The war room aboard the Shadow of Lycaeus was deathly still, save for the distant hum of auspex feeds and the pulsing flicker of hololith projections casting spectral blue across Cora’s pale features. Below, on the ash-drenched world of Yharak Prime, her vanguard clawed at the enemy's outer bastions, calculated feints, surgical incursions, nothing more.

"Send in Talon-Three to sector theta-seven,"* * she murmured, watching the flickering dots of her Astartes shift. "Keep probing. I want them tested."

A mortal officer approached, she turned to him.

"Bring me the slate. I want every casualty and reaction time logged."