The Leonine Heresy

by Sharrowkyn

Inspired by the Roboutian Heresy, this is the tale of Lion El'Jonson's fall to Chaos as he leads half of his brothers (and not necessarily the ones you might think) in rebellion against the Emperor. All Index Astartes entries have been completed, and now we are journeying through the various War Zones of the 41st Millennium.

13. Index Astartes: Night Lords

Chapter 13: Index Astartes- Night Lords

---

Index Astartes- Night Lords: Justice through Tyranny

If Mankind is to survive in a pitiless galaxy, its defenders must be as strong and unyielding as the edifice of the Imperium itself. If justice consists of receiving what one deserves, then nowhere is this better embodied than in the Emperor's Eighth Legion, the Night Lords. It is the Night Lords who uphold the structure of the Imperium by ruthlessly enforcing Mankind's right to galactic domination, and none will be allowed to deviate or interfere with this ideal. Be it perfidious xenos or vile traitors, the Night Lords are the boot that stamps out every threat to the Emperor's realm, no matter where it arises. They were once known only for terror and cruelty, but the Emperor's direct intervention set their primarch Konrad Curze on a new path, one in accordance with his original designs. However, Fate is not kind to those who attempt to defy it, and the Eighth Legion has suffered dearly on behalf of those they watch over. The treachery of the Leonine Heresy cost them both their homeworld and their primarch, and the Eighth has come close to destruction many times. Even now at the close of the 41st Millennium, the voracious Tyranids close in on all sides, and the legion stands upon the precipice with no aid in sight. However, the Night Lords will never give in, and look to the future in hopes of brighter days when they will be able to stamp out every nonconforming will that would dare to dissent from the Emperor's vision.

Origins: Penal Legionnaires

There are few other types of structures that exemplify the Imperium of Man quite so well as the Hive. These man-made mountains are structures on a scale undreamt of by ancient mankind, towering starscrapers which house untold billions of citizens, the entire population of other planets contained within a single one of these mighty edifices. The continued existence of such arcologies is entirely dependent upon their architecture, for the laws of physics are harsh masters to such megastructures. In order to maintain their stability, most hives are anchored through foundational pillars of unimaginable scale, the largest of these being the central spire, from which the thousands of hive blocks radiate outward to form the familiar conical shape. Each hive is a microcosm of Imperial society: at the top are the wealthy and powerful, and radiating down from there, the various strata and classes make their living. At the base is the underhive, for all hives are riddled with tunnels, a confusing warren of settlements that oftentimes lack even sunlight. Few would live willingly in such misery, and thus the underhive is most commonly a lawless zone, where only the criminal and desperate survive. This lawless frontier is an unfortunate but necessary liability, as key hive systems are often located far below where the average members of society are willing to go, but the way must be kept open lest the whole structure come tumbling down, just as the more privileged must put up with the scum whose only duty in life is to serve. Thus periodic patrols and purges are undertaken in order to maintain some semblance of order.

As befits the homeworld of Humanity, Terra is positively riddled with hives. It is from these purges that the first recruits of the Eighth Legion were taken, for in an ironic twist of fate, they were not always exemplars of the law, in fact quite the opposite. The initial batch of the Eighth were not willing aspirants, but unwilling gang members snatched up by the Emperor's soldiers who had come in search of genestock for his projects. However, faced with the might of imposing armored giants, many were sufficiently intimidated to yield without a fight, and thus this refuse of humanity, the condemned and the forgotten, were first to receive a new variant of gene-seed, the Eighth Strain. While their nominal recruiting ground was the Britannic Plateaux, the high success rate of this strain soon meant recruits were taken in from other hives across the planet. The Eighth quickly developed a unique culture, taken as they were from so many different hives, which was best exemplified by the mongrelized argot they spoke, a combination of dozens of dialects of Low Gothic utterly unlike the High Gothic which most Imperials used to speak. They were united by their similar origins, for most had been orphans taken from gangs, as well as by their pale skin, unused to even the dim sunlight which occasionally made its way through the thick smog so prevalent on Terra. As former gangers, many legionaries shared a curious code of conduct, an honor amongst thieves that manifested as an ironclad insistence on moral absolutisms, though whether this was an aspect of their past lives or merely a quirk of their gene-seed is unknown. They refused to contemplate the possibility that things might be subjective, as binary a thought process as those of the tech-priests of Mars. Orders were to be obeyed without question, especially from senior commanders; disagreements between equals were settled most often by contests of strength, though occasionally through games of chance. The possibility of a subjective and unknown outcome was a forbidden fruit to the Eighth, for they knew such a tantalizing possibility could only come from rejecting the indifferent coldness of the law.

However, such philosophizing was always kept from outsiders, who saw the VIII only as a ruthless tool to be used against any who would resist the new order. Such impressions were reinforced by the Eighth's purge of the Saragorn Enclaves, or by their brutal crackdown on the March of Ten Million. Any who would even think about defying the Emperor were kept in perpetual fear, their potential rebellions halted before they even began lest the dreaded Eighth be unleashed upon them. Even after the completion of the Unification Wars, the VIII continued to act as the hanging blade, for their very presence was an unspoken threat. Many worlds submitted without a fight upon learning the identity of the force sent to obtain their compliance, while those that didn't soon learned why. One offer was all that was ever given by the Eighth to the systems they encountered, and those that refused their generosity were exterminated without remorse. These assaults were often done through the use of infiltration and special operation squadrons, which would use stealth to bring societies down from within. After toppling any and all forms of government and order, the Eighth would then abandon the collapsing societies to their fate, leaving the other forces that followed in their wake to pick up the pieces. The VIII most often traveled in secrecy apart from the rest of the legions, an instrument of terror which would appear without warning in sectors far away from the main Imperial fronts, and they continued in this role for nearly one hundred and forty years. The Great Crusade spread far and wide during these years, its passage eased by the ruthlessness of its warriors, and none were more fanatically devoted to its cause than the VIII. However, this brutality would soon take a darker turn after the legion was finally reunited with its progenitor upon the lightless world of Nostramo.

Night Haunter

No period in human history was more devastating than Old Night. Mankind truly came close to extinction, a suitable punishment for their reckless scientific progress during the Dark Age of Technology. Every world was left to fend for themselves, and as a result, many succumbed to complete societal breakdown even in the absence of an outside threat such as xenos invaders or Warp-breaches. This was especially true of systems located on the fringes of the galaxy, whose isolation from the more populated galactic interior meant outside support was nothing but a hopeless dream. These outskirts became places of nightmare, for even at the height of its technological prowess, Mankind never colonized beyond the confines of our galaxy, and now the monsters that had been pushed back into the outer darkness were free to return once more. The few that did survive became mere pinpricks of light in the endless night of the intergalactic medium that lays at the edge of the stellar disk of the Milky Way, an uncharted and unknown expanse whose tides occasionally hurl back the detritus of failed attempts from explorers and victims. The region known as the Ghoul Stars is one of these areas, a realm of nightmares located in the galactic northeast. Unimaginable alien horrors lurk in its darkness, from the bat-like Cythor Fiends to the Bone Kingdom of Drazak, and even in the 41st Millennium, Imperial worlds are scarce in this wilderness space, but what is chillingly common is the unusually high amount of dead worlds found there.

In the darkness of the 30th Millennium, when the galaxy did not know of the Emperor's light, hope was nothing more than a dream, especially in the anarchy of the Ghoul Stars. There were no great stellar empires located there, for the Imperium of Man had yet to expand beyond the mind of its creator, much less across the entire galaxy. No, the Ghoul Stars were home only to despairing, dying, squabbling societies, who were so often at each other's throats that even an outside threat from the horrors of the dark beyond could only unite them temporarily. One such world in this blighted realm was the planet of Nostramo, a sunless backwater long since forgotten by the rest of humanity. Orbiting a dying star on the fringes of charted space, the very concept of law and governance had been forgotten millennia before upon this world of gray and black. Thick clouds of pollution choked the skies of Nostramo, and a meager five hives scraped out a meager existence around the planet's equator, warmed by failing generators. The rest of the planet was an irradiated tundra scarred by millennia of industrial misuse, for such a miserable world was only good for one thing: adamantium. This priceless commodity was abundant in the rocky crust of Nostramo, no doubt why the original settlers colonized such a backwater system. However, the boom days had long since passed, and with no way to transport the ore offworld, Nostramo sank into lawless poverty, its hives controlled by industrial cartels who had turned to racketeering when the Age of Strife hit. Human life was utterly worthless upon Nostramo, for morality had died long ago; survival of the fittest was the only creed which the cartels gave lip service to. Assault, rape, and murder were daily occurrences in the hives, a crime rate rivaled only by the suicide rate, for there was no possibility of hope or escape due to the inhospitable conditions on the rest of this blighted world.

However, Humanity is nothing if not adaptable, and by the 30th Millennium, these conditions were simply a fact of life. Most of Nostramo's population were thin and gaunt, surviving as foundry workers in unimaginable squalor and poverty, a condition escapable only by ascending through the ranks of the cartels. However, even this pretense of egalitarianism was a sham, a cruel joke played by the petty nobility descended from the mining conglomerate shareholders. It was this corrupt oligarchy which truly ruled over the lightless streets of Nostramo, although even their standard of living was only affluent in comparison to those they ground beneath their bootheels. It was to such a world that a falling star came to land, a streak of light which temporarily blinded the sensitive eyes of any who watched it. The meteor smashed into the barren wastes on the outskirts of Nostramo Quintus, the dense material shearing through the tunnel-ridden crust to come to rest deep below the surface. The radiant object dimmed as the heat of reentry dissipated, revealing it to be an elliptical metallic pod.

A pale hand clutched the edges of the pod, crumpling under the intensity with which it was gripped. The gaunt inhabitant stood motionless in the now lightless cavern, blankly staring upwards at the wound in the crust his descent had left from its passage as his mind was wracked by an incomprehensible vision. A palpable sense of…wrongness? The being growled as understanding eluded him, for he lacked the framework to properly comprehend it, and the words and ideas that continued to press at the edges of his consciousness did not seem to fit either. Looking around, the being considered his options. Remaining where he was did not seem a viable course of action, for his stomach growled with hunger. Now that a goal had become clear, he had a choice to make, to climb back up the hole, or to seek sustenance in the tunnels which honeycombed all around him. The choice was simple really. Clambering from the pod, the Eighth, for the being knew his title if not his name, began to walk the tunnels.

