Where Wheat Once Grew

His lungs burned with each shallow breath. The world flickered—gunfire, blood, then the silhouette of the Knight lurching upright, its optics flaring crimson. “She did it.” His last thought tasted of blood and ozone. Then with a smile on his lips, he was gone.

Two hours prior, beneath an uncaring dawn:
The sun rose once more on the peaceful backwater world of Onerth. A planet whose only visitors were the Imperial Tithe vessels or the rare sinister Black Ships, not even the Astra Militarum had left a garrison here.
Until today.

A navy vessel of unknown allegiance—no hails, no identifiers—streaked through the atmosphere until all thrusters screamed in a violent deceleration burn, leaving it hanging ominously above the capital. With mechanical precision, a dozen drop pods disgorged like rotten teeth and slammed into the streets below.
The pods stood like statues, smoke rising from their impact craters. Sickly green, scarred with rust and battle damage—but worse than their appearance was the smell. Not even sun-rotted corpses compared; this stench was alien to Onerth. With a blaring alarm, the pods came to life, their ramps lowered as citizens surrounded them, most stayed afar due to the debilitating smell, and many others would empty their breakfast onto the paved floor.

The bravest—perhaps the most foolish—pressed damp cloths over their faces and crept toward the pods, gagging as the stench worsened. With every creak of opening steel, the stench grew unbearable. Even the hardy gagged and fled—just in time to be torn apart into flesh and bone. Some had their skulls burst like overripe sacks, others were cleaved in two—torsos torn from twitching legs. Members of the crowd became showered in their fellow man’s flesh as bolter shells found their marks.

The shooting was indiscriminate, cruel and unbearably loud—an act of madness one poor soul thought, he was barely of age before a shell the size of his fist slammed into his skull, activating the fuze inside and detonating, leaving no trace of what he might have looked like. After only eight seconds of bolter shells flying through the air, the firing had finally stopped, being replaced with the screams of innocents. Some were frozen in terror, while others ran as fast as they could before the massacre continued.

Four armored giants marched out of the pod, bolters ready to spit at any moment. Their armor was identical to that of the pod, a plague green, scarred and rusted, like ancient monuments of war—more wound than machine. But where the pod remained entirely adamantium, these titans were covered in horrid infectious growths, a large jaw with more teeth than it could possibly hold or a tentacle spurting out of a neck. A putrid stench emanated from them, the air curdled with the foulness of gangrene and boiling pus.

These were Death Guard, Plague Marines of the Patron of disease and rot. Similar scenes happened all over the city as thousands were slaughtered. The intruders did not speak, only ever mumbling incomprehensibly. One word echoed from their festering mouths, again and again: Ag’Dresil.

Onerth had a Planetary Defense Force in name only. For such a small, remote world, the worst threat they’d ever faced was the occasional rabid grox. Their autoguns were like toys for the thick ceramite armor of the invaders, and most were far too horrified to put up any resistance. Even the extremely few that tried to fight back quickly fell to bolter fire or succumbed to the spreading noxious gas as their lungs liquefied and the very skin from their faces fell apart.

Gregor had been on his way to the city, planning to buy rare delicacies fresh from the harvest. He was preparing a feast to celebrate thirty years with his wife, Elanara. However, those dreams turned to nightmares as he heard the unmistakable thunder of bolter fire coming from the city as fire rose and screams echoed. He dropped his bags and ran back to the family estate. There he found his daughter, Zareen trying to repair the front fence. Gregor yelled at her, “Where are they?! Elanara, the boys?!”

The young girl had been entirely too focused on her work that she hadn’t noticed the smoke rising in the distance, she asked, her voice fragile and shaking, “W—what’s going on, Dad?”

Gregor continued, “Elanara, where is she?!”

“I think she’s with Balphus and Solomon tending to the flock—what’s going on?” she answered, a knot forming in her stomach.

He quickly walked up to her and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Do you remember those stories about the Archenemy?

