Pyotr navigated the gloom-shrouded arteries of the Savory Wound, ignoring the sidelong looks cast his way by his brothers and the groveling done by the slaves as he made his way to his chambers. Upon arrival, he found someone waiting for him.

Retrigan leaned up against the wall in his deep blue ceramite, unpowered lightning claws sliding in and out of their sheathes with hisses of excitement. As Pyotr entered his quarters, his brother's helm lifted and red eyes met black.

Snk! Ssshk. Snk! Ssshk. Snk! Ssshk.

"You are awake," Retrigan said.

"And you are trying too hard to be dramatic," Pyotr replied without mirth.

Retrigan let out a dissatisfied hum. Snk! Ssshk.

"Gyrthemar did not think you would pull through this time."

"I did."

"I see that."

Snk! Ssshk. Snk! Ssshk. Snk! Ssshk.

Pyotr turned his eyes away from his brother, but his spartan quarters gave little excuse for him to pretend he was more interested in something other than the conversation at hand.

"What do you want, Retrigan?" he asked with more weariness than he intended.

"An explanation."

"I did not realize I owed you one for anything I decide to do."

Snk! Retrigan pushed off the wall and marched towards Pyotr, his skull-painted helm with its fanged grill brought mere millimeters from Pyotr's own face.

"That's just the problem, isn't it, brother? You never owe anyone an explanation for anything, do you?" he spat.

"No."

Retrigan growled. "You almost died."

"I do that frequently."

"You almost died due to idiocy and pride!"

"Death is nothing compared to–"

"I swear by the Warp, Pyotr, if the next word out of your mouth is 'vindication,' I will gut you where you stand."

Pyotr said nothing and the two brothers stared at one another in silence for several minutes. Eventually, Retrigan's tense posture diminished and he once again sheathed his claws with a Sshk and reclaimed his position by the wall.

"Do you know why Sixth Claw still has no sergeant, brother?" Retrigan asked.

"No," Pyotr admitted.

"It is because we all know, either consciously or not, that the position is meant for you. That it was always meant for you the moment that Valter fell and his geneseed was harvested."

Pyotr allowed his gaze to meet his brother's yet again. "Why?"

"It doesn't matter why," Retrigan sighed, shaking his head. "It only matters that its true. It only matters that you were a man that we could follow. But now… Now you're a man who abandons his brothers in the name of petty vengeance."

"Lavitor Fabrinus's life is mine by right," Pyotr snarled.

"For reasons you still refuse to tell anyone!" Retrigan's calm facade sloughed away like a scab, revealing the festering anger beneath once more. "And did you ever consider that, perhaps, your claw, your brothers could have aided you in your quest?"

Pyotr did not answer.

"No, of course you didn't," Retrigan let out a harsh, frigid laugh. "And I know why."

"You know nothing."

"No?" Retrigan's vox still crackled with spiteful chuckles. "Then why is it that you used to spend months on end, locked away within the Mechanization Hall, devising new and profane ways to compromise the machines of our enemies, but now you haven't set foot within it in over a year?" Retrigan pushed off the wall again. "Why is it that you will rarely even leave the ship unless you think there is a chance of running into that chapter master?" He took a step towards Pyotr. "Why is it that, in recent encounters, he seems to get the better of you more often than the inverse?" He came upon his brother again, this time with no indication of backing away. "And why is it that you reek of the Warp more and more as the days go by?"

Retrigan leaned his face up against the side of Pyotr's head. His voxgrill fizzled the sound of a long intake of breath through the nose. If it were not for the fact that Pyotr was not wearing his own armor, he would have struck his brother for such blatant disrespect. Instead, he stood there and waited for Retrigan to hurry up and make his damn point.

"I think," his brother said into his ear. "It's because you envy the Son of Manus. You want to be him, but you've realized you can't. You never will or were going to. And now you've given up. Simply going through the motions, waiting to die. You're not conducting some glorious revenge upon the chapter master. No, what you're doing is writing the galaxy's most pathetic suicide note." Pyotr could hear the sneer in Retrigan's voice.

"Are you finished yet?" Pyotr said, glaring at his brother.

"Almost. There's just something I need to see with my own eyes."

Leather rustled as Retrigan brushed aside his cloak of stitched flesh. Pyotr had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of focusing on the object he procured. But then he heard it. The quivering, trembling sound of a motive force cowering at Pyotr's presence. The lord discordant's mouth watered and his eyes fell upon the handheld auspex device in his brother's hand.

