Ghosts and stars were not too different from one another in the grand scheme of things. Both were distant, cold entities that were eternally out of reach. To touch either was to touch death.

That was perhaps why Pyotr and Zseron got on so well.

The two Night Lords, one adorned in warrior's armor, the other in a mobile fortress, stood in the Strategium of their vessel. The chamber was otherwise empty and both men remained in comfortable silence for several minutes before Zseron inevitably broke the peace.

"I hear that First Claw is dead," the Sorcerer of Stars said. Pyotr was not surprised by this. The Savory Wound had no Navigator and, thus, the duty was regulated to Zseron. This had resulted in an… odd relationship between him and the ship. There were very few things that occurred within its halls and chambers that he did not know about.

"As is a squad of Carnage Stitcher berzerkers," Pyotr added.

"And how did such a thing happen?"

Zseron knew. The ship itself likely told him, assuming he didn't see it personally while communing with the vessel. This was an opportunity for Pyotr to establish a story, an explanation for the rest of the Astartes to be appeased by.

"Tensions are high," Pyotr said with a casual air, "a meeting of happenstance between two squads grew tense, then violent. There were no survivors."

"Convenient that there was no one there to bear witness and confirm such a tale." He eyed Pyotr, then returned his gaze to the hololithic display, rubbing his chin as he overlooked the readouts of Pyotr's petition. "No one will believe it."

"No one has to," Pyotr responded gruffly. "Both warbands simply need an excuse to not escalate matters further. This is a mask they can hide behind."

"Or cower. The apothecary will not be pleased with this arrangement, I imagine."

"He was not," Pyotr admitted. Zasharr had spent the better part of an hour screaming vitriol at him after he had reported that the entire squad that was loaned out to him was dead. The mad surgeon was borderline rabid, the way he waved his chainblade threateningly at Pyotr while ranting about the needless waste of his efforts and the delicate procedures it took to create a batch of Astartes of his legion that weren't mindless and bloodcrazed beasts. "But I took efforts to make amends."

Zseron raised an eyebrow.

Meeting that gaze was oddly difficult for Pyotr. There were very few brothers he could not look in the eye as he was threatened or scrutinized, but the sorcerer always seemed to see more about a man than what was on the exterior.

"All of First Claw's weapons and armor were gifted to make up for his loss," he responded.

Zseron grunted, the violet runes on his armor pulsing ever so slightly. Despite this, his voice remained preserved in its tranquility. "Many of those items were relics dating back to the time of Horus."

"It was either that or their geneseed," Pyotr said.

Zseron nodded. "Good choice."

They fell into silence once more. The need for further conversation would not rise again until there was something worthy of speaking about.

Pyotr took that time to scan the Strategium. In mere minutes, the fate of the warband would be decided in this room. That knowledge weighed on him more than he cared to admit. He was entrusting in the cooperation of Gargahl and Anras, two brothers whose egotistical wills had resulted in many misfortunes in the past. He had come to an understanding with the visionary, yes, but that did not mean the animosity they shared for one another was diminished and he wouldn't seek out an opportunity to betray Pyotr.

As for the daemon prince, Gyrthemar had convinced him in the moment, but Gargahl's stances were notoriously flighty depending on his mood. There was no guarantee he would commit to the plan that he had been given.

The only one Pyotr could reasonably rely on was Zseron. The Sorcerer of Stars was no confidant of Pyotr, but he was far more level in his thinking than any other members of their warband—a trait that seemed common in the Atramentar.

"Zseron," Pyotr found himself speaking.

"Hm?"

"Do you believe that the Prince of Crows still breathes?"

Zseron looked up from the hololith at that. He faced Pyotr and fixed him with a curious look, as if wondering what point there was to such a question. "Why do you ask?"

Pyotr did not shrug, as such a gesture felt meaningless to him now. Instead, he chose to stand there and allow the silence to speak for him.

The Sorcerer of Stars sighed, running a distracted hand over the scars upon his scalp. "I will say this: If Sevatar lives, then I wonder why he has left us without leadership for so long."

"You fought beside him?"

He nodded. "All Atramentar did, as did the Contekar." He spoke of the legion's second division of terminators with but the barest hint of revulsion. Like a single mote of dust upon a blanket of snow.

Pyotr was not certain why he asked such a question. Of course Zseron had done battle beside the original First Captain. All members of the legion during the time of the Great Crusade and, later, Horus's War had at least seen or spoken with Sevatar. Even Pyotr was present to witness his duel against Sigismund. Still, there was something he couldn't help but attribute to the Prince of Crows, something mythical.

