They stood looking at the dead Marines; they felt nothing for the dead World Eaters that lay at the bodies of the dead Space Wolves and Thousand Sons, but both felt a sense of pride and loss, pride that their sons had fought to the bitter end and loss that they would never see the light again. These were brave battle-brothers and cousins-in-arms, and their names would forever ring in the memories and chants of the halls of Fenris. It didn't take long to work out what had happened to them: they had been cut down by the mighty sweeps of twin axes, axes that could only belong to one being, a demigod who was used to such artistry in carnage.

As the Apothecaries carried out their grisly tasks of collecting the gene-seed from the fallen and intoning rites over the bodies of those they worked on, the two demigods glared at the trail of carnage the traitors had left in their wake. Spireguard, who had also fought against the insane sons of the War Hound, lay at awkward angles. Some of their bodies were barely recognisable, being dismembered and scattered into bloody chunks of meat by bolter fire. The first of the two, a red skinned giant with only one eye, clenched his fists and could barely stop himself from shaking. He mourned not just the loss of his sons but the loss of the equally loyal and adoring Spireguard, and above all the devastation that had been inflicted on his world, a planet that was by now nearly entirely ruined. The second, a golden-haired giant with all the strength and violence of a planet he called home wrapped into one powerful and violent spirit, rested a giant hand on the shoulder of the red-skinned titan. Up until recently, he would barely have acknowledged the crimson giant as a brother.

"Time to go, Magnus, time to find Angron," Leman Russ quietly spoke.

They had needed to run the gauntlet of fire as they had come here; as soon as their vessels had appeared in Prosperine system space, they had been fired on. And as the battle in the stars had commenced, the battle for Prospero was completing itself. Many Thousand Sons, and Space Wolves of the first wave, were still alive, and the Pyramid held; but Prospero, the world, was all but dead.

Ahriman stood beside his father, shaking with unsuppressed rage at the deaths of so many of his brothers, cousins, and loyal human brethren. The expression on his father's face was enough to tell him that, had this been any other Legion delivering the Emperor's judgment, Magnus might have accepted it. Even if it had been the Space Wolves, Magnus might have followed his father's decrees to the last. Despite the years of suspicion between the two Legions, there had been an understanding between them as well; the Wolves were there in case ones such as the Sons went too far. Now, however, there would be no holding back. Ahriman met his father's baleful gaze and knew the look coiled within it.

The look was simple, and what it signified was simpler: that there would be no quarter given, Angron or Magnus would die here, and if Magnus could help it, it would be his enemy. Magnus began to walk, and without a word, Russ fell into step with his brother; the other companies fell in behind the two Primarchs. There was no animosity, there were no jeering or snide remarks, only a comradeship that was rarely seen between any two Legions, except perhaps the Luna Wolves and the Blood Angels.

They would fight for a world that was being torn to pieces, and they would kill a brother Legion to do it.

"Save my city, Russ," Magnus said. "I will focus on finding Angron."

Russ snarled. "Will you truly confront him yourself, after all that we have discussed to?"

"I plan to," Magnus said, "if I must. And you gave an oath. But that is not my focus, Russ; simply put, none but Angron can stand against either of us, so there is no need to fight together when time is of the essence. We will contact each other when we find the Red Angel."

And, without a further word, the Primarchs strode forward.

The galaxy would burn with vengeance.

Angron roared his frenzy as more Space Wolves and Thousand Sons fell to the might of his axes; but only one of them was in his own hands. Kharn, ever faithful and ever beside his father, wielded Gorechild, a gift given to him as his father's favoured son as they entered the Prosperine system. The other axe, Gorefather, for now sat in his left hand, with the blood of Astartes running from it in never-ending rivulets; but in his right hand sat Blackblade. It had been a gift from his father, to ensure victory in all that he did. It was a daemonic blade of such thirst and borderline intellect that it seemed to know what its new master craved more then anything else in the universe; and right now he was getting it.

