The daemon was resplendent in its appearance, and Amon knew the sorceries it wielded were far beyond anything he or anyone in his Legion possessed. Possibly greater than Magnus himself. And these supposed Astartes, who had been stranded on this planet for who knows how long, were fighting it. If they thought they could win - and Amon had no doubt those beings thought exactly that - just how powerful were they?
Perhaps, of course, they had simply lost their sanity. Could they not see the majesty of the being before them? If nothing else, that creature possessed the power that could tip the balance of the war. It was possible that, in their madness, they were destroying the very creature which could help them win the war and save humanity.
Amon could not help by smile as the bird-like creature immolated more of these 'mortals'. If Khyron's band was nothing more than mad corpse-desecrators, they were hindering humanity with their blind fear of that which the warp contained. If this was some more complicated plot... but for now, Amon preferred to stay with the simplest explanation. Ahriman had remained here too long, Amon realised that now, and he would not make the mistake that had killed his brother. They have blinded him. Khyron pronounced himself as a 'Master' but he was a master of nothing. This creature was more of a master than Khyron would ever be. The Master holds the key to all things. The key to the flesh change, the key to sorceries which could tear a world asunder. All this and more. It could be in his hands.
It could be in his hands either way. Perhaps Khyron was a mere scavenger, but even so, he and his allies were powerful enough to fight toe-to-toe with the creature. And as much as he did not act like Ahriman, the face was the same, and somehow Amon held out hope. Only from what had been already said, Amon knew the Swords would never help him or the Legion, not as things stood.
Amon had not fired for several long moments. He had stood inert in awe of the lord in front of him. Even Magnus could learn from this majestic being. It could end the war. Lead you on the path to glory. To new powers, unrivalled by any foe you face. It was easy enough to remain still. Everyone around him seemed to be preoccupied with trying to attack the being that could be their salvation. Amon saw several Thousand Sons were even attacking it. How disappointing. They could have been great. The creature's voice, perhaps, but that did not mean it did not speak truth. Amon knew there was no reasoning with the Swords, not anymore; even an instant of hesitation would have doomed him in their fanatical eyes. And inevitably, some of his brothers would be lost here as well, he knew. They had not understood the greatness and evolution the creature embodied even as it stood in front of them. Nevertheless, Amon allowed some respect for their choice, even as he knew he would not be able to afford mercy.
But Amon could see, scattered around, brothers who had seen what he had seen, felt what he felt. They were of one mind. They are my Chosen. The Heralds. "Come to me, my brothers," Amon whispered into the vox with a serpentine tone. The channel would only be open to those who understood. They came without question; they jogged over the raging battlefield. They were a Coven of Nine, and Amon, as Ninth Captain, knew just how significant that was. Their power felt magnified, amplified. Only the shrieking of the lord broke the attention of the sorcerers. Amon's gaze snapped to see the creature he had admired be struck down by his arrogant, errant 'brothers', although the word no longer seemed palatable to Amon. Khyron... if he had ever been Ahriman, Amon knew he could no longer treat him or Ordan as a friend, not even Ptah. They have denied our race its birthright. For they were not of that race, were not human, and never had been.
Strangely, Amon felt no sadness at the creature's passing. He had served his purpose. He had bought the Change. And change was the only constant thing. Everything changed. Decay and death were just changes of state. Nothing was constant. Only change. And these 'masters' seek to deny that. A moment of silence had washed over the battlefield. They were relieved, Amon saw the truth of it now. They believed they had stopped the natural progression of humanity. Stopped its ascension. Succeeded in their plot. Amon raised his bolter with a sneer. By fate, he had one bullet left. A bullet with a name written on it, and so one that could not be fired until this moment, when it was destined to be fired. It was propelled out of the chamber and into the chest plate of the 'master' who called himself Ordan. Then Amon proclaimed the first and only truth: "Change rules all."
The horrified look on Ahriman's face was tragically beautiful - if Amon had retained any doubts that it was not Ahriman wearing it, he would have fatally hesitated then and there. Ordan, or whatever his name had originally been, still moved. No matter. Once they had disposed of the 'humans', Amon would finish him himself. Several mortals surrounded their fallen leader, swords and wards raised ready to defend him. Amon laughed at their attempts. They could not overcome a sorcerer of power comparable to his own. The ones who had not died defeating the creature now turned to attack the new threat of the enlightened Thousand Sons, nonetheless, just as they had against the lord. Amon and his coven unleashed every sorcery in their arsenal against them. Powerful lightning bolts tore through mortal flesh and destroyed red Astartes battle-plate.
