Before Bellona could speak, Mephiston had already halted the ritual.
Neither Bellona nor her apprentice were native to Baal; they bore no duty to sacrifice themselves for its cause.
The psychic energies binding the apprentice were released, and a wave of psionic force reverberated through the room, hurling the Librarians against the walls. These were no ordinary psychics; each was an Astartes, enduring rigorous augmentation. The sheer power of the wave that could throw them back spoke to its intensity.
The temperature in the room dropped to freezing. The apprentice, now covered in frost, struggled to his feet, wiping blood from his eyes and mouth. He looked at Bellona and said, "I'm alright."
Bellona exhaled in relief.
"Thank you for all you've done for Baal," Mephiston approached and gently clasped the apprentice's shoulder before asking what concerned him most. "What did you see?"
"A larger creature," the apprentice recalled, describing the monstrous form of a Tyranid in vivid detail.
Mephiston and the Librarians recognized it immediately—a Tyrant, though unlike any they had encountered.
Why did it lurk among the wreckage of a ruined ship? What was its strategic importance to the swarm?
These questions surfaced in Mephiston's mind, but he knew they were not the most pressing at that moment.
"Can you continue with the scrying?" Mephiston asked.
The apprentice hesitated, his reluctance evident.
"He can," Bellona affirmed.
Mephiston sensed a delicate tension between the two. Yet knowing the strain of psychic exertion, he turned to confirm with the young psyker himself.
"Yes, I can," the apprentice nodded.
Once more, the Librarians assembled. A priest, who had accompanied General Dust's forces, entered from the corridor, anointing the floor with ancient sanctified oils.
The apprentice seated himself upon the consecrated markings, his gaze fixed on Bellona. The priest began his incantations, wafting incense around the ritual circle.
When the preparations were complete and the priest withdrew, Bellona gave her apprentice a slight nod. He returned the gesture, bracing himself.
Psychic power enfolded him, transporting his vision once more to the heart of the battlefield.
...
Beyond the fortress walls, the relentless decapitation strike had raged for three days and nights, with not a single respite.
Such intense, unbroken fighting was a brutal test of endurance. The Incendiary Creature seemed unbothered—it had sated itself on the energy of stars before arriving on Baal. The Iron Men, too, felt no fatigue, as they required no sustenance.
But for the Astartes, exhaustion crept in. Fighting without pause was one thing, but the added challenge of the Tyranids' infectious fluids splattering around them made it nearly impossible to take even a brief moment to consume essential nutrients.
Despite the hardships, their efforts were rewarded. As another Tyranid Tyrant was felled, a message reached them, reverberating through every warrior's comms.
"Brothers…"
"The Tyranids within the inner walls are in disarray; the defense forces within are ready to move outward and reclaim the perimeter."
A collective sigh of relief passed through the ranks—all but the Iron Men relaxed slightly, even the Incendiary Creature.
While it had reveled in the flames it unleashed, the swarm's endless numbers and leaderless chaos began to drain even its focus. Had they been able to locate the swarm's leaders, a single strike might have ended it all.
"Commander, I require your presence. There's something urgent to report." Mephiston's encrypted message interrupted.
"After the battle," Dante replied. Though weary, he was determined to press on.
With the Tyranid ranks around the fortress in disarray, the moment to push back and reclaim the outer zones had arrived. Dante knew he could not step away.
"Purge the Tyranids from the fortress," Dante commanded. Anticipation for a prolonged fight ran through the ranks—none dared squander the honor of fighting alongside Dante, the hero of their Chapter.
...
The defenders upon the inner walls surged forward, sweeping the swarm and bio-constructs from their path.
Dante led his forces in the grueling, seemingly endless beheading strike, while the Tyranids within the fortress perimeter descended further into chaos. The reinforcements that typically filled the breach had ceased.
After five more days of brutal combat, the majority of the Tyranid swarm within the fortress boundaries was thrown into disarray, with no fresh ranks rising to replace the fallen.
As the fervent chants of Blood Thralls and Astartes rang out across the second and third companies, Dante's forces finally found a moment to rest. Retreating to the core sector, they allowed themselves a brief respite.
Astartes removed their helmets to consume their sustenance, the weariness from battle apparent in their every movement. None spoke of victory, their thoughts too preoccupied with the simple need to regain their strength.
Dante gnawed on a bar of protein and carbohydrates, his eyes drifting over the Iron Men who had come to their aid. There was something unsettling about them.
In the thick of battle, their Tech-Priests shared the same impassive demeanor as any Mechanicus servitor, and they never took nourishment.
In the height of combat, the Tech-Priests vanished; only when the fighting slowed did they reappear, emerging from nowhere.
Yet, the Mechanicus had always been eccentric. Choosing to forgo further questions, Dante looked instead to the Incendiary Creature. Offering a food bar, he said, "Here, for your strength."
The gesture was merely courtesy, for he knew the creature had no need of food.
"Keep it; I don't require it." The creature's icy response was as frigid as its regard, though it sensed Dante's sincere intent.
Its gaze swept the horizon, and in a blink, it reappeared on the edge of the landscape, raining flames once more upon the swarm.
One strike from the creature felled swathes of Tyranids in an instant, and with the lack of reinforcements, each attack proved devastatingly effective.
Even so, this mighty entity could not determine the battle's outcome alone—such was the Tyranid's overwhelming numbers.
"What manner of foe are we truly fighting?" Dante murmured, lowering his eyes, deeply troubled.
This war had pushed them to the edge of annihilation countless times.
When would this bloody campaign ever end?
Weariness washed over him as he gazed at Baal's skies, pierced by glaring sunlight.
In the halo around the sun, he fancied he saw the fair, noble face of their Primarch, watching over them.
Dante lingered on this vision until Mephiston's voice called him back.
"Commander, I have something to report."
Shaken from his reverie, Dante looked around to find only the shadowed sky of Baal, still blotted with Tyranid bio-ships and winged creatures.
"I'll return at once." Dante swallowed the last of his meal, pausing to catch his breath before donning his helm once more.