"Help! Help me—!"
"I can't breathe… can't… breathe—!"
"AAARGH—! My skin—!"
"They're breaking through! They're breaking through—!"
Across the vox channels came nothing but screams and static. Reports dissolved into choking, gunfire, and the wet sound of things no longer human.
"We can't stand here and do nothing," one Voidmaster snapped. "We're letting our men die out there."
The Voidmarshal, commander of the ship's Voidmen, did not answer. His eyes remained fixed on the tactical display, listening to the fragmented transmissions from his still-fighting—still-dying—subordinates.
"Calm yourself," another Voidmaster interjected quickly. "We all want to drive the traitors out. But if we rush in blind, we lose everything. We need a plan."
"Plan?" the first shot back, turning sharply. "While they're being butchered?"
"Sister," the Voidmarshal said quietly, ignoring the argument as he turned to the Battle Sister standing beside him. "Your counsel."
The Sister of Battle met his gaze, her expression hard but steady.
"With how the situation is deteriorating and the traitor speed hasn't slow down, there's nothing we can do," she said plainly, "we only can hold the strong points to hold out until reinforcement arrived."
Hearing what the Sister said, the first Voidmaster slam his hand hard on the rail. While the second one look downward.
"Very well," the Voidmarshall nodded as the screaming continue to broadcast, "signal the remaining squads to fall back and fortify the remaining strong points, they will hold to the last men."
"I will also send my Sisters to help them," the Sister, who is a Palatine said as multiple squads of Soraritas begin the leave the chamber.
Due to the severity of this attack, many of the Canoness that station at the northern Camelarion sector begin to mobilize their force, either to support the interception fleet to serve as counter-boarding force or reinforce the worlds garrison Cohorts.
And because that Camelarion having many convents from Order of Bloody Rose and Sacred Rose, and both of them often operate side by side, many of the commanding officers for the Soraritas forces are from Sacred Rose while the front line officers comprised almost solely of Sisters from Bloody Rose.
Currently, the Palatine is from the Sacred Rose and other than the squad she personally leading, the other twelve squads are all from the Bloody Rose.
Hearing what she said and seeing that the Sisters already moving out, the The Voidmarshal gave her a brief nod of gratitude before turning back to his officers.
"Seal Sections Gamma through Kappa. Collapse secondary bulkheads. Prepare purgation protocols."
The ship trembled as distant detonations echoed through its structure.
On the cruiser's bridge, the situation was no better.
Damage runes flashed across control panels. The machine-spirit wailed in binary distress through flickering consoles.
"The connection—how long until we can contact the flagship?" the Captain demanded, one hand gripping the command throne as she fought to stabilize the failing systems.
"We cannot, mistress," an officer replied grimly. "Astropathic Choir is silent—either slain or cut off. Vox arrays remain inoperative. The dorsal relays were destroyed in the last lance strike."
The Captain's jaw tightened.
"Do your best," she said quickly, leaning forward as she attempted once more to soothe the wounded machine-spirit, murmuring binharic prayers to keep it from slipping into corruption under the strain of boarding actions. "We must inform the Vice Admiral. The fleet we are engaging is not the Plague Fleet."
A few officers exchanged uneasy glances.
"By your will, mistress," the officer replied. He turned back to the cluster of Tech-Priests hunched over sparking consoles, mechadendrites twitching as they worked to restore even a fragment of vox capability.
Though the vox was crippled, the auspex still functioned.
That was both blessing and curse.
The Captain watched the tactical display in growing despair.
Across the void, the two fleets clashed at brutal proximity. Lance strikes stabbed between ships in blinding flashes. Macro-batteries roared, hurling cathedral-sized shells that shattered armor and tore open hulls. Explosions blossomed where void shields failed, turning warships into expanding spheres of fire and debris.
Attack craft filled the darkness.
Imperial Furies and Starhawks dueled with Hell Blades and Hell Talons in a chaotic web of contrails and weapons fire. Fighters weaved desperately, intercepting enemy bombers before they could line up attack runs. Bombers dove through flak bursts and tracer storms, torpedoes screaming toward vulnerable hull sections.