“Y-yes? The crazy guys that want to kill all of—” she paused as the realization set in. In absolute horror, her voice shaking like never before “they’re here, aren’t they?”

Gregor took a long breath, “Yes—but this isn’t the end, I just need to find the others and then we can hide in the old bomb shelter by the Fendors. They’ll never find us there and we can wait it out OK?”

“And what if they don’t leave?” she said terrified of the prospect.

“One thing at a time.”

Zareen stood there for a few seconds before asking, “The Knight! Can’t you use it to push them away? Like you’ve done so many times in your stories!”

“No.” Gregor shot sternly, “It’s far too risky. We hide in the bomb shelter like I said, this is life or death Zareen. I need you to listen to me.” He had vowed to never wake the Knight again, to leave that life behind for good—too ashamed of his past. The Prideful Warden must remain in its slumber.

The screams were getting closer as volleys of bolter fire echoed in the distance. “They’re getting closer, we need to move now. Grab anything that could be useful and meet me at the Fendor’s house.”

Gregor dashed towards the fields in search of the others, Zareen ran into the house, looking for anything that might be useful, an old torch, some canned reprocessed food, the water purifier tablets.
Only a few minutes had passed when Gregor returned with Elanara, Balphus and Solomon. Zareen was finishing up packing everything into sacs before they all started running to their neighbor’s house. As they got closer, bolter fire rang, barely a few hundred meters away. They all froze in their tracks, ‘we’re too late’ Gregor thought, he hadn’t anticipated such a rapid pace.

“What do we do now?! We’ll never reach the shelter before them!” cried Elanara.

“We circle back, we can hide in the forest.” Gregor trying to keep his calm, he knew if any of the Plague Marines spotted them, they wouldn’t last a single breath. Even at this distance, their stench was already noticeable. They had to stay ahead of them if they wished to survive.

Having backtracked their way to the house and into the forest, their marching had slowed down, they were exhausted from all the running. The adrenaline might have kept them active at the beginning, but it was now starting to run dry.

Deep in the woods, they stopped to catch their breaths, No one had said a word, too terrified of being overheard, or in shock at the idea that they might be the only ones left. Zareen shuffled towards her father, and started murmuring, “Dad—” she paused, lacking confidence in her own words.

“What is it?” he answered

“The Knight… maybe you could use it. You said it was too risky then—but right now we don’t have anything”. Gregor let out a long sigh, unsure of his reaction, Zareen continued, “I can get us there and I’m positive it still works.” Despite his reluctance, Gregor had shown the Knight to the little girl for her sixteenth birthday. So enamored by it and thirsting for more, he had taught her of its past, the Batal legacy, their House, and the Prideful Warden’s mechanical workings. Zareen was given full access to it, only barred from throne itself.

“All it needs is someone at the controls. It has more than enough ammunition and the sword could make quick work of them!” her voice had risen, she was hopeful, finally they might have a chance.

“Listen Zar—” BANG! A shell burst only a few centimeters off of the eldest child’s head onto the tree he was resting against, shrapnel and bark shredded his cheek; he screamed—half his face a ruin.

Balphus screamed in agony as blood covered him, the left half of his face was a mix of flesh and bark, his eyes completely obliterated by the debris, “I CAN’T SEE! HELP, IT HURTS SO MUCH!”

Gregor leaped into action, grabbing his wounded son and ran opposite of the shell’s origin. “Everyone get up and run!” he yelled, “Zareen, where’s the Knight?!

Still partly in shock, she stuttered, “Follow me!”.

They ran for several minutes, dancing from tree to tree to keep their pursuer from getting a direct line of sight, nonetheless the plague giants still fired, smaller trees and branches were blown apart. The foulness of their odor getting stronger and stronger. After several more grueling minutes, they caught sight of the slumbering giant, it looked as if it was kneeling to a ruler that had finally come.

