The Night Lord entered the audience hall with all the solemnity that a gravedigger enters a tomb. As he did, he and a brother crossed paths. One arriving, the other leaving. The two locked eyes for only a moment, skull-faced helmets grinning to one another with only minor differences in their visages. The Night Lord glanced briefly at the rune inscribed upon his brother's forehead, but said nothing. His brother did likewise as the two broke eye contact and continued on their respective ways.

The Night Lord never had much to say to the Soul Hunter.

He continued his way down the narrow chamber until he reached its end. The Night Lord knelt on the spot, brought a fist up to his chest, and bowed his head to the throne before him.

A figure sat in the throne, resplendent and vile in his deepest blue armor that was decorated with the bones and flesh of those unlucky enough to be nearby when his choleric passions struck. An obsidian crown rested on the figure's brow, rubies like drops of blood glittering in the darkness.

"Rise, my son," Konrad Curze, Primarch of the VIIIth Legion commanded.

The Night Lord rose to his feet.

"You summoned me, sire?"

Curze scratched at the armrest of his throne with one hand, frowning at the son that stood before him. "Did you expect someone else to?"

The Night Lord hesitated. The Primarch appeared more cognizant than usual at the moment, but even still, there was always a risk of waking the madness that slept in only fits and bursts these days.

"Why have you summoned me, sire?" The Night Lord corrected.

Curze smiled, revealing jagged, pointed fangs set in a maw of black gums.

"I was told you died during the Siege of Terra…"

"No, my lord."

"As was the case during the Thramas Crusade, and Istvaan, and a dozen other battles before them." The Night Haunter chuckled, the sound wet and grotesque in his throat.

"Yes," the son said simply, for there was nothing else to say.

The Primarch's grin grew wider. "Why?"

"Why does any man survive war, sire?"

"That is the beauty of it all, my son," Curze said. "He never does. War always sends death to collect what it is owed. No man walks away. Not I, not…" The Night Haunter's face twitched and the skin around his dark eyes squirmed as his smile became more strained.

He was going to say Sevetar… the Night Lord thought.

"And yet you seem to evade your debts so very, very well," Curze continued after collecting himself. "How?"

"I do not know," the Night Lord admitted.

"I do," Curze hissed through his teeth, leaning forward in his throne with glee.

"Would… you tell me, sire?"

"Rising, time and time again from certain demise," Curze mused. "A shadow of death always upon your shoulders like a shawl, but never fully enshrouding you. As if you were a… a revenant. My revenant."

The Night Lord frowned. "That does not answer my question, father."

"No, it doesn't, Pyotr." Curze steepled his hands together by his fingertips, the smile falling from his face. "When you first joined my legion, you were to join the ranks of the Contekar. You rejected this. Tell me why again."

Pyotr hesitated, rolling his jaw in its sockets. He had been through this with the Primarch before—multiple times. It was always uncertain if the answer would be met with humor or outrage.

"Only the noble may join the Contekar."

Curze held up an amending finger. "Only nobility may join them. Was your bloodline not of Nostramo's royalty, my son?"

"There is more to nobility than blood would suggest."

As his words passed his lips, Pyotr immediately knew what the response would be. Curze glowered at him, expression dark. "And what," he growled, "nobility is there amongst my legion to begin with? What purpose is there to your lofty standards, your ego, amongst these brothers of yours, my son?

"You do not believe yourself worthy enough for the Contekar? For the band of children who came from riches and spoils yet relished in murder and rape and torture regardless? They are too high for you?"

"No," Pyotr said.

"No," Curze echoed. "No, and neither are your brothers of the Fifty-first… Do you enjoy it, Pyotr? Does the flaying of skin and the screams of children quicken your hearts? Does that poison run through your veins like it does for the others?"

Pyotr did not answer, because answering would have been pointless.

"Of course it does," Curze snarled. "And yet…" He let the statement hang, not finishing the sentence and letting whatever… wisdom he may have given Pyotr to be lost into the night.

"I simply wish there was a purpose to it all, father."

The Night Haunter sighed, slouching in his seat. "There was. Once."

Pyotr bore his father's silent brooding for several minutes before daring to speak again. "Father, you did not answer my question."

"Are you owed answers from me, Revenant?"

"No. But I should like to have them anyway."

A chuckle bubbled from between Curze's lips and he sat forward once again. "Go on, then. Ask your question."

"How do I continue to sur–"

"No," Curze said flatly. "Not that question. The real question. The one that answers all others. You know it. All men do."

Pyotr wet his lips from within his helmet. "How do I die, sire?"

Konrad Curze shrugged, the gesture almost comical from one such as him.

"I do not know," the Primarch said. "I have not seen it."

"You have seen the deaths of all your sons," Pyotr said, incredulous.

