The toxic haze clinging to the landing zone of Vosa V began to fracture, yielding to the roar of a descending void craft. It was the Frigate Pillar of Olympia, a hulking mass of grey ceramite scored with the unmistakable yellow and black chevrons of the IV Legion. The vessel settled with an almost seismic impact. Its exhausted plasma conduits vented violently into the polluted air. For a silent, strained moment, the ship loomed, its bulk an oppressive presence, pressing the small assembly of Planetary Defence Force Guardsmen and their jittery Commissar into nervous stillness.

A discordant klaxon blared, and blinding amber strobes flared as the main siege ramp ground open. Out strode the Astartes of Jackal Company, clad in the dull, unadorned silver-grey of the Iron Warriors Legion. Their Mark III 'Iron' armour, with its plates reinforced with makeshift hazard-stripes, gave them the appearance of living, walking siege weaponry. They moved with the cold, mechanical precision of automata, forming four compact blocks of eight Marines, their bolters held at a parade rest.

Finally, the shadow of Warsmith Barrak Kord fell over the scene. He emerged, a mountain of iron clad in veteran markings and a custom-wrought power harness, his shoulders draped with a heavy mantle of black and gold synth-silk. Two veteran Astartes Lieutenants, equally grim in tactical plate, took positions at his flanks. Kord strode forward, his pace unwavering and powerful, until he towered over the waiting Commissar. “My Lord Warsmith,” the Commissar stammered, offering a stunted bow that bordered on an apology. “By the grace of the Master of Mankind, you are here. The situation is dire, gravely dire.” He gestured wildly towards the smog-choked horizon. “The populace is in full revolt; they have seized control of almost every key Manufactorum and Promethium depot. We dare not engage with heavy weapons, lest we incur damage that compromises the Imperial Tithe.”

Kord remained motionless, though his face was concealed by his helm, the Commissar could feel his eyes fixed upon him from beneath it. His silence hung heavy in the air. “My Lord, Diplomacy has failed,” the Commissar finished, the confidence draining from his voice like air from a punctured lung.

The silence returned, absolute and terrifying. Then, with a sudden, economic movement, Kord drew the heavy Volkite Pistol holstered at his hip and fired a silent, focused beam of energy that punched through the Commissar’s forehead.

“Diplomacy has failed,” Kord growled. Before the body could crumple, the assembled Marines of Jackal Company raised their bolters with a single, synchronised clack and unleashed a storm of high-explosive rounds that pulverised the stunned Guardsmen.

Within seconds, the landing pad was silent, the air thick with the smell of ozone and spilt Imperial blood. The conquest of Vosa V had begun.