Chapter 1: The Sky Hung Low
Dust shimmered over the shattered webway gate like sun-warmed ash. Beneath the twin moons of Cyllene Tertius, the soil bled violet where crystal trees had once stood. Now, only splinters remained — and the dead.
Aeldari of the Worldcrafting caste moved silently through the rubble, their armor reflecting fractured daylight in ghostly hues. They were sculptors of life, not soldiers — but war had no patience for purpose. Among them walked Kaelith S'yren, her expression unreadable behind the translucent helm.
She paused near a broken obsidian pillar. The runes etched along its curve flickered with weak memory, whispering warnings in long-dead dialects.
"They're close." The thought came unbidden, sharp and cold.
Her hand found the hilt of her mirage blade. Not ceremonial. Not artistic. Not anymore.
A distant roar cut through the veil of heat — a sound like thunder cracking bone.
"They come with fire in their blood," she murmured, barely audible. "Mon-keigh. Blood Angels."
The Aeldari ranger beside her, Vaeriel, crouched and peered through the ruins. His voice was taut with restrained panic. "Their drop pods struck a kilometer south. They're moving fast—too fast."
"Red Thirst," Kaelith said. "They hunger. But not for victory."
Above them, a low-flying Thunderhawk streaked past, its engines howling like banshees. A moment later, it banked hard and released a payload of drop pods into the crusted basin beyond the valley.
"Positions," Kaelith ordered. Her voice cut clean through the Aeldari line.
No hesitation. No debate.
They melted into the terrain like wind-chased shadows. Kaelith vaulted over a collapsed arch, her slender frame moving with unnatural grace. She didn't run — she flowed. Her footsteps kissed the ground and left no echo.
Internal Monologue: I should not be here. I was made to shape planets, not defend them. Yet here I stand, blade in hand, waiting for monsters in angel's flesh.
She felt it before she saw them — a pressure, like heat building behind her eyes.
The Blood Angels emerged with crimson fury. The first wave burst through the shattered shell of a dome, jump packs screaming, chainswords revving like ravenous beasts.
Kaelith raised her hand. A kinetic burst flared from her palm, slamming the lead Angel mid-air. He crashed into a wall with a spray of blood and ceramite shards.
"Fall back to the third line! Don't engage head-on!"
Too late. The sky was raining red.
One Aeldari warrior was torn apart mid-leap, a chainblade digging through his chest. Another vanished under a bolter burst. Kaelith ducked, spun, and retaliated — her mirage blade humming as it severed a Marine's knee joint.
"They're faster than last time!" Vaeriel shouted over the chaos.
"They're starving!" Kaelith yelled back. "They don't see us as foes. They see prey!"
A Blood Angel landed a meter from her, his armor adorned with parchments and purity seals. His face was bare — young, but sunken, as if drained from within. His eyes glowed with something far older than rage.
"Witch," he growled. "You stink of lies and cowardice."
Kaelith didn't reply. She moved — fast.
Their blades met. He was brute strength, she was technique. He swung like a hammer, and she dodged like smoke. A glancing blow slammed into her shoulder, sending her spinning. She rolled, twisted mid-air, and flung a pulse mine at his feet.
BOOM.
It detonated, throwing them both backward. She landed hard, chest heaving.
Internal Monologue: He doesn't care about victory. He wants the kill. He wants the taste.
She rose, blade ready — but another Marine was already charging. Twin chainaxes. No finesse. Just hunger.
She dropped low, sliding beneath his guard. Her blade traced an arc across his thigh, then a second across his lower back. As he howled, she kicked upward, sending him stumbling into a collapsing wall.
"Third position! Pull to the left ridge!"
She regrouped with Vaeriel and the remaining warriors — four, maybe five of them now.
"We hold the ridge," she commanded. "Buy the exodus time."
The Blood Angels followed — silent now, like predators sensing the cornered.
Above, the skies grew darker. Thunderhawks still circled.
" We're not fighting soldiers. We're fighting ghosts of who they were."
She knew what came next.
The final stand.
End of Chapter 1
Word count: ~1,050