As the hive generators had gradually died, less and less heat could be spared to warm the lowest levels of the Hive, and so its human inhabitants had gradually moved further and further up during the centuries, only worsening the living conditions as space slowly decreased. However, that is not to say these lowest levels were uninhabited. All manner of creatures still remained in these caves, an entire ecosystem existing entirely in the dark, from the fluorescent fungi which fed upon radiation all the way up the food chain to creatures that can best be described as affronts to sanity, of which little is known. For many years, the Eighth wandered the lightless tunnels beneath the surface of Nostramo Quintus, slowly making his way up the tunnels and growing strong from preying upon everything he encountered. His superhuman physiology meant he was far and away the greatest predator, and this did not change when he reached the inhabited regions of the hive. Though the Eighth was able to see just fine in the dark, the absence of light meant he had never seen what he looked like, and so he felt no remorse about preying upon the bipedal weaklings he found living in great numbers in these upper tunnels.

The Eighth's mind was as advanced as his body, and so he swiftly began to gain information about his surroundings, knowledge obtained by devouring the brains of the indigent and criminals that he caught. The poor and the desperate began to follow in his wake, lesser predators seeking scraps from their better, and rumors of the so-called 'Night Haunter' soon made their way even to the upper spires of Nostramo Quintus. His superhuman intellect combined with a complete lack of civilizing morals meant the primarch soon recognized the advantage of others submitting to his rule voluntarily, and so the Night Haunter began to assert his dominance over larger and larger areas of the hive. Petty criminals who refused to submit were found flayed and crucified in public squares, examples which rapidly increased the rate of submission. The private armies of the cartels proved just as ineffective, fruitlessly combing the dark streets only to be picked off one by one. Nostramo Quintus soon became quiet and orderly under the domineering rule of the Night Haunter, and the suicide rate became higher than the crime rate for the first time in millennia. The issue of crime dealt with itself, for none could be certain that the Haunter was not watching them, and even the other four hives submitted to his rule voluntarily after his atrocities began to occur in their streets as well. Only the barren wastes beyond the equatorial belt remained beyond the Night Haunter's reach, for it was deemed none could survive in the frigid darkness.

This state of affairs persisted for decades, during which time Nostramo was able to exist rather than thrive. Its citizens were not happy per se, but at least they were no longer in danger of dying from gang activity on a daily basis. Even the cartel nobility were allowed to keep their positions, for it seemed the Night Haunter cared little about economic inequality so long as they were obeying his commands. Nostramo began to export adamantium to neighboring worlds for the first time since the Age of Strife, foreign merchants noting how silent and efficient its cities had become. Few ever saw the Night Haunter, for he kept to himself, locked away in his chambers as he kept up the image of an apex predator emerging from the shadows without warning. The truth was the Eighth was frightened. From the moment he emerged from the pod all those years ago, his mind had been tortured by visions which he was powerless to resist. Images of death and destruction, of horrific beings which fed upon the emotional extremes of his people, and tableaux of what could only be the future all presented themselves with irresistible force to the Night Haunter. These visions wracked his body and mind with the force of a seizure, leaving him helpless and writhing on the floor from their intensity, and when they withdrew, he was left with deep loathing and shame. None could be allowed to see him like this, lest they take advantage of his weakness. Only through fear could his people be kept in line, and since they wouldn't do it willingly, he would be the creature of darkness that kept them. The Night Haunter knew of morality, but he did not understand it, and so long as his methods worked, he refused to feel any guilt for them. All that mattered was that he was the strongest, a fact he was certain of.

The universe, of course, does not entertain such delusions for long, and it was upon a day unlike any other that the Night Haunter's supremacy was ended. Without warning, the dense smog which had covered Nostramo for centuries was ripped away, dissipating to allow the thin light from its sun to reach the surface for the first time in memory. In that instant, the silence which had gripped the hives of Nostramo for decades was ripped away as thousands fell to their knees, screaming in agony at the pillar of light which filled the heavens. Only those viewing the object through screens and filters were able to make out what it was: a vast golden warship, its technology and size far beyond the meager trading ships which frequented Nostramo in search of trade. Swarms of lesser craft began to emerge from its underbelly, all headed straight for the highest reaches of Nostramo Quintus's central hive spire. The Night Haunter emerged from the gloomy fortress which served as his lair to meet those who would dare to trespass upon his personal domain. To his surprise, he discovered a grand parade of armored men, bulky compared to his gaunt frame, and at their head stood four giants in different armor colors who stood taller than even he.

The Night Haunter stood silently as they introduced themselves one by one. They claimed to be his brothers, this Delegation of Light claiming to represent an Imperium of Man. The Eighth scoffed at their pretensions: men such as they could never keep order as he had. However, their presence here was yet another confirmation of the absoluteness of his visions, so he would at least hear them out.

First was the one called Jaghatai, fidgeting, impatient, quick to hide his true feelings behind scorn and derision. As he spoke, the Night Haunter caught a glimpse of his future, stabbed in the back by a black blade wielded by an indistinct figure, whose smile seemed like an excessive mockery. Next came Lorgar, his fate no more kind, for his golden light too was marred by that same lurking presence. Third was Rogal Dorn, his stark white facial hair contrasting with his golden-yellow armor. His fate was more confusing than anything, a maddened hermit seeking elusive answers hidden by tides of living insanity, fruitlessly striving to pierce the hate and bitterness surrounding him like a burial shroud. The fate of the fourth, Ferrus Manus, was as bleak as the rest, the silver on his forearms creeping up to consume his entire body as he lay immobile in the blackness of outer space. Finally came the warrior in black, whose eyes met the Night Haunter's own without fear. The Eighth recognized a hunter equal to himself in that moment, and when the fifth man introduced himself as Lion El'Jonson, no visions of the future showed themselves to him, only an utter sense of wrongness.

The two stared at each other, their gaze only broken by the arrival of a sixth giant, who towered over the first five both in height and presence. The Night Haunter met this newcomer's gaze for the briefest of moments before falling to the ground, his mind wracked by the most intense vision he had ever experienced. Sights of bloodshed and destruction sweeping across the entire galaxy; endless war and countless death on a scale heretofore unseen; a skeletal king perched upon a golden throne like some sort of carrion lord, and all these visions accompanied by the feeling that Night Haunter was responsible for it all…

The visions faded, and Night Haunter looked up to see the golden giant kneeling beside him, his ageless face filled with concern. His armored hand rested upon the brow of the Eighth as he spoke words that Night Haunter knew would echo across the gulf of time.

+ BE AT PEACE, KONRAD CURZE. I HAVE ARRIVED, AND I INTEND TO TAKE YOU HOME + The Eighth pondered these words for a brief moment before replying, the pain of the vision fading into memory as he did so.

"That is not the name by which history will remember me, Father."

Great Crusade: Terror in the Night

Fear is interest paid on a debt you may not owe. -Proverb of Ancient Xin

When considering just how far on the fringes of the galaxy Nostramo is located, it becomes clear why it took so much time for the Emperor to locate his lost son. As the decades passed and the Great Crusade spread throughout the galaxy, the Emperor of Mankind remained constantly on the lookout for his primarchs. In the early years of the Crusade, such a discovery was followed by an extended period of time during which the Master of Mankind personally watched over his newly-found son; however, as decades turned into a century, this period gradually lessened until stopping altogether. Those legions who had yet to find their father suffered a negative reputation as a result, and many began to believe they would never find their primarch. As it happened, Konrad Curze was not discovered more than a hundred and fifty years into the Great Crusade, over thirty years after the previous primarch was found, and this only by accident. The true purpose of the Emperor's visit to the Ghoul Stars alongside five of his sons has been lost to history, though it is worth noting it occurred shortly before the First Rangdan Xenocide. Whatever the case, the Master of Mankind had no time to give to this new son of his, and quickly departed Nostramo after confirming Curze's rule over it. The remaining four primarchs quickly left as well, all visibly disgusted at the manner in which the Night Haunter had obtained order, and so Curze was left to make his way to Terra on his own.

Curze's first meeting with his legion was an early sign that the Emperor should have spent more time training his son. After reviewing the pertinent data, Night Haunter decided to rename them, declaring that the Astartes made in his image were to become the Night Lords, who would be a mirror that the hypocritical Imperium so desperately needed. No more would the Eighth hide their calculated brutality: they would broadcast it for all to see, so that all would know the true nature of the Emperor's creations. Many had believed the Eighth to be lackluster at best compared to the rest of the legions, for their preferred methods of waging war meant they had few notable victories to their credit. Their name was synonymous with excessive brutality, and this trait soon worsened as their primarch assumed full control of his legion. Throughout his life, Curze's visions had never failed to come true, and he was quickly vindicated by the speed at which his legion took to his ideals. The Eighth became synonymous with victory through terror, hundreds of worlds falling in a fraction of the time it took his more squeamish brothers. Many questioned Curze's sanity when his legion scattered to the stars in company-sized detachments, not nearly enough to take a world by conventional means, but they were quickly proven wrong. The typical modus operandi of the Night Lords was to announce their presence loudly as they entered the system. As all eyes focused on their warship hanging over them like a threat, unexplained killings would begin to occur at an exponential rate. Politicians, bureaucrats, military officials, and hundreds of others in positions of authority would show up dead in the streets, most often skinned and bearing signs of obvious torture. The population soon began to turn on each other in fear of these unseen killers, all the while as the Imperial fleet hung menacingly above them. Most worlds surrendered within a month, yielding to the Imperium without the need for invasion, thus saving both time and resources. With such an astounding level of success so early on, Curze sent word back to Nostramo, ordering them to yield up as many recruits as possible in order to increase the size of his forces, for the Eighth was a small legion compared to the others as a result of how late Curze was discovered.

