The Mordian Campaigns

Ch-10: The Aftermath

Author's POV

The city had finally fallen.

After weeks of relentless warfare, the hive city's crumbling walls now bore witness to the cost of the campaign. Fires still burned in the distance, and the stench of death and decay filled the air. Havelock and the remnants of his personal company-what was left of the once-proud honor guard-gathered in the shattered courtyard, their bodies battered and worn from the brutal fight against the traitorous Astartes. Blood and grime covered their once-pristine uniforms, their faces hollow with exhaustion. The constant hum of gunfire and artillery that had defined their every waking moment had fallen eerily silent, replaced by the distant cries of the wounded and the heavy breathing of men who had seen too much death.

Havelock adjusted his vox bead, the familiar crackle of incoming reports breaking the fragile calm. "Sir, we have the Chaos forces on the retreat. How do we proceed?" one of his officers asked, his voice strained but eager for direction.

Havelock glanced at his men, the soldiers he had personally handpicked to serve by his side. These Mordians were the elite of his regiment, the ones who had stood firm in the face of overwhelming odds, yet even they were faltering now. Their eyes were sunken, shoulders slumped under the weight of fatigue. They had given everything-every ounce of strength, every drop of blood. The iron resolve that had once defined them was now frayed at the edges, replaced by the grim acceptance of men who had survived the worst the galaxy could throw at them.

If his honor guard looked like this, he knew the rest of his forces must be in a similar state-exhausted, broken in spirit though not in body. They had bled for this victory, inch by inch, street by street. And now it was over.

He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the entire campaign settle on his shoulders, before speaking into the vox. "Stand down. All companies, stand down," he ordered, his voice firm despite the weariness creeping into his bones. "We have won. Regroup your men and let it be known-they've earned their rest."

There was a pause on the other end, a silence that stretched for a heartbeat longer than expected. He knew what that pause meant. For his officers, for the men, the realization was sinking in-the battle, at least for now, was truly over. The campaign that had consumed their every thought, every action, every breath, had come to an end. The bloodshed, the endless fighting, the horrors of war-they were done, if only for a brief moment.

The vox crackled again, this time with quieter, more subdued voices. "Understood, sir. Standing down."

The words hit Havelock harder than he expected. The weight of the victory pressed down on him, heavier than his armor, heavier than the battle itself. His men had fought like the Emperor's own, and yet they were human, mortal. The strain of it all, the loss, the suffering-it had left its mark, deep and permanent. They had won, but the price was written in the faces of every soldier who still stood, and in the silence of those who did not.

---

Havelock's men were exhausted, and he was no exception. The constant battles, the strain of command, and the unrelenting tension had finally ebbed-for now. Yet, standing amidst the quiet aftermath, he felt an emptiness gnawing at him, a hollowness that victory couldn't fill. In the Astra Militarum, one is always trained to focus on the next objective, the next fight, and Havelock was no different. In fact, he thrived in the chaos of war. As an officer, he seemed born for it, his stoic resolve and sharp instincts rivaling even the legendary Space Marines. There were few who could match his natural talent for strategy and combat, and none who questioned his place among the Imperium's elite.

But beneath the iron-clad exterior lay another side, one he kept hidden from all but his closest confidants. This was the side that still longed for home-for his family, the people he cherished more than any victory on the battlefield. In those fleeting moments of calm, even amidst the chaos of war, his thoughts would wander to them. He would picture their faces, hear their laughter, and feel a deep ache in his chest. Every campaign, every mission, he hoped would be his last, that he could finally return to them. But duty never released its grip so easily.

Despite his countless victories, the Astra Militarum saw Havelock as indispensable. His reputation as a leader and warrior meant that instead of being granted leave to reunite with his loved ones, he was repeatedly sent to the front. It was the price of success in the Imperium-glory was a double-edged sword, and for Havelock, it meant endless war with no respite. He needed to win, but every victory pushed him further from the only thing he truly desired: peace with those he loved.

---

T'kell stood silently in the shadow of a crumbling wall, his hulking form outlined against the smoking ruins of the palace courtyard. The battle had ended, the trio of Chaos Space Marines lying broken at his feet. Yet, there was no victory to celebrate, not truly. The cost had been great. Scattered around the courtyard were the bodies of Mordian Iron Guardsmen, their once-pristine uniforms now stained with ash and blood. Among the few survivors, Colonel Havelock stood apart, his ornate cuirass cracked and scarred, his posture rigid but not from exhaustion.

T'kell observed the Colonel, his dark, deep-set eyes narrowed behind the emerald lenses of his helm. Havelock's face was tight with concentration, not on the aftermath of the battle but something else, something internal. T'kell had seen that look before, back on Nocturne. It was the look of someone thinking not of duty or war but of home, of family.

For all his towering strength and battle-hardened demeanor, T'kell could sense the unspoken weight hanging over Havelock. He had fought alongside humans often enough to know their ways, even if the Salamanders were somewhat apart from the rest of the Adeptus Astartes in their empathy. T'kell's own thoughts drifted briefly to Nocturne, to his family, to the kin he had not seen in decades but still felt tied to by bonds stronger than steel. He wondered if Havelock was thinking of his own kin in that moment, perhaps remembering faces left behind, unaware of the man he had become through the fire of war.

T'kell shifted slightly, his massive hand resting on the pommel of his hammer, still slick with the blood of traitors. He did not know what thoughts swirled in Havelock's mind, but he recognized the faraway gaze, the inward struggle. Havelock's men were his family, too, and many of them had fallen today. That loss, T'kell knew, was a burden no rank could shield against.

The Colonel's gaze remained fixed on the horizon, his eyes glazed over as though seeing something far beyond the ruined city. The last vestiges of the battle clung to him-his immaculate uniform now torn, dented, no longer the symbol of unshakable discipline and pride the Mordian Iron Guard were known for. It was a reminder that war did not spare even the finest of men. Havelock, though surrounded by the remnants of his elite company, looked utterly alone.

T'kell considered speaking, offering some word of consolation, but words seemed insufficient. Perhaps the silence, the shared presence of a fellow warrior, was enough for now. He could not ease the burden Havelock carried, but he could stand with him as they both reflected on the cost of their survival, their victory.

With the battle now being in the closing stages, Havelock, T'kell, The Mordians and Salamanders now have a chance to gather their bearings after all the blood shed that they had spilled. But what about those back home, how are they fairing in all of this? All will revealed in the next chapter.

End of the chapter