Three battered fleets departed in silence and sorrow from the void where loyalty and glory lay buried. On the bridge of the flagship Iron Fist, the oppressive atmosphere seemed to warp even the light. The survivors of the Iron Hands Legion, warriors once renowned for their iron will, now resembled soulless husks. Their Gene-Father, Ferrus Manus, had remained forever on those black sands steeped in betrayal.
Vulkan, Primarch of the Salamanders, possessed a warmth like the heart of a blazing furnace, the only source of heat on that cold bridge. He offered few words of comfort, knowing that any words would seem pale and powerless before such profound grief. He simply stepped forward and brought his broad palm down firmly on an Iron Hands veteran's shoulder plate.
The veteran had survived the hell of Isstvan V. Now he raised his head, the electronic eyes beneath his helmet gleaming crimson with a mixture of hatred, confusion, and pain.
"Lord Primarch..." His voice rasped like metal scraping against metal. "We... have lost our way."
"No, my child." Vulkan's voice was deep and powerful, like the magma in the depths of his homeworld's volcanoes. "You have not. Ferrus Manus has fallen, but the convictions he fought for have not. With his life, he sounded a warning for us. We must not let that price be paid in vain."
He looked around at every Iron Hands warrior nearby, a sincere flame burning in his crimson eyes.
"From this day forward, your hatred is my hatred. Your war is the Salamanders' war. We will carry Ferrus Manus's wrath back to Terra and bring this warning written in blood to the Emperor. We will become the last line of defense protecting the sacred throne."
Elsewhere, in the shadows, Corvus Corax, Primarch of the Raven Guard, watched