A fist then slammed into the side of Pyotr's face, snapping his head to the side—if it were not for his reinforced skull and bone structure, the blow would have been fatal. He spat acidic blood onto the floor of his chambers, the metal beginning to sizzle where the fluid landed.

"I cannot blame you for wanting to die, brother." Retrigan's compassionless eyes looked upon Pyotr. "The man that you were was a man that I could follow. The man that you are, though? He's nothing but an animal. And animals are put down when they are no longer useful."

The lightning claws slid out from their housings once again. The two Night Lords looked to each other for a time as the air grew abuzz with cold anticipation. Eventually, though, Retrigan simply scoffed and shoved past Pyotr to leave the room.

"A waste of my time…"

Pyotr intended to wait in his chambers until his new armor was ready for him. Instead, he found himself entering the ship's Mechanization Hall, largely out of spite.

The cavernous room was much as Pyotr had remembered it. Partially deconstructed machines and dozens of hololithic displays of half-finished techno-viruses crowded the central workstations that belonged to Pyotr. He tried to muster up even a fraction of the passion he once held for his projects, but was unsuccessful. Alternatively, he found himself steeling his nerves against the desire to feed upon the fear and pain of captive machine spirits surrounding him. It was more difficult than he cared to admit. He felt like a starving man at a feast, forcing himself to not even taste a morsel of the lavish meals out on display.

Tech adepts flitted about on the outer edges of the chamber, seeing to their own assignments and rituals. Once, they had cowered before Pyotr, his mere presence bringing their double-souls to a petrified stupor. Now, they only bowed to him in deference and supplication as they passed by. Pyotr couldn't find the energy to be annoyed by that, either.

In the farthest, darkest reaches of the chamber, a pile of the bones and skulls of the unfortunate slaves that had been meticulously curated into the shape of a nest sat. Each piece of carrion had been evaluated and chosen from a larger sample size until a perfect construct had been made by the daemon engine that now morosely laid within it, its front facing the corner away from the main chamber. Tzimiti's hull thrummed and pulsed in a manner that Pyotr could imagine was a series of lamentable sighs. The lord discordant simply stood there with his arms crossed. His helstalker would have sensed his presence the moment that he drew near enough—Tzimiti was being intentionally dramatic.

Once the foul machine realized it would not receive the attention or sympathy it wanted, it lifted its head and craned its neck to look at Pyotr, beady red eyes staring at him while its maw dripped with corrosive fluids.

"I hear you killed three slaves that were seeking to mend your wounds," Pyotr said. The tech adepts ignored him. They were used to their lord speaking to his mount.

Tzimiti let out a shrill wail, mucus flying forward off its mandibles.

"I did not say that I blamed you, nor that I cared," Pyotr responded, motioning for one of the adepts to bring him his tools. Tzimiti responded by shuffling its form to face him in its nest. The daemon engine's chassis strained under the effort, several sections of circuitry under the plating misfiring and sparking as three of its limbs dragged along the ground without any sign of operative motor function. Pyotr frowned, noting that he'd have to make good on the promise he made in regards to the one that did this.

"Master," an adept said in a tinny voice upon delivering his instruments. Pyotr saw no need to respond, but bristled with annoyance when the robed figure did not move.

"What is it you want?" Pyotr asked the woman. He knew her name. Curie, he believed it was.

"I see you no longer possess your blessing, master," she said. There was no inference or implication in the words. Simply an observation.

Pyotr grunted as he selected his tools and began to work on Tzimiti's repairs. The helstalker laid down and accepted the procedure without issue. Pyotr did not miss the generous birth that the priest gave the entity.

"This is unfortunate." The stress and inflections of that statement were made on the wrong syllables. Curie did not actually believe or care about Pyotr's "misfortune," she only used such phrases to attempt to sound more humane. Why she bothered to do so in the face of something beyond human, Pyotr was unsure.

"A replacement will be commissioned for my lord at once."

"No," Pyotr said.

An erratic buzz came from Curie's throat and her oculars shifted between several different shades of red, purple, and green.

"Elaborate," she said. "Please."

"No," Pyotr repeated and continued to work.

Curie stood there for several long seconds, her inner mechanisms whirring. "I have processed this request and have found no logic in it with the current data provided. Perhaps, if my master were to–"

"Leave me," Pyotr growled.