"Yes," Curze agreed, his eyes wide and alight with a fire that bespoke his madness. "But not yours. For you, my revenant, I have seen something else entirely. I have seen you brought to your lowest. Your darkest moment. You, at your most desperate and alone. And I have seen what will drive you to your knees and what you do in response."

The air grew cold and Pyotr couldn't help but feel as if he had to fight for each breath. The skin of his throat itched and his airway constricted. He felt a near-overpowering urge to remove his helm and scratch until his fingers were wet with blood.

He stood firm.

"What do I do, father?"

The Night Haunter's smile was so broad that Pyotr was sure his lips would split and tear at the corners.

"You fall."

Things had taken a turn for the worse. For much of the battle, the Ferric Sentries were scattered and vulnerable. That left the Night Lords and World Eaters with the perfect opportunity to strike at their weakness and reap their rewards. That had, unfortunately, changed.

Naduvion watched as flashes of orange-white fire flared in the night, followed shortly after by the devastating sounds of impact on the battlefield. He could hear the wrathful cries and bellows of Carnage Stitcher berzerkers and Night Lord raptors meeting the full capacity of their enemy's consolidated forces. Seeing it all was like watching the masterful movements of an orchestral conductor, or the fluidly rehearsed scenes found within a theatre. Naduvion snarled. Lowly, repugnant forms of art, those were.

"What do we do now?" Dreeve asked, watching the massacre wrought on by Imperium heavy weapons and war engines. Even Gargahl and his squad were met with a duo of dreadnoughts that were beginning to gain ground against the daemon prince.

"We continue our work," Naduvion replied, highlighting another wounded and retreating squad.

Second Claw gave their affirmative as they stalked across the rooftops into position. They waited for their prey to vanish into the alleyways, then dropped down to rend yet more lives under the shadow of night.

They were instead met with floodlights.

Lumens burned the alleyway with the brightness of day, exposing Naduvion and Second Claw as a row of bolter muzzles appeared over the lip of a crafted blockade. He barely had time to blink before those weapons, with deadly excitement, began to bark.

Retrigan haunted the narrow, swaying roads of Equinox Secundus, clearing each corner and analyzing each fork in an effort to rejoin the majority of their forces.

"This isn't right," Gyrthemar said, following along closely behind, hefting his reaper chaincannon in a warding gesture as he watched their backs. "We cannot just… leave him behind!"

"You are too soft when it comes to him. You always have been," Retrigan replied. He… could not afford to think of Pyotr right now. The man was dead, there was no point in exhausting the energy of thought in regards to him now.

Still, Retrigan had hoped… He should have known better.

"He was doing better," the wolf-killer continued to argue.

"He took your eye, Gyrthemar. Enough of this."

If his brother continued to babble, Retrigan didn't hear it as he silenced their vox-link. Gyrthemar wouldn't be so foolish as to speak audibly through his vox-grill while they were behind enemy lines… Probably.

Retrigan frowned as they continued their way through the dark streets of the city. Dawn would be approaching soon. They had little time left to consolidate with the rest of the company and enact their plan of retreat. If it was even still possible. Retrigan glared up at the dark sky as their path opened to a far broader thoroughfare.

You left him…

The once-raptor ignored the nagging voice in his mind.

What kind of man are you? You made an oath…

Retrigan snorted at his own idiotic thoughts. An oath? From a Son of Curze? He'd seen rotted intestines with more use.

A light tap plinked off his shoulder from the metal tip of a spear. Retrigan sighed. It appeared Gyrthemar had noticed his words were falling on deaf ears. He ignored the appeal for attention anyway. A second, more insistent tap bounced off his shoulder a moment later. Still, Retrigan ignored it.

He asked you for mercy and you abandoned your brother…

"He deserved it," Retrigan mumbled. "All who drink from the well of Chaos are receiving exactly what they asked for."

A ceramite-armored hand gripped Retrigan by the helm and wrenched his neck to look behind him. The once-raptor's lips peeled back to give a wrathful retort, but it was quickly drowned out by Gyrthemar's own bellow.

"DAMN YOU, BROTHER, LOOK!"

He pointed to the side and Retrigan's mouth went dry. Lost in thought as he was, he hadn't noticed that he'd wandered right out into a wide promenade—and directly into the backlines of a squad of Ferric Sentries and a Repulsor Executioner that were beginning to take notice of him.

"Ah," Retrigan said, feeling internal rage at himself begin to boil in his blood as the tank's main cannon slowly began to turn and take aim at the two of them. "That is… unfortunate."

Things should not have possibly been able to get worse. Unfortunately, like most things in Artemis's life recently, logic and reason decided to ignore that decree in favor of making her existence as miserable as possible.

