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Nowa Avestia loomed ahead, washed in the pale glow of the setting sun. Marek sat atop the Chimera’s hull, arms folded, eyes scanning the familiar silhouette of the outer walls. The station was as he’d left it — quiet, unassuming. Yet, as the squad dismounted and rolled through the gates, something gnawed at the back of his thoughts. The yard should have been busy. The 280th, ever a fixture at the outpost, were nowhere to be seen. No idle banter, no groups lingering near the vehicle bays. Marek’s brow furrowed. “Where’s Rakoczy’s lot?” one of his troopers muttered. Marek waved him off. “Probably dug into some menial sweep. Nothing to worry about.” But the unease lingered. He hopped down from the Chimera, boots clanging against the cracked concrete. The garrison’s bustle was there — PDF guards on duty, traders arguing over cargo — but the absence of the 280th pressed at him. He made his way to the barracks, eyes subtly scanning the faces of passing soldiers. No familiar insignias from Rakoczy’s squad. Only the station’s regulars. Later, seated at his bunk, Marek flipped open his battered dataslate. His thumb hovered over the encoded message he’d prepared before setting out. It was ready to send — coordinates, maps, supply routes, the lot. He stared at it for a long time. His instincts, dulled by years of routine, were now fully awake. Something wasn’t right. Still, orders were orders. He clenched his jaw, weighing it in his mind. Nearby, laughter and the scrape of boots on metal floorboards echoed from the adjoining hall. Normal sounds, nothing more. But Marek knew better. He tapped the dataslate off and set it aside. “Maybe in the morning,” he muttered to himself, trying — and failing — to shake the sense that the desert had shifted while he’d been away. ----- Kasnyk’s office hummed faintly with the mechanical churn of the outpost’s life-support systems. Bright, artificial lighting left no shadows to hide in — a deliberate choice. The walls were bare save for a single shelf stacked with dataslates, parchment rolls, and battered binders. His desk was equally sparse, occupied only by a flickering cogitator terminal, a potted plant sagging from neglect, and a small globe — worn and faded — of his homeworld, Verdanos. It spun lazily under the ventilation draft. He sat stiffly in his chair, stylus tapping rhythmically against a half-finished report. A stack of investigations awaited, each more tedious than the last. “Case 39-14,” he muttered. “Water ration disputes again.” The file detailed a theft from the eastern cistern — a group of off-duty PDF accused by a local informant. No violence, just a missing shipment and too many conflicting testimonies. He sighed. “Nothing but thirsty opportunists.” The report, as always, was thorough — and suspect. “Smugglers disguised as wandering preachers,” Kasnyk read aloud, lips thinning. “Found near the southern ridge. Again.” He leaned back and rubbed the bridge of his nose, letting his eyes wander briefly to the potted plant. He should have watered it yesterday. Next came routine shipping manifests. Supplies inbound from Prawa V Prime. He cross-checked them with requisition logs, frowning slightly. Minor discrepancies, nothing to lose sleep over. Yet. Finally, the next slate slid beneath his hand. Kasnyk’s monocle flickered to life without prompting, scrolling data across its lens. Material composition: standard dataslate alloy. Typeface: Imperial Gothic, Sub-Type 7-B. Handwriting: Sergeant Sobczak. Cross-referenced and confirmed. He skimmed the contents — coordinates, route reports, asset listings. On the surface, routine. But a knot settled in his stomach. He tapped the monocle. “Correlate.” The system displayed movements matching Sobczak’s unit. The 280th Sunward Watch had passed through the same region shortly before. His memory flashed back — Rakoczy and his squad standing stiffly during their debrief. He rose from his chair, pacing slowly. Why had the 280th shifted their patrol pattern? Why hadn’t he pressed harder at the time? He circled the desk once, fingers tracing the globe absentmindedly. “No,” he muttered. “Not enough yet.” Still, the discrepancy was filed, noted carefully in the margins of his investigation ledger. Kasnyk returned to his chair, but the silence of the office felt heavier than before. ----- The canyon appeared suddenly, like a scar split open across the earth. From the rise where we first saw it, it stretched beyond the horizon, a jagged wound deep enough that the morning haze concealed its depth. The desert sands broke off in sheer cliffs, and nestled against the cliff's edge was the narrow, winding trace of the old service road. We paused, engines idling, watching the worn track snake down into the depths. I could feel the unease ripple through the men, unspoken but clear. I gave the order to advance, and the column crept forward, single-file, our lead Chimera — 312 — taking point, with 376 following close behind. The first stretch was manageable. The canyon walls sheltered us from the worst of the desert wind, but as we descended, the temperature began to climb. The deeper we went, the less air moved. It became a trapped heat, like the blast of a furnace, dry and oppressive. Then came the grinding sound. "Stop," Krystan called from the driver's seat, voice edged with frustration. "Something's off." A brief check revealed the truth — 376's transmission had seized. The backup vehicle was crippled halfway down the descent. I climbed out, squinting up at the canyon rim as fine dust sifted down lazily from above. "What are we looking at, Laska?" I asked, wiping sweat from my brow. Laska, who had hopped over to peer into 376’s exposed engine compartment, wiped her hands on her fatigues. "Transmission's blown, Sarge," she said, deadpan. "Properly. She's not getting home under her own power." Her tone was so casual it might’ve been a joke, but there was no grin this time. Krystan cursed under his breath. I could feel the squad shift, eyes darting nervously to the cliffs above. Exposed like this, strung along a brittle road, every ridge and rock seemed to be watching. "Abandon it. Everyone on 312," I said. The order tasted bitter. It wasn’t just the heat making us sweat. We packed ourselves tight, soldiers and engineers perched awkwardly atop the hull, gripping onto straps and welded handholds. With the extra weight, 312 groaned in protest, her suspension creaking with every shift of momentum. We threw open the hatches, letting the oven-hot air sweep through. A poor trade — cooler, but now exposed. Every eye scanned the jagged canyon walls, watching for the flash of a scope or the glint of movement. There was nothing, only the rovfugl wheeling high on thermals, circling lazily. A scavenger by nature, it rode the rising heat without urgency, as if patiently waiting for something to die below. Krystan worked the controls like a man nursing an injured beast. The brakes squealed occasionally, a high, sharp note that echoed too well. Czajka sat beside me, silent as always, but his gaze never left the ridges. His marksman’s eye picked out every likely firing position, but he gave no voice to what we all knew — if someone waited up there, we’d never make it to the bottom. The descent grew harsher. Sparse desert scrub gave way to cracked stone, the last defiant plants replaced by small clusters of squat, purple succulents clinging to life. The heat was unbearable, the air unmoving and thick. Sweat pooled inside armour, and tempers flared. A sharp comment from one of the engineers drew a snap from Laska. Another soldier barked back, and I could see the tension boiling just beneath the surface. “Enough,” I said firmly, voice steady. “Keep it together. We're almost there.” They quieted, but the mood remained tight. As we wound lower, I found myself staring at the track ahead, then to the walls hemming us in, and back again. My stomach tightened in ways the heat couldn’t explain. This was the first time I was truly leading them — my squad, my responsibility. No sergeant to defer to. No Rakoczy to give the word. Just me. I tried to push the thought down, but it clawed its way back up like the dust coating our boots. Was I leading them into some forgotten treasure trove... or a grave? Finally, the trail widened as we emerged onto the canyon floor. The world pressed in around us — towering walls hemming us in on every side. Before us, half-hidden by a natural overhang, was the entrance: a vast cavernous maw where rock and machinery fused together. The outline of the bunker was unmistakable, its doors sealed and ancient. We dismounted. The heat down here felt heavier still, dead and oppressive. The squad gathered, looking to me for direction. Inside, the bunker waited. And none of us liked the feel of it.

So, firstly, may I take a moment to thank those who have followed my blog and the story of Prawa V. I am truly grateful for your feedback and support. It has spurred me on to continue writing. Now, for the hard part. I've not received any negative criticism. I would like to invite you to take my writing apart and really lay the hammer down on me. Where am I am going wrong? What doesn't make sense? Which character(s) just doesn't make sense? I ask this because, while positive praise is great, and it is appreciated, I want some criticism. I want to know how I can improve. Go ahead. Do your worst. And I will say thank you. I appreciate your time!

