A/N: Okay, so this is probably going to be the most controversial chapter yet (and with all the heresy that's happened up to this point, that's saying a lot, I know). I beg forgiveness from both the Emperor and the Chaos Gods for what is to come.

Right, apology and warning are out of the way. Thanks to all who've read and reviewed, and, as the orks would say, 'Ere We Go!


My hands work across the controls of the Aquila Lander, bidding the vehicle to take us higher. With my fingers armoured as they are, it is difficult to do anything requiring much dexterity, and this ship was not built to be manned by Astartes. Still, I refuse to let such a paltry inconvenience deter me, and we rise, Ruzal'kara and I, rise into the hellish red sky and leave our companions on the ground to die in futility.

I am Sutekh Damantin, an exalted sorcerer of the Thousand Sons. Through the Great Crusade and the Long War, I have prided myself in my belief that all I have done was right and just. Of course, it is the duty of a Space Marine to perform the duties that mortal soldiers will balk at, to fight the battles that would crumble the resolve of those deemed lesser than ourselves, and to live with the consequences of visiting untold brutalities upon those we are bidden to attack. This is what the phrase "And We Shall Know No Fear" truly means. Yes, it entails that we shall not flee before our foes, but beyond that, it means to stand fast in the face of moral dilemmas, and to maintain a will of iron when debatably innocent blood taints our hands and faces. No fear, no remorse, no uncertainty: that is what it means to be a Space Marine, and in all the years I have fought both within the Imperium and without, I have ensured that I can uphold the integrity of this phrase by never giving myself reason to doubt. I feel no shame; no guilt lurks in this sorcerer's heart. Yet when I think of their tear-stained faces gazing up at me, as I pilot their salvation away into the sky, leaving them to die in the grim dust, I feel cold dread creeping through me. It is plain to see that they have made a mistake, but counter to all logic I am stricken with the thought that I have done the same.

I try and shake off these thoughts. They chose death, and I have chosen life. Simple conclusions, one obviously correct, and the other… not so.

We rise above the clouds. Dust surrounds us, clogging the ship's cockpit window and making it difficult to see beyond the glass. It is like a storm of dark, swirling ominously around the ship as we close with the edge of Armatura's atmosphere, as if warning us of the way ahead. I care not – there is nothing here that can impede our progress. Nothing besides my own hands, which hover over the controls as if frozen. Indeed, it chills me to think that I would pause for such a reason as doubting if I have done the right thing.

I haven't betrayed anyone, I think, even as the frost in my blood calls me a liar. The Imperium turned its back on me, not the other way around. I am the one who has been betrayed; this remorse is not mine to feel. The tremor in the voice of Thomas Fenwick, as he decided to perish valiantly alongside his friend rather than save himself, tells me otherwise. He, an Imperial Guardsman, looked at me like a hero, and I have left him to die. My hands clench into fists as, for the first time in ten thousand years, indecision coils through me like the golden ouroboros on my shoulder.

The ship can handle itself for a while. I set it on autopilot, turning away from the miasmic churning outside the cockpit and fixing my gaze upon Ruzal'kara. She leans sullenly against the ship's door, as if daring me to open it and allow her to plummet. Such a fall would not kill her, of course, but the look on her face affirms that the challenge is there, and I will not let it go unanswered. I step forwards and loom over her, something that Space Marines are very good at doing. She is tall by human standards, but I have over two feet on her counting the ornamentation atop my helm. I say nothing; she knows I expect an answer, and her refusal to meet my gaze irks me. It irks me because I know why she is so grim, and the idea that a daemon should be occupying the moral high ground relative to me brings my doubt to another level altogether.

"You would have had us stay with them." It is not a question; it hisses from my helmet's grill, slightly harsher than I intend it to. She does not dignify that with a response, staring rebelliously at the floor between my feet. "Why?"

"I don't know."

"You do know. You cannot lie to me, Ruzal'kara."

"Rosie."

"What was that?"

She finally looks up at me, her lightless black eyes filled with anger. "My name is Rosie." This is a bold untruth. That moniker is a mockery of human names, but she really seems to believe it. Refusing to allow her to maneuver me away from the topic at hand, I deliver my question again.