Being discovered so much later than the majority of his brothers, Konrad Curze started out with a substantial primarchs were disgusted by the way Night Haunter ruled his planet, and irritated even further by his personality. Curze was sarcastic and rude, ignoring all etiquette and tact in favor of blunt honesty, traits that his self-righteous siblings despised. His legion was seen as unprofessional, taking unseemly joy in the terrible acts they performed so regularly, yet another wedge between Curze and the rest of his brothers. None could tell which version of Curze to expect, for they remained unaware his mind had begun to splinter under the strain of his visions, obsessing over them to the point of mania as his psyche shifted between the Night Haunter and Curze personas. The Emperor seemed unwilling to intervene, too busy with his son Lorgar, who was just beginning to campaign on his own for the first time in several years, and so the isolation only worsened. Only one brother, Horus, offered to campaign alongside him, but Curze had little interest in this sibling, for all of his visions pointed toward Lupercal being the center of the treachery and fratricide to come. No, the brother that most interested him was Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Seventh Legion. From the moment they met on Nostramo, Curze could tell Dorn despised him; the Lord of Inwit made no attempt to hide his disgust at Curze, his tactics, and his legion, viewing them as nothing more than thugs and bullies unworthy of being Astartes. However, the Night Haunter was determined to make this brother understand, and to that end he approached Lupercal, asking him to arrange for the Seventh and Eighth Legions to campaign together. Naive Horus, the man who had shown up in so many of his visions as the source of fratricide and treachery, seemed delighted that Curze was making an effort to reach out to his brother, and quickly convinced Dorn to go along with the plan with the caveat that another brother would come along as well, and thus with some reluctance, Curze assented to the Third Legion accompanying them.

Thus the three legions began to campaign together, and frictions quickly became apparent. The Lord of the Fists was as blunt as ever, not hesitating to criticize Curze and his tactics, and the two ended most of their conversations in bitter argument. Their brother Fulgrim, Primarch of the Emperor's Children, was no help in that regard, remaining silent and apathetic on the sidelines as he watched his brothers fight. Curze was of two minds on this brother: on one hand, Fulgrim's nihilism meshed well with his own fatalism, but his pointless desire for perfection irritated the Night Haunter, who knew the Astartes were nothing more than weapons of war. Their legions did not get along any better either: honor duels between legionaries soon devolved into feuds over honor and other such heroic nonsense. The entire situation was a powder keg waiting to explode, which it eventually did upon the world of Cheraut. Rather than waiting for the Night Lords to begin their infiltration, the Imperial Fists had immediately begun their conquest of this world after initial negotiations failed, and so with great reluctance, Curze ordered his men to fight alongside them. According to official accounts published after the battle, the Eighth took heavy casualties upon this battlefield they were unprepared for, especially after the Imperial Fist commander Sigismund refused to obey Curze's demand for support. After hearing the news Dorn and Sigismund were murdering hundreds of prisoners in retaliation, the heroic Curze confronted his brother, and the two departed on bad terms. At least, that is the official report recorded in Imperial archives.

The actual truth is far less honorable, and careful investigation will reveal this account to be nothing more than a fabrication added into the record many years after this event took place, editing and censoring both the events and when they actually took place. No, the truth of Cheraut is far less glorious. While Sigismund indeed refused to obey the Night Haunter, the Fists were far too disciplined to commit atrocities based on passion alone. The massacres against the innocent of Cheraut were carried out not by the vengeful Imperial Fists, but by the Night Haunter and his unruly sons. Irritated by the events of Cheraut, Curze had ordered his men to begin purging the population to set an example for both his brothers and any future compliances. Dorn soon came to confront his brother, only to be confronted by a monster far beyond anything he had expected.

It wasn't supposed to go this way, Night Haunter thought. Why wouldn't they just listen to him? He had always known Dorn would be difficult to convince, but surely actions spoke louder than words. He needed to see the futility of the sham of nobility which he clung to. He just had to.

That was when Dorn had confronted him. His boring brother had been apoplectic with rage when he learned Curze was executing the surrendered populace, and tracked him down. With Fulgrim watching from the sidelines, Night Haunter had affected disinterest; that is, until Dorn had made reference to his visions. How did he know? He had told nobody, nobody except…Fulgrim. Night Haunter's visions came back at that moment, crowding his senses until finally, he yielded to them, and knew no more.

When Curze came to his senses, he found himself standing above the bloody and unconscious body of his brother Rogal, and Fulgrim was nowhere to be seen. Curze knew there would be no convincing Dorn now, and so he left, taking his fleet back with him and returning to Nostramo, to the one place of order he knew. However, only further disappointments awaited him there. As Curze returned to his homeworld, he discovered to his fury that the planet had slid back into anarchy and crime in his absence. The Council of Nine, the ruling body he had left in charge after his departure five years earlier, had fallen into corruption. With mounting rage, Curze learned that the recruits they had been sending for his legion had come from the planet's jails, that the boys receiving his gene-seed were the sons of political prisoners and criminal gangs. The Night Haunter persona resurfaced with a vengeance, and so the Eighth watched from orbit as their father descended like a vengeful bolt of lightning to put a halt to the scum who had ruined his paradise. For an entire month, the legion had no contact with the Night Haunter, who had reverted to his feral ways, indiscriminately butchering any and all he deemed guilty of violating the laws he had established. It is unknown how long this rampage would have gone on for, but it finally came to an end with the second coming of the pillar of light. Once more, the vast golden warship Bucephalus graced the grim darkness of Nostramo with its presence, for the Emperor himself had arrived to take Konrad Curze with him. There was no gentleness in the Master of Mankind's demeanor this time around: when Night Haunter approached his father, the Emperor struck him unconscious with one mighty blow. As the insensate Curze was dragged onto the transport to be taken back to Terra in chains, agents of the Adeptus Terra accompanied by golden-armored Custodian Guard began to disembark to oversee the re-compliance of Nostramo.

As a result of how little time was spent between father and sons, the Eighth Legion's reaction to their father's imprisonment was surprisingly muted. The Night Lords were still commanded by Terrans, as most Nostraman legionaries were recent recruits, and so the Eighth simply reverted back to the way things were done before they were reunited with their father five years prior. The sole change was that members of the Luna Wolves fought alongside them, the Terran veterans of both legions getting along well. In the meantime, Nostramo was scoured by Imperial agents, executing the vast majority of the petty nobility which had overseen the planet in Night Haunter's absence and installing a governor in their place. The common people saw little change in their day to day lives, for the Imperial governor was only the latest in a long line of overseers. However, while things remained much the same for the legion and Nostramo, the same could not be said for the primarch. When Curze awoke, he found himself bound in chains in the dungeons of the Emperor's flagship. He was highly agitated, for his visions seemed to be wrong, an unwelcome first for him. According to his prescience, it should have been his misguided brothers Lupercal and Vulkan that found him, not the Emperor; Nostramo should be a shattered asteroid field, but he had been taken before he could pass the sentence upon his criminal homeworld. Something had clearly gone terribly wrong, and for the first time in his life, Konrad Curze was uncertain.

When the Bucephalus reached Terra, the Night Haunter was dragged before Malcador the Sigillite. The Regent of Terra attempted to interrogate him, but to no avail, for the primarch seemed lost to madness, speaking to himself and ignoring everyone around him. He did not resist as the Custodes carried him down and down into the depths of the Imperial Palace, chaining him before a colossal golden pyramid. Esoteric energies coruscated between vast cogitators, filling the air with the smell of ozone. Seeming to snap out of his trance, Curze looked around for the first time, his eyes rising up and up until they came to rest upon a vast Golden Throne, upon which was seated his father, the Emperor of Mankind. As their eyes met, the Night Haunter surged to the fore, screaming and writhing as he attempted to break the adamantium chains which bound him. His visions of the immediate future all spoke of immediate and unrelenting pain, with no possibility of escape, and as the Emperor raised his hand, Night Haunter demanded execution for his crimes, howling for the justice he deserved. However, the Emperor had other plans for his son, and as he ranted and raved, the Eighth Primarch was struck by the most intense energy he had ever felt in his entire life. A harsh golden light scoured his mind and soul and spirit, and as it did so, the persona of Night Haunter began to disappear, like a nightmare struck by daylight. The touch of the Warp upon the primarch's mind was refined and narrowed as he was forever soul-bound to the Emperor himself in a similar but vastly more complex version of the ritual performed upon Imperial astropaths. New visions, psychic fragments of emotions, thoughts, and personality traits that were not his own, forced their way into his mind in the most intimate yet violating manner as a fractional portion of the Emperor's soul attached itself to his. For the first time in his life, Konrad learned and fully understood his True Name, what he was and what he was meant to be. So too did he gain the deepest, most subconscious understanding of what his mind could only call the Golden Path, inextricably intertwined yet totally inexpressible even many years later, when he recorded his experiences in the Grimoire Nostramo. Utterly overwhelmed by the psychic might of the Master of Mankind, Konrad Curze mercifully fell unconscious, his father's stern yet pitying gaze the last thing his eyes would ever see.

Visions and Nightmares

For over several years, the Eighth Legion had no word from their father, instead operating under the auspices of the group known as the Kyroptera, seven captains who were said to embody the soul of the legion. This clear nod to the Mournival of the Sixteenth was a development approved of and encouraged by their Luna Wolves overseers, themselves the product of gang culture. Thus in short order, the worst of the Night Lords were rooted out, purging the corrupt and corruptible while redeeming those who had not yet progressed too far upon the path of lawlessness. The virtues of professionalism and camaraderie were reintroduced, and the Eighth became a better force for it. It was during these days when the name of Jago Sevatarion first became renowned amongst his brothers, a Nostraman who had confronted Sigismund of the Imperial Fists because of the disrespect shown to their father. The proud Templar had not taken the challenge lying down, and even as their primarchs argued, the two Astartes were engaged in an honor duel which had lasted hours, ending in Sevatarion's victory due to some unorthodox tactics. Honored for his victory, Sevatar, as he was known by the legion, swiftly followed it up by managing to best Ezekyle Abaddon, First Captain of the Sixteenth delegation, in an honor duel which saw them become fast friends. So too did other legionaries win honor and form the bonds of brotherhood that ensured a deep-seated connection between the Eighth and Sixteenth Legions. They thrived beneath the watchful eye of Horus Lupercal, and when the time came to reunite with their gene-father, he deemed them fully reformed.