It began with the helstalker fleeing the battle. Artemis and her rapidly shrinking band crouched quietly amongst the dust and rubble, using the daemon creature's distant broadside hull as cover from incoming fire between the two sides of the battlefield.

One moment, the monster was gleefully ripping its way through Astartes, the next it stopped abruptly, craned its neck to look wildly in the distance, and let out a mournful shriek. Before Artemis could even react, it began to scramble its way through debris and detritus without any regard for its own safety as it ran away from the fight, leaving Cultist Squad One's position woefully open.

"Where the hell is it going?" Brelja asked.

"I don't know…" Artemis replied through gritted teeth.

"Do… Do we follow it?" Jep chimed in. Artemis let the question answer itself as Tzimiti, rather than go around a building that appeared to be in its way, leapt up and scaled the side of it, chunks of rockrete and glass tumbling to the ground below before it vanished over the lip of the roof.

Shit.

No sooner did the thought cross her mind did a volley of bolter fire begin to explode across their meager cover and slam into their ranks. Artemis watched another round of bodies collapse to the earth. She… she didn't even have to count anymore to know how many of them were left.

Five. Counting herself, five of the original mass of slaves had made it this far into the battle.

"What now?" Brelja yelled over the crack of bolter shells.

Frantically, Artemis scanned the area in search of anything as their enemies slowly began to advance. She paused as her eyes fell upon an entrance to the city's subterranean transportation network. It… wouldn't be much, but it would at least get them out of the thick of the fighting.

"There!" she called, pointing. What remained of her team nodded and braced for her word to make a run for it. She didn't wait long.

The visionary's bolt shells did little more but cause sparks across the terminator's armor as he rounded the corner. Still, he and the two that accompanied him pulled back and took cover as they took in their surroundings.

Anras knew that they would come. He had seen it. He had seen that, in his desperation and fury, the chapter master of the Ferric Sentries would send his own honor guard away in search of his most hated enemy in an attempt to cover more ground—a decision that would, normally, stink of lunacy and foolishness but just so happened to be correct this one time.

Realizing that their quarry amounted to a singular Night Lord in antiquated power armor and what they would perceive as a corpse at his feet, the three terminators emerged and began to fan out in separate directions, slowly making to surround Anras. The tactic was wise, if not a bit overkill. Anras was but one Astartes against three who stood in armor that were akin to mobile bastions. Under normal circumstances, he bore no chance whatsoever.

The first terminator raised his storm bolter and fired, only for Anras to already be a hair's width out of the line of fire. The second one fired only for the same event to occur—for these were not normal circumstances.

Anras had been graced with the curse of prophecy, and never in his life had he experienced a clearer vision than the one he now lived through.

Dropping his boltgun, he drew his power sword and activated it, scanning his opponents as they did the same to him.

"I am Anras Nasheur, Visionary of the Fifty-first Company of the VIIIth Legion," he declared. "And none of you leave here alive."

Freezing rain filled the chamber, washing away the entire scene in a running display of color, like paint diluting and dripping away as it mixed, revealing that balcony on City's Edge yet again.

The Primarch rose from his throne as it dissolved, approaching Pyotr as he backed away.

"You are not my father," he hissed.

Curze's black eyes bore into Pyotr with an expression of sympathy—all the more proof that he was not the being he masqueraded as.

"And yet the memory was real," the thing said, its voice layered with both the tones of Pyotr's gene-father and birth mother.

"It means nothing," Pyotr said, voice wavering as he retreated back. Already he could feel his emotions and sensations dripping away like the rain surrounding him.

"You know that is not true. You fall, Pyotr. It will happen, so why must we prolong the inevitable?" The Night Haunter's face began to warp and shift into something grotesque in its perfection, becoming claylike and sculpted, the skin bleeding to an ashen purple.

"I…" Pyotr stumbled as he drew near the railing. He fell to one knee, clutching at his chest and gasping for air. He… He could not feel his breath. Was he breathing? Did his hearts beat? He did not know anymore and that made him feel… nothing.

The horrible numbness returned and Pyotr roared in a facsimile of agony, hoping he could will it into existence only to be rewarded with emptiness.

"You are almost ready," the god that desecrated his father's form spoke, kneeling beside Pyotr and placing a comforting hand upon his shoulder. It was a warmer gesture than any the Primarch had ever given him before. "All you must do is ask. Ask for it all back and I will give it to you."

"Liar…" Pyotr whispered.

"Yes," the thing said in its twin voices. "Some of that void must be left empty for a gift of mine. It will be better than what I am taking, I assure you."

Pyotr clenched his eyes shut tight. He did not want to give in, he did not want to confess such weakness. But the wretch, the one that wore his skin and crawled inside his bones needed to feel again.

"What… will you take?"

