He left the bridge bristling with indignation. Pyotr was not quite sure how it had occurred, but he had, in essence, become Anras's lackey. And it was all for the visionary's vanity.

The rage died quicker than it should have. Pyotr still found the flame of irritation flickering in his heart, but the teeth-grinding outrage he had felt now seemed quelled. He knew it was not natural. At this exact moment, however, he could not find it within himself to see it as a bad thing, either—as it could very well be the only thing keeping him from turning on his heels and driving his thumbs through his brother's eye sockets until he felt something pop.

"Sixth Claw," Pyotr said through his squad's vox-channel as he made his way down the corridor. "I am in need of assistance."

There was no response.

"Sixth Claw," he repeated. "Come in."

He was met with more empty vox-crackle.

Pyotr frowned as he checked the vox overlays in his helmet to ensure there was no interference of any kind, but all connections were sound and each member was accounted for based on their active sigils. Pyotr activated his vox again to make another attempt, but stopped short as something flashed on his retinal display.

It was a single rune, simple yet evocative that took no more than five strokes to create. Back on Nostramo, gangs would use it to mark their territory and inform others to beware and stay away. Amongst more familiar company, however, it meant something more along the lines of "piss off."

Pyotr stared at the glyph for a fashion, unsure if he should feel betrayed, irate, or relieved that his brothers had truly abandoned him. He found himself settling on exhaustion.

Clearing the overlay, the lord discordant ran his tongue along the backside of his teeth as he thought and reassessed. His task had just grown far more difficult without the support of his Claw and he was likely going to have to employ other, potentially messier, methods.

He found his target as they were exiting the Chambers of Artifice. There were few mortal slaves that the warband bothered to heed any credence or respect towards, but the artificers were a clan that superseded that notion. Without them, the Night Lords had no functioning weapons or armor. It would only take one slight for a serf to "mistakenly" fail to fix an Astartes bolter or powerpack, rendering them defenseless in the heat of battle. The artificers, however, did not abuse their respect. They made few requests and worked diligently for their overlords. One of the few petitions they did have was that their chambers never be disturbed unless specifically asked.

Lutyphian of First Claw was one of the rare individuals aboard who could ignore this and not pay the consequences. Pyotr was still unsure how he managed such a feat.

The hulking warrior was a head taller than Pyotr and at least a shoulder broader. The skull-mask and ribcage design that adorned his armor was not bone-white in color like the average Son of Curze. Instead, it was a sterling platinum and his midnight plating danced with red lightning bolt decals. A storm shield hung from his back along with the warrior's massive power scythe. The average legionnaire of their ilk followed the creed of fear and projected it with pride, but Lutyphian? He was more than that. He was death itself.

Pyotr had never met a more arrogant and haughty bastard in all his life—Anras included.

Lutyphian paused when he saw Pyotr, inclining his head in an amused and mocking nod of respect. "Well, if it isn't the R–"

"You have something that does not belong to you," Pyotr said coldly.

The champion of First Claw adjusted his posture, maintaining his relaxed air of conceit while also looking down his nose at Pyotr. "What was that, brother?"

"You hold something that belongs to the visionary."

Lutyphian laughed. "So you are Anras's errand servitor now? I thought better of you, Pyotr." He shook his head in pity.

The deck of the vessel creaked maliciously underfoot and Pyotr furtively glanced over his shoulder.

"I am not going to ask again, brother," Pyotr said.

"Good, because I already draw tired of your whining," Lutyphian retorted, then turned to leave. As he did, Pyotr drew the bolt pistol from his thigh and shot at his brother. The bolter shell cracked against Lutyphian's power shield, but caused relatively no harm. The warrior stopped in place and slowly turned to look back at Pyotr.

"It is rude to walk away from someone speaking to you," Pyotr growled.

Lutyphian cocked his head curiously. "You've always had very poor impulse control, Pyotr," he said back, his voice dripping with condescension. "I suppose that is a common trait within Sixth Claw."

Pyotr ground his teeth. He could have pointed out that it was a common trait within Lutyphian's own Claw to think themselves better than everyone else while also having the most casualties, but he thought better of it.

"You have no need for the artefact. Relinquish it."

