Sanguinius barely registered the shift.
In an instant, Argall was on him, a blur of movement – almost as fast as the Khan himself. Sanguinius raised an arm, blocking the first strike, his forearm meeting his brother's with a sharp impact. He staggered back a step, absorbing the blow, then dropped low and twisted away, finding his footing just in time to block Argall's follow-up.
No one in the room could follow what was happening. They wouldn't understand what was happening either.
Argall fought in silence, his expression calm, almost serene, even as his fists swung with deadly precision. No wasted movements. Sanguinius noted his brother's technique – a lack of formal skill, perhaps, but every blow carried a raw, mechanical power. Every twist and pivot of Argall's body followed a calculated flow, movements strung together with a certain grace yet executed with brutal efficiency. If nothing else, Argall's fighting style was likely how a very advanced AI may approach combat – cold, methodical, and calculated.
Sanguinius, the Angel of Baal, could match that.
He spun, dodging a punch aimed at his ribs, and drove his knee up toward Argall's chest. Argall sidestepped, barely missing a beat, his hand snapping out to grab Sanguinius' wrist. Sanguinius felt his balance shift, his body spun by his brother's grip. His wings flared, feathers catching the light like molten gold as he broke free, somersaulting backward and landing in a crouch.
He glanced at Argall, his jaw tight. And Sanguinius knew, immediately, that only himself, Horus, Rus, Dorn, the Khan, and the Lion were capable of defeating Argall in a fair duel. Argall's fighting style meant that someone like Angron would lose rather quickly.
Not truly an enemy, Sanguinius reminded himself. They were not here to kill, to maim. This fight wasn't for that.
But Argall's eyes were hard, calculating. Sanguinius felt his muscles tense as Argall lunged again, this time a rapid series of strikes aimed at his throat, his ribs, his abdomen – each strike perfectly placed. Sanguinius parried each one, his own fists working in tandem, blocking and redirecting. They moved in a blur, faster than human eyes could follow, an intricate dance of power and precision.
"Argall!" Sanguinius barked, catching his brother's fist mid-strike, holding it for a brief second. "Listen to me. This isn't what I want. The World Eaters—Angron—"
Argall's face tightened, and he yanked his arm free, spinning low to sweep at Sanguinius' legs. Sanguinius leapt up, wings carrying him clear as he twisted in the air and landed lightly several paces back.
"Argall, listen," Sanguinius pressed, his tone urgent. "The Imperium didn't intend for this! Not for war with you or your people. This was supposed to be diplomacy."
Argall's lips thinned, and he stood silent, still as a statue. But in the next breath, he charged, crossing the distance in a blink. Sanguinius braced, intercepting a barrage of blows aimed at his shoulders, his chest. Each impact rattled through his frame, but he held steady, refusing to yield.
Their fists moved like blurs, bodies twisting and weaving in a silent exchange of brutal, precise strikes. Sanguinius felt the strain in his muscles, his heartbeat quickening as Argall's sheer strength became clear. Every movement was exact, a mind trained in the science of force and leverage. Mechanically precise.
Between strikes, Sanguinius caught glimpses of the Hyperborean delegates. They exchanged quick, wary glances, and then – without a sound – they vanished, teleporting away. The one known as Thanil appeared heartbroken just before he disappeared. The room felt suddenly colder, emptier.
Argall's gaze flickered to where they had stood, a trace of something dark in his eyes.
"They know," he said at last, his voice low and harsh. "They understand what's coming."
Sanguinius inhaled sharply, feeling the weight of the moment sink into him. It's begun, he realized. Outside, through the walls of the asteroid base, distant rumblings shook the structure. The World Eaters had engaged the Hyperborean fleet, and retaliatory fire was already coming.
"Argall," Sanguinius breathed, his tone a plea, "we can still stop this. I can reason with Angron. He's my brother, he'll listen to me—"
"Listen?" Argall's voice cut through like a blade. His eyes were sharp, glinting like polished steel.
"Don't you think it's a little too late for that? Peace had no chance from the start." He lunged forward, slamming his fist toward Sanguinius' face.
Sanguinius ducked, sidestepping and driving his shoulder into Argall's side. They both staggered, neither willing to back down, neither willing to break the rhythm. The strikes came faster, and the room seemed to shrink around them as they moved, the air charged with tension, anger, and a quiet desperation.
"No!" Sanguinius shouted back, frustration boiling over. "This wasn't what I wanted! The Imperium – I – sought peace. I wanted to understand, Argall."