"Only what you do not need. Your pain, your doubt, your restraint."

And in exchange he could feel again. He could taste, he could laugh, he could exalt, he could rage.

He could sleep.

He would finally be able to rest without worrying over these games any longer. And all it would cost was his soul.

The wretch opened his mouth to speak. "Please."

The first volley of fire rippled across Second Claw. Many of the shells deflected and ricocheted off their armor, but with the constant pressure and impact, just as many shots fractured chestplates, shattered vambraces, and created webbings of cracks along greaves and pauldrons.

Naduvion gasped as he stumbled back and crashed to the ground. He felt his brothers grab him by the shoulders and drag him behind the paltry cover of an alley corner—the edges already snapping and flaking off from the storm of bolter fire.

"My heart," Naduvion hissed in pain. "They got… one of my hearts."

"Which one?" Dreeve asked, peeking around the corner only to snap his head back as a shell glanced off his helmet just above the eye lens.

"The secondary one, I think."

"You'll live," Dreeve said with little conviction.

I sincerely doubt that. Naduvion grimaced as he listened to the cacophony of firepower on their position.

Griegor snarled, slamming a fist against the rockcrete wall in frustration. Naduvion attempted to breathe through the pain, his mind racing. They were trapped and exposed. Any escape attempt would put their backs to the enemy firing line and they certainly couldn't charge their aggressors. Even moving at a standard pace may be outside of his capacity at the moment.

The wall crumbled further.

"How much… time do we have?" Naduvion asked, hand pressed against his breast as his shoulders heaved.

"Not much," Dreeve said. "Maybe less if they have heavy weaponry."

"Even if they can't hit us, if they keep firing this way then eventually the whole damn building will fall on our heads!" Griegor added.

He was, of course, correct. And the Ferric Sentries knew it. Rockcrete dust from their cover cascaded down from the air, falling upon Second Claw's shoulders and around their feet like snow. Naduvion could see the outside perspective in this mind—three warriors in blood-slick armor, leaning upon a cracking fortification while a bright light of absolution burned to their left, its rays hungrily eating away at more and more of the canvas as it announced their death.

It would have been nice to paint such a scene.

Abruptly, Dreeve looked down at Naduvion and, after only a moment's hesitation, began to hoist him up and drag him toward the lip of the corner.

"Brother? What are you doing?" Naduvion asked, struggling feebly.

"You are going to buy us a distraction," Dreeve responded. He knew it would not work, Naduvion could hear it in his voice.

"No… Do not do this…" As he resisted further, Geigor joined in the effort of grappling him and, with Dreeve, they shoved him into the light to die.

Anras dove for the third terminator. The heavy plated warrior lifted a power fist in anticipation for a strike the visionary never delivered. Instead, he spun around his opponent's side and pressed his back against the terminator's own as the other two members of Lavitor's honor guard took aim. An Ultramarine or Salamander perhaps would have waited for a better shot, for an opportunity that did not put their own kin in harm's way.

But these were Sons of Manus. They did not know temperance, only brutal success.

Two sets of dual-shell blasts slammed into the terminator as Anras used his body like a shield. The sonorous ring of metal betrayed the lack of effectiveness of the ploy—at least seemingly.

The terminator spun with an alacrity that did not match his bulk and slammed a fist down on Anras's head. The visionary pivoted on his back foot and took the blow to the left shoulder instead, plate and servos crushing until the power. Pain rolled over him in waves and he snarled, waiting for his armor's narcotic pain suppressants to do their work.

Anras glared at the terminator as his brothers approached with melee weapons drawn, having seen that their previous tactic was faulty. The visionary could sense the self-satisfaction radiating off the brute as if he had achieved something grand. In reality, all he did was play directly into Anras's plan.

His power sword crackled with energy and the visionary drove it into the terminator's chest. He made no move to stop him, and nor should he have. The armor that he wore would have stopped such a strike with ease—If not for the micro-fractures caused by his brothers' bolter rounds. Such a minute tear in the molecular structure of the plate should have been utterly negligible, but Anras knew exactly where to strike to take complete advantage of this weakness.

With surgical precision, the power sword widened the fracture, then eviscerated it entirely. Even still, it took considerable effort for Anras to force the blade into the hearts of his enemy, who began to shudder and raise his fist for another blow. The other two terminators increased their pace, coming to their brother's aid.

Screaming with exertion and wrathful indignation, Anras twisted the sword in his hand and yanked it free. There was a moment of stillness, then the wounded terminator stumbled and fell onto his side, the impact spawning a cloud of dust.

Breathing heavily, Anras backed away as the other two terminators—now singularly focused on him—rushed forward. Beneath his helmet, Anras smiled. He had seen much of this fight. He had seen every movement and strike and death. But he had not seen everything. He needed to draw Lavitor's tin men away from the lord discordant. For now, he gave the illusion of death and their priorities would instead be on Anras. He could work with that. So long as he could lure them away.

