Saint Satella and the Lamenters

by biggodzillafan2020

A hundred years passed since the beginning of the Indomitus Crusade. During the Liberation of the world of Vulgas Prime, one squad of Space Marines is hurled into an unknown world. Leading them is Brother-Sergeant Pleiades. Perpetual. Formerly known as Natsuki Subaru. He will bring the Emperor's light to this land. Yet the great enemy is never far behind. Let the Galaxy Burn!

4. Chapter 4: Space Marine

Welcome back to this story

Last time the Lamenter chapter of Space Marines engaged the fleet of the traitors. Squad Pleiades deployed via Drop Pod onto the surface of Vulgas Prime in an attempt to reach the civilians awaiting rescue in Fortress Cameliard. Though they face overwhelming odds, their faith does not falter.

This time: The battle unfolds.

Please note: some descriptions in this chapter may be disturbing, and most certainly not meant for anyone not prepared to witness the Emperor's Children's…unique brand of artstyle. Please understand that I do not, in any way, mean for the depravities depicted to be shown in ANY form of positive light, and anyone who finds them to be appealing to themselves should get serious help. Preferably with a bolter to the face. The Emperor Protects.

I do not own Re: Zero or Warhammer 40k. They belong to their respective creators. Please go suppo–actually, you know what. No. Don't do that. Don't support GW because they do not support the fans. Financially or creatively. Fanfics for the fanfic god. Oh and if you copyright this, GW, it becomes canon. So go on. I dare you. Copyright it. Make Subaru and Satella canon 40k characters.

And so.

Let us begin:

---

"Out of the darkness we'll rise

Into the light we will dwell

We came to rule the world

With muse in arms.

…

We are the clouds in the skies

We are the storm and the tides

Death and Rebirth in a line

The sun and the moon,

And the end of all time!

…

We are the gods of a new world order,

We are the soldiers, the legion of light.

We are the centre, the death of the sun

Fire and flame, we are one!"

---

Saint Satella and the Lamenters

Arc 1: My Armour is Contempt

---

The hatch-lock closes behind him, and Malakim Phoros is plunged into the darkness of his Boarding Torpedo. He is alone within it, the grav-locks securing him in place even as the onboard cogitator sparks to life, the voice of his second-in-command coming over the vox.

"My lord?" He doesn't elaborate on his question, but Malakim understands him regardless.

"I go alone, Kerubiel. I must reach the Pride of the Emperor's plasma drives and disable its attack capabilities. Upon completion, I shall send a signal to the Mater and evacuate via teleport."

For a moment there is nothing but the crackle of the vox-communicator. Then Kerubiel questions once more. "Why not take reinforcements? I would be honoured to join you."

"That is a foolish endeavour. The priority should be the battle on the planet's surface. Your warriors would do well to prepare for Deep Strike. It is important that the people of Vulgas Prime do not face Chaos alone." The cold steel in Malakim's voice brooks no argument, and though the order in them is clear, his second-in-command does not relent.

"And your life is not?"

Malakim pauses for the briefest second, a flicker of surprise flashing through the Watcher of the Deeps. But then again, he thinks, he should have expected something like this from Kerubiel. The Captain of the First Company had always been one to speak his mind, his loyalty running far deeper than mere obedience to orders.

"My Lord, the element of surprise has been lost, and the enemy forces outnumber ours greatly. I am concerned about the chance of success. In this situation the practical solution must be different. You are the Chapter Master, your loss would be catastrophic for the success of this campaign. It is my belief that you should remain here. I and my warriors shall hold against the enemy while the Mater Lachrymarum withdraws to a safer position. You cannot–"

Malakim cuts him off sharply. "Do not presume, First Captain, to tell me what I can and cannot do."

Taking a deep breath, he continues, softer this time. "The duty of a leader is to provide an example. This cannot be done from the command throne away from battle. I will not let the blood of others be spilled for my sake. I will not shy away from this fight."

"But my Lord–"

"Kerubiel," Malakim says, "A Chapter Master is not just merely a commander of an army, nor an admiral of a battlefleet. Something like that can be done by anyone with understanding of strategy and logistics. It is the commanders and admirals that stay aboard their vessels as their men fight battles beneath their gaze. It is them who order from the tops of their spires for their armies to march into slaughter for their sakes. And it is them who protect their own livelihoods with the armour made from the blood of millions."

He sends a silent command from the displays built into his Artificer armour. In response, the onboard cogitators of the boarding torpedo ping an acknowledgement.

"A Chapter-Master must stand above such a mindset. Far too much innocent blood has been already spilled. To pull back now would be to spit on their sacrifice and to condemn them to yet darker fates." His words are solemn and filled with quiet fervency. "A Chapter-Master must charge head-first and fight for the dreams of the Emperor. He must embody the very spirit of what his brothers stand for. To personify the ideals of his Primarch. To represent the soul of his chapter."

He clenches his fist, the visors of his helm flashing in the darkness.

"And it is as you said, Kerubiel. I am the Chapter-Master of the Lamenters."

"...you will be alone."

"No, he will not."

The voice that answers the first captain does not come from Malakim. It is not the grating snarl of a vox-grill, nor the mechanical cant of the onboard machine spirit. It forms a soft melody, a great contrast to the world of hard edges and darkness in which it presents itself. Yet it comes nonetheless, like a silver chime of angelic beauty.

A pressure follows next as darkness swirls around the Lord of Ruin and a sea of black mists fills the capsule. Yet the shadows do not evoke a sinister feeling and the pressure is far from the slippery poison of warp-spawn or the crushing presence of Xeno hordes. Indeed, it is almost kind and full of boundless affection as it caresses the edges of his armour.

Malakim's response catches in his throat. Then his hands make the symbol of the aquila as the shadows swirl around the inner space of the boarding craft, manifesting into the holy visage of the Saint.

Violet eyes shining with boundless sorrow. High, regal cheekbones suggest an overwhelming power, yet are made elegant and soft by the soft smile which graces her lips. Silver hair sways in nonexistent winds, falling like a waterfall of trembling moonlight. A single hairpin of pure gold in the shape of an Aquila adorns it.

A dark dress with orange tresses covers her form and is made all the more striking as the black fabric is illuminated by the halo of gold which shines behind her. It casts light upon the shadows, yet does not banish them, and caresses Malakim's form like the warm rays of a clear morning sun.

Malakim feels his knees give out from under him, and overwhelmed, the Chapter Master of the Lamenters, Lord of Ruin, and Warrior-King of the Veskem Sector, kneels before his Saint.

"Lady Satella…" he whispers, hoarse with reverence.

"Rise, Space Marine," her voice is like a transcendent symphony, and washes over Malakim's soul, expurgating all doubts and worries from the old astartes. "You are not alone."

The reassurance is enough to banish all hesitancy, and Malakim stands as the Grav-locks once more secure him in preparation for boarding. His fingers close around the hilt of the Glaive Encarmine even as the other arm comes in to place a clenched fist over his breastplate.

"The Saint has spoken, Kerubiel. Prepare your warriors for planetstrike. I shall deal with the enemy flagship.

"...As the Emperor wills," comes the reply after a second of silence, before the cogitator shuts off. In the next moment a rumbling begins, and the cybernetic voice of the torpedo's machine spirit begins the countdown.

++Ten…Nine…Eight…++

"...I would have thought you would join Brother-Pleiades upon the ground assault." His question goes unsaid, but the meaning is communicated regardless.

She smiles ever so slightly, echoing back his own words. "It is as you said, Malakim. Far too much innocent blood has been spilled. I shall not desecrate the trust He placed in me. I will not shy away from this fight. And besides…" a flash of anger crosses her beautiful features. "I will never let servants of the Dark Prince escape."

++Seven…Six…++

Malakim inclines his head. "Then I stand honoured. A worthy battle lies before us."

She curtsies. "May we always be so blessed…"

++Five…Four…++

"So Let our Armour be Contempt." They pray, two voices speaking as one.

"Let our Shield be Disgust." Shadows swirl and coalesce, cladding Satella in black armour, a sword of darkness forming in her hand.

++Three…Two…++

"Let our Sword be Hatred." their voices echo, as the rumbling of the engine becomes a roar around them.

++One…++

"In the Emperor's name…"

++Zero.++

"Let none survive!"

---

Kerubiel Antos, First Captain of the Lamenters, Master of the Keep, closes the comm-link, turning away from the vox-panel.

"Send word to the First Company. Prepare my Thunderhawk for deployment."

The being standing next to him, dwarfed by the Astartes, jolts slightly. The man's, if it could still be called as such, augmetics whirr as protocols are run and prayers are sung in bursts of static. Servo-skulls drift around his form, and mechadendrites slither like serpents from the folds of his red robes, concealing the multitudes of mechanical components which substituted his flesh.

"Glory be to the Omnissiah." The modulated intonations of the Mechanicus devotee's prayer are monotonous, and far more cybernetic than human, yet Kerubiel can still pick up on the clear notes of worship present in it. With a sense of frustration he realises that it is very likely the Tech Priest had not even heard his order, far too busy with his appeasements and venerations of the Vox's machine spirit to register his command.

Underneath the helm of his Tactical Dreadnought Armour, Kerubiel feels his lips form into an angry snarl, as wrath borne of impatience pervades the First Captain. Doesn't this zealot understand that every second spent on stagnant litanies is a second wasted?

As if in agreement with his thoughts, the ship suddenly rocks and a sound akin to a roar of an ancient beast of old myth reverberates through the ship. Kerubiel whirls his head in the direction of the noise, striding towards the massive painted windows to see an explosion of colours as yet another barrage of warp fire collides with the Battle barge's void shields. In response, the Mater Lachrymarum discharges its own volley of fire, and Kerubiel watches as the defences of the Chaos Grand Cruiser flare up. He frowns, as before his very eyes the blasphemous power of the heretical vessel buckles, yet holds, somehow denying the righteous judgement of the Emperor's fury.

Sweeping his gaze across Vulgas's war-torn orbit, Kerubiel's frown deepens. The battle is not going well. The reinforcements from the rest of the ships have arrived, but it is not enough to rout the enemy force, and the longer their smaller fleet spends in battle, the less chance of success there is. Already one of their frigates is sending distress signals as it faces down two escort ships which circle and snap at its flanks like predatory fish. The other three ships, none of which have the overwhelming firepower of the older patterns of vessels used by the heretics, hold their own positions, doubtlessly resisting only by their crews' faith. But unless the Emperor truly is a god, and truly does bless his finest, Kerubiel does not see a way to escape from the scenario they find themselves in.

For all of Malakim's faith in the protection of the Saint, the First Captain knows the truth in his hearts. Nothing can lift their curse. No force can save the Lamenters from the damnation they are born into.

'From Blood Born, to Blood Evermore Consigned.'

"My Lord? You wished to see me" The question brings him out of his thoughts, and he turns to see the questioning gaze of the Tech-Priest he had left earlier. The not-quite-man had evidently finished his prayer, though Kerubiel cannot be sure, as the swaying of the mechadendrites indicates continued activity of some sort.

Forcing the dark thoughts from his mind, Kerubiel addresses the priest. "My command remains the same. Prepare the "Sin of Humility" for battle."

The priest bows, "Shall you require anything else?"

Kerubiel nods, inclining his silver helmet, even as he feels grim determination fill his hearts in preparation for battle. "Indeed," he says, turning around and heading towards the exit.

"Ready my wargear."

The priest bows once more, and as Kerubiel strides from the observation bridge, heading towards the great hangar, he can hear the reverent voice of the Mechanicus adept follow in the wake of his footsteps.

