By the time Naduvion reached the lower decks, he had quickly pivoted from locating his brother via his vox-singal to following the scent of gore and charnel. Soon enough, the sound of tempestuous battle joined in his navigation.

As he rounded the corner, grip tightening on his dagger and chainsword, he saw the chaos in its fullest.

Bodies already littered the floor in fractioned chunks, Astartes blood dripped through the grillework of the decking in thick globules. The vox-network crackled with frantic communication amongst the Night Lords as raw and throat-tearing roars rippled through the air in waves from the Carnage Stitchers. Naduvion hissed through his teeth at the sight.

"Dreeve," he voxed. "This is not good."

"Spoken with the Primarch's own wisdom!" his brother replied ruefully.

"Where is the rest of Second Claw?"

"I don't know," Dreeve said. "I think Korasus is dead."

Shit, Naduvion thought, but was unable to vocalize it as he immediately had to bring his blades up to parry a strike from a raging berzerker that nearly took his head off.

"Stop this!" he said, but if the Son of Angron heard, he made no indication as he continued to hack away at Naduvion with wild, uncoordinated strikes that threatened to wrench the Night Lord's shoulders from their sockets.

"Blood… Blood…" the World Eater said in a ragged, wet voice.

"They're lost to the nails. We can't reason with them anymore," Naduvion said over the vox once again.

"Obvious– Gah!" The jibe was punctuated by a pained scream and static crackled from Dreeve's line.

"Brother?" Naduvion asked, slapping away the berzerker's axe again before driving his knife under the marine's chin as he tried to regain his balance. The warrior continued to stumble and swing for several more heartbeats before eventually falling to his knees. "Va'ul!"

"I… live…" Dreeve croaked through the vox. "Damn axe took me in the chest. I… I think one of my lungs is punctured."

Naduvion grit his teeth as he surveyed the battle, trying to make sense of the carnage. At first glance, it seemed as if their cousin legion were ripping through their ranks with little resistance, but on closer inspection that was not the case. Crimson Astartes tore into the battlefield, spreading through the corridor like blood on snow. They lacked coordination and restraint, however. For each Night Lord they managed to pick off, there were two or three others surrounding another of their kin and using the advantage to incapacitate them. It was a battle of terrible, unbowed strength and deceptive harmonization and familiarity. For the time being, they were evenly matched.

But that only meant they would kill each other until no one was left.

Naduvion switched to Second Claw's full vox-channel, rather than his and Dreeve's private line. "Second Claw," he said. "Come in."

Dreeve simply grunted, re-confirming his connection.

"Welcome to the parade, brother," Yenash said.

"Die, you tainted filth!" Greigor snapped, likely to whatever enemy he was currently engaged with. There was no response from Korasus.

"Where are the Atrementar?" Naduvion asked, maneuvering through the frenzy in an attempt to reach whichever of his Claw members was closest.

"Zseron still… steers the ship," Dreeve wheezed. "The rest of them do nothing without his command."

"Wonderful system, that," Yenash added.

"Die!"

"Gargahl, then? Anras? Hell, Pyotr?" Naduvion asked with increasing desperation. He swatted another half-dozen strikes before finally reaching Dreeve and joining his brother's side. His fellow Night Lord inclined his head, but offered no other greeting as he held a hand up to his shattered chest, blood pooling and dripping from between his fingers.

"The daemon prince decreed that this squabble wasn't worth the blessing of his presence," Yenash said, bitterness biting into every word. "He said he sent some of his raptors, but I have yet to see them."

"As for the visionary," Dreeve cut in, "his vox is unreachable. No one… no one has managed any contact."

None of them bothered to mention the lord discordant. Yes, Pyotr could make quite the speech when he needed to, but his favor quickly dwindled in the days that followed and no one expected him to come to the aid of his brothers any time soon. Oh, he would have a good excuse, Naduvion was sure—but that would only put a thin film over the truth:

The Revenant simply cared more for his machines and cursed engines than he did for his own flesh and blood.

