seized control of his spine in a titanic battle that, to the untrained eye, would have resembled some fit or seizure. Eventually, she won the battle and overcame the arcane blocks implemented during the marine’s creation, leaving him standing stock still amidst the burned wreckage of the raptor’s nest.

Corporal Al’Said and the remaining melta teams rushed out, bathing the marine in pillars of fire. It was too slow, Amelia’s thoughts came distantly as if through a great haze, they were burning her alive. She drew the marine’s immense combat knife from where it lay sheathed on his belt, reversed the blade, and drew it inwards into her skull.

Automated safeties nestled amidst Amelia’s psychic hood kicked in, injecting her with paralytics and slowly disabling her higher brain functions. Amelia slipped backwards and fell into a deep sleep, soaked in someone else’s blood.