Moris.
An Agri World forgotten in a corner of the Galaxy.
The sky was a sickly grayish yellow, like a sheet of moldy gauze hanging low over the plains.
In the fields, the once-golden waves of wheat were now scorched black. Beneath the fallen stalks, the Orks' sticky blood had long since dried into tar-like stains.
In the distance, several burned-out granaries still trailed wisps of smoke. The air smelled of scorching, rotting vegetation, and a faint, rank musk left by the invaders.
This was a world as ordinary as any could be, so ordinary that even its name carried the scent of soil.
It should never have appeared in the Imperium's battle reports, never have crossed paths with the epics of the Space Marines.
Until three days ago, when an Ork Fleet had shattered its peace like a swarm of green-skinned flies.
And now, the war had just ended.
More than a hundred warriors of the Salamanders Legion were temporarily stationed on this scorched earth.
Unlike the warriors of other Legions, they did not press onward with triumphant songs, nor did they busy themselves tallying victories and planning Defense Lines like the Ultramarines.
The Salamanders simply spread out in silence among the ruins, melting twisted metal with torches, cutting through blocked roads with Chainswords, and helping survivors lift fallen roof beams with their enormous hands.
Their movements were steady and quiet, as though they had always been part of this land.
One figure among them stood out.
He was tall, even by Space Marine standards.
Fresh battle scars covered his Power Armour, and the burning salamander emblem on his pauldron had been blackened by gunsmoke.
He wore no helmet.
His was a face typical of the people of Nocturne: dark, rough, as though ground against volcanic rock, with faint