It was a day of mourning in Canterlot.

The battered remains of the army had returned at last. The tension that had rested over Canterlot now turned to fearful malaise as bloodied ponies solemnly slogged through the ivory walls of the city. The wounded were the first to return, rushed ahead of the main body of the army. They now filled the hospitals, overflowing into makeshift camps and appropriated buildings as everypony with even the faintest medical knowledge or training rushed to help. The walking wounded and the unscathed in body came next. In the very rear came the Blood Angels, sore and silent over their defeat.

That was all Twilight could really remember of the return to Canterlot; the order in which it happened. In future days, she would piece together the full story, the almost heartwarming tale of the citizens of Canterlot, so often aloof and uncaring, opening their doors and offering their services to everypony in need. She would learn the names of every pony, colt, and filly who helped, and personally give each of them thanks and reward for their kindness. That would come later, however. At the time, more pressing matters had clouded her thoughts.

“Hold on, Rainbow, just a little bit longer!” Twilight said as she rushed through the halls of the Royal Castle. Rainbow could only offer faint moans as she lay unconscious on the emergency trolley. Nurses hurriedly pushed her along, a doctor whose name Twilight didn’t recognize working as best she could on Rainbow’s wounds.

“Over here, Twi!” Applejack called from up ahead.

They rushed past the farmpony with barely a glance. Not even a second could be wasted. The field medics had done what they could, but the wounds that great metallic dragon had dealt were severe. Hastily-patched lacerations marred Rainbow’s underbelly, blood was splattered all across her coat, and her left wing was in particularly bad shape. The only good news they had for now was that she was still breathing, however faintly.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Twilight asked as the doctors and nurses got to work.

They ignored her, distracted by the matter at hand. Caught between a burning desire to help her friend and the knowledge that even a moment’s distraction could cost Rainbow everything, Twilight could only stand silently, waiting, hoping for… for something.

Finally, a nurse took a brief second to address the Princess of Friendship. “We’ve got everything covered here, Your Highness. I’m sure you’re needed elsewhere.”

“Will she be alright?” Twilight asked, her heart pounding against her ribs.

The nurse paused. It was a brief pause, almost too short to notice. But the powers of an alicorn are many and great, and to her super-pony eyes the micro-pause was like a neon sign.

“She’ll live, I can assure you,” the nurse said tactfully. “Now go, we need room and I’m sure other ponies need you more.”

“But I can help!” Twilight said, hastily, desperately. Her horn glowed with ambient power as her mind raced, searching her memory for any hint of a spell that might help, some piece of lore she’d read years ago, something that would make things…

“Twi, come on,” Applejack broke into Twilight’s thoughts. “The doc’s got ‘er, and you an’ Ah’ve both got other jobs we’ll be more useful at. I hate ta say it, but we’ve gotta leave ‘er fer now.”

Every bone in Twilight’s body demanded she stay, find some way to help. A friend, one of her best friends, was in trouble. She had to do something! But Applejack was right; there was nothing she could do, not now. Rainbow was in the doctor’s hands.

Twilight mumbled an affirmation and sullenly followed Applejack out of the room. She looked back once, before they turned the corner, catching a brief glimpse as the doctor grabbed a medical saw. Twilight turned to Applejack.

“I… I need to talk to Princess Celestia,” she said. With a flap of her wings, Twilight was gone, leaving Applejack alone in the hall.

With no pony left to watch her, Applejack allowed a single tear to slip down her face.
____

Not too far away, the Blood Angels were in a surprisingly similar situation.

“Marco, Severo, help Domenico get Alessandro to the nearest infirmary,” Renato ordered. “The rest of you, make sure Castello reaches Cosimo. We must start repairs immediately. Dabriel, Priam, gather the veterans and meet me in the encampment within twenty minutes. Understood?”

Paolo rumbled up to his old battle-brother’s side. Briefly, the two watched Squad Murata carry out its orders. Marco and Severo carried the broken body of the Chaplain Alessandro with the utmost discipline and respect. At their side, Domenico worked, keeping the Chaplain stable as he fought through a fragile healing coma.

“I never thought I’d see him like this,” Renato admitted. “I mean, I knew he would fall before the rest of us, but I never really thought about seeing him so broken.”

“Only in body, if the Emperor has mercy,” Paolo replied. He placed a hand on Renato’s pauldron. “Aless was always the hardest of us, in body as in head. He’ll fight through, you’ll see. Now come, we don’t have time for brooding. We have a war to plan.”

Renato inhaled. “For such is our lot, we Astartes, that war is our blood and our breath. Our brothers we mourn, but our resolve shall never waver.”

With that, the two set off. It was, by the standards of the local xenos, a fair hike from the city gates to the impromptu encampment the Blood Angels had claimed. To an Astartes, it was barely a brisk walk. Within a few minutes, even hampered by the heavy weight of Terminator armour, the pair had arrived.

