As soon as Magnus's message reached the spires of the Great Pyramid, the Legion's commanders began organising not just a battle front, but the evacuation of the population into the Pyramid and the safe transport off-planet of all Prosperine-endemic knowledge. This would take hours, but hopefully it could be done in time for their father and his allies to get here, before the World Eaters.

As twilight faded to night, however, it became apparent there would not be enough time to save everything. The skies filled with drop pods that came to Prospero's ground like torpedoes; from the cosmos above, missiles and blasts sprouted, firing at strategic watch posts around the city's outer limits. Brother Apries followed his sergeant as the squad went to aid the Spireguard in their job of evacuating the schools.

Surely there had been some mistake, surely the sons of Angron had been told to test the sons of Magnus? Apries had hoped so, when the order came down from the mouth of the Primarch himself - that it was all an organised test of the Thousand Sons' battle-worthiness. But, as he looked up and saw the trails in the skies, he knew that this was no test, nothing less than real battle in all its glory and horror; the explosions of the watch towers told him as much, even before he saw Spireguard falling to their deaths.

"Squad Anubis, form up!" Sergeant Ra-Baka bellowed. "Captain, my men will cover you until you get those children and their tutors to the safety of the Pyramid. Make it quick; Angron and his puppies are not know for their patience, or their discretion."

Atlem, the Captain of the 33rd Fellowship, bowed quickly and began barking orders to his other men, to follow the sergeant's plan. Apries noted how efficiently the Spireguard worked. They were perfectly loyal to their father, just like they were to the Astartes that made up the Thousand Sons, but Apries believed they would not need babysitting, that he and his brothers could focus on other things.

"Have you ever seen a World Eater, Apries?" the brother to his left whispered as he swung his Bolter left to right and back again.

"No, Senbu, I have not," Apries replied. "I have seen the sons of Russ in action, though; are they not largely similar?"

"Oh trust me, brothers," Sergeant Ra-Baka's voice cut across their conversation, the battle-brothers turning to find their commander behind them, "there is a lot of difference between the Wolves of Fenris and the War Hounds of Angron."

"Contact in fifteen kilometres… by the Great Ocean," Brother Uahbras's voice exclaimed in shock.

Squad Anubis saw them and knew this was real. A squad of World Eaters, their distinctive blue and white armour standing out in the light, made their way across the ground towards the Thousand Sons. Ra-Baka took a moment to assess the situation and knew that, unless there was a miracle, not all of them would walk out of this alive. It was a shame that three of his squad were new to Astarte flesh and blood; still, they would fight, and they would show these traitors that the sons of Magnus were not to be underestimated.

He bellowed to the Spireguard to leave now; he knew they were not afraid of the World Eaters (at least not yet), they were soldiers, but the civilians were and had every right to be. To get them to safety was the Spireguard's priority, along with that of the Captain, and holding off the World Eaters was his; and if his squad was to be the first of many to wage battle across this mighty city, then so be it. The news of the Emperor's change of heart and of his command to ruin Prospero had filtered through many in the Thousand Sons' leadership; the First Captain himself had sent word that they now fought for Horus against the Emperor. Ra-Baka had found this hard to believe at first, but he would not dispute the words of the First Captain; after all, he spoke for Magnus himself, and if this was the way it was, then he would always fight for his Primarch - and his home.

"For Magnus and sacred Prospero!" he bellowed.

"For Magnus and sacred Prospero!" his squad returned the shout, as they readied themselves.

Sergeant Deziel Afonsei of the World Eaters 14th Company could see the Thousand Sons up ahead, defending what appeared to be a building. He doubted it was of any strategic importance, but nevertheless he had his orders. He stopped for a moment, and his squad stopped around him. Their revised cortical implants were already beginning to tap into their brains. He could feel the violence surge around him in his squad, as well as in his own emotions. If he had not had these implants, Afonsei contemplated, he might have focused on some sort of wrong in what he and his brothers were about to do; however, in any case, they had their orders, given to them from both the Primarch himself and the Emperor, so he would have done his duty no matter what.

