Aboard the Iron Indomitable, the Emperor reverted to his normal appearance while Perturabo compressed his own frame back down.
The Emperor was drinking from an enormous cup of coriander-spring-onion-intestine bubble tea in great gulps, and between swallows was using chopsticks to work through a piece of Oreo-strawberry-braised Grox steak.
In front of him sat a bowl of tomato-curry-ketchup-dragon-fruit stir-fried pasta. To the side waited his post-meal dessert: spicy-pineapple-jackfruit-olive ice cream.
"And bring me two more servings of kiwi-celery-orange stir-fried dark-chocolate goose liver. This is my favourite — move it."
Ferrix passed the order along in a state of considerable anxiety. The Emperor had simply appeared on the Iron Indomitable alongside his father, and the Fourth Legion — which had always believed its concealment was solid — had gone into immediate internal crisis.
Several of the Warsmiths had been very quietly considering whether to attempt a capture right then and there. Other Warsmiths had talked them down with considerable effort.
Then Perturabo had said there was nothing to worry about — the Emperor had known for some time and simply hadn't cared to intervene — and the general tension finally subsided.
"Why are you here? Shouldn't you be working on your Webway, or leading your fleet in the Great Crusade?"
Perturabo took a bite of his coconut-taro-pomegranate stir-fried pork liver and asked.
"The Great Crusade is finding its momentum. Your brothers are gradually being located and returned. In time, I intend to step back from direct command of the Crusade and leave it in your hands."
The Emperor spoke between bites.
"Isn't that a little premature? The Crusade has barely started, and you're already thinking about putting your feet up?"
"I don't need to explain to you how important the Webway is. Chaos has never stopped watching humanity — this is a matter of survival. And you know better than anyone how unstable the Warp lanes are. With you overseeing the Fourth Legion, things are stable. The Administratum cannot say the same."
"Every transit through the Warp costs us ships and materiel — the loss ratios, you know them. If that problem isn't resolved, the Imperium will bleed dry regardless of how many resources it has."
He attacked a garlic-roasted salted preserved egg with considerable force, and the Emperor launched into his grievances — the Administratum, those idiots, endlessly scheming and jockeying for position.
All his old companions had abandoned him without a shred of loyalty — especially that insufferable Ollanius. Even left a knife in his back on the way out.
And that fool the Eldar — don't even start—
Then the Great Crusade itself, and the xenos with their atrocities, and the pocket empire humans who defied all reason—
When the conversation turned to the Primarchs he became even more voluble. Every single one of them was a headache.
The Thirteenth especially — aggressively ambitious, conquering world after world, refusing to let the Administratum touch anything in his domains, openly bribing Imperial officials to go and govern Ultramar instead — he wasn't even pretending anymore. He was worse than Perturabo!
A natural introvert in full venting mode, and the words came in torrents.
Perturabo had been listening without much reaction — but when his name was apparently attached to the description "aggressively ambitious rebel," something in him objected.
"I'm the rebel?"
"Who upgraded the power armour marks every Astartes is currently wearing? Who invented the improved heavy tank variants? Who upgraded the Stormbirds, Thunderhawks, and fast-attack craft?"
"I improved the new Terminator and Dreadnought patterns! Every capital ship you're sitting in was remanufactured from my latest design specifications!"
"I personally upgraded and improved the Imperator Somnium for you!"
"I'm the rebel!?"
"If I hadn't been quietly feeding resources into the Imperium's logistics and maintaining the fire support chains that keep the Crusade running, Horus and the rest of them would still be piling bodies into every victory they've ever won!"
"You have the nerve to call me a rebel? Maybe you should have a serious look at your own record as Emperor — can you honestly say you bear no responsibility for the state the Imperium is currently in?"
"What responsibility do I bear!?"
"What did I do wrong? Did you fight the Unification Wars? Did you repair the Astronomican? Did you launch the Great Crusade? Did you bring the Martian cogheads to heel? Without me, none of you would amount to anything!"
"If Malcador hadn't talked me into coming out, I wouldn't have given any of you a second thought — and now you're blaming me? I think you're the one looking to rebel!"
Between them they had consumed twenty-two bottles of radiated grain spirits, and both were now somewhat past the point of dignified behaviour, conducting a full-volume mutual argument with no concern for appearances.
"I'm the rebel? Was it me who created the mess with the Thunder Warriors? Was it me who imposed ruinous taxation on those worlds? Was it me who pushed those farmers to take up farming tools and go at men in power armour?"