He stood back and let Kharn and Eighth Company move around to the right flank. First Company moved to the left at a silent command from the Equerry, who seemed to have more power then even the First Captain himself in the eyes of the Primarch. Ahead were a company of Space Wolves; their banner denoted them as the 24th Great Company, and beside them there was a squad from the newly founded (fitting, that the Thousand Sons' last act was a pointless reorganisation) 13th Fellowship of the Thousand Sons. Kharn's nose twitched as he smelled the arcana in the air. He set his teeth in an approximation of a griterhos's snarl: the Primarch said that all powerful Librarians were to be taken, as the Emperor's orders were quite specific in that department. Kharn glanced over his shoulder to see his father stand stock-still and smiled to himself: he was letting them see him, but he would let his hounds have the honour of this kill. There would be much rope-pride when this battle was over.

Wolf Lord Stormblood and Captain Abrim stopped their conversation about the defense of the Great Pyramid as they felt the presence of something equally monstrous and beguiling nearby. They turned slowly and stared at the towering figure that was Angron, the Red Angel of Nuceria, standing there. His mighty arms were folded across his chest, his face was caked in the blood of the fallen, and his armour - painted gold and red - was now redder yet with the blood he had spilt. Stormblood made the sign of Fenris as the towering Primarch of the World Eaters just stood, watching them, as an Alpha would intimidate his enemies.

The two captains were also aware that this was not what it seemed. They had heard the sacrifice of the two sergeants, their death cries had been heard and felt by every warrior in the Astartes, psyker or not. Angron's warriors were known for their love of close combat, and combat in general, and the fact that the Red Angel was not charging at them screaming was inherently surprising.

Njral Stormblood cocked his head a little; he did not need to be a psyker or a seer to hear the Primarch breathing. He filtered out those around him and searched with his wolf senses. In a closed vox he informed Abrim what he had heard.

++ It would appear, cousin, that we are being corralled. ++

++ How many, Njral? ++

++ Two Companies; this is going to be more than a skirmish, and one that does not favor us. Are you ready to die for your world? ++

++ Wouldn't you be? ++

++ Then for Russ and the Wolftime. ++

++ For the Crimson King and Prospero. ++

The respective Captains told their men to be ready for anything; and just as the Corvidae Thousand Son Jamal and Space Wolf Rune Priest Ugas warned of the attacks on the flank, another voice - a powerful voice - caused them to all stop.

Fight well, sons of Russ, sons of Prospero; for we have come to join the battle.

Angron turned, sensing the change in the air, and drew his weapons as the red giant that was Magnus loomed out of the battlefield smog, along with First Fellowship Thousand Sons. Angron let a bloody smile curve across and warp his face: now this was going to be a battle.

The atmosphere was charged, and barely any Astarte or human soldier moved as the two Primarchs faced each other. Angron could barely believe his luck: this war was not only a chance to put down the Cyclops and take him in chains back to their father, but a chance to finally show the Wolf King who was the top dog in the galaxy, to break him and send him back to Fenris in a wooden box.

Angron, the War Hound, The Red Angel, who had had his rage enhanced to murderous levels by his unknown masters - indeed, he was rage incarnate - and nevertheless held a martial pride and honour that none could dispute. Angron, who - years ago - had not forgiven his father for the dishonour of being unable to honour his long dead brothers and sisters. Now, for the first time, his bloody mind began to feel a sense of vindication, for he was the Emperor's war and the Emperor's way.

Magnus the Red, the Crimson King, the Cyclops, who was second only to the Emperor in terms of psychic might. Magnus, the one who (in now-forgotten plans) would sit on the Golden Throne and channel the power of the Webway, keeping it open so that the Emperor and his loyal sons would continue the extermination of the xenos across the galaxy in ways that were quicker and safer than even through the Warp. He now faced the monster that had been his brother (but Angron had not, in his mind, been a brother since those thought-killing nails were driven into his forehead) and his rage was incandescent. His beloved scions were dead at the hands of Angron and his deranged sons, his people were scared and running for their lives from the unclean rituals of the World Eater Astartes, and - as he met Angrons steady gaze with his own - all he could see in Angrons future were blood and skulls.