Anras continued to back-pedal, bracing himself to defend a strike from the first terminator's own power blade as they continued to outpace him and–

Pyotr's corpse on the ground gave a pitiable moan.

The two terminators stopped in place and, simultaneously, slowly turned to look behind them at the prone Night Lord. Anras let out a growling sigh.

He could always trust Pyotr to make matters as difficult as possible.

The wretch screamed.

It all came flooding back. Pyotr felt endless joy, infinite sorrow, the deepest well of rage. He felt every variety of pain and pleasure arc through his body at maximum volume. He felt everything.

"Stop this!" he howled.

"It is what you wanted," the terrible thing that smiled down at him said. "I know it is overwhelming. My gift will temper it for you. Just give me what you no longer need, my child."

He would have. He would've given it all back just to stop the overwhelming curse of true sensation. But Pyotr was paralyzed. He could not move, let alone speak. There was nothing he could do to deliver himself from this torment.

"Our connection strengthens. Do not speak. All you need do is open yourself up to me."

Pyotr almost did. He thought nothing of it. The long-term consequences meant nothing to the wretch compared to his needs of the now.

But then he heard his brother's voice.

Is this the man that you are…? Retrigan whispered.

Pyotr Kravis, with tears streaming down his cheeks and body trembling like a branch in the wind, attempted to rise to his feet.

He failed immediately.

Retrigan cursed himself silently as he and Gyrthemar took behind a nearby statue to some Imperial saint that the Night Lords would sooner piss on than learn the name of. Thunder rolled overhead, but that was hardly audible over the sound of bolter shells pelting the area around them.

How could he be so stupid? It was one thing to be so caught up in his own thoughts and lose concentration on a literal battlefield, but for Gyrthemar to be the one to remain vigilant? The honorable thing to do would have been to commit suicide over such a folly.

Instead, Retrigan tried his best to think of a plan as his brother laid down covering fire with his chaincannon.

"We need to get in close," he said.

"The Sentries will kill us!" Gyrthemar snapped back.

"If we don't, the tank will kill us."

Gyrthemar ducked back into cover as the tank in question opened up a salvo of its secondary guns, its primary cannon taking precise aim.

"We need to split into opposite directions," Retrigan decided.

"What?"

"The damn thing can't hit both of us if we're opposite each other."

Gyrthemar snorted in derision. "Our little cousins certainly can!"

"It's our best chance," he insisted. He left out the part where it was their best chance for one of them to survive. Hopefully his brother's natural… magnetism would mean that it would be Retrigan.

The two Night Lords nodded to each other, turned, and split off in opposite directions just as the Repulser Executioner fired, shattering the statue into a thousand fragments of rubble.

Artemis and her squad ran through the dusty railway tunnels below the city, puffing with exertion as the roof above them shook and rockcrete bits occasionally fell free to the ground due to the battle above. Behind them, Artemis could hear thunderous footsteps rapidly approaching.

Ahead of her, Brelja abruptly came to a stop, forcing everyone else to follow suit, looking at her with panicked confusion.

"What are you doing?" Artemis asked. Jep nodded in agreement, looking anxiously over her shoulder.

"They're pursuing us still," Brelja said gruffly.

"I can hear that!"

The Fenrisian woman gave her a pointed look. "Girl, do you really karking think we can outrun Astartes?"

Artemis swallowed and didn't respond.

"We need a different play," Brelja said, swinging her bandolier around and grabbing what looked to be the largest and most harrowing of her explosives.

"Is that… a… a melta bomb?" Jep stammered. The bootfalls grew closer, but they couldn't yet see the Astartes through the curve of the tunnel.

"Yep," Brelja said simply, pulling it free along with its detonator. "Lucked out with the explosive collection in that gunship."

"Brelja that could bring the whole tunnel down on top of us!" Artemis hissed.

"You got a better plan?" Brelja glared, her words as much a challenge as they were a genuine question. They still wanted her to have a miracle at the ready. Artemis felt her stomach sink.

"Agreed," Phihks buzzed. "It is our best plan of action to cut the enemy off and escape."

"This is insane," the last member of their gutted squad said, putting his hands up to his head, eyes wide. "This is so insane. I'm an algae farmer. How did this happen to m–"

"We don't have the karking time for this," Brelja snapped and ran back before anyone could stop her. Artemis wanted to go after her, but forced herself to stand clear as she crouched down near the tunnel wall and began to arm the explosive.

