Nightmares

The screaming never ended. It was continuous, the anguish rushing to his psyche as if it were an oncoming tide. Beyond the screaming, fire reigned supreme. Buildings became slag, monuments wilted by heat, and glass pyramids fractured like Mankind's hope; people had their flesh consumed by the flame and their bones charred ruins. Ash and death ruled the air. Tizca died, horribly, quickly, but yet at the same time it was painfully slow, watching all that was dear become nothing more than an executioner's target. From the sky came fiery pods of death, their cargoes filled with murderers and savage killers. As the pods landed the screaming grew even louder, piercing, wailing. A wolf ran to him from the pods drop site, coloured black and white, saliva and blood falling from its mouth, its eyes a beady red. It stopped, watching him with hateful eyes. It howled a deep and terrifying sound, one that made prehistoric humans move nearer their fires as they clutched stone-tipped spears, hoping to survive. The howl echoed and reverberated, causing the world to shatter.

Iskandar Khayon woke then. Looking at the cramped quarters that constituted his sleeping chamber, he rose. The dreams were getting worse as of late. The feeling of helplessness growing each time his eyes closed. The horrors witnessed on Prospero so long ago haunted him.

Opening his mind, lifting the barriers he had placed there upon sleep, his mind sent a message. +Brother, how do we fare?"

For a moment, no response, but then the psychic voice of Ashur-Kai Qezremah. +Tolerable, Iskandar, tolerable. We should be at our destination in three, maybe four hours.+

+Good. I will join you on the bridge soon.+

The psychic connection was cut; Khayon rose to don his armour. It took longer than it once would have; he no longer had bondsmen assisting him. Since the Heresy, he had eschewed the use of them. Too many he knew, too many he had befriended, had died, whether it be war, chance, or the warp. He had come to understand that all faded, everything died. All is dust.

+Should I come with?+

Looking to the black wolf that lay near him, he shook his head.

+No, stay here, Gyre. I was told not to bring daemons to the world, bonded or otherwise. I will be leaving my grimoire here, as well.+

+Dangerous.+

+Yes, but it will be worth the risk.+

+Do you really believe that?+ she inquired.

+I have to,+ he responded grimly.

Once wearing the Mark II plate, he left his personal quarters, grimoire and tutelary remaining there. Past the anteroom, where once he would have entertained brothers or cousins, he now walked by, ignoring what had been reality and now only a memory. Two Space Marines guarded his room, though they were not the same individuals that received gene-seed centuries ago. Looking at them, he saw them stare straight ahead, no nod, no private comment or even bodily quirks. They were Rubricae, hollowed beings that had been, were, good men.

Seeing Mekhari and Djedhor standing there, motionless like Manus' automatons, angered Khayon. It angered him because he had failed to stop Ahriman's crime, forcing the depleted XV to shrink further to only a few hundred that were truly alive. His father was not blameless, far from it, as his assistance and advice allowed Ahriman to complete his work. Sending a minor psychic pulse, they began to follow him as he made his way to the ship's command centre.

The Rubric may have turned out worse than it did, but already the cost had been too high. The few thousand that had survived the Heresy limped to Sortiarius to begin anew, readying themselves to one day take revenge on those that had cast them down. The hypocrites, the liars, the traitors: the Imperium, an empire of blind fools and ambitious despots. The Legion had been preparing, drawing upon the lore that had survived the Burning and the new knowledge acquired to sharpen a spear to drive into the Imperium's heart.

But then the flesh-change returned, killing some, and making more turn into monsters of mutation. As their numbers fell, Ahriman's madness rose. Khayon had been there the day Magnus asked his sons to find a way to stop it, to save themselves from certain death. Many laboured, searched, studied, but it quickly became obvious only something drastic would save the Thousand Sons. While he had been studying how to halt the mutation on a genetic level, Ahriman had felt only the Great Ocean had the power to do so. When Khayon discovered what the First Captain had in mind, he attempted to stop Ahriman and his cabal, but he was too late. The Rubric had been cast and he witnessed brothers falling to the ground, their roars of torments echoing on the Planet of Sorcerers. They did not die, not truly, but nor did they live. The Rubricae were no longer men, rather now imprisoned dust and warp-touched armour.