Before Gregor could open his mouth, he felt an intense heat in his thigh and then nothing. His next sight was the familiar dirt of his home for the past 70 cycles. A home he saw himself passing of old age in, a home he had built a family on, a home where he’d found love, raised a family—not Kenavera, but still home. Pain had reached unbearable levels, all of it concentrated on where his leg once was.
As he looked back, he saw Elanara’s lifeless body. She had been hit in the back, she was covered in broken charred bone and flesh.

In utter shock and disbelief, Gregor attempted to turn himself on his back, catching a glimpse of Solomon— or at least was left of him: a mangled torso with its legs, likely a direct hit to the head.
Balphus was next to him, he too showed no signs of life. The shot that hit Gregor’s thigh was on the same side as Balphus‘s head, the explosion must’ve cut his agony short.

Only Zareen appeared unharmed, although covered in blood and guts on her knees next to Solomon in horror, her entire world crumbling into blood and ash.

The decades of mental training were the only thing keeping him conscious, he swallowed his agony and focused on the present. All it took was one look at his wounds to know he only had moments left. He never thought that it would end like this, that his family would die at the hands of the Archenemy, a foe that had corrupted and perverted his previous family, his birthplace. He couldn’t do it—but she could.

“Zareen!” he painfully exclaimed, she was still frozen next to her mangled brother, “The Knight… Save yourself, use it!”

She looked up, eyes wide and trembling. She could barely string together a coherent sentence, “W-what? but m-mother… and why- I don-”

“ZAREEN!!” Gregor yelled with all of his remaining strength, clenching his fists, “You can do this. You just need to get in, activate the throne and they will guide you. This is your only chance. You must live Zareen.”

She retorted, her voice trembling in fear, “They? The ancestors? They’ll reject me, they don’t know me! I don’t even have the implant in my neck?! I can’t do it, no no no it’s impossible, I’ll die!”

He took a deep breath knowing it might be his last “I know you can do it, you’ve listened to everything I’ve said about our legacy, you are my daughter, you are a Batal! You descend from a long line of champions. We have served the Emperor for thousands of years, and today it is your turn. You are Zareen Batal, warrior of the Imperium, you are my daughter, and I believe in you—I love you, Zareen. Now go! You don’t have much time! Fight for us, fight for the Imperium, Fight against the Archenemy!”

Shaken by his words, Zareen nodded. With trembling limbs and a stern expression, she embraced her father one last time.

“I love you, Dad. I’ll make you proud.”

Then she ran—toward the slumbering giant.

More gunfire was heard behind her, shells detonated against the old trees, and some hit the Knight but pinged off harmlessly against the adamantium plates. Forged in the depths of Mars eons ago, those same plates had seen countless battles. They had withstood firestorms and xenos blades—but today, it was bolter fire. And they remembered vengeance.

Zareen climbed onto the giant at blistering speed, she had climbed it a hundred times as a girl—she knew every plate, every crevice, even in her bloodied traumatized state. She hit the carapace key, letting the heavy thick hatch open, revealing the throne mechanicum, a marvel of engineering, a blessing of the Omnissiah that defied human understanding.

Without a second thought she jumped inside and closed the hatch to keep her safe. The throne sensing a soul, hummed to life. A mechadendrite located behind the seat awoke and before she could even cry out, it plunged into her neck. The pain was brutal. It would’ve been fatal, if not for the mechadendrite’s delicate precision, narrowly avoiding vital nerves and only penetrating those necessary for interfacing. Zareen screamed, blood trickling down her back, Her face was covered in blood, sweat, and tears. Her pain—both physical and mental—had reached its peak, she felt as if she would pass out at any moment. She tasted copper—her own blood flooding her throat.

“You’re not Gregor?” asked an ethereal voice—female, unfamiliar, yet inexplicably known to her.
“Obviously not, can’t you feel it? It’s a woman.” Another voice, this one appeared to be an old man and yet again, that same familiar feeling.

“Do you think me a fool?! Of course I knew this wasn’t Gregor.” the female voice retorted, a third interjected “Cease your petty squabble! We are finally awoken after how many years!” More voices came and echoed the sentiment.

