They were Tempestus Scions. The most elite human soldiers of the Imperium. Fearless, loyal and armed with the finest armour and weapons the Adeptus Mechanicus could forge. I had seen them before, though usually only as parade troops or escorts for a dignitary. But even then, with gleaming armour and freshly starched greatcoats, one look in their eyes told you they were not some ceremonial entourage. They were deadly warriors who had faced and overcome the worst the galaxy could offer.

These soldiers still carried something of that spirit, but few could walk unaided, burdened by their injuries. Most had not been inflicted by the crash, for they were already bound and bandaged. The gouges in their chestplates suggested bladed weapons powerful enough to rend carapace armour.

Orks.

‘Lord Simlex?’

I almost jumped from my skin. My consciousness had been so bound with Mizar that I had forgotten my own body. It still lay upon the bed, but as I peered through my own eyes, I realised I was no longer alone. Governor Dolos’ steward, Stylee, had the door half-open, though he cowered behind it, as if seeking to shield himself from my wrath.

‘Please enter,’ I said, sitting up. A sliver of my mind remained with Mizar, but there was little to report now. Instead, I focused on the servant.

He bowed low. It took me a moment to realise he did not seem intent on rising, apparently awaiting my command.

‘Please, be at ease,’ I said. Stylee bobbed once in acknowledgement before raising his head. I cannot say his expression was markedly more friendly than the evening prior, his eyes still hinting at something between bemusement and disgust. But his manner could not have been more courteous.

‘Forgive the intrusion, my lord,’ he said. ‘Governor Dolos requested I periodically check in on you, and I wanted to ensure your rest had not been disrupted by… by the God-Emperor, the window!’

‘Ah, yes,’ I said as he rushed over to the glass. ‘An unfortunate accident. I must apologise.’

‘You are not at fault, my lord,’ Stylee replied, glaring through the shattered pane at the rising sun. ‘It is those thrice-cursed pilots. They fly too low and too fast, uncaring of the damage inflicted. This estate is not like the slums they are familiar with. We cannot simply insert a prefabricated pane, not with a living building. The wood must be coaxed into accepting the glass. It would be days of work even if we were fully staffed.’

I was no longer sure whether he was addressing me, the muttering having devolved into a mantra of resentment. I felt a stab of guilt for not admitting fault, but he would not listen anyway. Besides, he already held his prejudices against the pilots. It was not my place to refute them.

‘It is quite all right,’ I said as he fussed about the frame. ‘We are at war after all. We must all make sacrifices.’