"And now you're having a go at me!? I think you've lost your mind entirely!"
The Emperor slammed a bottle down on the table and tipped an entire dish of peanuts into his mouth.
"What choice did I have? Did I want any of this? If I'd had any other option I wouldn't be walking this road!"
"How severe were the Thunder Warriors' deficiencies? Where was I supposed to get materiel without taxation? I'm not doing any of this for my own amusement — this is for humanity!"
"Do you have any idea how difficult it is being Emperor? And now you're coming for me?"
"Look at your fleet strength. Look at how liberally you've been deploying Resentment Intelligence. You performed surgical augmentation on your sons without reporting it to the Imperium, and quietly built up a force of hundreds of thousands of Astartes. Who do you think is going to believe you're not a rebel?"
"Even the Thirteenth knows to be discreet about it. You're more brazen — you've turned the Martian cogheads against the Imperium too. And you're claiming you're not a treasonous subject?"
The argument grew steadily louder. Both faces were flushed, spittle flying, hands grabbing at each other's collars — one step removed from coming to blows.
Ferrix and the others listening were shaking from head to foot. Their knees had inexplicably gone weak.
This was not content they were supposed to be hearing.
"Where is my avocado-Sprite-betel-nut stir-fried duck neck? Get it out here!"
"And my lamb-brain-shark-fin-blueberry-jam-toffee! Hurry up — you're all so slow. Watch yourselves, or I'll have your father send you on Decree Eleven assignment to Terra to push rubble."
"Yes, my lords."
Ferrix and the others departed in something very close to a scrambling retreat, their large frames making the undignified exit even more conspicuous.
"What level can it actually reach? Could it work on the Webway?"
The venting session concluded and both reverted to their usual composure. The Emperor asked quietly.
"I have no aptitude in that domain. Get Ferrus or Vulkan to assist you — Vulkan especially. That brother of mine was born for that kind of work."
"Not the Malefic Discipline either?"
The Emperor looked mildly surprised.
"Look at what the Architect of Fate has done with his Disciples. Does that look like something worth emulating to you?"
The Emperor couldn't quite conceal his disappointment. Perturabo had never been expected to participate in the Great Crusade in the conventional sense — and the Fourth Legion at its current scale and structure was fully self-sufficient without a Primarch at its helm. He had been hoping to bring Perturabo into the Webway project. This was not the outcome he had hoped for.
"Then push the weapons and equipment development faster. This situation was more serious than usual — the pace of the Great Crusade must accelerate."
The Emperor felt the urgency pressing. That Chaos had manipulated an opening large enough to create this crisis without him receiving any prior warning was alarming. He'd only noticed because Khorne, that brainless brute, had been making enough noise to attract his attention.
"Faster? Are you trying to have more rebellions break out across the Imperium? The whole thing is barely holding together. Keep pushing it this hard and Malcador won't be able to manage it."
"Everything for humanity's future. Some sacrifice is acceptable. Future generations will remember them."
Perturabo had been preparing a significantly stronger response, but looking at the Emperor's flat, indifferent eyes, the words left him.
"I'm going. There's a great deal to attend to in the Crusade. Get the equipment to my fleet as quickly as possible — there are several pocket empires that need to be eliminated."
"The Titan Legions I gave you last time — what enemies have you been fighting that consumed them so quickly?"
"Fight fast, consume fast. Hurry up."
"Fine."
The Emperor's figure disappeared. On the way out, he took a bowl of century-egg-coriander-houttuynia-Recaff.
"Father — is the Emperor gone?"
Ferrix and the others returned to Perturabo's side, the earlier chaos setting itself aside.
"Yes."
"We should be clear of any immediate concerns. Begin the return to Olympia. For now, avoid expanding toward the Eye of Terror — keep the Crusade pushing toward the Maelstrom and the edges of the Eastern Fringe."
"Yes."
"When we return, fresh recruits will be entering the companies. I intend to restructure the Fourth Legion. The specifics can be discussed once we're back at Olympia."
Home.
As a Terran-born Space Marine, Ferrix wasn't given to sentimentality. But when the fleet translated out of the Mandeville point and that unremarkable planet came into view, a feeling he could only call calm settled over him.
"Commander."
The logic engine spoke.
"Message from Olympia. Lady Calliphone and Lord Perturabo have prepared a welcoming banquet."
