When scions mount, knights thunder forth, and banners snap as lances join.

  When angels fall from burning skies, they bring not grace, but righteous ruin.

  Ancient stone and glass watched as Chaplain Dracos led the squad through the keep. Their ceramite bootsteps echoed from the walls as they approached the towered wooden doors of the court. Everything around them was old—from the banners that bore no aquila, to the stained glass windows that heralded saints whose names were long forgotten beyond this world.

  Tapestries lined the stone halls, telling tales of the planet’s conquest by its original colonists thousands of years before the Great Crusade. Carvings in the support columns recited myths older still.

  Two attendants waited at the doors. A third figure stood with them, robed, his hands tucked neatly into his sleeves.

  The squad halted.

  The robed figure stepped forward, his bearing practiced, his bow precise but shallow.

  “Astartes,” the steward said calmly. “We did not expect such esteemed company within our humble holdings. His Majesty, High King Alaric Valcaryn 667th of his line, invites you to join his court for as long as you wish.”

  Brother Kanel scoffed.

  “The Emperor’s Angels require no invitation.”

  A gauntleted hand rose. The sergeant silenced him without turning.

  “We accept,” Sergeant Tamor said. “And we thank you for the hospitality.”

  The steward inclined his head.

  “Of course, my lords. You are honored guests of the High King. While you remain in his court, you will be treated as equals—and bound by its laws. But before you enter, there are certain… protocols of court you should be aware of.”

  Dracos’s skull helm tilted fractionally.

  “Protocols?” he asked. If the steward experienced any transhuman dread, he concealed it well.

  “Naturally. High King Valcaryn the 667th is to be addressed as Your Highness. You may speak freely when recognized, but you will not interrupt His Majesty, even should he interrupt you. You will stand among the Men-at-Arms when not petitioning the throne. No oaths may be uttered within this court unless invited to do so by His Majesty. And—”

  The steward hesitated for a heartbeat.

  “—I must ask that you remove your helmets.”

  Silence followed.

  “No,” Dracos said.

  The steward faltered. Only slightly.

  “M-my lord?”

  “We will not remove our helmets at your request.”

  “You must understand,” Sergeant Tamor interjected, his tone measured, “the only place an Astartes is required to remove his helm is within a sanctuary of the Imperial Cult.”

  Dracos stepped forward, just enough that the steward had to look up at him.

  “Be careful with your next words, mortal.” The Chaplain’s gauntleted hand wrapped around the stave of his crozius, still maglocked to his belt, for now.

  “I would not dare to elevate our humble keep to the glorious sanctuaries of the ecclesiarchy. However tradition states th-”

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  “Enough of this,” Dracos said, stepping past the steward and pushing the doors to the court open himself.

  The roar of a dozen conversations greeted him as the squad entered. A few nobles glanced their way, but none seemed startled by their presence. If anything, they looked irritated at the thunder of ceramite boots against marble floors.

  The squad advanced toward the collection of thrones at the head of the hall. Where the rest of the keep had been stone and timber, the thrones were wrought from metal and inlaid with innumerable technologies. Some were occupied. Others stood empty. There were gaps where thrones should have stood.

  At the center, lounging casually, sat High King Alaric Valcaryn DCLXVII.

  He raised one hand, barely above his shoulder.

  The court fell silent.

  When the last echo faded, the High King spoke.

  “I had a dream a fortnight ago,” he said. “Saint Celestine came to me and spoke of the Emperor’s avenging angels arriving as welcomed intruders. I believed she meant to intervene in our disputes herself. Now I see she was speaking of you, Astartes.”

  Dracos stopped exactly on the sigil inlaid to the floor. A mortal would be forced to look up upon their King’s throne. Dracos and his brothers met the king's eye level. The king in turn looked at himself in the reflection of their eye lenses.

  “Your Highness,” started Sergeant Tamor “Do you know why we have come?”

  “I assume because the God-Emperor wills it?” Valcaryn replied lightly.

  Laughter rippled through the court.

