The Heart Of Steel, Still Beats.

The station was falling apart around her. Primarch Rohanna Dorn of the Imperial Fists could feel it in the groaning metal beneath her boots, the rattling of its structure under the weight of battle. Omega Station was a crumbling den of gangsters, criminals, and worse—an outpost of corruption in the Emperor’s domain. Her mission was simple: take the station or burn it to the ground.

Outside, the void of space flared with energy bolts and the deafening roars of combat. Her forces were embedded deep in the fight now, breaking through Omega's defenses and scattering the station’s criminal inhabitants. Her power armor absorbed the shock of distant explosions, yet her mind was sharper than ever, focused on the task at hand.

But amidst the din of battle, a message crackled through her vox-link. It was faint at first, buried beneath the static and chaos, but Rohanna’s enhanced senses locked onto the distress call.

"Imperial Guard, right flank! Heavy fire… pinned down… need assistance—"

It was one of her own—a group of Imperial Guardsmen who had pushed too far ahead and were now under siege. She paused only a moment before sending a curt reply.

"Understood. On our way."

She sought permission from the Emperor himself, though the answer was a formality. She could feel His will as if He stood beside her, a silent force driving her forward. With a quick gesture, Rohanna signaled a squad of her Imperial Fists to follow. They would not leave the Guardsmen to die.

As they advanced through the narrow corridors of Omega Station, the chaos of battle surrounded them. The air was thick with the smell of scorched metal and blood. She led with precision, her warriors flanking her like sentinels of death. They were stone, immovable and relentless, cleaving through enemy forces as if they were nothing.

Ahead, the sound of lasguns and crude projectile weapons intensified. Rohanna could see the Imperial Guard’s position now, pinned against the walls of a dilapidated bay. The Guardsmen were outnumbered, their line barely holding under the barrage of fire from gang members wielding looted weapons and heretical technology. Without hesitation, the Imperial Fists stormed in.

Bolters barked in rapid succession, each shot a death sentence. The criminals fell like wheat before a scythe, their bodies crumpling under the weight of the Emperor’s wrath. Rohanna moved among her enemies like a force of nature—unflinching, precise. Every step was measured, every blow a calculated strike.

When the last enemy fell, she turned her gaze to the Guardsmen. Some were dead, their bodies scattered across the bay. Others, bloodied and battered, clung to life. One in particular caught her eye—a Guardsman slumped against a bulkhead, a searing energy wound burned through his abdomen. His face was pale, his breaths shallow.

Rohanna knelt beside him, her massive frame casting a shadow over his broken body. The Guardsman’s eyes fluttered open, and he struggled to focus on her.

"D-Did we make it?" he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rohanna’s expression didn’t change. She was known for her impassive demeanor, the stone-faced resolve that had led her through countless battles. Yet, there was something in her voice that carried the weight of unspoken respect.

"Yes." She lied, as she had for so many others before him. Her tone was calm, steady—a pillar in the storm of his dying moments.

The Guardsman nodded weakly, a small smile playing on his lips. "Are… are we going to take the station?"

"Yes."

He closed his eyes for a moment, that small smile still lingering. "I’m sorry…" he murmured, his voice growing faint. "Sorry for taking you away from the fight. For being a coward."

Rohanna’s eyes flicked to the wound in his gut, then back to his face. She did not interrupt him. He had earned these final words.

"Every time I went to battle," he continued, "I was scared. Scared I wouldn’t come back… scared I’d fail. But I did my duty. And now… now I’m scared because I think I’m dying."

The admission hung in the air between them, fragile and real. Rohanna spoke quietly, her words a rare kindness, though her face remained unchanged.

"Fear is not cowardice," she said, her voice cutting through the noise of battle still raging outside. "It is the fire that tests us. You are a hero of the Imperium, as much as any of us. You fought, and you held. The station will fall, and your name will be remembered."

The Guardsman chuckled weakly, wincing as the pain wracked his body. "That’s kind of you, my lady. But I know I won’t make it."

And he was right. When the Battle of Omega came to an end thirty minutes later, Rohanna returned to his side. She had ordered her warriors to continue the push, leaving him where he sat, alone, dying. Yet he still lived, his hands weakly gripping a lasgun across his lap, though the hole in his gut had long bled him dry.

His eyes flickered open once more as she approached. "Did we win?" he asked, his voice barely audible now.

"Yes," she said, her tone unchanged. It wasn’t a lie this time.

The Guardsman nodded slowly, his breathing labored. "I… I don’t want to die like this. Not like this." He looked up at her, pleading. "A decent death, my lady. Please."

Rohanna stood over him, her bolter still in hand. She didn’t hesitate. "Of course."

The Guardsman smiled one last time. "For the Emperor," he whispered, and his vision faded to black as the bolter’s report echoed through the bay.

Rohanna holstered her weapon and turned back to the battlefield. There was no time for mourning. The Imperium’s work was never done.