It had been two days since the assault on Mone. The command bunker still smelled of promethium and blood, the air thick with static from burned-out vox lines. Commissar Severina Raine stood over the tactical display, the light from the hololith casting pale blue across her scarred breastplate.

The door hissed open, and and one of her lieutenants entered — helmet under one arm to report on the ongoing attacks on Fortress Mone. He saluted, and she waved a hand to gesture him to speak.