The only major change that the apothecarion had undergone since Zasharr's residency was the scent. The chamber had gone from smelling sterile, dusty, and vacant to smelling sterile, caustic, and coppery with blood. Pyotr wasn't sure if the abrupt increase in the facility's use was a good or bad thing. Perhaps both, considering who was operating it.

The mad apothecary was currently leaned over one of his surgical tables, performing a procedure on a marine who had been stripped of his armor. The transhuman was restrained, much like the other captives in the room that Zasharr was keeping under with a cocktail of anesthetics that likely would kill a mere human just by proximate inhalation.

"That meeting was a circus," Zasharr said, his back to Pyotr. He didn't bother to turn or even pause from his work.

"Is that what you called me here to say?"

His cousin hummed his answer.

"You left before Zseron threatened to kill everyone on the ship unless we came to a consensus."

"Good," Zasharr said. "Think he will commit to it?"

"I imagine we will find out in three days, as I don't see this blasted warband ever reaching anything even remotely resembling unity."

Zasharr hummed his disapproval again. Pyotr stepped deeper into the chamber and took his place on the opposite side of the slab. It was then that he realized that the berzerker surgeon's patient bore no resemblance to the geneseed progenitors of Manus. "Is this the one Gyrthemar fought?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Will he live?"

"Under the Narthecium of any other surgeon? No. But I will ensure Ajax survives."

Pyotr stared into the unconscious berzerker's face. Even comatose, the World Eater's brow was furrowed and tense, as if even in the blackness of sleep he could not escape the agony that gnawed at his skull. "Do you think that is wise?"

"I have ensured that Ajax knows his place. He is unlikely to cause trouble again."

Pyotr raised an eyebrow, eliciting Zasharr to—without looking up from his operation—proffer a fluid-filled capsule that he placed on the instrument tray that was being held by a medical servitor.

Picking up the capsule, Pyotr found the liquid to be a preservation fluid and two eyes floated within. One was ruptured and hastily removed with an enlarged black pupil that lacked an iris, while the other had been excised with surgical care and was amber in color with whites that arced with numerous angry, red lines. Pyotr looked back at Ajax's face, noting how one of his closed lids seemed to sag inward.

"We would have died on that station, just as you, had your warband not taken us in," Zasharr explained. "Ajax violated that hospitality by insulting his gracious hosts. He had to pay the price just as much as the loud one did."

"'Gracious' is not a word I would use to describe my brothers."

Zasharr actually paused from his work for a moment at that. "Mm. Perhaps. But I can think of few other Sons of Curze who would have put themselves at risk for us. It would have been more tactical to leave us on Exodus to draw attention for you to escape." In truth, Pyotr was surprised that they hadn't.

The mad apothecary continued to eye him as he worked, his hands deep within Ajax's chest cavity. "I thought you would appreciate such a gesture."

"Why is that?"

"I find that the one thing in common with all of you Lords of the Night is your predisposition towards justice. There are variations in its employment and idealization, but you all curiously share it as a core belief. I wonder if it's a result of the teachings of your Primarch, or some form of hormonal response caused by your geneseed. I would certainly be interested in studying such a phenomenon."

Pyotr grunted. This again.

"You cannot have access to our geneseed repository."

Zasharr grimaced. "A shame."

"Why? Because you can't dissect our late father's organic material to see what makes us tick?"

"Partially yes, but mostly due to… a theory of mine."

Pyotr gave him a flat expression. Zasharr snarled at that.

"Don't look at me like that! This one has merit!"

Pyotr breathed out through his nose then nodded. "Go on."

Zasharr's eyes took on an unpleasantly excited cast. It did not match his harsh features, making him look more than slightly rabid. He pulled one of his hands from Ajax's body and pointed at Pyotr with the bloody tool that he was holding. "Chimeric geneseed," he said. "Such a thing would open the door to boundless possibilities if I were given enough samples to work with.

"Imagine, the justice of your Primarch, the drive of mine, and the ferocity of both of them in one being. Such an Astartes would be the ultimate arbiter, an unconquerable force of law."