"Your will be done, oh Great Sage."

---

The doors of the drop pod open, and Sergeant Pleiades charges into battle, his chainsword, Humanitas, howling with fury as he brings down the screaming mutants flooding the fields of the once beautiful planet.

It is beautiful no longer. Chaos taint fills the sky, obscuring the heavens with a fog of cloying lilac that feels blasphemous to look upon. Heaving moans echo across the air, the sound painful to the ear, yet laced with forbidden temptations. Even the ground itself has become saturated with the corruption, black veins pulsing through the turpid soil. As Pleiades charges across, it squelches with organic sounds, dark juices welling up from imprints left by his boots.

The astartes leaps over a pile of corpses, all defiled in unspeakable ways and covered in a mix of depraved fluids. One, still alive, reaches a clawed hand to him. In a single stroke, the sergeant cuts through the body of the pleasure cultist, sending the hand flying. Humanitas howls in his hands. Pleiades brandishes the blood spattered chainsword above his head and bellows his challenge to the sick, violet sky of the daemon world.

"FOR THE DEUS SANGUINIUS!"

His brothers echo his cry, the four Lamenters cutting a bloody swathe through the horde of cavorting beasts.

Looking at their faces filled with lewd ecstasies, at their features twisted in a vile mix of agony and pleasure, Pleiades feels disgust well up inside of him. In the back of his mind, he knows that these things once used to be human.

Once, maybe not too long ago, they were loyal servants of the Imperium. Pious, and worshipful of the Emperor.

Now, with their skin a raw unnatural pink, their eyes glowing with a ghoulish violet unlight, it is impossible to mistake them for anything but what they have become now.

Slavering tongues, forked and far too long to be human, hang out of jaws full of sharp, needle-like teeth. Moans of pleasure and agony alike tear out of their throats like some kind of grotesque choir. Nails, long and sharp dig into themselves and anything they can reach, tearing through skin and bulging veins, letting puddles of thick, violet blood spill on the ground where it hisses and gurgles like a dying child.

They are monsters. Corrupt with the forces of the ruinous powers.

One jumps at him, screaming a horrible ululation. He whirls his body, letting it crash past him and brings Humanitas down upon its neck. The teeth of the chainsword bite down with merciless steel, and the creature twitches, its face a vile mask of joyous rapture even as its head leaves its body.

He looks around, his helm's autosensors tracking his Brothers as they work their way through waves of the corrupted, each a buoy of gold in a sea of pinks and purples.

Ley storms ahead, shouting words of zeal as his power fists crush skulls and bodies, pulping the obscene horrors into bursts of purple paste. Time and again, the beasts attempt to swarm him, only to be met with shattering force and the holy fires of his flamestorm gauntlets, even as his Inceptor jump-pack carries him over the heads of the screaming masses.

Altair is right by his side, the arcane powers of the warp swirling around him, crackling red lightning bursting out of his extended hand as the librarian delivers the smite of the emperor's judgement down upon the heathens. A three legged woman, naked, her cyan hair polluted with streaks of purple, leaps at him, her body proportions turned over exaggerated and grotesque at the depraved whims of the god she gave herself to. Her cry turns into one of anguish as Altair twirls his force staff and slams it into her head. There is a horrible crack accompanied by a burst of blood red light, and the woman is no more.

Pleiades turns, and Aldebaran is there, his bolt rifle dealing death in single, aimed shots. Even as mutants charge him, the Intercessor sends them back to their deity with deadly aim. Not a single bolt is anything less than a quick kill. Aldebaran does not allow the heretics to indulge in even a second of the pain they so worship.

With bursts of fire, the bolts of his weapon find themselves in the hearts and brains of the monsters, and immediately detonate, leaving giant gaping holes in their chests and turning their heads into bloody mist.

In the face of an endless horde, the Lamenters advance ever forward.

In the distance, Pleiades can see the dark grey stone of Fortress Cameliard, its spires rising as if in defiance to the encroachment of the chaos force. It is like a beacon of truth. A lighthouse of sobriety in this eternal rave. Revving his chainsword with yet more vigour, Pleiades cha–

Pain. A wave of concussive force hits him, and then there is nothing but pain. His armour freezes, his body following in its wake, the very blood turning into shards of ice within him, only to suddenly burst as his skin sloughs off into a burning mess. A second later his eyes are filled with heat, and he can feel boiling sludge make its way down his face, as his sight vanishes, leaving naught but blackness in its wake.

He hears a strange popping sound, and then nothing more as a horrible ringing fills his head. Cold liquid pours down his neck, and the smell of iron fills his nose, before it is seared away as the force comes yet again, and he is suddenly weightless.

Then, dimly now, he feels pain as he falls down onto the ground. Something leaps upon him, and then there are talons digging into his head. Nails dig into his brain and—

---

The doors of the drop pod open. Pleiades snaps up his bolt pistol, his autosensors zeroing in on the precise location where–

There. He sees it. Pink garish armour, a pallid face with the deathly pale skin of a corpse. Black eyes, bulging out, yet also unnaturally beady like those of a carnivorous bug. A twisted instrument in its arms. A horrid amalgamation of metal and sound.

Pleiades presses the trigger, and the bolt-pistol roars, its trajectory aimed with a dead man's memory.

The Noise Marine falls, its head exploding in a shower of gore, its sonic blaster dropping on the ground next to the creature.

Drawing his chainsword, the Assault Sergeant charges once more into the fray.

He barrels into the horde of mutants, and brings the judgement of the Emperor upon them. Crushing their bodies into pulp with his fists, slicing off their heads and limbs, he leaves naught but death in his wake, a mountain of corpses rising behind him. His bolt pistol snaps off anything that remains afar, and those that come close find nothing but oblivion at the cruel teeth of Humanitas.

"For the Emperor!" howls Pleiades, driving his blade through the corpus of yet another cultist, plunging him onto the next body behind him, cutting through both at once. Their bodies fall, and are trampled beneath ceramite boots, their skulls crushed into nothing.

Step by step, death by death, Fortess Cameliard draws closer. The mountain it sits upon grows ever larger, slowly coming into focus, stony crags emerging from the lilac haze of the atmosphere. Somewhere in the purple mists, a warhorn blares and the blaze of cannonfire lights up the corrupt skies. In the fog, great silhouettes of steel and fire stride through waves of enemies. There, at the gates of the final bastion, Imperial Knights wage war.

Pleiades turns his attention back to the battlefield. Another mutated cultist lunges at him, leaping down from one of the stones on the edge of the cliff, its claws extended like some blasphemous bird of prey

"Advance!" shouts Pleiades. "Not a step back!" With his twin hearts pumping blood throughout his body, he cannot feel exhaustion. Raising Humanitas above him, he meets the extended talons of the beast's hands. Demonic claws clash with the Emperor's justice. The beast scrabbles and writhes, attempting to overpower the blessed steel.

Its arms extend unnaturally, and long, curved claws rake through armour and flesh. Talons impale him and tear through muscle, hearts and lungs. Blood wells up as horrid agony ruptures through his thoughts.

He vomits. Thick crimson liquid splatters the inside of his helm, and he finds himself unable to breathe.

He grins, even as blood pools under him.

In his soul he knows that nothing these wretched animals do could ever hope to find victory against the servants of the Imperium. This distorted image, this perversion of the flesh. No matter what it attempted, no matter how it screamed, none of its efforts would break through his might. He knows this because…

"I am his son!" With a surge of defiance, Humanitas breaks through the black claws, the mutant's face twisting in surprise even as monomolecular steel cuts its features open. "I will not know defeat!"

The rest of its pack, a group one hundred strong whip their faces around towards him. They wear glamours of beauty. Images of tender young maidens. But as their faces twist in debauched glee at the sight of his blood, and fangs dripping in viscera show themselves, Pleiades feels nothing but revulsion.

"Come and face me, heretic filth!" Roars the Space Marine, his own expression a mask of crazed fervour, even as a red haze covers his vision. Even as a numb coldness fills his body.

"Know that nothing you do will save you from your fate!" He revs his blade once more, and charges the pack, fresh blood staining his battleplate red.

"So thrash and flail! Scream and pray! I will not show you mercy! Suffer the consequences of defying the Emperor!"

"Burn the Heretic! Kill the Mutant! Purge the Unclean!"

Against the bleak nothing of excess lust, a single star is extinguished by the filth of many–

—The doors of the drop pod open.

---

++Collision with Void Shields imminent. Prepare for impact.++

Red warning lights throb angrily within the confined space of the boarding torpedo.

Malakim Phoros grips his power sword in his hands, the Glaive Encarmine thrumming with force as the Lamenter tightens his fist around its ornate hilt. With his other hand, he clicks off the safety of the Catechist. The master-crafted infernus pistol, his personal sidearm, is a relic which has been passed down to him from the previous Chapter Master as a rite of inheritance. A weapon capable of searing away all in its path with the heat borne from the core of a star.

Beside him, shadowy figures mirror his movements, each checking over their own gear with perfect precision. Hands of shadow load bolters made of miasma. Fists of black fog clench over chainblades woven from phantasmal hazes. Armour of solid mist clads shapes made from holy power. They are Astartes of the shadow, Space Marines made of darkness and faith.

They are living manifestations of the Saint's blessed Authority.

"Make ready! We go to battle!" Malakim's voice is low, yet is heard easily over the dull roar of the engines.

"By your command, Lord Chapter Master!" The figures answer in perfect synchronisation. "Glory be to the God Emperor!"

Across from him, Lady Satella, arrayed in her panoply of war, clasps her hands over her chest in a symbol of the aquila. As she does so, shadows seem to expand from her, forming into an outline of wings, dark and shapeless, yet undeniably angelic.

Looking at her, Malakim's mind drifts to the time they had first met. It had been during the start of the Indomitus crusade. It was back then, during Primarch Guilliman's strike into the abyss of Imperium Nihilus, that the Lamenters had been granted their salvation. Back when they had once more started to recruit Neophytes. Back when the chapter had found Pleiades.

He had been cautious at first, unable to believe the impossibility of her power, his weary mind incapable of processing the enormity of the Emperor's blessing. Yet, as the Penitent Crusade ended, as the chapter rebuilt itself with the new Primaris gene-seed, as victories unsullied by the curse of misfortune were recorded in the Lamenters' archive, Malakim had, for the first time in centuries, dared to feel that single emotion he had thought lost to him.

He had dared to hope.

He still remembers, clear as day, when he had met the newly returned Primarch of the Dark Angels. It had been decades ago, not long after the ending of the infamous Plague Wars, and soon after the ascension of Pleiades to full Battle Brother when the Lamenters chapter had encountered the Lord of the First in battle with one of Abaddon's newly-dreaded Balefleets.

It had been the first time since the start of the Penitent Crusade that the Lamenters had worked together with other Space Marine forces, and that alliance had been blessed with a day of glorious victory. Together, their fleets had decimated the harrowing warband and destroyed the Ark of Omen it had attempted to bring to bear against the Imperium.

Upon their triumph, the Lamenters had been invited onboard the Primarch's flagship and were lauded as heroes.

It is crystal clear in Malakim's memory.

The moment when Lion El'Johnson stared down upon the Saint, and proclaimed her to be accepted. When Satella had stood before a son of the Emperor and had found in his eyes understanding.

On that day the Dark Angels had called the Lamenters their sworn allies. Zabriel, first of the Risen, had shaken Malakim's hand, and sworn a pact of loyalty unbroken, an oath that the two chapters would aid each other from henceforth. Knights, bound by fealty to one another.