Magnus had not been too pleased to see so many of his sons souls locked for eternity, but he had thanked Ahriman for saving what could be saved. The bastard thanked that arrogant…

Reaching the bridge's sealed doors after a half hour, he sighed, his hate cooling from an inferno to a simmer. The simmer remained, it drove him. What had been done can always be undone. It was not too late to save his brothers; at the very least they could be given final, restful peace.

Walking onto the bridge, Khayon's head moved to look at the Anamnesis, his sister's corpse-like figure turning as he entered. Her hands were deathly pale, data-wires and neural plugs covered most of her neck and back, her head the centre of a hive of cabling. Her hand went to the chilled glass. Walking to her, he put his gauntlet on the glass.

"Are you there? Can you hear me?"

"Of course, captain, my auditory registration is working at maximum efficiency."

Sighing again, he left her. She may look like his sister, and on occasion he would almost believe she was still in there, but his sister died long ago. The being behind him was a broken parody. Everything around him was broken, as was he.

Moving to stand beside the White Seer, Khayon glanced at the other sorcerer.

+Speak your mind.+ he pulsed.

The Astartes hesitated for a moment, gathering his thoughts. +Iskandar, we turned away from a very lucrative raid on a Third Legion planet to come here. What if what you seek is not here?+

+What I seek? Have you lost trust in me, have you given up?+ His mind's voice carried with it despair, anger, loss and above all a desire for something greater.

Qezremah shook his head minutely. +I respect what we are doing, Iskandar, but there is no hope of reversing the Rubric. If the Crimson King could not correct its errors, what chance do we have?+

+Hope?+ Khayon looked out amongst the bridge, several view-screens broke or flickering, a cogitator unit shut down, its parts recycled to keep others functioning. The crew numbered half of what it should have, with many lacking substantial training. +Hope is all we have, the only thing that is keeping me going. I will not stop until all possibilities have been exhausted.+

+But this world, it is myth, hearsay.+

Harsh laughter erupted from the Thousand Son captain, physical not psychic mirth. Several of the crew glanced at the two Space Marines but quickly went back to their duties, not deigning to attract the wrath of their masters. +We are in the Eye of Terror, Ashur-Kai. Reality is defied here and what were once thought as myths and superstitions walk among us. I contracted myself to Esha'kar for three years to learn this information. That Word Bearer has been proven correct before.+

+This is unwise…+

+Your opinion has been noted.+ His psychic voice hardened, pulsing with annoyance and he did not even try to hide it. +If you have nothing to contribute, then mind your tongue.+

The other Astartes glared at Khayon, but his features softened after a moment. Qezremah knew Khayon meant no harm in his words, but years of frustration and doubt could gnaw away at anybody. It already had for so many.

The hours passed slowly. Khayon stood quite still for that entire time, an occasional shuffling of the shoulders or tilt of head to show he was different from the Rubricae, that he was still human no matter how loosely. Eventually, a klaxon sounded. The Anamnesis spoke, the oddly feminine machine voice always a painful reminder, "Exit translation in five minutes."

The emergence of the Tlaloc from the Immaterium was fairly smooth, as was for most ships that wandered the Eye. Dangerous, yes, but if the proper respect and payment was given due, then the beasts that prowled the warp were accepting of those that passed through their domain, albeit marginally.

The world was a desert, its sands spruce blue, the sky a sickly yellow. It was a flat world, only a single structure rose on the surface: a temple. The Tlaloc settled in over the temple, weapons armed and shields ready.

The Tlaloc's captain walked to the docking bay. There he met twenty Rubric Marines, a fifth of this warship's contingent. Qezremah was there as well. The White Seer opened his mouth to speak.

+We will discuss it later, Ashur-Kai. Now is not the time,+ Khayon pulsed quickly.

Qezremah's expression cooled. +I merely meant to wish you luck. I hope you find the answers you seek.+

Bending his neck slightly, both in response and apology, Khayon boarded the Stormbird. The flight to surface was uneventful, but as he exited the dropship's hold his vox clicked with another attempting to form a connection. Blink-clicking the rune, the channel was formed.

"Yes?" His voice sounded odd to his ears, rare was it for him to use it extensively.

"Captain Khayon, we have detected five ships exiting the warp." The Anamnesis sounded utterly calm, a rock in a gentle flowing river.

