INQUISITORIAL DOSSIER: THREATS WITHIN — PART 2 OF 3

 

The Dangers Facing Mankind.

[IMPERIAL ARCHIVE // ACCESS LEVEL: EXTREMIS]

[FILE DESIGNATION: DANGERS FACING MANKIND — FRAGMENT 1]

[STATUS: UNAUTHORISED COPY — ORIGIN UNVERIFIED]

Recovered Testimony (Source: Unknown Inquisitor)

For longer than any mortal span should permit, I have hunted in the shadows. I have walked the dark places of the galaxy, prying loose secrets that were never meant to be known and erasing them before they could take root. Entire worlds have died at my order — billions of souls extinguished for crimes they never understood. Deathwatch kill‑teams, the Emperor’s finest, have surrendered their near‑immortal lives so I could bury threats that still returned to ash the planets they once defended.

And that was merely my tenure with the Ordo Xenos. The things I witnessed — and sanctioned — under the Ordo Hereticus were worse by far. After so much death, so much sacrifice, I know my soul is forfeit. I know I will never stand at the God‑Emperor’s side. I find I no longer care.

So this will be my final act: to write this report and pray my remaining contacts can smuggle it into the wider Imperium. I doubt it will matter. The centre cannot hold. Entropy is the only true law of the universe. And I… I can no longer play my part in delaying it.

Original document reportedly copied and circulated across multiple hive‑levels by means unknown. All confirmed possessors executed for the dissemination of proscribed material. Further copies suspected to exist within lower‑hive data‑crypts.

SUPPRESSION STATUS: Ongoing RECOMMENDED ACTION: Servitor conversion of all implicated individuals PROVENANCE: Unverified RISK LEVEL: Severe

[FILE DESIGNATION: DANGERS FACING MANKIND — FRAGMENT 4]

[SUBJECT: ORK PATTERNS AND BEHAVIOR — Ork WAAAGH!]

[STATUS: UNAUTHORISED COPY — ORIGIN UNVERIFIED]

+++ ORDO XENOS DOSSIER: ORKOID WAAAGH! BEHAVIOURAL PROFILE +++

The Ork “WAAAGH!” is less an army and more a migrating natural disaster. It is a psychic storm given crude, violent shape — a mass of greenskins whose collective aggression fuels a gestalt field that grows stronger with every Ork that joins it. Discipline is nonexistent; strategy is accidental; cohesion is achieved only through shared bloodlust and the overpowering presence of a dominant Warboss.

Standard WAAAGH! signatures include:

• Chaotic, contradictory movement pattern
• Constant infighting and disorganised brawling
• Improvised weaponry and haphazard armour
• Loud, uncoordinated vocalisations (“WAAAGH!” being the most common)
• Zero evidence of ritual, synchronisation, or structured behaviour

In all recorded cases, Orks display only the most primitive tactical awareness. Their strength lies in numbers, ferocity, and the unpredictable amplification of their latent psychic field — never in discipline or unity.

What follows should not exist. Orks are creatures of impulse and anarchy; their brutality is chaotic, their unity accidental. They do not plan, they do not synchronise, and they most certainly do not change. Yet the fragment below records behaviour that contradicts every principle the Ordo Xenos has verified across ten thousand years of observation. I note this with reluctance… and with a measure of unease I will not commit to the official record.

+++ BEGIN TRANSCRIPT: DESIGNATION GOLGOTHA-RED-17 +++

+++ SOURCE: DEATHWATCH HELMET CAM, BROTHER-SERGEANT VARRON +++

+++ LOCATION: HAZE-DELTA MINING COMPLEX, OUTER RIM +++

Visual feed opens on a corridor carved from raw stone. Flickering lumen-strips. Static interference increasing at irregular intervals.

VARRON: Contact sign— hold. Emperor’s blood… that’s no standard warband.

Audio distortion. A low, rhythmic chanting becomes audible — not Orkish bellowing, but something closer to a drone. Unified. Structured.

VARRON: They’re… organised. Too organised.

Movement ahead. Several Orks emerge, but their gait is wrong — measured, synchronised. Their crude armour has been etched with spirals and intersecting lines inconsistent with any known clan markings.

UNKNOWN ORK (untranslated): —grruk… hnn’tek… hrrrnn—

The sound is not Ork speech. It is layered, harmonic, and almost ritualistic.

VARRON: That’s not possible. Orks don’t— [STATIC BURST] —repeat, they don’t do this.

One Ork raises a glyph‑plate. It pulses with a dull, sickly light. The other Orks respond in perfect unison, turning their heads toward the kill‑team with mechanical precision.

VARRON: Pull back. Something’s— [FEED TERMINATES]

+++ END TRANSCRIPT +++

+++ ADDENDUM: NO RECOVERABLE GENE-SEED. SITE EXTERMINATUS ORDERED +++

I have catalogued WAAAGH!s for centuries. I know their rhythms, their crude momentum, their idiot savagery. They are predictable in their chaos — a storm that rages, burns itself out, and leaves only wreckage behind. That is the one mercy the greenskins have ever offered the Imperium: they are simple. Brutal. Understandable.

But this… this is something else. Something colder. Something that moves beneath the surface of their crude psychic field like a shadow beneath black water. I find myself returning to the recordings again and again, searching for the familiar patterns, the comforting stupidity of the species. I do not find it.

Instead, I feel the pull of it — a slow, gravitational drag at the edge of comprehension. As if the WAAAGH! Itself has become aware, or worse, has been made aware by something that should not be able to touch them. Orks do not change. They do not evolve. They do not learn. And yet…

And yet the evidence sits before me, heavy as a collapsing star.

I tell myself this is an anomaly. A fluke. A misinterpretation born of exhaustion. But the truth presses in from all sides, patient and inevitable. If even the greenskins are shifting — if even they are being drawn into whatever unseen tide is rising — then the Imperium stands upon foundations far more fragile than we ever dared admit.

I feel it now, in the marrow. A hollowing. A quiet, widening void.

The WAAAGH! was never meant to look back at us.

+++ ORDO XENOS BRIEF: ORKOID BIOFORM CLASSIFICATION +++

Orks are not a species in the conventional sense. They are a bio‑engineered ecosystem — a self‑propagating weapon created in the ancient wars of the galaxy. Each greenskin is only one component of a larger organism: the WAAAGH! field, a crude but potent psychic gestalt that grows stronger as their numbers swell.

Their biology is a hybrid of fungal resilience and animal aggression. They do not reproduce through natural means; spores shed from their bodies seed entire worlds with lesser forms — gretchin, squigs, and the supporting ecology required for a full Orkoid infestation.