"A banquet?"
Ferrix was mildly confused. When had the Fourth Legion developed that kind of custom?
"Yes. Lady Calliphone said — to celebrate the soldiers returning from campaign."
"And Father?"
"Lord Perturabo approved."
Ferrix nodded.
"All fleets proceed to assigned berths in sequence. Notify all Warsmiths — assembly in the Iron Citadel tactical conference room in two hours."
"Yes."
In the domed palace, Calliphone was speaking with Perturabo, a warm smile on her face.
Iron Warriors and Iron Guard were landing from Stormbirds to the surface below.
"Father."
Calliphone's smile remained bright.
"Commander — I heard you personally took the head of the Ork Warlord."
"Yes, my lady."
"I imagine the students at the Olympia Academies will think quite highly of you when they hear about it."
Ferrix noticed the faint upward movement at the corner of his father's mouth. He had been about to offer a modest deflection, and decided against it.
"Your celebration banquet is prepared. Bring everyone and come celebrate together. Olympia is honoured by your deeds."
Two hours later, inside the Iron Citadel, Perturabo and all the Warsmiths had assembled.
Perturabo held the head of the table. Behind him, the holographic display showed the Fourth Legion's full, detailed organisational data.
With the integration of new recruits, the Iron Warriors now numbered two hundred and eighty-five thousand, nine hundred and twenty-two.
Fourteen Gloria Regina-class warships.
Twenty-two Star Forts.
And a considerable volume of force that could not be displayed openly.
Perturabo laid all of it out.
"This campaign — you all worked hard."
His voice was even.
The Warsmiths said nothing. Perturabo noticed this and felt a small twinge of regret. He had actually wanted his sons to talk to him — but years of exacting standards had produced sons who were largely reserved in his presence, and he had no one to blame but himself.
The Warsmiths, for their part, understood that their father had not summoned them to praise them. Legion discipline ran deep — and this assembly, all of them had attended stone-faced and ready.
"But this campaign also exposed a problem."
Perturabo moved into the substance of things.
"Thirteen primary fleets, and every time we campaign, everything goes out together — Star Forts, Gloria Reginas, capital ships, Titan Legions, armoured companies, Iron Circles, automata — all of it in one mass."
"The armoured tide and total fire coverage are undeniably effective. But this is a serious waste of our military capacity."
"Setting aside the question of efficiency for a moment — our Legion's actual capability cannot be properly expressed in this configuration."
Perturabo's gaze moved across his sons' faces.
"I am not saying you fought poorly. I am saying our current capability is more than sufficient to conduct multi-front operations simultaneously."
"Take this pocket empire we just dealt with. We did not need to commit this level of force."
"Against enemies of that calibre, we could realistically engage thirteen of them simultaneously — and achieve decisive victory in every one of those engagements."
"And yet we deployed the majority of our fleet — to punish a single ignorant human pocket empire."
Silence in the conference room.
Tolaramino's head lowered in thought. Ferrix's gaze fixed on the data on the display, brow furrowed. Dantioch's fingers tapped lightly on the table — his habit when running through rapid calculations.
Ferrix thought for a long time.
He looked up at Perturabo.
"Father — how do you propose to restructure?"
"Divide the two hundred and twenty thousand into five genuinely independent Crusade fleets."
"Each primary fleet has its own Star Forts, Gloria Reginas, capital ships, and adequate ground forces."
"Each fleet can execute independent Crusade operations and push on five axes simultaneously. We can increase our rate of conquest by at least threefold in equivalent time."
The Warsmiths all began thinking through the implications immediately.
"Father — could this cause overlap and disruption in the command structure?"
Dantioch raised the concern.
Perturabo called up a second set of data — his design for the new command architecture.
"A Supreme Command remains in place, led by Ferrix. The logic engine will synchronise all fleet data in real time, ensuring information is shared promptly."
"Each fleet commander will report to the Supreme Command on a regular cycle, but will not require approval for individual operational decisions."
"When a serious enemy requires concentrated force, Ferrix reconsolidates the Legion."
"This gives us five simultaneous axes of advance — maximum efficiency — with rapid consolidation capability when maximum force is needed."
"Father — how will fleet composition be allocated?"
Berossus asked the question every Warsmith present most wanted answered.
"Each primary fleet: one Abyssal-class battleship, three Gloria Reginas, five Star Forts, two thousand two hundred capital ships."
