Prospero was a world of psykers and not much else; the planet was fraught with dangers that would have made most normal men balk at the thought of living there. That was, indeed, why the psyker colony had been founded there in the first place - Prospero was a place no one wanted to look. Modern Prospero was the legacy of this refugee past, but the often-used nickname 'World of Witches and Warlocks' actually only conveyed half the truth. For Tizca, the lone city on the whole of the planet, was also the source of much of the Imperium's knowledge. Scholars from Prospero were in demand amongst the universities of the Imperium. And aside from being the home of knowledge and power, it was the homeworld of a Legion, one that had been blighted by tragedy since their inception; but more than that, it was the homeworld of a Primarch.

To young, newly created Astarte Apheru Apries of the newly created 33rd Fellowship, it was the most beautiful world in the Imperium. He had few psychic powers; not all the Thousand Sons were powerful sorcerers. The majority of their commanders and leaders were, of course, but that was part of why they were the commanders. Apries was, himself, technically a member of the Athanaean cult; his powers, however, were mostly limited to detecting other psychic abilities, a useful skill but not incredibly so. He had been on two battlefields, and the last, on the world of Parvinia, had seen him elevated to full Astarte; now he wore the red of his Legion with pride.

He took in the view over Tizca, her white marble buildings all topped with spires, which seemed to touch the skies of Prospero. Aside from the psychneuein, the only thing a native of Prospero feared was the loss of knowledge; and as his gaze turned to the Great Pyramid, he was reminded of stories that his scholars had relayed to him, about the mysterious pyramids on Mandragora. He often wondered if the ancient civilisation that built them, about which nothing was known, was anything like the people of Prospero.

He looked up into the sky and smiled to himself; soon, their father would be home, and soon they would once more be off, gaining more knowledge for the benefit of mankind and the Imperium.

And then, suddenly, he felt the message, sent psychically over the distances of interstellar space; and though he felt no fear, he still shivered, from imagined cold.

+++ Prepare defenses. Angron is coming, to raze Prospero to the ground. +++

The Photep roared into real space, the sparks settling along her as she adjusted to the dimensional change. The Thousand Sons aboard her prayed to the fates that they were going to arrive in time to save their home world and their brothers. Leman Russ stood beside his brother Magnus on the bridge. It was a sight that was indeed unusual: seeing two Primarcs together was a wondrous enough sight, but these two rarely stood with each other for reasons other than the galaxy's size.

The great and mighty Wolf King, the greatest son of Fenris, was legendary for his savagery in battle, but also known as the Emperor's Punisher, the one who tore rebellions apart. This powerhouse and never-ending vessel of violence stood alongside the Crimson King, the only Primarch that shared his father's diversity of psyker powers. All of the Primarchs had psyker abilities to some degree, of course. Curze and Sanguinius had their visions, and Lorgar his combat powers. None of them, however, used their abilities in as extensive a way as Magnus, and Russ disliked his ways, so distant from his own Stormseers. Magnus, meanwhile, respected Russ as a warrior but was not fond of his attitude towards knowledge.

So to many this would have been a bizarre and surreal partnership, a month ago; but, perhaps precisely because of their apathy towards Magnus's Legion, the Space Wolves were best suited to deal with this. Already, other Space Wolf and Thousand Son vessels were translating behind them, and as they did so they fell into formation behind the Photep and the Hrafnkel like pups behind their parents.

Magnus glanced at his brother as realspace became a settled ocean around them. Russ had said relatively little since he had transferred across, prior to entering the Warp. His mind was still whirling with the idea that their father had been corrupted so completely. Magnus could understand that; but he had a number of tasks, and the first of them was to save his world. Though there were other things that could help the remaining Primarchs, and he had to consider them as well; certainly, Horus's renegades needed all the help they could get.

Something else played in Magnus's mind, though, and he moved closer to his wolfish brother. "Leman, I require an oath of you."

Russ arched an eyebrow and turned his fearsome features to his red-skinned, one-eyed brother. "Which is?"

Magnus looked away for a moment and swallowed hard, then returned his gaze to his brother. "If anything happens to me, if Angron…."

"Nothing will happen to you, Magnus, you are a Primarch," Russ said with finality.

"Don't be a fool, Leman; I know you are not, so please credit me with some intelligence." There was a slight snarl buried deep in the Wolf King's throat, but he said nothing, so Magnus continued. "We both know that Angron is capable of anything, brother; the fates alone knew what was done to him on Nuceria to turn him into that seething mass of rage and hate, but it has made him a better fighter, one on one, than myself, and possibly even than you."

Russ nodded a little; he, too, had wondered what hardships his brother had endured at the hands of the old slavemasters that had turned him into something both less and more than what had been laid out for him. He also remembered the brawl on the Night of the Wolf (as well as that other, unspeakable campaign), and though that fight had been far from over, it was one of very few that he wasn't sure he would have won. He had heard the stories of how the Red Angel had killed some of his own sons when the Emperor had left him in their care, and that it was Kharn that had brought him around, hence why Kharn was his favoured son.

"There is a chance that he could kill me, and if he does - I want you to promise me that you will find a home for my sons and my people, if Prospero is rendered uninhabitable."

The Wolf King's heavy brow furrowed deeply, making him appear more like his namesake then a son of the Emperor. "And just where would I take your people and your sons? The Fenris system is crowded enough with a single Astarte Legion!"

"There is a world in the Yvegona Cluster; it is habitable and would suit the needs of my sons and my people," Magnus calmly cut his brother off.

