"As I live and breathe, you will not hurt these people. Whatever taint of chaos you think you discern upon them, the murder in your heart is darker still."

An unnatural mist hung heavily over the Illycian alps as the survivors of Claymore Platoon slowly made their way down the winding paths of the white crested mountains. Visibility had been almost nonexistent, rendering their progress slow and painful as the nearly twenty kilted guardsmen of the 189th Illycian Highland Rifles marched alongside a rumbling, heavily damaged Leman Russ tank.

At the head of the formation, four mighty Astartes warriors, plated in charcoal grey ceramite and blackened helmets, led the way, acting as a vanguard for the bloodied detachment. Despite their fearsome and battle-torn appearance, they were singing, their deep resonating voices carrying the battle-hymnals of their chapter through the fog and into the valleys below. The guardsmen followed the Emperor’s Angels in high spirits, singing merrily along as best they could while two pipers followed the tune on bagpipes.

“Bravely sung, lads!” declared Ulther approvingly when the song finished. He was the largest of the four, towering over even his fellow Astartes. In one hand he carried a Requiem pattern heavy bolter and with the other he dragged a monstrous corpse behind him. The body might have once been human, but the corruption of chaos had riddled it so badly that its original appearance was no longer clearly apparent. “What do you think, Oswain?” the giant continued. “I’d wager we could find more than a few worthy chapter-serfs from these hardy highlanders. They have a spirit which outshines that of many of their kin.”

“Aye, lairds! If you’r lookin’ fer truen fighters, ye came to the right rock!” yelled out a young private walking alongside the tank. “The lads o’ Dundrie will put the boot to any shitelicker your worthy lairdships point us towar’!” His companions laughed boisterously, shouting the battle cries of their glens in approval.

“Their spirits are indeed high,” agreed Percivien. “And remarkably so. To have stood with us and not faltered at the sight of the sorcerer is no easy feat for mortals.”

“It is easy enough when the captain nearly cuts the bastard in half in a single blow,” chuckled Ulther.

“Enough,” ordered the captain sternly, the cerulean eyes of his winged helm glowing in the gloom. Draped across his shoulders was a heavy fur cloak and hanging from his artificer armor was a white tabard heavily embroidered with iconography of the First Legion. A large, red hooded angel was inlaid into his chest-piece under which a banner read in High Gothic, CYNAULT. This ornate plate heavily contrasted with the more humble armor and red tabards of his companions, befitting his position as a Knight-Captain of the Grey Seraphs. “Our honor is found in duty done, not in any vain boasting.”

“Walk humbly lest your pride blind you to your doom,” added Percivien, quoting from the chapter’s Oath of Duty.

“Of course, Knight-Captain,” replied Ulther humbly. “Still, it was a mighty blow. It is a shame that the younger Intercessors of Third Company were not here to witness it and learn from your example.”

Cynault interrupted him, suddenly holding his closed fist high. Both the Astartes and the guardsmen stopped immediately, hands ready upon weapons. “Oswain, is something wrong?” the captain asked, the readout in his visor alerting him. “Your heart-rate is elevated and your breathing is erratic.”

“It is nothing, Knight-Captain,” responded the Ancient in measured breath. He was carefully carrying a gilded case by a chain which flickered unnaturally, seemingly phasing between the corporeal world and the ethereal. “The pull of chaos is thick around this thing and it is weighing heavily upon my soul.”

“Brother, you should have spoken sooner,” said the Knight-Captain. “Come, Percivien. We shall bear this burden together and warm our hearts in the knowledge that this accursed thing will be destroyed soon.”

The two Seraphs stood on either side of their struggling battle-brother and laid their hands upon him. Covered by his companions, Oswain’s breathing steadied and his fiery demeanor returned as the squad continued on their way in fresh song.

The troop trudged along for nearly another hour before the fog finally began to lift and the immense fortified bastions of the Illycians came into view below.

“Laird, the vox is clearing!” barked the guardsmen sitting within the turret of the tank.

“Thank you, sergeant,” said Cynault before engaging his own vox unit. “Lieutenant Everard, do you read me?”

There was a pause and then a crackling. “Knight-Captain, it is good to hear your voice. We were beginning to fear the worst.”

