Narrative

On the outskirts of the Garmon Cluster lies the system of Zeta Garmon. Less illustrious and vital than its other Garmonite kin, it lies outside of the main battle sphere. 

Zeta Garmon’s sun gives off an eerie blue light, making the system largely desolate and lifeless. But that does not make the system worthless. The same celestial anomalies that make the system perilous also give it unique resources, some of which are vital to the Imperium’s efforts.

Zeta Garmon 8 exists in M31 as a dead world. Far from the warm of its mother star and nearer to the celestial anomalies that plague the system, its surface is treacherous, cold, and free of indigenous life forms.

In this inhospitable place, the Imperium found a vital resource, Lorelei. The Sigilite himself sanctioned mining the mysterious psycho-reactive crystal, and because of his warrant mining city complexes dot the planet’s surface.

At the outbreak of the Heresy, the population of these city complexes numbered just over a million souls. But as fighting ramped up across the galaxy, many were pulled from their posts and sent to the anvil of war.

As Horus’s fleet began to darken the edges of Garmonite space, the denizens of Zeta Garmon 8 betrayed their oaths of loyalty and writs of mandate. Down came the symbols of the Imperium and banners of Horus’s all seeing eye were raised in their place.

Unwilling to see this source of Lorelai fall to the Traitors, Malcador urged Dorn to send a response to quell the insurrection and restore Imperial rules. Dorn complied, collecting a meager force that would not be missed from their posts and sending them to combat the traitors.

Fate would cause the Loyalist retribution fleet and Traitor Astartes support fleet to arrive to the planet at the same time. The human populace of Zeta Garmon 8 looked on with transhuman dread as armies of Astartes began to land and make their forgettable, relatively peaceful mining world a battlefield.

Signal Officer Terryn stood from his station and snapped a hasty salute to Captain Demio, Son of Sanguinius and commander of the *Angel’s Fist*. 

“My lord,” he began. “I’m seeing another fleet translating at the northern Mandeville point. Ship icons suggest Traitor vessels. Markings from all Legions.”

“Are they moving to engage us?” Captain Demio asked.

“No sir. Some vessels with marking of the  12th legion have broken off toward Zeta Garmon 10. But the main fleet continues in-system at full thruster burn.”

The Astartes paused for a moment. “A race then,” he said finally. “Signal our fleet to move to full burn. Continue toward Zeta Garmon 8. Let’s not let the bastards get there first.”

The Geopsychic Storms of Zeta Garmon 8 are an extreme and unpredictable fusion of electromagnetic turbulence, aetheric distortion, and psychic disruption, shaped by the planet’s decayed blue sun and the celestial anomalies that plague the system. These storms scramble communications, disable augur systems, and render astropathic messages useless, making coordinated warfare nearly impossible.

Predicting or controlling these storms is beyond our current technology. They appear suddenly, decimate a vicinity of the planet and dissipate as quickly as they appear.

Though studies have linked the storms to the planet’s psycho-reactive Lorelei crystals, their exact cause remains unknown. Early Imperial settlers underestimated their ferocity, leading to devastating losses. Only heavily fortified city-complexes allowed for sustainable habitation. And even then, there can be Solar Months where residents can’t be outdoors. Or in the worst cases, above ground at all.

[…]

Excerpt from

A Treatise on the Garmon Cluster 

by Darwin Espanel 

Report filed 0.785.180.M30

**Personal Log – Foreman Grig Varlo**

Zeta Garmon 8 – Mining Complex Theta-29

0.087.013.M31

It’s hard to describe the way the storms feel when they roll in. You can hear them long before they hit, this distant hum that crawls up your bones and settles behind your eyes. The old hands say you get used to it, but they’re liars. You don’t get used to it. You just learn to live with the way your teeth ache and the way the lights flicker even when the systems say everything’s fine.

This one’s different, though. Bigger. Meaner. Even the Lorelei is restless. Down in the lower shafts, the crystals are glowing again, brighter than I’ve ever seen. There’s something unnatural about that stuff. You can feel it watching you.

We had to shut down three sections today—the drills were cutting through solid rock one second, then just…stopping. Like they hit air, but the scanners still read stone. Chief Galos said it was a data error, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes when he said it.

The men are on edge. Can’t say I blame them. They whisper about the missing crew from Gamma-12, the ones who vanished last month when the storms cut the vox. No bodies, no wreckage, just gone. Admin says they got lost, but who gets lost underground? There’s only one way in and one way out.

I had a drink with Old Fennic after shift. He’s been on this rock longer than anyone and says he’s seen storms like this before. He told me something I can’t stop thinking about.

“When the winds get too loud,” he said, “don’t listen.”

I laughed. “What am I supposed to do? Plug my ears?”

Fennic just shook his head. “If you listen too close, you start to hear things that aren’t there.”

I should’ve let it go, but I asked him what he meant. He looked at me, real serious, and said:

“They call your name.”

I didn’t sleep much after that.

The storm’s almost here now. You can feel it pressing against the walls, rattling the steel like an angry thing. The outer domes are locked down, but the lights keep flickering. The vox is already failing—static on every channel.

Something’s different this time. Worse.