He had heard others say that the Thousand Sons were not true warriors, that they were witches and knowledge seekers, without the fighting spirit needed to be an Astarte. But, unlike some of his brethren, he was not about to discount the fact that they could fight. Not all the Thousand Sons were powerful psykers, and those that were fought just as hard and as ferociously as those that weren't, but with the added strength of their abilities. He sniffed the air and pulled a disgusted face; the stench of psyker was in the air. Despite the Nikaea Edict they still reeked of it. Their Primarch would be taken in chains to the Emperor, and some of his inner circle; but few of the Thousand Sons needed to be left alive, and he needed first blood.

"Squad Tungus… let's show these witches how we make war!" he roared to his squadmates, before pulling his chain axe; up close and personal was the way a World Eater fought, and these Witches would learn that.

Ra-Baka roared at his men to fire their bolters and make every shot count; he did not want the World Eaters coming too close. He had studied their tactics and knew all too well that they preferred close-quarters combat; once they got into that range, the battle would become bloody and messy, and this was what the enemy wanted.

He raised his bolter and hesitated, for a split second, as he saw the World Eater Sergeant remove his helm to reveal a face so disfigured by the thrill of the hunt that Ra-Baka thought, for one awful half-moment, that he was looking at a demon. He may not have ranked in the upper echelons of his Legion but he recognised berserkers when he saw them. He sighted his target and fired; the bolter seemed to show the trail it would take, to Ra-Baka's seemingly weakened Corvidae powers, but at the last moment Afonsei moved to one side and it took down a World Eater behind him. It was as if the traitor had seen it coming, which was impossible; he had no more time to contemplate this, however, as - with a howl that sounded like a malevolent entity in the Great Ocean - the remaining World Eaters were among Squad Anubis, and all thoughts of coordinated suppressing fire vanished.

Senbu drew his gladius and ducked under the whirring chain blade of a World Eater who, according to his visor's scanners, was named Czernobog. He could smell the heat of the World Eater's breath as he bore down on the Thousand Son; it smelled like the dead. He raised his left foot and threw the World Eater over his head, but the son of Angron was faster and landed like a cat, on his feet, and before Senbu could get to his feet his head was grabbed.

The pain was excruciating as giant hands grabbed his visor and tore it off, taking some of his skin with it. Already, his Laraman cells were starting to work on healing the wounds, but Czernobog was not done yet; as Senbu attempted to get his bearing, he was punched. He wondered for a moment if the pain was too strong, but as he looked down, the World Eater had punched him alright - clear through his armour, deep into his chest. What did Angron feed his warriors that they were able to do this? Senbu raised his head to meet the insane glare of the World Eater and knew he was dead; the Astarte's eyes told him that much, even with his Athanae abilities weakened for unclear reasons.

He began to laugh. "This is not going to stop us, World Eater; we are Thousand Sons, and we will endure."

Czernobog correctly assumed he was being made a mockery of, and with a roar, he pulled the still-beating secondary heart from the Thousand Son. Czarnobog watched as he fell to his knees, the shock and trauma sending his body into spasmic overload, and - drawing his chainsword back - he cut the head from the body. He picked the head up by the topknot and held it aloft.

"Blood for the blood god, skulls for the skull throne, victory for Angron!" he roared.

"Think again!" another voice growled, and as Czernobog turned, Apries fired his Bolter directly into the World Eater's face, destroying it completely and covering his own armour in the blood of the deranged traitor.

He glanced down at his dead brother and stood over the body firing, lest any more of those maniacs decided to try and defile it; but what bothered him the most, aside from the brutality of these so-called Astartes, was who Czernobog had been chanting to - and why?

With the ferocity of the attack, and despite killing on both sides, neither the remaining Thousand Sons nor the World Eaters were going to give up their perceived victories. Both sides fought for an Imperial Truth, one bright yet outdated, the other direct but mad. One side fought to conquer a world and bring it to heel, even if they had to destroy it; the other fought to save their world and stop the hordes from taking the one planet that had, for so long, been a safe haven for them against mistrust, envy, and attempts to bring them under the heel of others' superstitions regarding the majority of the populace and the Astartes of this world.