“The Emperor protects. Our mission was successful and the sorcerer has been slain, but our transport was destroyed and this profane fog has been jamming our auspex and communication. We are nearing the Illycian’s forward base. Status report.”

“Our chevauchee has shattered the enemy line,” replied Everard after a pause. “The Illycian Guard have followed us through the breach and the traitors are in disarray. Paladin Baliér has just leveled the last of the anti-air batteries and we have secured the beachhead for the rest of Third Company to make landfall as soon as they arrive in-system.”

“Well done,” exclaimed the captain. “This world will be redeemed yet. Have a Thunderhawk pick us up. We will rendezvous with you as soon as we dispose of this sorcerous relic.”

“It will be done.” There was a slight pause. “Knight-Captain, you should know that the Templars have started to withdraw from the southern continents and are mobilizing off world. They have not made us privy to their strategy, but it is unusual for them to pull back whilst the battle still rages.”

“They may be needed elsewhere. The resources of their crusade have been stretched thin.” reasoned Cynault. “Thank you, Lieutenant. We will see you soon.”

“Of course, Knight-Captain. The Emperor protects.” 

“Why are the Templars pulling away before final victory has been secured?” asked Percivien. “Though the enemy has been decapitated, we should not assume victory until it is at hand.”

“They doubtlessly are ashamed that it was our blades to take down this bastard and not their own," chuckled Ulther, still dragging the stinking corpse. “Now that the hardest work is finished, there is no longer enough glory here for them to win.”

“Our cousins’ affairs are not our concern,” said Cynault. “Our vow is to deliver these people from this darkness. We will do so whether the crusade stays or leaves.”

“Bah, let them go. All the more honor for us, Knight-Captain,” Ulther said. “And all the better. By my count, Oswain is still half a dozen kills behind me. I would be sorely loath if he did not have a chance to even the score.”

Oswain was about to respond to this lighthearted provocation when the scream of a Thunderhawk’s engines could be heard overheard. Slowing to a hover, it gracefully landed in a nearby clearing. Instead of bearing the heraldic white lion of the Seraphs, it was emblazoned with the cross of the Black Templars and the red and yellow shield of the Cepyrion Crusade. 

The Seraphs halted the detachment as the cargo ramp of the Thunderhawk lowered. A dozen Sword-Brethren filed out of the ship followed by a Chaplain and the commander of the crusade himself, Marshal Siegfried Kurtz. The marshal and his household all wore master-crafted black plate which emphasized their status as the elite leadership of the crusade. The gouges and scrapes in the ceramite along with the fresh blood that stained their beige tabards showed that, despite their status, they were more than willing to throw themselves into the worst of the battlefield.

Cynault and his command squad saluted Kurtz as he strode towards them, flanked by his fearsome retinue.

“Marshal, to what do we owe the pleasure?” asked Cynault, his mind instinctively gauging the threat of these fearsome warriors and calculating potential battle plans should the meeting come to blows.

Kurtz did not answer. One of his Sword-Brethren turned to the guardsmen waiting nearby. “This does not concern you.” he barked. “Continue on your way or we will slaughter you where you stand.”

Several of the guardsmen cried out in horror at this unprovoked threat. “Laird?” asked the sergeant, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his lasgun.

“It is alright, sergeant,” Cynault reassured the mortals. “Continue onward without us. Please inform your colonel that the rest of my company is arriving with our Grandmaster soon. We will need to waste no time in coordinating our strikes as soon as they arrive.”

“O’ course, laird. The Emperor protects,” replied the sergeant warily, eying the Templars before saluting Cynault. “Claymore Platoon, we’re movin’!”  

The tank’s engines roared, spilling exhaust into the clearing as the guardsmen continued down the rocky path. “That was discourteous, Kurtz,” said Cynault after they disappeared. “These people have bled alongside us and do not deserve to be treated with such contempt.”

“Spare me,” spat the marshal. “This world stinks of corruption and they allowed it to happen.”

“This world would have already fallen without their efforts,” Cynault reminded him.

“There are no innocents here,” said Kurtz, unrelenting. “But I am not here to debate. Brother Gestolt?”

The Marshal’s Chaplain stepped forward, the red eyes of his skull helmet glowing menacingly as he flourished his Crozius Arcanum. “The Emperor has blessed your enterprise. The traitorous sorcerer is dead. We will now be taking the body and its relic from here.”