"Such a waste, you are," Lutyphian said, ignoring Pyotr. He began to prowl the space between them, looking very much like a crag cat ready to pounce. "I know our brothers don't like you for your deeds. Your interest in the art of daemon engines makes them uncomfortable and they combat this by turning that uncomfortability into hatred. I am different." Pyotr rolled his eyes beneath his helm. He had forgotten how much Lutyphian enjoyed hearing himself speak. "I do not hate you because you are a warpsmith, but because you are a poor warpsmith. I have seen the works of the New Mechanicum, I have witnessed the creations of Astartes within your cult and you are nothing compared to them. A child standing in the shadow of mountains. You're not a lord discordant," Pyotr could hear the grin in Lutyphian's voice, "you're a hobbyist at best."

Pyotr drew his chainglaive from his back. A click came from Lutyphian's vox and he drew his own weapon and shield. Moments before Pyotr charged, the chamber door opened once more and four armored figures stepped out.

The other members of First Claw weren't egregiously adorned like Lutyphian was, but each still carried themselves with a sense of superiority. Each also had their weapons drawn and were advancing alongside their champion. Pyotr silently cursed at the fact he foolishly walked right into a trap. By drawing his blade and making the first move, he'd fully invited them to engage him.

He cursed again when he realized it was something Gyrthemar would have done.

Pyotr and Lutyphian's blades met, the crescent shape of the power scythe trapping the teeth of Pyotr's chainglaive. Lutyphian chuckled. "You were once raw meat, brother, but allowed yourself to languish, becoming nothing more than a rotten meal. Wasted potential."

He managed to break the grapple Lutyphian had on his weapon, but by then, the other four members of First Claw were already within striking distance and inside the reach of Pyotr's glaive. The first blow took him in the thigh with a chainsword. Teeth ate away at ceramite and Pyotr was only able to take a few shots with his bolt pistol at the attacker before another blow slammed into his wrist. Pain arched across his arm like electric spasms, forcing him to drop the pistol. In moments, First Claw had closed in around him from all directions and had him surrounded. Pyotr threw an elbow at the warrior behind him, but that only briefly dazed one combatant while the other four proceeded to pulverize him.

Lutyphian's spiked knee took him in the gut, sending Pyotr to the decking. He attempted to rise, but a chainsword to the back of the helm forced him back down and caused his vision to explode with white pinpricks. Breathing heavily, Pyotr barely managed to hold himself up by his hands. A boot met his ribcage, forcing him down onto his side, supported now with only one arm. It was in that strange moment of pain and desperation that he took stock of the situation and found himself thinking… unusual thoughts.
The one whose boot had just taken the wind out of him was Ghail. His technique is sloppy. Relies too much on his own body. Retrigan would have a revel dealing with him…

A fist slammed into the side of his head, forcing his helm to clang against the metal decking and making Pyotr's mind reverberate with the sound of his own skull slamming against ceramite. That had been Dralurri. Seen him in battle. Proficient but impatient. Taresh would do well taunting him at range…
"What do we do with him now?" an amused voice asked. Fardraxen. Thinks himself Lutyphian's right-hand. Also believes he is better than he actually is. Gyrthemar could overpower and humiliate him quickly…

"Hm," Lutyphian mused, nudging Pyotr with his foot. His voxgrille crackled as he chuckled to himself. "I think he's learned his lesson. These Firstborns simply can't perform like they used to." The rest of First Claw laughed with him.

But, Lutyphian, Pyotr thought, is mine!

With a sudden surge of power and alacrity, Pyotr drew his gladius and drove it into the weak-point at Lutyphian's heel. The champion barked in pain and Pyotr yanked the blade free, blood briefly spurting from the wound, and moved to drive the blade upwards into his brother's gut.
A hand caught him and wrenched the weapon from his hand. Roqiak. The fifth member of First Claw. Pyotr grimaced. He had forgotten about him.
Lutyphian kicked Pyotr in the faceplate, snapping his head back in a way that sparked pain along the base of his neck and resulted in a painful pop! that was only a few degrees off from becoming a fatal snap!

"Kill the bastard," Lutyphian snarled. Pyotr smiled to himself as he noticed the way the champion was wary to put weight on the foot he had injured. He may have even managed to sever the tendon, if he was lucky. That was a minor victory to be had that Pyotr could take into hell with him as he died.
At least, if he had not come prepared.