His voice dropped, hoarse and low. "I wanted to understand you. But Angron's arrival… it was a mistake, a terrible mistake, and I can fix it if you just—"
Another blow, another dodge, and Sanguinius felt Argall's fist graze his ribs, too close. The impact, even minor, left a dull ache. But he met Argall's gaze, his eyes burning with a need for his brother to understand.
"You think you can control Angron?" Argall's voice was a growl now, his expression one of hardened steel. "You think he'll back down just because you ask?"
Sanguinius' jaw tightened. "Angron is reckless, but he's still a brother. Our brother. I can reach him. He'll listen to me."
Argall said nothing, only pressed forward, his hands moving with the same cold precision, striking again and again. Sanguinius countered, breathing hard, his body taut with the strain. He twisted, spun, evaded, but Argall matched him move for move, their forms blurring together in the heat of the clash.
Then, for a fraction of a second, Argall hesitated – his gaze flicking toward the window where flashes of fire and light painted the dark void of space. The fleet battle outside raged on, small ships darting between massive battleships, explosions blooming and flashing in the void as the Hyperboreans fought back, their sleeker ships dancing around Angron's fleet, almost toying with them.
"Does it matter?" Argall asked, his tone cold and calm. "I swore to protect my people. I swore that I'd allow them to flourish on their own terms and feel the sting of the consequences of their actions if it truly came to that. War is inevitable. What else is there?"
Sanguinius' chest heaved as he stepped back, his wings folding slightly as he caught his breath. He forced himself to steady, his voice soft, urgent. "You think I don't understand? I would die to protect my sons… my people. But this doesn't have to be our path."
Argall's fists clenched, but he didn't move. He stared at Sanguinius and raised a brow.
"How many times, Sanguinius?" Argall's voice dropped, cold and cutting. "How many worlds have fallen to the Imperium because they dared to be different? Because they valued freedom?"
The question sliced through him, and Sanguinius felt the weight of it settle, a grim understanding. But he didn't look away.
"Then be different," Sanguinius said, his voice fierce. "Show us what that freedom looks like, Argall. But don't condemn your people to a war they can't win."
He stepped closer, his tone softening. "They deserve better than this. I can talk to our father. Primarchs, like us, are given far greater autonomy than you might think. There are options that we can-"
"Stop." For a moment, Argall seemed to waver, his gaze softening. But the distant tremors grew louder, and in the depths of his eyes, Sanguinius saw his brother's choice harden, the resolve settle. "Enough."
"I've seen how this ends, Sanguinius," Argall murmured, a haunted look passing over his face.
"And it's not peace." He pulled back, breaking the locked gazes, his shoulders squaring with a bitter finality.
A blaring siren jolted them both. Sanguinius' heart sank as he registered the alarm: the fleet was in full conflict. Ships were falling, a cascade of light and fire illuminating the darkness outside.
Argall stepped back, the light of distant explosions flickering across his face. "The time for words is over, brother."
Sanguinius' breath hitched, but he kept his voice steady, calm. "I'll still try, Argall. I'll still try to stop Angron. I can't let this end in ruin."
Argall's face was unreadable, but his eyes burned with a fierce intensity. "Then you'll only delay the inevitable."
Without another word, Argall turned, striding away as the sirens blared louder, leaving Sanguinius standing alone amid the fading echo of their battle. Argall disappeared in a flash of blue, having teleported away, like the other delegates. It seemed hopeless. It seemed impossible.
But Sanguinius would not relent.
He was not about to lose a brother. He was not about to lose what was possibly the only way to cure his sons of their affliction.
He needed to talk to the others.
Sanguinius watched the holo-display, lips pressed thin, wings folded close against his back as the scene outside unfolded. Explosions dotted the void, bright flares against the dark canvas of space. World Eaters ships darted amidst Hyperborean formations, their chaos and frenzy clashing against a wall of calculated resistance. And, for the first time, Sanguinius saw the World Eaters falter.
Beside him, Dorn's jaw was tight, his fists clenched at his sides. He stood rigid, his expression unreadable but for a faint crease between his brows.
"What would you have us do, Sanguinius?" Dorn's voice was low, steady, but edged with tension. "The more we hold back, the closer Angron comes to ruin."
Sanguinius didn't answer at first, gaze fixed on the flickering display. He felt a weight in his chest – a sense of inevitability, dread. But he forced himself to meet Dorn's gaze.
"Angron chose this path," he murmured, his voice almost bitter. He cared about his mentally addled brother, he really did, but the butcher was – in the grand scheme of things – not nearly as useful as Argall could possibly be. "He rushed in, unthinking, as he always does."