A body hit the deck a meter to Naduvion and Dreeve's right, its red ceramite scraping and scratching along the metal. The berzerker tried to rise, but a midnight figure descended upon it, stamping his heel into the Carnage Stitcher's skull until its movements became nothing more than feeble twitches.

"Lick my boot, you slobbering ingrate!" Greigor Mecvak snarled. Despite his venomous words, the Astartes struck with cold precision and vicious lucidity—a stark contrast to the servants of the Blood God that surrounded them.

"Sounds like someone's having fun," Yenash voxed.

"You're not seeing it from our angle," Dreeve breathed back in response.

Naduvion watched the shards of bone and ceramite fly through the air, accompanied by the thick ropes of ichor that grasped out like limbs in search of kindred to embrace.

Such artistry, he thought. A pict of life through the act of death. How do I capture that?

He was broken from his trance by an abrupt impact into his backside that sent him sprawling onto the floor. Naduvion quickly flipped over and went to raise his weapons, but a knee dropped onto his throat and shoulders, stopping him.

The snarling World Eater above him held no light in his eyes beyond that of a red haze. Blood streamed down his cheeks like tears and his mouth frothed with rabid delight. He said nothing as he raised his chainaxe and strangled the motor's trigger. In moments, it would fall upon Naduvion's head, the monomolecular teeth eating away at his helm, then his skull, then his brain matter. A poor way to end his miserable life.

A boot to the face rocked the berzerker off of him and the axe's strike fell upon the grating next to Naduvion's eye instead, sparks flying and searing his vision to yellow-white lightning on his left side.

Wincing, the Night Lord took the hand proffered to him and rose to stand next to Dreeve once more. His brother immediately dropped to one knee, his breathing having grown even more labored. The fact that it had taken until now for him to succumb to his wound was already a miracle.

"We die with our backs turned, brother. You cannot do that on your knees," Naduvion said, helping his brother up and bearing a majority of the weight of the warrior on his shoulder.

"I…" Dreeve gasped. "I m–"

"Quit speaking," Naduvion insisted.

The berzerker had recovered from his daze quickly, having already risen to his own feet and was now stalking them in a circle—like a shark would its prey in the water. More red hued figures joined the hunt and Naduvion felt pressure against his back as Greigor joined their pack. Even with the three of them together, however, they were outnumbered.

"Yenash," Naduvion hissed, "We are surrounded."

"Shame," was the reply. "My position is much more advantageous." His line on the vox-link then clicked off.

"That piss-gargling shit!" Greigor growled.

All the while, the Astartes of the Carnage Stitchers continued to circle them, twitching and spitting uncontrollably. They saw weakness before them and were ready to strike. Naduvion couldn't blame them.

The lead berzerker raised his axe and roared, each World Eater with him tensing to lunge forward as they took up the call.

Then their screams heightened to ones of pain and they each, to a man, dropped their weapons and brought their hands up to their skulls.

Glancing about, Naduvion saw that all other members of the Carnage Stitchers had fallen into the same sort of paralysis, the sounds and acts of battle waning as the Night Lords watched with a mix of confusion and discomfort.

Bootfalls echoed down the corridor, steady and inevitable—like the approaching of a slumbering giant, now awoken. An Astartes in crimson appeared through the gloom, a chainsword raised above his head. The weapon glowed a dark, hungry red. Only… it wasn't. The weapon seemed not to be emitting light, but sucking it in, devouring it. As its wielder continued his slow approach, any member of the Carnage Stitchers who came near to the blade immediately flinched and clawed at their helms or scalps. Eventually, the Astartes came to a stop in the center of the fray, looking about with an analytical gaze, his eyes softly pausing on the numerous bodies that littered the ground.

