Théotime bellowed orders to the cavaliers behind him. They barked orders to the caravan behind them, and the caravanners shouted instructions to the plated horses and heavy troopers behind them. His magister militum, the noble master of foot, Lyle Franz Xavier, had remained in Zotteschot to allow their infantry a much deserved rest after a dauntless march across the breadth of the country.

Amzell was still a good way South, one day's ride at least. He was thankful the supply caravan had followed in the dust of their hooves; they would be able to secure a proper camp before nightfall. A nighttime's march, on horse or foot, under the light of the observer or the baleful dark of the stalker was a thing that could break armies. The stories of the Butcher collapsing Francish ranks along the roads with the stalker at their backs were legend. Equally so were the stories of the royal army of Franc failing the same maneuvers. He wasn't one to repeat history, especially in lieu potentially meeting the cunning strategist behind those collapsing strikes. He had been raised into a fine officer by cripples who had survived many of those attacks. He served under commanders, barely more than field-promoted grunts that still twitched when they heard bells chiming, who mimicked much the same as the cripples and far more horrific tales. They called him a Butcher for a reason. They spoke it with respect because of his mercy, but a Butcher he was all the same.

Théotime turned his thoughts from ancient history to the figure a few hundred meters down the road. An order to halt was barked, and the convoy of cavalry managed to slow to a stop. The man didn't bother returning the gesture and kept walking. Théotime turned to the veterans on his left and right, hardened men in suits of armour that could glance any lasbolt or arrow, nodding them to his sides as he urged his horse onward. The man seemed small before, away as he had been, but he was far from it. He must've been easily twice any of their heights. The soldiers on his flanks began to murmur and pray. Théotime steeled his gaze, placed a hand over the hilt of his sword… then the man stepped out from under the shade of a tree looming over the road, and he froze. They all did.

He wore the symbols of the Butcher's old guard, the tarnished steel breastplate painted a shade of onyx near to pure, that engraved gorget. The hammer. His face was puffy with tears, eyes hidden barely under the shade of a hat, but it didn't take much to recognize him. Théotime Jean-Jacques, Captain of the Francish Skirmisher Company, the finest mercenaries north of Argenlès, and the second finest swordsman on the continent of Ukrea… sat agape, momentarily, before speaking loudly.

"I am Capitan Théotime Jean-Jacques of the great Skirmisher Company of Franc. We have come for you, Butcher." He removed his hat, dismounted, and took a knee. His veterans joined him, and the cavaliers behind them soon followed.

OoOoO

Théotime Jean-Jacques, Captain of the Francish Skirmisher Company, the finest mercenaries north of Argenlès and second finest swordsman on the continent, was finding it incredibly difficult to remain calm. How could he be calm in a time like this? He was in the presence of the Butcher of Zotteschot, the almighty warrior, the rejuvenator! Théotime took a moment to force himself to breathe, his fingers rubbing the inlaid pommel of the sabre at his hip.

The warmth of the fire he stood before helped soothe his nerves, too. The chill of the harsh Ukrean night bit at his backside, as if to spite the heat. He rubbed his hands together before turning his eyes to the tent guarded by his finest. The cerulean of their uniforms helped disguise them under the moonlight of the observer, that glowing twin overhead. Her quieter, darker sister would be out in a few hours, but Théotime brushed it aside as of little consequence. He knew better than to push his men with a march under the observer, or gods forbid, the stalker. If the cold didn't kill them, the stalker's madness would have. He pushed the thoughts aside and steadied his gaze on the command tent. Théotime stepped forward toward it, took another deep breath, said a quick prayer, and shouldered his way through the flap.

"Théotime Jean-Jacques at your service, Butcher." He snapped off a bow and a salute—a simple fist over the heart. The Butcher, that hulking warform made flesh, had been standing before a table, back turned. He loomed a menacing height—bloody well twice Théotime's. Sure, he was short, but twice the size of five foot four was still indomitable.

The Butcher turned to him. Théotime nearly lost his footing under that gaze. He had expected a cold, calculating look, that glint of genius he had recognized in so many of his overseers and superiors. It wasn't that—far from it. It was warm, like that of a caring father, but tempered with a disconnected, tragic sort of anger. Théotime felt like he was being burned under the intensity, as short a time it was focused on him. The demigod's eyes softened with a sort of discomfort and the Butcher nodded politely in greeting.

