They soon came through the archway into a large audience chamber. The walls were hung with ornate drapes from a ceiling at least a hundred feet high. Banners from Orestes regiments that had been sent to distant wars hung in lines across the hall while clarion-cherubs flitted about the vaulted dome, sounding trumpets at the Space Marines’ arrival. A group of several dozen lavishly dressed individuals gathered at the far end, while more guards were stationed to either side, several hundred in total.

Walking onto the hard marble, his boots ringing seemingly in time with the continued clarion call, Aeschelus reviewed the soldiers. They looked smart, but each showed heavy strain, dark rings around their bloodshot eyes. Trembling hands and quivering lips. Though they stood straight and proud they glanced at each other, or kept their eyes fixed on the floor rather than ahead. He saw a few whose lips were moving in whispers and, thanks to his augmented hearing, he could pick out the words of prayers – messages of thanks and calls for deliverance.

The crowd of nobles parted, revealing an older man, lines of supportive augmetics beneath the skin of his throat and laced into the backs of his hands. His hair was just a few wisps across a bionic-pierced scalp. He was dressed in a uniform of the Astra Militarum, a brocaded greatcoat of scarlet and gold, a filigree-hilted sword at his waist and a long-barrelled pistol on the other hip.

Many were the stories of self-interested governors that lived richly on the labours of their subjects. Corruption was rife and the captain had believed Lowensten a coward for issuing his surrender. The gaze that swept up to meet Aeschelus was not what he had expected. Grey eyes met his, unyielding even in the face of the giant warrior bearing down with one hand on the pommel of his power sword, and a massive shield hung on the other arm.

Further to Aeschelus’ surprise, the Imperial commander stiffly lowered to one knee as the captain approached, bowing his head. A ripple of gasps and muttering coursed through the assembled nobles. One other remained close at hand, her black coat fastened with large golden buttons up to the chin, lacy white gloves bright against the dark skin of her hands. She walked with a cane topped with a small golden skull, her face hidden behind a veil that hung from two jewelled pins stuck through a small hillock of hair.

‘Imperial Commander Kaleb Monfrottine Lowensten offers his profound gratitude for your arrival, Captain Aeschelus of the Ultramarines,’ said the woman. ‘Your arrival has reminded him of his own deficiency in duty and he is humbled by your example in bringing battle to the xenos without hesitation. He has erred and has sought penance from his Sister-Chatelain, but also offers himself up to the altar of your judgement.’