Violence is not a behaviour for them; it is a biological imperative. Their minds are simple, their desires simpler still: fight, grow, gather, and fight again. They do not innovate. They do not evolve. They persist.

This simplicity has long been considered their only mercy.

+++ SEGMENTUM OBSCURUS ARCHIVE REVIEW: LEVEL MAGENTA‑VIOLET +++

+++ DOCUMENT STATUS: PARTIALLY EXPUNGED UNDER PROTOCOL LITANY‑OF‑CORRECTION +++

The preceding material has been classified as non‑compliant with verified Ordo Xenos doctrine. All anomalous behavioural claims are attributed to data corruption, battlefield psychosis, or deliberate fabrication by the submitting agent. No deviation from established WAAAGH! parameters are recognised.

All associated logs have been incinerated under Protocol VINDICTA‑SEVEN. Cross‑reference with POLITY‑CIPHER: “Untruths That Threaten Stability.”

OFFICIAL POSITION: Orkoid behavioural constants remain unchanged. No deviation has been observed. No deviation will be recorded.

CIVILIAN SANITATION DIRECTIVE (THREAT INDEX: YELLOW‑NULL): Unauthorised possession or discussion of the unredacted report constitutes dissemination of destabilising xeno‑heresy. Civilians exposed to this material will undergo immediate cognitive purgation. Subjects deemed unsuitable for reintegration will be reassigned to servitor labour pools under Adeptus Mechanicus Directive 9‑Theta (“Repurposing of Contaminated Human Resources”).

Note: Servitor conversion is considered a merciful alternative to full penal reduction.

INQUISITORIAL PERSONNEL ADVISORY (THREAT INDEX: RED‑QUIETUS): Agents found circulating, referencing, or retaining the unredacted text will face censure, interrogation, and—if required—summary execution under Lex Imperialis Article

44‑Gamma. Appeals are not permitted under the Quietus Mandate.

+++ BY ORDER OF THE LORDS OF THE INQUISITION +++ +++ KNOWLEDGE IS A PRIVILEGE, NOT A RIGHT +++ +++ REMEMBER: TRUTH IS NOT FOR EVERY MIND +++

[ARCHIVE — REDACTED]

— Extracted from a corrupted data‑slate seized during an Ordo Xenos interdiction. Cross‑referenced with multiple unverified copies circulating in lower‑hive data‑crypts. Original author is believed to be the same unidentified Inquisitor referenced in Fragment 1.

SUPPRESSION STATUS: Ongoing RECOMMENDED ACTION: Immediate servitor conversion of all individuals found in possession of this fragment PROVENANCE: Unverified RISK LEVEL: EXTREME

• [FILE DESIGNATION: DANGERS FACING MANKIND — FRAGMENT 5]
• [SUBJECT: NECRON TOMB WORLDS]
• [STATUS: UNAUTHORISED COPY — ORIGIN UNVERIFIED]

+++ ORDO XENOS DOSSIER: NECRON TOMB WORLD PROFILE +++

+++ ADEPTUS MECHANICUS ADDENDUM: SILICA ANIMUS PROTOCOLS +++

By decree of the Martian Synod, all Necron constructs are to be classified under Silica Animus Proximity Index: BLACK‑OMEGA. Entities exhibiting autonomous machine‑logic, self‑repair capability, or non‑Imperial command hierarchies fall within the prohibited parameters outlined in the Treaty of Olympus Mons.

Cross‑reference: Men of Iron Incident Archives, sealed under Red‑Vault designation. Access requires dual Magos authorisation and invocation of the Litany of Severance.

Field personnel are reminded that:

• No communion rites are to be attempted with Necron systems.
• No data‑uplink, analysis‑interface, or machine‑spirit interrogation is permitted.
• Any tech‑adept exhibiting undue curiosity toward Necron artefacts will be subjected to cognitive excision under Protocol SCRUB‑NINE.

Deviation from these directives constitutes Tech‑Heresy Grade Sigma and will be met with immediate sanction.

+++ THE FLESH IS FRAIL +++

+++ THE MACHINE MUST ENDURE +++

+++ ORDO XENOS BRIEF: NECRONTYR BIO‑MECHANICAL ENTITIES & TOMB WORLD CLASSIFICATION +++

The entities designated “Necrons” are not living beings but self‑repairing necrodermis constructs housing the digitised remnants of an ancient species. Their bodies are metal, but their minds — such as they remain — are echoes of the Necrontyr, a civilisation that traded its mortality for immortality and found only enslavement.

Necron forces do not awaken naturally. They rise according to pre‑programmed planetary cycles, triggered by unknown stellar, geomantic, or temporal conditions. Each Tomb World contains a fully automated war‑machine infrastructure capable of repairing, replicating, and deploying legions without biological input.

Standard indicators of Tomb World activation include:

• Localised gravitational anomalies
• Sudden electromagnetic silence across entire continents
• Subterranean energy signatures inconsistent with any known Imperial technology
• Disappearance of scouting teams without distress signals

Once awakened, Necron forces operate with perfect coordination, absolute silence, and no detectable emotion. They do not negotiate. They do not retreat. They do not stop.

+++ DATA‑EXTRACT: EXPLORATOR FLEET THETA‑SEVEN‑NULL (STATUS: MISSING) +++

+++ BEGIN PARTIAL RECOVERY +++

+++ SOURCE: NOOSPHERIC BLACK BOX // PRIORITY: OBSIDIAN‑LOCK +++

+++ INTEGRITY: 12% // SEVERE CORRUPTION DETECTED +++

[0.03.11] …subsurface lattice detected beneath primary crust. Geometry non‑natural. Repeating pattern consistent with pre‑Imperial design but… older. Much older.

[0.03.12] Magos‑Dominus Hestian requests deeper drill‑rites. Tech‑acolytes report machine‑spirits exhibiting agitation. Auspex returns… contradictory.

[0.03.14] Structure responds to proximity. Not mechanical. Not biological. Something in between. Necrodermis? Impossible. Classification pending.

[0.03.17] —movement detected within the lattice. No heat signature. No life signs. Motion is… deliberate.

[0.03.18] Acolyte Renn reports auditory phenomena: “voices like metal remembering pain.” Logged as a hallucination. Cognitive purity test ordered.

[0.03.19] Hestian invokes Silica Animus Protocols. Warning sigils appear across all cogitator screens without input. Phrase repeated: WE ENDURE. WE WAIT. WE REMEMBER. Origin unknown.

[0.03.20] —contact. Metallic forms emerging. Humanoid silhouettes. No visible power source. No emissions. They simply… activate.

[0.03.20.1] Attempted communion‑link rejected. Machine‑spirit backlash severe. Three adepts rendered mind‑blank. One converted to servitor status on‑site.