The adept did not move, calculating if a direct order or her own curiosity took greater precedence. The results were skewed by the hungry stare of Tzimiti and Curie spun on her heels and walked away, binharic spilling out from her vocalizers in an annoyed buzz.

Pyotr raised his head. "Wait."

She stopped.

"Do you hate me, tech priest?"

There was a momentary pause of logical processing from Curie before she finally answered. "Yes. Very much so."

"Good, that's good." Pyotr said softly.

"Would you like an itemized list of the profane behaviors that have resulted in this status, my master?" Again, there was no emotion or intent behind those words. She truly meant what she said.

"No. That's quite all right."

Curie remained where she was for several moments, waiting for a dismissal. When none came she turned and continued on her way.

Pyotr was then left to blessed silence as he worked away on his helstalker. The hours trickled by and he was permitted to discard recent thoughts from his mind as he found purpose and balance in the task before him. He knew that out in the void, a cruiser chased after them like a predator pouncing after its prey, but, for now, that problem was intangible and ethereal in comparison to the true and present issue of metal and oil and circuitry and daemonic vitae. Pyotr recognized that the process took far longer than it would have in the past, both due to his missing mechadendrite and… other reasons, but rather than finding frustration in the lack of efficiency, he found himself thankful for it, as it gave him a further excuse to retreat from the world.

At least, until he heard the sounds of powerful boots approaching him from behind.

The power armor that the newcomer wore was nothing like the sets he and his brothers typically adorned themselves in. Put simply, it was a work of art. Pyotr could not only hear, but feel the majesty in those bootfalls, the authoritative humming of a greater engine, the creaking and purring of reinforced plating, and the raw energy that ran through the suit's servos like lightning, granting its wielder strength and capacity unlike anything else worn by a standard Astartes.

"I thought I would find you here," Zseron of the Atramentar said in a voice that felt as if it were plucked from the very stars.

"What do you want?" Pyotr grimaced.

"Must I want something?"

Pyotr glanced over his shoulder at the marine in his helmless terminator armor. Zseron's head was shaved bare, a network of scars crossing along his scalp. He sported a beard, the white hairs on his chin stark against the umbral shade of the rest of the facial hair upon his lip and cheeks. His armor was adorned with Nostraman runes that shone with the faint purple glow of the Warp. He held a stave in one hand, skulls dangling from the top and lightly clanking together like a gruesome set of chimes.

"Yes," Pyotr sneered. "It is not our way to just sit and chat with one another, brother."

Zseron did not refute Pyotr's claims. Instead, he began to walk along the worktables and quietly inspect Pyotr's abandoned projects. Terminator armor was magnificent and many things, graceful not being one of them. Zseron made it look as if it were anyway.

"You're bitter after what happened at Exodus Station," he eventually said.

"We had too much faith in Anras and his false vision."

Zseron gave him a suspicious glance. "Is that so?"

"Mm." Pyotr sneered. "He foresaw no intervention from the Imperium and that we would be successful. Neither were true."

"I see," the sorcerer said slowly and returned to standing beside Pyotr, watching him make his final adjustments to Tzimiti's chassis. He intended to make improvements to the defensibility and circuit security, but he sensed he would have to make time for that later. "Would you like to know why I and the other Atramentar of the Fifty-first Company have yet to align ourselves completely to its leader?"

"Which one?" Pyotr scoffed.

"Exactly," Zseron replied and Pyotr noted the subtle and mischievous smile on his lips. "The warband is too busy squabbling over who is actually in charge."

"And here I thought the Atramentar only followed leaders they respected. Not children."

Zseron ignored the comment and continued on. "Our brothers are split. Some respect the power and strength of Gargahl while others believe in the tradition and… purity that Anras represents. There are even more still that are undecided." He chose his words carefully, chewing on them before spitting them out onto Pyotr's lap for him to clean up. "We're devouring ourselves from the inside, Pyotr. If we do not resolve the issue of leadership soon, at best we'll find ourselves too fractured and diluted to fend for ourselves against the Sons of Manus that doggedly chase us."

"And why," Pyotr said, his annoyance finding its way into his tone, "are you telling me this?"

The sorcerer maintained that insufferable smile. "Perhaps I'm trying to change our traditions, brother. Perhaps I'm just trying to chat."