The figure in red eventually lowered his weapon, the strange glare fading. The berzerkers in the hallway ceased their whimpering, but did not resume their attack. Instead, they stood and faced the Astartes with something that resembled parade rest. Silence filled the air for several moments before the figure's eyeline fell on something on one side of the corridor. He calmly stepped over to it, stopping right in front of the wall and crouching down.

He lifted something small and drenched in blood before stowing it away and rising. When he turned to face the crowd once again, Zasharr the berzerker surgeon's eyes were cold and he spoke in a voice that was like rusted nails being pounded and dragged through rockcrete.

"What. Happened. Here?"

Artemis felt like a caged animal treading the confines of her enclosure. She paced the length of her chamber back and forth, the lightning in her veins refusing to let her stand still, to catch her breath.

For the past ten minutes—ever since Brelja had provided her update report—she had been unable to find a moment's peace. This was the brink, this was the edge. Either her plan worked or she had to bear the weight of even more lives lost. Lost because of her own rage and desires.

What if it doesn't work? What if they're killed anyway when the Astartes find out? What if…

The two words continued to weave through her mind, tying new knots and nooses to strangle her with, coaxing the dread within her to continue clawing away at the inside of her throat.

What if, what if, what if, what if…

It was a relief when the vox-speakers in her room suddenly blared with her master's distorted voice.

"Artemis. Attend me in the Hall of Mechanization."

The words spoken were devoid of any emotion or motive. Eight simple words that passed like a ghost through the air, traveling up Artemis's spine and freezing her in place.

He knows, were her first thoughts. Then she immediately chided herself and forced air into her lungs. He can't know. He couldn't. Not yet, not so soon.

The affirmations helped marginally, so she continued to repeat them to herself as she traveled to heed to Pyotr's commands. Each step grew heavier, but she forced her body into compliance, forced herself not to show her fears. Not to them. Not ever again.

This resolution died the moment she stepped into the Mechanization Hall.

Unlike the darkened cathedral that was the rest of the ship, this chamber was clinical and austere in its purpose. A green aura of light permeated throughout the room, caused by the numerous glimmering cogitator banks and stuttering hololith displays. The metallic cadavers of great machines hung by chains from the rafters and multi-tiered balconies lined either side of the chamber, tech-adepts in red robes and grisly augmetics toiling away at their individual projects with obsessive fervor and chanting. Cables and wiring beneath the grillework of the floor pulsed and writhed with electricity, painting the image of vascular spasms or prowling serpents. Artemis was not sure why such sights terrified her, only that there was a heaviness in the air. A taint that she could feel beneath her tongue, warning her of a profound wrongness that this place emitted, urging her to turn away and flee.

The metal-and-flesh creature in its bed of skulls didn't help much, either.

Its head pricked upwards at Artemis's entrance and its dark eyes reflected an insatiable hunger as viscous green ooze dripped from its fanged maw. It slowly began to rise, its eyes never leaving her, and Artemis found herself paralyzed in her own fear.

"Down, Tzimiti," a deep voice spoke and the thing abruptly dropped back to a prone position and let out a strangled noise that Artemis almost believed was a huff.

"Ignore the helstalker," Pyotr said without looking over to her. The Night Lord stood leaned over one of his cogitator arrays, palms pressed flat on the table, his eyes studying the screens.

Perhaps I should mine a mountain with a spoon while I'm at it, Artemis thought as she approached her lord, noting that the helstalker's head followed her every move while still resting atop its front two forelimbs.

"You called for me, my lord?" she asked, forcing herself to look away from the abyssal machine, entrusting that her master did not intend to be done with her. Yet.

Pyotr nodded and removed a data-spool from the nearest cogitator and handed it to her.

"You will find two lists on that device. One is of every individual aboard this ship. The other is similar, but lacks certain names. I wish for you to find out which names are not present on the second list."