It had been a day of joy, so foreign that he did not know what to say, did not know how to act.

It had been a day of faith renewed, of rebirth from nothing. A new start from zero into a future of light.

++Collision with Void Shields imminent. Prepare for impact.++

The Lord of Ruin's mouth tightens into grim determination.

For the sake of that future. For the people of the Imperium. For the chance of his chapter living on to witness the sun rise upon the Emperor's dream…

He will not know defeat.

"My Saint," he focuses his helm's visors on Satella, meeting her own violet eyes. "It is time."

She nods and extends her hand. Miasma swirls about her, extending to cover the entirety of the torpedo even as it approaches the Pride's barriers. Like a mailed fist, it congregates around the adamantium bulkhead of the boarding pod, growing ever darker, trailing behind the craft like a comet's tail. Like the fire of a falling star.

Arms of shadow lash out from it, a hundred limbs of darkness so complete it even eclipses the void of space itself. Yet quickly they grow uniform and turn feathery. Hands turn into pinions, fingers become feathers. Great wings sprout themselves upon a form wrought from immaterial power. A beak of abyssal dark opens, issuing forth a shriek of righteous hate, and eyes of gold reveal themselves, shining the light of the Emperor down upon the heretics that had dared to turn away from it.

With an aquiline screech, the shadow eagle smashes into the Pride of the Emperor's void shields, the full power of the Saint of Sorrow directing its overwhelming might into annihilating the defences of the chaos ship.

Those defences, which were forged by the finest artificers of the Imperium's golden days, which held against the greatest weapons of xenos vessels, those same defences which had been empowered by endless aeons of immersion within the roiling warp, those same defences which had been gifted with profane blessings from the Dark Prince of pleasure itself…

Those same defences buckle, and fall.

It begins with a crack as the talons of the Aquila's shadow tear into the layers of ancient techno-sorcery. That crack grows, turning into a spider-web of fractures. And finally, as the vast eagle with eyes of gold bears down its great beak upon them, they give. With a groan of a denied god, they shatter into nothingness, the arcane energies sustaining them unable to defy the Saint's will.

++Void Shields down. Prepare for boarding.++

And then the torpedo breaches the ancient Gloriana battleship. There is a peal of cracking thunder as the adamantium warhead smashes through armour and fire. The hatch opens, and Malakim Phoros, chapter Master of the Adeptus Astartes, strides into war.

---

It is dark within the interior of the Pride of the Emperor. No, that is not the correct description, Malakim thinks as he makes his way throughout the corrupt vessel. Like everything related to the Prince of Excess, the flagship of the third legion is far more than merely dark. In fact, the very word seems foreign to the ship, for it is a word coined by the human tongue and made to describe things of human comprehension.

The horror that presents itself before Malakim now, however, is so utterly alien to everything human that words fail to describe its surreal nature. For a minute the old Chapter Master thinks that his boarding torpedo has been cast into the warp itself, for surely nothing so nightmarish could exist in the material reality.

Over the course of his long life, Malakim has fought demonic hordes, trod upon alien soil tainted by the unclean touch of chaos, warred against fellow astartes, and seen into portals leading into depthless dimensions of evil.

The interior of the Pride of the Emperor is similar to those things. The boarding torpedo has crashed into the Triumphal Way, the great central corridor running through the ship. Once, Malakim thinks, it must have been a place of great glories and honour in the Imperium's name. Now, it is naught but a temple to debauched perversions.

Hideous abominations line the vast hallway. Sculptures contorted in debased positions and dripping in unclean fluids stand on pedestals which once must have depicted things of far better ilk. They are carved from pristine white marble, yet are made vile with the profane symbols applied to them, and the lewd expressions upon their faces.

Paintings line the walls between the sculptures, contained within frames made from tendrils of warp-stuff. As Malakim walks by them, his eyes glance across the canvases and he recoils.

A warrior garbed in extravagant armour standing before a woman, naked and slathered in viscera, her face exquisitely sketched to depict the greatest of anguish. Before her, the man holds an infant covered in blood, his head torn and eyes glassy as the warrior plunges his teeth into the newborn's brain.

A man thrusting himself into the body of a young woman, her husband lying dead behind them, his face a mask of crazed lust as he stretches her, her expression depicted perfectly in that horrible moment of breaking.

An orgy of blood and filth, men and women clawing at each other, peeling each other's skin, and gnawing at each other's throats. Bodies intertwined in sensual torture twist and writhe in unwholesome patterns.

A desecration of the Emperor's image, demons pouring salt upon a caricature of his visage, captured as weak and stupid while the monstrosities are painted to be beautiful.

A mass rape of nuns in a cathedral upon Holy Terra, their faces made to twist in pleasure as demons corrupt them from their faith.

The body of a silver haired half elf, lying dead on the dusty floor of a loot house, her hand vainly reaching out to clasp the arm of a black haired young man with evil looking eyes.

All of these things are depicted with the greatest of skill, artwork far beyond mortal capability. Colours so vivid, so perfect in their depiction, that it looks almost like the images are ready to leap out of their frames and speak.

Beside him, Satella shudders, her face twisting in a mix of revulsion and anguish, "How horrid," she whispers.

"Indeed," Malakim echoes her sentiment. "The Emperor's Children have become naught but monsters." He looks away from the macabre gallery. "We must keep moving."

Satella nods. "Yes. We cannot hesitate. However…"

She turns around and raises her arm, her Authority gathering once more. "...I cannot overlook this."

Pointing her finger towards the collection of debased art, she brings down her judgement. "Shadow Brand Arts."

Her power surges.

Around Malakim shadows coalesce and form into hundreds of shapes. Space Marines, both Primaris and their Firstborn brethren emerge, sculpted perfectly in the image the Emperor hath decreed. Like the ones created within the boarding torpedo, they are made from miasma and appear as black silhouettes imposed upon reality, except for their chequered pauldrons, emblazoned with the crimson red of a bleeding heart.

Companies form, Veterans raise banners of shadowy mists, bolters are levelled and autoloaders slam shells into the barrels of Assault Cannons.

An army fills the inside of a Triumphal Way. Hundreds of Astartes from every type of combat role tread rhythmically in squads and companies, their footsteps drowned by the roaring engines of Battle-tanks wrought from darkness advancing alongside them.

Thundering footsteps punctuate the army's march, the unmistakable forms of Dreadnoughts stalking forward with a measured sense of inexorability. Ancient Deredeo and Contemptor patterns stride beside their more modern Castaferrum and Redemptor counterparts.

Out of the darkness they rise, and into the light they dwell.

An entire chapter of the Adeptus Astartes forms from shadow. Ready to enact the Emperor's will, they await only the command of their creator.

And she does not hesitate to give it.

"Cleanse this place."

And suddenly the silence inside the Pride of the Emperor is drowned with the sounds of plasma and gunfire.

---

The doors of the drop pod open.

They have done so twenty times before now.

Sergeant Pleiades charges into battle.

He has done this nineteen times before now.

He snaps his bolt pistol up, and the Noise Marine's head explodes as he advances forward. A few minutes later he locks blades with the mutant from before, driving his combat knife into the thing's face before it can bring its claws to bear.

He has done this eighteen times before now.

He sends a command on his helmet's inbuilt cogitators. As it is received, Aldebaran whirls around and using the momentum shoots the melta wielding cultist aiming at his back.

He has done this fifteen times before now.

His squad regroups at his side, and together, they charge the horde gathered at the foot of fortress Cameliard.

They have done this twelve times before now.

Warp lightning blasts from Altair's extended hands. Promethean fire scorches the land as it bursts from Ley's gauntlets, turning the maddened cultists into nothing but ash. Bursts of energised plasma melt through stone and flesh as they are discharged from Aldebaran's pistol. Blood spatters the teeth of Humanitas, staining the chainsword as it plunges into the chest cavity of a once-human-made-monster.

Against the unending tide of horror, squad Pleiades still advances. They advance to save a single island of purity from the flood of taint.

They have done so ten times before now.

Sheathing his blade, and holstering his bolt pistol, Pleiades climbs the mountain.

He has done this nine times before now.

He sees the, now expected, flash in the distance. The metallic screech of the incoming projectile registers far after he anticipates its path. Pleiades activates his vox.

"Ley, on your six! Intercept!"

"Understood!"

The younger marine spins around and uses the momentum from his Jump Pack to maneuver out of the incoming enemy's way, before bringing down the crushing might of his power fists onto its back.

He has done this five times before now.

The Chaos Raptor is sent careening, its scream dying alongside its body in a fiery demise as it strikes the ground. Ley voxes a thanks before blasting off upwards, pushing the thrusters of his Jump Pack to their maximum, striving to reach the gates of the fortress as fast as he can.

He has done this five times before now.

Pleiades continues to climb. At his side, Aldebaran and Altair slowly ascend the mountain as well. Two thirds of their way there, a mutated animal emerges from one of the crooks in the cliffside. It resembles a rodent, but is much, much too big. Pink froth drips from unnaturally grown teeth, and mindless evil shines from its hazy eyes. Lightning crackles from a horn grown on its forehead. It attempts to lunge at them, but Pleiades avoids it. After all–

It has done this three times before now.

His fist shoots out and grabs the rodent, holding it in an unforgiving ceramite grip.

"Altair."

Immediately the creature is speared as a lance of blood explodes from within it. It twitches once, and then falls, disappearing beneath the roiling lilac clouds.

"Even the animals have become deviants." Altair voxes, his words sombre as he lowers his arm.

"We must hurry." Pleiades says. "Keep climbing. Ley cannot hold out alone."

He has said this two times before now.

A barrage of autocannon fire comes from above them, but with a single thought a barrier of red energy deflects the shots. Altair smiles grimly as he dips into the well of his power to save the lives he cherishes.

He has done this two times before now

The cliff is scaled. Aldebaran levels his plasma pistol and the rotary Autocannon is transformed into molten slag, the cultists crewing it disintegrating from the heat.

There is but a final charge left. Drawing his chainsword once more, Pleiades tears into the final line of chaos followers. 'Death, death to them all,' he thinks. 'Not a single step back!'

'Fight on until the day is won, Space Marine!'

For the next few minutes there is only slaughter. Mindless. Monotonous. Excessive.

Pleiades feels nothing as he kills, knowing that to let any emotion slip is to invite disaster. He slaughters what once must have been families. He ends countless lives, watering the crags of the plateau in tarnished red. He howls his rage in the name of the Primarch and the Saint.

With his brothers' support he breaks their line, and reaches the gate.

He has done this only one time.

He sends a vox to Ley, confirming his status. A green dot lights up on his sensor array in response, and the gate opens for a mere second. Accelerating as one, the three Lamenters sprint inside of the fortress. Aldebaran and Altair make it inside first, but Pleiades stays behind for just one moment, knowing that if he does not all would be doomed.

"Please…help." Comes a pitiful crooning. Pleiades looks down. A child, barely three years of age, holds his knee plate, its hands torn and bleeding. Its wide eyes stare up at him with naked fear.

Pleiades remains silent. The child burrows its head into his knee joint, hugging his leg like a lifeline. "I'm so scared."

The child has done this once before.

It smiles, its flesh beginning to run like wax, its teeth sharpening into needles, its delicate fingers turning into claws as they begin to dig into his armour. "Won't you ssssave me?"

In a single motion, Pleiades takes aim, and shoots it right in the head.

He has never done this before.

The creature screams, its body contorting into a demonic visage, an unnaturally sharp tongue extending from its head as it attempts to tear out his limb. But the bolt finds it first and it explodes into gore.