“By what authority?” said Ulther, letting go of the corpse and resting his hand atop the grip of his bolter. Both the Templars and the other Seraphs followed suit.

“My companion is right,” added Cynault, motioning to Ulther to stand down. “This world is under the protection of the Lion. You have no authority here, Templar.”

“By the authority of the Cepyrion Crusade and of that of our blessed Reclusiarch,” continued the Chaplain, his voice swelling as if he were preaching a battle sermon to a batch of neophytes. “It is only by the treachery of the natives and the damnable secrecy of your forebearers that you found the sorcerer before we did. I do not trust the motives of the Dark Angels and I do not trust that you yourselves are not under the influence of heresy. We, the Emperor’s Faithful, will not only ensure the safekeeping of the items in question, but also your own salvation.”

“Spare me your dogmas, Chaplain, and do not dare question my zeal,” retorted Cynault. “Every inch that we have reclaimed of this world has been done so in blood and these are the spoils of our victory, not yours. You shall not have them.”

“This is not a request, captain,” replied Kurtz, drawing his sword from its scabbard. “I am the Emperor’s wrath and when I smell heresy, I am immovable. You will prove your faithfulness by handing over the relic or we will kill each of you where you stand.”

“You would try,” growled Cynault, his hand instinctively on the sharpened hilt of his blade. He paused, giving his cooler nature a moment to catch up.  “Your accusations are baseless and vile. The safety of Illythia is our responsibility and we were well within our authority to wage war as we see fit without your blessing. If you did not treat these people with such contempt, they might have shared their intelligence with you as well.”

“Our armor is contempt, Captain,” replied the Chaplain, his voice dripping in derision. “Your own words betray you as one under the taint of heresy.”

“Chaplain, you have already lied twice,” said Percivien as he unslung his own power-sword. “If you dare do it a third time, I shall take your head from your shoulders.”

The Sword-Brethren bristled at this threat, readying their weapons. Not intimidated, Ulther pulled up his bolter and Oswain his plasma pistol, both ready to unleash a torrent of fury against the greater numbers of the Templars.

“Stand down,” Cynault ordered again, taking a step between the two sides. “Cousins, you have maligned us more than once, but we are all servants of the Emperor. Our vow is to liberate this world and I do not care who earns the credit as long as it is done. As a show of good will, I will relinquish the relic over to you for destruction, but we will be taking the corpse with us. I have direct orders from the Angelicasta to deliver the sorcerer to them dead or alive. If those terms are unacceptable in your eyes, we can all fight and die here today.”

Everyone was quiet for a moment, fingers impatiently tapping trigger guards and sword handles. Kurtz carefully studied Cynault who stood stoically and immovably before him.

“Very well, captain. These terms are acceptable.”

Cynault motioned to Oswain, who walked the relic over to the Marshal. Kurtz grabbed the chain handle greedily and Oswain exhaled as the weight of the relic’s darkness left him. If the Templar felt that same burden, he made no sign of it. After a moment, Kurtz passed it to Gestolt who triumphantly placed it upon an ornate tray held aloft by the dead-eyed servitors which accompanied him.

“That will be all,” said Kurtz dismissively, his fluttering gaze continuously returning to the relic. “The crusade is needed elsewhere and we are leaving.” 

Cynault, now irritated and eager to return to the battle, held two fingers up and circled them in the air, signaling to his squad that they too were leaving. 

“However…” Kurtz suddenly interrupted. “It shall not be said that I left a world… even one of so little value… in the clutches of the enemy. I am declaring Exterminatus. You have two hours to withdraw from the surface before we commence orbital bombardment. This is your only warning.”

“You do not have the authority to make such a proclamation,” replied Cynault sternly, stopping in his tracks. “There are hundreds of thousands of loyal subjects still fighting on this world.” 

“By the authority of the Crusade, Captain,” snickered the Chaplain menacingly.

“This world is under the Lion’s protection, not the crusade’s,” Cynault growled. “You will not damn these innocent souls while hope still breathes.”

“There are no innocents here,” said Kurtz again, his eyes widening in rage. “My very steps are the tolling of death bells and I extinguish hope wherever I tread. But I also come with the Emperor’s salvation, not his damnation, and I shall grant these dogs the salvation of fire.”