Their attackers were not without resources of their own. A dozen bolters barked as the Thousand Sons Amon knew to be lost to the foolishness of Khyron and his fellows fired on the Enlightened. Telekine shields stopped the projectiles, and so the Thousand Sons drew their Hequa staffs and charged towards their foe.
Ptah unleashed a bolt of telekinetic energy at the closest Thousand Son to him - Sedjoshan, once a member of his own squad. The bolt staggered his opponent, but his own sorceries had robbed most of the strikes power.
"What madness has gripped you, brother?" Ptah called as he closed the gap between them. Inside he would be screaming at the betrayal, if not for the immediacy of combat. Any Thousand Son - any Astarte - knew that there was a time to question such things, but the heat of battle was not it.
"It is not I who am lost, but you. Can you not see?" Sedjoshan babbled as he raised his own weapon and charged at Ptah.
"I am not yet an old man, to lack sight," Ptah grunted as their blades met in sparks of iron and psychic energy.
"Oh, but you are so blind, my friend," Sedjoshan spat as he swiped widely with his Hequa blade, forcing Ptah to jump back to avoid a wound to his abdomen.
Sedjoshan lashed out with a telekine strike which Ptah barely defended against and followed it with a savage downward strike. Ptah blocked the blade high above his head. He wreathed his hand in psychic fire and punched his opponent square in the chest. The plate buckled inwards and split, but his opponent paid it no mind. Blood slowly oozed out and his opponent lashed out with more frantic strikes, his blade covered in psychic lightning and his eyes blazing a fiery yellow from the inside. Sedjoshan cackled even as his blows were mostly deflected and sustained more in return from the veteran sergeant of the Thousand Sons. The dents started to be pushed out, as if there was a pressure being applied from the inside. Ptah noticed the joints of the Astarte's armour begin to swell. Ptah and the Thousand Son locked blades and pushed against each other. Still the man was laughing, always laughing. They two broke apart and the Thousand Son tore off his helmet. His face was a shifting mass, with the only constant features being the burning eyes. Ptah had seen this before. The flesh change was taking hold. The flesh change was taking hold, in Sedjoshan, who only yesterday had been playing dice with Ptah, and the sergeant could not bring himself to truly care.
"I am Change," the distorted mouth screamed with a thousand voices as its arms became more fluid and the armour that cased the warrior began to buckle, but this time from the inside.
In the throes of its madness, the monster that had been Ptah's brother began to care less about its own safety. Ptah exploited this and, after a wide and careless slash, he sliced his opponent's arm clean off. But instead of blood, flesh flowed out. It flowed and flowed until the stream of flesh had become a flailing lash of skin and muscle with a pinkish hue. The tentacle dived at Ptah's shoulder and, to his surprise, punched through his shoulder guard. The flesh whip carved through skin and broke the bone in his shoulder, and Ptah cried out in pain. The tentacle pressed in harder, forcing the veteran sergeant to his knees. The pain was excruciating. The monster that had once been Sedjoshan loomed over him, and its jaw opened wider than any human or Astartes ever should. It was going to devour him whole. Pushing through the pain in his shoulder, Ptah desperately drove his blade into the creature's chest. Ptah focused all the power he could muster to travel along the blade. The monstrosity blazed with a psychic flare and recoiled as the sorcerous fire consumed it from the inside.
Elsewhere, the story was the same. Those Astartes who had fallen unleashed foul sorceries against their brothers and the Brotherhood. The flesh-change claimed two others, and mortals and Astartes alike worked together to bring down these…traitors. They had betrayed themselves and their brothers; they could not be called anything else. Khyron scythed through a bloated monstrosity with one arm that breathed warp flame. It had just consumed his Decimus, even as the creature's blade had opened what may well be a mortal wound in another Thousand Son's chest. Khyron's spear sung with glee as it split the monster from head to toe.
"False Ahriman!" The booming, cackling voice carried across the battlefield. Amon held off his opponents, but Khyron knew that he wanted to face him. "Dare you face me in single combat? Or dare you not and so send your lackeys to die for you?" Amon challenged him.
Khyron knew he could beat this fallen Astarte. "You will die like all other heretics," Khyron's curt response came. Amon rushed at him and Khyron motioned the others to let him try. He could deal with this one, and the rest were falling one by one. This would be over soon.