"You needn't call me Butcher, mister Jean-Jacques. Octazarus is just fine," his voice quietly bellowed. Théotime nearly leapt out of his skin—the But-Octazarus' voice was of a mountainous depth, yet with the same warmth that he had observed before. It was… puzzling. Borderline unnerving, but he didn't dare comment. Théotime removed his hat and bowed again. Octazarus circled around to the other side of the table, and the Francish mercenary captain hesitantly stepped forward to look over the table's contents.

His highlighted map of the region stared back at Théotime. Points were marked across its breadth, little coloured ribbons tied round needle-thin pins stuck up from the map. Across from Octazarus, it felt as if they loomed like trees, mere inches off the map. Théotime cleared his throat uncertainly and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.

"We've been patrolling the region under the tyrant's order… you've filled in most of our blanks. We had covered most of the north before he had recalled me to come search for you," Théotime began, stepping forward and looking over the new dots, briefing pausing on droplets around the pin marking the riverside farming village of Amzell as raided. Octazarus' eyes flicked up from the map to meet Théotime's, and for a moment, he saw the calculation and glint that had been absent before. It was gone before Théotime had time to become startled. "I had walked for a while, heading north. Detoured to check on the neighboring villages… few remained, as the fates had made clear. Fared better than Amzell, the most of them," the man explained before rubbing a stubbled face.

"Probably worked their way along the river. They missed a few settlements as they went, from what this map suggests… Assuming its accurate." Théotime felt put upon and quickly straightened his back—felt more like bending it backwards with how stiff he was—and nodded.

"My scouts are trained cartographers and skilled navigators. You would be hard-pressed to find anyone better," Théotime chirped with a proud look about him. Octazarus kept his eyes on the man for a moment longer before turning his gaze to the map. He traced a line from the large river to the North, down toward the small mountain passes, narrowly avoiding the capital city marked with a gold star, and all the way down to the bottom of the map, tapping the tear-stained marker of his home nevermore. "They followed the densest settlements, avoided forts where they could. Didn't stop them from raiding the keep at the base of the mountain, though. Kept going south, didn't go out of their way to stop at small settlements out of the way. Still stopped at the ones between them and the southern coast. The reports on the matter reported no bodies—not surprised." Octazarus felt a stinging pang of heartache and composed himself as best he could, clearing his throat.

"They took my children. Killed my wife, my son, and my newborn. Their weapons—they barely left bloody mulch behind of my wife. Their weapons are vile. Melted their bones." Octazarus balled his fists as images swept across his mind, memories barely days old. He turned his head upward from the table to his kind host, the noble mercenary that had been so helpful. The man's eyes had become teary as well and he nodded.

"Then it is the knife-eared marauders, again. We had thought them exterminated long ago, but… this is worse than the few skirmishes of the surviving marauders." Théotime stepped up to the table, following his gloved fingers along the spots that Octazarus' had crossed, stopping near Amzell. He met Octazarus' gaze with a poor attempt at a steely gaze.

"They had wiped out many of my countrymen, before the coalition. Some of the marauders' scattered remnants still hide out in the mountains at the peak of the continent. My family has experienced their barbarism. They are a menace. I never lost anyone close… you have my sympathies, Butcher," he spoke, soft yet firm in his wavering voice. Octazarus could only stare down at the little man. Butcher. That's all you are to them. A butcher. They call it a term of reverence, but we both know better, you and I. He didn't bother responding to the intrusive thought. Théotime gave his idol, the man whom he was honour-bound to, his hand. He held it tightly—reassuringly and gave him one of those sorrowful smiles born of knowing. Octazarus returned it in kind before he turned back to the table, gently leaning on its edge. The little Francish mercenary seemed to become more comfortable and stood across from Octazarus. He leaned on a hip, cocking to one side as he looked up at the giant.

"What do you plan on doing now, Butcher?" Octazarus stared at the map as the little flamboyant Francish man circled the tent, tidying up the few stray items on folding tables. He took a long look at the scar of red ribbons cutting his country down the middle, and he thought. He thought about all the things he wished he could have done to that wretched creature that evaded his grasp. He thought of how he would strangle the life out of it when he found the thing, and his fingers tightened around the edge of the table, the wood creaking audibly. He paused and calmed as his mind raced. He thought of Miloslaw Aleksy, how that coward was building an air fleet. He thought of how that horrid man had been making promises to hunt the remaining knife-ears off in the mountains of Franc. Another bid for a war that Octazarus had forced that rat bastard's father to end all those years ago. His fingers tightened on the edge of the table again.