[0.03.20.2] Hestian orders retreat. Too late. Entities phase through matter. Weapons useless. They are not attacking. They are… observing.

[0.03.20.3] Last visual: a figure larger than the rest. Crowned. Eyes like dying stars. It looks directly at the recorder. Signal collapses.

+++ END OF RECOVERY +++ +++ REMAINING DATA LOST TO QUANTUM CORRUPTION +++

+++ INQUISITORIAL JOURNAL: PERSONAL ENTRY (UNSANCTIONED) +++

I have reviewed the recovered data from Explorator Fleet Theta‑Seven‑Null no fewer than nine times. Each pass reveals something new — or perhaps I am only now seeing what was always there. The Mechanicus claims the integrity is twelve percent. I suspect it is far higher. Or far lower. The numbers shift when I look away.

The lattice they uncovered… the adepts call it “non‑natural,” but that is a coward’s word. It was constructed. Deliberately. With a purpose older than the Imperium, older than humanity, older than the stars that birthed us. The Magos believed it was dormant. He was wrong. They all were.

The movement detected within the structure — they insist it lacked heat, lacked life. But absence of heat is not absence of intent. Cold things can still hunger. Cold things can still remember.

The phrase that appeared across their cogitators — WE ENDURE. WE WAIT. WE REMEMBER. The Mechanicus claims it was a machine‑spirit malfunction. A glitch. A coincidence of corrupted code. I know better. Those words were not meant for the adepts. They were meant for us. A warning. Or a promise.

The crowned figure in the final visual… the Mechanicus identifies it as a “command construct.” Idiots. Blind, ritual‑bound idiots. That was no construct. That was a king. A ruler entombed in metal, watching us with the patience of a species that has already died once and found the experience tolerable.

They say the entities did not attack. That they merely observed. As if observation is harmless. As if predators do not watch before they strike. As if the dead cannot hate.

I find myself wondering how many Tomb Worlds lie beneath our feet at this very moment. How many crowns wait in the dark? How many eyes stare upward through miles of stone, waiting for the signal to rise. The Explorators believed they triggered the awakening. Fools. The Necrons do not wake because we disturb them. They wake because they choose to.

I feel watched now. Even here, in the sanctity of my chamber. The lumen flickers when I write of them. The air grows colder. Perhaps it is nothing. Perhaps it is everything. Perhaps the crowned one remembers me, though we have never met.

I must stop. My thoughts spiral. The shadows lengthen. The dead are patient, and I… I am running out of time.

[ARCHIVE — REDACTED]

— Extracted from a corrupted data‑slate seized during an Ordo Xenos interdiction. Cross‑referenced with multiple unverified copies circulating in lower‑hive data‑crypts. Original author is believed to be the same unidentified Inquisitor referenced in Fragment 1.

SUPPRESSION STATUS: Ongoing RECOMMENDED ACTION: Immediate servitor conversion of all individuals found in possession of this fragment PROVENANCE: Unverified RISK LEVEL: EXTREME

[FILE DESIGNATION: DANGERS FACING MANKIND — FRAGMENT 6]

[SUBJECT: ASURYANI, HARLEQUINS, DRUKARI]

[STATUS: UNAUTHORISED COPY — ORIGIN UNVERIFIED]

+++ ORDO XENOS DOSSIER: ELDAR PROFILE +++

+++ ORDO XENOS BRIEF: AELDARI (ELDAR) SPECIES OVERVIEW +++

The species designated “Aeldari” are an ancient xenos race whose origins predate the earliest human records. Their physiology is superficially humanoid, but their neural architecture, sensory acuity, and psychic potential far exceed baseline human parameters.

The Aeldari are defined by three constants:

• Extreme longevity bordering on functional immortality
• Innate psychic resonance of dangerous magnitude
• A cultural history marked by catastrophic self‑inflicted ruin

Their civilisation collapsed in an event known only through fragmented xeno‑myths and unreliable astropathic echoes. Surviving factions — Craftworlders, Corsairs, Harlequins, and others — operate with motives opaque to Imperial analysis. Their actions appear contradictory, their alliances temporary, their warnings maddeningly vague.

The Aeldari claim to see the future. They claim to walk paths of fate. They claim to know what is coming.

None of these claims has been verified.

+++ FIELD REPORT: 122ND BECKNOR LINE INFANTRY +++

+++ AUTHOR: LT. HADRIEL TURNUS, 3RD COMPANY +++

+++ STATUS: UNSANCTIONED PERSONAL ENTRY +++

I record this while the memory is still fresh, though I doubt any words can capture what we witnessed upon the ash‑plains of Kharis Reach.

The xenos came upon us like a storm of fire and shrieking metal — the Eldar, their forms too swift and too perfect to be natural. At their head strode a giant of living flame, a towering war‑idol of their heathen god. The heat of it blistered skin through flak armour. Men burned simply by looking at it too long. It was a creature of pure hatred, a shard of some ancient blasphemy given shape.

And yet… we did not break. For the Emperor was with us.

From the smoke behind our lines came the thunder of adamantine footsteps. A Raven Guard Dreadnought — Brother‑Ancient Kaelor — advanced without fear, his sarcophagus‑voice booming litanies of vengeance. The Avatar roared, a sound like molten iron poured into a furnace. Kaelor answered with bolter and blade.

I swear upon my life: the ground shook with every blow. Sparks like falling stars rained across the battlefield. The Avatar’s blade carved trenches of glassed earth; Kaelor’s power fist shattered its molten armour. It was as if a god of fire and a god of war had descended to settle some ancient score.

And in that moment, I knew — truly knew — that mankind stands unmatched. That no alien, no matter how ancient or terrible, can stand before the Emperor’s chosen. The Avatar faltered. Kaelor did not. The Dreadnought tore the burning heart from the xenos idol and cast it aside like refuse.

The Eldar fled. We held the field. The Emperor protects. The Emperor prevails. The Emperor is all.

I will keep this record close. It is proof — undeniable proof — of mankind’s destined supremacy.

+++ INQUISITORIAL ADDENDUM: CLEARANCE LEVEL OBSIDIAN‑QUIETUS +++

+++ REVIEWING AUTHORITY: ORDO XENOS, SUB‑SECTOR CELL 9‑RHO +++ +++ DOCUMENT STATUS: UNAUTHORIZED PERSONAL TESTIMONY +++ +++ ACTION REQUIRED: PURGE +++

The above account contains multiple violations of Imperial Truth, including:

• Unregulated observation of xenos warp‑idolatry
• Improper theological speculation regarding “gods”
• Unvetted praise of Astartes engagement beyond authorised parameters
• Emotional language inconsistent with sanctioned field reporting

Such material constitutes Doctrinal Contamination Index: RED‑SEVERITY.