Russ turned side-on to face his brother. "Do you mean Kegara? Magnus, that world is littered with creatures worse then those psychneuein that Prospero faces. We took that world together, brother; the only civilisation there was long gone, and we faced superstitious nomads."

Magnus suppressed a smile; when it came to superstitious nomads, there were none more so then the people of Fenris. Instead he nodded a little. "It is climatically and psychically ideal for my people, and they are tougher than you give them credit for. And I do not want my sons to die out because I am no longer here."

Russ rubbed his jaw with his massive paw and then scratched his chin. "If it happens, then I will see to the re-settlement; but it won't happen."

"Oh, and how can you be so sure, Wolf King?!" Magnus's patience was normally endless, but right now, with Prospero on the verge of destruction, it was severely frayed.

"Because if you die, Crimson King, when we have to fight the Emperor - no one else has the abilities that you do, to defeat him on the psychic level," Russ calmly spoke, seemingly ignoring his brother's tone, "and so I will not let that happen. For if you do pass beyond the veil, we will be doomed if Father hits us with his full power."

Magnus was shocked at Russ's words. The great Leman Russ, the scourge of all psykers and their ilk, had actually left him speechless. He turned his head to look down at the command pulpit.

"How long until we reach Prospero, Admiral?"

"Seventeen and a half hours, Lords," Admiral Artames replied, bowing his head.

"Then we are in the psychic bright spot; if we're lucky, the astropathic message can travel back in time. Have the Choir warn Prospero, and pray that we are not too late."

Magnus clenched his fists and closed his eye; it would be a while before he was ready to send warning to his sons himself, so tiring was applying the Warp jet, but with any luck they might just reach the system before Angron and his devil dogs. Russ saw the intent on his brother's face and read it perfectly, but said nothing. After all, he doubted they would get to Prospero before Angron; all he could hope for was that the Red Angel had not done too much damage before they arrived.

The world was there for him and his sons to take. He watched as Prospero began to appear closer on his screen; just a few more hours, and then they would be within reach of this haven of witches. He had no patience for sorcerers, and was coming to the conclusion that they should all be exterminated as blights upon true war. But his father had plans for his wayward brother, and who was he to disrupt his father's plans?

Angron had never been close to his father; just like Curze, he had been seen as a disloyal destroyer worthy only of bringing the Imperium's wrath on particularly stubborn humans' heads. But now, they had a chance to prove themselves as more then just fearsome beings to humans: they could prove themselves against fellow Astartes, and he would be able to prove to Magnus that it was not Russ he should fear, but him, the Red Angel, the War Dog himself.

Angron tried to calm his churning mind, as all he could currently picture was streets that flowed with rivers of blood and bodies. Their heads were removed and sat at the feet of a great brass throne, atop which sat a mighty warrior encased in bronze armour. Angron had been drawn to him for his warrior-honour; there was no other god that would accept the loyalty of one such as Angron. This was a god who held bravery in incredibly wide regard, and who despised cowardice to the extent that, within the his great fortress, there burned a great pit where the souls of many cowards, and others who had fled in the face of battle, burned for eternity in torment.

Angron had ingenious ways of dealing with cowards, too, but he tended to respect those that fought against them when the outcome was hopeless. He forced his ever-clouding mind to focus on the job at hand. He would not only destroy this world; he would scour it, then leave it a barren rock, a mighty testament to his sons and his own victory over Astartes who dared to think of themselves as scholars. The Thousand Sons were made for war and conquest, not knowledge-gathering; that was the realm of humans, not warriors.

He would enjoy proving to all his brothers that he was more then capable of doing as his father wanted, with no qualms that it was a brother's home he was ending. He would love to take apart his brother Fulgrim's boys, likewise, but rebuild them, teach them the meaning of cutting the braid, of true honour and martial prowess. The thoughts churning in his head made a rare smile crease his warlike visage, and he even uttered a chuckle, which got some nervous glances from the humans on his bridge.

"Forgive me, Lord, is something amusing?" Master Ferran asked, causing his second-in-command to shake his head vigorously, as if to tell him to shut up.

Kharn, who was never far from his father, cocked his head to one side; the Master was bold, that was certain. Angron turned his fearsome visage to the newly appointed Master of his vessel and got up.

"You would ask your betters what they find amusing?" Angron asked.

"It is good to see you laugh, my lord," Ferran continued, suddenly wishing he had not said anything. "I was just curious; my apologies."

Angron rested a giant hand on his shoulder and looked around him, as the secondary buzz in his mind died slightly down. "No doubt you were all thinking the same; and yet only the Master had the stones to ask me. I was laughing, my friend, at how this will change things, not just for my World Eaters but for you all. We will become the Legion that brings the Emperor's justice to those who would not heed his words."

Ferran heaved a palatable sigh of relief. "We are coming to the dark side of Prospero, Lord; what are your orders?"

"Are all my sons in the system?"

"We lost contact with the Legend of D'seshara, Lord, but that could be the Warp interference," Ferran explained.

"Retake your seat, Master, worry not, for I am in a good mood." That much was certainly true, right now. He hoped it would continue. Angron of Nuceria, Lord of the Red Sands, leant forward and moved his gigantic head to the Master's ear. "The fact you have stood up to me before has kept you alive. I like you, Master Urgara Ferran; when we are on Prospero's soil, ensure that my vessel leads in the destruction of those witches, and I shall not forget the service. Fail me, and my like of you shall vanish"

Ferran nodded slightly, totally understanding what his Lord was saying. Angron stood straighter. "Soon, my mortal sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, we shall write a new legacy. This day is the dawn of the World Eaters. It's time that Magnus's witches learnt that."