"I'm going to go make certain that coward, Miloslaw Aleksy, holds up his promises. Commandeer his navy if I damn well must," Octazarus snarled, shoving off the table. He paced across the room for a few minutes, thinking. Théotime watched and scoffed.

"I've seen a few of those pitiful excuses he calls airships. I'm sure you have as well." Théotime rubbed the pommel of his sword as he sat on the edge of the table. Octazarus frowned, eyes darting about as he paced. He weighed his options, did the math, and swore inwardly as he came up with less than stellar products. The mercenary cleared his throat, drawing Octazarus' attention. "There aren't many on this world who can commit the resources to manufacturing gunboats and destroyers. That pitiful man who calls himself a tyrant, is not one of them, despite his claims to the contrary. He has been copying the Vartigaardian squats for as long as he's been on this crusade of his. If you want airships, they are your ticket."

Octazarus paused in his attempts to pace a hole into the ground. His beloved Vinicia was out there, in the hands of the same horrid monsters who had taken the rest of his family from him. He wanted to get to her as fast as he damn well could, but the little Francish mercenary had spoken the truth. Any bid for Miloslaw's trash-barge ships would see him dead before he could even reach that knife-eared bastard. He glanced up at the cocky mercenary with a chuff out his nose. "Vartigaard is a long way away, and last I checked, their iron walls have never been breached, trashy air-barges or not."

Théotime grinned ear-to-ear. He glanced up at the man, legs crossed, and hands folded in front of him. "The people of Franc owe their freedom to you, Butcher. We are bound to you by honour, and I'll see your will done… if you'll have us." He leapt from the table and drew his sabre, planting it in the dirt and placing himself at Octazarus' feet. He stared down at the mercenary. He retrieved the man's hat from the table and offered it back to him.

"First, we rest. Then, we march on Zotteschot. Come now, captain. We have a war to plan." Théotime smiled wider as he stood with a nod. He failed to spot the apprehension and twinge of guilt in his new commander's eyes.

OoOoO

The Praetorian scowled as he struggled to recall the painful cloud of psychically suppressed memories. The Hydra didn't pay him any mind as he attended to the stubborn man's many wounds, stitching, and staunching where necessary. The Praetorian put the struggle of recollection to the backburner and focused on his brother, the one he swore he'd killed all those years ago. The man was a traitor—that much Rogal was certain. His legion had fired on loyal brothers during the Heresy. Rogal figured the Hydra smarter than to think it could sway him to the influence of Chaos, especially now… yet if he had wanted that, why save him from those depravities? To gain his trust? No, a fool's errand. The Hydra would know better…

Alpharius stood up as he finished his patchwork medic job. He grinned with mild amusement behind his helmet. The Praetorian had that amusing look of bemusement that he recognized as a result of trying to prod through psychic blocks. A good sign. He leaned against a girder and took another try at prodding his brother. "You must remember something of him, his legion. Your Fists served beside them constantly, before and after they found you."

Dorn scowled deeply at the Hydra. He didn't care to be interrogated… but truth be told, he was tired of trying to work his mind around the formless beast that was the Hydra and its goals. He humoured the idea, and thought hard, focusing on that horrid cloud of nothing in his mind. Razors bit at his brain, and a rivulet of blood trickled down his nostril, but it was worth the pain. Memories flooded back to him—not much of substance. He remembered his sons' tales of the weeping legion, and a legion on the brink. "Yes… I remember, now." The Hydra cocked its head in interest.

"My Fists served during the conquest of the false world of Sedna… A strong psychic pulse was reported, not originating from the world, rather forcing itself in from outside. The… Sentinels, they had been called… I think… they had been adversely affected," Dorn proffered the memory easily. He would play along with the Hydra, for now. He rubbed his head with his gauntleted hand and continued pulling on the string of memories, eliciting more agony. "The Imperial Army's auxilia psykers had reported it, too. It had been written off for a time as a symptom of the false world's conquest and subsequent destruction, but something else… Yes, I recall. He had told me, Halbrecht I think it was, he told me the story of how the Sentinels had become disgraced with the title of the 'Weeping Legion' some weeks later. The psychic pulse had returned, as if on delay, and the legion had succumbed to some manner of hysteria in the middle of fighting. They hadn't lost, but…"

OoOoO

Thoughts of the false world of Sedna had been long dead in the minds of the Sentinels Legion, the honourable second of the Legiones Astartes. A forgotten memory, to the legionaries, and a distant concern to their commanders and officers.