DISPOSITION: The 122nd Becknor Line Infantry is hereby declared compromised. Full regiment designated Traitoris‑Minoris under Article 77‑Gamma (“Exposure to Xenos Phenomena Resulting in Ideological Drift”).

SENTENCE: Total unit liquidation enacted via purifying flame. Survivors, if any, to be remanded to servitor conversion pools under Mechanicus Directive 9‑Theta.

NOTE: Lieutenant Turnus's remains were recovered intact. Cranial unit repurposed for data‑storage servitorization. Memory‑core excised.

+++ BY ORDER OF THE HOLY INQUISITION +++ +++ LOYALTY IS ITS OWN REWARD +++ +++ FAILURE IS ITS OWN END +++

+++ INQUISITORIAL JOURNAL: PERSONAL ENTRY (RESTRICTED) +++

I signed the order myself. The 122nd Varden Line Infantry — burned alive for the crime of witnessing what no mortal should see. I wrote the words with a steady hand, invoked the proper seals, cited the correct articles. I have done it a thousand times before. But this time… this time the ink felt heavier.

They were loyal. I know that now. Their awe was not heresy; it was humanity. They saw a god‑thing of the Eldar stride across the battlefield, and they clung to the only truth they had: the Emperor protects. They believed. And I killed them for it.

I tell myself it was necessary. That exposure to xenos phenomena corrodes the mind. That the Inquisition cannot afford sentiment. That doctrine must be preserved. But the words ring hollow. I hear echoes in the silence — the crackle of the pyres, the screams swallowed by flame. I ordered it. I ended them. And still the shadows lengthen.

The Eldar speak of fate. Of strands. Of paths. I used to dismiss it as xenos mysticism. Now I wonder if they see something we refuse to acknowledge. Something approaching. Something vast. Something old.

And the Inquisition… Emperor, forgive us… We hide more than we reveal. We bury truths so deep that even we forget why they were hidden. There are names we do not speak. Names I have only seen in sealed vaults, scrawled in the margins of forbidden tomes:

The K’thari. The Vur’Nak. The Hollow Wraiths. The Selenite Choir. The Khymeron Breed. The Glass Serpents. The Thirteenth Echo. The Hrud. The Ragda. The Khraive. The Nephailim. The Kinebranch. The Jokaero.

No records. No descriptions. Only the names — and the warning that knowledge of them constitutes automatic censure. Why? What did we face? What did we lose? What did we bury?

I fear the Becknor regiment died not for what they saw… but for what their survival might have implied. If the Eldar’s god‑spawn walks the battlefield again, then the old powers stir. And if the old powers stir, then the things we erased — the things we pretended never existed — may be stirring as well.

I ordered their deaths. I cannot undo it. But I feel the weight of it now, like a hand on my shoulder in an empty room. I feel watched. Judged. Not by the Emperor… but by the dead.

The shadows whisper. The names echo. And I… I am beginning to understand why the Inquisition fears knowledge more than ignorance.

+++ ORDO XENOS NOTE: AELDARI SUB‑FACTIONS & WEBWAY ACTIVITY +++

Harlequin warbands utilise the Webway with surgical precision, striking from impossible vectors before vanishing into sealed corridors of unreality. Their raids are theatrical, ritualised, and tactically flawless. Drukhari kabals employ the same network with far less restraint, launching predatory incursions into Imperial territory for slaves, pain‑tithe, and biological stock. Both factions exploit the Webway’s non‑linear geometry to bypass void defences entirely, appearing within secured zones without warp translation or detectable transit signatures. Imperial counter‑measures remain statistically ineffective.

+++ INQUISITORIAL JOURNAL: PERSONAL ENTRY (RESTRICTED – EYES ONLY) +++

I do not dream of them anymore. I wish I did. Dreams have edges. Dreams end. What the Drukhari did to me was not a dream. It was a lesson. A demonstration. A reminder that pain is a language, and they are its poets.

The raid on Veyl’s Landing lasted seventeen minutes. I remember the first three. After that… only fragments. A mask of bone. A blade that hummed like a living thing. Laughter — not mirthful, not mocking, but curious. As if they were studying me. As if I were a puzzle, they intended to solve one nerve at a time.

They did not ask questions. They did not demand information. They simply… explored. I recall one of them tilting my head to the side, examining my eye as though deciding whether to keep it. I recall the cold touch of metal on my spine. I recall the sensation of being opened, not physically, but… conceptually. As if they were peeling away layers of self.

My retainers found me. I do not know how. I do not know why the Drukhari allowed it. Perhaps they were finished. Perhaps they were bored. Perhaps they wanted me to live. To carry the memory. To spread it.

I was told later that I screamed when they touched me. I begged them not to take me back. I do not remember this. I hope it is a lie. I fear it is not.

The transfer to Ordo Hereticus was presented as a commendation. “Your expertise is required elsewhere,” they said. “Your insights into corruption will be invaluable.” But I saw the way they looked at me. I saw the hesitation. The pity. The fear. They know I am compromised. They know the Drukhari left something in me — not a device, not a toxin, but a fracture.

Sometimes, when the chamber is quiet, I feel as though someone else is in the room. Watching. Waiting. Not the Emperor. Not the dead. Something else. Someone who enjoys the waiting.

I tell myself it is trauma. A wound of the mind. But the Drukhari do not wound. They sculpt. They refine. They leave marks that do not heal.

I am not the man I was before Veyl’s Landing. I do not know what I am now. Only that the Inquisition no longer trusts me with the xenos. And perhaps they are right.

The shadows move differently since that day. And sometimes… I think they laugh.

+++ LORD INQUISITORIAL TRANSFER ORDER +++

+++ CLEARANCE: EBON‑TRIDENT +++

+++ DISTRIBUTION: RESTRICTED TO HIGH CONCLAVE PERSONNEL +++

Subject: Inquisitor [REDACTED] Former Assignment: Ordo Xenos, Sub‑Sector Cell 9‑Rho New Assignment: Ordo Hereticus, Penitus Division

1. Observational Summary

Following the incident on Veyl’s Landing and the subject’s subsequent recovery, a full psychological and doctrinal assessment was conducted under Protocol MIND‑SCOURGE/DELTA‑NINE. While the subject remains functional, several indicators of cognitive drift were identified, including:

• Residual trauma‑echoes from xenos captivity
• Unregulated emotional responses during debrief
• Persistent fixation on Drukhari methodologies
• Unapproved personal journaling of classified events

These traits, while not disqualifying, render the subject sub‑optimal for continued Ordo Xenos deployment.