As Pyotr heard the sound of a chainweapon's motor being initiated directly above his neck, he reached out and tugged onto the unique Bond within his soul. It was not true communication, simply the impression of such that took the form of commands. It was enough.

Now.

The monstrosity that was Tzimiti crashed around the corner of the corridor with such ferocity that it clipped the side of the wall with its massive bulk. Immediately, the helstalker let out a baleful torrent of flame that forced Lutyphian to raise his shield and the other members of First Claw to cower behind him for cover. Tzimiti then continued its charge forward, forcing the legionnaires to retreat back until it was able to stand protectively over Pyotr.

In truth, Pyotr had not been sure if the daemon engine would manage to go undetected for this long. He almost believed it wouldn't when the foul creature responded to Pyotr's own ire earlier from Lutyphian's goading. Fortunately, the members of First Claw were far too busy scoffing at and beating him to notice their own surroundings. A common trait amongst that particular squad, Pyotr thought.

The members of First Claw sized Tzimiti up as the helstalker growled and croaked at them warningly, its red eyes trained on the Night Lords, its serrated maw dripping with fluids that, annoyingly, coated Pyotr's own breastplate.

Eventually, Lutyphian seemed to make the call that it was not worth the effort and had already secured victory over their opponent. His vox clicked privately and the helmets of the other members of his squad mimicked the noise. They then proceeded to back away slowly down the corridor. Tzimiti made no moves to pursue them, though Pyotr could sense the daemon engine's muscles and pistons tense with the desire to do so.

Once First Claw had vanished fully from sight, Pyotr allowed his head to drop back down against the decking and began to catch his breath.
His vision was obscured, and then consumed, with the harrowing, leech-like face of his helstalker. Tzimiti fixed him with its beady-eyed gaze, then tilted its head inquisitively.

"Yes, Tzimiti," Pyotr groaned. "You did very well."

The daemon engine cooed with satisfaction.

Pyotr limped into the apothecarion, his armor damaged and coated with his own blood. He found Zasharr seated at one of the empty operation slabs. The surgeon had his elbows resting on the surface with his head resting in his hands and his fingers massaging at his temples.

"Bad time?" Pyotr asked as his skeleton groaned in numb agony. He did not intend it as a joke.

"The nails bite harder today," Zasharr said through clenched teeth. His nostrils flared and his shoulders tensed, but he did not move. "You require medical attention. Again."

"I will be fine. I've come to ask for something else."

The leader of the Carnage Stitchers looked up, his eyes clouded with pain and irritation. "What?"

Pyotr hobbled deeper into the chamber and found a seat. He stifled a sigh of relief as the strain his body had taken eased substantially. "I need to borrow a squad of your berzerkers."

Zasharr bared his teeth in an expression that was hard to read. "Why?"

"I need support in completing a task that will keep us all from dying. At least, for a while longer."

"Mm." Zasharr's nostrils dilated once again. "I was under the impression you had your own squad for this sort of thing."

Pyotr hesitated, then grunted. "Sixth Claw is… unwilling to aid me at this current time."

"They have abandoned you," Zasharr said matter-of-factly.

There was a brief moment where Pyotr refused to acknowledge the statement, but then relented with a nod. "Yes."

The berzerker surgeon scoffed as he abruptly stood and moved to take stock of his drugs and narcotics, muttering to himself about "Sons of Curze and their damnable egos." After a few seconds, his grumbling tapered off. "You realize that my warriors do not behave as yours do? Whatever tactics you may have planned may not be… suitable to them."

"I will manage."

Zasharr looked back at him, seeming unconvinced. "They are unruly."

Pyotr leaned forward in his chair. "I'm counting on it."

The two Astartes locked eyes for several heartbeats, but the mad apothecary finally nodded in acceptance. "Very well, but this mission is being directed by you, not I. Whatever happens will be your responsibility."

"I'm afraid my warband may not see it that way."

Zasharr worked his jaw, then snorted. "Likely true. Just try to keep tensions from getting worse."

Pyotr nodded in acceptance and stood to leave. He did not voice the fact that he believed Zasharr's request to be impossible, considering what he intended to do with his berzerkers, but there was little alternative apart from returning to his Claw with his head bowed and begging for their assistance. He was not yet that desperate.