To Lupus Sluaghadhan, captain of the third company, it was of little consequence. Psychic phenomena had been a common occurrence to the legions since the Unification Wars that preceded their current conquests. Lupus was more concerned about the damned autocannon that had drawn a bead on his squad, at the given moment. The skies above Lupus were dark with smog, and unfortunately there was no air support either. The surroundings were equally macabre—ruins of fashionable red brick and early industrial society, but no armoured support to plow through. Lupus admitted he was comfortable behind the dilapidated pile of steel and brass that had once been some manner of clockwork-horse drawn armoured car, but he was finding it less comfortable as the autocannon up ahead continued to pour fire on it. He was even less pleased that it had been placed in a pillbox—a sturdy one, too. Bolts had little effect. Grenades, too.

"Alceste, what is the word on our reinforcements?" Lupus barked over the vox. Alceste poked his head up from a pile of bricks behind them, giving a curt shake of the head. Lupus frowned and turned to the squadmate tucked into cover beside him. He drew his bolt pistol into his offhand, hollering a quick "draw their fire!" before drawing himself low like a spring.

As the first few bolts left the marine's bolter, Lupus decompressed and lunged to the side. Autocannon rounds pelted the damaged brickwork behind him. His boot crushed a skeleton underfoot, but he paid no heed. He dove into the cratered road ahead as the autocannon lost visuals. The third company captain breathed a sigh of relief, lying on his stomach. That pillbox was going to be the death of him and his squad, he swore it. He had already lost a few marines to an ambush by one of the bastards concealed in the ruins of a fruit vendor's stall a few klicks back, he wouldn't let any more of his men die to this nonsense. If nothing else, they had a rendezvous to make with the Imperial Fists' 88th company another kilometer or so deeper into this horrid urban sprawl.

Lupus took to a low crouch, peaking over the crumbling walls of the bombed-out factory between him and the pillbox, finding its attention drawn over to the mass reactive boltshells peppering it from the way he'd come. Alceste had seemingly opened up with his lascannon as well, Lupus spotted several sweltering scorchmarks in the composite exterior of the gunner's nest in that horrid little box. He leapt his way out of the crater and lowered himself into a sprint, power sword flashing to life with a crackle of thunder, lightning streaking off the edges of the power field. The autocannon swung on him, but by the time it fired its first shot, he had cleared most of the distance.

The wave of emotion that struck him as he swept his powered shortsword across the barrel of the autocannon nearly killed him. He rolled his way out of the range of the autocannon as an oppressive heartache washed over him. He felt hot tears running down his cheeks, and the overwhelming sense of loss nearly sent him to his knees. The autocannon fired. He heard a scream. One set of vitals displayed on his visor flatlined, then two, then four. The heartache only intensified, but he forced his legs to move. He climbed his way atop the pillbox, backhanding one of the pitiful excuses for "heavy infantry" lying prone atop behind a lip of cover. They went flying, rolling down the mounds of debris surrounding the pillbox, like a child rolling down a hill of broken glass, shattered brickwork and outcropping rebar. He smashed the hatch atop the pillbox with a boot and dropped inside with a scream of rage. He shakily ordered his marines to charge and leapt back out of the pillbox, soaked in offal and blood. Arcadius Laius observed the tactical display of his third company commander's helmet from orbit, his voice broken by choking sobs, eyes bleary with tears, his gauntlets crushing the terminal's edges as he held it tightly. The naval ensigns in the war room stood agape as the various legion officers fell into tears and fits of sobbing. Across the Sentinel Legion's fleet, reports flooded in of similar states of depressive hysteria.

It took hours for order to be restored. The war hadn't paused below for this bout of psychic mania either—many had died, many more had been wounded. The war hadn't lasted long after that, but it hadn't mattered. All eyes were on the Sentinels, and the word across the lips of the other legions present during the reclamation campaign above this world was "compromised." It was a word Arcadius had first heard from a War Hound, and it nearly started a brawl. Arcadius had plenty of new bruises to prove it, and a hideous black eye that would haunt him for a few more hours, but he had managed to calm the bastard before he did any lasting damage. Arcadius mused on the damage as he stomped his way past several blind servitors and menials. He stopped before a bulkhead door with a hulking saturnine terminator flanking it. He gave a curt nod to the guards, uttered a few words in the dead Terran dialect that Ignatius Bawble had been so kind to teach him, and stepped through the doors as they crawled open, then shut.