The reunion of the Night Lords with their primarch was a thing of wonder to behold, for it was the Emperor himself who presented his son to them in a ceremony far different than the first iteration less than ten years before. The first thing the gathered legionaries felt, both Eighth and Sixteenth alike, was his presence. All primarchs radiate an aura of authority and majesty, an overawing weight similar to the one mortals feel in the presence of Astartes, and this effect is especially pronounced in legionaries of that particular primarch's bloodline. Though muted somewhat by the fact the Emperor himself was standing nearby, the Night Lords nonetheless felt themselves being overwhelmed by their father's aura. Their next impression was the sight of his armor. No longer was it covered in the filth of past battles or the grisly trophies of his victim, Curze's armor was pristine, the midnight blue and lightning bolts now clearly visible. His posture had improved, standing tall and proud instead of hunched and brooding, but even more than this was the sight of his face. As Curze removed his helmet for the first time, his sons stood in rapturous awe as they noted how the deep frown lines and self-inflicted scars were gone, his once-gray skin now a more healthy shade. A pristine white blindfold now covered his eyes, yet the primarch seemed to have no difficulty seeing, greeting each of his captains individually with an easy-going but serious manner which had been entirely lacking before. For the next few years, the Night Lords began to bring glory to their name instead of just fear. For a time they fought alongside the Luna Wolves, then the Salamanders, then on their own once more. Brutality was still employed, for these were harsh times, but the older practice of decimating compliant populations in the name of terror had gone away. The legion seemed preternaturally effective, their primarch leading them from battlefield to battlefield with exceptionally few casualties. Though only the Kyroptera were aware, Konrad's visions had been put to better use. Now without the use of his eyes, the primarch had been forced to rely upon his foresight to See once more, his prescience now showing him the immediate future and his surroundings. It was as though he was seeing himself in the third person, able to react ever-so-slightly faster, and it made him an absolute terror on the battlefield. Such methods were not foolproof, as some blows were simply impossible to avoid, but for the most part Curze would remain untouched, dancing from duel to duel without a scratch as he slaughtered all before him. The legion benefited as well, quickly adopting the Librarius in order to train and harness the natural gift of Curze's sons, many of whom appeared to have inherited in a lesser way their father's gift of foresight.

However, the galaxy is a harsh place, and even foresight was not enough to remain free of crippling loss. Several decades earlier, when Nostramo was first discovered, the world of Advex-Mors on the northern fringe fell under attack by a mysterious race of xenos known as the Rangda. It took the Dark Angels well over a year to reclaim that single world, losing thousands of Astartes to achieve even a nominal victory. The Rangda themselves remained a mystery in both their numbers and strength, and few even knew of their existence, though this was soon to change. In the year 964.M30, the Rangda returned, thousands of vessels descending in a black tide across the northern fringes. Their initial assault was thrown back by the combined might of three legions, but this was only the beginning of what would come to be known as the Second Rangdan Xenocides. The threat posed by these wormlike abominations was dire indeed, and the full force of nine legions was brought to bear, including that of the Night Lords. Nostramo itself lay in the path of their rampage across the Ghoul Stars, and so the entirety of the Night Lords fought a grueling defensive struggle, seeking to contain Rangda incursions across a vast front. In many ways, the xenos were the worst possible foe for the Eighth: terror tactics were completely ineffective on creatures of such alien biology, and infiltration was similarly useless when facing creatures that left nothing but writhing masses of flesh on the worlds they conquered. However, it was their immunity to prescience which made them truly terrifying. Though psykers of a sort, the Rangdan connection to the Warp was utterly unlike anything the Imperium had ever seen. Their movements could not be predicted with any sort of accuracy, and even the primarch's foresight only saw absences where the wicked worm beasts passed.

It was no small mercy that the xenos seemed equally ignorant about Humanity and their more conventional psykers, though they quickly recognized this weakness. The Night Lords soon began to discover new depths of Rangda abominations, entire worlds subjected to mind control and bodily horrors too vile to repeat. Even more ominous was the discovery of worlds converted into writhing mounds of flesh that drove the minds of mortals to utter insanity as they gazed upon experiments and things that should never have been. Such realms of madness were detectable by their utter stillness in the Warp, Immaterial black holes in which nothing remotely psychic could be sensed. To make matters worse, such worlds seemed to be occurring more and more, the event horizon of each one greater than the last, as though the Rangda were improving upon whatever these foul experiments were meant to accomplish. Foresight was utterly ineffective against them, and the Eighth was forced to rely solely upon their martial might to overcome the mind-bending horrors of the Rangda. For twenty long years, the Night Lords struggled to repel the threat. There was no glory to be found in a war such as this, and precious few victories either. The legion culture became altogether more grim in those days, the gallows humor retained from the time before legionaries became soldiers beaten out of them from constant loss. The obsession with law and order became paramount, for time spent putting down rebellions in compliant worlds risked disruption in materiel production. A constant supply of ships were needed due to constant fleet losses, and many battles were lost after disruptions in the supply chain interrupted the flow of new vessels to the front lines. It is estimated that nearly sixty thousand Night Lords gave their lives repelling the small portion of Rangda forces on their front, which mercifully ceased after twenty-five years of unremitting war. Curze could scarcely believe it when the message of victory finally arrived. While the Night Lords had held the northeastern line, one which was dangerously close to their own homeworld, the Death Guard and Dark Angels had prosecuted a punitive campaign into Rangda lines that had finally borne fruit. The xenos had finally retreated after the direct intervention of the Emperor himself, electing to return to their realm of nightmares beyond the light of the Astronomican.

Finally able to return to Nostramo, the shattered Night Lords gratefully returned to recover from the grueling strain of nonstop warfare. Though Astartes were designed to handle such conflicts, even they had been coming close to their limits due to the sheer lethality of the Rangda. The galaxy had changed much in the past few decades: by this time, most of the galaxy had fallen under the control of the Imperium of Man, which had become far more militarized than before. Thousands of crusade fleets now prowled the stars, reclaiming the lost worlds of men in order to maintain the constant war for survival against the Rangda. All of the legions had now been reunited with their primarchs, and it seemed the Rangda were the last vestiges of Old Night. Over the next twenty years, it seemed a new dawn for Mankind was rising, and a deep optimism took hold across the Imperium, though it was not shared by the Eighth. Still scarred by the heavy sacrifices, many Night Lords began to wonder about their place in a galaxy illuminated by the glorious light of the Emperor. Now free to contemplate the future beyond the immediate present, the legion librarius began to notice for the first time dark portents which they had not noticed before. It seemed war was inevitable, for dark secrets and lawbreakers lurked within the Imperial edifice, but whatever the case, the Eighth would be ready and waiting to restore order wherever they were needed.

Alone in the Dark: The Heresy Begins

By the turn of the millennium, the Night Lords had recovered from their losses in the Second Rangdan Xenocides, coming to match the size of most other legions around one hundred thousand strong. Though they were not close to their cousins save perhaps the Salamanders and Luna Wolves, they were not disliked either, simply remaining outsiders by choice. Most respected them for their dedication to maintaining order, especially the Word Bearers, but others still retained grudges, such as the Imperial Fists, whose primarch Dorn made no secret of his disdain for what he called the 'prison-born scum' of the Eighth. Even among the other legions, few knew of the losses the Eighth had suffered during the Xenocides, for such knowledge was highly classified. Nonetheless, the Eighth were respected enough, simply keeping their heads down and avoiding undue attention. When Lupercal was named Warmaster, Konrad duly sent a note of congratulations. Warmaster was never a title he himself would have ever sought, but he would not begrudge the brother who had stood by him during his forceful reconciliation with the Emperor. Likewise, when Horus requested a delegation of his sons to represent the Eighth among the Legion Auxilia, Curze was quick to respond, showing his loyalty by dispatching Jago Sevatarion. Now First Captain of the Eighth, this son of Nostramo had his primarch's full confidence, for his visions were powerful and often aligned with Curze's own. Even after his soul-binding, many of the Lord of Nostramo's visions still showed Lupercal's presence at the heart of unimaginable bloodshed and destruction, and while Curze no longer believed in the certainty of his visions as a result of his father's wisdom, it couldn't hurt to keep a close eye on his brothers. Maintaining the Emperor's commands was of the utmost importance, and so when the Council of Nikaea occurred, Curze quickly disbanded his Librarius in accordance with the Edict of Observance. He had long been neutral on the stance of psychic powers, for he knew the foresight possessed by him and his sons was of the Warp, but the law was the law. Rulebreakers who flouted the Emperor's commands, such as Magnus the Red, deserved the sentence passed on them; those who were adherent to the spirit of the law received their just desserts, such as Vulkan being named Praetorian, an event which was quickly followed by Curze sending his congratulations to this brother.

For another ten years, the Night Lords continued to carry out the Great Crusade, and their actions during this time are well-documented as a result of the Warmaster's establishment of the Remembrancers. Contrary to their fearsome reputation, the Night Lords were more than willing to admit the mortal iterators and remembrancers into their midst. The Eighth knew all too well that many looked to the Astartes Legions as an example of Imperial might, and by broadcasting their deeds, the common folk would be inspired to be more upstanding citizens. The news of their might would also cause potential criminals and rebels to hesitate, and strike fear into the hearts of their enemies. As the years passed, the visions continued to plague Curze. Visions of bloodshed and destruction on a scale far surpassing even the deadliest years of the Rangdan Xenocides became almost a daily occurrence, though they lacked the seizure-force they once had. Nonetheless, Curze had faith in the Emperor and his Warmaster, and knew to believe the future was preordained was to make it so. Thus he was determined to do everything in his power to ensure the survival of the Golden Path, that glorious vision of Humanity's future under the Emperor which he had seen only fragments of during his Soul-Binding so many years before. Attuned to the future as he was, Konrad Curze was well aware of the momentous impact of the day he received a messenger from Horus Lupercal. According to the missive he received, the Warmaster had nearly died while dealing with a human civilization known as the Interex, and had been taken back to Terra to be healed by the Emperor. Lupercal seemed to be under the impression things had gotten out of hand during his incapacity; wrongs needed to be righted, and as such, the Night Lords were to take part in this endeavor. The sons of Curze were to travel east, uniting with the Word Bearers to journey to Ultramar, where they would hold Roboute Guilliman accountable for his prolonged absence and lack of Crusade tithes.