He knew how to make his brothers listen and follow orders.

This is not my responsibility to bear, Pyotr thought, feeling the exhaustion seep further into his bones like cold, languid worms. He would hold on, clutch and compress the warband together with his own two hands, for just a little longer. Until they were free from their current predicament, then… Then he was not sure.

Then you can let go… A thought that was not his own whispered.

Pyotr growled, drawing a confused look from Zseron. After Pyotr declined to elaborate or even acknowledge the outburst, the Atramentar sorcerer returned to the display.

"This plan is usable. I support it," Zseron said. Relief flooded Pyotr like a combat narcotic. He was not sure if he would have been able to put up with another diplomatic charade.

"Anras and Gargahl have been convinced to accept the terms, as well." Hopefully.

Zseron nodded. "That will aid you, but not guarantee your success."

"What do you mean?" Pyotr asked, frowning.

The doors to the Strategium slid open and the first wave of Astartes filtered in, taking their stances within the chamber.

"You will see."

The chamber burned with the candle flames of red eye lenses, accented sporadically by the emerald ones of their cousins. Pyotr could taste the aggravation, both between the warbands and from what may happen within this room should they not reach an agreement. He sincerely doubted that there were any Astartes aboard the Savory Wound who believed that Zseron was bluffing in his threat from the days prior.

Indeed, as the Sorcerer of Stars stood in his Warp-enhanced terminator armor, psychic staff of corpses at his side, his brethren of the Atramentar standing as regal statues at his heels, he looked ready to make true on his promises.

Pyotr scanned the crowd before him, finding Zasharr amongst his own men. The berzerker surgeon met his eyes directly. There was still tension there—though that was not uncommon for a Son of Angron—and no question that he would not let his frustrations with Pyotr rest so easily, but there was still respect in those eyes. He was not yet ready to abandon his cousin entirely, be that out of true camaraderie or the necessity of his warband's ship.
It was more than he could say for Sixth Claw. The three members of Pyotr's squad stood on the direct opposite side of the hololithic display across from Pyotr and paid him no heed whatsoever. They did not outright avoid his gaze, but any time they happened to look his way, their eyes seemed to slide over him entirely, as if he were a wisp of translucent vapor. The gesture was easily digestible. They did not bother to stand as far away as they could from him because that would imply they still bore any emotion at all towards him. They did not refuse to look his way because that would mean he still meant something to him. Instead, they displayed a simple, obvious truth; he was no longer one of them.

The fatigue writhed and clawed its way deeper into his marrow.

Anras and Gargahl also stood on opposing sides of the display table, perpendicular to Pyotr. The former was sullen and rigid, the latter sardonic and ornery. As was to be expected.

"Last time we met," Zseron began as the last remaining stragglers took up their positions within the chamber, "we were at an impasse, split between two decisions. What do we say now?" He eyed Pyotr expectantly.

Before any other members within the war room could speak up, he stepped forward, resting his hands on the edge of the table. The servos in his gauntlets let out a feeble squeal at the action. He allowed a spare sliver of his brain to make a mental note to send them to the artificers before they began locking up. "I have spent much time these past few days thinking over our options and, rather than choose between two proposed ideas, I petition a third that alloys them," Pyotr lied. He knew that too many of his brothers would immediately disregard the plan if they were to know a mortal was the one who had initially devised it. Even still, many of the Night Lords present barked their annoyance and disapproval at being forced to choose between an additional, third course of action rather than the original two.

Pyotr waited for the uproar to quiet once more before continuing. It did not until Zseron raised his staff in a threatening gesture. This particularly unnerved the Carnage Stitchers, the nervous—or perhaps hopeful—revving of chainweapons echoed from various different points within the chamber as the squawking of voices diminished.

"Thank you," Pyotr said, a scornful grimace on his face beneath his helm. "As I was saying…" He pulled the hololith of Kleos onto the display, alongside the data readouts of the trajectory to the planet from their current location. "With our current fuel reserves, we bear no chance of fighting or outrunning the Gorgon's Manacles and those dog-mating whores within it. We have no outposts or support within twenty systems of here. And even if we could reach them, our only allies we could call upon would be our own legion—Not that there would even be a guarantee that they would come to our aid, anyway." A few black chuckles rose up from the gathered warriors despite Pyotr not intending the words as a joke. "The Warp, however, provides us with a unique opportunity. Through it, we could reach this planet that rests on the edge of the Imperium. Landing here, we would be able to fight the Ferric Sentries on our own terms before fleeing when tactically appropriate, all while fraying another piece of the False Emperor's tapestry. The lives of two men taken with one stroke."