Still facing the remaining mutants, he retreats, the bark of his bolter dissuading any from following. Slowly he makes his way inside the fortress, and allows himself to turn his head.

The monsters screech, and surge forwards, closing in an instant…

…Only to find the gate closing in front of them, the screaming hordes scrabbling at the last barrier standing between them and the people trapped inside.

---

Discordant music drifts from the darkness ahead of the column. A series of screams, intermittent with gleeful laughter come from another direction, unnaturally close.

"Be on your guard," Satella says, even as Malakim aims the Catechist into the hazy depths. "This vessel is no longer part of realspace."

"Indeed," the Lord of Ruin agrees, the arrays of auspex-sensors installed in his helmet returning data in bursts of static laced with laughter and screams of ecstasy. "We cannot allow ourselves to be waylaid by these banalities."

Weapons drawn, they continue to move forward.

Behind them, the Pride of the Emperor burns.

A force of a thousand, an entire chapter of trans-human warriors formed from shadow and Imperial faith, unleashes its full wrath upon the heretic ship. Dreadnoughts blare their warhorns as their assault cannons tear apart marble sculpts and ancient tapestries. Behind them, Gladiator and Land Raider battle tanks roar with fury, turning the adamantium walls into rubble and collapsing exquisite columns beneath their treads. Columns of shadowy Space Marines systematically annihilate what remains behind even that devastation, scores of bolter shells, plasma fire, and promethean flames turning the once beautiful vessel into smouldering ruin.

It is an utter desecration of an ancient museum dedicated to the peaks of artistic pursuits, a violation of a relic from the golden age, a pillaging of a unique collection of beauty.

The sight fills Malakim with pride. It is as the Emperor wills it. None may stand against Space Marines.

They march like this, advancing through the silent, dark tranquillity of the ship, filling it with sound, light and war. It takes them not long before they arrive at their destination, guided by Malakim's helm's sensors.

The plasma drives.

They find no resistance on their way there. Not a single astartes, daemon, or even a pleasure thrall attempts to halt their advance. Only the mire of haze contaminating the ship gets ever thicker as they slowly make their way to the engine room.

Yet, despite the lack of enemies or absence of traps, a sense of doom pervades through the air, causing unease to stir in Malakim's hearts. This feeling becomes stronger, growing with every step taken, quickly turning from a prickle of unease, to a crushing pressure which threatens to bring him to the ground.

And then, as the doors to the room containing the engines open–

–he understands why.

"Emperor…what is this?" whispers the Chapter Master.

Beside him, Satella makes a sound somewhere between a horrified gasp and a wail of misery at the sight before her.

Malakim cannot blame her. This unreasonable absurdity, this thing that stands before him now. It is…utterly incomprehensible to the minds of rational men.

Indeed, Malakim has fought demonic hordes, trod upon alien soil tainted by the unclean touch of chaos, warred against fellow astartes, seen into portals leading into depthless dimensions of evil, and walked through the halls of a flagship belonging to a traitor Primarch.

The Chapter Master of the Lamenters has lived amidst the war-torn galaxy for centuries. He has led armies into battle and prevailed against insurmountable odds. Vanquished aliens, beasts, daemons, and abominable intelligence alike. He remained unbroken through the horrors of the Badab War, he survived the cataclysmic destruction of the Unhallowed Heart, and lived through the crushing hopelessness of the Penitent Crusade.

And none of those times has he felt fear once.

But now—

"Throne preserve us…" without even realising it, he takes a step back, clenching his weapons so tightly he is sure they will break in his grasp.

Amidst the pervading mists within the engine block's halls, the unholy abomination towering in the place of an engine is so vile, so cravenly bizarre that Malakim cannot react in any other way than the natural human response to such an entity.

There, in place of the vast mechanisms that power a voidship, instead of the ancient machinery tended to by legions of tech-priests and servitors, is something else.

But it isn't just that. The very room itself has become mutated by the might of the ruinous powers. Such an anathema to human life, it has become, that Malakim instinctively knows that had he not sealed his vox-respirators enough to resist the vacuum of space itself, he would have been dead, or far worse, in mere seconds.

The walls have turned to flesh. Raw, living, and far, far too red to be natural, it is like the inside of some mythical giant, some great evil from the aeons before humanity even existed. Veins filled with blood and other, thicker, darker liquids run through the walls, replacing the fuel carrying pipelines found on Imperial starships. Great tendrils extend from these walls of flesh, pulsating with rhythmic, yet awfully unbalanced motions, ferrying these liquids from the walls, to the thing in the middle.

That abomination, that monstrosity which replaced the engine of the Pride of the Emperor, is a beating organ.

"A heart?" He hears Satella mutter beside him, her voice muted and disturbed.

And so it is. The blasphemy can indeed be referred to as a "heart," though Malakim cannot bring himself to think of it that way. It is a grotesque parody of the human organ. A massive, towering receptacle, twice the size of a fortress, and dwarfing even the largest of war machines. It is a bloated tower of flesh.

The tendrils, arteries he now understands, are connected to it, fusing into the "heart," and feeding blood, oil, and whatever warp-sorceries it must have needed to function. Above it, a main aorta stretches into the dark gloom above, vanishing into the darkness from which, if one strained their ear, screams of agony could be heard, followed by horrid slurping noises. The heart, much like these arteries, pulsates in steady, peristaltic beats.

Pulse. Ba-dump.

The ship stirs, as if taking a great breath. Malakim feels a bout of nausea take hold of him at the sight of its movement. At the same time some of the Shadow Brand Arts formed by Satella's power groan before collapsing into nothingness, as if they are bacteria killed for daring to be in the proximity of the great organ.

Pulse. Ba-dump.

With each beat, a cloud of noxious purple clouds is expelled from the heart, slowly drifting out to spread throughout the rest of the ship. Instinctively Malakim goes to stand in front of Satella, hoping to shield her somehow, to not allow her to be defiled by contact with this heresy.

Pulse. Ba-dump.

The heart keeps beating, its rhythmic motions hypnotic. Malakim finds himself nearly following along with the rhythm, almost anticipating each next Pulse. Unable to tear his gaze away from the beating–

Behind his back, Satella groans in pain.

He finds himself snapping out of a daze, and his eyes widen in sudden horror as he realises what is happening to them.

"What is this–" he croaks out. His throat feels swollen and the words are difficult to form.

The heart Pulses again, almost like it is proudly showing its answer.

The sound of scales slipping over flesh and meat sends a chill down his spine.

A mellifluous voice answers his question.

"This is the 'Luxuria Drive.' Glorious, is it not?"

Malakim whirls around. Despite his momentary enrapture, his instincts, honed by centuries of combat are not dulled. His eyes, genetically enhanced to see perfectly in the dark, make out this new presence instantly.

He almost wishes they do not.

A towering, serpentine shape emerges from the dark gloom of the heart-cavern. Once more, Malakim finds himself recoiling. He had not known what to expect, and thus had come preparing for the worst. But not even in his wildest nightmares did he expect this.

The thing has no legs, replaced by a long serpent's tail glittering with jewelled colours. Its face and torso are elongated and overly emphasised, like some childishly eager painter's depiction of a human, and its chest is altered, with two extra arms below its original human ones.

Despite this, the creature looks unnaturally perfect. The muscles on its bare chest are exquisitely defined, like a marble statue. Its skin is a gorgeous shade of lilac and its serpentine tail swaying with a grace that eclipses any mortal creature.

Its head is especially terrifying. Overly long and crowned with horns that rise crimson from a silken waterfall of ivory hair. Its face is human, but the eyes give away its true nature. Black and soulless, they are depths into abyssal fractals, and devoid of any form of humanity.

And yet–, despite its beauty, despite its perfection, Malakim does not find himself entranced by, or even admiring the thing. If anything his mind grows clear. All this is a falsity, he realises. A perversion of the very idea of beauty itself. It is too much, like everything else within the ship. So perfect in its awful twisting of the human form that it goes beyond the ability of the mind to process. The creature's shape provokes revulsion by its very nature, while rapturing with the artfulness by which it is done.

It is made to repulse and arouse equally.

The creature rises on its glittering tail, and holds its four arms wide. "Welcome, little angel, and allow me to introduce myself."

But it doesn't have to, for Malakim realises just what, who, this is a moment before it says daemon smiles, the upcurl of its lips just a touch too wide to be genuine. "I am Fulgrim, Primarch of the Third Legion."

---

Sergeant Pleiades stares at the sight before him, feeling sorrow grip his heart. He is inside the walls of the fortress now, but if anything it only increases the anxious feeling in his chest. He thinks back to the battle, when all thought had been directed to reaching this point. Had he even thought about what he would find here?

No, he had not, the Lamenter chastises himself. He had concentrated merely on securing the objective without ever considering what would come after.

He raises his head. Above him, the shield bubbles of the fortress hold steady, denying passage to the corrupted atmosphere of the demon world and the flitting forms racing across the sky.

He knows it cannot hold out forever.

He looks around.

Four Knights sworn to guard the bastion. Around a hundred guardsmen equipped with nothing but handheld weaponry. A few hundred civilians.

A single empty landing pad for a transport craft.

This is all that remains from what had once been the centre of an entire system of prosperous Knight Worlds.

"His Angels," someone whispers, their voice hush with reverence, "they have come to save us…"

Pleiades feels guilt twist in his gut. If only he had been faster. If only he could have made it just a little earlier…

'Perhaps if a closer drop zone can be found, then maybe–' the thought slivers into his mind like a persistent poison and refuses to leave. It is followed by a memory.

"You cannot put such a responsibility on yourself alone, you know…" the Space Marine says gently, his face shadowed by the darkness of the chapel.

"But why?" he questions. "We lost so much, if I can just retu—"

"No." The other astartes interrupts him. "Understand this, Brother; You cannot burden yourself with theoreticals of the past. That is a foolish endeavour, for hindsight will bring naught but pain and ephemeral delusions. Those 'ifs' must remain buried, with their tombstones being lessons for the future."

"But I can fix that! This power must be here for a reason! I can right those wrongs, I can realise the past!" He pleads. "Please, Commander, I know I can find a way. If you let me try just one more time–"

"Perhaps," the Commander shakes his head. "Perhaps, if you choose such a path, you will inevitably arrive at the 'correct' practical. But Pleiades, if you do this thing, all the sacrifices others made for your sake…you will be denying those who made them their choice to do so."

The sergeant's voice is kind, but the gentle rebuke it holds hurts Pleiades more than even the cruellest flagellations.

"No…you're wrong," he whispers. "If I had chosen that path, no one would have the need to make that sacrifice in the first place, especially not you…"

"My lord?" comes a concerned voice, snapping him out of his reverie. A pang of frustration lances through him at the realisation he has allowed his focus to slip.

He turns his head and faces the guardsman who had spoken.

"Forgive me." he says. "I was simply pained by the fact we arrived so late."

The man shakes his head frantically. "N-no, please do not blame yourself. We did not expect any reinforcements. The fact that you're even here is proof the Emperor watches over us."

Pleiades thinks about the man's words for a moment. Does their arrival truly mean salvation? He remembers what lies beyond the walls. The horrors thrashing beyond Cameliard's gates. No, he understands. No, it is far too late for this planet. Even if this fortress continues to hold out, this system is long lost to humanity.

Still. Even if all the blood spilled is a vain statement of a doomed existence…Even if the world cannot be saved…

It is still his duty to give the people on it a chance.

"Report. What is the situation?"

---

"I'm hungry…"

The little girl curls up into a foetal position, wrapping her bone thin arms around her equally thin legs. Her mother, a woman that may have been beautiful if not for her awfully emancipated face hugs her, a hopeless expression on her face.