If this had been earlier—before she knew the truth—the Captain would have felt grim satisfaction. The enemy was being destroyed. The invasion would end here.
But now—
Now she understood.
And every exchange of fire felt like a knife twisting deeper.
When she had led her task force to intercept the intruding fleet, something had felt wrong. At first glance, the vessels bore the markings of plague ships—bloated sections, corroded plating, warp-scarring across their hulls.
Yet the corruption was… restrained.
The so-called plague vessels were not truly consumed by the Warp. Their hulls, though fouled, retained clean structural lines. Some of even still bored the Imperial Aquila upon their vessels.
When she ordered her officers to identify the ships and the report return to her, her unease only grew.
Unlike heavily corrupted warships that could not be identified without deep scans, these vessels were recognized almost at once.
Every single one of them belonged to the neighboring Sector Battlefleet.
That Sector—according to reports received by Camelarion—had been overrun by the Death Guard. Its battlefleet shattered. Its Imperial Guard regiments massacred before Astartes reinforcements could arrive.
Yet here those ships were.
Intact.
Operational.
And flying under false plague colors.
She decided to follow her orders—stall them. Buy time for the Vice Admiral to defeat the enemy ahead.
At first, the battle went well.
Just as she predicted, the enemy fought in loose formation. Their escorts were scattered. She destroyed several of them and even crippled one of their battleships.
Then she closed the distance.
She prepared to launch a full torpedo salvo—
And everything changed.
The traitor fleet suddenly reformed with perfect discipline.
Escorts moved into tight screening patterns, intercepting torpedoes with precision. Cruisers shifted fire onto her escorts, cutting them apart one by one.
Then came the macro salvo.
A massive, coordinated barrage slammed into her force. Multiple escorts were destroyed in seconds. Her own cruiser took heavy damage—void shields collapsed, armor torn open.
The battleships, which had seemed slow and damaged before, suddenly operated at full efficiency.
Their engines burned strong.
Their targeting was flawless.
And their launch bays opened.
Waves of attack craft poured into the void—far more organized than the rag-tagged traitor fleet that she suspected.
'A trap," she though as her cruiser shuddered under another heavy impact.
"Evasive maneuvers!" she shouted. "Get us away from them—maximum burn!"
"Aye, mistress!"
The helm responded instantly. Thrusters flared along the cruiser's flanks as it rolled hard to port. A fresh lance beam sliced through the space it had occupied seconds earlier, grazing the aft section instead of punching straight through the bridge.
"Shields collapsing on stern quadrant!" an officer yelled.
"Redirect power! Divert from port batteries if you must!"
Another macro salvo struck. The ship groaned like a wounded beast. Consoles exploded in sparks. A rating was thrown across the deck.
Behind them, two escorts failed to match the maneuver in time. One was torn apart by converging lance fire. The other vanished in a bloom of fire as bombers delivered a clean torpedo strike.
"They're matching our course!" the helm officer warned. "Enemy capital ships accelerating!"
But, before her can said anything, bridge suddenly shuddered, hardest than any of the before, and then, a bad news arrived.
"They've destroyed our engines!" the officer shouted, his voice breaking. "Main drives are gone—reactor output dropping!"
The cruiser lurched, then slowed—momentum bleeding away into the void.
Before she could respond—
"Boarding torpedoes!" the auspex operator cried out. "Multiple contacts—closing fast!"
"Fire the flak turrets!" she shouted. "Point-defense, full spread! Bring up a protective screen!"
The ship's remaining defense batteries roared to life. Streams of tracer fire and explosive flak filled the space around the drifting cruiser. One boarding torpedo detonated mid-flight. Another spun off course, venting plasma.
But too many remained.
Two slammed into the port side in violent impacts that shook the entire hull. A third struck near the ventral spine. The bridge lights flickered, then shifted to emergency red.
"Hull breach on decks twelve through sixteen! Pressure loss confirmed!"
"This is Squad Onix! We are engaging the boarding parties! By the Throne, the traitor Space Marines have boarded the ship!" came the frantic reply over vox—followed by the unmistakable sound of gunfire.
The Captain gripped the arm of her command throne.
"Seal internal bulkheads. Lock down the bridge. No one gets through."