Brother Sam-Ta and Brother Salatis stood back to back against their attackers. Salatis's flamer was already spent, and his Pyrae powers, though still potent, seemed to work only in fits and starts. He held his bolter and, having heard Senbu's dying words over the vox, took them to heart; there would be other battles for their brothers to fight. But if they could just hold out against this batch of unnaturally strong berserkers, well, it would be a tale to tell the Legion scribes.

Salatis threw his bolter down as the last bolt flew from it and impacted against a World Eater's chest, sending him falling to the ground (though likely still alive). He drew his sword and readied himself, activating the power field around it. Like Sam-Ta, his helm had been damaged earlier on in the fight; they were both fighting bareheaded. He felt something splash the back of his neck and turned a nudge to see, with peripheral vision, the headless corpse of Sam-Ta waver like a karetisk who did not realise its head was cut off; then, it fell to the ground. With a roar, he lunged at the World Eater responsible, an Astarte that had earlier been identified as Brother Rolan.

Rolan dodged the attack, and brought the hilt of his axe straight onto the sword arm of Salatis, who roared as the pain registered; already, his physiology was rushing pain suppressants to the broken bone. He swayed out of the way in time to dodge an attack that would have cleaved him in two; these World Eaters were stronger then he remembered them being. Then, seeing the implants in Rolan's head, he realised that the World Eater's cortical implants were making him senseless to pain - and perhaps, as Apries had suggested, for the psychic dampening, which would at last provide an explanation for that massive disadvantage. He had been under the impression that they had been told to stop this, but then again, with what he had heard he could guess that Angron never listened anyway.

He had to find a way to stay alive long enough, to give him room to strike; already he felt his Pyrae connection begin to sizzle into reality. Rolan, however, was not going to give him that chance; the berserker just kept coming at him, taking swipes at his armour; most connected, though some did not, and a fraction of a glance behind him told Salatis the problems were not limited to him. He could see that there were not many more of Squad Anubis left, and he had a sinking feeling that this would be his world's fate (though, fortuitously for once, he was no Corvidae). He was knocked onto his back and tried to move his good arm up, to block the blow that was coming from the frenzied World Eater and to channel the flame that was erupting from his mind; instead, the body was cleaved in two and fell in bloody halves to either side of the Thousand Son; a grey gauntlet was shoved in his face and a wolfish face appeared before him.

"Do you require aid – Cousin?" The Astarte asked.

Salatis laughed, with relief more then anything else; he had never thought he would be so happy to see a son of Russ. He took the offered hand and was pulled to his feet.

"Your arm…" the Space Wolf motioned to the broken arm.

"The Pavoni will heal it, and for now I have another." Salatis picked his sword up. "Who do I have to thank for this?"

"I am Brother Galthar Halfdnar." The Space Wolf nodded at him. "We can do the rest late; time to show these traitors how not to treat another's home world."

Salatis did not argue; and it was only then that he saw other Space Wolves enter the battle. And for the first time, he praised the sons of Russ for their timely arrival.

And then, he extended his sword, and a golden star slammed into the insane traitors.

Sergeant Ra-Baka had already lost his left hand to Afonsei's chainaxe, and he would have lost another, had it not been for the poleaxe that erupted from the chest of the World Eater Sergeant. In shock, he looked up to see another face, in the livery of a Space Wolf Sergeant. He was helped up and looked around as the Space Wolves and the remaining five Thousand Sons - himself, Apries, Uahbras, Salatis, Ephasto - finished off the remaining World Eaters.

"I am Sergeant Njal; we have come to aid you, cousin." Njal was as any Space Wolf; his mouth parted to show the fangs that all Wolves had, but for once it did not send a shiver of anticipation through Ra-Baka - only relief.

"Never thought I would be so glad to see you, cousin." Ra-Baka sat himself down as the Space Wolves' Apothecary saw to his hand. "I was not under the impression that there were any of… the Rout here?"