"You look like shit," Lupus was quick to point out. Acradius didn't dignify him with a response—the third company captain's armour, painted in urban camouflage for the battle, had gone from a splattering of grays, blacks and whites to white, black, red and pink. Widogast was tending to the man's stump where his left arm below the elbow had been some hours prior, grumbling all the while. Ignatius Bawble, that hideous man in his golden armour, watched and cracked jokes at Lupus' expense every few moments when the captain would wince and make a pained noise at Widogast's prodding.

"Do you have any insight to what happened, Widogast?" Arcadius sat on a crate opposite the chief apothecary as the man finished knitting bone and muscle to a metallic disc fitted to the end of the severed limb. The apothecary grumbled as he tore off the thick rubber gloves from his unarmoured hands and glared at the captain. His long white doctor's coat was stained an ugly shade of red, his medical scrubs an ugly blackish colour. His hair, the man's pride, was unharmed, tidily kept in an eggshell-white ponytail, the same could not be said for his rough olive skin, and that look of contempt in his unnaturally green eyes bit into Arcadius' soul more than the legion commander would ever dare admit.

"No, I do not. You would have better luck speaking with one of the psykers, to be honest…" Widogast trailed off, grumbling under his breath about sedatives and overgrown psychic man-children. Arcadius was close to addressing the can of worms that was bound to be, but the grumbly thunder warrior seemed to beat him to it, clockwork augmetic jaw clicking as he spoke.

"Oh, come now, Widogast. You could always ask us for help if you need help sedating one of your psykers," Ignatius said. He stood up and stretched his limbs, eliciting pops and cracks from the waning cartilage and porous bone under his armour. "I say, it would be better than sitting around with my lot of cancer-ridden brothers and enjoying the fine dining of rats and discarded rations." He proffered a kebab of indiscernible burnt meat to the chief apothecary, who scowled and leaned back as it was moved toward his face. "Maybe we could trade places for a day! I was assigned medicae by my primarch for a time, after all. You could keep the blind-deaf menials and my rabid second in command company, I'll administer the emperor's peace to all your psykers. It'll be good fun, Widogast, I promise!" Ignatius' deadpan expression and tone only infuriated the chief apothecary more. Lupus stood up, power armour whirring angrily as he stared down the aging thunder warrior.

"We spared you and your wild curs from death, Ignatius. You would best start carrying yourself with a mote of respect, lest it have to be beaten into you," Lupus snarled. Ignatius gave the third company captain an ugly sneer, but further words were stopped as Lupus was pushed back onto his makeshift seat by Arcadius. His other hand gently pushed the old thunder warrior back a few steps, and a long glare at both seemed to calm the frayed nerves, if only temporarily. Arcadius pinched the bridge of his nose and took a moment to breathe deeply of the stale, recycled air with his swollen nostrils, letting the frustration out through his mouth.

"It would be best if you gave me the full story before an official debrief, Lupus. I'd prefer honesty between us in this legion, even if we must keep a stern face outward." Arcadius pulled a crate over and sat across from the wounded captain. Lupus grumbled something about indecency before meeting the eyes of his commander.

"You know as much as I do, I have a feeling. It was like Sedna—worse, though. This… sadness, sense of loss. Like I had watched the whole legion die, and I could've stopped it, if only I'd moved faster…felt like that too." Lupus' eyes became cloudy, and he lost focus for a few seconds. The names of the lost marines during that battle would remain in his mind for a long while. He shook his head clear of the thoughts. "I lost a few men to it. They were overwhelmed by the sudden influx of emotion, didn't react to the autocannon drawing a bead on them. I moved, but not fast enough-" Lupus was cut off by a snapping cackle from Ignatius.