She turned to the officer at the internal vox station.
"Order the Voidmarshal to engage the boarders," she said. She paused for a second. "Inform the Palatine as well. I believe the Sisters will assist."
"Yes, mistress."
Then came the waiting.
Reports came in one after another. The Voidmarshal spoke in short, steady bursts—how many men he had lost, which corridors had fallen, which strongpoints were still holding. Gunfire echoed in the background of every transmission.
She watch the pict-feeds sent from helm cameras and helmet lenses.
And that was when she noticed it.
The Death Guard boarding her ship wore different markings.
The symbol on their pauldrons was not one she had learn in the Naval Academy or the records she see in the Naval Archive.
She leaned closer to the display.
The armor was corrupted, yes—but not in the same pattern. Different iconography. Different colors beneath the filth.
Her breath slowed.
They were not under Typhus.
"They are not even the Plague Fleet…" she whispered.
This was an unknown warband.
A separate force.
Which meant—
The fleet that they was fighting might not be the Plague Fleet at all.
This whole engagement is a layered trap.
Ravian's fleet have destroy the traitor fleet, but not without suffering an enormous losses, not due to the salvos from the traitor vessels, but from the boarding parties. One Chalice, two Lunars and three Dictators while didn't suffer heavy damages upon their hulls, the boarding action done by the traitors have disable them as the traitors have massacre many of the crews, resulting many of the systems can't function properly.
And just like her own cruiser, many of them still had boarders alive inside.
Until every traitor was purged, none of those ships could safely enter the Warp. To do so risked bringing the enemy back to port—or worse, becoming trapped in the Warp itself.
Then—
"Vox arrays restored!" her officer shouted.
Without hesitation, she opened a direct channel.
Seconds later, Ravian's upper body appeared in a holographic projection before her.
"Well, Captain," Ravian began with a faint smile, "I'm glad you survi—"
"This is a trap!" she cut in sharply. "They are not the Plague Fleet. None of them are!"
Ravian's expression changed at once.
"What do you mean?"
"The plague marines boarding my ship—none bear the symbols of the Death Guard. None match the Plague Fleet's known markings." She transmitted the pict-feeds immediately. "We cross-checked with the Archive. No match."
Ravian studied the images in silence. The corrupted armor. The unfamiliar sigils.
An unknown warband.
Before either of them could speak—
Reality tore open.
Space ahead of the fleet twisted violently. A massive Warp rift split the void, far larger than any before. Lightning of sickly green and diseased yellow arced across its edges.
Alarms screamed across every ship.
From the rift, shapes emerged.
Bloated hulls. Rotting prows. Warp-swollen superstructures dripping corruption into realspace.
And at their center—
A massive, unmistakable vessel.
The icon of the Plague Fleet burned upon its hull.
The Terminus Est.
The true Plague Fleet had arrived.
Ravian's face went pale in the hologram—but only for a heartbeat. Then the Vice Admiral returned.
"Battle stations!" His voice carried through the transmission, sharp and absolute. "All vessels still combat-capable, form defensive line immediately! Damaged ships fall back behind the main formation. Dictators, recover all surviving attack craft now!"
The Terminus Est advanced with the rest of the Plague Fleet, immense and diseased, its silhouette unmistakable.
"This is the true Plague Fleet," Ravian said, voice grim. "The first engagement was meant to weaken us."
On multiple Imperial ships, internal battles still raged. Boarding actions were unfinished. Casualty reports continued to rise.
"Ravian," she said urgently, "we cannot enter Warp. The boarders still active. None of us can safely enter the Warp."
Ravian nodded.
"No retreat. We stand here."
But, the Emperor still blessed those that fighting for humanity.
Just before the Plague Fleet can enter combat engagement range, another large Warp signature detected on all of their Auspex.
Then, a large fleet emerge out of the Warp, an Imperial one.
For a brief moment, the battlefield froze.
Then an open vox channel flared to life, the voice cold and filled with righteous fury.
"Foul traitors!" the voice thundered. "How dare you seek to invade Camelarion! By the power granted by the Emperor, and by the honor of the Supreme Grand Master, you will perish here!"