"Send them to my chambers when they're ready."

To say that the berzerker squad were standing at attention before Pyotr would be like saying that the Prince of Crows was still alive. The Astartes of the World Eaters pushed and shoved and barked at each other in a way that Pyotr was unsure if it were out of camaraderie or malice. He watched as two members of the squad slammed their heads into each other, staggered back, then bared their teeth at the other, forehead veins throbbing as the pain engines in their skulls likely pulsed within their minds. Only Goran, their sergeant—or the closest approximate word Pyotr could come up with for whatever their command structure was—stood with any semblance of competence, but even he showed signs of the Blood God's touch as his fingers twitched and shivered whenever they came near the handle of his chainaxe.

"Cousins," Pyotr began, "I–"

He was immediately cut off as the two berzerkers who had clashed skulls began to shove and snarl at each other in their mongrel tongue, paying Pyotr no heed.

"Menrad! Shosk!" Goran barked and the two Astartes begrudgingly ceased their behavior. The sergeant turned to Pyotr and nodded for him to continue.

Pyotr stared at the line of marines with a flat expression, Goran standing at his hip. In another situation, he likely would have taken the time to further size up those before him to best know how to handle them going forward. Unfortunately, patience was not one of the virtues that belonged to the Eater of Worlds.

"You're here because I need assistance recovering an item that one of my brothers refuses to hand over," he explained. Pyotr figured the complexity of this situation and how this related to circumventing all of their future deaths would do little more than bore the berzerkers. Simple terms would be better. "His Claw will be protecting him. Your purpose is to protect me in the negotiation." He also decided there was no need to inform them that this would be his second attempt at said negotiation.

"So we won't be doing any killing?" One of the berzerkers rasped incredulously. Dorthar, Pyotr believed he said his name was, though his accent had been so thick that he could have been mistaken.

"Not ideally."

The marine shifted on his feet in irritation, but did not oppose Pyotr's words. Zasharr, thankfully, had chosen his men well.

"And if things should come to blows?" Goran asked.

Pyotr rolled his jaw back and forth in its socket, a light sneer on his face as he recalled the bruises and breaks that First Claw had given him just hours before. "Avoid killing anyone. Especially the one with the scythe."

More grumbles rose up from the squad. A fight without death? The words were practically sacrilege to the Sons of Angron.

"Craven behavior as always from this legion." The final Astartes spat. He at least had the decency to do it away from Pyotr.

"Silence, Bortheld," Goran said in a warning tone. "Blood will spill and skulls will roll in time."

"Too much time," Bortheld grunted before falling silent—at least, somewhat. Pyotr could hear the berzerker grinding his teeth down to platforms inside his mouth.

"Any further comments or questions?" the sergeant asked his men. Pyotr could tell that it was not an actual invitation. When no one spoke up, Goran nodded and donned his helm, his steely gaze replaced by emerald lenses. The other four Astartes quickly followed suit. Pyotr's expression remained impassive even behind his own helm, but, internally, he resonated with the aggravation these Carnage Stitchers likely felt towards such a ridiculous mission.

May this be over with quickly, he thought with an inward sigh.

Locating First Claw ended up being a far more difficult feat than Pyotr had expected. Not due to the tracking itself, his enhanced transhuman senses made it almost trivially easy to find where even another Astartes had gotten off to with the aid of the blood Lutyphian had left behind on the decking when Pyotr stabbed him. No, the real challenge was corralling his loaned squad and maintaining their focus. Several times, Pyotr had to stop one of the berzerkers from eviscerating a slave with his chainaxe because they seemingly looked at him inappropriately. It also turned out that the Eaters of Worlds—when they weren't frothing at the mouth—could be incredibly chatty in a way that did little more than irk a Son of Curze.

"How much further?" Shosk asked when Pyotr crouched down to inspect a boot print in the dust of the lower decks.

A ceramite-clad hand clanged against the back of the berzerker's head. "Quit asking that," Menrad grunted. Over the course of his pursuit, Pyotr had learned that the two were true brothers from the time before they ascended to Astartes. A strange detail, considering he was under the impression most, if not all, of Zasharr's warriors were vat-grown.

"Quiet," Pyotr hissed. "They are near."

