"Bastard!" the human commander snarls, struggling in Valoc's grip as I approach; he is an unimpressive specimen, sporting a pathetic mustache and an equally pathetic physique – than again, all mortals ceased being able to impress me so long ago I am only capable of regarding them with contempt or indifference. This man, though, he has spirit, I'll admit. All too often the Imperium's toy soldiers fall groveling at my feet, soiling themselves in their fear as they beg for mercy or for the Corpse-God to deliver them; nevertheless, it is refreshing at times to be confronted with true heartfelt defiance, no matter how hopeless or brief.

"Name and rank," I demand, though in truth I care little for the specifics. He spits at my feet, saying nothing. I smile down at him and he blanches, eyes widening in terror. Nothing good ever happens when I smile; even my brothers find it disconcerting. "Renounce the False Emperor and I will ensure you are completely dead before your body is fed to the fire." I say, gesturing to the pyres our cultist helots are stoking with the bodies of his fallen troopers. Some are still alive when the flames begin to devour their flesh and their screams add to the cacophony of misery rising up from the stricken hive-city as an offering to the true gods of this universe.

"The Emperor's Angels will punish you for this," the man says, trembling, his courage on the verge of crumbling. "Is that so?" I sneer, patting one of the yellow Astartes helms affixed to my trophy belt. "A single Space Marine Chapter cannot hold back the might of an entire Black Crusade, you fool – not even the vaunted sons of the Slaughtered Angel. Your precious defenders will perish along with the rest of Corillia. The choice is yours, mortal: either die swiftly or burn."

"Go to hell, you Throne-damned traitor!" the man shouts, rage and despair conspiring to overcome his fear. Valoc flings him to the blood-sodden ground. "I have been to hell already," I reply as a pair of cultists drag him to the nearest pyre, "That place were gods and mortals meet – yet even the Eye became wearisome after a time." Still smiling, I turn to the next captive awaiting my judgment, one with the potential to impress me despite his many wounds. He has been divested of his wargear and bound with industrial-strength chains, yet the hatred blazing in his gray eyes tells me he will never break nor renounce his wretched oaths.

"Humans," I say, shaking my head, "as stubborn and belligerent as they are stupid. Do you ever grow weary of it, cousin? Does your Chapter ever get tired of fighting and dying for the pathetic catt –"

"No, traitor, we do not," the Astartes growls flatly. Valoc clubs him across the head with his boltgun for his insolence, staggering him to his knees. I press the tip of my powersword against his throat. "Ah, but you certainly look tired, Throneslave – you look as if death would be a mercy rather than a punishment. Ask politely, and I will give you the respite your soul craves."

Still he remains resolute. "You follow in the footsteps of Horus. You have become the Terror. You have nothing of worth to give."

An unreasoning fury grips me. "Cast him upon the pyre," I command my brothers. "Let him burn along with the worthless mortals he failed to sav –"

And then I am the one who is burning, burning, burning. Solar-bright witchfire blinds my sight as it engulfs my body, overpowering both the material and immaterial protections afforded by my warp-touched warplate; I can hear Valoc and the others bellowing in agony, the cultists wailing like the damned, and then –

– I am lying on the ground on my left side, paralyzed by searing pain. Skin and ceramite have run together like wax and my hands are nothing more than charred stumps. Impossibly, I can still see out of one eye. Two Space Marines stand before me, surrounded by the scorched bodies of my warband. The indigo-blue armor of the Librarian is crawling with golden flames and a light akin to a miniature sun haloes his head. He braces against the shaft of his force-axe as his wounded brother leans against him; there is nothing but contempt in their eyes as they regard me.

"Well?" I manage to rasp, my burned throat constricting painfully, "What are you Imperial pigs waiting for?"

"They are waiting…for me, bastard…"

A figure slowly shuffles into view, limping forwards with dogged determination. The human commander's uniform has been burned away, his exposed skin meat-raw and blistering, yet the blackened hands that grip the laspistol are steady and unwavering; the man's face is locked in a rictus grin and his dying smile of triumph is the last thing I see before he drops to his knees and jams the muzzle of the gun into my remaining eye.

"Go back to hell, traitor…and this time stay there…"

A ripple passes through the warp as body and soul are severed. Eyes open in the undark. The eyes notice me. Talons and tentacles unfurl from the nonlight. Countless maws yawn wide. They are glad to welcome me. They are eager to claim their due. They are hungry. And from this there can be no return.

"For…the Emperor…" Major Leir Brannock whispers as he collapses to the ground beside the smoldering corpse of the Black Legionnaire.

"For those he cherished he died in glory," Epistolary Carpathon proclaims as the PDF commander closes his eyes and breathes his last.

"May the wings of Sanguinius shield him," Lheorvaal intones solemnly.

"Come, brother," says the Librarian, "the siege continues. We are needed elsewhere."

"I know," replies Lheorvaal, wiping the blood from his eyes and casting about the flame-lit carnage. "I just need to find my damn sword first."