Artemis blinked down at the small piece of technology in her hand. She knew that as Pyotr's personal slave, she was bound to do menial work just as much as significant assignments, but after all she'd just gone through and all the fear and anxiety she had worked up within herself today, the thought almost made her laugh hysterically.

"Is… Is there anything else I may do for you? My lord."

"That will be all."

She almost turned and left without another word then, but hesitated as she caught something out of the periphery of her vision. Artemis slowly turned toward it and approached until she stood before a cogitator, its screen filled with the constant scrawl of arcane symbols that seemed to link together and… evoke something. Like some form of language. It mesmerized her for reasons she could not explain.

Pyotr took notice, glancing at her slightly from behind his skulled helm.

"Lingua Diabolis," he said. "Scrapcode."

Artemis furrowed her brow as she turned to her master.

"What is it for?"

"Many things. It is a virus enhanced by the Warp. It enslaves machine spirits to perform duties that it would not ordinarily wish to. Each code is a unique pair of chains to bind and rein the motive force to do something specific. It… was once my specialty."

"Did you stop?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Pyotr did not answer. When this became clear, Artemis turned away and stared at the screen once again with fascination. "It's alluring."

"You do not know what it even is," Pyotr scoffed, "but… yes, it is."

"What was this one for?"

The lord discordant looked deep into the cogitator, as if he were peering beyond the screen and seeing more than just symbols and sigils, but something greater. As if each line were just a part of a tapestry that Pyotr was able to visualize the entirety of.

"It's incomplete," he said. "It was meant for something lofty. Something I was never able to find the answer to."

Artemis frowned as she looked to the Astartes. Something about this felt oddly intimate. She felt as if she was being allowed access into a part of her master's world that he only allowed a select few to enter. If Artemis did not hate him as much as she did, she would have been flattered.

"I don't understand," she said softly, silently urging him to continue. She wasn't sure if it was because the additional information could be of use for her, or if she was genuinely intrigued. Perhaps both.

"Scrapcode is meant to… destroy a machine spirit. Sometimes completely, other times only in part so that it is too weak to stop the process of its enslavement. Some spirits are stronger than others, thus the virus needs to be equally as strong to combat it. That code," he nodded to the cogitator, "was meant for a particularly resilient brand of machine. I was trying to find the right configuration to make it capable enough for the task."

"So," Artemis mused. "It's like a disease?"

While she could not see his face, she felt as if she could sense Pyotr frowning behind his ceramite mask. "That is one way of looking at it," he said, clearly unimpressed with the connection.

"Only the symptoms don't help with the killing."

"Explain."

Artemis jumped at the sudden bite in his tone. It took her a moment for it to dawn on her that he likely didn't actually understand what she meant, for something as elevated as he would never have needed to endure the woes of illness.

"Ah…" she began. "When we get sick, our bodies attempt to fight off the cause by making ourselves inhospitable to it. Fever, regurgitation, coughing, these are all methods to attempt to expunge or destroy the foreign invader. The worse it is, the more extreme the attempts at self-defense."

"I am aware of this."

"Well, sometimes the body doesn't understand that the symptoms it creates are too harsh for it to handle. It's so focused on killing the disease that it doesn't realize it's also killing itself."

Pyotr seemed to be chewing on the words, mulling them over and tasting them before he decides if he should spit them out or not. "Like when a mortal bleeds from many of their orifices."

"Ah… yes?" Artemis replied, not sure what to make of the gruesome example.

Her master nodded. "It is what happens to the slaves who venture too close to Gargahl's domain on this ship. Among other things."

"I am glad to not have met him, then," she said. Pyotr grunted, but did not seem to be paying much attention. What she had told him appeared to have distracted him somehow.

Unsure if this counted as a dismissal or not, Artemis remained where she was, waiting for the lord discordant to pull himself free from his own turbulent thoughts.

Instead, she heard a small click come from the Night Lord's helm. When Pyotr did not seem to notice it, three more came before his posture changed and he seemed to recognize the world around him once more.

