compromised

 WEBWAY

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The battle raged on, neither side yielding.

Great hordes of daemons and corrupted Astartes surged ceaselessly from the yawning rift — a monstrous wound in reality itself.

The clash of ceramite and claw echoed across the shattered battlefield, accompanied by the screeching howls of the damned.

The Custodes had no means to seal the breach.

The summoning rift was no longer held open by mortal cultists — it was the raw, profane might of the Chaos Gods, etched into the very fabric of the warp-torn Webway.

Valdor's golden armor was drenched in ichor and blood, his guardian spear dripping with viscera.

What troubled him most was not the tide of enemies, but their coordination.

The Chaos Gods — by their very nature — were creatures of division and spite. Yet amidst the carnage, hulking Bloodletters fought alongside bloated Plague Bearers, united under some unseen will.

It was an affront to their nature.

Decay and rage — hand in hand.

"The more they attack, the more organized they become," Valdor mused grimly, his eyes narrowing as he observed the field.

"It is as if those we slay are but fodder, distractions buying time for something far greater to emerge. But why cooperate? They have never tolerated one another..."

Behind the defensive line, he watched.

The daemonic forces moved with unnatural purpose, their movements no longer wild and frenzied, but deliberate — tactical.

Valdor's mind raced.

A prince? A champion? Or something worse? he wondered darkly.

The Custodes stood firm amid the storm.

Their golden armor was battered and crimson-streaked, dented by monstrous blows. Some bore ragged tears in their plate where massive daemon claws had raked them.

Around them, the ground was littered with the remains of the slain — shattered daemon bodies, severed limbs still twitching, festering pools of blackened blood steaming under the unnatural air.

Towering fiends — some twice the height of a man — fell before them, but each kill came at a cost of strength and time.

The screams of dying daemons mingled with the relentless boom of bolter fire and the wet *splchhh* of cleaving blades.

It had been nearly half an hour since Atrius had departed toward the evacuation point, guided by the sisters.

Though the Custodes' might had held, the tide of flesh and steel was growing unbearable.

Were it not for the sisters' null auras — burning holes in the warp energy like candle flames in a gale — they would have already seen casualties.

The plan was simple: hold the line, allow Atrius safe passage, then retreat through the rift to Terra.

But the enemy showed no sign of relenting.

If anything, they seemed... eager.

Valdor keyed his vox, voice calm despite the storm.

"Come in, Atrius. This is Valdor. Have you successfully reached the rift?"

Silence.

"Atrius...? Atrius...?"

_Tzzzzzz_

Only static answered him.

Inside his helm, Valdor frowned.

A cold, heavy dread gripped his heart.

"Carneus," he called sharply.

"Captain?" came the strained reply, the voice gritted through exertion.

"Report position."

"West vanguard, my lord... hhhaagh... over here."

Turning, Valdor spotted him — a Custodian warrior rising from the ruin of a slain behemoth.

The daemon's corpse was grotesque: a bloated mass of bone and putrescent flesh, its chest caved in where Carneus' guardian spear had pierced it.

Carneus' armor was cracked and bloodied, his movements labored but determined.

"No need," Valdor ordered.

"Retreat to my side. Enclose formation, brothers!"

At his command, the Custodes drew closer, their forms reforming an unbreakable shield wall.

The ground beneath them was a charnel pit — the remains of daemons impaled upon spears, skulls crushed beneath sabatons, black ichor staining the once-pristine stone.

Carneus approached, helmet removed.

 he wore an expression of calm resolve, breathing steadily amid the slaughter.

"I must say, Captain," Carneus remarked dryly over the din of battle, "this is the most excitement we've seen in eons. Look how our brothers revel — they have missed the taste of battle."

Valdor removed his own helm with a hiss of decompressing air.

He raised an eyebrow at Carneus but said nothing, his gaze lingering on the battlefield where another tide of monstrous forms — horned, rotting, bladed — surged toward them.

"Something feels wrong," Valdor said, voice low and grim.

"Even without their quarry, they press the attack. They should be breaking... not rallying."

"Perhaps they believe they have a chance to break through our defenses humph.... pathetic." Carneus scoffed.

Against the Custodes, such hope was folly.

And yet... a gnawing unease prickled at Valdor's senses — an instinct honed across millennia of war.

"Carneus," Valdor said grimly. "I cannot reach Atrius. He should have reached the evacuation rift by now. If he has not..."

He let the implication hang, heavy with meaning.

"We must confirm his safety before we disengage."

Carneus snapped his helm back into place, vox crackling.

"Your orders, Lord?"

"Tail him," Valdor commanded. "Ensure he has crossed. Report the moment you confirm."

A deep breath sounded through Carneus' vox.

"Compliance," came the reply, iron in his tone.

*thud *thud *thud *thud *thud *thud *thud *thud*

The ground trembled beneath Carneus' armored sprint as he raced toward the rift, leaving deep craters where his mighty boots struck blood-slick stone.

Valdor watched him go.

His face remained the mask of a leader, yet within his storm-gray eyes burned a flicker of unease.

His gaze turned back to the oncoming horde — an endless sea of shrieking horrors, their howls blending into a cacophony of madness.

"May His will be done," he whispered, voice nearly lost amid the roar of battle, as he donned his helm once more and marched back into the slaughter.