"As I live and breathe, you will not hurt these people,” Cynault said, staring down the Marshal. “Whatever taint of chaos you think you discern upon them, the murder in your heart is darker still. For all your supposed fanaticism to the Emperor, I see in your eyes the bloodthirst of the Archenemy."

“You dare accuse me of heresy, traitor?” bellowed Kurtz, brandishing his sword.

“He has sealed his fate, Marshal,” said the Chaplain emphatically. “They are puppets of the enemy.”

“Enough lies!” roared the Seraph captain. “I, Cynault de Velan, Knight-Captain of the Seraphim Indominate and faithful servant of the Lion, defy you and invoke trial by combat for the fate of Illythia. If I am victorious, your fleets withdraw from this place. If I am slain, my knights will leave this world to its fate. Let the righteous in heart prevail.”

“The Emperor stands with us!” proclaimed the Chaplain. “Take the traitor’s head and let his corpse be hung as a warning to any who would defy his will.” 

“I shall not sully my blade with your ignoble blood, but your challenge is acceptable,” Kurtz sneered. “Brother Siegren, bring me his head.”

“Happily, milord,” said the Sword-Brother who had threatened the guardsmen earlier. His lightning claws began to overcharge, causing them to arc to and fro about him.

“Spoken like the coward you are,” snarled Cynault, his grey eyes aflame and his characteristic stoicism gone. “Ready yourself, Templar.” 

The two warriors approached betwixt the two groups and circled each other like two ancient knights of Terra, each carefully stepping as they sized the other up. Cynault flourished his shimmering blue Calibanite blade, while Siegren’s blackened iron plate glowed in the light of his crackling lightning claws.

In the blink of an eye, the Sword-Brother lunged forward, intent on skewering the Seraph in an opening gambit. Cynault stepped wide, masterfully keeping space with immaculate footwork and carefully maintaining the advantage that laid in the reach of his sword. Keeping a forward guard, he gracefully parried the Templar’s flurry of savage thrusts before forcefully spinning the blade up into a cut.

Siegren dodged the blow by a hair’s breadth. The Seraph’s power sword glinted as it missed his faceplate, having only accomplished slicing the Templar’s tabard. Cynault allowed his opponent no reprieve however and fell upon Siegren instantly, his sword coming down in a torrent of blows, some from the left and then others from the right only to be pulled back for a mighty thrust. 

The Knight-Captain attacked with a ferocity which would have overwhelmed all but the most stalwart of warriors, but the Templar was a master duelist in his own right. He patiently parried and blocked each strike, using both of his claws expertly to prevent the Seraph from achieving any significant hits. He was not defensively minded however and, with every deflection, he inched closer and closer to his opponent.

Cynault, realizing that his foe was now too close, leaped backward to make space. Siegren was ready though and stayed on top of him. He closed the gap in a bound with one claw up to guard his face and the other low ready to strike as soon as he was inside the Seraph’s pocket. 

Without thought, the knight-captain powered his sword off mid-spin. Grabbing the now dull colored metal with his off-hand, he punched the flat of the blade into the Sword-Brother’s upraised gauntlet with such violent force that Siegren’s arm snapped back with a crack. This was not enough to stop the forward momentum however and the Templar punched his lowered claws forward. Cynault instantly powered the sword on again and spun it to parry the blow, but he was too slow. The Templar’s gauntlet rocketed forward, its blades piercing Cynault’s side. 

The pain was immeasurable and the force enough to take his breath, but Cynault’s focus remained hyper-fixated on the fight. Siegren tried to pull back the claw to strike again, but Cynault seized his gauntlet, keeping the blades in place. With his other arm, he wheeled up his sword’s hilt to bring down upon the Templar’s unprotected face. Siegren, struggling against the knight’s iron grip, attempted to catch the blow with his injured arm. For any normal opponent, it would have been more than fast enough, but the augmented speed of the Seraph was too much. 

The spiked pommel came down with thunderous violence, smashing in the Templar’s face. Cynault did not wait to see if the hit was effective, but rained down half a dozen strikes as skull fragments and brain matter spattered outward before he felt Siegren’s strength finally begin to falter. 

Exploding backwards, Cynault broke with the Templar, pulling free from the blades with a cry of agony. Paying no attention to the wound however, he raised his sword, bringing down a massive cut upon the injured Astartes and cleaving deep through ceramite plate and flesh. Siegren collapsed to the ground under the sheer weight of the blow. 