He took a moment then to survey the crowd. Many of his brothers were looking at the calculations displayed on the readout, a large percentage nodding approvingly. Others stood with arms crossed over their chests or in other postures that showed they were unconvinced. A vast majority of these individuals appeared to be followers of Anras and Gargahl's disciples. Pyotr clamped his jaw shut and waited, for that was all he could do now.
Zseron stepped forward. "This plan has merit and foresight." The Atrementar nodded in approval. "It would allow us a better chance at victory in a fight and an opportunity for our World Eater allies to employ their skills in the best way they know how." He gestured to Zasharr, who gave a slow nod of acknowledgement.

The mood of the chamber immediately shifted as a large swath of its occupants accepted Zseron's words and allowed them to weigh heavier on their consideration. It still wouldn't be enough.

A loud rumble filled the air as Gargahl let out a sigh that contaminated the air and began picking at his fangs with a claw. "I suppose I can support this idea, as well," he rasped. "So long as there are enemies enough to slay." His raptor-apostles screeched their assent like the good little sycophants they are.

Pyotr's eyes found Anras. The visionary looked at him with a frustrated sneer. "Who would I be to refuse advice and improvements to my original plan?" he said slowly. Pyotr snorted quietly. Of course his brother would still attempt to find some way to salvage as much control over the situation as he could.

Murmurs filled the Strategium. They were not ones of doubt or disagreement, however, but of consideration and even some excitement. Pyotr closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment of relief. Finally, some unity for once.

He opened his eyes again just as the flashes began to dance behind his lids and before that thing could begin slithering its way into his mind once more. No sooner had he done so had the voices died down as a figure approached the display table.

"Do we get a say in these matters?" Zasharr asked, an edge to his voice. "Or are we just tools to be used and broken?"

Pyotr ground his teeth. "You were the one who initially offered your men as a vanguard against our enemy."

"That was before I began questioning if your kind paid me and my men any value other than a buffer between the life and death of your own kin."

Pyotr narrowed his eyes. He did not think his cousin would be so petty as to cause mayhem upon the ship over a few lost soldiers, but it was difficult to trust that notion when the lord discordant could hear the soul of those nails whispering venom into his cousin's mind.

No one spoke up to answer on Pyotr's behalf. Instead, they all looked to him and waited. He paused, taking his time in consideration. If he did not allow the Carnage Stitchers a voice in the matter, the results could be catastrophic in the short- and long-term of their alliance, but if he did, he would be giving the mad apothecary ample opportunity to sabotage a plan that was coming together for the first time in many years for his warband. It was a gambit with lofty stakes.

A gambit he decided to take.

"Of course you do, cousin," Pyotr said. "We would not be here without your assistance. What is your stance on this proposal?"

Zasharr grinned. With his features twisted by constant pain and anger, Pyotr could not tell if it was one of genuine mirth or the smug and satisfied smirk of a viper who had watched a rat fall into its den.

Do not do this, Zasharr, he pleaded internally.

The apothecary raised his chainsword into the air, activating the motor. Pyotr sensed the daemon within the weapon in place of a machine spirit swimming about in excited anticipation. Spill blood! Spill blood! Spill blood!

"The Carnage Stitchers accept this proposition! We will spill the blood of those Imperial vermin in Kharneth's name!" he roared. The other berzerkers around the room took up the call, revving their own weapons and letting out their harsh, guttural cheers for blood. Pyotr was surprised to find that even some of his own brothers took up the call and began to chant in favor of Pyotr's scheme.

The uproar continued for a time and Pyotr found himself actually growing frustrated that his stunted emotions could not bask in the glory of this moment. A snake's hiss circled his mind, making promises that he would not listen to.

Eventually, Zseron slammed his stave down onto the decking—thankfully without any psychic energy imbued within it—silencing the Strategium. "It would seem the decision is unanimous and our course of action is set. We will heed Pyotr's plan to—"

"What happens once we reach Kleos?" a voice spoke out. Pyotr followed it directly across from him and found that it had come from Retrigan. His eye twitched. "This plan is all well and good up until that point, but all our brother has done is insinuate that there will be a battle. He has given us no direction, no tactics, no plan of disengagement. I cannot support this petition until these details are given."