  “The Emperor’s will is surely the reason our vessel was in orbit,” Tamor said. “What has driven us to the surface is the Tau positioning to invade your world.”

  “Ah,” Valcaryn said. “Yes. I heard of the battle in orbit. A shame, really. Those ships were rather expensive.”

  “Are you not concerned with a xenos invasion?” Dracos asked bluntly.

  Valcaryn flicked his gaze to the Chaplain.

  “No,” he said. “I am not.”

  Dracos’s grip tightened around his crozius.

  “Would you care to explain yourself, then?” he hissed.

  “I owe you no explanation, Astartes,” Valcaryn replied evenly. “I remind you that the Kingdoms of Samora are allies of your Imperium, not its vassals. Regardless, you should know that Samora has endured xenos incursions throughout its history. Most from the orks but the Tau are not new to us either.”

  Dracos stilled.

  “They have been here before?”

  “Yes. Twice.” Valcaryn’s tone was almost bored. “Once nine Terran years ago. Again five.”

  “Attempted infiltration?” Tamor asked.

  “Attempted,” Valcaryn confirmed. “The first time, the villagers rejected them outright. Killed the filth. Burned their ship.”

  “And the second?” Dracos asked.

  “The second required intervention,” Valcaryn said. “The Tau had entrenched themselves. Corrupted the village. The local Lord Protector took his retinue and razed the xenos fort.”

  Dracos’s voice was iron.

  “And what did you do about such corruption?”

  Valcaryn leaned back upon his throne. A thin smile crossed his face.

  “I did nothing. It occurred within the lands of one of my vassals.”

  He tilted his head, considering them.

  “The Lord Protector, however, was thorough.”

  The court remained silent.

  “He emptied the village,” Valcaryn continued calmly. “Hung every man, woman, and child from every corner of the protectorate. A lesson, you understand. In what becomes of those who offer sympathy to xenos.”

  The smile never left his face.

  Dracos nodded, approving.

  “Such is the fate of any xenophile.”

  “However, Your Highness,” Sergeant Tamor said, “we must impress upon you that this is not a single ship, but an invasion force. The Tau have seized control of your orbital elevator and will begin landing troops imminently.”

  Valcaryn’s gaze flicked to the side.

  “Master of Banners,” he said idly. “Remind me—which house currently controls the dock?”

  “That would be House Caldris, Your Highness,” replied a man at the base of the dais.

  Laughter roared through the court.

  Valcaryn smiled.

  “How fortuitous.”

  “Your Highness?” Tamor asked.

  “House Caldris is in open rebellion against my rule,” Valcaryn said. “Along with several other major houses. Let them absorb the first blow. Let them bleed against the Tau.”

  He leaned forward slightly.

  “They will be forced to return to the fold—or lose their holdings entirely. Either way, the xenos are weakened, and it costs me nothing.”

  “Traitors within your realm?” Tamor said coldly. “That is information you might have shared sooner.”

  Valcaryn waved a hand dismissively.

  “Ease yourself, Lord-Sergeant. Civil wars and claims against the throne are merely politics in kinetic form. And politics,” he added, smiling thinly, “are wars that have yet to declare.”

  His eyes hardened.

  “My grandfather once invited a Compliance Crusade over a similar misunderstanding. I assure you—I have no intention of repeating his error.”

  Valcaryn settled back into his throne.

  “I will marshal my troops when this enemy threatens my holdings or that of my allies. For now, let the rebels and the xenos fight each other.”

  Dracos said nothing.

  The Chaplain’s grip loosened on his crozius.

  “I grow bored of this audience. Your ecclesiarchy maintains a cathedral here in the city. I understand the sisters there have facilities for power armor and accommodations for your kind. Perhaps you will be more comfortable in their hospitality. Of course you are invited to visit my court whenever you please.”

  The Astartes turned as one and left the court, the din of conversation resumed the closer they got to the doors.

  At the space elevator, Knight-scions and men at arms watched as tau recon drones burned across their sky, and their optics caught images of the banners of House Caldris for the first time.