Ley stares at the sight, clenching his fist in frustration, causing the power weapon to thrum with disruptive energies. He is not angry at this scenario in itself, for he knows that to be angry at something like that would be an exercise in futility. Instead he rages at his own incompetence. He is supposed to be the vanguard, the first one to battle, as was decreed by the Sergeant. It is his duty to arrive first to the aid of the beleaguered and the desperate. Yet here he is, standing amidst the ruins of humanity's long-standing civilization upon this planet, staring at the wasting remains of a people who were punished by the cruel gods. A people whose only sin was desperately fighting for the final fragments of their way of life.

He looks at the broken family once more. The people of the Emperor call him a demigod. A hero. An Angel.

Yet here he is, nothing more than an example of useless and empty promises. A product of an uncaring regime and an assistance brought far, far too late.

An Angel. What a horrible joke.

In the face of this utter unfairness, of his complete failure to be there just a little earlier, an emotion, a question wells up in Ley's mind. He does not voice it, but rather whispers it within the confines of his own ego, blood-red clarity dyeing it with such vibrancy that all other emotions turn grey and listless.

'Why?'

The Sergeant, he would know what to do. Ley is sure of it. He always does. He always has a plan, a path to save as many as possible. The sergeant is wise, he can see events that have yet to unfold, and intercept fate before it can come crashing down upon them. Ley places his faith in that authority. The sergeant would figure out something, he would find a way.

He has to.

"I-I want my brother back…" the girl sniffles, burying her face in her mother's chest. The woman hugs her tightly and whispers weak reassurances, turning her head sideways to face her daughter.

Ley looks at her. Just another victim of this cruel reality, another family torn apart by the profligate daemons he is meant to drive back. He takes a step towards them, feeling a need to do something.

He stares at the woman again, his gaze drawn to the fair skin of her exposed neck. Despite himself, his eyes can't help but follow the ever so faint outline of her jugular, his enhanced senses picking up on the thrum of the sanguine nectar flowing within.

He takes another step forward, suddenly finding it difficult to concentrate on anything else. To tear his gaze away from the tempting silhouette of the woman's veins.

His heart begins to race and his eyes dilate.

It is so close…a mere millimetre of skin hiding that warm life giving liquid.

He reaches out.

It would only take a moment, a small movement and that sweet ambrosia would flow free.

His hand touches her shoulder,

All he has to do is-

"–We are the sons of Sanguinius. Nobility is in our blood. It is that strength which separates us from the beast which slavers in the night. It is that blood which marks you as human, Ley."

He recoils, forcing himself away from the abyss with strength born of desperation. No. No he is better than this.

But surely one little-

"–Treasure that blood, for it is the blood of our father. Treasure it, and do not hurry to spill that of others–"

No! No, he can not succumb now. He will not succumb now.

Utterly silent and still, the Inceptor stands in place, as forces beyond him struggle within with an intensity that threatens to tear him apart.

His body wars with his mind.

His desires with his duty.

Nature against Nurture.

His body raked with agony, Ley slowly pulls his hand away, restraining himself. His mind burns, but he knows not to lose himself in those gluttonous desires, the words of the one he looks up to most echoing in his mind.

"-so do not indulge yourself, place your struggle at the core of your soul, and honour our father in heaven with your Temperance."

The young girl turns to look at him, her eyes widening.

Taking off his helmet, letting his long brown hair spill free, the angel gently smiles.

"I am here to help. Be not afraid."

---

"Why have you come here, Little Angel?" Fulgrim inquires, sauntering forwards, swaying hypnotically. "What desires bring you to this place?"

Malakim curls his lip. "Be gone, daemon. You are not welcome here."

Fulgrim cackles, the sound amplified and reflected throughout the chamber until it seems as if the very ship laughs alongside its daemonic overlord. "How truly precious," the primarch says, slowly slithering around the chamber's floor. "You would say this, standing before the very heart of my domain? What a vainglorious creature you are, Little Angel. Though I suppose I should have expected nothing less from dear Sanguinius' spawn."

"Do not speak of the Primarch," Malakim says, tracking Fugrim's every movement. "You are not fit to utter his name."

Tilting his head in an exaggerated parody of innocent confusion, the Phoenician leans in, the cloying stink of his breath permeating Malakim's vox grill, and causing Satella to flare her shadow to avoid the toxins.

"Unfit? Me? Poor deluded Little Angel. And why should I not speak of my brother? Does it offend your sensibilities that I knew him far better than you?" The primarch's tongue tastes the air, forked and extended. "Is it painful, knowing you shall never meet the one you venerate so?"

The Daemon's eyes glitter with a predatory sort of glee. "You can ask me all~ about him, you know. I would tell you such stories of his exploits which the Imperium would never speak of." Fulgrim's voice turns to a whisper, yet seems to permeate the entire chamber, much like the toxic fog belched by the Luxuria Drive. His voice is crushed velvet; honey dashed with the most exquisite of poison. "Would you like to hear those stories? Of how he mercilessly slaughtered millions in dear Father's name? Of how he was willing to give himself to the Ragefire to sate the thirst of his children?"

His smile widens. "Perhaps I shall make that offer in his place once more? Would you like that, Little Angel? I can see into your being. I can see the anger, the rage. Your Rubicon cannot rid you of it. It cannot prevent the flaw ingrained into your very soul by the hands of dear Father.He slides his four arms through the air in a lewd manner, as if he is grasping at some sort of intangible helix. "But I can yet cure you. Join me, and the gods will grant you the great boon of freedom." the Primarch tempts, his arms spinning the invisible thread ever faster as he speaks.

"Unhinged from your curse, you shall revel in the greatest of excess, and feel the sweet touch of the love of Slaanesh.

"Enough," Malakim snarls, raising the Glaive Encarmine in challenge. "Your words are meaningless drivel. Your blatant attempts at manipulation are naught but dust. There is nothing to speak of. Your perverse creation will be ground to ash along with your disloyalty."

An amused hiss leaves Fulgrim's lips. "You speak to me of disloyalty?" He shakes his long warped head. "And where do your loyalties lie, Little Angel? You willingly joined Huron in his rebellion did you not?"

Almost as if he sees Malakim's expression through his helmet, Fulgrim's smile widens to a serpentine rictus. "The "noble and kind" sons of Ninth who voluntarily killed their own brothers under the command of a Chaos Lord. So like your father, full of righteous words and golden visages, yet filled with nothing but darkness. Tell me, how did it feel to betray the Imperium you swore your oaths to? Did it hurt?"

A long forked tongue flits over his painted lips."I hear, even, that your disloyalties did not end there," he continues, still swaying and circling as he speaks. "You were not present during the Devastation of Baal, were you? You did not answer the call of your brethren. "Too scattered, too depleted." As always, your misfortune bleeds with much greater strength than that heart you so proudly wear on your pauldron."Anger bursts through Malakim's hearts and he moves to answer, but another voice speaks up first. This beautiful silvery voice cries out with a harsh rebuke as its owner steps forth, her violet eyes blazing.

"Be silent!" Satella's words are cold and filled with furious accusation. The Imperial Saint stands tall in the face of the bloated Fulgrim, and it appears to Malakim in that moment, that despite her smaller frame, she is looking down on the Daemon Primarch.

"You speak of disloyalty?" Satella says, her voice ringing with such perfect clarity that the very vapours filling the cavernous chamber flee from her form. "You, who turned from the Emperor's light and fled into the darkness like a coward? You, who vainly exalts such outwards opulence, yet willingly followed Horus into damnation? You have the gall to speak of disloyalty?"

She takes a step forward, indomitable in the face of such monstrous evil. "Your words are nothing but the braying of an animal. Look upon yourself and see the consequence of betrayal."

Fulgrim turns to face her. He looks almost confused that this dainty figure would deign to speak, but his eyes quickly narrow.

"Is this your ploy, Little Angel?" he raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, voice amused. "A psyker with a silver tongue? Do you truly believe that—"

His voice trails off, surprise running across his features. Then his shoulders start to shake as a shriek of inhuman noise tears from his throat. His body contorts and his white hair sways, a strange mix of coughing and cackling pouring out from between his lips. It takes Malakim an entire second to comprehend what he is hearing, so alien is the sound to anything a human's throat is capable of producing.

Fulgrim laughs.

"An eldar? You've brought an eldar onto my ship? To the very heart of its power? Well well, Little Angel, you are beginning to surprise me. I had known, of course, that your blood encourages rashness, but to do something like this?"

Fulgrim shakes his head.

"And here I thought the Imperium was so "purist" so "intolerant" of Xenos. Yet you willingly bring one here? Oh, what a delightful hypocrisy."

He pauses, as if puzzled, then his face splits in a delighted smile. "Was this your trump card? Did you believe her witchcraft would grant you the edge in this confrontation? You do know that I am no longer a creature of mere flesh don't you? To think, the vaunted Angels would rely on the help of an elf–"

His speech, grandiose in its mockery, is interrupted, as Satella speaks. Gone are the angry accusations from her voice. In its place is cold fury. The kind of rage that one can only muster after being subjected to the cruelest of insults, the most demeaning of comparisons. It is the fury of a sentient being compared to an animal. The hatred of a person who had been called naught but a beast.

"I am human." Satella hisses, her words filled with acidic vitriol. "I am a loyal daughter of the Emperor, beloved by all! How dare you compare my visage to that of the Xeno!"

For a single second, Fulgrim appears to be caught off guard. His nostrils dilate as the daemon primarch inhales, his forked tongue tasting the air.

Then, his eyes snap open in utter bafflement. A shock so great that it makes his previous confusion look like a pale imitation of the emotion. For a moment, his sadistic expression disappears, so great is Fulgrim's disbelief at the impossibility before him.

It lasts for a mere millisecond. Then Fulgrim laughs again.

The monstrous sound that roars out of the Primarch's mouth this time is so far beyond even his previous fit of mirth, that Malakim cannot compare it to even a natural noise. It is the birth-scream of the neverborn, the orgasmic squeal of chaotic exaltation. It is the mad howling of the loathsome thing which creeps in the night.

It is a sound that causes pain by its very existence, a horrid ululation that distorts the very reality within the chamber.

And in that aberrant shriek of ecstasy from which the madness of the immaterium spills into the world of sanity, in that moment where the Luxuria Drive beats its hateful heart with each synchronous cackle, in that moment of perfect excess…

…Fulgrim answers the accusation.

"A half-elf!" yowls the daemon primarch, "How wonderful! How appropriately inhumane!" His eyes are blackened with dark lust. They shine with a maddening unlight as Fulgrim opens his mouth and laughs. "What a truly glorious abomination you are! How delectable is the anguish of your soul! Come, little mutant, come and let me show you the delight your existence brings to me!"

He flexes his wrists. With an organic squelch, swords sprout from his fists, forced into reality with a hiss of black vapour. Rising from nothing, they are mismatched in form, coloured in hues that do not exist and are sickening to look upon. Poisons drip from the edges of the blades, mixing with the venous floor of the ship and making the unholy chamber shudder in an orgasmic motion.

In response to this eldritch monstrosity, this ancient avatar of pleasure, this traitorous Laerform of boundless gratification, the Imperial Saint marshals her own power.

Satella's eyes harden into violet crystal, and she extends her arm forward. With but a single phrase she gives her answer to Fulgrim's challenge.

"For the Emperor!"

As one, the Umbra Astartes form into a battle line. Assault and Lascannons are aimed at the daemon. Turrets of shadowy Baal Predators whirr as their barrels take aim.