It had become a chorus, finally they asked, “Who are you then, youngling?”

Her father had tried to explain to her what it was like to sit on the throne but she could never grasp it, to have so many voices in your head, she thought it would send someone mad. Gregor had always half-laughed at that remark, for some did lose their minds. His brother in fact was originally meant to carry the legacy of the Prideful Warden but on the day of his ascension, he failed to wrestle the machine spirit and the throne rejected him, crushing his mind and killing him. Gregor had despised his brother, so his failure had felt… earned. But the tale left an important lesson: a Knight was no mere suit of armor, it was an animal, a beast made up of past cycles, a beast forged in the fires of Mars, a beast that had to be tamed like the horses of old Terra, and this one was no different.

Mustering every drop of courage in her remaining blood, Zareen gritted her teeth through the pain and began, “I am Zareen Batal, daughter of Gregor Batal, heir to the Prideful Warden by right of blood”.
“You?” scoffed the female voice “You’re barely of age, fresh out the womb! I would’ve thought Gregor better than this.”

“Her tone resembles a serpent but her words are true. You are young, explain yourself daughter of Gregor.” the old man followed, more voices arose with questions of their own.

“Gregor is dead.” shot Zareen, barely holding herself from bursting into tears from the agonizing pain. Silence filled the cockpit, only broken by gasps. “He died protecting his family only moments ago. Killed by the Archenemy—“ she paused, “And if you don’t help me, we all will follow!”

“Gregor dead? The Archenemy?! Are you mad?”

“What she speaks is true, her voice betrays no lies” a new voice interjected. It sounded old, older than all other voices. It felt commanding, powerful, and wise—and yet it had a different feeling to it, A word surfaced—Ag’Drelir. Not spoken, but felt, etched in her thoughts like a brand, quickly swept away as the voice continued “If the enemy is here, we are to act”

“But she is wea—”

“If she were weak, she would be dead! Instead she sits here, ready for battle as all of us once were. Yes she might not have trained like us, she might not have our experience in battle, and she might not even be of age! What she does have is our courage, our tenacity, and our blood! Are those not essential qualities of a Knight’s pilot! I say Zareen! Let her be our newest warrior!” None questioned her anymore. Instead the voices grew, echoing in the throne, “Zareen! Zareen! Zareen!” louder and louder as the Knight came to life.

Pain shot through her neck into her head as her vision morphed into the outside forest. She could feel her body growing, in her left hand the castigator’s bolter array, and in her right the signature energy blade. She felt the ground beneath her feet, the ion shield pulsating, and bolter shells exploding onto her armor.

She rose—effortless, colossal. She was in control. Now taller than their old house, reaching the trees she had grown up under. She trained her eyes on the origin of the bolter fire, 3 targets lit up, “Plague Marine : Standard Bolter – Threat level low”

“Low?” She thought, “You killed my family, massacred my people… and now you’re nothing but ‘Low’!” The mechanical arm rose, barrels aimed at the marines, “Die you karking warpspawn!” a loud thunder erupted for several seconds, a veritable sea of shells lit up the forest, catching everything in its path.

Finally after 26 seconds, calm returned to the forest.

Zareen had not stopped.

Her cathartic rage was cut short by the blinking red message in front of her ‘AMMO DEPLETED’. “No, no no no! You don’t get to just die like that!”, the giant leaped forward, each step shook the ground. The tempest warblade cackled with energy, hungry for devastation. She found only one of the plague god’s minions still registering as alive, clinging to life by a thread. With blood in her eyes, Zareen lifted the blade and brought it down, the energy sword many times the size of its target liquefied the dead marine, its energy field boiling the pus within its rotting armor.

Again. And again. Screaming into the molten ruin until her vision blurred. Zareen had lost so much blood her feet practically swam in it. The adrenaline was wearing off and her strength was abandoning her. Her lips moved, some final prayer or curse—but the light had gone.

And so, she fell.