"Hurry!" Artemis called, feeling sweat trickle down her throat as those boots grew closer… Closer…

Closer…

Brelja worked furiously, her brow tense and her lips curled into a snarl of concentration. Artemis didn't know if her proficiency came from working amongst the fueling crew on the ship or her past life, but either way it was a fortunate thing for them in this moment.

"Armed!" she barked and began to sprint back toward them.

She only made it halfway before the Ferric Sentries turned the corner.

Artemis screamed and Brelja looked over her shoulder as the Astartes began to raise their weapons as they surged forward.

Rapid calculations fired through Artemis's brain. Most of the Astartes were in the blast radius, and those that weren't would still be cut off if the tunnel collapse worked properly.

But so was Brelja.

Artemis's eyes widened as the woman looked forward again and met her gaze. From her smile, Artemis could tell that her friend had come to the same conclusion. She'd never make it far enough before the Astartes opened fire and killed them all.

Brelja stopped in place and lifted the detonator into the air.

"May they sing for me again," she said, then pulled the trigger.

Artemis didn't even have the time to wail her denial and reach out an arm before the tunnel bloomed red, shook, and the roof began to collapse.

Pyotr was weak. For all his power, his armor, his weapons, his prowess and extra organs and senses and superior biology to the common human, he was so, so terribly weak. A pathetic louse who only emulated what it meant to be the son of a demigod.

How? How was it that he was stronger back then when he stood weeping on this balcony over some dead lowlives than he was now? How could a boy withstand the storm and relish the rain while he, in this moment, could not even handle his own emotions?

"Let go, Pyotr," the thing cooed softly. "There is nothing left for you to cling on to."

He clenched his jaw tight and shuddered. The god was right. He would give in today, he could feel it. It simply hurt too much to continue with this burden. It… It would feel so much better just to allow it all to stop.

He forced air into his lungs and prepared himself to accept the dark god's gift.

Anras sincerely considered leaving his brother for dead.

It… could be said that he was not necessarily the best duelist in the company. The fact he managed to kill one terminator was already a miracle in and of itself. It would have been in his best interest to turn now, preserve himself and abandon Pyotr.

But the visionary did not fight for survival. He did not fight for glory or accolades or even entertainment this time. Anras fought because it was right. It was what he saw, and therefore what it shall be.

As Anras charged, fury burst from his lips in a howl, reverberating out from the screaming fanged maw of his helm. One of the terminators turned to face him, barring the way as the other marched dutifully on to slay the incapacitated lord discordant, their own power sword drawn and ready.
The visionary went to strike the one who blocked his way, but then feinted and rolled to the side where the corpse of the first terminator lay. Anras grabbed the discarded storm bolter and fired twice into the marching fortress that sought to kill his brother. The first shot went into their power pack while the second connected with the servos directly behind the knees.

The terminator stumbled. Perhaps it was from surprise or a lucky shot placement or a change in temperment to no longer underestimate the visionary. Regardless, the Ferric Sentry veered off to the side, taking several guarded steps near the lipped pavilion that overlooked the sea below.

A chainfist swept downwards on the visionary's arm. There was a moment of grinding, sparking resistance, then the entire appendage came free with a lurch. Normally in such cases there would have been blood and pain, but instead electrical sparks flew from the stump as Anras's augmetic was sheared from his body, forcing him to drop the bolter.

Anras drew his sword once again with his offhand and attempted to defend himself, but his damaged shoulder severely decreased his mobility and the blade was wrenched free from his grasp by a powerful blow, sending it skidding across the ground and far out of reach. Ahead, the other terminator was beginning to recover from the assault and turned in Pyotr's direction once again.

Hissing, Anras glanced between his two predicaments, feeling his outrage bubbling over from his own impotence. He had seen all of this, but foreknowledge did not always make up for a lack of skill. That was… not something easy for him to admit. Not that acceptance did him any favors at the moment. All it had left him was battered, twice-amputated, and without any weapons…

Except for one.

Anras drew the Widowmaker from his waist and looked at the foe in front of him. The Ferric Sentry regarded the dagger and his posture almost seemed to convey amusement. Such a thing in his eyes had little hope of doing any true damage to him—and perhaps he was right. Wielded by the Primarch, Anras was sure that the relic would kill any foe with ease—but he was not the Primarch.

He'd make do anyway.

The terminator reared his fist back to strike, but rather than attempt a parry or dodge, Anras pivoted on his backfoot and threw the Widowmaker at the other warrior.

Such a shot was nigh impossible. There were very few optimal weak points on a suit of terminator battle plate, Anras was throwing with his offhand, and his range of motion was severely limited from his broken shoulder guard and plating. A mewling human may even have had better chances at success than Anras did.

The knife struck the terminator directly in the eye. Glass shattered as the blade flew straight and true at a velocity that caused it to whistle with glee before impacting the Sentry's eye lens.