Pyotr snorted in derision and closed the last of Tzimiti's paneling. The helstalker gave its limbs a tentative wiggle, then rose completely to its feet. The overlapping sections of its plate rippled and extended past one another as if the creature were stretching. Then it began to excitedly bound its way throughout the Mechanization Hall, resulting in several terrified and appropriately annoyed tech adepts.

"You're forgetting something, brother," Pyotr said.

"Hm?"

"There is a third faction vying for power." He turned and looked at the Sorcerer of Stars. "You."

"The Atramentar exist to serve, not lead." Zseron shook his head.

"And despite that, the warriors of the First Company have always commanded a certain… gravitas amongst our legion. Like it or not, many of those undecided within our ranks look up to you, the one who speaks on the behalf of your club, and would do whatever it is you wished."

The smile slipped from Zseron's lips and his brows furrowed. He had not considered this line of logic before. He did not seem all too fond of it, either.

"I'll leave you to ponder on that, brother," Pyotr spat and moved to leave.

"The mission was not a failure," Zseron said abruptly. Pyotr stopped in his tracks. He looked back and saw Zseron's expression was calm, but serious. "We were successful. I suppose no one else has told you since your recovery."

"Explain. Now."

"The main conflict was a diversion while I and the others of my… 'club,' as you so eloquently put it, recovered the ammunition. We faced only minor opposition and managed to reclaim over seventy percent of their stockpiles before it was time to extract. Anras's vision was not false."

A sneer twitched at the edge of Pyotr's mouth as he turned away, watching as Tzimiti chased after one of the slaves that served in the chamber. The daemon engine would slowly gain on the poor soul, swiping out with its forelimbs once it got close and missing by only a hair, giving the slave time to gain more ground as Tzimiti recovered from the missed strike, only to begin the game once more and continue its languid pursuit. Once the helstalker grew bored of this, it easily outpaced the human and sunk its mandibles into the slave's soft flesh, forcing them down into its gullet and devouring the creature whole.

"So only I am to carry the burden of failure, it seems."

Zseron mused to himself for a moment, rhythmically tapping his stave against his thigh. His black eyes analyzed Pyotr with a cold calculation to them and he looked as if he wished to speak.

"What is it?" Pyotr asked, his own eyes narrowing.

Zseron sighed and planted his stave back onto the ground. "There is more that you should know…"

Anras lounged back in the captain's throne of the Savory Wound's bridge. It did not technically belong to him. Yet. However, Gargahl's existence alone is enough to kill lesser mortals within close proximity and—as a result—he paid the command deck very few visits. Due to this, Anras didn't see the problem in utilizing a seat that would have otherwise been left to languish from lack of proper attention. Besides, it would officially be his at some point or another. His competitor was bound to get himself killed one of these days. Assuming that the fool discordant ceased his timely interventions, of course.

Frowning, the visionary cast thoughts of Pyotr from his mind for the time being. Strategies involving the proper method to handle that particular nuisance could come later.

"Report our current status," Anras said, rising to inspect the hololithic displays of their ongoing situation.

"Largely unchanged, m'lord," one of the bridge officers remarked. What had his name been again? "We are still outside the effective weapons range of the Gorgon's Manacles and they have made no attempt to hail us for open communications."

"Is that so? How surprising." Anras scratched away some leftover dried blood from his gauntlet. The officer blanched.

"Aye, m'lord." He nodded. "Ah…"

"Go on, human," Anras said, not bothering to meet the shivering thing's eyes. He smiled behind his helmet.

"Of… of course, m'lord. Unfortunately, weapons systems and the void shield generator are still damaged from our retreat, making it unwise to engage in… hostile negotiations."

Anras snorted. Retreat. Such a cute word for 'running away.' The lengths men would go to in order to avoid sounding cowardly. The VIIIth Legion had no such reservations. Anras had no such reservations. The ego was a fragile thing set on display for people who didn't care to look at it to spit upon. Far more trouble than it was worth, if you asked Anras.

"And…" the officer swallowed. "And our current methods of evasion are… unsustainable."

The visionary blinked. "What?"

The officer's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, his eyes wide with terror. Anras didn't even think. He reached out and gripped the man by the head, lifting him into the air and squeezing. His skull cracked and collapsed like chalk, spraying viscera and blood across the command deck as a red rainstorm. Anras looked to the woman who had been sitting next to him. She tried to maintain a calm exterior, but Anras could hear the flutter of her heartbeat, he could taste the tang of her fear-musk in the air.