"Classification and Legion?" he ordered.

"Analysing… analysing… A battle-barge, two strike cruisers and two destroyers."

"Legion, what is their Legion?"

"Sons of Fulgrim."

Khayon became silent, staring up past the yellow clouds to try and see five stars moving, showing them to be nearby starships. The Tlaloc was a strike cruiser, fast and deadly, but compared to the squadron approaching the planet, it might as well have been a rodent against a dune viper.

To return to the ship would be relatively easy, but Khayon could not leave here, not when he had finally arrived.

+Ashur-Kai, hail them…+

+Brother, they are already hailing us.+

+Put it through.+ The vox popped and hissed, the interference great and connection poor, but when he heard an audible click it cleared significantly.

"This is Captain Iskandar Khayon of the Thousand Sons, leader of the Kha'Sherhan Warband. Who are you and state your intentions?"

Dry laughter came across first. As Khayon's hackles rose, a familiar voice spoke. "It is good to hear your voice again, cousin. It has been centuries."

Khayon knew that voice. "Sakaeron. I thought you were dead."

"Yes, a useful rumour."

"What in the gods' names are you doing here?"

"The same as you I garner, searching for answers."

"I will not withdraw. I need this."

"Do not fret; I will not force you off. In fact I will join you."

Khayon's mind raced in thought. "Leave your squadron, only approach with a single strike cruiser."

"No trust? Come now, brother, I thought we became close during Gharran."

"That was long ago."

"Fair enough, I will be there shortly."

The link was cut, and the wait began. It lasted little over an hour, but eventually a purple and gold Stormbird broke through the cloud coverage to land opposite of his own. The first to exit was an officer, bearing lord commander markings. He did not wear a helm, though one was mag-locked to his hip. Tyberius Sakaeron, Lord Commander of the Second Millennial, led twenty Sons, ten of whom wore Cataphractii plate.

The Sons of Fulgrim faced the Thousand Sons, watching for cues from their commander. Sakaeron's face was expressionless but it broke into a predator's grin after a moment.

"Iskandar, it has been too long." The Third Legion officer moved to him swiftly, his men staying behind.

The Rubricae stood motionless, their bolters held tightly, though not aimed at the approaching legionnaire. They would only act if Khayon sent a psychic command...

The sound of metal brushing against ceramite made Khayon glance back, glad his face was covered by a helmet. The Rubricae were standing at attention, their heads looking at Sakaeron as he walked across the blue sand towards them. Impossible… unless. Khayon opened his mind's eye, to look at the lord commander through his gift.

Sakaeron emanated power, rising from him like smoke from a fire. Sakaeron was clearly blessed by Chaos, but he still lacked his own innate psyker abilities. Sakaeron did not control the Rubric Astartes, merely allowed their old selves come to the fore, paying respect to an officer from an allied Legion. Remarkable; worrying, but nonetheless remarkable. While Sakaeron radiated power, subtly but without a doubt, the blade at his hip pulsed with malevolence.

Realising what it was came as a shock. He could not help but fall to his knees, such was the power coming off of it in painful waves Khayon saw the blade as if were drawn, used by the Phoenician when he killed Dorn and crippled the Emperor. Fireblade, forged by Manus, wielded by Fulgrim; the psychic resonance was akin to a hurricane, storming against his defences.

He pictured himself being there, at the doors to the Throne Room.

Dorn's decapitated body lay at his feet. Even in death, the Seventh Primarch glowered. From the Throne Room came methodical footsteps, looking up he saw a golden figure, visage stiff in anger and loss. They locked gazes, and readied themselves for battle, in this plane and the next.

Blood dripped from Khayon's nose. Wrenching his helm off, as he felt claustrophobic, he breathed the acrid and cloying atmosphere of the planet, his genhanced body filtering out the minor toxins and impurities with ease.

"Why, Iskandar, I had no idea you were so sensitive."

"That blade… it is not yours," his voice rasped, eyes watering. Blood finally stopped trickling from his nose, but some of it entered his mouth, the coppery tang of his blood seemingly more bitter than usual at that moment.

Pulling it from its sheath, the Rubricae still standing at attention and followed the sword, Sakaeron placed the tip in the dirt. The blood was long gone, but the residue, the memory of the Heresy's climax, remained.