2. Transfer Justification

In accordance with High Conclave Directive IRON‑CANDLE, personnel exhibiting post‑contact instability are to be reassigned to duties where their… sensitivities… pose reduced operational risk.

The Ordo Hereticus has expressed willingness to absorb the subject, citing “potential utility in matters of internal deviation.” This phrasing is noted.

3. Behavioural Monitoring Requirement

The subject is to be placed under Passive Observation Tier: GREY‑VIGIL, with escalation to BLACK‑VIGIL should further irregularities manifest.

Monitoring parameters include:

• Unscheduled absences
• Unorthodox doctrinal interpretations
• Excessive interest in xenos‑classified materials
• Signs of empathic drift toward non‑human entities

Should any of the above be observed, the subject is to be remanded for evaluation under Quietus Mandate Review.

4. Final Note (Internal Use Only)

While the subject’s service record remains commendable, it is the assessment of this office that the… fracture… incurred during Drukhari captivity is unlikely to fully mend. Such wounds seldom do.

The subject may yet serve the Imperium in a limited capacity. But he must be watched. For the remainder of his natural life.

Tools that crack under pressure can still be useful — provided one knows precisely when they will break.

+++ BY ORDER OF LORD INQUISITOR MALEK VORSTAN +++ +++ TRUST IS A PRIVILEGE, NOT A RIGHT +++ +++ OBSERVE WITHOUT CEASE +++

+++ CLOSING NOTE: END OF DOSSIER FRAGMENT SIX +++

Thus concludes the sanctioned material for this cycle. Xenos threats catalogued, anomalies recorded, and the Inquisitor’s mind left in a state that any sane authority would deem… compromised. But sanity is a luxury the Imperium does not afford its servants.

The next entry will address matters far darker than the Eldar, the Necrons, or any wandering horror of the void. For there are powers that do not lurk in tombs or glide through hidden paths — powers that whisper within the soul, rot the mind, and twist the flesh. Powers that cannot be studied without cost.

Chaos. It's gods. Its daemons. Its fallen sons.

There is no objectivity in such matters. No safe distance. No clinical detachment. Only the long, slow unravelling of those who dare to look too closely.

The Inquisitor’s descent has only begun.

INQUISITORIAL DOSSIER: THREATS WITHIN — PART I OF 3

 

The Dangers Facing Mankind.

[IMPERIAL ARCHIVE // ACCESS LEVEL: EXTREMIS]

[FILE DESIGNATION: DANGERS FACING MANKIND — FRAGMENT 1]

[STATUS: UNAUTHORISED COPY — ORIGIN UNVERIFIED]

Recovered Testimony (Source: Unknown Inquisitor)

Listen closely, for these words are carved from the last remnants of my sanity. I have walked the hidden wounds of the Imperium for longer than any soul should endure. I have stared into the darkness that festers beneath our worlds, and in that silence — that crushing, suffocating silence — something stared back.

Humanity stands upon a precipice thinned by millennia of denial. We are beset from within and without by xenos, heretics, and mutants whose hatred has outlived empires. They wait in the shadows, patient as the void, for the moment when vigilance fails. And I have seen that failure too many times.

Some descend upon our worlds in storms of slaughter. Others whisper salvation to the weak‑willed, twisting them into willing instruments of their own ruin. There are those who revel in torment, peeling away sanity until their victims beg for release — a mercy withheld until the tormentor grows bored. And still more burrow into the cracks of our cities, nurturing cults that rot entire worlds from within, all to avenge wounds humanity has long forgotten.

These are the dangers I can name. But there are deeper shadows still — horrors that watched me as I watched them. I have gazed into the abyss for so long that I no longer know whether I study it… or whether it studies me.

You who hear this warning must not look away. You must see what others refuse to see. For if you, too, choose silence, then the abyss will not merely gaze back — it will claim us all.

— Fragment recovered from an unregistered data‑slate, seized during a lower‑hive purge. Significant portions redacted by order of the Ordo Hereticus. Believed to be the final testimony of an unidentified Inquisitor prior to censure.

Original document reportedly copied and circulated across multiple hive‑levels by means unknown. All confirmed possessors executed for dissemination of proscribed material. Further copies suspected to exist within lower‑hive data‑crypts.

SUPPRESSION STATUS: Ongoing RECOMMENDED ACTION: Servitor conversion of all implicated individuals PROVENANCE: Unverified RISK LEVEL: Severe

• [FILE DESIGNATION: DANGERS FACING MANKIND — FRAGMENT 2]
• [SUBJECT: TYRANID INVASION PATTERNS — STANDARD HIVE FLEET APPROACH]
• [STATUS: UNAUTHORISED COPY — ORIGIN UNVERIFIED]

- If you are reading this, then the first fragment reached you. That alone is cause for alarm.

Know now that the abyss I spoke of has many faces — and one of them hungers without limit. I have begun to dream of it, though I no longer trust which dreams are mine.

The Tyranids do not invade as other foes do. They do not negotiate, posture, or threaten. They arrive as a biological inevitability, a tide of flesh and instinct driven by a will vast enough to drown entire sectors. Their approach is heralded not by banners or declarations, but by silence — the psychic quiet that falls when the Shadow in the Warp smothers all thought. Driving into madness, minor Psykers and Omega Grade alike. That silence follows me now, even when I sleep

. Before the swarm descends, vanguard organisms infiltrate the world, slipping through void and atmosphere with predatory purpose. These creatures harvest genetic samples from every living thing they encounter. Flora, fauna, defenders, predators — all of it is taken, catalogued, and fed back to the Hive Mind.

From this stolen DNA, the Tyranids craft new bioforms, each one tailored to exploit the weaknesses of the world they intend to consume. If a planet’s beasts are swift, the swarm becomes swifter. If its defenders are armoured, the swarm grows stronger claws. If its atmosphere is toxic, the swarm adapts lungs that thrive in poison.

Every adaptation is deliberate. Every mutation is purposeful. The Hive Mind does not merely attack a world — it perfects itself upon it. Sometimes I wonder if it perfects itself upon us as well. I have felt… watched.

A standard Tyranid invasion follows a pattern as precise as it is horrifying:

• Vanguard organisms infiltrate and harvest DNA, marking the world for consumption.
• Spore clouds descend in planetary volumes, blotting out the sun.
• Gaunt swarms surge forward in endless waves
• Synapse creatures direct the tide with cold, alien precision.
• Bio‑titans, often shaped by stolen genetics, break the last strongholds.
• The Hive Fleet descends, stripping the world of all biomass.

This is not war. It is consumption. It is evolution made weapon. And I fear it has begun to evolve in ways we do not yet understand. I have gazed into this hunger, and I fear it has begun to gaze back.