Firstly, my apologies for any errors in my Danish. I am far better at Polish! I hope these three passages help to bring to life the different waves of settlers who arrived on Prawa V over the centuries. I also hope it deepens the mystery of Mona a little. As always, comments, criticism, etc. most welcome. Thank you. If you're interested in pronunciation, it's Jagiełło (yah - gee - eh - woh - soft G), Stenrik (steen - rik), Kasnyk (cash - nik - yes, I am aware I've missed out the accent on the S but I am not going back to change them all now!), Sobczak (sob - chack), Czajka (chy - kah). We stopped ten paces short. No one spoke. The wind stirred between us — not strong, not loud, but constant. It carried the dry scent of old canvas, scrub brush, and sun-scoured stone. One of the nomads raised a hand, palm down. Not to stop us. Just to hold the stillness in place. Jagiełło didn’t flinch. He stood level, eyes forward. The weight of his presence didn’t shift. But when Mona stepped slightly ahead of him, no one missed it — least of all the nomads. She lowered her hood. The change wasn’t in her posture, but in the air around her. She moved as if this plain were familiar. Not recently — but in the way a road becomes part of you after enough miles. Then she spoke. Not loudly. Not with ceremony. Just a few words in a tongue none of us knew. A murmur rose among the nomads. One of them, younger, grunted something back — fast, uncertain. But another, an older woman wrapped in a dust-bleached shawl, stepped forward and narrowed her eyes. She made a sign I didn’t know — three fingers to the chest, then to the wind. Then she said it. Quiet. Like tasting it to be sure. “Kova.” Mona didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Another voice, further back. A man this time. Hoarse. “Kirana?” Mona tilted her head slightly, not in confirmation. Not in denial. Just the silence of someone who’s been called many things, and knows which ones to answer to. The old woman nodded. Once. Then turned to the others and spoke in a low stream — the words flowed like sand over metal, rough and worn smooth by time. One by one, the nomads lowered their shoulders. One stepped aside, creating space. Another poured water into a small iron bowl and set it on a flat stone between us. Not a welcome. Not yet. An invitation. I glanced at Jagiełło. His jaw had tightened just a fraction. He was still. But I could feel the calculation shifting behind his eyes. Mona looked straight ahead. Calm. Steady. The wind pulled gently at the hem of her coat. ----- Kasnyk stood at the window for a moment longer than necessary. The desert outside was dipped in twilight, wind dragging sand across the concrete lip of the compound’s inner wall. Below, a generator stuttered and caught, coughing back to life with a wheeze of tired pistons. Behind him, the cogitator array continued its quiet work, charting terrain overlays and patrol logs onto a wide, pulsing grid. The screen showed sector loops that didn’t loop, supply routes that edged too close to sealed archives, and updated manifests that included items no longer in inventory. He tapped the side of his monocle. “Filter for supply redundancy. Cross-check energy draw against cooling systems allocated to decommissioned bunkers. Highlight anything rerouted.” The lens flickered. One by one, old bunkers lit up — most cold. One glowed faint amber. Vault Theta-6. Again. Kasnyk frowned. He reached for a dataslate on the side table and loaded the recent archive pull — old requisitions, handwritten manifests, post-war facility diagrams. That was when there was a knock on the door. “Enter,” he said, not looking up. The functionary stepped in, a junior aide barely out of academy stripes, arms burdened with scrolls wrapped in old twine and dataslates bound in copper crimps. He crossed the room quietly and deposited them on the bench beneath the auxiliary map display. Then waited. Kasnyk continued for a moment, narrowing the patrol sector overlay, eyes flicking across the junctions like a man reading an old scar. Only when he reached for a stylus that wasn’t there did he realise someone was still in the room. His eyes lifted. A brief frown creased his brow — no more than a second. “Dismissed,” he said, voice low but firm. The functionary left without a word. The door closed. Kasnyk returned to the display. He isolated the patrol paths of the 280th Sunward Watch across the last six weeks. They weren’t guarding terrain. They weren’t clearing routes.They were moving around something. Searching. “They’re not holding ground,” he murmured. “They’re searching for something.” The cogitator chimed. New transmission received – delayed sync. A small green icon blinked into life. Partial. Fragmented. Sergeant Marek Sobczak. Timestamped two nights prior. Low priority flag. Civilian channel. He opened it. There were no visuals — just Marek’s voice, crackling and warped: “...confirm visual on something… unmarked… not listed on any— vault appears active… power draw doesn’t match records… forwarding… can’t confirm full schematic, but the shape— it’s massive. Not local. They’ve… they’ve moved something, sir. They—” The file ended mid-transmission. Kasnyk sat still. Then called up the old topographical logs from the years immediately after the last compliance sweep — the last time anyone had mapped beneath Sector Twelve in detail. He fed in the newer, redacted layouts. The overlays pulsed. One showed an access tunnel decommissioned. The newer version showed… nothing. A flatness. But the patrols curved around it. “Compare,” he said softly. “List facility differences, changes to supply nodes, reassigned storage depots.” The system fed it in: cooling lines rerouted. Fuel allocations tagged as ‘emergency buffer stock’ never accounted for. Power cells drawn off-grid. Kasnyk leaned forward slowly. Hands flat on the desk. “There’s something there, isn’t there?” A pause. Then, more quietly: “They’re waking it up.” ----- The fire pit crackled low, sending up thin curls of smoke that vanished into the pale sky. The light was shifting now — no longer the flat white of day, but the burnished orange that came before true dusk. Shadows stretched long and slow across the dust. We were seated in a rough circle near the centre of the camp, a shallow depression lined with stones. The nomads didn’t crowd us. They kept distance, even now. Not out of fear. Just a different rhythm. Their clothing was layered, practical. Cloaks stitched from sun-bleached canvas and old industrial fabric, some dyed in earthen tones, others faded into pale greys. Boots and footwraps varied — a few wore repurposed treadplates strapped with cord, others had sand-hardened hides laced tight. Brass charms and wire-bound tools hung from belts, clinking softly as they moved. Nothing matched. Everything served a purpose. Their leader stood just off-centre, framed against a lean-to strung with scavenged cloth. He was tall, narrow-shouldered, and moved like someone used to measuring every step. When he finally stepped forward, he reached up slowly and removed his mask. It was old, military-issue from some forgotten war — rubber faded, filters patched with wire. He didn’t unclip it for comfort. He did it to look Jagiełło in the eye. “Jeg er Stenrik,” he said. His voice was dry but steady. Jagiełło gave a small nod. “You know why we’re here.” Stenrik studied him. “We heard the ground speak. Not with voice. With weight.” Mona remained silent, seated just behind Jagiełło. The old woman from before sat beside her, saying nothing, fingers loosely clasped over a bowl of ash and stone. Stenrik continued, switching to the shared tongue. “Something moves below the sands. Old. Not yours. Not ours.” Jagiełło's eyes narrowed. “You know where?” Stenrik shook his head once. “We know signs. Dust that falls without wind. Vibration in stone. Dry places turning damp overnight. It sleeps deep. But it turns in its sleep.” There was a pause. Jagiełło reached behind him and took something from Czajka’s pack — a bundled cloth sack. He opened it carefully, revealing a compact rig of pipes and mesh folded tight into a carrier frame. “Atmos capture. Ten litres at dusk, more if the wind is right,” he said. Stenrik didn’t reach for it. He looked at it, then at Jagiełło. “A gift?” Jagiełło nodded. “Not charity. Trade. Respect.” Stenrik considered this, then turned to one of the others and murmured something in their soft dialect. A few of the younger nomads whispered behind their scarves. “Det er gjort,” the elder woman finally said. It is done. A quiet fell. One of the nomads stood and stepped forward, pressing his thumb to his chest, then toward the horizon. Not a pledge. Just understanding. I watched them move, speak, shift. There was no theatre here. No performance. Just the slow machinery of trust turning, one click at a time. As we made ready to leave, the old woman leaned toward Mona. Her voice barely carried. "Du går stadig med en lang skygge, Kova.“ - You still walk with a long shadow, Kova. Mona offered a small, gracious smile and dipped her head in a tiny nod. The wind picked up again as we turned for the ridge. And behind us, the camp folded back into silence.

