Inside the strategic command hub of the Orpheus System, Marneus Calgar sat behind his expansive desk. This location had once been a planetary governor's estate, but it was now repurposed into the Supreme High Command for the war effort.
The flickering blue light of the holographic projectors played across his stone-hard features, revealing a profound exhaustion. The Chapter Master of the Ultramarines and Lord of Macragge had been working for more Terran days than he could count.
According to his current schedule, he managed only three hours of deep sleep every three days. At all other times, his mind raced at high speeds, processing a cataclysmic influx of intelligence and decisions.
The situation in Orpheus was far more complex than the previous conflict in Plantidium. There, the forces were largely Successor Chapters of the Ultramarines—brothers of the same bloodline who shared tactical philosophies and cultural customs, making them easy to command. Orpheus, however, hosted a massive coalition gathered to face the Necron threat that claimed it would scour the Eastern Fringe.
Hundreds of Adeptus Astartes Chapters from different gene-sires had converged here. They brought diverse cultures, varied traditions, and in some cases, ancient feuds spanning millennia. Ordering the Space Wolves to coordinate with the Dark Angels, or tasking close-quarters zealots to provide cover for long-range specialists, was a constant challenge.
Friction, conflict, and subtle power struggles over command occurred daily. Calgar was not just a commander; he was a tightrope-walking mediator. He had to carefully balance these volatile powers to ensure this great sword of the Imperium did not shatter itself before striking the enemy.
It was a burden heavy enough to crush a mortal man, but Calgar knew the potential rewards. If he successfully led this coalition to victory, he would become the de facto wartime leader recognized by these Chapters, and the prestige of the Ultramarines would reach a new zenith.
Just as Calgar finished signing a logistics allocation document and rubbed his aching temples, an adjutant entered and reported respectfully, "My Lord, Gabriel Seth, Chapter Master of the Flesh Tearers, requests an audience."
Calgar's fingers paused on the desk.
Seth?
Memories of the previous strategic briefing flashed through his mind. He recalled the man in the red-and-black power armor standing alone in a corner like a beast temporarily held by chains. Seth had remained silent throughout the meeting, radiating an intense air of isolation as if he cared for nothing but slaughter.
Why would such a man seek him out?
Calgar's first instinct was that something disastrous had happened. A Chapter Master of such a reclusive and violent temperament did not come by for social calls.
"Send him in immediately," Calgar said, his voice deep. He quickly straightened his appearance, resuming his posture of unshakable authority.
A moment later, heavy footsteps echoed as Gabriel Seth strode into the office.
As the airlock doors hissed shut, only the two Chapter Masters remained. It was their first time facing one another in such close, private quarters.
Calgar looked up, scrutinizing the man before him. Seth was unhelmeted; his face was a map of scars, and his eyes burned with a ferocity and restlessness that was hard to mask. To Calgar, the figure before him did not look like an Imperial commander, but rather a dangerous, bloodthirsty predator ready to strike. Even in his stillness, a faint scent of blood seemed to permeate the air.
In Seth's eyes, the image of Calgar sitting behind that massive desk was entirely different.
The Ultramarine wore armor of perfect craftsmanship and maintained impeccable etiquette and a calm sense of total control. To Seth, this was too "clean."
It reminded him of the hypocritical bureaucrats of the Administratum who sat in high towers deciding the fates of billions with a quill. That mask of "correctness" and benevolence made the Flesh Tearer, who lived in mountains of corpses, feel instinctively uneasy.
Their gazes met. While no sparks flew, it was clear that neither had made a favorable first impression on the other.
"Chapter Master Seth," Calgar began, breaking the silence. He stood up, observing the formal protocols between Astartes, his voice steady and resonant. "It is an honor. Is there urgent military intelligence we must discuss?"
Seth did not acknowledge the pleasantries, nor did he offer a salute. He simply stared at Calgar, as if trying to peer into the very soul of the Lord of Macragge.
He went straight to the point, his voice as low and harsh as two grindstones rubbing together: "Cousin Calgar, I have a question for you."
