He returned to Castor's "kennel," piled high with assorted parts and dataslates.
He closed the door, sat on a chair fashioned from a discarded ammunition crate, and submerged his consciousness in the ship's ocean of data once more.
He no longer tried to steal classified information. Instead, like a starving apprentice, he began voraciously absorbing everything this era had to offer.
Human technology from the Great Crusade, Space Marine tactical theory, the internal structure of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the cultures and traditions of the various Legions... knowledge that had long since been lost or mythologized by the forty-first millennium now lay before him like a treasury with its doors thrown open, his to take at will.
This was an Overlord's final act of "archaeology" upon a dying civilization.
Day after day passed in this quiet, oppressive wait.
Like a silent beast of steel, the Iron Fist sailed steadily through the raging tides of the Warp toward its foreordained destination: destruction.
At last, on the fifteenth day of the voyage, shrill alarms rang throughout the warship.
"Disengage from the Warp route! Prepare for translation into realspace!"
The warship shuddered violently. Beyond the windows, the bizarre, chaotic colors vanished in an instant, replaced by deep darkness studded with cold stars.
They had reached the outskirts of the Isstvan System.
Ahead of them, two immense fleets were already waiting.
The warships of one fleet were a deep, vibrant green, their prows mostly adorned with dragon heads, flames, and great hammers. This was the Salamanders fleet. Each ship resembled an impregnable volcano, brimming with resilience and strength.
The other fleet was painted black from prow to stern, its lines sharp and stealthy, like birds of prey poised to strike in the night. This was the Raven Guard Watch Legion's fleet, steeped in a grim,