It was a ramshackle hovel, an otherwise abandoned neighbourhood that, if Renato had understood Twilight correctly, had been slated for demolition and reconstruction before the Blood Angels arrived. Now, the survivors of the Wrath of Angels scurried about, carrying supplies and equipment to and fro at the behest of their Astartes masters. Makeshift barricades had been erected, with the, rudimentary defense systems being installed. A pair of heavy bolters and a missile launcher; not much, but enough to hold off any surprise attack until the defenders could be roused.

In the heart of the district was the Chapel, an old xenos library that Cosimo had started converting into a headquarters. Renato and Paolo entered silently.

“It’s a dilapidated mess, but I’ve almost got the lights working,” Cosimo said as the pair entered, not even deigning to turn his head from his current project. “Though I suspect we may have a while yet before I can get everything working. These ignorant xenos haven’t even uncovered the art of electricity, so I have to link everything to the promethium engine from one of the drop pods. And anyways, I hear Castello needs me more than these lights.”

“Indeed,” Paolo said. He rumbled over to the massive slab of wood that currently served as their planning table. “Best get to it quickly. The last thing we want is him…”

Cosimo’s servo-arms briefly fluttered. “The Flaw has taken enough already. Very well, I’ll get to it. Just don’t try to turn up the lights yet, they may explode on us.”

With that the Techmarine marched out of the Chapel.

Old friends that they were Paolo and Renato were masters of the art of chatting without saying anything to each other. Idle conversation ensued, passing the minutes until the veterans gathered.

Renato surveyed their motley band. Dabriel and Priam, the sergeants; Durante and Flavio of the Sanguinary Guard; Fausto and Placido, last of the Command Squad Veterans; and Orlando, Champion of the Fourth Company. They were weary and worn, with armour and weapons in need of maintenance, but still standing strong.

“You all know why we have gathered here, so I will dispense with preamble,” Renato said, calling the ad hoc meeting to order. “Our situation is dire. Chaos has a foothold on this world, we have lost several of our brothers, and we now stand on the brink. Alessandro lies in the infirmary, and I know not whether we shall see him on the battlefield again.”

Paolo stepped forward. “In his absence, command falls to Renato, as the Codex Astartes says.”

“From the Preacher to the Witchmind?” Durante said. He shrugged. “Strange times, but hey, what’s life without some adventure?”

“We’ve no time for bad humour, brother,” Flavio said. “We must plan quickly. Chaos could strike at any moment.”

“That is something I doubt, for the moment,” Orlando interjected. “With the xenos city overrun, Chaos will waste valuable time desecrating it. Survivors will be rounded up as sacrifices and slaves, profane altars will be raised, and the invasion will stall, as it did on Chesnia.”

Paolo nodded. “I remember that. Foul days we had there. You were still a sergeant then, were you not? I assume you believe we can drive back the heretics as we did then?”

“Indeed,” Orlando replied. “The Emperor is with us, though we are far from his Light. We cannot fail.”

“Brave words,” Renato said. “But I have found wisdom preferable to bravery alone, and as a wise man once said, ‘trust in the Emperor and keep your bolter armed.’ We need a plan. Now, here is the strategic situation.”

Paolo laid out a series of makeshift figures, a mixture of metal and plastic models, on the table.

“The entirety of our forces are currently concentrated here, in Canterlot,” he said, placing down some Space Marines and Imperial Guardsmen and carving an ‘X’ in the wood. “We are few in number, cut off from reinforcement and resupply, and reliant on the local xenos for resources. Chaos currently controls the space battle, and we have no method of changing that. They can strike anywhere at any time, and we have only two Stormravens remaining. Thus, the heretics hold the initiative.”

“So we need to retake it,” Orlando said. “We need to rally our forces and launch an attack…”

“Where?” Paolo interrupted. “We don’t know why Chaos chose this world, why they came all this way to the edge of the galaxy. We don’t know where they will land next.”

Fausto stepped forward. “The logical move would be to strike major military centres, destroy the xenos’ capacity to resist, to the extent they ever could.”

“Correct. So we’ll need to know what the key bases and cities are on this world,” Renato said. “I intend to meet with Twilight later, I’ll ask her.”

The tension in the room noticeably grew.

“Must we truly work with these aliens?” Orlando asked. “I have obeyed the Chaplain’s orders, but can we really trust them? Are we not commanded to slay the xenos wherever it is found?”

“Your faith is commendable, if…” Renato trailed off, catching a silent glance from Paolo. He cleared his throat and began again. “We need soldiers, supplies, intelligence. We are too few against too many. The Emperor is mighty, but for now, we must put aside the hatred of the alien until the greater threat of Chaos is defeated.”

“With that in mind,” Paolo said. “I suggest we begin fortifying this city, ‘Canterlot’ I believe you called it. As it stands, these walls won’t last more than ten minutes against a siege.”

“Very well,” Renato said. “What suggestions can this council offer us?”