"This was once my father's blade, but he is dead now, long gone. I have inherited his blade, his flagship, and his will. I am not the Tyberius Sakaeron you fought beside during the Heresy. I am so much more now."

Khayon recovered enough to rise, wiping the blood from beneath his nose. "Why have you come here, Tyberius?"

Looking at the temple that stood not far away, silent as a grave and fashioned like a crypt tomb. "As I told you, the same as you, cousin. I came for answers."


The entrance to the temple was closed, but was easily opened by two Terminator-clad Sons. Entering, they were greeted by a hunched figure who was sweeping the floor. Khayon noted that no matter how much dust was swept, it always appeared to return.

"Ah, welcome, great master, great lord, welcome, welcome!"

"And who are you?" Sakaeron's clipped, patrician tones queried sharply.

"I have many names, some known, others forgotten. You may call me the Caretaker."

Sakaeron grunted. "Very well, show us the Mirrors."

The Caretaker bowed low.

They descended into the temple, taking winding steps to go deep into the earth. After what must have been hours they arrived at closed double doors. The Octed was centred, split down the middle by the doors. The sigils of the Four Powers resided in each corner. Tzeentch and Slaanesh on the left, Nurgle and Khorne on the right; all four pulsed with coloured energy, the Eight-Pointed Star of Chaos glowing baleful gold.

The Caretaker unlocked the doors with an onyx key. "Only you two, with one witness, may enter," he said to the two Space Marine officers.

They followed, Sakaeron and a centurion named Telemachon Lyras came as his witness. Khayon and Mekhari were on their heels. The room they entered was clean, truly clean when compared to the rest of the temple. Before them were six mirrors, arranged in sets of three to each side of the room, with the mirrors placed one behind another. In the centre was a great tome, the words seeming to move across the coloured pages like worms in the mud.

"What is this place?" muttered Lyras, whose hand had not left his blade since the Astartes took to the winding staircase.

"This is a place of destiny," replied Khayon.

"Correct, great lord, correct!" Gesturing towards the two sets, the Caretaker motioned them forward. "Now, if you please, step forward. I will guide you."

"Why are you being so helpful?" queried Khayon. The eagerness the small being exhibited was uncommon and eerie, especially from one who resided in the Eye.

The Caretaker's's eyes flicked toward Sakaeron, who was looking with pleasure at the gilded mirrors. They quickly returned to look at the Prosperine Astartes.

"I was commanded to do so."

"By which of the Powers?"

"All of them."

As Khayon pondered that, Sakaeron walked to the set on the right, looking at them. His hand reached forward, tapping the surface, the mirror rippling as if water. The Chemosian tensed by what he saw as the ripples settled though Khayon could see nothing different, but relaxed.

"What will we see?" asked the lord commander.

"Past, present, future; the what if, the what is, and the what will, from all possibilities and from all threads of time. Many have gone into the mirrors, seen their truths, saw what lay within, and have returned mad. Few make it out; fewer survive with their minds intact. There is risk."'

Sakaeron looked at the Caretaker, "There is always risk."

The creature tilted its head in acknowledgement. "Quite so, great master, quite so."

The purple and gold legionnaire turned back to the mirrors. "Iskandar, go to the others. We will learn much this day, that I guarantee." As he made his way to the other set, Khayon heard Sakaeron proclaim to Lyras.

"Telemachon, if I do not return," his eyes hovered over the still bowed Caretaker, "kill him."

"Yes, Lord Heir."

Khayon stood in front of the left set. The image before him was as he was now, wearing the sapphire blue and gold of the Thousand Sons with master crafted Prosperine crests flanking his helmet, but disturbing the surface created ripples, changing what he saw, morphing him into a corpse in the armour of the old Legion, staring outwards with the decaying flesh falling off. The mouth was open in mockery or despair, he could not tell.

The Caretaker moved to the tome, opening it to an earmarked page. "There is only one way, forward. If you linger, you will die. May the Four of Ruin bless your journey."

Khayon stepped into the mirror, the width and height easily surpassing the size of a fully armed and armoured transhuman physique. The glass felt like melted silver, a chill caressed his skin, an itch began between the shoulders, and a flash of light blinded his vision but as it dimmed in intensity and his eyesight returned he found himself standing in a place he had long known to be gone.