Magnus glanced at Sobek and the First Fellowship elements he controlled, Ahriman having gone with Russ; all through his vox, reports came in of Thousand Sons and Rout dropping over Prospero, making their way towards the city to try and stop the blood-bent World Eaters.

"Sobek."

"Lord?" Sobek replied, not taking his eyes or his prognostic gaze off the World Eaters.

"Show these barbarians that Prospero has fury within, too!"

"It shall be done, lord."

He returned his gaze to Angron, almost daring him to make the first move; but Angron's mind was already made up and, with a roar that could shake mountains and did shake pyramids, he launched himself at Magnus.

It was a whole different circumstance: when fighting alongside your own Primarch (admittedly by now distant) and against your own cousins, while pressed forth by the Butcher's Nails, the exhilaration was like a narcotic whose energy never ended, but even the mighty Kharn could not doubt the power of the Wolf King as he and his sons, together with some Thousand Sons, tore into the World Eaters like a massed battle of olden Terra. There were roars from the Wolves and battle cants from the psyker Astartes, not to mention the cries of the humans that fought with the World Eaters and the other two Leigons.

Four Titans, three Scouts against a Warlord, blared out their battle horns in challenge as they strode the battlefield like ancient gods, their very footfalls causing the ground to shake and mountains to tumble. As the Legio that had sided with Angron turned against their own brothers, the air was charged with the sound of the mighty behemoths letting their war horns sound and their plasma cannons rip through each other, ignoring the ants below them and seeking only to kill their own for battle honour. Against them was Canis Vertex, controlled by the psychic powers of the Thousand Sons Captain Khalophis. Despite the erratic and weakened nature of many Thousand Sons' abilities, Khalophis' control over the Titan that stood as his cult's symbol was unbreakable.

Dreadnoughts clashed, seeking to be the first to gain the upper hand, their claws and their cannons firing salvos that had human ears bleeding. Even nails-mad Kharn felt a ringing in his ears as the sounds were barely dulled by his helm's suppressors. He roared at his men to keep fighting as they fell back against the fury of the Wolf King and sought to re-group; already in with the Blood God, Kharn was not having anyone retreat, for it would be an honourable death if one was to fall to the might of the Primarch. He was no fool, no Astarte could kill a Primarch, but he could take some of the bastard wolves and psykers with him. He let Gorechild flow and it tore into Astartes armour and limbs alike: he was the favoured of Angron, and he would show them all why he was the Red Angel's equerry and most trusted lieutenant.

Russ was not only a sight to be feared but a source of inspiration, not only for the Rout who adored him but the Thousand Sons who had once been so terrified of him. Ahriman found himself fighting alongside Russ and Bjorn; Bjorn took the head off a World Eater and glanced at the helmless Ahriman who had been left thus some time earlier, thanks to a misfired bolt from Khalophis's Titan.

"Do what you do best, Psyker," Bjorn roughly ordered. "For this day alone shall be enough; let's send these sons of whores back into the Warp, where they belong!"

Ahriman did not need telling twice and, alongside his psyker brothers, tore into the defences of the World Eaters. More than in any other battle, perhaps, Ahriman enjoyed what he was doing. But although being alongside Russ was inspirational, as he grabbed a dreadnaught of the World Eaters and tore its sarcophagus from it, he knew well that the real fight was just beginning.

Angron leapt at Magnus, who caught the Red Angel by the throat and squeezed. Both no longer cared about the sanctity of brother bonds: to Magnus, this one had come to slaughter his people, who he had helped bring into the vague acceptance of the Imperium. His people whom the Emperor had called upon to serve as telepaths in his vast navies, and astropaths to bridge the great interstellar gaps, who had gone to do what had to be done on every edge. All that had been wiped away in a single order. With a roar of pure rage, he threw Angron aside like he was a piece of meat and turned to face the onslaught once more.

Angron shook his head and got to his feet; a smile of sorts crossed his insane visage. So, the Crimson King had some guts in him after all, he could fight like a Primarch, and this would indeed turn out to be a worthy duel. He welcomed it; more than that, he wanted it. With Gorefather and Blackblade swinging, he tore into the Astartes that had attempted to protect their father, wetting his blades with their blood; and with a well-aimed throw, Gorefather struck Magnus in the arm.