As Konrad reviewed the Warmaster's commands, he began to pick up hidden meanings in the text. Utilizing his primarchial intellect, Curze soon discovered an encoded message from Sevatar, written in the prison-argot that only a Night Lord would understand. This secondary message spoke of everything the First Captain had witnessed in a blunt and forthright manner, without the diplomatic niceties of Horus's missive. According to Sevatar, things were falling to pieces, the First Captain's visions of impending betrayal and fratricidal civil war in accordance with Curze's own. As Curze contemplated his captain's message, he began to realize the import of whatever he decided at this juncture. Should he obey the Warmaster's command, the Eighth would be taken far away from Horus, a dangerous proposition considering the future-sight of Curze. The primarch knew he could not simply disobey the Warmaster, but perhaps there was another way. After sending out a summons for all his sons, including those of the Legion Auxilia, Curze sent a message to Horus indicating his acceptance before self-inducing a psychic trance. Over the following weeks, while he waited for his sons to arrive, Curze spent most of his days locked away, seeking out the best possible paths for the days to come, and soon came to a number of conclusions. As the Eighth gradually mustered, each new company was reorganized as Curze formed new companies, rearranging his entire legion in order to suit his plans, which were known only to him. When this task was done, the Eighth found itself divided down the middle. Fully half of Curze's sons found themselves en route to Nostramo, under command of Sevatarion, who knew better than to ask why such a powerful force was seemingly being sidelined. The rest set out for the Jewel of the East, along with the primarch himself, who remained pessimistic about the task they were undertaking, for to hold the Realm of Ultramar accountable would be no mean feat.

With his handpicked sons at his side, Curze's fleet struggled through the storms to the Forge World of Accatran, where Lorgar and the Word Bearers had been awaiting their arrival. As always when Curze met one of his brothers, visions of the future played out in his mind's eye. However, Curze knew all too well the dangers of foresight, and so kept his prophecies to himself as they planned out their next moves. Though his visions were far from complete pictures of the future, it seemed unlikely that the two brothers would meet again, and so Curze tried his best to enjoy this time with Aurelian, dragging out their planning sessions through whatever means he could think of. However, the future could not be delayed forever, and eventually the preparations came to an end once both legions were fully supplied for the days to come. The Eighth and the Seventeenth departed Accatran, pushing their way through the constant Warp storms, which only worsened the closer they got to the borders of Ultramar. What should have been a journey of weeks became one of months before the combined fleet reached the first major system of Ultramar. Thus Lorgar's temper was somewhat frayed as the primarch negotiated with Guilliman's representatives on the world of Konor turning what should have been a journey of weeks into one that lasted for months. There had been no changes in Curze's visions in all this time, and so despite his hopes, the primarch knew it was time for him to depart, to take matters into his own hands in a way that would not be possible if he were to remain by his brother's side. After partaking in one final meal with his brother, Curze slipped away, allowing the Word Bearers to enter the Warp first before altering his coordinates. The Lord of Nostramo had not believed the Ultramarines for a second when they claimed the Battle King could be found upon Calth; no, a man as proud as Guilliman would no doubt attempt to show off, to make his brothers come to him rather than stoop to meeting them as equals. He would seek to make his brothers wander from planet to planet in an attempt to humble them, a strategy that would waste far more time than anyone had, let alone Curze and his sons.

Thus as the fleet of the Eighth entered the Warp, their destination was none other than Jewel of the Jewel of the East: Macragge, capital of the Five Hundred Worlds. However, it appeared Fate was attempting to punish the Eighth for its directness, for as they traveled Ultramar, the storms continued to grow worse. Many ships were lost in the journey, tossed about the Sea of Souls and spat out into random systems within Ultramar itself. However, the bulk of the Eighth successfully made it to their destination, though what they saw made many wish they hadn't. As Curze's fleet made their way further into the Macragge System from the Mandeville point, their first impression was the lack of discipline. Normally a fleet of their size would have been immediately hailed, in this case by the fortress-world of Mortendar, but no transmissions seemed incoming. The fleet passed by Thulium and Laphis, both worlds seemingly empty of life, as was the agri-world of Nova Thulium, where auspex scans picked up farmlands now teeming with Warp-signatures, though no human lifesigns. Only one world stood between the fleet and Macragge itself, the hive world of Ardium, and it was here things started to go wrong. As the vanguard approached Ardium, those who had formerly been of the Librarius began to feel a colossal pressure emanating from the Warp. Curze too felt it, a sickening knot in his gut which only intensified as scanners picked up signs that the vanguard ships had come under attack. The seemingly-derelict orbital platforms above Ardium had burst into life, launching an array of shots toward the Eighth Legion fleet. Caught off-guard, several ships were disabled in the initial volley, though such a trick would not work again. The massive fleet of the Eighth quickly reacted, annihilating the platforms with extreme prejudice before preparing to land upon Ardium. Other ships, including the flagship Nightfall, moved into position above Macragge itself to begin landing upon what was now a hostile world in every sense of the word. After clearing their initial landing zones, the first thing the invading Night Lords noticed were the statues. Countless idols depicting Guilliman filled the streets, depicting the Battle King in all his gaudy splendor. Normally a legion such as the Eighth would not have paid much attention to such ostentation, but they quickly began to notice as las-fire began to strike them, fired from behind the dubious cover of Guilliman's graven images. Countless men and women appeared from every nook and cranny, throwing themselves at the Night Lords with little regard for their chances, and the Eighth was only too happy to oblige, shredding their way through the insane crowds as they pushed their way toward the central hive spire. High above them, dogfights and duels took place as Eighth Legion pilots fought against a more difficult foe in their Thirteenth Legion counterparts. The stoic sons of Curze reacted with disgust as they observed how their foes had modified their aircraft with all sorts of debauched decorations, many of which significantly altered the shape and efficacy of their vessels. Though few in number, the scions of Guilliman appeared to have as little restraint as the mortal fanatics below, overtaxing their engines as they zoomed across the battlefield at supersonic speeds far surpassing the standard.

Even as legionaries pushed their way across Ardium, so too did Curze himself lead his sons into Magna Macragge Civitas, the heart of Guilliman's vile domain. Curze quickly gave up hope that Guilliman himself would be there, for in his place it appeared the Tetrarch Tauro Nicodemus held sway over a kingdom of the mad. Ranting and raving, Nicodemus exhorted his people to defiance from countless viewscreens affixed to every building, a task which the population of Magna Macragge Civitas had taken to despite not having any proper weapons. However, poorly-armed mortals were no match for one of the Emperor's legions, and the Night Lords began to amuse themselves by firing well-placed shots that obliterated both their cultist foes and the screens behind them. Within the hour, the landing fields were secured, and the Eighth's armor moved up the Grand Colonnade toward the Martial Square, where scouts had reported the city's Astartes garrison were gathering for a push, a far tougher foe than the chaff which they continued to clear. The Eighth quickly laid siege to the Square, a full-scale assault that was, in reality, no more than a distraction to pin the Thirteenth in place. While the two legions clashed in the shadow of the Titan's Gate, the Lord of the Night slipped unseen into the heart of Guilliman's empire. The mighty walls of the Fortress of Hera proved no match for the primarch's skill, slipping in to discover a den of iniquity, inhabited by only the deviant and insane. Vile creeds and murals scrawled on every wall assaulted his blind eyes, each imbued with foul Warp-resonance to the point even Curze was able to see them, though he surely wished he couldn't. Seeking to minimize his time here, Curze left only death in his wake, Guilliman's sons no match for a primarch, and soon the Tetrarch himself met his end, relieved of his limbs and armor and hurled from the walls of the Fortress of Hera to his messy end. By this time, the Eighth had seized control of the city from the garrison defending it, and they fell back to their ships with little satisfaction.

The Jewel of the Jewel of the East began to burn as the Eighth unleashed devastating salvoes at the planet, scouring the surface clean of life even as a similar process took place upon Ardium. The remaining worlds of the Macragge System met a similar fate before the Eighth finally departed, though not before they left a series of beacons, all filled with Nostraman mockery. With clear evidence of the Ultramarines' treachery and madness recorded in the ship cogitators, Curze knew such information had to reach Terra. The rest of Guilliman's realm was no doubt as corrupt as Macragge, and such might would only bring harm if left alone. The Lord of the Night was thus left to make a difficult decision: the Emperor needed to be warned, for Curze's visions had long spoken of the betrayal of not one but many brothers. Astropathic communication was next to impossible at this range, even without the storms, and nor would it convey the proof needed to back up a claim of that magnitude; only the word of a primarch would carry the weight needed, for the Emperor would surely believe one of his sons. However, to do so meant not only abandoning the mission, but would also condemn Lorgar to this realm of horrors. Alone in his cabin, Curze wrestled with the conflicts of duty, torn between competing necessities as visions of possible futures weighed heavily upon him. However, in the end, he knew what he had to do, assuming the guilt in order that his sons might remain blameless. Thus the Nightfall departed alone, headed for the borders of Ultramar with all the speed it could muster. Left behind was the bulk of the fleet, tasked with destroying Guilliman and his rebellion, along with orders to obey Lorgar as if he were Curze should they happen to find him at any point in a now-uncertain future.

Savage Weapons: Thramas and Nostramo

While the forces of the Eighth scattered across Ultramar in search of targets of opportunity, the Nightfall made full speed toward the edges of the realm, straining both its engines and Gellar Field as Curze pushed the limits of safety in his headlong flight. New visions began to press in on him, portents of vile rituals haunted by that same smirking presence he had seen when he had met his brothers for the first time so long ago. In his mind's eye, Curze saw impossible walls of shifting energies closing in upon him, and he steeled himself with the knowledge that what he was doing was necessary, even though it meant he would not see many of the sons he had left behind. After weeks of this constant tension, the Nightfall could take no more, and so it dropped back into realspace on the outskirts of the Estaban System, free of the ominous menace of Guilliman's corrupt realm. Such a move was seconds away from disaster, for in the instant they transitioned out of the Immaterium, a hungering wave of corruption rippled across the entire realm of Ultramar and the regions of the Warp beyond. Guilliman's realm was now impregnable, girded by an aetheric wall of Warp-energy that spilled into realspace, and all psykers, Curze included, could feel a vile presence emanating from the Jewel of the East. However, the Estaban System was no more safe than Guilliman's realm, for the Nightfall was not alone.