He stumbled lethargically for a moment, made dazed by the misfiring synapses in their ruptured brain. Then the terminator stumbled backwards, and fell over the side of the cliff. As he vanished, he took the Widowmaker with him—an artifact of the time of Konrad Curze and Anras's one and final connection to his father. Despite that, he found himself… uncaring for its loss.

It was only just a knife.

A painful gasp escaped the visionary's throat as—upon completing his thought—a chainfist blade punctured his back and emerged out the other side.

He gave in.

At least, he tried to. Through gasping breaths and shaking limbs, Pyotr wanted nothing more than to have it all be over. He… He was so tired…
And yet he couldn't. Something stopped him. Some voice in the back of his mind, as light as a child's, whispering to him.

No. Not yet. Please…

Death was not a gentle release or loving embrace. It was the piercing pain of a predator's fangs slowly biting down on a trembling prey animal.
Bolter shells pummeled Naduvion, cracking and shattering his armor. Blood leaked from his body like rivers running down a mountain as shrapnel and fragmented metal cut into his flesh like glass shards. All the while, he had no choice but to watch as his brothers took their opportunity and sprinted to escape.

Fools, he thought. Immediately, the volleys trained on him shifted and began to fire on the fleeing targets. Griegor was fortunate enough to dive back into their crumbling facade of cover. Dreeve fared far worse as his legs seemed to give out beneath him and he collapsed before being subjected to the same torment as Naduvion.

"Help me, brother!" Dreeve crowed over the vox. No response was given.

"You'll… live…" Naduvion said with a ragged, coughing laugh as he felt another bolt shell bite into him.

When the dust cleared, Artemis only saw rubble and wreckage where there had once been a tunnel. She coughed as rockcrete particles continued to settle around her. All around, cracks and fissures had formed, crawling outward from the point of the explosion, creating smaller, far less impactful collapses.

And Brelja was nowhere to be found.

Artemis took a step toward the rubble, but a hand on her shoulder forced her back.

"We have to go, Artemis," Jep said.

"But…"

"She's gone. We have to go!" She flinched at the added layer of unexpected force in his voice, but sullenly nodded.

I've nearly lost them all…

When she turned, she found the algae farmer dusting himself off, having clearly been knocked to the ground by the bomb's tremors.

"Where's Phihks?" Artemis asked, finding her voice to be hollow.

"Crushed in a secondary collapse, I think," the man said shakily. "Probably… Probably for the best. He gave me the creeps."

"We need to move," Jep said. "The whole structural integrity of this tunnel just took a hit. Who knows if… Who knows if the rest of it is going to come down soon?"

That much was made evident by the sound of shifting stones behind them. Artemis nodded and the group made to leave.

A CRACK! echoed through the air and the algae farmer's legs and upper torso landed in two different locations as blood showered Jep and Artemis.
Snapping her head back toward the collapse, Artemis watched as one of the larger stones shifted and a singular Ferric Sentry clambered out, his red gaze emotionless, yet still conveying boundless fury.

He raised his bolt pistol to fire again.

Retrigan's plan for survival immediately fell apart as Gyrthemar discarded his reaper chaincannon and drew his spear instead, making himself a less critical target. That was not something Retrigan expected his brother to have the mental acumen to even consider.

The squad of Ferric Sentries split their fire as the two Night Lords made a dash. The once-raptor cursed under his breath as he realized, belatedly, that he was drawing more harassment by using his bolter for covering fire. He glared in Gyrthemar's direction. Perhaps the damn fool deserved more credit. Shame Retrigan would be too dead to give it.

Forced to take cover, Retrigan dove for a raised platform that was used to display a tree and small collection of greenery. The cover was feeble, but enough to protect him from the bolters. He tried to duck out and move to another stretch of cover, but was forced back by another salvo of bolt shells. He was pinned, dammit all.

Worse, as he glanced over the lip of the platform, he watched as the Repulser Executioner slowly began to pivot its cannon barrel.

And aim directly at him.

Blood flicked directly outward from Anras's sternum as the blade of the chainfist rotated. There was a moment when all seemed to stand still and the visionary felt a smile spread across his lips. Yes, this was always how it was going to end…

The moment ended when the terminator pulled his fist free and kicked Anras in the spine. He collapsed immediately, rolling across the pavement until he landed as a heap on his back.

"Die alongside your dark lies, cur," the terminator said. "You say that you would kill me, yet here I stand. As is the will of the Omnissiah, you filth."

The visionary felt a chuckle slip past his lips alongside the blood that was filling his mouth. There was, surprisingly, no pain. Only a spreading coldness.

"You idiot," he rasped. "I never said that I would kill you. Only that you would die here."

