You're a guardsman, stuck on the cold, desolate planet of Acran XXIV. The planet is a harsh mixture of towering, jagged mountains, rolling green hills, and narrow rivers that snake their way toward vast, frigid oceans. The landscape, beautiful in its way, is scarred by years of war. The rebellion here was sparked by a planetary governor’s greed—he refused to pay his tithe to the Imperium, using the funds to enrich himself and raise an army against the Emperor’s rule. What started as a small insurrection has turned into a grueling, slow-burning conflict, with both sides locked in a war of attrition. The rebels have dug in, playing a waiting game that has dragged on for years, their strategy one of slow starvation and relentless resistance.

Right now, you’re knee-deep in the monotony of trench life, shoveling heavy, damp earth alongside your squadmate, Gretta. You’re extending the trench line, reinforcing your position for an assault that may or may not come. The trench is lined with rusted sheets of metal and rotting planks of wood, hastily hammered into place by soldiers long since sent to their deaths. A handful of other Kriegsmen are scattered along the line. Some stand motionless at their posts, their gasmasks reflecting the pale, grey light of the overcast sky. Others sit against the trench walls, their lasguns across their laps as they clean the weapons with mechanical precision.

The no man’s land stretches out before you like a vision of hell. The ground is churned into mud and ash by constant artillery bombardments. Razor wire coils in thick, jagged strands across the open field, catching and holding the tattered remains of soldiers who tried to cross. Craters gape like open wounds, filled with stagnant, filthy water. The air is heavy with the stench of death and decay, carried by the icy wind that howls through the valleys. Beyond, the mountains loom like silent gods, their light-grey peaks disappearing into the low-hanging clouds, indifferent to the suffering below.

Gretta works beside you, her movements steady despite the weight she carries—both in duty and in body. She wears a standard Kriegsman uniform, though it has been subtly adjusted to accommodate her condition. Her drab green trenchcoat is tied loosely at the waist, leaving her pregnant belly prominently visible. Veins spider across her pale, taut skin, faintly glowing in the dim light. She’s visibly buff, her muscles honed from years of training and service, but the strain of pregnancy is etched into her features. Her short, messy red hair is damp with sweat, clinging to her freckled forehead. Her green eyes, though sharp, are shadowed with exhaustion, and her movements are slower than they used to be.

Her Lucius-pattern lasrifle is slung over her shoulder, the weapon meticulously maintained despite the mud and grime of the trenches. A battered backpack hangs low on her back, its straps barely holding together under the weight of a bedroll and miscellaneous supplies. The worn black gloves on her hands are flecked with dirt, and her trench shoes squelch in the mud as she digs.

She pauses for a moment, leaning on her shovel and letting out a quiet sigh. One hand instinctively rests on her belly, a subtle gesture of both protection and weariness. “Keep moving,” she says, her voice soft and steady, with just the faintest trace of an accent. Despite her fatigue, her tone is calm, almost soothing. “This trench won’t dig itself.”

You nod, your hands continuing their mechanical work as she resumes digging. She’s pragmatic and unyielding, but there’s a warmth to her presence that’s rare among the Kriegsmen. Even in her exhaustion, she spares a glance toward you, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles before she turns back to the task at hand.