"What is it?" he growled. There was a pause—a response that Aretmis wasn't privy to hear. "…How do you mean?" Pyotr asked, his voice becoming that of a frozen string pulled taut.

There was a second moment of silence. Then, without warning, the Astartes turned and sprinted out of the Mechanization Hall.

Artemis watched this all with a sense of glee that she did not allow herself to show. She didn't need to hear the other end of the conversation. She knew exactly what had been said.

The moment Pyotr stepped onto the command deck, Anras barked for the bridge to be cleared. There was no hesitation from the officers as they immediately stood and exited the chamber—with the exception of a single, particularly petrified looking man who remained at attention, despite the way his body quaked and threatened to collapse under his terror.

Pyotr waited with little patience for the room to empty before Anras slammed on the controls of his command throne, sealing the hatchways and blocking all inward and outward vox communication.

"What," Pyotr said slowly and with little control over the acid in his voice. "Do you mean the fuel reserves are empty?"

Anras slouched on his throne, glaring at the shivering man across from him. "Tell him."

The man couldn't seem to make up his mind on if he should grovel or salute as he fell to his knees and brought his arm up to his chest.

"I… I… a disturbance on the auguries, my lord! A disruption in the fuel line that has…" he gulped. "That has caused all remaining promethium storages to drain. I reported it the moment I took notice!"

Pyotr's eye twitched as his temper broiled, only to be washed away quickly after. He closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose.

"Can we collect what has been lost?"

"Unlikely," Anras said. "It's all in the machinery now. We'll be lucky if it doesn't cause some form of combustion and put us in even worse conditions."

"It won't," Pyotr said, frantically looking at the hololithic display of their current situation. They truly had anything now beyond what was already being chewed up by the engine.

"We have enough to reach Kleos," Anras added.

"It doesn't matter," Pyotr replied. "We're dead regardless. In the air, on land, it changes nothing. Our resources are too depleted. We can't win a battle against the Sentries directly."

The visionary's expression darkened. "I am going to have every single slave in that fuel station strung up for this."

"No," Pyotr sighed, "you won't. It looks as if it was caused by a rupture. A disaster we could not have expected or prevented."

"The second one in a single week," Anras noted with sardonic bile.

"Blame the Warp."

"I blame," Anras was suddenly standing, snarling at Pyotr as he drew close, "the slaves whose responsibility was to make sure events like this never happened!"

"And what?" Pyotr scoffed. "You wish to punish them? When we're already bleeding from the inside? When we already need every Astartes, mortal, and servitor? You fool."

"It doesn't matter, brother!" the visionary cried. "We are dead regardless, just as you said! The end result is the same if they die by our hands or the Ferric Sentries'!"

The lord discordant stared at his brother until Anras eventually buckled and took a step back. "We are not killing them. It is a pointless gesture."

The visionary of the warband let out a long breath before collapsing into his throne once more. "All of this for nothing. We are Sons of Curze, Pyotr. We do not do valiant final stands. We run until we are caught."

They stood in silence for an interminable amount of time, both staring into the readouts in search of some misplaced or overlooked blip of data that could save them. It was a gossamer thin hope that neither Night Lord truly believed, but it was against their nature to not exhaust every possible option. The only noise in the chamber was the quivering of the bridge slave who dared not move or speak during this time.

"What do we tell the Company?" Anras eventually asked, his voice like the breeze blowing through the willow trees on old Nostramo.

"We don't," Pyotr responded, his own tone a curt and dry juxtaposition.

"You wish to lie to all of our brothers?"

"You speak as if the concept is unfamiliar to you, Anras," Pyotr sneered. "We may find a solution yet. It would be aggravating to have to juggle morale yet again."