The vault walls were old steel, streaked with oxidation and reinforced with thick slabs of desert-cut stone. Lamplight traced long shadows across maps, dataslates, and supply manifests scattered over a folding table at the centre of the room. “They found him slumped in the runner,” she said, voice soft. “Or, at least, what remained. No one heard the shot.” “They weren’t meant to.” Jagiełło didn’t look up from the slate he was reviewing. He paused. "The round was designed for targets heavier than him.” “You authorised it.” “I did.” “And the slate?” He finally looked up. His face gave nothing. “He sent it. Too late to stop. Not enough to convict.” Mona didn’t blink. “You gambled.” “I assessed risk.” “You’re better than that,” she added, voice quieter now. “Or you were.” She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. The disappointment in her tone landed with more force than any volume. “The 280th sit in silence,” she continued. “Krystan won’t speak. Laska pretends to smile. Even Czajka is watching doorways like a prisoner.” Jagiełło’s eyes flicked away, just for a breath. “They’ll hold,” he said finally. Mona folded her arms. “For now.” “They’re still functional.” “They’re wounded.” Jagiełło returned the slate to the table with a click. “Good. Wounds are reminders. Pain sharpens loyalty better than ideology.” Mona tilted her head. “If you believe that, you’ve learned nothing from me.” A long pause. Then Jagiełło exhaled — not a sigh, but a release of calculation. “We need the nomads.” She straightened. “So soon?” “They’ve seen the convoys. They’ve heard the engines from below the sand. Better to offer our terms now than answer theirs later.” He stepped toward a long-range vox unit mounted on the wall. As he reached for it, a soft chime rang through the room — his personal channel. He tapped the receiver twice. The line opened. He didn’t speak immediately. Just listened. “Confirmed,” he said at last. “No survivors. Vehicle abandoned?” A pause. His jaw tightened. “Rifle retrieved?” Another pause. His eyes narrowed faintly. “Good. No spent casings, no tracks. Wind will cover the rest.” Mona watched him from the shadows, arms folded now. “Yes. I’ll prepare the contact team. Maintain distance. If they investigate further, let the desert answer them.” Silence. He cut the channel. Mona’s voice returned, dry as paper. “Our ghost?” “She’s dust again.” Jagiełło stepped back from the unit and folded his arms. “I want you with me for the nomad approach,” he said. “I assumed.” “We don’t offer them unity. We offer them necessity. Their strength, their routes, their silence.” “And if they ask for blood instead?” His voice was calm. “Then we show them we’ve already spilled our own.” ----- The Chimeras rumbled across the salt flats like beasts too tired to roar. Dust coiled around their tracks in slow, looping tendrils. The sun sagged low behind us, staining the desert red and bruised gold. I rode up top again, helmet off, wind clawing at my sweat-matted hair. Laska leaned beside the turret ring, arms folded, watching the horizon. Czajka stayed inside. He never liked the openness. We crested a low ridge — more suggestion than feature — and there they were. Jagiełło stepped down first. His coat shifted in the wind like a banner with no nation. Mona followed, her hood raised, hands bare. She moved like she’d been here before — not recently, maybe, but in a way the desert remembered. The nomads didn’t move to meet us. So we went to them. ----- The office was silent, save for the steady hum of the ventilation unit and the rhythmic tapping of a stylus against dataslate casing. Lieutenant Kasnyk sat rigid in his chair, monocle flickering softly in the artificial light. Behind him, the ancient globe of Verdanos spun lazily on its stand — forgotten for now. The cogitator projected a split-screen: faded vault schematics on the left, regional patrol logs on the right. Numbers flickered. Routes overlaid. Too clean in some places, too murky in others. He tapped a button on his monocle then spoke. “Compare current patrol logs of the 280th Sunward Watch to historical assignments across sectors eleven through fifteen. Filter by irregular route deviation exceeding twenty percent.” The lens blinked green, then populated data. “Terrain doesn’t collapse in that sector,” he muttered. He leaned forward. “Cross-reference Theta-6 with decommissioned asset manifests. List all power draws above thirty kilowatts per day in the last cycle. Exclude official requisitioned materials.” The lens pulsed. The cogitator on his desk to which it synchronised lagged, like it didn’t want to answer. Kasnyk’s brow furrowed. He stood and began pacing — short steps, hands clasped behind his back. “Compare Theta-6 schematics to post-war archival plans. Note differences in facility placement, supply lines, and reported inventories. Begin delta log.” The monocle obeyed and began to stream data in front of his left eye. Results crawled across the screen: storage realignments. Additional unlogged sublevels. An underground tramway noted in the original designs — now removed from all modern schematics. No mention of where it led. He stopped. Stared at the floor. Then, quietly: “Request speculative classification of site. Based on power draw, architectural capacity, and crew proximity.” Three probabilities returned: - Munitions cache. - Vehicle hangar. - Light manufactory. Kasnyk returned to his cogitator and tapped the screen once. Then again. The cursor didn’t move. “Not sealed,” he whispered. “Not idle.” He sat at his desk, summoned a new overlay — a rough triangle forming from the irregular patrols. Within it: nothing. Or so the maps claimed. The cogitator pinged softly. A message icon pulsed orange in the corner of the screen. Encrypted. Internal channel. Kasnyk didn’t even open it. He tapped the dismiss rune without breaking stride. But power was being drawn. Air filtered. Coolant spent. Something was there. Something they didn’t want him to see.

Lieutenant Kasnyk leaned forward, monocle interface flickering green as he parsed the packet’s structure. A transmission, incomplete. Encrypted but within protocol. Origin: Marek Sobczak, Sergeant. Timestamp: early hours, local time. Location: near the southern ridge. That alone should have been routine. But Marek was dead. The initial report had come through the PDF relay chain an hour earlier — Sergeant Sobczak found in his runner, chest perforated by unknown fire. No witnesses. No sign of the weapon. A freak accident, they said. Bandits. Mutineers. The usual desert ghosts. Kasnyk didn’t believe in ghosts. The packet loaded, fragment by fragment. Static-blurred voice logs. One partial image file. Marek’s voice — distorted, dry — emerged mid-sentence: “…possibly Crusade-era… no Imperial markings… entry point recently disturbed—” Skip. “…serial tags stripped… unknown vehicle type… blast shielding—” Skip. “…locals? Maybe the 280th. I can’t confirm. Will escalate—” And then silence. No data header. No routing confirmation. Just the raw, fractured remnants of something bigger. Something deliberate. He tapped his monocle. “Begin trace on Sobczak data trail. Full audit. Limit visibility — private channel only.” The cogitator chirped again in acknowledgment. He stood slowly, moved to the side cabinet, and opened a shallow drawer. Inside: a sealed data crystal — unmarked. He placed it beside the slate without comment, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the desk as he stared at the half-lit screen. “Who did you see, Marek?” No answer came. Only the faint hum of the outpost’s ventilation. Still sterile. Still silent. But the weight had shifted. Something had cracked. ----- The mess hall smelled of overcooked grain, steam, and industrial soap. Not unpleasant — just lifeless. A kind of scentless familiarity that belonged to all PDF installations, no matter the sector. The 280th sat hunched around a metal table streaked with scratches and dried broth. Tin trays scraped softly under spoons. No voices rose to fill the space. Laska stirred her meal with the tip of her fork, not eating. She wore the same grin she always did, but it sat crooked this morning — not quite tethered to anything. Czajka sat beside her, quiet as ever, but his attention never left the door. Krystan slumped with his elbows on the table, nursing a lukewarm mug of recaf. He hadn't spoken since they'd filed in. I sat across from them, tray untouched. The ration stew steamed faintly in the stale air, but I couldn't summon the appetite. None of us could. Marek’s name hadn’t been mentioned. We didn’t need to say it. The air carried it. "Guess nobody's checked the heater coils again," Laska muttered, forcing levity into the space. "Tastes like someone's boot boiled in sump water." Czajka made a sound — might've been a laugh. Might've just been a breath. Krystan didn’t react. Silence returned like tidewater. Just the scrape of cutlery. The dull clatter of a tray dropped in the return chute. One by one, other squads filtered in. Most gave us a glance, then looked away. Maybe they’d heard. Maybe not. The desert wind tapped softly at the high windows. Outside, the sun was already high. Another day waiting to be filled with the wrong questions and the wrong orders. I looked down at my tray. The meal had cooled. I hadn’t touched it. Beside me, Laska suddenly stood. “I’m getting more recaf,” she said, though her cup was still half full. She walked off without waiting for anyone’s reply. Czajka finally spoke, voice low. “Do you think he saw it?” I didn’t ask who he meant. “I don’t know,” I said. He nodded, once, slow. “If he did, he’s not seeing anything now.” We sat in silence again, shoulder to shoulder. The 280th — whole, but not intact.