Rows of bolter rifles level themselves, as columns of Space Marines stand by at their creator's command. Veterans in Terminator plate load their storm bolters. Assault troopers rev their chainswords, and Chaplains in armours of shadowy mists raise the chapter-standard.

In front of this army, Malakim stands, and aims the Catechist at the heart of the traitor Primarch

The serpent hisses, violet sparks of ecstatic madness dancing in his eyes. He rises to his full height, towering far above even the largest of the Saint-wrought armoured vehicles. The great lust-heart of his ship pulses out another cloud of violet fog. And then, so quick that Malakim thinks it to be a mere after-image, Fulgrim attacks.

"Fire!" commands Satella.

Amidst the roar of battle cannons, Malakim charges the daemon.

---

Brother Altair watches as the latest shuttle takes off, carrying another group of civilians to the relative safety of the orbiting fleet. The librarian knows, of course, that in the mayhem of the void war unfurling above, there is a high chance this evacuation is only leading the people unto death.

And yet as he stares into the flesh-coloured roiling skies, as he sees the decay of the planet, as Slaanesh's realm seeps into the material world, Altair knows that there surely is no other way.

Even if the evacuating ships are blown out of the sky, no fate can possibly be as monstrous as this.

Turning around, he makes his way toward his brothers.

They have positioned themselves to be the first line of defence upon the breaching of the gate. Despite the protestations of the last remaining nobles of House Galeas, their pilots, along with their Knight Suits were too evacuated off world at the High King's behest.

Now his Knight is the only remaining one on the planet.

The Albion Dominatus is a towering war machine. Standing at fourteen metres tall, the Cerastus-Knight Lancer is the very picture of indomitable might. Its paint has long since been burnt away, and its armour is scarred from weeks of unending battles against the endless hordes. One of its oculars is cracked, and a part of the giant machine's shield is twisted out of proportion.

To Altair, it is one of the most majestic things he has ever seen.

Though its Ion Shield and Shock Lance are currently inert, the Lamenter knows that each strike of the mighty power weapon is enough to pierce through fortified ceramite with ease. It stands, tall and proud, its engine roaring with unbending pride as it awaits its final stand.

Behind it, the remaining guardsmen await the end. They have entrenched themselves in a final battle line. No more than a hundred. The last remaining force of the millions that had been deployed to this battlefield once. Their faces are stoic, and in their eyes is a bleak hopelessness. Not a single one of them has decided to evacuate with the civilians. All have chosen to hold the line.

'It is better to die for the Emperor, than to live for yourself.'

And in front of them, in front of that final trench of defiance, the Lamenters have made their own stand. There are only four of them, including himself, Altair thinks. One is still missing.

He makes his way over to Pleiades. As he approaches, the Sergeant turns towards him. Behind him, the Squad banner attached to his backpack's telescopic aerial tears in the wind.

"Brother Altair," Pleiades' voice is grim. "How goes the evacuation?"

"Over sixty percent of all remaining civilians have been shipped off-world. I estimate another hour is required to complete the process."

Behind his helmet, Pleiades grits his teeth at the news.

"An hour?" The sergeant's voice is tinged with the frustration of the powerless. "They do not have an hour."

Altair feels his anger. It radiates from Pleiades in a wave of crimson light, perceivable only to him. The librarian can only clench his force staff tighter in response. He understands the squad leader's anger. They do not have the strength to hold against what is beyond the gate.

Moreover, they do not have the strength to ensure the safety of those behind them. And that is what grates most of all.

A thunderous detonation rings out from behind the walls. The bastion shudders, and cracks branch out from the main gate.

They do not have time either.

"Brother-Sergeant," this time the query comes from Ley. "What is Venerable Brother Chyron's status? His Drop-Pod should have been able to land at the top of the mountain. Why has he not rendezvoused with us yet?"

Pleiades shakes his head. "I have received a vox from him. His landing craft's mechanism failed during the count-down. He is currently on stand-by. It will take at least another half an hour to prepare another drop pod.

Ley laughs bitterly. "Lamenter luck as always. We are plagued by it, truly, tsu~"

Altair turns his head sharply, a sudden onset of apprehension filling him. "Brother Ley, your tic."

Ley does not respond to the reminder at first, even as Pleiades and Aldebaran both turn towards him. Altair does not need his psyker talents to tell that all are concerned for their younger brother. The return of the word tic was an ominous sign. It had been years since it last manifested, and back then only the intervention of the Calix Priesthood had saved Ley from the fate of–

No. He would not think of that here. Better not invite disaster through an open door.

"I am…tested today," Ley says quietly. His voice is sorrowful and filled with a horribly familiar pain. Altair clenches his teeth in anger. He knows what this means. Every son of Sanguinius understands the meaning of those sepulchral words.

The curse is gnawing at their youngest brother.

"Will you endure?" Pleiades asks. His voice is even, but Altair knows him well enough to know that the sergeant is worried.

Ley puts on his helmet, and falls into position next to him, a flicker of thought activating the flamers of his gauntlets. "I will endure."

"Aldebaran, reporting," says the fourth of their group. "The evacuation ship has reached the Cleansing of Vanity. It is en-route back to the planet." He pauses. "We need only one more trip."

Pleiades nods. "We will ensure it completes it."

"Fine Words." The booming voice of Albion Dominatus carries across the inside of the bastion, the High King's warsuit's cogitators hearing every word spoken within the walls of its castle. "As long as my Knight stands, so does this world. The heretics will pay in blood for every inch of ground they desecrate."

Pleiades voxes back his acknowledgement. "It will be our honour to fight by your side, High King."

"And by yours, Angels."

Another crack rings outside the walls, and pieces of one of the castle's towers are turned into shrapnel, sharpened stone raining down into the bastion. Behind the walls, the lewd screams of the ravenous horde echo with greater cadence.

Steeling himself, Altair dips into the energies of the warp, feeling its violent roil. It screams, shrieks, wails, cries, and cackles all at once. It burns, freezes, numbs, pierces and crushes. It flows with power and hatred, with sickness, temptation and sorcery as its energies reach for the librarian with daemonic hands.

He smiles grimly. Now is the time.

'From the lightning and the tempest, Our Emperor, deliver us.'

With the purity of his zeal, Altair reaches out and grasps the energy. It screeches in rage, as the librarian seizes and twists the ruinous power, first bending and then forcing it into compliance, even as it rages and raves against him.

Red lightning crackles across the metal of his force staff. He feels the roil of the warp fill his limbs with power as he draws his bolt pistol, an action mirrored by his brothers as they aim their own firearms at the gate.

With machine-like precision, Aldebaran's bolt rifle zeroes in on the centre of the crumbling wall. Ley's flamer gauntlets hum as their barrels turn white hot in preparation to unleash the burning prometheum within. A step ahead of them, Pleiades stands centre, chainsword in hand.

If this is the end, they will not go quietly into the night.

Altair looks up at the sky once more. Above, the warp howls, its voice echoing with the laughter of dark gods. Violet lightning arcs through the clouds, echoed by thunder sounding like wild moans.

'From plague, temptation and war, Our Emperor, deliver us!'

Behind him, he hears the guard level their lasguns as one, a last fireline forming at the edge of nothingness.

"Fix Bayonets!" comes a command, and the synchronous clicking of blades indicates the readiness of the Astra Militarum.

With the bellow of its mighty foghorn, the Albion Dominatus takes a single step forward, its challenging warcry heralded by the charge of its Shock Lance. Currents of lightning course across its disruption field as its magneto-hydraulic rail system extends the massive spear into its battle form.

Its Ion Shield blazes to life, its bubble of protective energy flickering from its damaged state. Autosimulacra swarm across its surface, the blessed alloys beginning to reroute systems to bolster the Knight's output to beyond what the walker's frame can support.

The High King does not intend to see the end of this day. Neither does he plan on granting the invaders that courtesy.

Yet more bombardments strike the failing bastion as Altair readies himself. Concentrating his power, he lets it gather at the tip of his staff. A primed missile waiting to be let loose. And as he does so, the great barrier of fortress Cameliard finally begins to fall.

And through the breach, come the creatures.

They are vile, aberrant things. Loathsome in their depravity, yet sensuous in their unholy grace. Their proportions so inherently alien, they hypnotise by their sheer lack of geometry. Crab claws for hands, and hooves for feet, they are crowned with horns and a facsimile of hair that hisses and writhes like serpents.

'From the begetting of daemons, Our Emperor, deliver us!'

The Space Marines steady themselves as the monsters stop in surprise at the sight that awaits them. Almost as if bewildered by the sheer audacity of the human spirit, which these chaos-spawn could never hope to understand, they falter for a mere moment.

And in that moment, a single phrase challenges them. It tears from Pleiades' vox-grill with a deafening volume. It roars out of the throat of the guardsmen as they line up their weapons. It blares out of Albion Dominatus' warhorn as the last knight begins its final walk.

It is the cry of humanity in a hateful universe.

It is the cry of zealotry in a burning galaxy

It is the cry of faith against the darkness.

"FOR THE EMPEROR!"

'A morte perpetua. Domine, libra nos.'

---

His armour responds to the movement of his muscles like a second skin, master crafted mechanisms purring as he bursts into motion, accelerating to an inhuman speed in a mere second.

Squeezing the trigger of his pistol, he discharges a beam of searing heat into the enemy, even as the deafening sounds of bombardment echo surround him.

In the foul heart of the Pride of the Emperor, the son of the Angel engages the daemon.

Beside him, the Umbra Astartes charge as one. A row of bladeguard draw their power swords, all formed of the same monochromic miasma of Lady Satella's making. Yet despite their forms, none are lesser to any true marine.

They have all but one thought. Slay Fulgrim. Kill the traitor. Banish him back into the warp in the name of the Emperor.

Around them, mass-reactive shells and lances of plasma smash into Fulgrim's form as an entire battleline of space marines, dreadnoughts, and tanks fire upon the primarch. In the middle of that cacophony, Satella stands, her hand extended outwards as miasma blazes around her like fire. A halo of gold surrounds her and its waves of energy repel the noxious clouds of the Luxuria Drive

"Destroy the traitor!" roars Malakim as he accelerates, making his way towards the corrupt heart, preparing to plunge his sword into it.

His senses are honed to perfection, his helmet's auspex sensors telling him of every detail surrounding him, and his Astartes physiology enhancing that to an even greater degree.

He barely sees the strike coming.

Fulgrim's monstrous tail snaps out with speed so great it is followed by the deafening boom of a broken sound barrier. It lashes out like some alien whip, and slams into the bladeguard line with a thunderous crack.

It is the same impact that a bug feels when struck by a powertool. The tail is thick with muscles and sinew that are as hard as steel, and is covered in scales more rigid than any natural material.

The bladeguard line is annihilated in a single sweep. The Umbra Astartes, despite having the power of the Saint within their bodies, and possessing endurance equal to any true son of Sanguinius, are smeared into paste.

Malakim himself is sent flying, his body and armour screaming at him as he slams against the organic walls of the chamber, breaking off several veins which explode in showers of deep purple liquid. His head spins, his vision darkens, and then he is still.

In response to this attack, Satella increases the intensity of her own. New formations manifest from shadows, immediately beginning to bombard Fulgrim with hails of bolter fire. The daemon primarch laughs gleefully, and darts forward, his massive body moving far quicker than anything of that size could physically achieve without breaking apart.

As he moves, his four arms are a blur, bringing his daemon swords to bear.