The two grumbled accusations and blame while they shoved one another until Goran stilled them with a glare. Pyotr was beginning to like the sergeant.

Motioning for the rest of the squad to hold, the Night Lord crept further down the corridor to peer around its curve. As he grew closer, he could hear the sounds of power armor joints grinding and servos purring in action, as well as the frantic heartbeat and breath of something small and insignificant trying desperately to preserve its life. Once he got into position, his sight confirmed this.

Four members of First Claw chased a mortal through a passageway. Each one had their gladius drawn and came upon the pitiful creature, striking out only for the human to just barely dodge or evade in a manner to preserve their life in time, eyes wild and consumed with fear. Pyotr immediately saw the theatrics for what they were. It was hardly any different than what Tzimiti did to indulge its own boredom in the lower decks or Mechanization Hall when Pyotr allowed it. The only slight difference was, occasionally, one of the warriors would succeed at grazing the mortal with their weapon, allowing coppery blood to spill onto the metal floor in a manner that just barely didn't jeopardize the human's life.

Pyotr watched as the slave yelped and dove forward out of the way of a swipe that would have taken their head off if the wielder had not permitted the human's survival. The slave quickly scrambled to their feet, running further down the corridor that had, seemingly by some fateful opportunity, become an opening for escape. Too busy was the slave looking behind them to watch if their tormentors were following, that they did not see the crescent-shaped blade emerge from around the corner and decapitate them.

The head flew back into the direction of the other four warriors, landing with a wet thunk before rolling and bumping to a halt against one of their boots. Fardraxen lifted it, bouncing it lightly in his palm and chuckled as Lutyphian fully departed from his hiding place and went to join them. "A close match."

"Who won?" Lutyphian asked.

"I scored seven cuts," Dralurri stated.

"Impressive," Roqiak whistled. "But I had nine."

"Bah!" Dralurri waved an annoyed hand at his brother.

"Still fails to beat my record," Lutyphian said, taking the head from Fardraxen's hand and tossing it to the victor. Roqiak caught it and skewered the head on one of the chained hooks hanging from his waist.

"You were using special equipment," Ghail snorted.

"Ah, but a dozen clean cuts is still a dozen–" Lutyphian cut himself off, his posture growing stiff as something seemed to spontaneously raise his guard. He glanced around the area, then relaxed once more. "Come back for more, old man?" he asked without even looking in Pyotr's direction. The lord discordant remained crouched for only a second more before relenting and stepping into view.

"I didn't see you participating in full. Something wrong with your ankle?" Pyotr mocked.

"Hmph." Lutyphian turned to face him then, the other members of his Claw forming around him. "I hope you don't think your mount will be enough to get what you want from me. Just because we did not wish to fight it, does not mean we can not best it."

"I did not bring the helstalker," Pyotr admitted. "But I did not come alone, either." Movement echoed along the corridor behind him until five figures in crimson emerged and began to fan out on either side of Pyotr.

"At least he knows his own Claw is too disappointing to be a threat," Fardraxen snickered, his voice nasally and coated with the taste of Lutyphian's boot.

Pyotr held the champion of First Claw's gaze. "The artefact. Where is it?"

Cold, red eye lenses met a mirrored pair. "Somewhere you will never find. Not even with your dogs." He gestured to the Carnage Stitchers with his scythe.

"We are as much dogs as you are loved by your Primarch," Bortheld growled. "Oh, wait, you never knew him to begin with."

There was a subtle shift in First Claw's posture. It was the kind of micromovement one made when words meant more than they wanted anyone to believe they did. Such a thing would work against mortals, but not fellow Astartes.

The vox clicked. "Watch your tongue, Bortheld," Goran instructed. "No blood today."

"An eye for an eye, that is what Zasharr taught us," was the response. The sergeant gave him a warning glare, but said nothing further.

"Is your pride so great that you are willing to sacrifice the entirety of the warband over a single relic?" Pyotr asked.

Lutyphian shrugged. "I prefer the term 'culling.'"

Pyotr's jaw and mind worked parallel to each other. This stank of a much larger problem if almost every marine aboard the Savory Wound thought the warband weak. It was also a problem that Pyotr couldn't afford to deal with, as he had his own at the moment.

"What will it take?" he asked, using the same line of bargaining he had on Anras. Every individual in the galaxy wanted something, no matter how petty—and, when it came to Pyotr's own legion, it almost always was.