"By the Throne, and I thought we were unstable. I've never had a man break down crying like a child during a battle, that's a new one." Ignatius loomed over Lupus, but it mattered little. A fist went swinging. Advanced age or not, the thunder warrior reacted in kind. The one-armed captain tackled the hulking berserker and the two scuffled on the floor. Arcadius snapped off an order for the captain to disengage and lock it down, but the words fell on deaf ears. Ignatius snapped off in that dead tongue while he kicked and spat. The two got to their feet, cracking war-plate with wayward kicks and underhanded punches and jabs. Lupus used his stump to pound at Ignatius' augmetic jaw, denting it. Ignatius butted his dense forehead into Lupus'. Both staggered back, bleeding from their heads. Arcadius managed to shove Lupus down, and Widogast managed to sneak a strong sedative into Ignatius' neck. Both fell onto their asses. Ignatius was immune to the angry ranting by the apothecary, though Lupus could not say the same about the beratement from his commander. Ignatius' weak focus failed to catch most of it, though the last few words caught.

"… You are Astartes, Lupus. A captain in mylegion. I'll see you decimated by a squad of terminators if you continue acting out of line." Ignatius cackled with mirthless laughter. Arcadius shot a dark glare at the thunder warrior, but it bounced off the cynical old man.

"You'd have made a fine thunder warrior, Lupus," Ignatius growled through bloody teeth, spitting a gob of blood onto the floor. "Like Endryd Haar, in that sense." Widogast quickly snapped off at Ignatius.

"Don't be such a dreamer, Ignatius. He's a one-off case, not the bloody rule. You'd sooner fall apart than survive the sort of invasive operation that he had went through," Widogast reprimanded the thunder warrior, waving an empty needle at him like a wagging finger. Arcadius shook his head and sighed.

"That aside… You're right to compare it to Sedna, Lupus. A battle psyker had come to me after the event, face all wet with tears. The Magii from the Fifteenth and I had words, too. He said there had been a strong psychic pulse… Used a lot of flowery language. Called it a 'great emotional turmoil'," Arcadius explained. "Said it crossed the Empyrean like a 'great tide', crashed against our collective psyche with incredible force… I'd sooner trust one of our own psykers than the flowery words of one of those sneering artists, but…" Arcadius' brow furrowed. He rubbed his sore chin. Widogast walked over and gave his bruised face a once-over with a look of annoyance and concern, though it was quickly wiped away. The three sentinels seemed to come to the same conclusion, glancing up at one another in the same instance.

"The Luna Wolves never broke down sobbing, before or after they met Lupercal," Arcadius quickly noted. Lupus grunted with bemusement and took to his feet, beginning to pace. Widogast leaned against a wall, arms crossed, foot tapping.

"It could very well be the Primarch," the apothecary proposed. Lupus nodded in seeming agreement as he paced back and forth.

"Horus is the only one to be discovered. Who's to say this isn't the norm?" Lupus proffered, though his voice wavered with uncertainty. Widogast scoffed.

"What if it isn't?" Both sentinels turned to Arcadius. He looked up at them from his seat. "What if it isn't the primarch?" The words of the war hound weighed heavily in his mind. It left a sense of sinking dread in his core. That feeling seemed to spread, because the expressions of his two comrades quickly turned, their excitement and anxieties tempered and countered. The discussion didn't have the time to brew into darker theories as a servoskull drifted over to Arcadius. He cocked his eyebrow and stood. It burbled in binaric at him before spitting out a sheet of parchment from its jaw. Arcadius gently tore it off with the serrated lower teeth. The servoskull burbled again and drifted off. His expression became darker.

"What is it, Arcadius?" Widogast stepped forward with concern. Arcadius held up a finger as he double, triple, then quadruple checked that he had read the parchment correctly, before swearing under his breath.

"I've been hailed for by the Emperor. He wants an explanation, it seems." Widogast and Lupus quickly joined in Arcadius' swearing, while Ignatius chuckled drunkenly from his spot nearby.

"Widogast, watch over Lupus. Lupus? Don't start another brawl. Consider this a test of your self-control." Both marines nodded at the order, though the third company captain did so with much disgruntlement. Arcadius stepped away, then out the heavy doors from which he came. Lupus went to rub his face, only to realise he was missing that hand, and grunted with amusement. He glanced over at Ignatius.

"Any good stories today, old man?" The thunder warrior grunted as he sat upright. "You know, maybe I do have a good story. Fourth thunder legion, they had this swordsman, his name was Aleksander Gniewek…"

OoOoO

"… I recall that Father had called for some manner of debrief with the legion commander, his name leaves me at the moment—no, Arcadius. I remember now, Arcadius… Laius. The story had ended there, though the Fist had been rather smug about the whole affair," the Praetorian finished. He rubbed his eyes and leaned back against a bulkhead behind him. Alpharius chuckled.