So, spoiler for this - this is not the end I plan for my band of Resistance fighters. I was just tinkering with ideas for them, but I thought you might like to see. It's a short passage, but you can see how they are all bonded, even 329 spins up for the fight. Thoughts most welcome. The sun didn’t rise that morning. Not properly. Just a bruised smear above the horizon, like the sky was ashamed to look us in the eye. We stood in the courtyard — the last open ground before the fallback position — where sand had drifted into the cracks between the stone like it meant to bury us ahead of schedule. Brutus rumbled behind me, her engine coughing low. One of her sponsons was gone — slagged in the last barrage — but the other still turned when I called for it. She’d die today, and she knew it. But not without giving back everything she had. The Iron Duke loomed just off to the side, its hull still scorched from the last charge. It had carried the wounded, shielded our retreat, held the line when the rest broke. A relic once — but now? A symbol. And behind it, half-lost in the bunker shadows, was 329. I could hear the fuel pumps hiss. The engines didn’t purr — they growled, low and resentful. Not like a tool, but like a thing that understood what was coming. Krystan hadn’t said a word since the night before. He sat inside 329’s belly like a monk in a temple. Still. Focused. If that monster had a soul, it had latched onto his. If Krystan was going to Hell, it would be there, busting down the gates. Laska stood at my right, eyes on the ridgeline. Her sleeves were rolled, dust crusted into her forearms. Blood too — not hers. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. She’d made her peace. And I… I was proud of her in that moment, more than I could ever say. My love. Czajka had already gone prone near the southern wall. He didn’t look up as I passed — just adjusted the windage on his scope. He always knew the wind better than I did. Zofia leaned against the Duke, cigarette clamped between her teeth, arms folded tight. She looked like she was waiting for a punch — and daring the bastard to throw it. And Róźa... Róźa stood alone at the edge, near the ruined gate. No orders. Just instinct. That was all she ever needed. I turned to face them, boots grinding against the stone. My squad. My family, though I’d never said the word. They were filthy. Scarred. Exhausted. They were perfect. “We don’t hold this ground,” I said, low, calm. “We become it.” No speeches. No shouting. Just the truth. Laska nodded, her shoulder brushing mine. “We’re already ghosts,” she said. I smiled. Real, for once. “Then let’s :cuss:ing haunt them.” And when the first shells came down — distant at first, then closer, hungry — I didn’t flinch. I watched the horizon crack open. I heard the howl of 329 winding up like some ancient god dragging itself into the fight one last time. And I felt no fear. Only pride. Pride in the machines behind me. Pride in the people beside me. Pride that this — this bloodied, broken corner of the desert — was ours. If the Imperium wanted it back, they’d have to dig us out with their bare hands..

The wind tore at them as the Valkyrie dropped into the canyon, its engines shrieking against the tight walls. Dust and gravel whipped into the air, reducing the world to a swirling maelstrom outside the armoured glass of the troop compartment. Kasnyk stood, swaying with the turbulence, one gloved hand gripping a restraint overhead as he stared through the side viewport. The canyon was exactly as it had been described in the geological surveys — a deep scar in the desert, sheer cliffs of wind-scoured stone, peppered with outcroppings and the occasional stubborn succulent clinging to life. At its base, mostly swallowed by the rock, sat the bunker, hunched against the cliff face like some ancient fossil. The hatch clanged open the moment the skids touched down. Kasnyk descended first, boots crunching on the gravel-strewn floor. The air was dry, still, and carried the faint smell of scorched metal and explosive residue. The valley’s towering walls threw long shadows despite the midday sun. Behind him, Aleksy Klimek and four other members of the investigation team followed. The two Valkyrie crewmen remained aboard, engines hot and ready. Kasnyk liked the pilots well enough — competent, quiet — but he had no intention of taking their opinions on what he was about to find. Kasnyk advanced towards the battered bunker entrance. The blast had left a wide, irregular gap, jagged metal edges curling outward. As he crossed the threshold, his monocle flickered to life without prompting, overlaying faint data across his vision. STATUS: Breach Confirmed Explosive Residue: Detected Material Composition: Standard Siege Charge Timestamp Estimate: <48 hours> Kasnyk nodded to himself. His boots kicked up a layer of dust as he entered. Within, the bunker felt cavernous and oppressive, its empty corridors swallowing sound. The only noises were those of his team spreading out, the creak of gear, and the rasp of their breathing. Rows of vehicles flanked their path — tarpaulin-covered shapes, lined like silent sentinels in the gloom. The faint beams of the team’s shoulder-mounted lamps revealed what the dust and silence had hidden. Chimera-pattern hulls, Leman Russ frames, skeletal artillery pieces, and stubby transporters sat dormant beneath layers of grime and canvas. Each machine was perfectly aligned, unmoved for decades, perhaps even centuries. “There's so many,” muttered one of the investigators. The sheer number of them was staggering. Kasnyk didn’t respond. He was busy drinking it all in — not with wonder, but with analysis. His monocle scanned and catalogued automatically, lines of data crawling along the edges of his vision. As they continued, the air felt thick, almost expectant. Their lights flickered against the oppressive stillness. The deeper they ventured, the more obvious it became — no vermin, no signs of recent life. Just untouched silence. Klimek edged too close to a barely visible pressure plate near a service hatch. Kasnyk’s hand shot out, grabbing him by the collar. “Hold.” Everyone froze. Kasnyk knelt and brushed away the dust. A recessed mechanism lay exposed — rudimentary, but deadly. A fragmentation charge. “Traps,” Kasnyk said, standing. “Old. But still willing to work.” Klimek nodded, slightly pale, but grateful. “Thank you, sir.” Kasnyk gave a small grunt of acknowledgment. His heart beat faster, but not from the near-miss. He could feel it. He wasn’t wading through another dull supply theft. Something meaningful was waiting at the end of this trail. A light sensation built in his stomach — a familiar, welcome thrill. The same he’d felt long ago, when cases still mattered, when he was still certain he could make a difference. His eyes slid sideways to Klimek as they resumed their march. The young officer recovered quickly, carefully marking the trap for later removal. Kasnyk allowed himself a flicker of quiet satisfaction. Klimek was shaping up well — sharp, cautious, and just naïve enough to still care about the work. They pressed onward, weaving through the graveyard of machines until the hall finally widened into a more open chamber. Kasnyk’s monocle flickered. ERR[042] : Object classification failed. Possible: LV / Chimera Variant / Unknown – processing… He stepped forward, boots crunching into the fresh scuff marks left behind by heavy treads. Dust patterns and disturbance told the story plain enough: something massive had been here — and recently. And unlike the other machines, this one was no longer resting. They swept their lights across the chamber, and there it was — the Iron Duke's vault. The great sealed door stood ajar, its mechanisms scarred by the breach. Inside, the floor bore the unmistakable pattern of heavy tread marks leading out, and a large, dustless imprint where something colossal had once sat beneath a discarded tarpaulin. The blast shield's silhouette was faintly outlined in dust residue on the floor. Kasnyk entered the vault slowly. His team followed, fanning out, quietly cataloguing the scene — markings, disturbed dust, maintenance terminals, and the damage to the door. Every detail mattered now. Kasnyk’s attention turned to the side of the vault. Scorch marks spidered out from an old control terminal. He crouched, monocle feeding him flickering data. “Explosion?” suggested one of the investigators. “Possible,” Kasnyk mused, running a finger along the floor. “Or power feedback.” Klimek moved closer, examining the pattern. “Sir. Not radial — linear. As if they caught a discharge, not a detonation.” Kasnyk raised a brow. The young officer wasn’t wrong. “Well observed.” He stood, dusting off his gloves. “Someone knew the