"Leman Russ's left testicle," Lutyphian said, the rest of his Claw snickering at the wisecrack, though Pyotr did not see the humor in it beyond the absurdity of the request. To harvest such an organ from a Primarch would be quite the feat, indeed.

Pyotr stood in silence until the mocking levity of his fellow Night Lords died down. It took considerably less time than it did with Gargahl's Apostles. "I claimed Anras's hand simply for failing to inform me of the details within one of his visions. I will do more to you for less."

Lutyphian chuckled, planting the head of his scythe down on the deck and leaned on it with a casual stance. "Yes, I'm quite disturbed. Do you plan to actually enter the fray yourself, or just have your blood-obsessed slaves do all the work?"

Either by intent or an unconscious twitch of the muscles, Pyotr heard a chainaxe motor triggered behind him. Fortunately, Lutyphian rightly noted the fine line he walked and silenced himself.

Fardraxen was far less intelligent.

"I've heard stories that Angron was a slave before the False Emperor found him," he sniveled. "Is that true? If so, what a disappointment it must be to see your genesire go from the slave of men to that of a Ruinous Power."

Pyotr sensed the pulsing and writhing of machine spirits behind him. Each one coaxed further pain, further outrage and fury into the minds of their hosts through the parasitic pain engines that they occupied. However, even if he did not have such abilities, he would still be able to detect the tension bleeding off the five figures standing behind him as emerald eyes stared directly at the object of their hatred. Nor was he the only one.

"Shut up, Far," Lutyphian commanded.

"Apologies, I thought they, like their father, would be too bestial to understand insults."

"Fardraxen, shut up."

Pyotr forged a vox link with Goran. "Keep your men steady. They're above a fool's prattling."

"Copy," was the sergeant's terse reply.

"I do not see why we should pay lesser warriors respect, brother," Fardraxen argued. "They're just a pack of curs, even that Betrayer of theirs."

"Goran–" Pyotr began, but was cut off as the sergeant himself activated his chainaxe and surged forward. It took him less than three bounds to reach his target. Fardraxen had little time to react before monomolecular teeth cut his armor and ate away at the flesh beneath. The berzerker roared, driving his weapon deeper as blood sprayed forth, coating his armor until the Night Lord collapsed and silence hung over the corridor.

Cursing in Nostraman, Pyotr took several steps back as he correctly predicted the bellows and battle cries of both squads as they drew weapons and crashed into each other, thirsting for lives to take.

There was no finesse or regality in the battle. It was a squad of ruthless murderers and merciless criminals against one of brutal warlords and butchers, raving prayers to their dark god. Both sides put no more emphasis on the battle beyond their desire to draw blood and claim lives. It was an ugly, savage thing to witness, and Pyotr saw no reason to intervene. In their fury and bloodrage, the Carnage Stitchers were likely to mistake him for a member of First Claw and his fellow brothers would likely cut him down just for the sport of it if they were given a chance in the chaos. His own life was better preserved by staying out of the conflict.

That did not mean he enjoyed the spectacle, however. Perhaps a more spineless member of the VIIIth Legion would have, perhaps even the Primarch himself would have reveled in it. Instead, Pyotr only saw more soldiers they desperately needed against the Ferric Sentries tearing themselves apart.
He would have liked to say that the fight was even, that the two sides were closely matched, and, to a degree, they were, but it was difficult to put any faith in First Claw's raw talent for slaughter when the Carnage Stitchers fought past pain and injury as if it did not exist, both due to the blessings of the Blood God and from the narcotics flooding their systems that Zasharr had personally engineered. Pyotr witnessed as a strike from Ghail cleaved Shosk's arm fully from his body, only for the Eater of Worlds to hardly even register it as he sank his axe into the Night Lord's skull.

What kept them even was Lutyphian. Pyotr could admit—reluctantly—that the champion was a better warrior than any other aboard the ship. He watched as Lutyphian battered Goran away with his power shield then swung his warscythe in an upward arc without looking, the blade impaling Bortheld's sternum and emerging out his back. The berzerker struggled for a moment before Lutyphian wrenched the power weapon free from a different angle, just about splitting his opponent into two uneven pieces.

