With the planetary defence forces neutralised at the landing zone, the betrayal was complete. Jackal Company did not waste a second in turning the crisis to its advantage. Ignoring the scattered pockets of the starved populace still clinging to the exterior habitats, Warsmith Kord ordered the captured Guardsmen to the firing lines, forcing them to turn their guns on their former comrades who didn't know surrender, while the Iron Warriors consolidated the most vital fuel depots.

Kord did not fight to exterminate; he fought to possess. Over the next thirty hours, his Astartes executed a flawless, brutal campaign of structural seizures, using Vindicators and Siege Breaker squads to methodically punch through fortifications and secure infrastructure intact. The rebellion, already exhausted by starvation and a lack of leadership, crumbled into disorganised pockets of angry, hungry defiance. Once the logistical grid was secure, Kord focused his cold attention on the Governor’s Citadel, a spire of black ceramite towering above the main hive, officially named Apex-Gantry but colloquially known as The Grind. He took it not by siege, but by infiltration. Using captured schematics from the executed Commissar, Kord led a small, specialised unit through the maintenance levels and into the Command Tower.

The final moments were short and inevitable.

The Planetary Governor, trembling and clad in expensive, pointless finery, offered terms, pleas, and titles. Kord silenced it all with a burst from his Volkite Pistol, staining the gilded floor with the blood of the Governor and his handful of corrupt aides. The Warsmith then activated the command protocols, officially taking control of the entire planetary administration in the name of the Warmaster, and thus completing the Vosa V Betrayal.

With the Citadel secured and his rule established, Kord began the methodical sweep of the sprawling complex, personally overseeing the capture of sensitive data-vaults and cypher protocols. It was then, deep within the private residential wing, that he heard it.

It was music.

Not the harsh, rhythmic chants of industry he was accustomed to, nor the mournful clang of a thousand defeated sieges, but a complex, ordered melody that was structured, yet alive with emotion. The sound was so jarringly wrong in the blood-soaked and smoke-filled tower that Kord halted his Astartes retinue with a gesture. He traced the music to a small, ornate chamber, its door hanging half-open, having been torn from its hinges in the hasty, final evacuation. Kord stepped through the ruined threshold, his heavy armour quieted by the thick, dust-covered rug.

There, seated beside a metallic, gothic lyre, was Lady Lyra. Clad in a simple, soiled gown, she was utterly oblivious to the bloodbath outside her door, her head bowed as her fingers danced across the strings. The music, intricate, perfect, and utterly without peer in the grim utility of the Imperium, hit Kord with the force of an undeflected artillery round. He saw not a civilian, but a form of creation he had never been able to achieve. He saw a talent that perfectly rendered order and beauty from chaos, the ultimate expression of the artistry his Primarch, Perturabo, had yearned for but never received. This was not a resource to be managed; it was a god-like gift of pure, unblemished Art.

Kord stood, transfixed, until the melody concluded. The silence that followed was broken only by the rasp of his own power harness.

Lyra finally looked up, her gaze meeting the cold, silver optics of the towering Warsmith. Fear should have been paramount in her eyes, but Kord saw only a deep, weary focus. He strode forward, dismissing the dead Governor and his useless life from his thoughts. He towered over the girl, the grim bulk of his IV Legion armour filling the room. For the first time in days, he removed his helm and let her look upon his face.

'You,' he commanded, his voice a low rumble that brooked no argument. 'You will accompany me. You will be safe, you will be guarded, and you will play that music only for me.'

He paused, a flicker of something close to obsession crossing his hard features. 'You are no longer a mere Governor's daughter. You are now mine. You are the Muse of Olympia.'