As the light, itch and cold faded, he now stood in his childhood home, Itzara humming as she worked on her studies. Khayon looked on with wonderment. Itzara was whole, alive, aware, not a bastardisation of machine and dead flesh. While his sister worked, he looked around at the simplistic furniture of sand wood and bookshelves of their small library, smelling a hint of cinnamon bread in the air. His mother came from the kitchen, smiling, and her smile only enhanced by her beautifully dark skin.

She looked at him, and instead of gasping or horrified at his body and war-gear, she instead chuckled softly. "Come, Iskandar, eat before the bread gets too cool. Come, come, my tu'eza."

Tu'eza: watchful son, her nickname for him. He had been curious in youth, rarely taking part in playground activities but watching from afar, preferring more subtle methods of winning than brawling, learning, knowing the weaknesses of others were his forte. It was with those skills and a fast learning capacity that allowed him to be chosen from Prospero's youth to became one of the Thousand Sons.

Looking at his body, he noticed that his armour was gone, rather now he wore a simple cotton shirt and trousers, his body proportioned to the size of a young child. Moving to the table, he sat down. Khayon was staring at the woman that birthed him, long dead, as she corrected Itzara's work, and set about readying the table for supper.

"Come, Iskandar, your father will be home soon."

His father? He had little recollection of the man, for he worked as the Defence Militia against psychneuein attacks.

"Where is Magnus?"

"Who, tu'eza?"

Khayon blinked in surprise at that statement.

"The Crimson King, lord of Prospero."

His mother looked confused. "I do not know any such man. Are you reading those stories again?"

He detected no lie or playfulness in her words. She truly did not know.

There is only one way, forward. If you linger, you will die. The Caretaker's words washed over Khayon, both his sister and mother seemingly unable to hear it. Behind them in the living room, a mirror appeared, shimmering and out of place.

He rose, wishing to leave. A firm hand clasped his small wrist. His mother looked sad. "Don't leave, Iskandar. Stay, eat, enjoy our company."

The urge to do so was strong, almost compelling, but he resisted with sheer force of will.

"No." He broke free of her grip and walked to the mirror, ignoring the cries of anguish behind him from two women that were once dear to him. They are not real. Your mother is dead, your sister little more than a corpse.

Stepping into the mirror, the cold, itch and light returned. As they faded, he found himself in an elongated hallway, gilded artwork and beautifully wrought columns in both directions for hundreds of metres before turning sharply elsewhere.

"Ah, Captain Khayon, there you are," spoke a voice familiar to him.

Turning, he saw Ahzek Ahriman walking towards him. The Space Marine's armour shone and his staff of power was alight with aetheric energy. Khayon realised his own armour had returned, coloured red and gold, as did his weapons, including staff.

What caught Khayon's eye was the reddish-gold Aquila on the other Thousand Son's chestplate.

"Why are you wearing that?" he spat.

Ahriman looked down, and sighed.

"Times change, Khayon, and we must with it. With the Traitor Legions broken and in full retreat, we must reaffirm our loyalty to the Throne. This," tapping the double eagle, "is only a symbol of our loyalty, not the essence of it. Magnus told me of how you felt, how us choosing to wear the Aquila made our previous oaths seem hollow. While I understand your reasoning, I am in agreement with the Crimson King"

Ahriman gestured to Khayon, "Come, the ceremony begins soon."

Ceremony? Almost against his will, Khayon followed his most hated rival. As they walked, bitterness and feeling of betrayal swayed to brotherhood and close acquaintance. With Ahriman? Impossible. Looking over the corridors and passing through two plazas open to the night sky, he quickly realised he was on Terra, the Imperial Palace to be exact.

Did the rebel Legions win? No, of course they could not have, not with Ahriman wearing that sigil, nor the First Captain's remarks from earlier. He did not speak as they walked towards the Inner Palace, but he did take note of what he passed and saw.