He used the real name for the Sons of Fenris, and it seemed to be accepted as it was meant, honour to the saviours. Njal sat down beside Ra-Baka as his Apothecary took the gene-seed of the dead Thousand Sons, so it could be returned to their Legion. All of Squad Anubis' Pavoni were dead, having been cut to pieces by World Eaters; Njal had ordered his Apothecary, Brother Njord, to take care of them in particular, though Ra-Baka knew that was a needless gesture. The Thousand Sons had a good balance of their Cults.

"We were first to reach Prospero; we were ordered to make planetfall, and do what we could until our Primarchs get here."

"Russ and Magnus together?" Ra-Baka was genuinely surprised. Njal chuckled a little.

"Aye, Cousin, we fight as one. You, however, need medical attention, and I doubt you would be able to return to the Great Pyramid without encountering more of these bastards; so we will come with you."

"Thank you, cousin; I owe you mine and my squad's lives, and I will find a way to repay the debt. I do not forget such things."

"I am sure that in the coming days, cousin, there will be ample time to honour that."

Ra-Bakas did not doubt it; with the World Eaters' new strength, this war was going to be bloody, that much was certain.

By the time Squad Anubis and Squad Val had reached the Great Pyramid, they had joined up with other Thousand Son units, many of which had also been aided by the Space Wolves. Njal remained with Ra-Baka, having encountered smaller skirmishes along the way. A strange sense of trust had built up between both sergeants and their respective Squads.

Captain Atlem of the 33rd Fellowship met with Wolf Lord Djarl of the 19th Great Company. They nodded respectfully to each other and withdrew from earshot of the Spireguard, who were defending the roadway leading to the center of the Thousand Sons' home.

"Perhaps, Captain, you would be so good as to tell me - what in the name of the Crimson King is going on here?" Atlem asked when both men were alone.

Djarl noticed that Atlem's gaze was forever on the horizon. He was not snubbing him; he was watching for the approaching enemy. They had already heard that the World Eaters had taken some of the outer districts, and the casualty list had been horrendous. Even one as violent as Djarl had been shocked when one of his Blood Claws had reported what had happened not only to the Astartes that were there, but the civilians too.

The Astartes - both Thousand Sons from the 25th Fellowship's Squads Ositaris and Isois and the Rout of Squad Freygor, including one of his own best Sergeants, had been killed and their heads taken, to be placed in the centre of that small neighborhood piled high; their bodies had been ripped asunder, as if mad animals had been let loose on them and the humans they had been defending.

"I can tell you what I know." Djarl joined Atlem and watched the horizon himself. "It seems that the Emperor has forsaken his old plans and decreed that the Imperial truth is a lie, and that there are gods."

Atlem arched a dark eyebrow. "But – he has always despised ideology of any kind, look at what he did to Lorgar's sons when they refused to give up the idea he was a god! Now you are telling me that he has just suddenly decided to embrace faith?" His voice was incredulous, and Djarl did not blame him for being so shocked.

When news had filtered through the Rout of the truth of the matter, the Wolves had too been in a state of disbelief. He waited for the news to sink in; then, as much as he disliked the notion, continued with what he knew.

"It seems, from what my father has said to us, that Lorgar, Curze, Angron, Fulgrim, Manus, Vulkan and Dorn have fully joined the new Imperial Creed. Mars was overrun by the Iron Hands, and Ferrus Manus now sits in judgment on it. Curze and his Legion killed an entire government and planet personally, in the name of the Emperor. Angron and Vulkan gunned down those of their own sons who would not follow the new order. And Rogal Dorn destroyed an entire loyal world, via Exterminatus, for not immediately handing over a religious relic."

Djarl watched the gradating shock on the Thousand Sons Captain's face; and when he told him of the Great Salamander's and the Praetorian's actions, he had to steady his fellow Astarte, who looked like he might faint from the shock.

"And we have angered the Emperor. Is that why he has sent Angron's blood-mad sons to our world?" Atlem whispered, realisation slowly dawning on him. He still did not understand how the Nails suddenly gained the ability to dull psychic powers, but perhaps they had always had that - it wasn't as if the Twelfth and Fifteenth Legions had frequently fought together.