"Or a sadistic mass murderer."

Zasharr's expression withered as he returned back to his surgery once again. "Faith, cousin. The unity between our own legions would only be the first step. This could pave the way for a breed of Astartes that could rival the Primaris marines of the Imperium." The surgeon got a far-off look in his eye. "Or, perhaps even the Blood God himself…"

Pyotr frowned at that. He was aware of his cousin's quest to achieve "Kharneth's ultimate trial," as he put it, but was not entirely sure what it entailed. Nor did he want to know, for that matter.

"Does the mixing of geneseed not strike you as profane?" Pyotr mused.

Zasharr snorted. "My apologies, next time I have ethical or pious quandaries I will be sure to first take them up with you, Marked of Slaaneth, lord discordant, and Son of Curze."

Pyotr grunted in acknowledgment to his point, then glanced around the room. He gestured to the nearest occupied table. "Why not the seed of Manus? You have a fair collection of that lying about."

The apothecary's scowl deepened. "I will not plague my men with such foul organic data. Their capacity for technology and mechanics is admirable, but I would rather my warriors not have the compulsive need to tear out their flesh and replace it with metal trinkets and novelties." He raised his instrument again and waggled it in the air. "Now, some uncorrupted Death Guard geneseed, that is something I would like to get my hands on."

"Regardless," Pyotr said, placing the capsule of eyes back onto the tray, "I presume you did not just call me here to show me a severed eye and beg for something I do not have the permission to grant."

Zasharr gave a low growl. "I do not beg, cousin. We are not the curs that the False Emperor intended us to be."

And yet you collared yourselves with pain engines in the name of a master. There was something delicious about willfully injecting agony onto oneself for eternity. Pyotr had to rend the thought from his mind—it was not his.

"But, yes," Zasharr continued, "there is more." He drew his hands from the torso of his brother, deposited his tools, and began to wipe his hands clean. "What is your plan for getting out of this mess?"

"I have none."

"I find it difficult to believe that the Re–"

"Do not say it," Pyotr said with more venom than he intended.

Zasharr paused, looking at the lord discordant carefully, then continued wiping his hands with his rag. "I find it difficult to believe that a man with your history does not have a plan to escape death yet again."

"It is different this time," Pyotr said darkly.

"How?"

Pyotr did not have an answer to that question. He could not bring himself to confess the gnashing and clawing thoughts running rampant within his mind. The struggle that lied within.

The surgeon let out a sigh that sounded like he was gargling chips of rockcrete, then directed the medical servitors to begin stitching Ajax up again. "Do you know what your problem is, Pyotr? You lack purpose. I strongly recommend you find it, lest you doom your brothers and my own warband, as well as yourself." He then turned away from his cousin.

The gesture was clear. Pyotr left the apothecarion, waiting until the doors fully closed behind him before letting out a long, protracted exhale of breath. It had taken considerable effort to remain focused in the chamber and not allow his attention to drift towards the machine spirits of the various medical appliances that enticed him to be broken and agonized under his ministrations.

He was getting worse. The previous night, the Dark Prince visited him once again in his dreams. Pyotr had once more given up something within himself, though he could not remember what exactly it had been. All he knew is that he was more hollow than he was the day before and the desire to feed his thirst was edging closer and closer to all-consuming.

Pyotr let out another breath, then looked down to find a diminutive figure standing before him at attention.

Artemis had to resist the urge to flinch as her god's gaze fell upon her. His black eyes seemed to be dissecting her, reading her soul and sensing her duplicitous heart. This being could kill her with ease for no other reason than she was in the way and there was nothing Artemis could do about it. Her plan suddenly felt very foolish.

"What is it?" the Astartes growled—at least, that's what it sounded like to her mortal ears.

Artemis opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Instead, she drew a dataslate and proffered it to him. The god—Pyotr, based on the insignia on his armor—frowned, looking down at it, then at his gauntleted fists.

"That will not work." His pale skin creased with annoyance at her.