Magnus roared in genuine pain and, with a cry, pulled the mighty axe from his arm, his enhanced physiology already stemming the blood flow. His arm would be a weak point for Angron to attack at any given opportunity. He ducked as Angron came in with his other axe, and Magnus knew that if that thing even scratched him, he would have a world of pain.

The blade writhed with the energies of the Warp, not to mention the energies of the maddened Primarch holding it. Magnus moved backwards, just out of reach of the blade, and had to think quickly. Not for the first time, he knew that he had been played by the gods of the Warp; and, for the first time, by his father. He could only curse himself for his own arrogance in believing he could master such beings; it had cost him his eye to cure his Legion of the flesh change, they had somehow tricked him into allowing false Tutelaries for decades, and now, those same powers sought to destroy his world and him.

And they had a real chance of succeeding.

He goaded Angron, jeered him by saying that only the true warriors of Nuceria were worth any honour, where real men fought with their bodies and not trinkets given to them by their father. It worked. Angron sheathed Blackblade and, with the roar of a man still haunted by his own perceived shame, he almost flew across the short expanse between him and Magnus, landing a blow which would have taken an Astartes head off its shoulders and crushed a humans head.

Magnus shook his head, his whole body juddering from the strength of the blow from his brother, and as he sought to stop the ringing in his ears a second blow landed, cracking his breast plate and forcing him onto his back. He cursed himself for being so stupid: in a bid to get Angron to react like (more of) a rage-maddened fool he had forgotten about those damn implants. Angron's rage did not make him weak, instead strengthening him; the implants made him what he was, ans what he was was unpredictable. It was no wonder that planets that had rebelled suddenly submitted when the Red Angel came to town.

He could no longer see Russ, and a quick mindseek assured him that the Wolf King was on the way to Tizca's center, in the heat of battle. There were no Astartes, they had all fallen back towards the city, it was just him and Angron. He knew that he could not hold out against his insane brother for long; he was no weakling, but he knew that the only ones that could hope to sustain a Primarch-on-Primarch duel with Angron would have been Horus or Sanguinius.

He let a rush of air escape his lungs as Angron bodyslammed him and, grabbing his head, began to pound it into the ground. Magnus reached up and made a claw of his fingers, then jabbed his brother in the eyes, Angron roared and released his brother for long enough for Magnus to kick the madman over his head and get to his feet.

"Blood and skulls, Angron," he spoke through a bloody mouth. "You serve the master of blood and skulls; you will again become a puppet for the one who just wants the blood. You will be a slave once more."

Angron narrowed his eyes. "I am no one's slave, Psyker!"

"You don't see it, do you? They corrupted father, and now - now that very force that appeals to your martial pride is enslaving you and your bastard sons, bit by bit. How your destiny went unlived, Angron: a slave as a youth for the entertainment of others, and at the end, a slave to a god who doesn't even exist as we know it."

Angron roared with anger and ran the short gap between him and Magnus; at the last moment, Magnus sidestepped and unloaded a psychic attack on his brother, sending some of the images his precognition had seen into his brothers head, one possible and indeed likely timeline. A broken Legion, Angron as a red skinned demon, and all around him blood, skulls, and chains marking the will of Khorne.

Angron clutched his head and let a roar go, trying to bring his own shields up to send the images away; but he was dealing with Magnus, second only to their father in power, and the only way to deal with Magnus was to -

The Blackblade was embedded in Magnus's chest, and the power writhing within the demonic blade brought Magnus to his knees. He pulled the blade out and tossed it away like it was contagious; he went to get to his feet, but whatever poison was on that possessed trinket was working its way through his body. The battle within him caused his hands to tremble. And now, in that instant when he had stopped fighting, he could feel Prospero's pain.

