The veil between the warp and reality tore silently before the prow of the Second Legion's flagship, the Soul of the Sea of Sand.
Distorted streams of light and indescribable colors faded, replaced by the cold, eternal depths of space and a graveyard adrift with death and destruction.
Primarch Saladin stood quietly on the bridge of the Soul of the Sea of Sand, whose austere, ancient design resembled a mobile desert fortress more than a conventional warship.
His deep olive complexion looked exceptionally composed beneath the starlight filtering through the viewing windows. His eyes, steeped in wisdom and the weight of years, calmly surveyed the scene before him.
There was no surprise, no anger, only the composure of someone who had anticipated this and prepared accordingly.
His robes and light armor bore a practical, understated sheen beneath the bridge's dim lighting.
"Commander Biberus," Saladin said, his voice steady and clear, carrying unquestionable authority yet offering a strange sense of reassurance.
"Order the entire Fleet to maximum combat readiness. The enemy will have laid an ambush near the Mandeville Point. The moment we emerge from the warp, the battle begins."
A tall figure stood half a step behind him, his presence as solid and imposing as a mountain range.
His name was Biberus, Lord Commander of the Second Legion, second only to Saladin within its ranks.
His face was weathered, his cheekbones high, his eyes sharp as a hawk's. A deep scar crossed his left cheek, a mark left in the arena of some desert world before he had become an Astartes.
He had once been a slave, until Saladin recognized his extraordinary potential and indomitable soul amid that hell of blood and sand.
Time had proven that Saladin had not misjudged him.
Through decades of the Great Crusade, Biberus's iron