At that exact moment, one of the walls exploded into rubble as a machine and monster in one burst through it. The creature took less than the speed of a thought to assess the situation before lunging forward, slamming one of its forelegs into the chest of the terminator, pinning him to the ground. It then proceeded to let out a hissing roar of steaming valves and animalistic wrath before spearing the Sentry through the chest with its spiked tail and lifting him into the air only to slam him back into the ground over and over and over again with daemonic strength. Once finished, all that remained was a cracked pavement and an Astartes trapped within a crushed and mangled suit of terminator power armor. Tzimiti finished the job by sinking its many mandibles into the place where each limb met the body's torso and wrenched them free in a shower of gore and metal shards.

For good measure, the helstalker battered the now limbless corpse with its front legs thrice more, driving it deep into the rockcrete, before turning and sulking its way over to its master. The daemon engine curled around Pyotr protectively and laid down with a shocking level of gentleness. All the while, Anras wheezed for breath that did not seem to fill his lungs as he forced himself to sit up and prop his back against one of the pavilion's support beams.

Thunder rolled overhead and, distantly, a single bolt of lightning forked across the sky. Anras coughed, then smiled. Pyotr would survive, and he would not. Just as he had seen.

"This," Anras said, activating the vox recording system in his helmet, "is Anras Nasheur, Visionary of the Fifty-fir… of the talon led by Pyotr Kravis. I leave this log for his ears and his ears alone. Brother, I… I have little time and much to say. So listen and listen well, you cogitator-humping cretin…"

Just a little bit longer, the child's voice whispered. Then you can give in.

But Pyotr was done. He didn't have anything left within him to resist the storm. He was just… too tired, and the sensory overload too much.

Then at least do it while standing on your feet…

The wretch wept. He was too weak for that.

No…

He was too weak for everything.

No.

He hid behind a facade of strength, of being a god in armor, when, in reality, he was a failure. He could not protect his brothers, he could not defeat the Ferric Sentries, he could not even save himse–

NO. We need to get up. This is our last chance to be us. Let it be a good one.

Pyotr forced himself to nod. Yes… one last moment of being pure. It would… it would be nice to think back on it with pride.

He tried to stand again, but the sensory convulsions that filled his body and soul were too much and he stumbled again. Instinctively, he reached out a hand and grasped the railing to steady himself. Fingers closed around a dented and marked section of the metal. Pyotr ran his tongue over the broken teeth that caused them.

"What's this?" the dark god said with amusement. "Oh, yes, on your feet, my little toy soldier. All the better for you to accept my embrace."
Pyotr's body shook and spasmed like a leaf in a hurricane, but he pressed on, forcing his other hand onto the railing and pulled himself to his feet with monumental effort. It felt as if the entire weight of the hive was on his shoulders.

When he finished, he hunched forward, breathing in rapid gasps as sweat and rain water mixed together on his face. His eyes were unfocused, but he could still see the grey expanse of City's Edge below through the rain and mist. As a boy, he'd always come to this balcony to be close to the sky, but his mother… She only used it to look down on the people beneath her.

Pyotr blinked. Then began to laugh.

"What is it, my child?" the thing said, their own voice tinged with humor.

Pyotr's hysterics only grew, his shoulders eventually convulsing as he wheezed for breath. Tears streamed down his face and his throat burned from the raw animalism of his bellows. When he finally regained control over himself, everything was different.

"You are not a god," Pyotr said, still chuckling.

"As so many have said," the thing tutted.

"No. You are not a god. Only a lesser creature under one's command."

There was a pause. "Why do you say this, my child?"

"Because," Pyotr exhaled lightly. "The real Prince of Pleasures would not have been stupid enough to give everything back to me before I fully submitted."

Pyotr looked down into that deep expanse beneath him. The hive below so far that one could drop a coin and it would take minutes to land.

You fall…

Pyotr was strong of body, but not of mind. He could admit that now. He did not know how to grapple and control his own emotional impulses, nor did he know how to walk away when it was necessary. But the boy did. The boy that loved the rain and dreamed of flying.

He became that boy again. And leapt over the railing.

There was a hiss of outrage and a swipe of claws, but it was already too late. Pyotr fell through the air's grey shroud, feeling the wind brush his face. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating.

It was flight.

The boy howled with joy and liberation as he fell. Pyotr Kravis closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the boy would be dead once more. Best to let him enjoy this moment.

His eyes opened to a city under siege once again. Corpses lay around him, two in grey and one in blue. The mighty chassis of a foul creature lay curled around him like a fortress of steel and mutation. It lifted its head as he stirred.

The sky had lightened a few shades. Dawn was approaching. He did not mind this though, as the dense layer of storm clouds overhead would buy them yet more time. He removed his helmet as he began to feel a constant patter against the metal. Pyotr Kravis looked up and smiled.

It had begun to rain.