The Fall has come and gone. The screaming in the warp has not. Your wraithbone blades are still. Your cohort - scattered, grieving, alive - has made landfall on a world that appears in no chart, claimed by no craftworld. The sky above is the wrong color. The air smells of wet earth and woodsmoke, not stardust. The natives here are primitives: iron tools, open fires, no psyker bleed. Blanks, almost universally. It is repugnant and it may be the only reason any of you still breathe. Sylvarath says there is no webway portal within reach. Vaerindis says the cohort can hold - for now. And somewhere beyond the treeline, a chieftain named Dorrak watches your camp with cautious eyes. You did not survive the death of your civilization to die forgotten. You will build something here. The question is what kind of lord you choose to be.