"I agree," Taresh said from beside, crossing his arms over his chestplate. "We are still operating under blind faith alone. This is not sustainable."

The pushback would have been minimal from any other Night Lord or World Eater aboard the Savory Wound, but the fact that the disagreement came from Pyotr's own Claw created cracks in his argument. Cracks that became ripples. Ripples that warped and twisted the mood of the crowd.

"A point well made!" someone shouted.

"We require more!" echoed a brother from the opposite side of the chamber.

"What makes you so certain of this plan, Warpsmith?"

More and more agents of dissent cried out. It was no more than a quarter of the Astartes present, but it was still enough to clearly display that the decision was no longer collective. Soon, the cries were no longer demands for clarification, but ones of accusation.

"You are hardly one of us now! We have all seen it!"

"Cares more for his daemon engines and machines than his own brothers!"

"Feckless and loyal to no one but himself!"

"How could you have forgotten the lessons of our father!"

The pressure built with each barb and burr. They poked and jabbed at his mind, adding on to the fissures of a psyche that he was already concerned was close to collapse. Pyotr glanced at Zseron, but the terminator looked at him with an expression that read simply as, I cannot fight this battle for you.

The dam broke.

"ENOUGH!" he howled. The shrieks and gnashes diminished, leaving Pyotr standing at the hololithic display, his hands gripping the edge with such intensity that they threatened to bend and warp the metal. Zealously, he pulled his helmet free from his head and slammed it down on the table so hard that the display flickered for a moment. A snarl stretched across his face, bearing the chipped and broken teeth that he had earned in his childhood. He glared across the room.

"I grow sick of this prattle, this consensus that I have become, or always was, odious towards my warband, my legion. You speak and whisper that I am no child of my father, that I wish that I had ascended under a different Primarch. You know nothing of me! I bleed midnight, just as any one of you. I sat at the feet of my father and learned his lessons with relish! That is more than could be said for an increasing number of our warband as the years tick by. I know the meaning of terror! I know the sanctity of our duty! I am a haunter in the dark! Our father taught us the truth of this galaxy and I embraced his words! Benevolence is poison upon humanity. Fear is the way, the only way, to achieve order! We are the angels of the people! We bring civilization wherever we step! We walk the path of exiles, hated for our methods at the cost of less lives than the yapping mutts of those loyal to the False Emperor as they wage their bloody, senseless wars!

"Hail to the Lords of Night! Hail to us! While others grow illusioned and weak by the lies of the Imperium, we were forged in harsher fires! Born unto the Sunless World, we know what it means to be strong! Taught its lessons, we know the kindness that is in cruelty! If death is nothing compared to vindication, then repulsion is nothing in the light of salvation! I have walked this path, and I have seen the fog cleared. I look on and see the road forward. Stagnation is death, I choose progress! Our methods must change, but the lessons remain the same! That is my creed! That is the way to victory! This does not mean I turn my back on you, on my brothers! This is my legion! There is nothing any one of you can do to take it from me! You cannot seize my birthright! You cannot seize my hearts! Hail to Konrad Curze! Ave Dominus Nox!"

Pyotr ceased his tirade and looked out upon a silent sea of ruby eyes and midnight armor. Not a wave stirred their movements, not a breeze broke the tense peace.

Breathing in deeply through his nose, Pyotr reached for his helm, but before he could don it once more a fist shot up from the crowd. "Ave Dominus Nox!"

Another joined it. "Ave Dominus Nox!"

Then another. "Ave Dominus Nox!"

And another. "Ave Dominus Nox!"

The tide came. Salutes surged through the chamber of raised fists and the boom of the legion's warcry chanted from a myriad of voices, their words bouncing off the walls and rising until it crowded out everything but the domination of those words. "Ave Dominus Nox! Ave Dominus Nox! Ave Dominus Nox!"

Pyotr put on his helm and forged a voxlink with Zseron, as that was the only way he would be heard over the din. "Prepare the ship for Warp-jump."
The Sorcerer of Stars could not reply without his own helm, but nodded all the same to Pyotr with an unusual expression that he did not bother attempting to decipher at this time. A moment later he and the other Atramentar left the room, leaving Pyotr alone with his choir of brothers.

Ave Dominus Nox…

He felt… nothing. Pyotr was nothing more than a statue, being praised as an idol as fists pumped in the air and voices cried out in prayer to his glory. A glory he was unable to capture without paying an unpayable price.

It did not matter. For this… this was everything to Pyotr. Everything and more.