Several sections of the Palace were clearly battle damaged, some conventional, others through psychic means. Palace staff clutched neck-chained Aquila medallions to their chests, murmuring what sounded like prayers. Khayon frowned. Even in whatever reality he found himself in, the belief the Emperor was a god prevailed, seemingly strong enough for open support in the Imperium's beating heart itself. The more disturbing aspect was Ahriman's lack of reaction. No distaste, apathy, or mirth. Nothing. He acted as if he not only saw the sight regularly but that he accepted it. A nod was given to several Emperor-worshippers as they moved passed, who bowed low to the First Captain. Did… did he share their beliefs? Khayon looked at the Aquila upon his chest with increased disdain. Who am I here? What am I? Their brisk pace brought them to a vast chamber Khayon knew of, but never had step foot in.

The Investiary was near the Throne Room, a chamber where statues of the eighteen primarchs stood. Khayon had heard from his father that during the Heresy the statues of the eight Traitor Primarchs had been covered, but allowed to remain. After the Heresy, they were either destroyed or locked away.

However there were not eighteen statues, but twenty. Khayon looked at the marble representations of the Second and Eleventh Primarch, who stood as tall and proud as their brothers. The Second Primarch was remembered kindly by the Fifteenth Legion, having Dorn's moral sense, Horus' charisma and Angron's strength. But that was long ago, before the purge of Imperial records. But there he stood, as if the events that had led to his removal never occurred.

Turning to the Eleventh, Khayon expected to see the humble, noble features of one whom both Lorgar and Magnus called friend. Instead he looked upon a black sheet covering the statue. Looking around, Khayon noted six others were similarly covered.

The Fifth, Sixth, Tenth, Eleventh, Fourteenth, Eighteenth and Nineteenth Primarch-statues were covered. Seven Legions versus thirteen, with the loyalists holding a clear superiority in numbers…

"Madness," he whispered.

Ahriman nodded. "Four years ago this would have seemed impossible, but three years of bloodshed has made me wonder: could this have been prevented?"

Khayon resisted the urge to descend into barking laughter, laughing that no matter what version of reality out there, all were seemingly grim and dark, ever filled with war and despair.

But he resisted, and waited while the room filled with Imperial Army generals and admirals, Astartes from the Thirteen Loyal Legions – it was sickening to be considered a loyalist here, the Imperium's betrayal ran too deep in him for there to be any alternative – and various governmental flunkies. Bitterly, he saw several of his battle-brothers whom he knew to be Rubricae, were still flesh and blood, their souls not trapped in their armour.

Mixed in with them were primarchs, god-like beings who were titans to mere mortals. He saw the Lion conferring with Perturabo and Lorgar, Horus with Sanguinius and Alpharius, and Fulgrim ignoring those near him to glare at the marble figure of Ferrus Manus. Khayon saw Dorn, who was Praetorian here as well, talking with several of his sons and a Custodian officer, a captain by his markings.

They seemed to be the only ones here, but Khayon heard snatches of conversation.

"The Battle-King has secured Barbarus. Death Guard survivors flee to the Eye of Woe…"

"A Night Lord escorted humanitarian relief fleet came under attack by the Salamanders, but the XVIII retreated when a contingent of the II arrived to assist."

"…The War of Reclamation continues well, already a third of the traitor domains have been liberated. Even now the World Eaters ready for the invasion of Deliverance…"

"Trillions flock to the God-Emperor. His Divine Proclamation has more and more converting every day than the past hundred years. The establishment of the Imperial Church goes well, which is a matter of course with the Aurelian leading it…"

"The Thousand Sons reported this morning that all Chaos taint left over from the Raid had been cleansed from Terra. No more daemons or…"

"Rumours of the Lycan King's sons butchering the Lelmarta Cluster are true. Nearly forty billion killed, all to the sate their blood lust. A combined Emperor's Children, Night Lord and Imperial Fist fleet has begun to reclaim the worlds and rescue the survivors, starting with Cheraut…"

On and on, more and more, until details of this Heresy began to be pieced together. A bloody civil war, but compared to Fulgrim's Heresy, it was pitiful. Outnumbered, outgunned, and on the back foot for the entirety, the rebels were forced to launch a last ditch, desperate attack on the Throneworld, attempting to kill the Emperor. The twenty-three day Raid ended with the Arch-Traitor dead, killed by the combined might of the Emperor and Sanguinius, leaving the rebellion leaderless. What followed was a massacre as Imperial reinforcements in the form of the Second Legion, Iron Warriors, Dark Angels, and Alpha Legion Astartes arrived, trapping a majority of the rebel forces. With the rebellion broken, the War of Reclamation had begun. The traitors fought to keep their conquered territories but they were outmatched in every conceivable way. Many withdrew to the Eye of Terror, called the Eye of Woe here, while the rest scattered throughout the galaxy to rule pocket empires or forever raid and salvage to survive until caught by Imperial forces.