So the council went on, debating over how to deploy their forces and fortify the city, all the while secretly glad that they were without fear, for with the Chaplain out of commission and Chaos hanging overhead, there was very little hope to be found in their ranks.
___

Endas stood, dispassionately tinkering with his new arm, as he waited. His Iron Warriors mulled around him, keeping paranoid eyes out for any sign of treachery or ambush. For their part, the Word Bearers had thus far kept their end of the bargain, but that meant nothing to the seasoned warrior. It was the way of his Legion; advancement came at the cost of one’s superiors, and treachery was only every a single opportunity away. Thus Endas perpetually, instinctively, kept his back to the wall at all times.

For now, he was awaiting the arrival of Bal Harodon, the Dark Apostle himself. The xenos city was secured, and even now Word Bearers forces were spread throughout it, gathering up the last few stragglers and completing their ritual sacrifices.

Endas sneered at the very thought. They were Astartes, the sons of the Primarchs, posthuman demigods of war. What weakness must have so infested the gene-seed of Lorgar that his sons should need gods to worship? Chaos was nothing more than a tool, and a disgusting one at that. When approached carefully, it could be harnessed to reliable, unfailing technology. When praised as divine, it simply consumed. And what an insult this worship was! It degraded the very supremacy of the Astartes. Had they not first rebelled against the Corpse-Emperor because he demanded their submission?

But for all Endas despised the Word Bearers and their religion, he would never let it affect the execution of his tasks. He may be offended by the very idea of the superstitious rituals around him, but he was here to be paid, nothing more. As long as Bal Harodon kept him supplied with slaves and ammunition, Endas would be satiated.

An ear-splitting noise, like the scraping of nails on chalkboard, told Endas that the ancient Apostle had arrived. He flexed the lightning claw that had replaced his severed arm. The implantation as still fresh and required maintenance, and thus a pain which would have driven mortal men insane coursed through him at every movement of the arm. The Iron Warrior barely noticed the ache.

Reality itself peeled open, revealing a realm of madness. Indescribable colours spewed forth, and from it stepped Astartes clad in crimson Terminator armour.

“Good day to you, Endas!” Bal Harodon said cheerily, stretching out his arms as though to embrace the Iron Warrior. The Dark Apostle looked around at the smoking ruins of the xenos city and twisted his warped lips into a grin of crooked fangs. “A fine job you have done today, a fine job indeed. Oh! But what has happened to your arm? Jad, go to the slavemasters and tell them to take a few extra slaves and add them to Endas’ share.”

Endas snarled. “I neither need nor want your senile charity, Word Bearer. You came to discuss the war plan.”

“Tut, tut, so grumpy, and on a day of victory,” Bal sighed and walked forward. “But if you insist, let us get down to business. “San Delekon, please hand me the map.”

One of the Terminators stepped forward and turned over a large satellite pict.

“Excellent.” Bal rolled the pict open, revealing the alien continent they sought to conquer. “Now, we have established our beachhead here. Oh, my, it’s just like when we took the Van Kuvr Port on Terra, so exciting.”

“Get on with it, old fool,” Endas growled.

Bal harrumphed and continued. “The last reports showed that the power was here, but it seems to have moved. Most of it has gone to this large city here, but some of it hasn’t moved since the battle.”

“Are you trying to imply my men are incompetent?” Endas said, flexing his lightning claw.

“Now, wherever would you get such an idea?” Bal tutted. “You take offense too easily. No, I’m just saying that we need to take another look around and find it. To learn what exactly we’re looking for would be a great boon.”

“And now you say we don’t even know what we’re looking for!” Endas roared. He threw his hands up in the air. “Madness! I should never have accepted this deal. I swear, Word Bearer, you will not be the death of me! I’ll see you dead before this mad quest of yours ruins me!”

Just before Bal could move to soothe the furious Iron Warrior, a new voice interjected. It was like silk and coal-fire, an envenomed honey to the ear.

“Come now, there’s no need for allies to fight, at least, not on the winning side,” the voice cooed.

In a split second, every Astartes in the square had drawn and aimed his weapon. Boltguns, plasma guns, autocannons, and many more guns were firmly levelled at the strange creature which had appeared in their midst.

It was in form like the equine xenos which infested this world. And yet it was clearly something else. Where the xenos were bright-coloured and furry, this creature was plated with coal-black chitin. Its mane was like seaweed, and its legs were filled with holes. Insectoid wings extended from its barrel, and a cruel grin sat on its alien lips.

Bal sniffed at the creature. “Hold fire, men.”

“What?” Endas snapped, his guns aimed and ready to fire. “It is xenos. We slay it, or we enslave it.”

“Can you not sense it?” Bal asked as he lowered his combi-bolter. “It smells of Chaos. It is of the Primordial Truth.”

The alien bowed before Bal Harodon. “You are wise to hold your wrath. I believe I have something you seek.”

Chrysalis gestured towards two more of its kind, approaching with a large dark-green cocoon. Bal and Endas stepped forward and gazed inside. Bal began to laugh.

“Tell me, xenos, what is your name? And what do you seek from us?”

“I am Queen Chrysalis,” the alien said, looking Bal Harodon straight in the eye. “And I seek revenge.”