"More of a scolding, that supposed debrief. I witnessed part of it—I hadn't seen Father so angry up until then." Alpharius rolled his shoulders as he began to pace around their little camp in the steely crossway. "Captain Laius had to argue for the survival of his legion. Had it not been so private, it's likely they would've been destroyed, then and there. It was private, and without outside influence, little Arcadius managed to convince Father that the legion wouldn't be so careless as to allow such outside influence, and so on, so forth." Alpharius paused. He thought on the quick change of demeanor the legion had undergone, and thought of a story his dearest, lost brother had told him, and chuckled. "Arcadius wasn't the same after that. He was colder. All the legion was—a little too quickly, I think, for it to have been a simple change in attitude. They have a bond like no other, Octazarus and his legion—hence those psychic pulses." Alpharius knelt to peek through a gash in the catwalk with a frown. He stayed there, staring for a long few seconds. His brow furrowed,but he stood back up, seemingly unbothered. "Nobody had noticed the psychic pulse that had followed that second, more dangerous one." He turned to the Praetorian.

Dorn stared back at the Hydra with a deadpan gaze. "I have no doubt you found the information through some devious means, like the treacherous spy you've always been." The Hydra only laughed, a gauntlet to his chest in mock offense. Laughter was obscured and translated roughly through his helmet's vox-grille. "I'm offended, brother! No, it was nothing so nefarious. My legion had been working closely with the beloved lost legion. Earned their respect through valour, even! Don't look so surprised, brother. Even my sons can be valorous. Some details were shared, and they coincided with several reports that had been suppressed by Arcadius and vigilators in the legion." Alpharius reveled in the unhappy expression in the Praetorian's face.

Rogal was unamused. "You've carted me around the depths of the Phalanx, snake. You've tended my wounds, and you've brought me nothing but anguish with memories of a brother I was sworn to never speak of. I won't hear any more of your stories, any more of your prodding until I have answers." The Hydra stared at Dorn for a while, crimson visor lenses flickering in the low light of the maintenance crevasse. Then, he shrugged, and swept his hands, motioning for Dorn to ask away. He didn't waste time thinking. "I killed you all those years ago on your ship. Why are you helping me now?"

"Very adamant with that question, aren't you? Call it water under the bridge. It's in our mutual interests that you're alive for the next steps ahead." The Praetorian's face twisted with anger, and Alpharius paled invisibly. One-armed as his brother may have been, there was little doubt in the twentieth primarch's mind that he was still severely outclassed by his gold-clad brother. "That answer did not satisfy. Try again," the Praetorian rolled his eyes. "Don't get all antsy with me. If it were up to me, I'd have left you to your fate. Father hadn't agreed with that apathy to a sibling… for some bloody reason. It was his plan to drag you here, not mine." That certainly silenced the gray-haired brute. Alpharius had the self-control not to laugh, but it was a near thing. He'd have reveled in explaining the whole affair to get it out of the way, but he stiffened.

Rogal found it incredibly hard to believe that his father was on speaking terms with that treacherous snake. Could hardly believe he would conspire like this. Had the Hydra not frozen like a statue, Rogal would have pried. The body language—it had gone from relaxed, but alert, to immediately on edge and coiled.

"We need to move, now." The Praetorian's brow furrowed, and Alpharius saw in his eyes he wanted to argue. His eyes widened at the sight of hoarfrost on the grated metal beneath their boots.

"Psykers?" Rogal asked as he was helped to his feet by the supposed prodigal son. The Hydra stared up at him. "Worse." They wasted no time in making a retreat.

A/N:

A notice to returning readers, Chapter 3 has been revised heavily from the original draft posted here. I would recommend reading it again to get better context of this chapter's events. Anyone who is not familiar with the fucking tome that is my other big story on this site, ignore this next part.

As a note to anyone who may be coming over from Magnus Invicta, know that the story hasn't been entirely abandoned. To put it into context, though, I started that fic almost four years ago now, and it has gone through three or four major revisions to the narrative. It will not survive a fifth. As such, I'm going to be narrowing in the scope of the story and finishing it within the next year. I can't promise anything deserving of that wait, but I hope it satisfies some pains.

-CW