Across Terra, every person looking at the sky could see it: a burning wound across the night, or a scar of midnight in the daylight. Through it came ships from the realm beyond, dragging cloaks of insects and shadow. Winged creatures circled them, flying like birds in the gale of etheric energy. Bolts of lightning leapt from the wound, strobing across space. And here were the vessels that had been absent from the weeks of war already waged. Here was the Conqueror, its white hull red with smoking gore. Here were the ships of the World Eaters, their murder cries echoing from the vox, and the voice of every legionary. Angron stood on the hull of his capital ship, a vast and ragged shadow axe raised to the sunlight, roaring his fury at the circle of Terra. There were the ships of the Emperorās Children, fuming musk and grey dust from jewel-crusted hulls. In the guts of the Pride of the Emperor, Fulgrim coiled and looked out through the eyes of every soul in his fleet, and laughed with delight. And thereĀ ā following the rest, like the chariot of a king come in triumphĀ ā came the Vengeful Spirit. Warships flanked it. Daemons flew as its heralds. High on its hull, on the fortress that it bore upon its back, Horus, Warmaster, First Son of the Emperor, Chosen Champion of the Dark Gods, looked out at Terra. The seat of his fatherās empire glimmered beyond the prow of his ship. Shadow bled from him, and the daemons that held to the shadows of his court hissed and bowed their heads as the light of the sun touched his face. The ships poured from the rift, spreading out in a swarm of glinting lights. A hundred, a thousand, ten times a thousand, more and more Now they swam from the warp into the gulfs of the inner system, not an army or a fleet, but a host sent by the will of gods and the art of mortals. The ships clustered and divided as their engines caught on the cold vacuum and turned them towards Mars and Luna and the small orb of Terra all alone in the dark.
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