Eventually the room quietened. The largest doors, connected to a hallway that led directly to the Throne Room, opened to admit hundreds of Custodians entering in formation, their Guardian-Spears catching the gleam of Luna and glow-globes. Behind them came Magnus, resplendent in his armour and shockingly sporting two eyes, and the Emperor. He was unharmed, vibrant and alive, not at all like the corpse that sat the Golden Throne in his reality.

The Emperor walked to the centre. Raising His fiery sword, He cut down the statue of Jaghatai Khan, moving onwards to Leman Russ to do the same and from him to Ferrus Manus. This occurred to all the Traitor Primarchs. A speech followed, decrying them Excommunicate Traitoris, and ending with, "Stand with me, and together nothing is impossible. For the Imperium of Man!" The crowd of mortals, transhumans and primarchs cheered at that, roaring like leashed beasts. Khayon felt an urge to join in, to embrace victory, acceptance, kept oaths and pacts, but he did not, he would not. This was not his world, not his reality. It was an Imperial's dream, a relative paradise to what really occurred. A lie where the wrong stood over truth's mutilated corpse and the response to such horror was heartfelt cheering from fools.

There is only one way, forward. If you linger, you will die.

He felt the silver gateway's presence, the mirror in the back of the chamber, unnoticed by all. As he turned to leave, he felt a hand grip his armoured wrist. He turned.

"Stay, Iskandar, bask in our victory over those that betrayed us. We won, we are in the right, and we did no wrong as we stand on the side of Truth." Ahriman's gaze pierced through him, but Khayon shook free and walked to the mirror, hearing a saddened sigh from behind amidst a victorious audience.

Stepping through, the now familiar cold, itch and light did not bother him. As he arrived through, the first thing he noticed was he was looking at a chained Space Marine, a body mutated extensively, and spikes piercing the skin and muscle, holding him in place. A servitor was shut down near it, quill and paper with an ink pot nearby waiting to be used. The Astartes raised his head and looked at Khayon and he suddenly became the one chained.

A door opened and a dozen black-coated individuals walked in, a stylized 'I' over their hearts.

The servitor was awoken; the inquisitors arranged themselves in front of Khayon.

"Now, we will continue from where we left off last: just prior to the Battle of Harmony."

There is only one way, forward. If you linger, you will die.

A mirror materialised behind the inquisitors. Forcing himself out of the chained body was difficult, he felt as if he had been glued to the chained legionnaire but Khayon once again walked away through indomitable will. Though the mirror was not more than ten metres away, it seemed an eternity had passed before he stood before it. People passed by and through him, the wick candles burning out and replacements brought in, alit.

Glancing back, he saw the chained Khayon of this universe talking to a woman. He heard the other-Khayon talk, a grating voice, but one tempered by countless years of warfare and experiences he could only guess at.

"These are the End Times, Siroca. None of you are destined to survive the coming of the Crimson Path. The Imperium has been losing the Long War since it was first declared, and now we enter the endgame. I will tell you everything, inquisitor, because, for you, it will change nothing."*

Such conviction, such belief. Is it true, I wonder?

Khayon walked into the mirror's surface.

He appeared in the Mirror Room, back on the planet of blue sand and yellow skies. At first, it seemed as all was before his entering of the mirrors, but all in the room were faded out, as if phantoms. The Caretaker stood beside the tome, reading it with hands in the air as if leading an orchestra, his voice mumbled as he spoke.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" asked a voice.

Turning quickly, he saw the Caretaker beside him, only this time he appeared real, solid; the ghost image of the Caretaker continued to read and speak.

"What was that? Why did I go to those places?"

"To teach you. In the first, you were a young boy whose world never knew of Magnus or the Imperium. The second you were a loyal legionnaire that fought for the Anathema, a world where Magnus created the self-limiting Nikaean Edict, subjecting the Thousand Sons to rules and regulations, never to study forbidden teachings or search for unknown knowledge, all due to the Emperor's and Magnus' fear. A weakness common amongst your species. In the third, you were a prisoner of the Inquisition, beginning the first tale of your life to your captors, voluntarily informing them of their doom."