She began to tremble then. The image of her death in the same manner of her brother grew clearer and more vivid in her mind's eye as sweat began to trickle down her temple and her heart hammered in her chest.

The god, Pyotr, snorted and stepped past her, beginning to make his way down the corridor.

"I-I have a plan to save us!" she called after him.

The figure stopped. Slowly, he turned back to face her, his expression hard but without anger or any emotion beyond vague apathy. Artemis assumed most gods would be amused by their lessers presuming to know as much or more as them. She wasn't sure if this was better or worse.

"You forget yourself, slave," Pyotr said.

"My lord," Artemis said quickly.

Pyotr eyed her for a long moment, then nodded to his side as he turned to continue on his way. Artemis scurried to catch up, falling into step beside him, forced to quicken her pace to match the strides of the two-and-a-half meter tall giant.

"What is this plan?" the god asked, as if humoring her.

"As… as you know, our current trajectory is unsustainable, my lord," Artemis stammered.

"Yes."

"And if… if we intend to live, we need to change courses. Immediately."

"Get to the point."

Artemis blanched, then swallowed. "I propose we make landfall. We can engage in a more favorable assault then escape when–"

Pyotr cut her off with a glare. "We? Would you be fighting alongside us against the Ferric Sentries, girl?"

She gaped, her mouth opening and closing with nothing but strangled noises and air coming out in response.

The god shook his head, seeming disappointed. "Others have already petitioned for this idea. It will not work. There is nowhere to make landfall with our current fuel reserves."

"Yes, but only if we travel entirely via the void." Artemis held up the dataslate for his inspection again. "If we travel through the Warp, however, I've calculated a route that will bring us to a habitable world. A… a planet called Kleos, my lord. We would reach it and have enough fuel to depart once we're certain the enemy can't pursue us."

Pyotr frowned and looked at the calculations on her dataslate. "You did these configurations yourself?"

"Yes, my lord."

He looked at her with new interest, then carefully—as if cradling fine porcelain—took the dataslate from her. "I will have to check to ensure this conclusion is correct."

"Of course, my lord."

Pyotr continued staring at the dataslate for a moment, unable to flip through the multiple documents she'd prepared for this proposal. After a fashion, he turned to look at her.

"Why?" he asked.

"I'm… sorry, my lord?"

"You wear the attire of a bridge officer. I am not often associated with such crew. Why bring this to me and not Anras?"

Artemis stiffened at that, but masked it as her falling into attention. "With respect, my lord, I would rather not present my findings to the god who killed my brother."

Pyotr scoffed at her usage of the term 'god' in reference to the Astartes. Artemis stifled the urge to cringe at her misstep.

"That does not answer my question."

"I brought it to you because you were the one to punish him. To deliver justice in his name. For that, I believe you are more worthy than any other… Astartes aboard this vessel."

He sized her up again after that, his expression softening an almost imperceptible amount. "Dangerous words for a slave. Especially one whose name is unknown and therefore meaningless to me."

Artemis looked down, bowing her head subserviently.

"That," Pyotr drawled, "was an opportunity to provide it to me."

She looked up. "A-Artemis, my lord. Artemis Maralli." She saluted.

The god stared at her yet again with those piercing eyes. "I will take what you have brought me under consideration, Artemis."

"Thank you," she said gratefully. "Um, sire."

"That was a dismissal," Pyotr growled.

Artemis saluted again then turned on her heels and left him.

Once she was firmly around the corner of the next corridor, she let out a relieved sigh. His words implied that her findings would only be considered, not utilized. But, as far as Artemis could tell, if they had better options, they would have employed them by now. Her plan was working. By the Emperor, it was working. Now, she just had to make sure it stayed that way.

She quickly made her way down to Scab City, found Jep, and told him to gather as many trusted people as he could by tomorrow.

The waltz with fate had begun. Artemis hoped she could keep up with the rhythm.

"A slave did this?" Retrigan asked as he overlooked the string of calculations displayed on the hololith.

"Yes," Pyotr said.

"And they're correct?"

