After the massacre at Isstvan, the broken remnants of the Iron Hands fled into the galaxy's wounds to lick their own, and the shrouded veils of the Alaxxes Nebula seemed a sanctuary where a grieving Legion might rebuild its strength. The Alaxxes Nebula Ambush proved that sanctuary a snare, for the Alpha Legion had anticipated the flight and lay coiled within the drifting gas, patient as only Alpharius's sons could be.
The fighting was a nightmare of the void, waged through blinding nebular murk where sensors failed and every silhouette might be salvation or death. The Iron Hands, already hollowed by the loss of their primarch and half their number, found themselves harried and divided, their clan-companies picked apart by an enemy who seemed to know their every intention before they formed it. There was grim glory in their resistance, and grimmer futility.
The ambush was not simple slaughter; the Alpha Legion played a deeper game whose purpose few could fathom, some later whispering that the trap concealed a stranger loyalty than it appeared. Whatever the truth, the Iron Hands were bled again in the drifting dark, their long agony extended, and the nebula kept its secrets as it kept the dead, silent and shining and cold.
The chronicle continues