"Why?"

"The reasons why vary, but in the first you were helpless, weak. The second you were blindly loyal to honeyed lies and self-imposed limitations, oblivious to truths you now take for granted. And the third you were overconfident, arrogant, weary of war. Are these paths you wish to take here in this universe as those other Khayons did in theirs?"

"No," the answer was immediate. "I cannot go back to my family, as they are all dead save my sister, and as a mortal I could not change my brothers' fate. I will not join the Imperium, for their betrayal and murder of my kin can never be forgiven. And I will never give in to the Inquisition, never surrender. I am Iskandar Khayon, Captain of the Thousand Sons, survivor of Prospero, I will not give up until the Imperium I built is torn down and remade. The murderers, the liars and the despots will be cast down and the galaxy will see the truth the Heresy failed to convey."

The Caretaker was silent for a moment. Snapping his fingers, a vertical slash of eldritch light erupted from behind.

"Another mirror? Another reality?"

"Not quite. Those tested your mind, made sure it was ready to handle harsh facts and dire information. Go into it, and come out reborn."

The Caretaker's solid form faded back into his shadow self. The slash of light continued to remain open. Readying himself, Khayon went into the rift and everything changed.


Emerging from the rift, he gasped for air. Looking around, everything seemingly real and material. Centurion Lyras looked at him anxiously, Mekhari standing motionless as always. The Caretaker had withdrawn to the corner of the room, watching silently.

Lyras rushed to him. "Did you see him? Where is Sakaeron? Where is the Heir?" Desperation tinged the Son's voice.

Before Khayon could respond, a vertical line opened in the air and a purple and gold figure fell to the floor. Smoke steamed off armour, though frost hung from the new arrival's hair. Remaining on his hands and knees, Sakaeron looked up at them. After a moment in which he blinked slowly, the Son of Fulgrim began to laugh maniacally, a deep, booming sound that unnerved Khayon. It was a sound of madness, of war, of rebirth; it was a sound of a warlord ascendant.


"Did you find the answers you were looking for?" asked Sakaeron when they returned to the surface. The Caretaker remained in his temple, bidding them farewell.

Khayon shook his head slowly. "I found answers, not the ones I desired, but nevertheless much was revealed to me in the rift." Looking sideways, Khayon winced his mind's eye. If Sakaeron's warp signature had been smoke of a flame before, now it was a raging fire, blazing and all consuming.

"No cure, then?"

"No." He looked at Mekhari and the other Rubricae. "The knowledge to fix the Rubric is out there, but… it is not for me to find."

"Do you know who will?"

Khayon stared at the red eye lenses of the Rubric Marines. "I have an idea who, but he may never find the answer. It is hidden away, in a repository created by an ancient bloodline. It is doubtful it will ever be discovered, but if anyone can he will."

"If you did not see what you sought, what did you discover?"

Khayon turned to look at Sakaeron. "I saw a future where I stood by your side, waging war against the False Emperor's Realm. I have a purpose to fulfil by your side. You will be the herald of our revenge."

Sakaeron smiled. "I saw something similar. You will be one of my chief lieutenants, a valued officer, and a true comrade." Sakaeron positioned himself in front of Khayon. "What say you? Will you join me?"

Khayon knew the minute he emerged from the rift what his answer would be. It was the only way the nightmares would subside, for him to gain the revenge he so desperately desired, and for justice to be attained. Kneeling in the sand, he brought a clenched fist to chest in the warrior's salute; a mind pulse had the Rubricae kneel as well, bolters clasped to their chests. "I will follow you, Tyberius Sakaeron, Heir of Fulgrim, Chosen of Chaos, Master of the Third Legion, and future War Commander."

Sakaeron stood over him, his presence heavy and aura of command permeating all. Sakaeron rested a hand on Khayon's shoulder pad.

"Good. Now rise, cousin, we have much to do. Welcome to the Long War."


*Khayon-to-Siroca scene coming from Aaron Dembski-Bowden's novel The Talon of Horus, page 348. All credit to the author, Black Library and Games Workshop. No copyright infringement intended. Used for entertainment purposes only*