As Curze's flagship assessed where they were in galactic terms, they were hailed by the system capital, Estaban III, by representatives of multiple factions clamoring for his aid. Normally the Lord of the Night would have ignored such pleas, but this planet was no ordinary world, for it was home to a stronghold of the legendary Legio Tempestus, one of the three most powerful Titan Legions in the Imperium, the Triad Ferrum Morgulus. The importance of this vital world had apparently attracted powerful visitors, for orbiting above Estaban was the battle barge Monarch of Fire, bearing the all-too-familiar livery of the Seventh Legion. A new hail came in, this one bearing the codes of Rogal Dorn himself, requesting a private meeting between the two brothers. His visions still clouded by the psychic whirlwinds of the Ruinstorm, Curze felt he had no choice but to accept, and so the Lord of the Night met with the Master of the Fists on neutral ground as the two primarchs docked their transports together. Now face to face, the two brothers stood apart, neither making any move to embrace each other or show any form of affection. Blunt as always, Dorn was the first to speak, informing Curze the galaxy had changed while he was in Ultramar. In short sentences that stabbed into Konrad like daggers, the Master of the Fists described the humiliation of legions loyal to the Emperor at the hands of the new Master of Mankind, the Lord of the First, along with the myriad other forces who had renounced their oaths, including the Legio Tempestus.

Having laid out his demands in no uncertain terms, Dorn demanded Curze's submission, to which he received a stony silence. At first Konrad hoped it was some cruel joke, but it quickly became clear this was not the case. Dorn quickly sensed his words had failed to persuade him, smiling through his thick white beard before drawing his chainsword Storm's Teeth. The Lord of the Fists admitted he had expected as much, that he had been looking forward to this, and swung with murderous intent. Curze leapt backwards, dodging the blow, before rocketing forward, and the battle was on. The two fought without speaking, though any conversation would have been impossible regardless over the noise of Storm's Teeth as it clashed with Curze's twin lightning claws, Mercy and Forgiveness. Dorn's self-confident smile soon turned to a frown, quickly recognizing he had underestimated his blindfolded brother, who soon gained the upper hand. Bleeding from a dozen puncture wounds, Dorn stepped back to catch his breath, and in that moment, Curze seized his opportunity. With a burst of speed, he disengaged his transport from Dorn's, his claws gouging deep rents in the wall as the atmosphere was voided. Dorn was not as lucky, and was sucked into space, though Curze did not bother to search for him, for he knew full well neither of their fates ended here. The Lord of the Night made his way back to the Nightfall, leaving the Estaban System behind as he made for Nostramo once more, braving the Dominion of Storms unaware he was already far too late.

As the Nightfall crossed the breadth of the galaxy, the Imperium of Man they sought to save descended into Chaos. Across the galaxy, loyalists struggled to make any headway against sudden and unexpected treachery, the realms of Man now in tatters as its communication network was gradually strangled. The Warp had become a far more dangerous place in the past few years, unknowable horrors called forth to emerge from the Deep to fill the relative calm after the creation of the Eye of Terror. Nostramo itself quickly felt this isolation, out on the extreme fringes as it was, and its commander, First Captain Jago Sevatarion, was well aware of this wider trend. His visions were far darker than those of his primarch's, for he was not protected by the Emperor's ritual, and many dark whispers echoed in the quiet streets of his tortured world. Nostramo had seen much suffering in the past millennia, and as the dark closed in all around them, uprisings had begun to occur. Shambling abominations would wander in from the frozen wastes even as cultists bearing self-inflicted scars and brands rose up with ever-increasing frequency, forcing the Night Lords into fighting the people of their own homeworld. Its neighboring systems were much the same, and soon the Eighth found themselves spread around several dozen sectors, putting down rebels and heretics as they struggled to maintain the Imperium out there in the Ghoul Stars.

Thinly spread across the Ghoul Stars, Sevatar's forces soon fell under attack by forces far more threatening than maddened cultists: the Dark Angels had arrived. Pitch black vessels began to prowl the void, wielding esoteric weaponry from the Dark Age that rendered many worlds compliant after a single volley. Thus began the theater of war that would later come to be known as the Thramas Crusade, named for the primary system of the region which held a number of vital forge worlds. For two bitter years, the First and Eighth Legions fought in the dark, both sides struggling to land a decisive blow. The Night Lords knew little of their foe's true strength and disposition, only that they were led by Paladin Corswain, a once-noble warrior whom Sevatar had considered a brother in another life when both fought side by side in the Warmaster's Legion Auxilia. Atramentar clashed with their Deathwing counterparts as both sides sought to assassinate their opposing commanders, Sevatar's foresight saving him on more than one occasion. Indeed, Curze's legacy manifested like never before, many Night Lords displaying mild psychic ability which more than made up for their deficiency in numbers. From Triplex in the south to Angelis in the west, the Ghoul Stars burned as the two legions whittled each other down in grueling, protracted war that left both sides drained, though no system changed hands more often than Thramas itself. However, this stalemate could not last forever, and the beginning of the end of the Thramas Crusade began with the arrival of the Invincible Reason at the Battle of Desperation. The dreaded Lion himself had finally arrived, swiftly proving a far more able commander than Corswain. Within a month, dozens of worlds were taken, firmly tipping the balance of power back toward the First Legion. The Eighth was in full retreat, intending to make one final stand upon the world of Gulgorahd, when their morale was lifted by the arrival of the Nightfall: Konrad Curze had arrived. Two years of continuous travel had nearly ruined his vessel, but it was still intact, and the Lord of the Night wasted little time in issuing a challenge to his brother. To the surprise of many, the Lion accepted his terms, no doubt as confident of his abilities as Dorn had been, and the two primarch met upon the world of Tsagualsa, accompanied only by two Astartes from each side.

The meeting had gone as well as could be expected, Sevatar thought. A little talking, a little posturing, a dishonorable blow, and now the two brothers were at each other's throats, leaving their sons to fight with each other. Accompanied by Lord Commander Sheng, Sevatar had hoped to face off against Corswain, and his wish was quickly granted. While Sheng faced off against an Astartes calling himself Master Alajos, the Prince of Crows had dueled the Paladin, a worthy opponent indeed. However, the truth was Sevatar was holding back, not using any of the dirty moves he had in his arsenal. This fight would be over within minutes.

A deafening sound of a building collapsing made the Astartes pause their fight, all four looking over to see which was the victor. As the dust cleared, a warrior in midnight blue was revealed to be on top.

"Die," Curze breathed, blood spattering as he rasped through his bleeding lips. "You should have never survived that tainted world you called home." His voice was faint, most likely due to the gauntleted hands wrapped around his throat, a mirror pose of his own. The Lion lay beneath him, punctured by dozens of wounds, and it was clear the Night Lord held the advantage.

As Curze slammed his brother's bare head into the ground again and again, Sevatar figured this would be a good time to finish off his opponent, but the Paladin was nowhere to be found. The most horrific scream imaginable ripped through the air, and Sevatar whirled in time to hear a brittle crack as Corswain's blade pierced Curze's breastplate from the inside. The Lord of the Night reeled backwards, leaving the Lion behind as he attempted to hurl the Astartes who had stabbed him from behind in the few seconds Sevatar had let his attention wander. Corswain was hurled bodily into a nearby ruin, and as Sevatar and Sheng watched, their father collapsed into the dust, propped up at an unnatural angle due to The Blade still inside him.

Official records list the Battle of Tsagualsa as a draw, for both sides abandoned the world with minimal casualties. The Lion would not be seen again in the Ghoul Stars, and was next sighted at the Battle of Molech. However, the Night Lords did not know this, their attention focused on their primarch who had fared little better, falling into a deep coma as he recovered from his life-threatening injuries. Command of the legion fell to Zso Sahaal, for Sevatarion had renounced his rank due to his failure to protect the primarch. Now known as Sevatar the Condemned, the former First Captain had painted his gauntlets red and joined a unit of Moritats, swearing a death oath that only the unconscious Curze would be able to release him from. The Dark Angels had fallen back from the Ghoul Stars, bringing an end to the Thramas Crusade, but the Heresy was far from over, for in place of the First Legion came the Third. Fulgrim's sons had changed much since the Night Lords had seen them back at Cheraut many decades before. Now they were bloated, shambling monsters, their armor the color of an old bruise, and foul insects buzzed around them. Every planet they took was rendered worthless, plagues sweeping the population, and the Night Lords were pushed ever backwards. It was clear Fulgrim was leading his sons, for even Sahaal's precognition and tactics proved unable to stop the traitor's inexorable advance.

Several more years passed, during which time the Night Lords were slowly boxed in on all fronts. Far to the south, the Night Lords within the Ruinstorm remained trapped by its storm walls, though by this time they had linked up with forces of the Word Bearers and Alpha Legion. In the Ghoul Stars, Curze remained in a coma, the forces there now down to around half the number they were at the start of the Thramas Crusade. Fulgrim showed little inclination to finish them off, slowly boxing the thirty thousand Astartes of the Eighth in until only Nostramo itself remained. The Night Lords mustered around their homeworld for one final battle, outnumbered over two to one but ready to fight to the last in hopes of killing as many oathbreakers as they could before they finally fell. Many joined the ranks of the Moritat alongside Sevatar the Condemned, determined to atone for their failures. However, they were not alone, for aid unlooked for had come to their assistance. As Sahaal finalized his preparations for the defense of Nostramo, a fleet arrived in darkened skies, bearing not the discolored violet of the Third, but the colors of other legions. Sahaal met with a son of Corax calling himself Arkhas Fal, who led a force of several thousand Raven Guard; even more unexpected was the presence of a battalion of Iron Warriors under the command of one calling himself Honorable Soulaka, who had renounced Perturabo upon learning of his treachery.

