The mission is simplicity itself, as all divine tasks are. Rusule VII, an Agri-world of the Throneworld’s sector, bleeds. A tendril of the Great Devourer has pierced its hide, a minor splinter of Hive Fleet Leviathan. Yet, a spark ignored becomes a conflagration. The tendril must be severed here, before its synapse-song calls the entire hive to feast upon this region of the Imperium.

One hundred of Rogal Dorn’s sons, and the Daughters of the Saint, were dispatched. They have not triumphed. Their fate is unknown. Further, auspex ghosts hint at a secondary xeno presence, an unknown variable in the sacred calculus of purge-protocol.

You are the solution. You are the Emperor’s Will, given form in auramite and wrath. The historo-logs of the Administratum have already recorded this mission as a success. To suggest otherwise is not merely error; it is heresy. The universe has already bent to the certainty of your victory. You are a Custodes. You do not fail. You merely execute the Emperor’s design, which is inevitable.

Now, manifest that inevitability.

The Lex Aeterna, a spear-tip of adamantium and wrath, cuts through the atmosphere of Rusule VII. Below, vast continental plains that should be golden with grain are instead stained with the purple and chitinous grey of the Tyranid invasion.

The ship sets down with a tectonic sigh in a valley cleared by orbital lance fire, a temporary beachhead of Imperial order amidst the organic chaos. The air that greets you as the main ramp descends is thick with the smell of ozone from the landing, overlaid by the distant, saccharine stench of xeno-photosynthesis and decay.

Almost immediately, a servoskull, one optic replaced by a glowing auspex scanner, whirs to your side. From its vox-grille issues the flat, filtered voice of Magos Xylos.

—Ave, Custodes. The beachhead is secure. Preliminary survey from the Lex Aeterna’s instrumentation aligns with prior intelligence, with… concerning amendments.

A hololithic projection shimmers in the air before you, depicting the continent. Four points pulse.

First, in the planetary capital, Hive Primus: “A concentrated Imperial transhuman bio-sign, encrypted as Imperial Fists. Approximately 45 remain. They broadcast a looping defensio-pattern from fortified positions. Signals indicate a Venerable Dreadnought chassis is active among them. They are besieged, but intact.”

Second, a smaller settlement to the east: “Sisterhood bio-signs, mixed with baseline human. Eighty Battle-Sisters, one squad identified as Hospitaller. They hold a population centre, supported by Astra Militarum armour. Their communications indicate fatigue and heightened paranoia regarding infiltration.”

Third, deep within the largest bio-mass concentration: “The synaptic anchor-point. A Hive Tyrant. Its psychic signature is a lighthouse in the hive-mind’s fog. Eliminate it, and the organism on this world will convulse and die. Additionally, we detect a powerful, focused warp-signature nearby—a Zoanthrope. Its termination would cripple the hive’s coordination significantly prior to your strike on the Tyrant.”

Fourth, an anomaly in the northern highlands: “A crash site. Energy signatures are atypical. Not Tyranid. Not Imperial. It is the rumoured ‘other presence.’ It has attempted no communication on our channels. It remains an unknown integer.”

The Magos’s mechadendrites twitch, adjusting the display. —The tactical sequencing is yours to command, Custodian. The ship’s arsenal, its Land Raiders and grav-transports, are at your disposal. I and my servitors will manage orbital scans and sustain the beachhead.

How will you proceed, Custodian? The Emperor is watching.