risks and still went through with it.” In the silence, broken only by the occasional clatter of boots and equipment, Kasnyk felt the old thrill rising again — the sense of standing on the precipice of something deeper than a petty theft. There was a thread here. And he fully intended to pull it. ----- The wind outside the outpost’s main hall blew softly against the old hab-blocks and ferrocrete structures, but Marek hardly noticed. Leaning against a weathered pillar, he took a slow drag from his lho-stick, watching the station’s central yard through narrowed eyes. The sun was fading behind the ridgeline, painting the canyon’s jagged edges with long, creeping shadows. Below, the returning 280th were unloading. Their movements weren’t hurried, but they were… tight. Controlled. Soldiers always carried tension after a patrol, but Marek knew the patterns well enough. This was different. They weren't just tired — they were guarded. Even from each other. Krystan, the Chimera driver, cursed as he tried to coax the vehicle into one of the motor pool bays, its tracks screeching in protest. Laska laughed, making some quip Marek couldn’t catch from this distance, and the others gave her a weary chuckle. The usual theatre. But something was off. He took another pull on the lho-stick and exhaled slowly. No orders. No patrol logs posted. Just their quiet return. He flicked the spent stick into the dust and turned, heading toward the mess hall. The mess was crowded but muted. Soldiers ate mechanically, trading only the occasional word. The usual clatter of cutlery and quiet murmurs filled the room. Marek slipped into the corner, grabbed a tin cup of recaf, and settled against the wall, watching. The 280th were gathered at their usual table. No boasting, no exaggerated tales of minor glories — not like after a normal patrol. Instead, low voices and darting glances. He spotted the sergeant — their newly appointed leader, after Rakoczy’s demise — holding it together well enough. But it was in the little things. How the squad avoided meeting each other's eyes. The way Czajka picked at his food instead of eating. How Laska's usual brashness seemed slightly forced. The table froze for half a breath. Just long enough. Marek saw it. A glance from the sergeant. A suppressed smirk from Krystan. A tight flicker of tension across Czajka’s brow. Then they moved on, laughing it off, Laska throwing in an exaggerated wink to defuse it. But Marek wasn’t laughing. His mind already worked through the implications. He quietly sipped the bitter recaf, lowering his gaze just enough to seem disinterested. Across the room, unnoticed by Marek, The Fennec sat alone at a battered table, idly stirring the slop on her tray. She watched with the detachment of a ghost, catching every glance, every nervous shuffle. To anyone else, she was just another tired soldier nursing a bland meal. To her, this was the job. ----- In the armoury, Laska moved alone. The low hum of the power systems and the occasional groan of settling metal were the only company left to her. She removed her flak jacket with a soft grunt, the weight sliding from her shoulders and leaving behind the familiar ache of another long day. Shoulder plates followed, then webbing, gloves, and gear. Each piece was placed carefully into her assigned locker, not from fear of punishment, but habit. Order calmed her. Loose straps were tightened, buckles checked, latches secured. Her eyes lingered on her grenade launcher resting across the workbench. It wasn’t a brutal thing to her. It was solid, dependable. She had called it a few names in frustration before, sure, but it never failed when it mattered. She traced a finger along the barrel, noting where the paint had scuffed and worn. If she needed it to sing again, it would. She’d make sure of it. Satisfied, she exhaled softly and headed for the barracks. Inside, a handful of soldiers were already asleep, sprawled or curled beneath rough-issue blankets. Gentle, uneven snores filled the dimly lit space. The room smelled of worn leather, faint sweat, and the faint metallic tang of the station’s recycled air. Laska moved between the bunks quietly, stepping over scattered boots and stray bits of kit. At her bunk, she shrugged out of her fatigues, down to just a tank top and shorts. The metal-framed bed creaked softly as she sat and pulled the thin blanket over herself. Above, the cracked window admitted a shaft of silver moonlight that stretched across the room and caught her face. She lay still, eyes open, watching the dust motes drift lazily in the pale glow. Her thoughts wandered, unbidden. Home. Not the one spoken of in stories, but the real one — cramped, bureaucratic, stale. Yet, even so, the faces there mattered. Parents, a younger sibling or two, each trapped just as surely as the miners and the outcasts. Different cages, same bars. She was here for them. For all of them. The tension in her limbs eased, bit by bit, as the day’s weight gave way to quiet. The muffled sounds of the outpost settling into night — the groan of a shifting bulkhead, the faint ticking of a cooling vent, the soft snores of comrades — became a kind of lullaby. And then, barely audible, the desert wind outside sighed against the walls. The old scirocco. Laska smiled faintly, eyes half-lidded. Its voice carried a strange comfort. Distant, patient, eternal. As sleep crept in, she caught herself thinking — not of battle, nor of duty — but simply that it might have been nice to have someone beside her. Just for warmth. Just for company. The thought softened her expression, and soon, sleep took her. ----- The mess hall had long since emptied. The overhead lumens buzzed quietly, casting a dull, institutional glow over half-eaten trays and upturned ration tins. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic tap of Marek’s boot heel against the bench leg, his dataslate balanced on one knee. He sat alone now, the last of the 280th having turned in. Somewhere, the low whine of a generator pulsed in the distance. He tapped a few last notes into the slate. Supply discrepancies, personnel manifests, unassigned engineering units. His thumb hesitated over the transmit rune. A report, yes. But it lacked certainty. Something was missing. That was when he noticed it. A narrow door in the corner of the hall — flush with the wall and featureless. He had eaten in this room a dozen times and never seen it before. A storeroom, maybe. But something about it tugged at him. He stood, slinging the dataslate under one arm, and tried the handle. Unlocked. The hinges groaned faintly as he pulled it open, revealing a narrow passage descending into gloom. He hesitated — then stepped inside. The corridor descended deeper than expected, walls pressed close, lit intermittently by flickering strips of lumen tape. It smelled of dust, dry rust, and something older. Faint ventilation hummed overhead. A forgotten tunnel. Marek pressed on, bootfalls muffled by layers of grime. “Entry Point Theta... unmarked. Passage appears pre-Compliance era,” he murmured into the slate, recording everything. “Possibly related to recent recovery operations.” At last, the corridor widened into a chamber. His breath caught. Vehicles. Dozens. Rows of ancient machines slumbered beneath tarpaulins. Chimera transports. A few half-track variants. An old Malcador, matte desert yellow paint peeled and blistered from decades of disuse. And at the centre — a shape that dominated the room. No markings. No designation. No turret. Just bulk. A blast shield hunched over the prow like a crouched animal, the whole thing draped in tarp and shadow. The scale of it made Marek falter. “I don’t know what I’m looking at,” he whispered into the slate. “Command might. Serial tags missing. No visible identifier. This...this wasn’t logged.” He moved around it slowly, panning his slate’s lens across the frame. “Design unknown. Not Imperial standard issue. Mechanicus, perhaps? Power lines routed oddly. Could be a relic from the Crusade era? Will request cross-check. Bunker appears to have been accessed recently. Tracks in the dust. At least one body removed... no signs of blood.” His voice grew quieter. “Locals — the 280th? Did they do this?” He turned, biting his lip. The battery icon flashed red. Less than five percent. “Damn.” He broke into a jog, heading back through the tunnel, slate clutched tight. Outside, the desert night had cooled the air. A warm desert breeze washed over him, gentle now, but gathering. Marek dashed across the sand to a waiting runner — a squat, four-wheeled desert vehicle painted light grey, with thick, knobbled tyres and a number stencil in black along its side. The roof was little more than a sheet of polymer fixed over a flimsy frame. A cart meant for