An Imperial assault cannon is capable of firing hundreds of rounds of ammunition per second. It is a weapon whose rate of fire is so quick, it can shred through lines of enemies with a single burst. Satella subjects the primarch to a continuous assault from hundreds of these weapons at once, as Terminators, Dreadnoughts, and Battle vehicles unleash their endless, miasma generated fire upon him.

Not a single one reaches their target.

With an almost contemptuous ease, Fulgrim slices each round out of the air, his arms moving in a hypnotic, dance-like motion as he delivers perfect cuts through the exact middle of hundreds of thousands of shells.

Satella thins her lips and draws her blade. Fulgrim's eyes light up with loathsome joy and he moves towards her, like a snake towards a baby bird. Even as he is assaulted on all ends, he does not hesitate, single minded desire driving him towards his target. In his obsession to take her, to kill and mutilate her, to deface her and plunge her into despair, he forgets all else. His beautiful face is turned ghoulish from maddened want.

A dreadnought, Contemptor-class, charges to intercept him, energies crackling along its power fist as its Kheres-pattern cannon continuously pours fire into Fulgrim's frame. The primarch tears it in half with a flick of his wrist, yet for a single moment, there is surprise, and almost shock in his features as he annihilates the Ancient.

With an inhuman ululation, Fulgrim barrels into the Saint's army.

More Marines swarm him and are killed where they stand. Assault terminators are turned into diced chunks before they even have a chance to swing their claws. Tanks are reduced to wrecks as the Primarch slices their turrets and rips open their armoured hulls like a man would break open a clam shell.

It is a slaughter. An entire chapter-sized formation, each formed with the power of the Emperor's own, is reduced to nothingness in less than three seconds.

All the while, the Luxuria Drive pulses with synchronous, rhythmic beats.

"There you are, half-breed," Snarls Fulgrim as he reaches Satella's position. He moves far quicker than she can react, and is looming before her before she can even take a single step. "Let me feel you. Let me take you. Let me show you the peaks of pleasure as I drink of your blood!"

Satella brandishes her sword, her expression cold. "You will die, scum. I will purge you from this reality!"

She charges. Fulgrim bears down upon her–

"For the Emperor!"

"Let the Galaxy Burn!"

–Four daemon swords meet a single blade of miasma and faith. The impact from their clash sends ripples of pure force through the chamber. Blustering winds erupt outwards, their strength equal to that of any hurricane. The energy of the clash tears through the clouds formed by the Luxuria Drive, and turns the room clear.

Satella grits her teeth, attempting to use all of her blessed might to push Fulgrim back. The son of the Emperor smiles, and brings the full power of his own ruinous strength to the forefront.

The silver haired saint stumbles back as her sword arm is violently pushed outwards, and Fulgrim rushes in to end her. Her eyes don't have time to widen as the primarch's unclean weapons strike outwards.

A single edged, gleaming power sword blocks them. The Glaive Encarmine thrums with power, arcs of shining blue light running across it.

Malakim Phoros stands in front of the Primarch, shielding the Saint from the corrupted phoenix. His armour strains from the impact of the daemon swords, chaotic vapours hissing around him. Within his helmet, alarm systems blame, as ancient artifice struggles to repel the chaotic strength of a demigod. His chest plate is cracked, a hideous scar running through the aquila decorating the baroque wargear. One of his visor lenses is cracked. Blood seeps from the vox grill of his helmet.

He looks, in that moment, more strained, broken and vulnerable than ever before.

Fulgrim retreats from him. "No Space Marine could have survived that blow."

Malakim does not dignify the serpent daemon with a response. He snarls, and counterattacks.

The Glaive Encarmine flashes through the air, carving a perfect arc as it descends upon Fulgrim's torso. The primarch narrows his eyes and blocks the strike with one of his swords, easily catching the blow, before pushing back with his superior strength. But Malakim is already gone. Disengaging, the Astartes whirls around, using the momentum from the Third Primarch's own attack, and brings down his sword once more, attempting to cleave off Fulgrim's arm.

He is blocked once again, as Fulgrim lazily intercepts his strike. Without pause, Malakim brings the Catechist around, and violently presses the trigger.

Concentrated chemical energy, like that of a newborn star erupts from the nozzle of the inferno pistol. White hot thermal heat, like a ray of pure light shoots outwards, cutting its way through Fulgrim's blade like a power spear piercing through a man's torso.

The chaos sword melts, the daemonic bones forming it incapable of withstanding the fury of a point blank shot from a thermal weapon. Fulgrim roars in rage, swinging his arm to knock Malakim backwards, his sword already regenerating.

And he is intercepted. As Malakim saved her mere moments before, Satella takes on Fulgrim in turn, shielding the chapter master as her shadowy blade meets the chaotic taint of the Phoenician.

Miasma surges from her, and Fulgrim hisses as the shadows lash out, attempting to destroy him. His other arms slice through realities, daemon swords destroying the immaterial shadows as they dance along the angles of existence. Satella shrieks, as if she herself was struck, and Fulgrim surges forward–

–And Malakim is there. He cannons into Fulgrim, hacking at his scaled form with fury borne of zeal. He is able to strike twice, before being once more battered aside. None of those are able to penetrate the primarch's scales. His power sword, a weapon capable of disrupting molecular bonds themselves, is incapable of even scratching the son of the Emperor.

Fulgrim attacks once more, and this time, Satella is not as quick. The primarch snatches Malakim by the throat, lifting the Lamenter up. Choking, Malakim grabs the Catechist, and jams it into the Phoenician's hand. He opens fire.

Fulgrim roars, and squeezes. There is a cracking sound, as ceramite begins to give way. Malakim does not give the primarch the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

The Phoenician narrows his eyes. "How are you still alive, Little Angel?"

One of his other arms bats away Satella, even as she attempts to drive her sword into him. The casualness of it, the dismissal of her attack is done with such masterful disrespect, such a perfect contemptuousness, that it is more than an insult. It is a statement of fact. Nothing they have done has made Fulgrim consider them as anything other than amusement.

Now, however, that amusement has been elevated to curiosity.

The daemon primarch's grip tightens, and Malakim's visor lenses shatter. His armour screams and bends as Fulgrim begins to methodically squeeze the life out of the Chapter master. The blood dripping from his vox grill becomes a river, crimson staining the floor, and quickly being hungrily absorbed with organic slurping sounds.

And yet, despite that…

"What is this?" Fulgrim hisses, as the realisation washes over him that despite what is happening to him, Malakim has still not perished. "What are yo–"

He is interrupted by the roar of turbine engines. With a scream and a burst of gore, one of the walls of the chamber detonates, and the void of space yawns open wide. Fulgrim's head snaps to the side, and his eyes widen.

Another burst of light, another thunderous explosion. The Luxuria Drive beats faster, the cathedral sized heart thudding like a monstrous bird in a demonic cage. The torn edges of the broken chamber moan, and the gaping wound is wrenched once more as light bombards it.

And through that gap, a black Thunderhawk crashes into the chamber.

Its underslung heavy bolters blaze with fire even as its massive engines propel the gunship into the chamber. Fulgrim screams in rage, and is answered by the thunderous boom of the gunship's battle cannon and las-batteries as it slams into the primarch at full speed.

The Phoenician shrieks as he is barreled over. The Thunderhawk's engine roar with a burst of immolating flame, accelerating even within the confines of the chamber. Still firing, it crashes straight into the Luxuria drive, one hundred twenty tonnes of steel and flame smashing straight into the corrupted centre of the Pride of the Emperor.

The room shudders violently. The walls convulse as hundreds of veins are torn open and torrents of blood spew out, turning the floor into a squelching river of gore and muck. Above, the main aorta rips, and a crimson cascade erupts from it. Scarlet rain falls. The ship screams, a discordant bellowing reverberating throughout the chamber as the Luxuria Drive is scarred.

The Thunderhawk, it's form burning and broken from the impact and partially submerged within a river of blood, sputters out.

Its hatch opens, and from within emerge Space Marines.

Fifteen in number, they are clad in terminator plate and adorned in purity seals and symbols designating them as members of the elite first company. Their armour is black in colour, save for the helmets which are a perfect monochrome silver, with eye-lenses that glare with bright violet light.

Upon their pauldrons a bleeding heart shines on a chequered backgrounds.

The figure leading them, an eight foot tall warrior clad in the Indomitus pattern warplate, bearing the insignia of a Captain, and wielding a massive Thunder Hammer, looks around. He sees the carnage surrounding them, beholds the rivers of blood flowing around him, and witnesses Fulgrim, as the enraged daemon primarch rises with a furious howl. A single swipe from the Son of Chemos' swords tears the front of the Thunderhawk apart, and Fulgrim rises, hate in his eyes.

The terminator captain sees all this. He perceives this horror. He does not hesitate.

"Satellite Guard, advance!" He roars. His warriors echo his call, and charge forward, their storm bolters and assault cannons roaring as they charge the daemon prince.

The captain charges along with them. He stops beside Malakim's position, and holds out his hand.

"Chapter Master," his voice comes as a harsh snarl through the vox of his helm, but Malakim still recognizes it. After all, how could he not know the voice of his own second in command.

"Kerubiel," his own voice is strained. "You were ordered to assist our brothers on the surface." There is accusation in his tone, but no surprise even as he clasps the first captain's arm and hauls himself up.

"Forgive me," says Kerubiel, "but I have chosen to place my loyalty above my orders. I cannot allow you or Lady Satella to face this evil alone."

Malakim tightens his grip on his sword. "Your penance will be severe, Kerubiel."

The captain of the Satellite Guard simply turns to face the raging Fulgrim, and activates the mechanism of his thunder hammer, letting the weapon fill with crackling force.

"Then I will ensure you live to oversee it."

Together, the Chapter Master and the First Captain charge into the fray.

They collide with Fulgrim just as he is about to deliver a death blow to one of their brothers. Working in perfect tandem they assault the primarch. Staggered by the thunderhawk's blow, and reeling from the injury to the loathsome heart he has cultivated, the primarch's reaction is just a hairbreath slower. And that is all that is needed.

Kerubiel's thunder hammer slams into one of the daemon blades protruding from Fulgrim's hands and shatters it. Black blood erupts from the stump and the daemon shrieks and recoils.

Immediately Malakim is upon him, charging into the opening, and bringing down the Glaive Encarmine onto Fulgrim's body. The Primarch snarls, more in anger than any real pain, and drives one of his swords into Malakim's body, aiming to end him at that very moment.

Yet he is blocked, as Satella darts in front of the strike and deflects it, her shadow blade parrying Fulgrim's own.

The next moment a hail of bolter fire peppers the champion of Slaanesh and the Satellite Guard reach him, placing themselves between the primarch and the Saint they are sworn to defend. They are the elite First Company, veterans of unaccountable battles, each at least two centuries old.

Orienting themselves, the Satellite Guard level their guns, but do not have time to press the triggers before Fulgrim is upon them. The daemon grins hideously, and brings down his blade, ready to disembowel the first company's elite.

His sword, a blade made of profane and indescribable warp stuff, flashes faster than even the astartes can see.

It slashes downwards–

–And is flung back.

"What?!" The confused rage in Fulgrim's voice is so violent its echo causes the very walls of the chamber to hiss. The primarch swings again, and once more, just as his blade descends to cleave a terminator in two, it simply slides off the armour. Something that should've been able to tear apart any defence is negated without effort.

Fulgrim snarls hatefully, ignoring the rounds of bolter and assault cannon fire that pepper him, slicing most of the shots apart without paying them the slightest heed. "What is thi–"

His head snaps around as he senses something, his eyes black with hate. Those eyes, which have long since become naught but pits into the centres of depravity, behold with their sight a single figure surrounded by brilliant shadow.