[ARCHIVE — REDACTED]

— Extracted from a corrupted data‑slate seized during an Ordo Xenos interdiction. Cross‑referenced with multiple unverified copies circulating in lower‑hive data‑crypts. Original author believed to be the same unidentified Inquisitor referenced in Fragment 1.

SUPPRESSION STATUS: Ongoing RECOMMENDED ACTION: Immediate servitor conversion of all individuals found in possession of this fragment PROVENANCE: Unverified RISK LEVEL: EXTREME

• [FILE DESIGNATION: DANGERS FACING MANKIND — FRAGMENT 3]
• [SUBJECT: TYRANID INVASION PATTERNS — GENESTEALER CULT INFECTION]
• [STATUS: UNAUTHORISED COPY — ORIGIN UNVERIFIED]

The Genestealer Cults… Emperor preserve us, even writing the name makes the shadows feel closer. It always starts with one — just one — a stowaway organism clinging to the underside of a cargo pallet, hiding in some forgotten corner where the lumen strips flicker and the air tastes stale. One creature, overlooked. One moment of inattention. That’s all it takes for the factory line of corruption to begin its work.

Because that’s what it is — a process. A sequence. A grim, biological production line that never malfunctions, never slows, never stops. First a worker, tired and overburdened, brushing against something he doesn’t notice. Then a family, acting strangely, whispering in corners, eyes a little too bright. Then a brood, gathering in basements and maintenance tunnels, chanting hymns no human tongue should ever shape. And by the time anyone realises the pattern, the assembly is complete. The infection has already run its course.

It spreads through a hive the way coolant leaks through old pipework — unseen, unreported, until the entire system is compromised. It hides in the workforce, in the manufactoria, in the very pulse of the city. Every shift change becomes a vector. Every crowded transit car, every shared meal, every moment of human contact… another step on the conveyor belt toward damnation.

And Throne help me, once you’ve seen it happen, you start imagining it everywhere. You start checking the vents for movement. You start wondering why the lights flicker more than they used to. You start hearing things — soft breaths behind bulkheads, footsteps in empty corridors, the faint scrape of chitin on metal. You tell yourself it’s nothing. You tell yourself you’re being paranoid. But paranoia is a survival instinct in my line of work, and the Cults thrive on the moments when people convince themselves the dark is harmless.

I’ve watched worlds fall because someone dismissed a noise in the walls. I’ve watched entire populations march willingly into the jaws of the Great Devourer, smiling as they went. And I swear on the Emperor’s Throne, sometimes I think the Cults don’t just infect bodies — they infect hope itself, hollowing it out until all that’s left is devotion to something that should never have been allowed to exist.

It always follows the same cursed sequence. I’ve seen it enough times to recognise the pattern even when I try to pretend I don’t. The Cults grow like a machine assembling itself in the dark, each stage locking into place with mechanical certainty.

Stage I — The Stowaway

It never looks like a threat at first. A lone Genestealer crouched in the dark, limbs folded tight like a grotesque insect, its carapace blending into the grime of a cargo hold. The thing barely moves — just the slow, deliberate rise of its ribcage as it waits. Their eyes are the worst part. Not glowing, not monstrous… just aware. Watching. Calculating. A single creature like this can doom a world, and yet it hides so well that even trained dock crews walk past it without noticing the faint chemical tang it leaves in the air.

Stage II — The Tainted Worker

The first victim never realises what’s happened. They just feel… tired. A little pale. Maybe their pupils look wrong in the light, a touch too wide, a touch too hungry. They start avoiding medicae checks. They mutter about “purpose” under their breath. Their posture changes — shoulders hunched, movements slightly too smooth, as if something inside them is guiding their limbs. And Emperor help me, sometimes they smile at nothing, like they’re listening to a voice only they can hear.

Stage III — The Brood Takes Root

This is when the physical changes begin to show, but only if you know what to look for. A child with oddly elongated fingers. A spouse whose skin has taken on a faint, unhealthy sheen. A neighbour whose eyes reflect light like an animal’s. They gather in groups now, always in the same places — boiler rooms, maintenance shafts, old storage pits where the air is warm and the walls sweat condensation. Their whispered prayers echo strangely, as if the pipes themselves are answering.

Stage IV — The Hidden Congregation

By this point, the Cult has a shape. A hierarchy. A rhythm. You see robed figures moving through the manufactoria at shift’s end, their silhouettes wrong in subtle ways — too many joints, too fluid a gait. Symbols start appearing on walls: crude, chalk‑scratched icons that look like stylised claws or spirals. Workers begin wearing hoods indoors. Entire sections of the hive become “off limits” for reasons no one can explain. And the air… the air feels thicker, like it’s carrying spores or secrets.

Stage V — The Revelation

When they finally rise, the transformation is complete. Limbs elongate. Spines arch. Skin splits to reveal chitinous plates beneath. Some still resemble the humans they once were; others have become something far closer to the creature that started it all. Their chants become a roar. Their eyes burn with fanatic devotion. And the broodkin surge forward in perfect unison, as if guided by a single will. The hive’s corridors become tunnels of screaming, clawed bodies. The Cult doesn’t just reveal itself — it erupts.

I shouldn’t still be writing this. I should have sealed the chamber hours ago. But if anyone finds these notes — Emperor, just listen. The stages aren’t theory. They’re not conjecture. They’re happening. I can feel it in the walls. The vents keep hissing even when the airflow is shut off. Something is moving in there. Scratching. Clicking. I keep telling myself it’s just the metal cooling but… no. No, I’ve heard that sound before.

Don’t trust the quiet ones. Don’t trust the ones who avoid the light. Don’t trust the ones who smile too long or blink too slow. That’s how it starts. That’s how it always starts. One becomes two becomes a brood becomes a congregation and then— Throne, I can’t even finish the thought.

If you see the signs — any of them — burn it out. Burn it all out. Don’t hesitate. Don’t investigate. Don’t wait for confirmation. By the time you’re certain, it’s already too late. They’re already beneath your feet. They’re already behind your walls. They’re already—

…Emperor preserve me, something’s at the door.

[FRAGMENT 3 — ████████████████ : CLOSING RECORD]

Status: Investigation incomplete. Subject matter deemed highly volatile. Threat Classification: XENOS INFILTRATION — TIER SEVEN Primary Vector: Biological subversion; multi‑stage reproductive corruption Observed Pattern: Sequential escalation consistent with known ████████████ incursions Recommended Response: Immediate containment, sterilisation protocols, and denial of all subterranean access routes

Inquisitorial Note: Signs of psychological strain detected in final annotations. Handwriting irregularities suggest duress during composition. Archival Directive: Preserve document in sealed vault. Cross‑reference with prior outbreaks on ████████, █████████, and ████████████.