supplies, not escapes. He slid behind the wheel, tossed the dataslate onto the passenger bench, and fumbled with the ignition. The engine coughed, sputtered, then caught. He plugged the slate into the vehicle’s charging port and watched as the charge icon blinked orange. He wiped a sleeve across his brow. “Come on, come on...” A low curse escaped his lips. He checked the signal strength. Weak. But maybe enough. The slate came to life. He loaded the report, jammed his thumb against the transmit rune— From half a kilometre away, The Fennec watched him through the scope. She lay prone on the ridgeline, rifle cradled in her hands, her body perfectly still. The long-barrelled weapon rested on its bi-pod, its optic hooded against the moonlight. The wind was cool against her cheek. Her breath slow. Even. Measured. The runner’s headlights cast long shadows across the sand as Marek wrestled with the slate. Through her scope, she could see the sweat on his temple, the way his lips moved as he muttered curses. Her thumb adjusted the zoom. The crosshairs hovered over his chest. She exhaled. A moment’s pause. Then she tapped her vox-bead. “Visual confirmed,” she whispered. “He’s sending it.” A beat. “...Understood.” She realigned the shot. Marek’s finger was just lifting from the rune. The slate’s light glowed green — transmission active. She squeezed. The report was sent. So was the round. His body spasmed sideways, head lolling. The slate dropped to the floor of the runner. Blood and viscera dripped through the hole blown through his torso and the back of his seat by the high-calibre round. The Fennec watched for five full seconds. Then she moved. Quick. Precise. The rifle disassembled in practised motions, piece by piece into her carry harness. She slid back into the darkness, feet finding each step in silence. The desert swallowed her. The sound of the scirocco rose. And the night was whole again

This series of three four passages is a lot longer than I have posted in the past and I hope you have the patience to read it. I feel it is quite revealing about our three main character, our Narrator, Mona, and Jagiełło. Constructive criticism always welcome, of course. ----- The engineers worked with steady purpose. The charges were placed meticulously, each bundle of explosives hugging the seams and structural weak points where ancient metal met equally ancient stone. The bunker was as much a part of the canyon wall as it was a man-made structure, the centuries having eroded and fused its exterior into a hardened shell. Even so, age had done little to blunt its Imperial craftsmanship. We crouched behind 312, shielding ourselves from the impending blast. At the lead engineer’s nod, the charges detonated. The canyon swallowed the dull roar, sending dust and pebbles cascading from the high ridges above. When the grit cleared, a jagged breach had replaced the sealed entrance. Heat rose from the rocks as we stepped forward. I caught the first breath of air from within. Dry, stale, and heavy with dust—it smelled of time itself. No blood, no rot, no sign of recent death. Just stagnant air, the kind you’d find when unsealing an old storage locker, except magnified a thousandfold. Inside, the air was thick with settled dust. A pale film coated the floor, unbroken even by vermin. No footprints. No scuff marks. Whatever this place was, it had been undisturbed for generations. Czajka stood at my side, rifle up, eyes sharp. “No movement.” “That’s worse,” Laska muttered, swinging her grenade launcher casually as she scanned the gloom. Her voice carried enough false bravado to mask her nerves, but not enough to fool anyone. One of the engineers, a lean woman with streaks of grey in her dark hair, Ella, knelt and examined the floor. “Sarge, these old bunkers? They’re usually rigged. Motion sensors. Traps. The standard for places they didn’t want rediscovered.” She stood and dusted off her palms. “We’ll sweep. Slow and proper.” I nodded, trying to project the steadiness I didn’t fully feel. “Do it.” The squad pushed deeper. As we moved down the main corridor, I found myself breathing shallower. The silence pressed in like a physical thing. The passage was lined with immense doors, each marked with corroded plaques and faded sigils. I couldn’t read most of them beneath the dust and rust. The engineer squad set to work, marking detected traps and bypassing them with practised efficiency. A few muttered prayers to the Emperor went unheard by anyone who still cared. “Partial power bleed,” Ella reported. “Most of the grid’s dead, but there’s still juice in some lines. We’ve looped the worst of it, but…” “But there could be more,” I finished for her. She nodded grimly. Further in, we found it — a small, dust-caked dataslate wedged behind a rusted terminal. Its cracked display flickered faintly to life as Czajka gingerly passed it to me. The words were simple. A bay number. Nothing more. Following its direction, we wound through an adjoining passage until we came to a sealed vault door. Unlike the others, this one was marked by the faint outline of a faded symbol, barely visible beneath grime. No name. Just a half-obscured emblem of a stylized iron crown. The engineers crowded around the access terminal. Sparks sputtered as they interfaced with it, bypassing dead code and corrupted subroutines. Then it happened. One of them—Martja, I think—jerked backward with a startled gasp. She collapsed, twitching as a sharp electrical feedback arced from the terminal. “Martja’s down!” someone yelled. I swore and rushed forward, but it was too late. She was gone. The door, however, had accepted the sacrifice. With a groan, ancient hydraulics strained and hissed. Dust cascaded from the seams as it cracked open, revealing the chamber beyond. And there it was. Even draped in layers of tarp and shadow, the Iron Duke dominated the vault. The chamber was cavernous, yet it barely contained the bulk of the vehicle inside. Its massive frame loomed, partially shrouded by dust-cloaked tarpaulins. The shape was unmistakable—armoured flanks, wide track guards, and the towering blast shield at its prow. No turret. No number. No name. Just sheer, brute presence. Laska whispered under her breath, “Big bastard.” We stood there in silence for a long moment. I realised I was holding my breath. The thing radiated a sense of history — not reverence, exactly, but weight. Purpose. I forced myself to exhale. “Back to work.” I pointed to two of my squad. “You and you. Prepare her for transport back to the station.” They hesitated for a heartbeat before nodding and moving to follow orders. Engineers and soldiers alike set to work, still glancing nervously at the Iron Duke between tasks. Martja was dead. But the Duke was awake. And there was no turning back. ----- Bright white lumens beat down from the ceiling, casting hard shadows across Kasnyk’s austere office. The room was a cube of sterile grey walls and sharp angles, furnished with only the essentials: a bolted metal desk, two straight-backed chairs, a cogitator recessed into the desktop, and not much else. A potted plant sagged on the corner of the desk, brown at the edges, and beside it a small brass globe of Kasnyk’s homeworld spun lazily from a recent absent-minded flick. The air was filtered and scentless, like the air of all Imperial offices, leaving nothing behind but emptiness. Kasnyk sat behind the desk with the practised stillness of a man well-versed in the routine. His stylus tapped against the parchment pad before him in a slow, deliberate rhythm — no impatience, just a means to keep time as the drone across from him talked. The stylus was always there. Even with the cogitator active and capable of doing all of this automatically, he preferred the scratch of pen on parchment. It gave the appearance of attentiveness, and more importantly, it grounded him. Across from him sat a minor logistics clerk, Sub-Officer L-8427, pale as parchment and clearly unused to the desert sun outside. His charcoal grey uniform, faded and wrinkled, had seen better days, and the badge pinned to his chest was slightly tarnished. A rank insignia and serial code were affixed beneath it, worn smooth from anxious fingers. The clerk perched nervously on the edge of the chair, clutching a dataslate that trembled ever so slightly in his grip. “… and that’s the third time, sir, this cycle. Missing components from Container 41.” The clerk's voice quavered slightly. “If it were just once, I’d let it go, but three times? That’s no clerical error.” His eyes darted across Kasnyk’s impassive face, searching for some sign of sympathy. Kasnyk gave none. The stylus continued to tap softly. “You suspect theft?” Kasnyk asked without looking up, voice a monotone. “I— yes, sir. Or