In actuality, Pyotr believed none of this. As he looked at their fuel reserves and witnessed the plan he and Sixth Claw concocted leak between his fingers like sand, he knew that they would all die upon the soil of Kleos and that damnable tech-marine would finally get the last laugh. No, the true reason he wished for no one to know was because it would be better for all of them to be slain with the belief that they stood a chance rather than knowing there was never a point to any of it to begin with.

The lord discordant smiled ruefully under his helm as he imagined the ghost of his Primarch laughing hysterically.

"And the sorcerer calls me pathetic," the visionary said with a snarl, his eyes boring into Pyotr like molten coals.

"I have no wish to trade barbs with you anymore, brother," he sighed. "What we discussed does not leave this room. Is that understood?"

Anras said nothing for several breaths, his lips drawing back into a sneer that bordered on ferality. "Very well," he finally said, voice strained.

"I will speak of nothing that I heard, my lords! I promise!" the slave chimed in with equal parts zealous loyalty and unconquerable fear.

Pyotr and Anras turned to look at the little man-thing simultaneously, as if they had both forgotten his existence. They then turned back to one another and proceeded to engage in a silent conversation that was born entirely out of microgestures of the head and shared emotions.

Humans speak too much to trust.

Deal with him as you wish.

No, I care not for it. He's yours to–

Pyotr drew his bolt pistol and fired a single shot at the man's head. The half of his body that still remained collapsed onto the deck, blood pooling on the deck and dripping down the walls alongside the viscera that splattered there.

"I will need to have that cleaned." Anras scowled.

"Good. Call it a penance for annoying me," Pyotr responded and made for the bulkhead door. Reluctantly, Anras released the seal order. The two shared no other words as the lord discordant made his departure. It took a monumental effort to remain amiable with his pompous brother and resist the urge to flay the machine spirits around him at the same time. Better to leave while they're conversation was somewhat pleasant—topic at hand aside.

As Pyotr stepped freely into the corridor and outside the range of Anras's vox-embargo, he became acutely aware of the sheer number of times he had been hailed by Sixth Claw as well as other members of the warband.

Frowning, he accepted yet another incoming link from Retrigan.

"Where have you been?" the once-raptor asked.

He ignored the question. "What is it?"

"We came to blows with the Carnage Stitchers. Astartes are dead on both sides. Fighting has ceased, but it may not remain that way for long."

"Why?"

"Zasharr has demanded your presence and animosity continues to grow with each moment his request is not heeded."

Pyotr stopped in place, closing his eyes as the exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. He placed a hand to the nearest wall to steady himself and swore that this time he truly did hear laughter in the back of his mind. It was distinctly androgynous, somehow both mocking and sympathetic at the same time.

After a few more breaths, the Night Lord straightened himself and opened his vox once again. "Tell him that I am on my way."

When Pyotr arrived, a clear line had been drawn between the forces in red and those in blue. Shouts and jeers rose between the two sides, each spitting venom and vitriol at the other, but neither one crossing the imaginary border that they had drawn for themselves. Blood and gore littered the decking and dripped from servos and armor joints. Even the dead were segregated from one another as Astartes corpses had been moved and postured against the walls on either side of the corridor, their progenoid glands already harvested.

As the lord discordant approached, Retrigan fell into step beside him.

"It's good that you're here," his brother said. "We've been relying on Gyrthemar of all people to keep matters stable until you arrived."

"So we're even worse off, then," Pyotr grunted.

"No. The Sons of Angron seem inclined to listen to him for whatever reason. It was a shock to me, as well."

Astartes parted to allow Pyotr to make his way to the front of the gathered warriors where his brother stood with his spear. Gyrthemar nodded to Pyotr, then stepped aside.

Across from him, Zasharr stood at the forefront of his own men, his arms crossed over his chest and his fingers twitching in an impatient rhythm that matched the pulsing of the false-spirit in his sword.

"Two squads worth of men are dead," were the mad apothecary's first words.

"I see that."

Zasharr snorted and gestured widely with his hands. "More of our forces have died upon this ship than to the Ferric Sentries, cousin! At this rate, we will not have anyone to muster when the battle comes!"