[CLOSING NOTICE — AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY]

Remain vigilant. If these fragments have taught you anything, let it be this: the shadows are never empty, and silence is rarely a comfort. The signs are subtle at first — a flicker in the lumen strips, a shift in the air, a whisper that doesn’t belong to any living throat. Do not dismiss them. Do not assume safety. Complacency is the first victory the enemy claims.

This record ends here… for now. Further details cannot be included in this transmission without compromising operational integrity. But know this: another missive exists. Hidden. Buried. Waiting for the right moment to surface. When it does, you will understand why these warnings were not enough.

Stay watchful. Stay armed. Stay alive. Part II will follow when the channels are clear.

Lion El'Jonson - Lord of the First Book review spoiler free...ish

 

Lion El' Jonson by David Guymer.

The Khrave are a species that thrive in the unseen places of the galaxy, preying not on flesh but on thought itself. They are psychic parasites and emotional predators, slipping into the minds of their victims and twisting fear, doubt, and desire into weapons. Their influence spreads quietly, like a whispered suggestion that grows into obsession, turning allies against one another long before the enemy is ever recognised. They are a threat defined by subtlety and corruption, the kind of foe that unravels a world from the inside out. It is fitting, then, that they cross paths with the Dark Angels, the Emperor’s First Legion, and masters of secrecy. No Chapter in the Imperium guards its truths more fiercely. Their history is layered with oaths, hidden chambers, and knowledge shared only with those deemed worthy. Even among their own ranks, truth is rationed, compartmentalised, and buried beneath centuries of silence. To outsiders, they are inscrutable; to themselves, they are a brotherhood bound by duty and haunted by ancient sins they can never fully reveal. Bringing these two forces together, a xenos species built on manipulation and a Legion defined by secrecy, creates a narrative steeped in tension and mistrust. Both operate in shadows, both conceal their true nature, and both shape the battlefield in ways unseen. It’s a meeting of predators, each dangerous in their own way, and it sets the stage for a story where nothing is ever quite what it seems.

The story that unfolds brings these two forces, the manipulative, mind‑twisting Khrave and the secretive, oath‑bound Dark Angels, into a collision that feels as much psychological as it is physical. Rather than relying on grand battles or galaxy‑shaking revelations, the narrative builds its tension through unease: strange behaviours, subtle distortions, and the creeping sense that something is fundamentally wrong beneath the surface. It’s the kind of threat that suits the First Legion perfectly, yet also tests them in ways their rigid hierarchy and guarded truths aren’t always prepared for. The Dark Angels’ natural inclination toward silence and compartmentalisation becomes both a weapon and a weakness as events unfold. Their refusal to share information, even with one another, creates a constant undercurrent of mistrust, which the Khrave’s methods only amplify. The result is a story shaped by shadows, half‑truths, and the uncomfortable question of who is truly in control at any given moment. Without giving anything away, the setup leans heavily on atmosphere and tension rather than spectacle. It’s a slow tightening of the noose, a sense of encroaching danger that builds steadily as the characters try to understand what they’re facing. That approach gives the book a distinctive flavour, one that stands apart from more straightforward xenos encounters. 

Even with all the strengths of the story, I found myself reflecting on my own relationship with the Lion as a character. His ingrained paranoia, constant suspicion, and tightly controlled emotional distance are core to who he is, traits that define the First Legion as much as their martial discipline. While I appreciate how faithfully the book captures that aspect of him, it’s not a personality that naturally resonates with me. That didn’t diminish my enjoyment of the narrative, but it did shape how I connected with certain scenes. In a way, it highlights how distinct each Primarch truly is, and how their flaws can be just as defining as their virtues

Rynn's World Book review spoiler free...ish

 

Rynn's World by Steve Parker.

On one side of this book, we have the Crimson Fists, and on the other side, we have the green tide of the Waaagh! Snagrod. The warboss has brought his ladz for a good krumping and has managed to get to the homeworld of the Fists Chapter Monastery. Rynn’s World throws us straight into a clash defined by absolute opposites. On one side stand the Crimson Fists, heirs to Rogal Dorn’s unyielding discipline, masters of fortification, precision, and the grim patience of siege warfare. Their entire identity is built on structure, duty, and the belief that a well‑prepared defence can weather any storm. Opposing them is the raw, explosive chaos of the Orks, a force that embodies everything the sons of Dorn are not: unpredictable, overwhelming, and driven by a brutal momentum that cares nothing for strategy or order. This collision between rigid Imperial resolve and the wild entropy of the greenskin horde forms the beating heart of the novel, setting the stage for one of the most desperate last stands in Space Marine lore. With that foundation set, Rynn’s World quickly establishes its central tension without giving too much away: the disciplined sons of Dorn holding fast against a threat defined by sheer, unpredictable brutality. It’s a story built on contrasts, order versus anarchy, precision versus overwhelming force, and that dynamic shapes every moment of the book. With those elements in place, I want to shift into my own thoughts on how effectively the novel captures the Crimson Fists, their character, and the desperate struggle that defines their legacy.

The novel opens with a contemplative, almost ritualistic atmosphere as the Crimson Fists gather for one of their chapter traditions, guided by their Chaplains. It’s a quiet moment that grounds the reader in who these Space Marines are before the storm breaks. From there, the pace accelerates sharply as the chapter moves to intervene on an Imperial world under attack, a mission that spirals into a single, devastating mistake with consequences that echo far beyond anything they anticipated. The nature of that punishment is something I’ve rarely encountered elsewhere in Warhammer fiction, and it immediately set this story apart for me. The characters themselves are handled with surprising nuance. Each Marine, officer, and supporting figure feels distinct, their personalities shaped not only by Dorn’s rigid legacy but by their own experiences and flaws. Even within such a disciplined bloodline, they stand out through their sheer refusal to yield, no matter the setbacks, no matter the weight of their errors, surrender simply isn’t in their nature. That sense of relentless determination becomes one of the book’s strongest threads. The looming threat of failure, paired with the immense stakes at play, is a constant presence throughout the narrative. It keeps the tension high and makes the reader genuinely invested in how, or if,  the Crimson Fists can endure what’s coming. The novel’s length works in its favour here, giving enough space for these themes to breathe and allowing the reader to fully appreciate the emotional and narrative pressure bearing down on the characters.

Sanguinius - The Great Angel Book review spoiler free...ish

 

Sanguinius - the Great Angel by Chris Wraight.