"I recommend," he said slowly, "that you provide me with the answers that I want without hesitation. Otherwise, your death will be far more drawn out than your compatriots."

She nodded and wiped at her eyes with her sleeve as she turned back to the readings. The dead officer's body hit the decking with a dull thump, causing her to flinch. "Due to superficial thruster damage and differing models of cruiser, in order to maintain proper distance from the Gorgon, we are burning fuel at a rate that likely greatly exceeds their own. Estimates show that we will only be able to outrun them for another three weeks and some change before we're dead in the void. My lord," she added belatedly.

Anras's nostrils flared with irritation. The woman cringed as he reached out to her, uncaring that she'd done what he'd asked. His anger was rising and in desperate need to be stanched.

"Anras," a voice said from behind him. Anras turned to see a marine standing in the entranceway to the command deck. He wore a set of Ferric Sentry power armor that had only been partially reconfigured to properly represent the mien of their father's legion.

"Pyotr," Anras sneered. "I would ask you what I owe the displeasure, but I truly do not have time for it right now."

The lord discordant said nothing as he stepped into the room.

"Fine," Anras spat. "What is it that you want?"

Pyotr stared at him.

"Cease the theatrics, brother. I have even less care for them now than I do normally."

The cold silence continued to radiate from Pyotr, spilling across the room and causing the bridge officers to shift uncomfortably in their seats, their eyes flicking warily towards the marine in his mismatched gray and blue plating. Red eye lenses bore into Anras with burning prejudice.

"Bah!" Anras shook his head and turned back to the hololithic readings. If Pyotr wished to be a child, then so be it.

"I spoke with Zseron," his brother finally said.

Anras lifted his gaze from the readings and barely had a moment to think the word, Damn, before a blow slammed into the back of his head.

The visionary's head snapped forward and he began to stumble in the same direction. Pyotr grabbed him by the wings of his helm and yanked Anras back into the wall behind them. He pivoted on the spot and pummeled his brother with blow after blow to the sternum until the winged skull icon of the legion on his chest fractured.

Anras hissed and rolled out of the way of the next punch, causing Pyotr to put an astartes fist-sized dent in the wall. Anras then drew the blade from his back and ignited it, the metal reverberating with power. He swung at Pyotr, who raised a fist to protect himself as he dodged backward. The blade left a sizable gash in his vambrace—blood oozed from the wound. That was beginning to become a bad habit.

The power sword swung again in a warding gesture. Pyotr stepped back out of the arc of the weapon's edge. Now on the defensive, Pyotr gritted his teeth as his brother closed in upon him. The Night Lord's boot stepped in something wet and ichorous. Pyotr spared a quick glance downwards to find the body of a recently deceased naval officer. He waited until Anras drew close, then ducked as the sword sang through the air once again. Pyotr came up with the corpse and threw it at his brother. The fleshsack slapped against his opponent's ceramite ineffectively, but provided a momentary distraction for Pyotr to charge his brother, slamming his shoulder into the neck and grill of Anras's armor.

As Anras staggered back, Pyotr pressed the advantage, kicking at the servo of his brother's knee. The armor didn't break, nor would it injure the joint within, but it did cause the visionary to buckle, dropping him to one knee. He looked up at Pyotr and thrusted with his power sword. Pyotr caught it by letting the blade slice through the plating of his palm, puncturing his hand and emerging out the other side. Anras grunted as he tried to pull it free, but the weapon refused to budge.

Flesh burned and pain washed across Pyotr's hand and began to crawl up his wrist and forearm, but he twisted his arm despite the agony, throwing off Anras's grip. He then drew his boltpistol from his thigh, pressed the barrel into his brother's forearm and proceeded to pull the trigger until ceramite fragments and blood began to fly across the room, just as they had when he performed the same maneuver on Lavitor Fabrinus.

Anras howled with pain, but Pyotr was not finished. He yanked the blade from his hand with a wincing grunt and grabbed hold of his brother's wrist. With his free-hand, Pyotr delivered a punch to the injury, the cracking of bone and the ripping of flesh singing out into the air. Then he punched again. Then a third time. Then a fourth. He continued to punch until Anras's screams became guttural and the visionary's hand hung as a mangled, twisted sack of flesh and broken bone from his arm.