Rus grunted, his arms folded as he nodded. "I, for one, have no fondness for the brute or his actions. However..."
His gaze was sharp, intense, fixed on Sanguinius. "Angron may be reckless, but he's our brother... and to let him die in this manner leaves a bitter taste on the tongue. I'd rather kill him myself if I can, but to watch and do nothing as he is destroyed by Argall..."
"Our brother, yes," Dorn interrupted, a trace of frustration in his voice. "But so is Argall. And he's a brother who has built an empire on something other than conquest. If we intervene now, we risk losing Argall, pushing him further away. Between the two of them, I know who I'd rather serve with as a fellow Primarch."
Sanguinius nodded. He exhaled slowly, watching another Hyperborean ship adjust its course, deftly intercepting a cluster of World Eaters fighters. Each maneuver was precise, efficient, almost elegant; just as Dorn said, the Hyperborean ships moved with such robotic efficiency that the only explanation for it was the use of Artificial Intelligence.
"Argall's fleet," Sanguinius murmured, half to himself. "It has every single advantage against Angron's fleet that we could possibly think of."
"Agreed," Dorn nodded. "I do believe a time may come for us to intervene."
Argall stepped off the teleport platform and took in the dimly lit, blood-red corridors of Angron's Flagship. He surveyed his surroundings for a moment, idly noting structural weaknesses and everything else of note. Around him, ten Prometheans formed up in silent, disciplined ranks. Each one of them towered, armor glinting in the low light, eyes sharp and fierce beneath their visors. Instead of the standard Hardlight Rifles that the common soldiers carried, the Prometheans carried with them Phase Swords, each as lengthy as a man, one of the very few pieces of Necron Technology that Argall had somewhat been able to replicate – with great difficulty and with plenty of guidance from Phaeron Khoteph. The Phase Swords were paired with Repulsor Shields, capable of redirecting and nullifying kinetic and thermal energy.
Argall himself carried no weapons, save for his Power Armor, personally and painfully crafted to perfectly bond with his body, granting him increased speed and power, without sacrificing dexterity. Cackling arcs of electricity coated his fists and fingers – a field of energy that doubled the kinetic output of his punches.
He did, however, keep his mother's Lightning Staff on his waist – as a memento and as a backup weapon.
"Forward," Argall said, voice cool. No rallying cry, no battle hymn. Just a command, short and firm. They moved as one, each step in sync, but they made no sound, their boots designed specifically to ensure that they'd never really touch the ground beneath them – silent giants.
Within moments, the World Eaters appeared, a tide of roaring marauders in bone-white armor, charging down the corridor. Their war cries filled the air, weapons raised, eager for the slaughter. Argall took in their frenzied, uncoordinated charge with a hint of disdain.
The Prometheans met them head-on.
The first clash was brutal, quick. Argall advanced, his hands like hammers, each strike dropping a World Eater with practiced ease. A Space Marine lunged at him, chainaxe raised, and Argall moved fluidly to the side, one hand snapping up to grab the Marine's wrist, twisting sharply. Bone snapped, and Argall's other fist followed, crushing his opponent's helm in a single blow.
He dropped the lifeless body without a second glance, his gaze moving down the corridor.
The Prometheans were unstoppable. A wall of silent, methodical destruction. Each Promethean moved with lethal precision, each one striking down and killing their enemies with the barest, most efficient motions, the Phase Swords slicing through armor, flesh, and bone with each stroke. Angron's children stood no chance.
Another World Eater rushed him, roaring, axe swinging wildly. Argall sidestepped, his foot snapping out to catch the Marine in the chest. The plate shattered and caved, the force breaking through flesh and bone and crushing just about every internal organ instantly.
Argall barely paused. He moved forward, cold and calculated, every strike a death sentence. The World Eaters fought back, their rage boiling over, but it was no use. Their recklessness played into the Prometheans' hands. Each swing, each unguarded moment, was met with brutal efficiency.
He glanced over his shoulder, watching as a Promethean smashed a World Eater into the floor, armor splintering under the force. Another Promethean tore through a trio of World Eaters, each movement seamless, each kill precise. The corridor was a mess of crushed armor and broken bodies, but the Prometheans showed no sign of slowing. More and more World Eaters appeared and charged them, but it changed nothing.
"I'm going to kill you all." Argall said, his tone ice-cold. "And save your father for last."
AN: Chapter 53 is out on (Pat)reon!