The brawl continued. Dralurri finished off Shosk with a gladius under the chin, only to be cut down from behind by Menrad, screaming unintelligibly at the death of his brother. Dorthar and Roqiak slew each other nearly simultaneously as one disemboweled the other with their chain weapon, only to receive a poisoned blade to the hearts that only allowed them to stumble a few feet away before collapsing to the deck.

That left only Lutyphian facing both Goran and Menrad, who had begun to edge towards him with murderous purpose. Uninjured and against any other Astartes, Pyotr would have given the champion a fair chance at survival, if not victory. But these were not those circumstances.
Evidently, Lutyphian came to the same conclusion as he locked eyes with Pyotr while blocking a series of crushing strikes from Goran.

"Brother!" he called. "Help me!"

Pyotr did not move.

A grunt of pain came from the champion of the now-dead First Claw as Menrad maneuvered past his guard and sunk his chainaxe into Lutyphian's calf. A warding swipe with his power scythe forced the berzerker to back away, but it was clear that he was losing momentum against his opponents.

"I will give you the artefact!" His voice was desperate.

Begging, from the high and lofty Lutyphian. It was almost enough to bring a ghost of a smile to Pyotr's lips. Almost.

He did not move.

"Please." He parried a blow from Goran with his scythe and slammed his shield into Menrad, buying himself precious few seconds.
Pyotr watched for a moment more, quickly finding the relish he gained from his brother's plight diminishing. It would seem his blighted soul would not afford him even that.

He drew his chainglaive and charged forward. He swung once and bisected Menrad at the hip. Even after the top of the berzerker's body slopped off onto the floor, he still attempted a few feeble swings with his chainaxe before falling still.

"Traitor!" Sergeant Goran snarled at Pyotr as the lord discordant kicked his dead brother's still-standing torso over.

Lutyphian uncoiled and struck like a viper, slamming his shield twice into the Carnage Stitcher's helmet to daze him, then once more to force him to stumble back to maintain his footing. Before Goran could even come to terms with his situation to defend himself, the blade of a scythe sank into his throat and bit downwards until it was yanked free at the groin.

The corpse collapsed, leaving only Pyotr and Lutyphian still standing, the latter breathing heavily and dropping to one knee, his leg letting out a few more meek spurts of blood before fully clotting.

"Thank you, Pyotr," Lutyphian said.

"Now for your end of the bargain."

"Give me a damn moment to catch my breath," Lutyphian spat. Pyotr nodded in acceptance to the request. In the stillness and the stink of blood in the corridor, the larger of the two brothers began to chuckle. "I imagine the apothecary will not be pleased with what you did to his men."

"What I did?"

"What we did," Lutyphian corrected.

Pyotr frowned and turned to inspect the carnage and viscera around him. He looked for any signs of life, but he found none. "No, I don't suppose he will."

"I am without a Claw now."

"You are."

"It is to my knowledge that Sixth Claw still has a vacancy in its ranks."

Blood pooled around his feet as Lutyphian breathed and spoke behind him. He clocked Roqiak's body and the head, a mortal head, that hung from his waist, laying in that film of red on the deck, their eyes glazed and mouth open in a final expression of terror. It wasn't until now that Pyotr realized it had belonged to a child.

"It does." Pyotr spun, his chainglaive singing through the air in a deadly arc that met Lutyphian's neck with a fatal bite, disconnecting it from his body. The champion's power scythe, raised with treacherous intent, dropped from his grasp as the body slumped forward and joined the graveyard of marines all around it. Pyotr grimaced at the display.

He found where Lutyphian's head landed and rolled it so that the helm's bloody stump of a neck was facing upwards. Pyotr then drew his gladius and wedged it into that hunk of meat before yanking it free from its ceramite confines. He didn't bother looking at Lutyphian's dead face as he removed his own helmet with the sound of venting air pressure. He pulled his blade free from the neck and sank it into the skull, cracking it open like a stubborn nut.

"It can never be simple for me, can it?" Pyotr mumbled irately as he dug his fingers into the brain matter before him and began to feast.

The door to Anras's chamber slid open. Initially, the room had been locked, signaling the visionary's desire for privacy, but it took very little of Pyotr's will being exerted upon the door's machine spirit for it to reconsider that notion.