Pyotr then proceeded to yank on the limb. It resisted, but eventually tore free from the rest of Anras's body with a wet ripping sound. Pyotr tossed the limb next to the human corpse on the deck and a kick to the chest sent Anras to the ground, cradling his new stump. The lord discordant gave his brother's chest several stomps for good measure. Satisfied, he crouched down and grabbed Anras by the chest piece, pulling him close.

"Thirteen," Pyotr snarled. "Thirteen of our brothers are dead because you thought it best not to tell them the full extent of your vision."

"You would not understand," Anras hissed through the pain. "The prophecies are not always clear. I was not aware–"

Pyotr squeezed the ragged flesh of Anras's drooling and sputtering wound. He clenched his teeth to stifle his cries of pain.

"You were aware and you lied." Pyotr stared down at the pathetic excuse for a marine with disdain. "Your own self-interests took precedence over the good of the warband. You disgust me."

"Brother, I am telling you–"

"I don't mean the blasted mission!" He slammed a fist into Anras's faceplate. The visionary's head snapped back and clammered against the deck. "I could forgive that even if you had foreseen our success to be solely at the hands of the Atramentar." Pyotr leaned in close, his helm nearly touching Anras's. "What I cannot forgive is that you saw the chapter master standing over my broken body, axe raised and poised to slay me, and you said nothing beforehand."

Anras did not respond initially. Pyotr rose to his feet and his brother forced himself to sit upright, bringing his wounded limb close to his chest.

Can you blame me?" he eventually growled. "You've grown weak, Pyotr! You're a hindrance to the warband! Should I report every time my visions reveal when one of the slaves takes a shit? No, because it is obvious."

Pyotr glanced down at his crippled brother. "Do I seem weak to you currently?"

I need you to hollow yourself out so that I may fill the vacancy with something wonderful… A memory echoed in Pyotr's mind.

He sighed and offered Anras his hand. "Still, I am inclined to agree with you."

Animals are put down when they are no longer useful…

Anras looked at the outstretched arm suspiciously, but then reached out with his good hand, clasping wrists with his brother and allowing himself to be helped to his feet.

Pyotr tightened his grip and pulled his brother close.

"But you have caught me in a bad mood, Anras. If I ever catch you withholding even the most useless of details you see in your visions from me again, I will devise a special virus just for you and have it injected straight into your armor as you sleep. It will be insidious and slow, just like you, brother. For months, you may notice nothing and begin to think my threats hollow. But during this time, the machine spirit of your warplate will be changing. It will grow… hungry. Its corrupted circuits will begin to wonder what flesh tastes like. Nothing more than an idle code at first, but it will spread and fester. It will grow day after day until that is all that the spirit can process—The desire, no, the need to understand that taste. And there you will be, wearing it day after day as that hunger builds.

"Eventually, it will not be able to take it anymore. It will lock you in and it will feast. First, it will peel the skin from your muscle to relish the flavor your salt and sweat bring. Then, it will tear lump after lump of your meat free to sate its craving to no avail.

"It will lap up your blood and drain it from your arteries to try and quench its thirst. It will snap and shatter your bones to suck out the marrow. It will chew on your eyeballs and gnaw on your tongue. It will do all of this, with you trapped within, helpless and unable to do anything to stop it as you scream for mercy. Only no one will hear you, the armor will not let you. It will become your god and you will be forced to bear all of its sins."

Anras pulled away from the lord discordant and frowned. "You create a beautiful picture, brother. Father would be proud."

"And here I thought we were done lying to each other." There was no humor behind Pyotr's words. "Go see Zasharr about a replacement for your hand. Tell him I sent you."

In more ways than one, his tone suggested.

The visionary maintained eye contact. "You realize what you've done here today, brother?"

"Yes."

"I would imagine you could have done with less enemies rather than more."

"It is not too late to heed that advice." Pyotr tilted his head towards the now-inert power sword lying in the puddle of blood caused by both the dead officer and his brother's dismembered hand.

Anras scoffed, snatched up his blade and left the room. Pyotr watched him leave, then turned his attention back to the corpse. One of the female officers had left her station and had placed a hand on the body's chest. Her other hand was pressed to her mouth as she sobbed. Pyotr only had a moment to watch and consider the implications of this gesture before a glyph flashed on his retinal display and a voxlink was established.

"Sixth Claw," Taresh said. "We have a problem."

"What is it now?" Retrigan's voice asked over the vox.

"Not what, who."

There was a sigh. "Gyrthemar?"

"Gyrthemar."