Sanguinius is defined by a profound duality that sits at the heart of Sanguinius: The Great Angel. To the Imperium, he appears almost divine, a being of serenity, compassion, and effortless charisma, whose very presence lifts the spirits of warriors and civilians alike. His wings and radiant demeanour make him the living embodiment of hope in an age built on conquest. Yet the story never lets us forget the other side of him: the doomed visionary who carries the weight of his own prophesied death, and the terrifying, near‑apocalyptic force he becomes when battle demands it. Beneath his gentleness lies a predator forged for war, capable of unleashing a fury that even his brothers fear. This tension, between healer and destroyer, saint and executioner, shapes every choice he makes. It’s this balance, this constant negotiation between the light he strives to embody and the darkness he must wield, that makes Sanguinius one of the most compelling figures in the Primarchs series. This short story captures him at his most human and most mythic, revealing a hero who knows he is destined to fall, yet chooses to shine all the brighter because of it.

Here we have another strong addition to the Primarchs series, and unlike the others I’ve reviewed so far, this story is told through the eyes of a baseline human remembrancer. Sanguinius’s compassion toward his sons is a constant thread throughout the narrative, especially in how he confronts the inherent flaws within their gene‑seed. The duality of his nature emerges repeatedly in the battles witnessed by the mortal observer. Through those eyes, we see Sanguinius shift from noble, artistic, almost ethereal angel to the living embodiment of the Emperor’s wrath. Viewing him from a remembrancer’s perspective gives us a rare angle, one uncoloured by the instinctive loyalty of his Legion, and all the more revealing because of it. With all of this in mind, the story offers far more than a simple character vignette it becomes a study of how Sanguinius is perceived by those who stand outside his Legion’s reverence. That perspective shapes the entire narrative, and it’s what really stood out to me as I read. Due to the length of the book the plot develops quickly and yet doesn't suffer because of this speed. There aren't many parts of the story that are from the Primarch or his legion, so the remembrancer becomes well-rounded and defined as we go along. The final section of the plot leads nicely into the first Horus Heresy book - Horus Rising, with the legions' combat on the planet nicknamed Murder.

Broken Crusade Book review spoiler free...ish

 

Broken Crusade by Steven B Fischer.

The Black Templars are one of those Chapters that immediately stand apart, even in a galaxy overflowing with zealotry and war. Born from the ashes of the Imperial Fists after the Horus Heresy, they took Sigismund’s uncompromising vision and turned it into a way of life, a crusade without end. Where other Chapters settle into fortress-monasteries and rigid structures, the Black Templars thrive on constant motion, scattering their forces across the stars in countless crusades, each one fuelled by absolute faith in the Emperor. They don’t just fight for the Imperium; they fight for the idea of it, with a fervour that borders on the fanatical. Their rejection of psykers, their oaths, their chains, their relentless drive to prove their devotion, it all creates a Chapter that feels raw, aggressive, and utterly committed. Whether you admire their purity or question their extremism, the Black Templars bring a unique energy to the setting, and any story involving them tends to carry that same sense of righteous momentum. This is the energy that Broken Crusade taps into so effectively. The book doesn’t just introduce the Black Templars; it drops you straight into the mindset that defines them. It shows the early days of their eternal crusade, the forging of their identity, and the tension between duty, faith, and the brutal realities of war. Rather than softening their fanaticism, the story leans into it, giving you a sense of how their culture formed and why they fight the way they do. It’s a compact read, but one that captures the spirit of the Chapter with surprising clarity, making it a great entry point for anyone curious about what sets the Black Templars apart.

 The plot takes its time getting to the central conflict, but that slower build works in its favour, giving you a clear sense of the Chapter’s nature, their zeal, their discipline, and their absolute refusal to bend even an inch. When the story finally brings the Black Templars into direct confrontation with their foe, the Chaos Lord they face becomes an unexpected highlight. He’s a fascinating take on a World Eater: a warrior who has somehow carved out an existence not entirely dominated by the Butcher’s Nails. It immediately reminded me of rare cases like Arrian, the Apothecary from Fabius Bile’s consortium, who manages to keep the Nails at bay through chemical calmatives and meditation. But this Chaos Lord’s method is something else entirely, a far more unusual, almost unsettlingly inventive way of managing the constant agony of his implants. All of this comes together to create a story that feels authentically Black Templar while still offering something fresh in the portrayal of their enemies. It’s a compact novel, but one that leaves a stronger impression than you’d expect. The narrative also shifts frequently between Castellan Emeric’s first‑person perspective and a third‑person view of the supporting cast, which adds variety and gives the story a broader sense of scale without losing its focus. I’d wholeheartedly recommend it to any fan. If you don’t mind the Templars’ pious intensity, or even enjoy that flavour of zealotry,  you’ll find a brilliant story here, full of unique viewpoints and angles that set it apart from more conventional Space Marine fiction.

Ferrus Manus - Gorgon of Medusa Book review spoiler free...ish

 

Ferrus Manus - Gorgon of Medusa by David Guymer.

Ferrus Manus, Primarch of the Iron Hands, was a master of the forge, a creator of weapons and armour that were as much works of art as they were instruments of war. Yet for all his skill, he often felt overshadowed when it came to winning recognition for bringing new worlds into compliance with the young Imperium. Compared to brothers like Roboute Guilliman or Lion El ’Jonson, Ferrus believed his own achievements were eclipsed by a wide margin. The Gardinaal compliance offered him a rare chance to prove he could succeed in a situation that demanded more than brute force. During this phase of the Great Crusade, many Legions exchanged companies and specialists to strengthen bonds and learn from one another, hoping to build the unity that had always defined allied warriors throughout history. The Gorgon of Medusa taps into this era beautifully, a short but compelling entry in the Primarchs series that shines a focused light on the Iron Hands’ enigmatic gene‑sire.

I found this short novel surprisingly engaging, and it caught me off guard in the best way. Ferrus is brought to life with a clarity that really leans into the Iron Hands’ trademark resolve, but the story never forgets that beneath all the metal and discipline, he’s still a man shaped by pride, pressure, and the constant comparison to his brothers. His well‑known disdain for weakness is front and centre, yet the narrative goes further by showing how that mindset begins to seep into the Legion itself, nudging them toward the cold, uncompromising path that will eventually see flesh traded for steel. The book also makes great use of the bond between Ferrus and Fulgrim, a relationship often overshadowed by what comes later, adding a welcome layer of warmth and vulnerability to these supposedly untouchable demigods. What impressed me most was how smoothly the story moved through these themes. The pacing feels deliberate without dragging, and the length works in its favour, giving just enough space for character, atmosphere, and tension without slipping into filler. It’s a compact read, but one that leaves a stronger impression than you might expect.