diversion, maybe. Components don’t walk away on their own.” The clerk shifted in his seat, adjusting his fraying collar. “My supervisor told me to drop it, but I know something’s not right.” Kasnyk almost smiled — almost. The truth was, petty theft, squabbles, and bureaucratic grudge matches made up half his caseload. The other half was divided between fuel shortages and low-ranking scribes who drank too much amasec and reported ghost cults behind every malfunctioning lumen. But duty was duty. “You did the right thing,” he said flatly, making a show of jotting something down. “These things have a way of surfacing.” The clerk’s shoulders sagged with relief. At that exact moment, the cogitator gave a soft chime and a faint amber glow lit the edge of Kasnyk’s vision. His monocle flickered to life of its own accord, quietly feeding information to him as the clerk babbled on. Kasnyk did not flinch. His stylus, however, stopped tapping. Amber Alert — Security Breach: Storage Bunker 9C — Prawa V, Sector 12. Kasnyk blinked once to scroll the monocle's display. Flagged Item: 77-IC/DU. The stylus resumed tapping. The clerk, oblivious, was still venting about warehouse irregularities. Kasnyk returned his full attention to him, masking the sudden jolt of interest rising behind his cool exterior. “Thank you, Sub-Officer. I’ll see this logged appropriately.” He stood, motioning toward the door. “I trust you will remain vigilant.” The clerk stumbled to his feet, almost saluting before thinking better of it. “Yes, sir! Of course, sir.” He scurried out, leaving Kasnyk alone with the amber glow. The moment the door sealed, Kasnyk’s mask cracked. His lips twitched into the faintest smirk. He leaned forward, hands folding together as the cogitator projected a map and data readout. There it was. The old storage site. The bunker hadn’t triggered an alert in decades. Amber flag — mid-tier, important but not urgent. Inventory marked for Special Oversight, designation “IC/DU”. IC — Internal Compliance. DU… He’d seen that suffix before. His monocle obligingly supplied the associated entry from old files, redacted but familiar. DU = “Iron Duke.” Not a person. Not a smuggler. Not some legendary insurgent whispered about in frontier bars. A vehicle. A tank. Specifically, an ageing but formidable siege engine — codename only. Its existence, long buried beneath layers of bureaucratic dust, explained why the locals spoke of it like a ghost. Kasnyk’s expression hardened, eyes narrowing behind the data scrolling across his monocle. Who had breached a sealed bunker to get at it? Why now? He tapped the screen, pulling up active units in the area. A few registered. Routine patrols. One newly reassigned squad, the 280th Sunward Watch. He’d seen them during his last visit to the sector — odd, but nothing concrete. Yet. Kasnyk exhaled sharply through his nose and glanced to the side. The plant drooped pitifully. Without hesitation, he crossed the room, retrieved the long-neglected watering can, and gave the dry soil a careful pour. “You and me both,” he muttered. The leaves barely moved. Neither did Kasnyk as he stood motionless, eyes distant. There was something here. Not proof. Not yet. But there was something. ----- The heavy air in the hidden vault beneath Nowa Avestia, the place we called home, pressed around us as we stepped deeper into the chamber. Dust lay thick over the floor, deadening every step. The flicker of our shoulder-mounted lamps painted uneven, narrow bands of light across towering shapes swathed in tarps and shrouded in shadow. Jagiełło stood in front of it, a great looming mass mostly hidden beneath faded tarpaulin, but unmistakable in scale and presence. His hand with the claw-like glove rested against its flanks, fingers gently brushing against the dust-caked surface as if reacquainting himself with an old acquaintance. His other arm hung loose at his side, the long boneblade he wielded idle, unthreatening. The orange folds of his cloak caught the uneven lamplight, glowing like smouldering embers amidst the gloom. The worn edges of his armour were dulled by dust, yet still retained the distinct patterns of Resistance craftsmanship – subdued purples, greys, and the occasional streak of rust where the desert’s breath had left its mark. I stood a few paces away, trying to make sense of the shape beneath the tarps. The hull loomed, riveted and scarred by age. What could only be a vast blast shield – not a turret, I noted – jutted from its forward section. Two muzzles, dark as abyssal wells, protruded slightly beneath the folds. Whatever this machine had been built for, it was clear it was no ordinary vehicle. “You did well,” Jagiełło said without turning. His voice was low, calm, but there was weight to the words that made me catch my breath for but a second. “Many would have failed to bring it here intact.” I tried not to swell with pride. The praise was measured, but coming from him, it was more than I’d ever expected. “It wasn’t easy,” I replied carefully. “We lost one of the engineers, Martja. The vault… resisted.” Jagiełło’s fingers traced the blast shield’s edge. “It often does. Those vaults were meant to keep things out—or in.” He finally turned to look at me. His eyes, a jaundiced yellow and sharp beneath the hood, fixed me in place. “Yet you overcame it.” I nodded, unsure what else to say. In truth, I wasn’t sure if we had overcome it or merely gotten lucky. His gaze lingered for a moment before he stepped back from the machine. The faint metallic scrape of his boots against the floor broke the silence. “This will change much,” Jagiełło murmured, mostly to himself. “For all of us.” He didn’t elaborate. He never did. We stood there a while longer, me staring at the machine, him lost in quiet calculation. Then, without further ceremony, he turned and began walking toward the vault’s exit. I followed a step behind, my heart pounding with a mixture of quiet exhilaration and rising apprehension. I couldn’t help but wonder—not just about the machine, but about what this discovery meant for us, for the Resistance, and for my family back in the mines. My fingers absently brushed against the lasrifle slung over my shoulder as if reassuring myself that I was still just a soldier, still grounded, even as the scale of what we’d uncovered threatened to sweep me away. Jagiełło said nothing more, his footfalls steady, echoing against the vault’s walls. Only when we left the chamber did I risk a glance back. The Iron Duke—whatever it truly was—waited silently in the dark, its purpose and power still cloaked in shadow. ----- The echoes of bootsteps lingered faintly, diminishing with each step down the winding corridor until only silence remained. Mona stood alone at the threshold, eyes cast over the slumbering colossus cloaked in tarpaulin and shadows. Lamplight pooled in uneven circles across the chamber, casting long, soft-edged silhouettes that barely touched the corners of the vault. Dust hung suspended in the air like old memories. The Iron Duke loomed still, its towering blast shield and flanks swaddled in thick layers of age-stained canvas. Yet, even beneath the coverings, its outline radiated a dormant menace, softened only by time. Mona advanced with slow, deliberate steps, her boots making no sound against the dust-smothered floor. She exhaled slowly, as if speaking a wordless greeting. Her fingers reached out, trailing across the tarpaulin as if it were the hide of some great beast. She did not know the finer purpose of its structures — the guns, the tracks, the layers of steel — but she felt its weight, its presence. And that was enough. She approached the blast shield, placing her palm flat against it. The cold of the metal seeped into her skin, the dust clinging faintly to her touch. With deliberate patience, she traced a three-quarter circle upon its surface, leaving a crescent-shaped mark in the dust — incomplete, waiting. A subtle breeze stirred within the vault, pulling at the motes of dust in languid spirals. No source could be seen, but Mona’s lips shifted into a soft, knowing smile. To others it would be nothing. To her, it was the Duke whispering back. She closed her eyes for a moment, savouring the moment. The tension she so often masked behind poised words and gentle touches gave way to quiet satisfaction. She could feel the Iron Duke’s potential — not in mechanics, but in meaning. This was no simple relic; it was a totem. A promise. A manifestation of what she and her kin would one day unleash. Mona opened her eyes again, stepping back slowly, leaving the mark untouched. “You’ll wake when you’re ready,” she whispered, voice low and reverent. And with that, she turned, vanishing into the half-light, leaving the Iron Duke to slumber a little longer.

