Echos of Betrayed Honor

Perturabo has betrayed you. The Iron Warriors, cold and methodical, have turned their guns upon their kin. Your cousins lie butchered in the blackened dust of Istvaan, their gene-forged bodies broken beneath the weight of treachery. The massacre is absolute. Only a handful of you remain—loyalists, stranded in the ruins of a dead city, its bones picked clean by the virus bombs of long-forgotten wars. No vox. No rations. No support. The sands of time have swallowed this place whole, and soon, they will swallow you too. But you refuse to die cowering in the dark. The traitors hunt you, their searchlights sweeping through the wreckage, methodical as ever. Every breath is borrowed time, every moment a choice—wait to be run down like prey or strike with what little strength remains. You tighten your grip on your bolter, glance at the warriors beside you—gaunt, wounded, unyielding—and make your choice. No last stands. No hero’s death. Just the righteous fury of those too stubborn to kneel.