Night has fallen on the city of Uld-Town. The capital of the agri-world of Therema-IV, it boasts a modest population of only twenty million citizens, those that are required to oversee the tithes of the massive grain-fields that cover the planet. 

The Dreadclaw drops from the sky, landing struts outstretched and engine furiously braking. The droppod slams into the earth as a small mushroom-cloud of dust rises from the impact. At the slum-edge of the city few notice the noise or the fog of dust. Indistinct forms flicker-step through the dust, massive but strangely quiet.

A skull-faced helm is the first thing visible through the murk. An Astartes, colored in midnight blue and steel, strides forward into the darkened city. In one hand, a chainglaive of terrible mien, banded in bone ripped from the bodies of the judged. His other hand waves forward the invaders, directing them to move quickly and silently across the shattered rockcrete. He is Navir Xikas, the right hand of the Stained Lord. His purpose is terror.

The Chosen move swiftly through the city, bypassing local Enforcer checkpoints and the few citizens awake at this late hour. Their target was clear- the fortress-bastion of the Adeptus Arbites. They scaled the walls and disappeared inside the fortress. No sound was heard.

Dawn breaks. The city wakes and the screams began. Across the walls of the Arbites sanctum were hung their flayed skins, red-wet skulls nailed to the closed gates. The Judges of the Imperium have been judged and found wanting. If the iron hand of the Lex could be struck down, who was safe? What could have done this. Panic rose as the Enforcers and guards attempted to stem the tide of rumors and unease. The Governor and local Ponifex Mundi preach messages of calm and peace from their fortified palaces, secretly terrified.

Above, cold eyes watch from a hidden ship. The first blow has been struck and now the true fear could be unleashed. Carrow opened a vox-relay to Xikas.

"Bring them fear. Bring them pain. Show them the failure of the law, the church, the politicians. Ave Dominus Nox."

Ten Chosen stalked and hunted in a city of twenty million. The city trembled.

Navir Xikas

Claw Leader of the Shrikeborn Chosen, The Blade Between Shadows

“We are not beasts. We are the scalpel in the dark—swift, silent, and final.”

— Navir Xikas, before the execution of the rogue Inquisitor Vellarn

Navir Xikas is the Chosen leader of the Shrikeborn, commanding the warband’s elite infantry and acting as strategic executor of Stained Lord Carrow’s will. Where the Raptors strike from above and the Warp Talons phase through reality, Xikas and his Chosen are the blade that walks unseen, delivering death with precision and purpose.

Once a Legionary sergeant during the late Great Crusade, Xikas was known for his cold efficiency and unshakable discipline. He survived the Heresy not through brutality, but through calculated restraint, earning Carrow’s trust during the long retreat into the Eye. Unlike many of his brethren, Xikas has never sought daemonic favor or mutation, his armor remains untainted, adorned only with kill-marks and Nostraman script etched into the plating.

Xikas leads a squad known as the Ceaseless Silent, the Chosen who specialize in decapitation strikes, infiltration, and targeted assassinations. They are often deployed ahead of the main assault, eliminating key personnel, sabotaging defenses, or sowing fear through ritualized executions. Each member of the Ceaseless Silent carries a vow-blade, a short combat knife engraved with the name of a past failure meant to remind them of the cost of hesitation.

Though not as revered as Carrow or feared as Amathys, Xikas is respected without question. He is the warband’s tactical anchor, the one who ensures that terror is not wasted, and that every strike serves a purpose. His voice is calm, his orders precise, and his presence on the battlefield is like a shadow that moves just before the killing blow.

To the Shrikeborn, Navir Xikas is the embodiment of control, the necessary balance between fury and sorrow. To their enemies, he is the last whisper before the dark.