Malakim Phoros stands, bloodied yet unbroken, miasma surging from his form like flame. It blazes from the visors of his helm and tears at the very air around him, howling like the vengeful litany of mankind itself. In his hands the Glaive Encarmine shines with harsh light like a miniature star.

In that moment he is the Lord of Ruin. The ancient warrior who stands unbent in front of all obstacles, stubbornly refusing to be cowed. His is the rage of the righteous, the stubbornness of one refusing to accept the suffering of their own.

The avarice of a man who forever denies the destruction of his brothers, hypocritically placing that burden upon his own shoulders and hiding behind his title to excuse that action. The greed of a martyr willing to give his all for his cause, so that others might not.

"AUTHORITY MANIFESTED!" roars the Chapter Master of the Lamenters, the force of his cry causing crimson to spill out of his mouth as his very vocal chords are ripped. "COR LEONIS!"

He strikes at Fulgrim once more, and with him his brothers also. They attack Slaanesh's champion, their bodies protected by the power gifted unto the Chapter Master by the Saint herself. Though they are not nearly quick enough to react to the blows raining down on them, none of Fulgrim's strikes connect.

Kerubiel is in the centre of it. His Thunder hammer, "Melancholy," thrums with power as he swings it into Fulgrim's arm, aiming to shatter it. Fulgrim intercepts with ease, before grabbing the first captain and unhinging his jaw. Lifting the terminator like he was nothing more than a toy, Fulgrim prepares to swallow him.

But just as his hand prepares to drop Kerubiel into his gaping mouth, it is stopped in its tracks. Shadowy arms grasp at Fulgrim's limb, binding it and preventing the first captain's demise.

"I will not allow you!" Satella's declaration is followed by another burst of miasma. Umbra Astartes once more begin to form, all garbed in the same wargear of their corporeal brethren. Yet more terminators open fire, thousands of bolter shells attempting to force Fulgrim back.

With a sound not belonging in the material universe, Fulgrim screams and hurls Kerubiel into the ground attempting to smash him with the impact. At the same time his tail lashes out and bowls over the Satellite Guard even as his blades strike out yet again, his body having already weaved itself back anew, all the damage done to it being restored in seconds.

Kerubiel's body slams into the ground at hypersonic speeds. It crashes into a crimson river flowing out of the damaged Luxuria Drive, sending a fountain of corrupted humours into the air.

Malakim groans, pain assaulting him. With every strike Fulgrim delivers unto his brethren, he feels the burden of it all. His Authority, the power known as Cor Leonis allows him this privilege. To greedily take the pain and damage taken by his brothers for himself, that is the burden he endures. He feels every slash of Fulgrim's daemon swords. Every rake of his claws and every strike of his massive tail. Every corrupt breath and stinging lash.

Malakim takes all of it, gritting his teeth as his body is burnt, rent apart, torn, shredded, violated, destroyed, pulped, crushed, liquefied, and decapitated all at once. A hundred times a second.

He does not shy away from it. He refuses to flinch in the face of such agony. For that is the oath he has taken as Chapter Master. The penance for his deception. He had lied back then, on the bridge of the Mater Lachrymarum. When he conversed with Erasmus Thaum, he said it was wrong to place burdens upon one's shoulders alone. He became angry, seeing in the navigator the foolish determination he hides within himself.

He had seen the fervency in him, and rejected it. He could not allow another to take the weight he has retained for himself.

It is that hypocrisy which lies at the bottom of his soul which marks him as compatible for the Factor. It is that broken sense of self-worth, cultivated by the fervent creed of the Imperial Cult and watered with the blood of Sanguinius that manifests now as his understanding.

He is the Chapter Master, and he will not allow the death of his brothers. He must always stand in front of the enemy. He must always defend those behind him. If they are in pain, he will take it for himself. If they fall to anguish, he will bear that despair. He will greedily embrace all their misfortune. He will do this, and more, because he is their brother. Their Chapter Master.

It is through that twisted ideology, that Malakim Phoros defines himself.

He growls as waves of agony crash through him, his grip on his sword tightening to such a degree, the handle begins to crack. He cannot hold out for long.

A space marine's pain tolerance is far beyond a baseline human's. They can withstand such tortures that would cause nearly any other living being to be driven mad from sheer physical shock. Pain that would kill a normal man will not even give pause to the transhuman warriors.

And yet, despite this, he has already endured enough to kill him a thousand times over.

The Chapter Master coughs up blood. "Just a little more…"

Yet he remains standing, refusing to be broken now. Slowly, every movement feeling like a thousand plasma blasts, he begins to level the Catechist–

The battle turns against the Lamenters. Fulgrim's body, raised by the foulest powers of the Immaterium, easily restores any wounds he is inflicted, and his skill and strength prevents any but the most lucky from even touching him.

Satella weaves and dances around him, duelling the Primarch with all of her supernatural skill. Her grace is unmatched, her movements nearly impossible to follow. In one moment it appears she holds a sword, and in the next it is a laspistol, which then morphs into a chain glaive, which once more becomes a power sword. She pivots and slices, moving like a fluid shadow.

Around her the Umbra Astartes and the Satellite Guard keep firing. They do not waste a single shot. They do not retreat, or hesitate, despite knowing they can at best slow their enemy.

Yet despite all of their fervour, despite the protections of the Saint, despite Malakim's Authority driving them beyond their physical limits, they cannot contend with Fulgrim's might.

"You," bellows Fulgrim, his eyes narrowing into black slits and focusing on Malakim's crimson visor. "You are doing this! If I kill you, they will follow!"

He accelerates, bowling over the Astartes that try to stop him, his blades dripping with unclean liquids, and leaving little rivulets in his wake.

"Say your goodbyes, Little Angel, and give thanks! I will be sending you to my dear brother!" His mouth bares into a depraved parody of a smile as he prepares to deal the final blow

"Never!" Satella intercepts him. Her sword flashes, and Fulgrim hisses, once more coming into a blade lock with the Saint. He flexes his form, and she is sent sprawling, falling on her back. Yet the pause gives Malakim the time he needs.

Beneath his helmet, he smiles savagely, his vision tinting red. He lets Cor Leonis fall away, knowing he will not need it for this final act. "You will not have us," he says, the words coming out sharp like broken glass. "But you will know me in the end!" He raises his Inferno Pistol, and primes it.

Fulgrim stares at him in amusement, knowing that such a small weapon poses no threat to him, and Malakim continues, his voice suddenly deafening as he puts all of his will into his next declaration.

"So hear me, O Fallen Phoenix, and cry! Witness me, O frightful gods, and tremble! Recognize me now as the Warlock of Greed!"

Too late Fulgrim sees that the Catechist's muzzle is not aimed at him. "No…" The realisation strikes the son of the Emperor the moment it occurs. Malakim aims at the Thunderhawk's engine.

He surges forward, aiming to kill Malakim before he could complete his design, but one final body stops him.

Kerubiel, his armour broken, helm shattered, and covered in blood. His weapon is gone, the relic Thunder Hammer shattered from the impact against the ground, and the life support systems of his armour have been crushed into nothing. The Indomitus warplate is torn and incapable of defending him any longer. Malakim's authority is used up, he can no longer stave off the destruction of his body.

He has nothing to protect him anymore.

He barrels into Fulgrim, wrapping his arms around him, and, for a single oh so insignificant second, unbalances him. "FOR THOSE WE CHERI–"

His voice is cut off as Fulgrim spears him through. The captain of the Satellite Guard breathes softly, and goes still.

Malakim fires.

The Thunderhawk detonates.

The Luxuria Drive falls.

Fulgrim roars, howling in languages unknown to the mortal plane, and lashes out, tearing the fallen Captain's body in half and lunging for the Chapter Master. Malakim attempts to block, but this time, like in a reverse vision of earlier in the battle, Satella blocks the primarch's strike.

Only this time, she cannot contend with him. Fulgrim's bottom left arm flicks outward, and a single one of the daemon swords sinks into her side.

Several things happen at once.

Satella screams. Shadows erupt from her form, consuming everything around her and turning the world colourless.

The ship howls as the Luxuria drive cracks, an ocean of filth erupting from within it, signalling its death throes.

Fulgrim wails in frustrated rage, and makes to shout some curse, but the shadows force him to retreat, even as he slices them apart.

Reality tears open, unhealthy colours spilling out into the chamber. The raw substance of the warp. Luminous amorphousness crawling outwards and engulfing the very building blocks of matter in a scintillating malignant chromaticism.

A warp storm erupts in the bowels of the Pride of the Emperor, a broken tear of madness inducing substance that churns like a black hole, yet blazes with all the colours of a kaleidoscope. It engulfs the ground and the air. It consumes the Umbra Astartes, and swallows the shadows of the Saint herself, her form consumed in the empyrean light.

Malakim's vision darkens. His ears make out muffled orders of emergency teleport, and he feels someone's arms grasping at him.

He feels that for a brief moment of final wakefulness.

Then, he feels nothing.

---

Pleiades charges.

He charges, knowing that this is the end. He charges, his chainsword howling in his hands, and his bolt pistol dealing death even as death approaches him with a daemon's visage.

He charges alongside the knight and the guardsmen, even as the roil of the sky above them breaks open like some monstrous hive on the body of a cosmic giant, and spills forth the matter of the warp.

He charges, with Ley, Altair and Aldebaran by his side, his brothers together with him.

And as he charges into the daemons, as he breaks through into their frenzied pack, he sees the monstrous faces of the vile neverborn. Despite their profane existence, despite them being nothing but manifestations of excess, Pleiades sees fear reflect in the eyes that face him. Fear, and then pain as Humanitas carves into them.

He opens his mouth, and screams. In his most frenzied assertion, in his most deranged tone, he cries out what he knows will likely be his final words.

"KILL FOR SANGUINIUS! KILL FOR THE EMPEROR! KILL, KILL KILLL!"

Knowing his duty is done, and that he goes to the Emperor, he swings his chainsword, and rips the nearest daemon and several of its thralls into pieces. But as he does, he feels the burning pain of claws and immaterial blades, and then his mind blurs, his senses melting as the warp storm above finally descends upon him.

He smiles softly, knowing he has saved those behind. By his efforts, those lives will remain, burning brightly for the Imperium.

He knows this, even as his body is consumed by the warp, and his consciousness departs this life to seek the embrace of his Saint. To meet her as her most loyal follower. Her most ardent warrior. Her most shameless martyr.

His most prepared and devoted…

---

Chapter 4: …Space Marine.

Arc 1: End.

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18k words. Holy shit this took awhile. Sorry it's been so long, but you may take the size of this chapter as a consolation prize. It's over 1.5 times longer than the first three put together.

With this chapter, the first arc is officially over and the Isekai part of the adventure starts. Look towards it in chapter 5. Which should be hopefully shorter and won't take as long.

Until then, goodbye!

COMING SOON:

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"You're finally here! I've waited so long to see you again, Master!"

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""I'm just a stick swinger ya know! No need for this Emperor nonsense in a fight. Just know how to swing yer damn blade, bastard!"

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"We must establish communications! If the Dragon is truly as powerful as the Star Keeper claims, then we can–"

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"What good can possibly come from books such as this?"

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"We will challenge the tower, and make its sorceries kneel before the will of Man!"

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"Astropathic Signal Isolated, Prepare fleet for Warp Jump!"

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"Daemonic Beast Infestation detected! Kill on Sight!"

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"The Emperor Protects!"

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Arc 2: Beacon to the Stellar Sea

"So tell me, what kind of person are you N- S-