"Why did you want to stay with them?" I ask more insistently this time. The maelstrom of dust is beginning to clear as we prepare to leave the planet's orbit, and thus the silence I am met with is total. "I can and will wrest the answer from your mind if you force me to. Would you have me visit that indignity upon you, instead of speaking plainly? Be grateful that I am giving you a choice in the matter."

Her face contorts in a snarl, displaying her fangs and letting the daemonic countenance that she hides so well slide into view. "Harsh words, hmm? Don't think I don't know why you're talking that way. You feel the same. You don't think we should have-" My irritation becomes anger, and I allow her to speak no further, instead reaching into her consciousness and probing through her thoughts. I find the usual there: lust, hatred, sadism, rage and spite. The first is a hallmark of Slaaneshi daemons; the others are common to all malevolent Warp entities. Yet it is not there that I find my answer, and I am forced to dig deeper. Her fangs grind together as she feels me prying for the words that she will not say, yet she cannot lash out against me. She is my minion, and can do me no harm as long as she is in my service. I am forced to pick through darker things, things she keeps restrained. That which she would rather not have others see, telepathically or otherwise. I find things there that shake me, things that I was not expecting and that seem horribly out of place. At first it is little things that strike me: pride, caution, tact, wit. But as I delve ever further, I grow more unsettled as other concepts emerge. Sadness is there, and I sense that I am now on the path to what I seek.

The discovery of empathy halts my progress altogether for a moment. My will falters, and hers pushes back, indignant and desperate, but I am quick to regain control and shove past it. Next, I encounter sensitivities, and I take a moment to understand what it is I am seeing. Once I ensure that it is what I think it is, it lends the lithe form standing defiantly in front of me an air of vulnerability I have never perceived before, but now find odd to not have done so. Something is terribly amiss. Then-

I lean back, utterly baffled by what I have found. She doesn't look angry anymore, just uncomfortable, as if I have discovered an embarrassing secret. Considering what I have found, it likely is. "What is that?" I hiss, unable to believe my mind. There is hurt in Ruzal'kara's eyes now, and once again, she does not answer. This only serves to further cement the veracity of this finding. I cannot dwell on it, now, though; I can sense how close I am to her reasoning. With some effort, I put aside the fact that I have just found altruism lurking in a daemon's consciousness, and surge inwards to grasp at that which I seek, hidden like a pearl in the depths of her mind. Around this pearl is clamped all that is left of her will, straining to keep me out – silently asking me to relent, to leave this knowledge unknown, to let her keep this single secret. I cannot allow this, and I will not be denied.

I tear open the shell she has cast around her secret, and my perception of reality – of what is, and what can be – is broken. I almost physically stagger back, even as my psychic projection staggers out of her thoughts. This cannot be. It is impossible, unthinkable, but what I have found in Ruzal'kara's mind can only be the truth. Why else would she guard it so fiercely? I stand motionless, stunned by this revelation, even as the daemon I tore it from sinks into a passenger seat, her face awash with mortification. Knowing what I know now, I am granted the horrifying realization that I have given myself not one, but two reasons to be ashamed. In that very moment, as I recollect myself, I make a silent oath that there will not be a third.

"I am sorry," I say, to which she spits at my feet, hissing in that way that only a daemon can.

"Don't pretend to care for me!" She screams, losing her already thinning veneer of humanity in the process. An impossibly wide, stretched mouth and deep lines mar her face, while her hair-tendrils writhe furiously, like a nest of serpents. "You know what a daemon is, Damantin. You know that none of this can be real. You know me for a monster, capable only of manipulation and cruelty." Her hideous face twisted in anguish. "But you're hardly better. Cowering behind that stupid helmet, making everyone wonder if there's a person under there at all. At least I'm a monster with a face."

I let her words hang in the air, their weight growing with each passing second. I watch her rage simmer into resentment and discomfort. I see her shrink in that chair, quailing slightly under the soulless stare of my helmet. I allow this, allow her to bear my quiet judgement a moment longer. And then, I dispel it all. My thick ceramite fingers reach up, undoing the gorget locks that hold my helm in place. Her eyes grow round, and her mouth forms a silent 'o' as I remove the headpiece and kneel. We are at eye level now, for the first time. I am placing myself on even ground with her, to let her know that I truly want to hear what she has to say.