"Would I be showing them to you if they were not?"

Gyrthemar scratched at his cheek where the seam of his flesh met the metal of his augmetic. "What even is it, brother?"

"Clever, that's what it is," Retrigan answered. "The one that did this is intelligent for a serf."

"She's a member of the bridge crew," Pyotr explained. "A junior officer by the look of her. Likely had to be educated to get there."

"I have seen standard Scholas," Taresh said in his dull, flat voice. "They do not teach the mortals this." He gestured to the display.

Pyotr eyed the floating string of numbers, crossing his arms and ignoring the cooing in his brain that was urging him to spike the hololith table with a virus from the mechadendrite limb that he no longer had.

"It looks like a path," Gyrthemar said in an effort to contribute. They all gave him a suffering look.

"It's the best option that's been presented to us thus far," Retrigan said, ignoring their brother.

Pyotr nodded. "It is. Though, the true challenge will be getting the rest of the warband to see that."

Sixth Claw pondered on that for a moment.

"Zseron should be manageable," Retrigan said. "He is far more likely to see reason."

"Agreed," Taresh added. "Most who have not allied themselves with Gargahl or Anras will turn to him for guidance on the matter."

"Hardly unanimous still," Pyotr remarked bitterly.

Retrigan frowned while Taresh's expression remained neutral. Gyrthemar seemed as if he wasn't even attempting to keep up anymore and had turned to smacking the side of his augmetic eye once more, mumbling about static.

"So you need to convince the other two then," Retrigan finally said. "If they agree, their followers will do so, as well."

Pyotr did not miss that his brother had said 'you' and not 'we' in that statement. The burden was firmly on Pyotr's shoulders. He expected as much from Taresh. His crimson-cloaked brother evaded all interaction with Pyotr that was not strictly necessary, and the feeling was mutual. Gyrthemar, he knew, was too oblivious of the situation to offer aid—nor did Pyotr truly want it. Retrigan, however, he thought to be more reliable. The once-raptor apparently still felt as strongly as he had towards Pyotr as their last conversation suggested.

"No easy task," Pyotr said. An understatement. The warband had been withering for centuries under the dual-leadership of Anras and Gargahl due to their inability to agree on anything. The attack on Exodus Station was all but a miracle to have occurred. The only reason the warband had not fractured yet was because both despots had been loyal lieutenants to their previous captain before his death at the Siege of Terra. Ebvenor's ghost was the only thing keeping the company together. "I will start immediately."

"No," Taresh said, squinting at the hololith. "Begin tomorrow. Let them sweat for some time. It will make them more likely to compromise. If you approach them too soon, they might believe other solutions will reveal themselves shortly after and not meet your request with the proper urgency."

"We only have three days," Pyotr retorted.

"And our brothers are very foolish."

The lord discordant looked at Taresh. The thinblood was too cold, too guarded for his liking. Pyotr never knew what he was thinking. He had no accent and wore his armor plain, unadorned without the skulls and skin of his prey. Even his helm was plain and lacked all VIIIth legion signifiers apart from its coloration. All of that made him difficult to trust. And yet, Pyotr had to begrudgingly admit that there was logic and wisdom in his words.

"Fine. I begin tomorrow."

Retrigan and Taresh seemed to take that as an end to the meeting and wordlessly exited the chamber, leaving Pyotr alone with Gyrthemar.

That should not have been surprising. Pyotr had been distancing himself from Sixth Claw for years now, preferring the company of his daemon engine rather than that of his brothers. He preferred it that way; without the nagging and bickering and the incessant need to explain himself for every action he performed to them. That simply did not occur through a bond with a machine. It was a far less infuriating form of existence.

And yet, something deep within Pyotr gripped him, warning him that solitude was dangerous for him as of now. He did not want them, but he needed them. For the time being.

"So," his remaining brother looked to him, "matter resolved?"

Pyotr frowned. "Not nearly."

"Understood, brother."

The lord discordant looked at Gyrthemar, took a moment to contemplate, then turned and left the room.