Stepping in, Pyotr found that his brother had already lurched into action from his resting place and had his power blade in-hand, ready to defend himself from the intrusion. Seeing Pyotr, a black coffer tucked under his arm, caused Anras to lower the weapon, however.

"This couldn't have waited until later?"

"No," Pyotr responded flatly. "It can not." He drew the coffer out and opened it. Inside was a single item sitting on a cushion of navy silk. For a mortal, the blade would make for a respectable combat knife or dueling blade, but for the ranks of the Legio Astartes, it was only akin to a throwing dagger in size. The weapon was the color of onyx, its edge serrated and design both elegant and gruesome simultaneously. It was no paladin or hero's weapon, but one belonging to an assassin, a hunter, and a killer. It was a blade that belonged to the Night Haunter.

Anras stared at the knife with open hunger in his eyes.

"A Widowmaker…" he whispered, reaching out for the weapon. Pyotr clanged the coffer's lid shut once more, drawing the visionary's baleful eye.

"Your compliance," Pyotr sneered, "for a throwing knife."

"Our father's throwing knife," Anras corrected. Pyotr was not sure how the relic came into Lutyphian's possession. He did not even know how Anras came to know that it was. He didn't care to ask. It simply didn't matter.

"First Claw and a squad of Zasharr's berzerkers are dead."

"Unfortunate losses." Anras waved a flippant hand before holding it out receptively. "Now, if you would–"

"Another ten Astartes are dead because of you," Pyotr growled. The servos in his armor mimicked the tang in his voice.

The visionary tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "Me? Brother, I simply gave you the task. You are responsible for the outcome."
Pyotr's sneer grew until his teeth were bared. He took two furious steps forward, prompting Anras to raise his sword defensively, though Pyotr only pointed an accusatory finger at the worm.

"Do not feign innocence to me, brother," Pyotr spat the word out as if it were venom. "You knew that Lutyphian would never have given over the artefact without bloodshed. Otherwise you would have gone yourself rather than send me. You are responsible for these deaths. You are the reason we have lost ten additional capable fighters. We are weaker now because of you and your pride." Pyotr paused, his breath quickening and his voice falling into a dangerous whisper. "No. No, this is not pride. There can be some form of nobility found in pride. What you possess is far worse, Anras. What you have is the simpering, cringing, self-centered soul of a child. A child crying and throwing a tantrum for a toy that he desperately wants but doesn't need." He unceremoniously tossed the coffer at the visionary's feet. The lid's clasp came free, the Widowmaker within tumbling out and resting amongst the dirt and dust on the floor—just like its original master.

Anras's eyes grew frigid with anger. "Careful with your tone, brother," he said icily, a smug grin forming on the edge of his lips. "You need–"

"I need nothing from you!" Pyor hissed. "You think I fear your threats?" He did not trigger the motor on his chainglaive, but the teeth ground and gnashed as the belt rotated off its own accord anyway. "You say that you will intentionally cause chaos because I will be easy to slay in those moments. But you forget, brother, Zasharr may be displeased with me due to these developments, but he will be apoplectic with you. What do you think will happen if his restraints are cast off when we cannot come to a decision next we enter the Strategium?"

Anras did not respond immediately, but he did lower his power sword. His haughty expression had fallen into one of utter hatred that likely ran parallel to the one Pyotr himself currently wore. He could not feel his rage—only a buried shadow of it—but he could still feel a loathing for his brother born from logical outrage.

"One day, I will kill you, Pyotr."

The lord discordant scoffed. "And if it were not for the position you held in this warband, I would have killed you centuries ago, Anras."

They held one another's gaze still. Pyotr could see the transparency in his brother's expression. There was no attempt to obfuscate it. He saw the hatred in those eyes, the animal, the gnashing beast that wanted nothing more than to tear his throat out. There was honesty in that. More honesty than half the other members of the VIIIth Legion were capable of. It was why—despite the deeds of the past—Pyotr found Anras to be the Night Lord he could trust most aboard their ship.

It was probably one of the least comforting thoughts Pyotr had ever had.

Something of a recognition passed between the two of them and Anras gave him a grudging nod. Pyotr returned it.

"You will speak favorably when I present my plan," he said. It was not a request.

Anras did not respond as Pyotr turned and exited the chamber. But that suited him just fine.