"Do you truly feel that way, Rosie?" I ask, my voice even softer than usual without the coarsening effect of the helmet's vocalizer. "What I saw – do you truly feel that way about him?" She bites her lip, sharp teeth breaking the skin and causing a drop of blood to roll down her chin. Looking into the lights that dance in the hollows where my eyes should be, she gives me a single nod. I reach out to wipe the blood from her lip before rising to my feet, contemptuously casting my helmet aside. Too long have I hidden from those I called my friends; if I am to see them again, it will not be from behind the stifling veil of my helmet, but with these sparks through which I truly perceive the world. My eyes, windows to the soul in a very literal sense, blaze brightly as I am filled with new purpose. Two quick strides take me to the ship's controls, and soon we are swerving around, facing Armatura once more. Rosie stands and is at my side in an instant.

"What are you doing?" she demands, her voice thick with confusion and the merest hint of hope. My skull-like face, set in a permanent grin, stares straight ahead, unflinching and sure of its purpose. I know what I intend to do, and I will know no fear in doing it.

"I had forgotten," I say. "I had forgotten, as so many do – to be an Angel of Death, it is not enough to simply be a killer; one must be an angel first. It is time to for me to be an angel, Rosie." I do not need to look at her to see her smile.

Hours later, the Aquila Lander's engines shove into overdrive as I point the vessel towards the planet's surface and send it rocketing downwards into the dust. During our descent, I cast my mind forth once more, seeking those signatures so familiar to me, so distinct that it would be impossible to miss. It is no difficult task – I find them in the thick of an enormous mass of orks, along with some unexpected factors. "Ultramarines," I rattle, spark-eyes burning with hatred. Of course – it only makes sense that the sons of Guilliman would have arrived to deal with the xenos threat on a planet within their sub-sector, though why it has taken them so long is something I do not care to discover at the moment. A cursory divination tells me that Marrlë and Fenwick will both be slain within minutes if someone does not come to their aid. Along this same train of foresight, I play out several different iterations of the battle in my head, and I find one chain of events that seems particularly favourable. Granted more time, I could scrutinize it further, and perhaps discern a more prudent course of action. Time, however, is not on our side, and so we descend into the stratosphere, streaking earthwards in a race to provide our friends with succour.

We can now see the battle below, thousands of orks clashing with an entire company of Space Marines. Among them, I spy flashes of lightning arcing out, and feel psychic pressure radiating from below. If the skull I call a head could smirk, I would; that Ultramarine librarian's biomancy is nothing compared to the power I wield, and soon, I will demonstrate just how disparate our strength is. But my wrath is not for them; no, I reserve it for a far mightier foe.

At the edge of the battlefield stands a mighty Warlord Battle Titan, a hundred feet tall and equipped with the most fearsome weapons of the Dark Mechanicus. Even from here, I can feel the god-machine's torment, and my soul seethes with rage at the indignity it is being subjected to. For such a great spirit to be turned into a maddened, senseless tool is unbecoming and unacceptable – not to mention, if the Titan remains standing, I have predicted that Marrlë and Fenwick will be killed in approximately one minute. The connection between these two circumstances is subtle, but not so subtle that it is uncertain. It must be dealt with at once. I issue a wordless command to Rosie, and she wastes no time; I smash a button to open the Aquila Lander's door, from which she leaps with unnatural grace and poise, falling in a perfectly measured series of flips towards a tell-tale red shock of hair among the massed orks. With a satisfied nod, I follow suit, but unlike her I do not allow myself to fall; my disc blisters into existence beneath my feet, catching me and bearing me aloft. I am closing rapidly with the Titan, and whatever corrupted Princeps lies atrophied in its head must recognize me as the most immediate danger to it, for the Warlord's massive guns begin rising to attempt to cut me out of the air. A single blast from any of those will signal my end, but my divination saves me; I know where each of them will fire, and under my promethean command we slip by each deadly shot. Now I am close enough, I decide, and before any more shots can strike me, I reach out with the most potent assault I can muster.