I keep hearing voices in the wind. Maybe it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. Maybe it’s just the way the storm howls through the rock.

Or maybe Old Fennic was right.

I think I just heard my name

The battle for the primary landing zone was lost. 

Caught between the fury of the Geopsychic Storms and the relentless advance of Traitor forces, the Loyalist host fractured, forced into a desperate withdrawal toward the spires of Deadstone City. The retreat was brutal—vox channels were dead, aerial support nonexistent, and every attempt at coordinated fallback descended into bitter, close-quarters engagements in the sand-choked wastelands. At first, Deadstone seemed like salvation. Its fortified walls and sturdy, defensible structures could have provided cover, resupply, and a chance to regroup. But as the first battle-worn Loyalist warriors reached the city gates, they found them barred. 

The planetary populace had seen the banners of the Eye of Horus, the war sigils of the XIIth, XVIth, and XVIIth Legions, raised high above the burning wreckage of the main drop zone. To the desperate civilians of Deadstone, the war was already decided. The Imperium had lost. Throwing open their gates to fleeing Loyalists would mean mass execution when the Warmaster’s forces arrived. 

Faced with no shelter, no allies, and no time, the Loyalists had one option left—run. Pushed northwest into the wastes, the Loyalists moved in scattered warbands, the wounded carried where possible, left behind when not. Stalked by Traitor outriders and harassed by traitorous militia forces, they fought running battles through the dunes, forced to burn ammunition they could not afford to spend. But in their desperation, they found something unexpected. 

The Northwestern Wastes, a flat, mineral-rich plateau, sat beneath the worst of the storm’s interference. A natural landing site. With no other refuge, the Loyalists fortified what little ground they could, broadcasting desperate signal bursts through the static haze. And in the void above, loyal ships answered. 

Zeta Garmon 8 – Governor’s Spire, Mining Complex Primus 

0.163.013.M31 

The chamber was suffocating with the scent of recyc-paper and nervous sweat. Governor Constance Agrippa sat rigid at the head of the council table, her knuckles white against the polished steel surface. 

Around her, the last remnants of Zeta Garmon 8’s ruling elite argued in panicked whispers—Mechanicum emissaries, planetary militia officers, the few remaining Administratum functionaries not yet fled or dead. “The fleets have arrived,” rasped Overseer Callis, his augmetic eye flickering. “If we surrender the mining complexes, perhaps—” 

“No surrender,” Agrippa snapped. “We are bound by oath.” 

“Oaths?” Magister Vorren hissed. “Oaths did not bring food when the supply ships ceased! Oaths did not keep our miners from starving when the quotas rose! Oaths did not force the Warmaster to send us Astartes aid when we had need. Both sides have nothing but broken oaths and lies.” 

The air was thick with tension, the storm outside howling against the reinforced glass. Then, the doors burst open. A militia officer, wide-eyed and breathless, stumbled into the chamber. 

“They’re landing in the wastes!” he gasped. “Titans!” 

Silence. 

For a moment, no one moved. The distant thunder of the Geopsychic Storms masked the tremors at first, but now they could feel them—deep, guttural reverberations pulsing through the metal of the Spire itself. Agrippa rose slowly from her seat, her breath sharp. 

“The Warmaster’s?” she asked, voice barely a whisper. The officer swallowed. Shook his head. 

“The Emperor’s god-machines,” he murmured. “They are here.” 

Outside, beyond the storm-choked horizon, the first warhorn sounded. 

0.279.013.M31 – Deadstone City, Zeta Garmon 8 

It began with a detonation beneath the earth—a low, grinding rumble that rolled through the stone foundations of Deadstone like thunder trapped in the bones of the world. Moments later, the first Loyalist units poured from shattered tunnel mouths, emerging like wraiths from the ancient mine network beneath the southeastern hab-sector. For weeks, they had scouted, bled, and died in the dark, but now the way was open. 

The Iron Hands breached first, melta-charges liquefying the underhive bulkheads. Behind them came the Salamanders, their flamer teams clearing corridors in waves of fire. Blood Angels drop assault teams swept in behind, leaping from access shafts with blades already dripping. 

The traitors were caught off-guard. The northwestern wall, already weakened from a Loyalist push days earlier, crumbled under renewed bombardment from artillery positioned in the Wastes. Siege tanks roared across the breach, battering through hastily erected barricades. Castellum-Pattern automata , reprogrammed by Loyalist Techmagi, stomped into the streets, laying down suppressive fire with cold precision. 

In the heart of the city, the Titan known as Storm-Shrike—a Reaver of Legio Tempestus—strode forward, its melta cannon vaporizing a loyalist armored column in a single flash of light. Moirax Knights darted between buildings, harassing the Loyalist armor columns before being torn apart in fusillades of autocannon and las-fire. 

And so Deadstone burned. 

The city, once loyal, then treacherous, now bled from every street. Fires roared in the manufactorums. Vox signals crackled with screams. Loyalist banners began to rise on outer spires, even as traitor glyphs still marked the city’s center. Deadstone had not yet fallen. But it was no longer whole. 

The battle for the city had become a war of meters, and only the blood of Astartes would decide who held it after the next fortnight.