"Personnel counts and ground force armoured assets are allocated flexibly — each fleet can adjust according to its own operational assessment."
"From this point forward, the Legion divides into Chapter-equivalent formations. Ferrix commands the First Chapter. The remaining command assignments — you determine among yourselves."
"This is the base structure. As our territories expand and more recruits come in, each fleet can continue to grow."
"When scale warrants it again, you can subdivide your own Chapters. Warships and equipment I will handle. Your responsibilities are conquest and efficiency."
Silence in the conference room.
Every eye was on the organisational table on the display, working through the numbers.
Even divided, each of their fleets would possess a force that the Luna Wolves' primary fleet couldn't match.
"For the next month, all fleets reorganise. Ferrix coordinates the overall process. Individual fleet commanders execute the specifics."
"New recruits will complete their final training during this period and be assigned to their respective fleets."
"In one month, I expect five Crusade fleets ready to deploy."
"Yes."
The following month, Olympia entered a state of intense activity.
Restructuring a Legion was no small undertaking. That it could be accomplished in a single month was only possible because of Olympia's particular organisational character and the logic engine's coordination.
Ferrix was more or less permanently stationed on the Iron Indomitable's bridge, processing the reports coming in from the other commanders.
The other commanders had been named almost immediately after Perturabo had concluded the assembly. The Iron Warriors had one advantage no other Legion could claim — within this Legion, honour and achievement flowed from demonstrated competence. Combat ability alone was never treated as sufficient proof of command ability.
Dantioch spent this period split between the training terminals and his brothers and new recruits, working through training exercises alongside them. As the designated commander of the Fourth Fleet, he needed to personally evaluate every company captain and squad leader.
These new recruits were extremely capable in their own right — Dantioch had no intention of underestimating any of them.
"Barabbas, why make it this complicated? Just let the logic engine sort them by specialty and performance scores."
Dantioch looked at his friend.
"Performance records don't tell you everything. Potential matters just as much."
"Their scores are impressive — that doesn't mean any given individual is the right fit. I need to spend time with them, interact with them personally. Only then can I know who should lead a company and who should lead a squad."
Tolaramino didn't fully follow the reasoning, but he didn't push further. Dantioch was generally right about these things. His job was to support, not second-guess.
One month later, in Olympia's orbital docks, five enormous fleets held formation in perfect alignment, awaiting inspection.
The Star Forts were stationed outside the Olympia System itself to avoid disrupting the gravitational fields between the system's worlds.
They were about to campaign again — pushing toward the Maelstrom and the edges of the Eastern Fringe.
K-107 System. Olympia's Twenty-Second Crusade Fleet arrived.
One Emperor-class battleship. Twenty-two capital ships. Several hundred vessels of varying size — a textbook Crusade fleet.
Their hulls were marked with yellow-and-black hazard stripes, bearing Olympia's heraldry — a clean, simple helmeted profile.
Fleet Commander Virasius stood on the bridge of the flagship Iron Anvil, watching the planet on approach through the holographic display.
Confirmed: a world inhabited by Aeldari, specifically the Exodite Aeldari. The Twenty-Second Fleet's mission was to eliminate all Exodite presence on this world and convert it for Olympian use.
A routine conquest assignment. Entirely standard.
"Commander."
"Anomalous signal detected."
The logic engine spoke.
"Explain."
"Signal profile match: Drukhari."
Virasius's pupils contracted slightly.
Drukhari.
Those lunatics from Commorragh. Slavers, torturers, and raiders who treated the suffering of others as entertainment. Their fleets moved like ghosts — tactics built on deception and misdirection — combined with individual physical superiority that made them a persistent hazard in Imperial space. Every appearance in human territory meant raided populations and atrocities.
Almost universally despised — even the Craftworld Aeldari, their distant kin, regarded these indulged degenerates with visible contempt, occasionally escalating to direct confrontation.
"Location?"
"Dark side of the planet. Four warships closing on our position."
Virasius found himself mildly curious. What were the Drukhari doing at this remote world? Their kin weren't easy targets for raiding — capturing Exodites for sport would be considerably more difficult than they might expect.
But it wasn't a question that concerned him particularly. Four warships. However agile, they posed no meaningful threat to his fleet.
Virasius watched the incoming Drukhari vessels without any particular expression.
"Signal all ships — void shields to full power, weapons systems warm up, frigates advance to screen, cruisers to centre formation."