One by one, the hereteks crewing the Titan are destroyed, their bodies bursting like mere sacks of meat and blood. From there, I sever wires, overload power systems, and crush the Princeps's mind beneath a telepathic boot. Now at last, I am faced with the Titan itself, its machine spirit broken long ago after being unhallowed by the ministrations of the Khornate hereteks. Nothing remains now but a maddened, bloodthirsty death machine; a rabid beast, which must be put down. Perhaps by destroying it, I can provide it with some final dignity – out of respect for the god-machine, I will not hold back.

The Titan's building-sized guns creak and clank as my force of will keeps them leveled at the ground, preventing them from rising to fire upon me. The machine spirit screams in frustration, which would be enough to kill a lesser psyker all on its own. I deflect that scream; I have, believe it or not, heard worse than the rage-filled cry of a god-machine. Now, I attack in earnest, Warpfire roaring forth from my fingertips and bathing the Titan in unholy flame. The fire becomes lightning as I charge it full of such unholy power that even that mighty frame, which has unfalteringly turned aside chainblades, explosive rounds and missiles, cannot resist. I crack the Titan open, tearing a hole in the center of its bulk and viciously pulling its body apart. It is strong, so very strong, but I am beyond physical strength. Nothing material can stand against the power of my mind.

The Titan howls in agony as, one by one, its systems fail, and its adamantium body is torn apart. I gradually wrench its guns from its body, flinging them onto the orks and crushing them in their hundreds. They are still many; no matter. I will deal with them when I am done here, and I do not intend to keep them waiting long. With one final, terrible shriek – the inimitable sound of destroyed metal and the death-scream of a god – the Titan is ripped into a ragged, gutted tower of metal, which I waste no time in hurling at my enemies. The orks stand no chance of avoiding it, though, for Fenwick's sake, I avoid targeting the Ultramarines. If I am to clash with them, I will do so later. Now, I will cut the problem at its very root. It takes only a moment to find the warboss, surrounded by weirdboyz – ork psykers. Does it think they will save it? Protect it from me? My eagerness to show it just how big of a mistake it has made is matched only by my desire to avenge the companion that fell at its hands. The rage I feel only adds to my sorcerous power, and in a flash I am among them, the brightness of my armour denying the dust as I stave in the first weirdboy's head before it can react. The remaining three turn towards me at once, raising their crude, gnarled staves to attempt to counterattack. I reward their efforts by boiling the blood of the one closest to me, and transforming the guts of the third into gigantic maggots that devour it from the inside out, pouring out of its stomach and face before dying themselves. The fourth manages to send a crackle of lightning my way, which I dismiss with a wave of my hand, and then answer my assailant with a bolt of my own, only ten times as powerful.

A shadow falls across me, prompting me to turn away from the last weirdboy's charred carcass and round on this new enemy. I stare into the grinning face of the ork warboss, who is nearly double my height and whose left hand is an oversized power klaw. In its right is clutched…

My eye-sparks blaze in pure hatred. I knew the warboss would be here, of course; my divination would not miss something so crucial. I knew it would appear behind me after I took apart the Titan and slaughtered its weirdboyz. I also knew that from this range, a single Doombolt will take its idiotic, grinning head off, and most of its foul body with it. It is close, but not so close that it will not have to charge in order to reach me. With a bellow, several tons of greenskin, crude metal armour and weapons barrels towards me. Responding only with a contemptuous laugh, I raise my hand, gather up every last ounce of Warp energy I can muster, and prepare to unleash it right into that hideous, piggish face. I feel the power surge through me, coiling through my muscles, arcing through my veins, crackling over my skin in flares of red and black, and-

Nothing.

I barely have enough time to register surprise before the charging warboss collides with me like a speeding tank, crumpling my ceramite warplate like paper and causing my body within to buckle as it is twisted unnaturally by the impact and the breaking of the armour. Its power klaw clenches around me, digging into my flesh, slicing through muscle and bone, before flinging me aside with incredible force. I bounce over a growing pile of bodies before crashing into something solid: one of the Titan's guns, which I myself tore off and cast down upon the battlefield. My consciousness is fading quickly, the stench of war growing hazy along with the rest of this blighted world, and I realize that I am about to die. Both my hearts and two of my three lungs have been punctured, leaving me with very little to go on – too little. I only have to wonder a moment as to why my psychic abilities failed me in that crucial moment before the answer comes to me, in the form of an all-too familiar laughter in the back of my head.

Well-played, Tzeentch. Well-played.