“Suffer not… the unclean to live…” he gurgled. Blood pooled under him and he collapsed dead. Cynault wrenched his sword loose before stumbling back himself, cradling his wound with his offhand while propping himself up with his blade. 

The Templars cried out in anger as the Seraphs let out a jubilant shout. The Chaplain rushed forward, brandishing his Crozius as he knelt over his fallen comrade. “Treachery!” he yelled, pointing the staff at Cynault. “Brother Siegren was amongst our most skilled and faithful! He could not have fallen unless you were abetted by the Ruinous Powers!”

“Lies!” bellowed Ulther. Percivien said nothing, but walked forward. In one lightning stroke, he decapitated the Chaplain where he stood, his armored body slumping over that of Siegren. Ulther and Oswain trained their bolters on the remaining Templars who levelled their own weapons.

“I told him I would take his head if he lied again,” said Percivien matter-of-factly, spinning his blade in a flourish while calculating who would be his next target.

Cynault labored to breathe as he stood straight, looking towards Kurtz. “I expect you to honor your word and withdraw from this world immediately.”

“Withdraw?” thundered Kurtz. “I shall burn this world with your corpses upon it!” He raised his blade to utter the command to fight. 

Before anyone could react, there was a brilliant flash as a dozen Terminators materialized about them. At their head stood the massive figure of Seviené Bors, the Chapter Master of the Grey Seraphs. 

Such was the respect that Oswain, Percivien, and Ulther had for their Grandmaster that they immediately bowed low despite the looming danger. “Milord,” greeted Cynault, struggling to take a knee. The Templars stood unsure, their fingers still on their triggers.

One of the Seraph Terminators, bearing the chapter’s war-banner, barked, “You are blessed to stand before Grandmaster Seviené Bors, Chapter Master of the Seraphim Indominate, Deathwing Knight-Master of the Dark Angels, Boon-Companion of Roboute Guilliman, Duke of the feudal world Carleon, and the most humble servant of the Lion!”

“On your knees, dogs!” roared another, his stormbolter at the ready. “Do you not know how to show respect to one so anointed?”

Kurtz looked around, calculating the odds of the fight. Recognizing the danger, he motioned for his retinue to take a knee. He remained standing.

“What’s this all about, Knight-Captain?” asked the Grandmaster, surveying the scene before him. He carried an ancient Terranic Greatsword and was arrayed in heavily modified Deathwing plate which incorporated a number of ancient Calibanite relics. This fearsome visage gave him an appearance which bore more resemblance to the Dark Angels of the Thirtieth Millennium than to those of the Fortieth. “We received a transmission from an Illythian Colonel upon entering realspace that there was violence between our two chapters. Explain to me how this is possible while the enemies of humanity still draw breath upon this world.”

“Grandmaster,” started Cynault, still bearing his weight upon his sword. “Our cousins were of the opinion that Illythia was beyond redemption and were determined to enact Exterminatus despite our objections. As you can see, we have had fierce debate over the subject, although I believe the Marshal was about to agree that I had the stronger argument.”

“Is this true, Marshal?” asked the Grandmaster, his eyes narrowing. “Were you going to destroy a world under my authority without first consulting me?”

The Marshal stood proudly. “I would burn a thousand worlds along with the entirety of your chapter to stamp out the stench of heresy!”

The Grandmaster walked over to Cynault, helping him stand straight. “Marshal, your zeal is noted. You may leave. Henceforth, both you and the Cepyrion Crusade are banned from this sector, or any that are under the protection of our exalted Primarch, Lion El’Johnson.”

Kurtz eyes shot wide at this insult. “This is not over!” he spat, shaking in rage.

“As you say, cousin,” replied the Grandmaster cooly. “You may leave the relic as well.”

The Marshal’s eyes shot to and fro, looking for a weakness in the Seraph detachment to exploit, but the hulking masses of looming Terminators dissuaded him of the notion. In one fell swoop, he cut the two mindless servitors carrying the relic in half before turning and leaving without a word. The relic fell from its tray to the ground, still pulsating. The remaining Sword-Brothers carefully and respectfully picked up the bodies of their fallen comrades before following their commander to the Thunderhawk.