"Automata and Iron Circle units stand ready. If those Dark Eldar try to board, they don't come back."
"Once the Drukhari are dealt with, ground forces begin planetary assault. All Exodite forces eliminated within three days."
The moment the orders were transmitted, the fleet's systems came alive.
The layered void shields — their scale unexpected even to Virasius's own officers — gave the four fast-approaching Drukhari warships visible pause.
Nobody on those ships had anticipated shielding technology of this magnitude on what appeared to be an ordinary Crusade fleet.
"Fire."
Virasius's voice came through on the fleet channel.
Hundreds of Nova Cannon beams concentrated around the four Drukhari warships, covering almost every possible vector of movement.
But the Drukhari were fast — devastatingly fast. At the moment each beam was about to connect, they broke in unexpected directions, tracing jagged Z-patterns through space, evading at angles that should not have been possible.
Virasius's brow pulled together slightly.
These Dark Eldar were genuinely difficult to deal with.
"Continue fire — Nova Cannons do not stop. Electromagnetic Nova Cannons and plasma cannons prepare to salvo in concentration."
Continuous Nova Cannon fire, combined with concentrated electromagnetic cannon salvoes, finally tore one Drukhari warship apart.
The remaining three moved through the fire web like ghosts — accelerating, stopping short, rolling — dodging the Crusade fleet's fire in ways that appeared to violate basic physics.
Virasius reflected privately that the Aeldari had indeed once been among the galaxy's preeminent powers. The engineering behind those ships was genuinely impressive. No Imperial vessel could move like that — Imperial warships relied on mass, armour, and overwhelming firepower. Agility of that kind simply wasn't part of the design philosophy.
The three surviving Drukhari warships moved at speed toward the Crusade fleet.
Their intention was obvious. Boarding.
Virasius remained entirely calm.
The three Drukhari warships struck the Crusade fleet's vessels. Their prows punched into the Olympian warships' hull armour. Ramps blew open. Elite Drukhari warriors poured out — black armour, poisoned blades, dark lance pistols.
Not an ounce of unnecessary muscle on any of them. Their movements were precise and explosive. The anticipation of what they were about to do to these monkeys was already written on their faces.
They leaped, rolled, and sprinted through the ship's corridors, heading directly for the command sections.
Then they encountered the Iron Circles and automata.
Arranged in tight formations completely sealing the approach routes, heavy bolters firing without pause, sweeping the incoming Drukhari into bloody ruin before they had time to respond.
The Drukhari adapted quickly — seeking cover, attempting to use their speed and technique to find angles for a counter-attack.
One Drukhari tried to cross overhead through the ceiling space. An automaton's plasma cannon reduced them to vapour.
Dark lance beams struck Iron Circle armour, leaving shallow scorch marks. Nothing more.
The Iron Circles did not move back a single step.
Heavy bolters running continuously — anything that came within range was met immediately with a war hammer.
One Wych actually managed to position herself behind an automaton, going for the decapitation strike.
She landed it. The automaton's head was gone. The automaton continued functioning. The Wych was immediately turned to paste by the war hammer of the adjacent unit before she could take a second breath.
This was not a comparable contest. In the confined space of a warship, Aeldari speed and technical skill counted for almost nothing against Resentment Intelligence. Bolt fire and plasma taught them what fire suppression looked like. Melta demonstrated what absolute domination felt like.
This was a slaughter.
The Kabal Commander leading this incursion could not understand it. How had these unremarkable ships — bearing markings that clearly didn't belong to an Astartes Legion — eliminated an entire Kabal after a successful boarding?
The fleet was formidable, certainly — but the heraldry suggested ordinary Crusade forces. Had they simply walked into catastrophic bad luck?
There was no time to work through the question. An Iron Circle was right there in front of it.
A war machine that could approach a Dreadnought in combat effectiveness — in numbers, their concentrated firepower could suppress even a Primarch. A Kabal Commander was not a meaningful point of comparison.
The Drukhari wanted to run. Virasius had no intention of letting the dishes walk away once they'd come to the table.
Iron Circles and automata began the forward push — heavy bolt and plasma fire at close range, destroying any Drukhari still attempting to hide, cover and all, in concentrated bursts.
Melta fire swept clean everything in its path.
The Kabal Commander had retreated to the boarding entry point — which was already held by Iron Circles and automata. All three Drukhari warships were secured.
As the Kabal Commander's internal state reached full despair and it began calculating whether kneeling and begging might create a window to escape — the Iron Circles and automata ahead of it stopped moving.