"It is. It would seem that the Cycl - Crimson King refused to heed an order from the Emperor to return to Terra, and this is his punishment," Djarl corrected himself, as it did not seem appropriate to call the lord of Prospero by his less savoury nickname, in these circumstances.

"Then we will defend this world until my father returns. He is not far now, and all we can do is hold the murdering bastards at bay until he arrives." Atlem rubbed his brow.

"My father is by his side."

"This I know, Cousin." Atlem uttered something that sounded like a cynical chuckle.

"Something I said amusing you, cousin?" Djarl asked.

"Cousin, does this not seem a little ironic to you?" Atlem saw the blank expression on the Space Wolf's face and continued. "Well, considering that our two Legions have never seen eye to eye, that it is Russ who comes to aid us in this darkest hour, and both Legions against an Emperor we were entirely loyal to..."

Djarl nodded, conceding the Thousand Son's point; everyone in all the Legions had predicted that the Emperor would unleash the sons of Fenris on the sons of Prospero if they continued the path of forsaken sorcery after Nikaea, and none in his Company were more surprised then he was when the news had come that Russ and Magnus stood side by side.

"They will be here shortly; all we can do, Cousin, is hold, and you have us to aid you." Djarl clasped his giant hands behind his back. "We will hold them off for as long as we can; and with the fates willing, that will be enough until Russ and Magnus arrive."

"There is one slight flaw there, Cousin," Atlem dryly spoke and met Djarl's enquiring gaze. "We need to hope that Angron has not made planetfall yet."

Djarl's jaw set tight and his ice-blue eyes hardened. "Even if he has, Cousin, then we will die fighting him; but know that we will defend this city of yours, no matter who they send against us."

Atlem held his hand out. "I am Osirian Atlem; my friends call me Rian in informal times."

Djarl looked for a moment, then took the hand in the warrior's grip. "I am Siegfried Djarl, and when this is over we shall drink and feast to the victory of our fathers… Rian."

"I will hold you to that, Siegfried."

"Good; now let's see what else we need to do here, to fortify this roadway."

The two Captains began to walk the defensive lines, speaking words of encouragement to the human defenders; and Atlem was proud to be beside the Space Wolf, at this moment, and happy that Djarl added words of encouragement to the Spireguard warriors, even if they were blunt and to the point.

Sergeant Hofkyier and Sergeant Aken had met up in the district of Jeriz, a small township that housed many of the city's manual workers. The Space Wolves of Squad Ulas had been battling the World Eaters of the 23rd Company, and it had not been pretty. Everyone knew how savage the Rout was, but when they met the even more violent World Eaters, it was like the beginnings of the foretold Wolftime.

By the time the Thousand Sons of Squad Basther, 36th Fellowship, had gotten to the district, the blood was flowing like a river. It was not just the ferocity of this specific battle; this was also cousin against cousin, Astartes against Astartes, something that had been thought impossible. Aken immediately ordered his men to cover the Space Wolves and, almost instantly, launched into the battle.

Hofkyier nodded his thanks to the Thousand Sons' sergeant as he was hauled to his feet.

"My thanks, Cousin."

"You have taken a few of the bastards down, then," Aken laughed.

"We will take more, that I promise you, Cousin."

The two sergeants chuckled a little; and then a sound that chilled even the mighty Space Wolves to the bone erupted from the horizon.

It was like a caged animal, maddened by its captivity; but thousands of times more feral than even that. Both Sergeants heard and felt the change in the air. It was the overwhelming feeling that an Astartes only got when near a demi-god. Some of the Spireguard that were fighting alongside the Space Wolves suddenly and quite violently threw up.

The other Astartes began to move back into defensive postures; and it was then that they saw him. Rising tall on the battlefield like some mighty demon of ancient Terran mythology, his golden armour shone, as if he had been polishing it himself, to its highest sheen, while the red looked like liquid blood; his war cry loosened human bladders. The two sergeants shared a glance with each other, and both knew this was one fight they would not win - none of them would, for it was one thing fighting against cousin Astartes, but this…. Aken called his youngest squad member over.

"Sergeant." The young Thousand Son stood ramrod straight.