“Destroy that filthy thing,” sternly ordered the Grandmaster to his attendant before switching to his vox. “Shipmaster.” 

“Yes, milord.” 

“A Templar Thunderhawk is departing from my position. Train your weapons upon it and shoot it from the sky. Immediately bring The Triumph of Reclamation into fire patterns with their battle-barge and patch me through to them.”

Cynault, now braced against the ground as an apothecary worked diligently on his wounds, looked upwards in dismay at this order. An orbital slug tore through the atmosphere, opening circular clearings through the clouds before impacting the gunship. The devastation was immediate, the Thunderhawk ripping in half and its fiery debris falling from the sky.

“Black Templars,” the Grandmaster said over the vox. “This is Grandmaster Seviené Bors of the Seraphim Indominate. Your marshal has dishonored both himself and your crusade. He and his retinue have paid for this breach in judgement with their lives. You have an hour to withdraw the rest of your battle-brothers from the surface and leave this world. Your crusade is forthwith banned from this sector. Failure to comply immediately or any subsequent acts of aggression will be met with the wholesale destruction of your barge and the execution of all survivors.”

Cynault pushed the apothecary off of him and struggled up. Ulther grabbed his arm, helping him upright to his knee. “Lord?” Cynault asked.

The Grandmaster turned, looking intently at him. “Leave us,” he ordered to those around them. Cynault’s squad bowed and took their leave.

“Speak your mind, Knight-Captain,” answered the Grandmaster.

“Lord… where was the honor in that action?”

“Do you question my judgement? Or would you have preferred me take after your example and give him the honor of a duel?” The veteran of a hundred wars eyed him grimly. “No, his life was forfeit the moment he broke his word. The Templars have always erred on the side of overzealousy, but I will not tolerate duplicitousness.”

“But to shoot down him down in cold blood?” said Cynault. “Does not a servant of the Imperium, even one so erring, deserve a better death?”

“Young captain, I treasure the valor that burns in your heart, but you saw his eyes. He had already made the decision to retaliate the moment the advantage was on his side again. Many truer servants of the Imperium would have perished before nightfall, all while our true enemy remains undealt with. I will not risk the lives of my knights, the people of this world, or even his own Templars to satisfy the marshal’s wounded pride.”

Cynault did not answer, but watched the smoke rise from the debris of the Thunderhawk on a distant peak.

“Captain?” asked the Grandmaster after a moment of silence. “What is honor?”

Cynault did not hesitate. “Honor is found in duty done.”

“I would have answered the same in my youth,” chuckled the Grandmaster. “I heard those words uttered so many times as a neophyte that they played incessantly in my sleep for centuries. But that is only a facet of the greater whole. Honor is the manifestation of the virtues which abide in your heart. It was the righteousness in your heart to stand in the gap for the faithful of this world, your honor. It was in the Marshal’s heart to purge them in cold blood to spite you. That was the darkness which abode in his heart, his dishonor.”

“Would it not have been more virtuous to have dealt with his dishonor head-on?

“Is it virtue to enable your enemy? Captain, we live in perilous times. The Archenemy schemes in darkness as the xenos threat grows bold and, all the while, humanity fights with itself. The people under our authority rely on us solely for protection. If we fail them because we acted “honorably” to our enemies, have we truly acted honorably unto them? Or have we just sated our vain pride? Men of war often mistake the honor of their character for the vainglory of battle. Do not err with them.”

“You speak wisdom,” said Cynault after a pause. “Though I fear that my actions today have started a war.”

“You worry about retaking this world, Captain,” said the Grandmaster. “I will take care of the Templars. The High Marshal is zealous, but he knows who the true enemy is and does not benefit from an unnecessary war with the sons of the Lion. I will dispatch an envoy with both our sincere apologies over this most unfortunate misunderstanding and an artifact from the Reliquarius. The opportunity to save face is all he truly needs.”

Cynault struggled to his feet, though the apothecary’s work and his own resilient physiology were allowing him to move more easily now. “Thank you, Grandmaster,” he said, bowing. “Sincerely.”

Grandmaster Bors nodded. “You are most welcome. Now, come. I am told there is still a traitor stronghold left on this peninsula. Will you join me in taking it or is a slain sorcerer and a victorious duel all that a Knight-Captain of the Seraphim Indominate can manage in a single day?”

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