With the aid of these allies, the Night Lords dug in, turning the five hives of Nostramo into a veritable fortress. However, few held out any hope of escape; all knew this would be their tomb, but with any luck, it would be one for the Third as well. When Fulgrim's fleet arrived, even their supernatural resilience was sorely tested by Soulaka's expertly-crafted defenses, which went a long way toward negating their overwhelming advantage in tonnage. At the center of this line was the Nightfall, which soon met its match against the vast Pride of the Emperor, Fulgrim's personal flagship. The rival behemoths battered away at each other, twin leviathans locked in mortal combat even as hundreds of lesser craft darted about them. However, the size of the Third's fleet proved too much in the end, even for the defenses of the Iron Warriors. The Eighth was unable to engage all of them, and soon thousands of drop pods fell like steel rain down into the frozen wastes beyond the edge of the defensive hive guns. The cloudy skies began to fill with ash and soot as the shambling traitors surrounded the hives on all sides, tens of thousands of warriors who didn't seem to feel the cold or the pain as they killed and died in turn. All the people of Nostramo were united as one in the face of this existential threat, from the lowliest ganger to the highest spire noble, and millions of mortal soldiers took their place in the trenches alongside their legionary defenders. Fal's Raven Guard fought alongside them, striking from the shadows in brutally effective guerilla raids that crippled the Third's siege engines. Soulaka's ground defenses proved just as good as those he had crafted in the void, enabling the hives to hold out far longer than would have been possible otherwise, especially in the face of the devastating plagues that the Third had brought along with them.

As the Leonine Heresy had progressed, the foes of the Night Lords had gradually grown more monstrous. Where once they fought human rebels and traitor Astartes, now more often than not they battled with monstrosities. While the Astartes remained untouched by disease, their allies were far less fortunate, countless baselines dying to all manner of foul plagues. Morale began to collapse as the dead rose, corpses clambering to their feet as demented poxwalkers that giggled as they devoured those who had been their comrades in life. However, these were merely the prelude to the horrors to come, the true denizens of the Warp that could only be called daemons. While the Dark Angels had used these creatures of the Warp sparingly, preferring instead to rely on their relics of the Dark Age, the Emperor's Children had no such compunction, and many horrors were lost to the tides of insanity that accompanied them. Nostramo was not spared this taint, as shambling hordes of poxwalkers were soon joined by a horrific menagerie of plague daemons. The tolling of bells and droning of flies was omnipresent in the lower levels of the hives as hordes of plaguebearers marched, nine foot tall cyclopean vectors for disease. Malicious and incongruous laughter boomed as Great Unclean Ones made sport of the Astartes and mortals unfortunate enough to face them, chortling as they bisected their victims with rusty blades or smashed them into a pulp with a discordant clang using their doomsday bells. Foul slime and toxins dripped off them alongside giggling packs of nurglings, acidic horrors that left small holes and puddles of effluence wherever they capered. Amidst these horrors walked Fulgrim's sons, their somber manner in stark contrast to the gleeful daemons, but they were no less deadly, their boltguns spitting deadly covering fire as their aetheric allies closed in for the kill.

The hives began to fall, each detonating in cataclysmic explosions visible from the others, until only Nostramo Quintus remained. Deep within its central spire, legion apothecaries tried everything they could to awaken the comatose Curze, while the remaining Night Lords fought a desperate last ditch stand. The true sons of the Emperor refused to quail in the face of such horrors. Leading from the front, Sahaal slew many traitors in the twisting underhive of Quintus. Accompanied by Atramentar bodyguards, the elite terminators of the Eighth, the First Captain was death incarnate, his foresight nearly as powerful as Sevatar's own. The Prince of Crows himself fought elsewhere in the hive, accompanied by what later came to be known as the Murder, a group of Raven Guard Moritats including Kaedes Nex, the Bloodcrow, and Alastor Rushal. Many traitors fell to their blades in the lightless and freezing depths of the Hive, even as Soulaka's Iron Warriors held the trenches on the surface. However, they could not hold out forever, and the loyalist vox network lit up as a new ship entered the battlefield. Like some vast, predatory bird, an assault ship screamed in from the upper atmosphere to loom over the central landing pad, disgorging twisted monstrosities into the heart of the defenses. Such abominations were clearly once Astartes, twisted and mangled under the surgical blades of some demented scientist, and no two were alike. Even as the deformed horrors began to fall, the infamous sound of terminators resounded from behind them, the ash in the air chokingly thick as the Phoenix Guard entered the battle. Even the Atramentar struggled to contain these new foes, and they proved utterly inadequate for what came next: the Phoenician had arrived.

Wherever Fulgrim walked, all life was sucked out of the room. His golden blades shimmered as they cut down any unfortunate enough to cross his path, and even daemons fell back before him. His attacks were lazy, uninterested blows, though still blurry streaks too fast for even Astartes to properly see. His rusted armor deflected every blow, be they sword blows or lascannon shots, leaving no more than discolored spots on his plate which looked as though it had been rusting for decades. Utter despair radiated from him, and many mortals caught in his aura were transfixed, remaining motionless from sheer apathy even as they were torn to pieces by the primarch's terminator retinue. Even Astartes struggled against it, feelings of utter hopelessness welling up and distracting them as they struggled to slow him down. Fulgrim's objective was clear as he strode slowly and purposefully on a direct path toward the most inner sanctum where the unconscious Curze still lay. The defender's sole consolation was that it was clear Fulgrim was still mortal, a meager consolation confirmed only by the fact he still showed up on the security networks. However, while he may not have been a creature of the Warp, or at least, not entirely, nothing the defenders were doing had any effect on him. Thus the Night Lords changed targets, focusing their attention upon his retinue, cutting down the Phoenix Guard one by one and slowing the traitor's advance by collapsing sections of the hive down around him. However, it was not enough. Spread across the entirety of Nostramo Quintus, the loyalists were cut off and surrounded, unable to come to their primarch's defense, and thus with grim finality, Fulgrim reached his destination.

The Phoenician stood alone, the last of his retinue choking out their final breaths in the corridor behind him. Curze's sons had been persistent, he would give them that, though even their commander had failed in the end, as all things must. Sahaal lay lifeless and rotting at his feet, as unable to contain Fulgrim as the rest of his kin. And once Konrad had perished at his hands, his life force, alongside the despair of his wretched world, would be the fuel that would transform him into a force of pure entropy. Or it might not; the Phoenician honestly didn't care what happened next.

Fulgrim gently opened the door, expecting to see his catatonic brother and perhaps a handful of final guardians prepared to give their lives to stop him. However, when he stepped inside, the room was empty, though not silent. The tell-tale crackle of a power weapon was the only warning he received. The Lord of the Night dropped from the ceiling like a bat, his claws moving with a speed far surpassing anything Fulgrim had expected. His armor was punctured a dozen times in the blink of an eye, dodging every blow with frenetic energy and dealing wounds in return that would not heal.

Within a minute, Fulgrim lay immobile on the ground. He had not been able to land a single wound upon his brother, but here at the end, it seemed he still couldn't be bothered to care. Curze stood above him, his blindfolded face impassive, the Last Judge Fulgrim would ever see.

"Despair," he said, "is among the greatest of all human sins. It is pernicious, bringing forth wickedness in those who might remain guiltless. Fulgrim of Chogoris, you are hereby sentenced to death." His Judgment spoken, Mercy and Forgiveness descended.

Though none were present to see it, Curze had risen from his coma, his future clear to him. He did not die this day, but there is one who would. Thus as his brother arrived, the Lord of the Night was ready, his surety of purpose overcoming Fulgrim's aura and killing his brother. However, things were not as simple as they seemed. As the Last Judge stood above Fulgrim's beheaded corpse, the body began to rot at a pace far exceeding any natural rate of decay. As the Emperor's Children began to fall back to their ships, Nostramo itself began to shudder, the boundary between Reality and Unreality on the verge of dissolving entirely. New visions of the future showed themselves to Curze, and he realized his brother had not truly perished, but Ascended beyond the veil of life and death. The annihilation Fulgrim had sought was now forever beyond his reach, eternally damned to serve his patron. However, the soteriological discussion of his brother's fate would have to wait, for Nostramo had but little time left. The damage it had suffered at the hands of its own people, combined with the new trauma inflicted by the Emperor's Children, had driven it to the precipice of opening a breach in reality. Already, daemons continued to pour in through minor Warp rifts, their numbers increasing even as the defeated Third fell back without their primarch. Though Curze knew little of this phenomenon, all rational beings regarded with fear the collapse of a Gellar Field, and the principle seemed similar enough not to risk it.

The Eighth Legion abandoned their homeworld that day. Still reeling from the Battle of Nostramo, the Night Lords gathered their wounded and as much supplies as they could scavenge. The Third may have been defeated, but the Heresy was not over yet, and Curze knew his destiny lay upon Terra. There was nothing for him on Nostramo anymore, and nor would he allow plague daemons to continue to spill into reality. Thus with grim finality, the Last Judge passed sentence upon the world which had been his home. The Eighth Legion had but one vessel remaining after the assault of the Emperor's Children, the battered Nightfall, but the proud chariot still floated resolute beside the Wicked Claw, a smaller but equally-wounded ship which bore the surviving Raven Guard. With all the finality of an executioner's blade descending, the Nightfall fired upon Nostramo, its guns all aimed at the deep gouge in the planet left by their primarch's arrival so many decades earlier. Even its adamantium crust could not withstand firepower of that magnitude, and so Nostramo died, shattering into countless fragments and shards. Barely three thousand Night Lords remained, gathered aboard their lone vessel, and as their homeworld died, they entered the Warp. All worlds leave a shadow in the Warp, shaped by the emotions of all those who live upon it, and the destruction of Nostramo, combined with the bloodshed that had taken place there, created a vast bow wave, rippling across the Warp. The Nightfall was caught up in the surge, Curze's foresight aiding in steering them through the fastest eddies and currents as the Night Lords journeyed to Terra to meet their fate.

Siege of Terra: In Blackest Night

As the small force of Night Lords recuperated within the dubious protection of the Nightfall, grief began to set in. Nostramo's destruction weighed heavily upon them, a stain on their honor and a failing which would need to be atoned for. Thus without exception, the Night Lords painted their gauntlets red, an old Nostraman tradition reserved for criminals. Only Curze himself could release them from this state, but no release was forthcoming, for even he did not abstain, staining both his gauntlets as well as his blindfold crimson. With the death of Zso Sahaal at the hands of Fulgrim, a new First Captain would be needed, and despite his protestations, such an honor fell to Jago Sevatarion once more. The Prince of Crows spent much of the journey in private discussion with his primarch, though what they spoke of has been lost to history. Swept along by incomprehensible forces that threatened to tear apart their vessel at every second, Konrad's forces skimmed along the surface of the Deep Warp, hidden by the squalls and tides of madness which threatened them as much as concealed them as they rocketed ever closer to Terra. It was only through their Primarch's foresight that the Nightfall wasn't diverted off-course, his mind's-eye fixed upon the two great beacons to the galactic west: one was the wholesome and pure light of the Astronomican, the other its inverse, a dark lure calling the forces of Chaos toward the Solar System. However, the Eighth had always been the Lords of the Night, and so protected by knowledge of his fate, Curze did not hesitate to steer his ship toward the darker beacon. His foresight had only intensified during the journey through the Warp, to the point he had seen every moment of the next few hours. Life had become a waking dream for Konrad Curze, one that ended with him coming face to face with his brother Lion El'Jonson once more, though even he could not tell what would happen next. So many things had changed in the timeline: the future was not at all the clear path that so many of his sons believed him capable of seeing.