"Tuthos, I want you to go back to the Great Pyramid, stop for nothing, we have no vox contact with the Pyramid and I need them to know what we have seen," Aken ordered, as calmly as he could.

"Yvor," Hofkyier called, "Go with him; in case anything happens to one of you, the other should continue on."

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Be sure that you tell them we fell defending this part of Tizca," the grizzled Space Wolf told them both, "on this day when Space Wolf and Thousand Son took on the World Eaters."

The roar erupted again, closer this time, and they thought they could see the twin axes the giant was infamous for.

"Tell them we fought the Red Angel himself, tell them that Angron is here," Aken quietly spoke and said no more. He rejoined his men as the two Astartes made their way back towards the main city; and behind them, they heard Angron's shout.

"For the Emperor, blood for the blood god!"

How many times had it been said that this was impossibility? How many times had the Legions' hierarchy - and indeed the Primarchs themselves - said this could never happen, such was the discipline and the ties of brotherhood between the Astartes and their fathers? Well, to both Aken and Hofkyier, unless this was a very bad dream or hypno test, the impossible had become extremely possible. The twin axes of the Primarch of the World Eaters sung in bloody battle, cutting bodies of Thousand Sons and Space Wolves in equal measure; he did not care that they were his brothers' sons, just like Prospero's defenders did not (by this point) care that they were killing their cousins, all he cared about was proving his father had finally seen sense. At last he had a challenge, a real challenge that he could get his teeth into and his blood flowing.

The Astartes that fell before him were admirable warriors; and as a warrior, he acknowledged that they would fight for what they saw as the correct way of things. When someone fought as hard as they did, then one did not take that away from them; they deserved the noble deaths they were facing, and he saluted that as only a true warrior would. However, his nephews - misguided - needed to learn that the Emperor's word was law, and he was the one to enact the Emperor's justice. Him, the great Red Angel, the mighty War Hound, the Last Son of Nuceria: these and other names that he had been called were forged in the crucible of battle, and it irked him that his brothers were not here, that their sons were dying in their place. It enforced his opinion that Russ and Magnus had no capacity for timeliness. The new order had been set, and he was now the foremost god of violence.

Aken and Hofkyier moved back as the baying of the World Eaters grew closer; their men were nothing more then bloodied shells where the World Eaters and their father had lain them to waste. It mattered not that they had taken a toll of traitors with them, just that there were not enough of them to continue the battle, and Angron would eventually carve a bloody path to the centre of Prospero itself. They themselves, like their brothers, had fought to point of virtual exhaustion, even for an Astarte whose energy seemed to be boundless; this was more then just a fight to dissuade intruders, this was survival at its bloodiest. In days to come, it would be remembered as the last stand of Jeriz, a final show of defiance to the deranged World Eaters and their father.

They did a weapons check; their bolters had run dry, and all they had were swords, chainswords, and other hand held weapons. Aken's psychic powers, already weak, were also being severely blocked.

"Well," Hofkyier said as he threw his ruined helm to the ground, "we could always use foul language."

Aken chuckled. "Whatever works, cousin." He too had no helm; it had been damaged in an earlier battle with a World Eater, who now lay dead somewhere on the battlefield.

"It is time then," Brother Arten whispered.

"Yes, Musana," Aken sighed, "it is time; so remove your helms, brothers, to face our last minutes looking upon our homeworld's skies."

The remaining Thousand Sons did as they were ordered, as did the Space Wolves. Hofkyier grasped Aken's arm in a show of brotherhood and behind them their brothers did the same; the enmity between the two Legions, on this day and in this theatre of war, were forgotten. They had fought together, bled together, and now prepared to meet the Fates together.

"Bad language, huh," Aken smirked. "If only that would work."

Hofkyier smirked dryly, then smiled, showing his canines; he said nothing but the implication was there - time to pay the reaper. They did not charge towards the World Eaters who were massing around them, they headed straight for the head; and although they would not see the sunset once more, they made sure that Angron would not remember this as an easy battle. And, as they were cut down by his axes, they sang songs of their childhoods, songs of Prospero merging with songs of Fenris. This hour, it did not matter that they died, only that they died well.