She called to him, pleaded with him to stop this agony; as he looked around him, he saw lances of light erupt from the heavens, striking at Prospero's surface. Whether they were literal or metaphorical did not, right now, matter. He swayed, unsteady on his feet, and closed his eye; a single tear fell from it as he mourned the passing of his world. He would get rid of the invaders, but Prospero would never be the same. She died now, and his people would at best have to find a new home, one that was far from the Imperium's tainted touch.

He saw Angron reach for him and, with what strength he had left, he drove his fist upwards, into the armoured legs, cracking the protected areas around the Red Angel's knees, causing Angron to sink to them in genuine pain. Magnus drew his fist back and slammed it repeatedly into the Red Angel's face; but, as he used what physical strength he had left, his body would not stop bleeding. He fell onto his back, feeling all his strength drain.

Angron got to his feet, losing his balance a couple of times, then reached down and grabbed Magnus. "I was to take you back in chains, Cyclops," he growled. "But I think I will kill you here."

Magnus realised that it was not his body that was important: the Emperor wanted his mind, and his body did not really matter. He began to laugh, even as Angron lifted him high into the air, roaring his victory to all those who heard it.

Russ turned, his eyesight keenly picking out what others could not, and with a roar he began to run back, his footfalls causing the world to cry out in more pain as the navy above struck at her life force. He had never run so fast, not since he was a cub on Fenris. He prayed to mother Fenris, despite every iota of the Imperial Truth, that he would get there in time; he did not want Magnus to die. Funny how that was true for the first time now, after all these years; but he did not want Magnus to die.

Angron held Magnus high for a moment and looked up. "Any last words, Cyclops?!"

Magnus turned his gaze onto the Red Angel. "You will be a slave to blood and skulls, Angron. I will be free; you - you will not."

Angron brought Magnus crashing across his back, bending his spine and then snapping it like a twig. Even Magnus's will could not stop the roar of pain that erupted from his broken body, and in the psychic shockwave every Thousand Son began to weep, whether or not they had access to their psychic abilities at that point; their master's fate reached into their very souls. and in conjoined grief they struck back at their attackers with a renewed fury that caused even the Rout to pause.

Angron dropped his brother's broken body and knelt down. He took some of the dirt of Prospero and, after making a cut on his body, rubbed the dirt into it, sealing his victory. He looked at Magnus for a long time and briefly, very briefly, Magnus saw what Angron might have been, might have become, had he not been treated like some lab shrew on Nuceria.

"I pity you, Angron," he whispered before closing his eyes.

Angron raised his fist to strike again, then lowered it. To strike now would be a coward's blow, and he was not a coward. He got to his feet and looked around him. Prospero had fallen, and the Fifteenth was broken; but the battle was by now unwinnable, and there was no certainty within him that any of the Inner Circle could be brought to Terra.

++ My eaters of worlds, return to orbit; we shall blast this rock into oblivion. Bring our dead so that they may be honoured. ++

He turned and heard a groaning; moving to where the sound was, he found Kharn pulling himself from under a fallen Dreadnought. Angron reached down and lifted his favoured son, as if he were no more then a baby, and carried him away.

Russ groaned as he saw Magnus's broken body and crouched down. He could get no pulse, no breath; and he cursed himself for letting his oath and strategy take him from what he should have done.

"Do not concern yourself, brother; my body is broken but my mind is not," Magnus slowly spoke.

"Magnus… we can find a way to heal you."

"I doubt it, Leman." Magnus grinned a sickly grin. "I could, with the correct path, but I will no longer put my trust in those creatures of the Warp, who led me down my path of arrogance. This world is dead, in the end."

"I have ordered the evacuation." Russ had seen the lances of light from the sky.

His sons and nephews on their vessels had managed to stop the much larger World Eater fleet, but it would not be for long; just long enough, he hoped, to get the people away from here. Perhaps Prospero would explode, or perhaps she wouldn't, but she would not be inhabitable, or for that matter inhabited. Many had survived, but far fewer than should have.

He lifted Magnus into his arms and ordered his ship to beam him back. He would hunt Angron down, and he would finish him off. He swore every oath he knew, every vow that was ever to be made. Angron would be his.