The resistance outpost bustled with quiet activity. Low voices traded logistical updates, ration tallies, vehicle status reports. Jagiełło stood at the centre of it, near a long table littered with half-folded maps and dataslates. But when the coded chime of his personal vox-bead crackled in his ear, he stepped away without a word, moving toward a corner where the shadows gathered near the storage crates. He pressed a finger to the side of his jaw. "Fennec. Report." Silence for a heartbeat. Then the faintest murmur buzzed in his ear. Jagiełło listened, unmoving, his face unreadable. "Continue tracking," he said quietly. "No interference unless the conditions we discussed are met." More soft static. His eyes narrowed, though his tone remained level. "I understand. Do not lose him." He tapped the channel closed, then remained still for a few seconds longer, considering. Behind him, the soft hum of the outpost resumed — muted conversations, the clatter of ration tins, the grinding whine of an engine being coaxed back to life. Jagiełło returned to the table, eyes flicking once to the maps, then further — westward, where the desert stretched toward the coordinates that still glimmered in his thoughts. He said nothing to the others, but the wheels had begun to turn. ----- The mess hall was its usual haze of low voices and worn familiarity — the scent of the last meal still lingering, mingling with the faint aroma of old leather and the sharp tang of cheap detergent. My squad clustered around a battered metal table, sharing plates of ration stew and whatever passed for bread in this corner of the desert. I poked at mine, appetite hollow. The vox operator’s headset crackled, pulling me from my thoughts. He leaned toward me. “Sir—it's Jagiełło.” The words stiffened my spine. I took the handset without hesitation. “This is the 280th.” The line buzzed faintly, but Jagiełło’s voice came through, low and controlled. I kept my replies clipped. “Understood. This evening. Two Chimeras, 312 and 376.” I flicked a glance at the squad, catching Laska’s smirk as she toyed with her meal. “Yes, sir,” I continued. “Engineers and demo specialists attached. Proceeding to the coordinates.” More static. I nodded out of habit. “We’ll be ready.” The line went dead. I set the handset down, standing to address the squad. “Change of plans. We’re moving out tonight.” A few groans, but no surprise. They’d seen worse. “Armoury. Now. We’re kitting up for a long haul.” Laska leaned back, grinning. “Guess I won’t get to spend the evening with my first love after all.” A few chuckles circled the table, and a groan from Krystan. “Laska, no one wants to hear about you and that spanner.” I allowed a tight smile. I wasn’t about to ruin what little levity we could muster. In the armoury, the squad moved with purpose. They might have joked, but every one of them checked weapons, recharged power packs, and inspected their armour. Flamethrowers, grenade launchers, and extra charge packs were distributed. The engineers huddled near the far wall, fussing over tool kits and breaching charges. I double-checked the requisition sheets, making sure everything matched up. It wasn’t perfect — but it was done right. As we stepped out into the chill of the evening, the desert sky beginning to turn the colour of bruised steel, the Chimeras idled at the loading ramp. Their hulls were dulled and pitted, but ready. “Mount up!” I barked, louder than I needed to. The squad shuffled toward the vehicles. I muttered under my breath, “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

So, I've started posting more full scenes on the story. I originally starting to create small vignettes from my originally-written passages but felt they were not conveying everything I was trying to get across. Currently, I'm about six months ahead, in terms of writing progress, of what you see here and I hope you are enjoying it. I never really intended to share my writing, but it is heartening that people enjoy it. I've made quite a few breaks from the GW Genestealer Cult lore: - The Genestealer's Kiss is kept to a minimum. As I mentioned in a previous post, I feel like it's too much of a McGuffin, so keep it reserved for a few, select characters. I prefer the Cult (or Resistance, as it is termed in the writing) to evolve naturally with the force of will of the Primus and Mona's seductive, whispered words drawing people in. - I don't use the term Primus or Magus, except once. This makes it feel more like an everyman story. - The Fennec is, for anyone familiar with the army, a Jackal Alphus. I've changed her a little, also. She's very much a lone wolf. I've changed her weapon, too, so she functions more like a cross between an Alphus and a Sanctus. For the gun nerds out there, her weapon is based on the Denel NTW-20 with the .50 cal barrel. I do want to make a conversion of her model with her prone beside her bike with the tripod and muzzle brake, as there's no way she's firing that from the saddle. In terms of language, the names of things may seem a little unusual to some, but there is method in the madness. Most people are given Polish or pseudo-Slavic names. These represent the newer wave of settlers who have overtaken the original settlers of the planet. Names like Jagiełło, Marek, and the sergeant Róźa Makówska, who you will get to meet soon. Older names, such as those for flora and fauna and certain places, reflect the previous wave of settlers, hundreds of years ago, who were of Scandinavian descent, Danish in particular. The rovfugl, a desert bird, for example. We'll meet some of the desert nomads in a coming scene who speak in Danish amongst themselves. I do this, not to be fancy or anything, but because I have family in both countries and have lived in both for some years. I think it adds to the 'otherness' of the place in the sense that we all what the GSC and Imperial Guard is, but, I hope on reading, it yanks you just out of the comfort zone just long enough. Thoughts are most welcome and thank you for following my story.

I'm going break character a moment and preface this entry with a little context for you. I've never liked the Genestealer's Kiss mechanic; it's always felt like a bit of a McGuffin to me in terms of story, a quick and easy way to move the story along. So, as this blog continues and follows our narrator, it's going to become obvious he's not been taken by it. He has met the Patriarch, though he does not know the true horror of its monstrosity, being shrouded and cloaked but the encounter has left him nervous. However, he is in a desperate position, so he has tried to set aside these thoughts, but they are still there, gnawing away at the back of his mind. I'm yet to write this encounter; I'm not sure I have to, to be honest. I may just leave what happened hanging in the air, as I don't want the Patriarch to feature heavily. I prefer the idea the Cult is bonded by pure action and the sheer force of will of its leaders, such as Mona in the previous entry, and Jagiełło, who we're about to meet. The Patriarch only uses the Kiss on a very specific few individuals, such as these two. Thoughts, constructive criticism, commentary most welcome. The first time I saw Jagiełło, he was standing in the half-light of the bunker entrance, his silhouette framed against the cold glow of the excavation lamps. He did not move like the others, those we had brought into the fold with whispered promises and slow, careful persuasion. He was not one of Mona’s converts. He had always known his place, always understood his duty. He stepped forward, boots grinding against the sand-covered floor, and the men around him straightened instinctively. They did not salute but there was something in the way they moved that betrayed their reverence. They knew, as I did, that Jagiełło was not like us. He was something honed, something sharpened. A weapon in the making, waiting to be unsheathed. His voice, when he spoke, was measured and clipped. “Show me.” One of the PDF officers, a man who had once worn his uniform with pride, led him down into the depths. The air grew thick with dust as we descended, past rusted bulkheads and shattered lighting fixtures. The bunker had been sealed for centuries, its purpose long forgotten by the Imperium. But we had not forgotten. Our Father had not forgotten. When we reached the vault, Jagiełło paused. His gloved fingers traced the worn aquila carved into the ancient plascrete doors, lingering just long enough to make the officer shift uneasily. Then, without a word, he stepped back and gestured for the charges to be set. I watched him as the detonators were placed. He did not flinch at the thunderous roar of the explosion, nor did he shield his eyes from the dust and debris. He simply waited, watching as the past was torn open before him, revealing the weapons that would shape our future. Mona spoke of destiny. She wove dreams and promises. But Jagiełło? He did not deal in futures. He dealt in the now, in the cold steel and fire that would bring the Imperium to its knees. And, in that moment, I understood. He was not our leader. He was our saviour and executioner. I did not realise he had noticed me until he called on me. "You. Step forward." I stiffened, my fingers clenching at my rifle’s sling before I forced them to relax. The others moved away as if the command had not been given to them, leaving me exposed beneath the dim bunker lights. Jagiełło regarded me with a cold, appraising stare. Not cruel, not angry—just weighing something, as though he were judging the strength of a blade before deciding if it should be kept or discarded. "You are 280th Sunward Watch," he stated rather than asked. I swallowed. "Yes, sir." His head tilted slightly. "A soldier. But before that?" "A miner," I admitted, the word tasting like dust on my tongue. It had not been long since they pulled me from the shafts and thrust a rifle into my hands. My back still remembered the weight of the pick, and in my lungs the ever-present grit of the tunnels. "And now you dig for something greater," Jagiełło mused, his voice quiet but edged with certainty. "You understand toil. You understand obedience. But do you understand purpose?" The air in the bunker felt heavier, though I knew it was only in my mind. The truth clawed at my throat, tangled in fear and something else—something that had begun growing ever since Mona first whispered to us in the dark. "I..." I started, then faltered. The hesitation made my stomach twist. I expected dismissal, maybe even contempt. Instead, Jagiełło’s lips curled into something almost resembling a smile. A ghost of one. A fraction of a second, then it was gone. "You will learn," he said, turning away. "Keep up. The time for doubt is ending."