"Speak," Calgar replied patiently.
Seth took a step forward, lowering his voice further. He enunciated every word: "Those 'Helldivers'... are they loyal?"
Calgar blinked, momentarily stunned. He had expected Seth to complain about supply shortages, demand a more dangerous vanguard assignment, or report a clash with another Chapter. He never expected a question so bizarre.
The Helldivers? That mortal unit known for the most suicidal combat, the heaviest casualties, and the most fanatical devotion to the Emperor?
Calgar's brow furrowed. The question felt nonsensical, even absurd. It lowered his opinion of the Flesh Tearer leader further—was the man not only bloodthirsty but also paranoid?
"Brother Seth," Calgar said, sitting back down with a mix of confusion and gravity. "Why would you doubt the loyalty of the Helldivers? Their performance on the battlefield is undeniable. I would go so far as to say they are the most fearless mortal soldiers I have ever witnessed."
Hearing what sounded like a diplomatic script, Seth's expression darkened. His large, power-gloved hand slammed onto the desk. He leaned forward like a volcano on the verge of eruption.
"I want the truth, Calgar," Seth said, his voice heavy with pressure.
In Seth's mind, the logic was simple: while the Helldivers were nominally Astra Militarum, the entire Imperium knew of their close ties to the Ultramarines. Therefore, the blood ritual they performed—the one capable of soothing the Astartes' rage—must have been sanctioned or known by the Ultramarines.
Calgar's frown deepened. Seth's aggressive stance was an insult; as the coalition commander, Calgar had every right to discipline him for such disrespect. However, his discipline and focus on the greater war effort allowed him to suppress his anger.
"Then I shall tell you truthfully," Calgar said, staring directly into Seth's bloodshot eyes. "I have no idea what you are talking about, Cousin Seth."
The air in the room seemed to freeze.
Seth stared at Calgar for several seconds, searching for even the slightest crack in his expression. He found only genuine confusion and sincerity.
"Fine. It seems we have nothing more to say."
Seth abruptly pulled his hand back. Without another glance at Calgar, he turned and strode toward the exit.
The moment Calgar spoke, Seth made his judgment: there was no point in continuing.
The logic was simple: if Calgar was telling the truth and truly knew nothing of the Flesh Tearers' predicament or the ritual, then continuing the conversation would force Seth to explain why he was asking.
That would mean confessing the shameful defect in the Flesh Tearers' gene-seed and admitting they were now forced to rely on mortal blood to maintain their sanity. It would mean handing the Chapter's greatest weakness—and potential evidence of heresy—to an outsider. Seth would not take that risk.
And if Calgar was lying, playing the role of the actor, then there was even less reason to speak with a deceitful politician.
The heavy airlock door cycled open and shut. Seth vanished into the hallway without a single word of parting etiquette.
Calgar watched him leave, his brow tightly knit. He felt perplexed and more than a little insulted by the rudeness. However, the Lord of Macragge was no fool. Once his initial irritation faded, cold logic took over. He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping the desk, lost in thought.
Seth had come specifically to ask about the loyalty of the Helldivers and left immediately upon receiving a denial. The behavior was highly irregular.
"The Flesh Tearers have a secret..." Calgar murmured, a sharp glint in his eyes. "But why would that secret involve the Helldivers?"
Clearly, the Flesh Tearers had discovered something—or something had happened—regarding those mortals, and whatever it was, it was highly sensitive.
But Calgar buried the thought almost as quickly as it arose.
He looked at the mountain of documents on his desk and the dense clusters of red icons on the holographic star map. He was too busy. There were countless strategic deployments to adjust and tensions between a hundred Chapters to soothe. He had no time to obsess over the dark little secrets of the Flesh Tearers.
To put it bluntly, the Flesh Tearers numbered a mere four hundred Astartes. In a theater of war involving tens of thousands of Space Marines and the fate of an entire sector, their weight was not that significant.
"Let them be, so long as they kill xenos," Calgar muttered. He shook his head, picked up his data slate, and returned to his arduous work.