"Keep one alive. Lord Perturabo may have an interest in Drukhari warship technology. The reason Drukhari appeared here also warrants investigation."
Virasius ordered the survivor's limbs broken before confinement. He had already transmitted the report back to Olympia. How long this particular Dark Eldar survived from here depended on whether the Lord had any interest.
"What were our losses?"
"Two Iron Circles. Seventeen automata."
Negligible.
In enclosed ship-to-ship combat, defeating those war machines required either Space Marines of Iron Warrior calibre, or Custodes and Primarchs, or comparable level opponents. Alien forces without elite specialists simply weren't going to manage it.
The exception, as always, was powerful psykers — psychic ability was its own particular category of unfair, and a sufficiently gifted individual could trade seriously with some of the better Space Marines.
This Kabal had stumbled into catastrophic misfortune by running into this specific fleet.
Virasius turned his attention back to the planet below. The reconnaissance imagery was clear.
He found himself wondering whether these Exodites had Craftworld Aeldari patronage. If they did, his fleet might not be sufficient on its own — and Craftworld Aeldari were a different matter entirely from the Drukhari. If they chose to respond in force, this fleet could take serious casualties even while inflicting damage, potentially facing complete destruction.
Virasius hadn't been thinking along these lines before — the Drukhari's appearance had opened that particular train of thought. Looking at the footage of the Exodites apparently becoming aware of the threat and beginning to consolidate — the arrogance on those pale faces made something instinctively unpleasant stir in him.
Dispossessed refugees with nothing left, and they still carry on like that.
If not for the uncertainty, he'd have the armoured companies roll straight through, Iron Circles and automata finishing what remained.
"Has Lord Perturabo responded?"
"Not yet, Commander."
This was getting complicated.
"Doesn't matter — eliminate the Exodites first. If any Craftworld response comes, the Lord will bring the fleet."
"Begin deploying ground forces — commence planetary assault!"
Virasius sent his full report and issued the order.
Drop pods fell across the sky of this feral world, their impacts reverberating through the ground and rattling the nerves of the Exodites below — a people who had been living in peace for generations, their internal conflicts small and contained.
Their capabilities were not nothing. But an Exodite world without Craftworld patronage was, in practical terms, an unprotected target.
Because—
"Move — run!"
The world's paramount warrior, quickest of anyone present to read the enemy's intent, called out the warning.
But it was already too late.
Nova Cannon beams and electromagnetic Nova Cannon shots were already striking across every settlement in comprehensive, indiscriminate bombardment.
The leader watched this and felt something break in its chest. Eyes gone crimson, jaw tight, watching where the drop pods were falling.
Aeldari birth rates were already in negative decline. To avoid attracting She Who Thirsts, they spent their lives suppressing desires that could not be safely indulged. The price of survival.
And now, in a single invasion, the population of this feral world had been cut by more than half.
A loss that might take ten thousand years to recover from — if it could be recovered from at all.
The leader's heart was full of fury. The Aeldari — proud beyond any other race in the galaxy — being attacked by monkeys.
With casualties this catastrophic.
Without even having seen the monkeys yet.
"Scatter — split up and run!"
Watching the orbital strikes light up again, the Exodite leader finally panicked entirely. It could not allow the rest of its people to die here.
At that moment, the sound of heavy bolters reached them from the far edge of the settlement. Iron Circles and automata had arrived. In the lead — a wall of Contemptor Dreadnoughts, their siege hammers already moving. One Dragoon Knight was reduced to a flat smear before it finished raising its weapon.
Virasius watched from orbit, a cold smile on his face.
Dealing with Exodites was straightforward when you controlled the orbitals. The simplest tactic there was — and apparently these Aeldari had lived peacefully long enough to forget it applied to them.
Watching those formerly proud Exodites being driven into helpless, panicked flight by the Resentment Intelligence forces, with no meaningful ability to fight back, Virasius's smile widened.
He had to concede, though — those Aeldari physiques weren't wasted on them. Even Astartes would struggle to match that speed when they were running for their lives.
He would have loved nothing more than a glass of Amasec alongside his personal favourite — pork intestine wrapped around a century egg with durian — to enjoy with the spectacle.
But operational discipline didn't permit that. A commander maintained minimum professional standards. And as an Olympian officer with Legion discipline to uphold, he could not afford to embarrass his own people.