The jagged barbs protruding from Cazayl's pauldrons glisten with fresh-spilled blood, as does the rest of his warplate; he leaves behind a trail of crimson as he stalks into his fire-lit chambers, his spiked gauntlets and daemonic visor streaked with vitae. The stench of death emanates from him, causing Firth's guts to churn; swiftly he falls to his knees as Cazayl approaches and averts his eyes, trying not to tremble beneath the Black Legionnaire's pitiless scrutiny.

"My lord." he says, struggling to contain his fear; it has been several day-cycles since he last attended upon his master.

Cazayl casts his gore-stained chainsword to the deck before him. "Clean it, dog," he snarls through his helm's fanged vox-grille.

The chainblade is as long as Firth is tall and though its teeth are stilled it radiates a brutal lethality on par with that of its wielder. In the months since his enslavement Firth has become well acquainted with the weapon; the livid scars crisscrossing his palms begin to throb as he wraps his hands about the chainsword's skin-bound hilt and starts dragging it towards a workbench at the far end of the chamber.

There is a soft hiss of depressurizing air as Cazayl removes his helmet. "But first bring me something to drink. Culling rebellious slaves is thirsty work."

Firth almost drops the sword. A chill spreads through his limbs. Since the Hollow Hunter is still in the warp, Firth assumed Cazayl had been fighting his brothers in the dueling pits. Now he understands why such a great quantity of blood covers the Legionnaire's armor. A slave revolt. A culling. Mersira…

"Are they all dead, my lord?" he asks, playing the part of a bloodthirsty thrall hungry for news.

"Most have been slain," Cazayl affirms, sounding bored with the whole affair. "A few we kept alive; their suffering will crush the spirits of other malcontents and their deaths will be an offering for the gods as well as a salve for Lord Gargathol's dark mood."

Firth is barely capable of lifting the chainblade up onto the workbench and no matter how cautiously he handles the weapon its teeth never fail to draw his blood; this time he feels neither the pain nor the blood slicking his palms. He hurries to a cabinet to fetch his master's drink, tormenting questions whirling through his mind: had Mersira taken part in the uprising? Was she still alive? Did anyone know about the two of them?

"I hope the wretches die screaming," he says as he pours a plundered bottle of amasec into a goblet so large he has to bear it to Cazayl with both hands. "Lord Gargathol, may the gods favor him, is not to be defied."

"Oh, they certainly shall," The Legionnaire takes a long drought, tilting back his head. Firth imagines plunging a knife deep into his master's throat, of how brightly the blood would stand out against his mottled flesh, of how euphoric it would feel. Cazayl drains the goblet and grins down at him through a mouthful of razored teeth. "Especially that horse-faced bitch of yours; I imagine she'll scream louder than a sow being slaughtered – then again, they all scream like gutted pigs on the sacrificial altars."

Firth staggers back from the Astartes, eyes wide. Cazayl laughs aloud at his horrified expression. "You think I wouldn't recognize her scent after smelling it on you whenever you came slinking back after one of your little trysts? Nothing escapes my notice, slave; nothing. Yet you should consider yourself fortunate, for after she was captured she tried to implicate you. She told me you were the one who had planted the seeds of rebellion – she claimed you had convinced her to rise up and strike back against my brethren; however, knowing you to be a spineless, cringing dog, I had little inclination to believe her confession, much to her dismay. She betrayed you, slave; she tired to sell you out to save her own pathetic skin. You mean nothing to her."

"Liar!"

The word explodes out of Firth even as he lunges at the Legionnaire, his fists swinging. Cazayl gently backhands him, sending him spinning gracelessly to the deck, his mouth full of blood and broken teeth. "I was going to marry her!" he cries out, more to himself than to the ebon-armored Chaos Marine looming over him. "I was going to make her my wife!"

He had been smiling as he walked briskly down the boardwalk towards the hostel operated by Mersira's father, the ring in his coat pocket, his hopes as high as the sun – a young man on a backwater frontier-world with his whole future ahead of him. He had just passed by the chapel he was considering for the wedding when the first drop-pod came hurtling down out of the sky. Weeks after the raid he had encountered Mersira in the Hollow Hunter's scream-haunted corridors and together they had found the strength needed to endure, so long as they had each other.

Now he has nothing; whether she attempted to implicate him or not Mersira's fate is sealed. Firth gets to his feet and faces Cazayl. "I did it!" he screams the lie through bloodied lips, "She spoke the truth! I instigated the rebellion!" He rips open his robes, exposing his chest and revealing the crude yet unmistakable Imperial aquila Mersira had craved into his flesh to seal their love-bond. "I renounce you, traitor! I will serve the Black Legion no more!"

With a roar Cazayl lashes out, seizing him by the throat. "Then you shall die in agony along with your bitch upon the altar of Chaos Undivided."

Later, as the ritual reaches its climax and the sacrificial daggers are raised, Firth's hand finds Mersira's and he smiles at death as their fingers entwine; neither of them scream.