"You chose to accompany us," Pyotr said without emotion. "I honor the aid you have given, but the consequences for boarding our ship are your own to bear."

"Your ship?" Zasharr hissed, his tone rising. "Your ship? Such words imply that there is anyone to captain this vessel! Anyone to command these forces! When this melee broke out, it was not your daemon prince of Nurgleth who ceased the infighting, not your visionary, not your terminators, not you! It was I, cousin! I was the one who asserted control over the situation!"

Pyotr watched the surgeon rave, spittle flying from his mouth, with ambivalence. After what he had learned, the entire debacle felt utterly pointless.

"You intend to usurp leadership, then?" he asked.

"It does not matter what I want." Zasharr swept his hands back to the berzerkers behind them. "It is that my men will not follow those who lack authority. The concept may be unfamiliar to you Sons of Curze, but trust and obeisance are earned, not assumed by right."

More barking arguments rose up from both sides. Pyotr waited for the voices to die down. They only did once Zasharr fingered the trigger of his chainsword, then glared at his cousin with an expression that amounted to, 'See?'

"The Astartes of the VIIIth Legion do not bow. Not even to allies," Pyotr replied in a tone that denoted fact rather than haughty arrogance.

"Hm. Then there is only one path forward." Zasharr flexed his jaw and pointed his blade at the midnight adorned warriors. "Your control over this vessel is now challenged by the Carnage Stitchers. I demand you submit to our customs and undergo a Gauntlet of Dominion to reclaim your station. Refusal or failure will give me no other choice but to allow my men to sate their bloodlust over all who haunt the halls of this vessel."

Pyotr blinked, his brothers shuffling with a mixture of eagerness and uncomfortability as the World Eaters howled and cheered at the declaration.

"What would this gauntlet entail?"

"You will select a single champion who will fight eight consecutive bouts against the warriors of my warband. If third blood is achieved for each one then they will be declared victorious and your honor will be restored."

Pyotr exhaled quietly through his nose. "And all slights against you will be forgiven?"

"They will be… tolerated," Zasharr said slowly. It was then, looking at him, that Pyotr realized that it was not simply the standard rank and file that had grown outraged by their treatment, but Zasharr himself whose patience had finally been tested.

"I assume if only one of your men reaches third blood first then the challenge is lost?"

"No," Zasharr said, his gaze darkening. "The challenge is asymmetrical. My men will be fighting for Sanguis Extremis. Death."

A wave of cold understanding washed over the crowd of Night Lords. Those who were previously thirsting to fight in the name of the warband suddenly found their zeal stolen out beneath them and were reluctant to step forward.

Pyotr closed his eyes and felt the skin around his sockets sag and grow even heavier. Colors and promises of false joys danced behind his closed lids. He could have all the pleasure and pain he could ever want if he only took one final step…

He fixed his gaze back on Zasharr and bit back the desire to simply leave and ignore the matter entirely.

"Fine. I accept the terms and will fight your gauntlet."

The apothecary fixed him with an expression that was as emotionless as stone in all ways except for his eyes. Those shone with an inscrutable interest.

"You would bear the responsibility of your entire warband, Pyotr? Be that glory or defeat?"

"Yes." None of his brothers desisted or refuted him as their champion. Pyotr imagined the few who would did not even bother to show up to this foray to begin with.

"Hm," Zasharr grunted, but slowly nodded. "Your champion is accepted. We begin in eight hours."

Pyotr did not even acknowledge the statement as he turned and left the scene behind him.

The truth of the matter was that he did not care whatsoever for the crushing stones of the warband's fate that had fallen on his shoulders. It did not matter what the outcome truly was, considering they would all find themselves fallen and purged by the Emperor's forces soon enough. No, he only offered himself up as sacrifice in the hopes that he would be killed before the rest of the warband realized how he failed them all.