Though hideous creatures pressed in upon the Gellar Field from all sides, the ancient mechanism did not fail, and so the Nightfall eventually emerged in the Solar System, not at the system's edge but within the Great Red Spot of Jupiter. The traitors had clearly not expected any Imperials to emerge from their dark portal, and had left most of their sentries guarding the Elysian and Khthonic Gates. Thus the Nightfall made short work of the surprised and outgunned meager flotilla hanging around Jupiter, quickly falling silent afterwards. As mighty as a Gloriana-class battleship was, it stood no chance whatsoever against the tens of thousands of warships besieging the Throneworld, and so from atop his ivory command throne, Curze ordered the ship to move above the solar plane, while his sons prepared for the upcoming battle. The Nightfall drifted silently toward Terra, invisible in the blackness of space, until it came to rest directly above the world, though so far out of scan range that the world was a faint brown smudge upon the auspex. Curze took advantage of this respite to say his final farewells, as well as draft his last will, commands for the future which he left behind in his chambers. Though Curze could not see his own future past his confrontation with the Lion, he took solace in the visions which showed his sons would survive in the millennia to come, and thus these were the steps he took to ensure his legacy would live on. After this somber task, the Lord of the Night slipped away from his sons, secretly traveling through his own ship to a small hangar where First Captain Sevatarion awaited him, the only one of his sons entrusted to know of his father's departure from the Nightfall. Infiltrating the Throneworld through the blockade would require stealth worthy of Corax, as even an unguarded thought could be enough to give him away. Thus in the lightless depths of the Nightfall's lower decks, First Captain Sevatar oversaw the process of sealing his primarch within a small stasis casket, which was then launched at Terra. Its trajectory had been calculated many times, but so many things could go wrong in the meantime.

However, Sevatar trusted in his visions, as well as those of his primarch, and thus the Prince of Crows kept his composure. Curze's final action aboard the Nightfall had been to forgive Sevatarion for his lapse upon Tsagualsa, and thus as he carried out the launch sequence, Sevatarion's gauntlets bore the midnight blue instead of bloody red for the first time in nearly five years. The immense bulk of the Nightfall shrank away as the tiny pod rocketed toward Terra, its inhabitant trusting to Fate to put him where he needed to be, an ironic echo of the Scattering over two centuries earlier that had taken him and his brothers so far away. Protected only by a timed stasis field, Curze remained insensate to the universe as the pod miraculously slipped through the dense clutter of the upper atmosphere, coming to rest upon the slopes of Mount Ararat, a location as yet untouched by the traitor invasion. When Konrad awoke, he found himself alone, his primarch senses telling him exactly where he was. This lonely mountainside had seen much bloodshed in its time, from the destruction of the Legio Cataegis to ancient genocide, many thousands of years of death. However, this lonely mountain was clearly not where he would meet the Lion, and thus began his journey to meet fate. As he began to descend the slopes, his eyes were drawn to something glinting in the dirt, discovering a golden glassy rock, which to his blinded eyes appeared as positively suffused with auric energy. Such a find was destiny at work, though even Curze did not understand it fully at the time. For several days, he hid aboard military transports moving southward out of the mountains, grav-lev trains ferrying thousands of mortal troops eastward to fight the traitors, most of whom had congregated around the Imperial Palace in the Himalazians. The primarch noticed that all of these trains gave a wide berth to the more typical routes through the plains of Urartu to the south, a curiosity too great to ignore. Curze began to make his way south on foot, traveling several hundred kilometers on foot in less than a week mostly at night.

Far to the east, the Eighth Legion forces once trapped within the Ruinstorm were now free. Even as the Word Bearers clashed with the forces of Magnus the Red on the borders of Guilliman's domain, a grand host of Night Lords nearly thirty thousand strong pushed for Terra. Led by Captain Krieg Acerbus, they had been hidden away from prying eyes by the endless storm, and their time within Ultramar had left them with a fanatic hatred for the lawlessness and debauchery exhibited by Guilliman's sons. Many had begun to exhibit minor precognitive abilities, and thus these sons of Curze knew their fate lay upon Terra, and no storms would keep them from their destiny. None knew if Terra still lived, but justice would be had, one way or another. Driven by a burning desire for revenge and now freed from their stormy prison, Acerbus's forces pushed for the Throneworld, a lightning-fast vanguard racing from system to system by following coordinates provided by their Alpha Legion allies. They smashed through dozens of traitor blockades in a series of costly but vital actions, their losses ensuring the Lion's forces would be reeling and off-balance in time for the arrival of the main fleet under Lorgar. This effective combination ensured the annihilation of dozens of garrisons of disoriented traitor forces, who served as nothing more than speed-bumps as the Saint came ever closer to Terra. Within weeks, the first ships of the Eighth had entered low orbit, bolts of lightning smashing their way through the traitors, who struggled to bring their ships to bear. Thousands on both sides began to die as many heretics did not wait for their allies to clear their sights before opening fire, a maelstrom of death that favored the more coordinated loyalists. With its kin now there, the Nightfall joined the scrum, an instrument of destruction that transformed every traitor vessel that dared to face it into ash. The skilled commands of Sevatarion led the mighty Gloriana across the planet in a daring series of maneuvers across the traitor lines, picking on vessels far smaller than it while avoiding any ships close to its weight-class that might slow it down. Such tactics frustrated the traitors, most especially the Crimson Fists aboard their colossal flagship Phalanx. Dorn's Daughter smashed aside all in its path in a mad dash to close with the Nightfall, vicious Nostraman mockery baiting it into a fruitless chase that saw dozens of traitor vessels perish on its steel flanks. Explosions visible from the surface filled the skies of Terra, though few saw it, occupied as they were in the final hours of the Siege of Terra.

Thus the actions of Acerbus, Sevatarion, and his other sons went unnoticed by Konrad Curze, who paid more attention to avoiding patrols as he ran through the nights. The land around Curze grew drier and drier as he traveled, the mountains giving way to dust bowl plains. In the distance, a vast structure grew larger and larger, a black fortress which loomed over the plains which had been scoured of all life. The Lion had left nothing to chance: no stone had been left atop another, a flat killing field for miles around this command bunker, atop which strode what appeared to be the entirety of the Dark Angels legion. The only imperfection upon this featureless, glassy plain was the bodies of Astartes in the colors of traitors and loyalist legions alike, whose shattered corpses were nothing more than food for the vulture-crows that picked through their bones. Faced with this tableau of death, Curze contemplated his next move, uncertain for the first time in the face of such overwhelming odds. There was no guarantee he'd be able to close the distance before he was spotted, and as he pondered, new fates began to reveal themselves. For the first time, Curze saw realities where he did not enter the Lion's command bunker, visions of glory and destruction. In some, he was a conquering hero, ambushing the Lion as he left his bunker; in others, his victory came only after his brother had murdered his father, a loss assuaged only by the sight of himself upon a golden throne, the new Master of Mankind who ruled forever, untouchable as he foresaw every rebellion before it started. Konrad Curze stood upon the precipice, fate hanging in the balance as the forces of evil whispered in his ear, promising him the universe if he would but submit to their rule, to announce himself and take his place alongside the other traitors. For one terrible second, it seemed as though he would, and had the Night Haunter persona remained, he may well have.

However, Curze steeled himself, and the Dark Gods screamed in impotent rage as the Lord of the Night rejected their temptations. Their ire roused by their failure to convert him to their cause, the powers of the Warp turned to vengeance. A twist of fate ensured a sharp-eyed sentry in the colors of the First Legion spotted the dark figure in the gloom, crouched beside a mound of corpses, and opened fire, the booming report of his bolter drawing the attention of many of his foul allies. Curze wasted no time, accelerating to unearthly speeds to close the distance in a matter of seconds, beheading the sentry and his two closest comrades in one slashing swing of Mercy even as Forgiveness gutted a fourth. Every strike of his lightning claws was a kill, though Curze wasted no time confirming, moving at such a pace even Astartes struggled to keep him in their sights. Soon he was within the Lion's dark fortress; nothing but death lurked within these foul halls, but Curze was just as deadly, which he quickly proved to the hundreds of Dark Angels who sold their lives fruitlessly as they attempted to stop him from reaching the central chambers. As he traveled through the bunker annexes and lower levels, Curze felt a strange sense of deja vu; though the facade was unfamiliar, the inside was strangely familiar, and the primarch realized with grim humor this command bunker was an outsized version of a Fortress of Redemption, a fortification the First had long been known to utilize. The Primarch's eidetic memory quickly recalled the standard layout of such a bulwark, and suddenly his path became far easier, slipping in and out of the shadows to slaughter patrols that were unready for something as large as Curze to come howling out of a darkened corner. Compared to the Dark Angels who met their end at his hand, Curze was surprised to see how little Chaotic taint existed within the Fortress itself, but he had little time to stop and ponder such mysteries as his foresight went into overdrive. He had foreseen every waking moment leading up to this point, and no son of Lion could touch him. Curze passed through dark libraries filled with tomes of forbidden knowledge, through torture chambers upon which lay the mutilated corpses of Astartes, mortals, xenos, and even some strange robed figures.

The adamantium walls eventually gave way to stone, as down and down Curze descended, through an excavation site filled with petrified trees and ancient artifacts whose purpose even he could not guess at. It was unclear whether such relics had been uncovered by the Dark Angels, or whether they had been brought here, but such was of secondary importance, for there was as of yet no sign of the Lion himself. The primarch emerged into what appeared to be the deepest point of the excavation, a cavern filled with inert machinery, which appeared to be excavating ancient pillars and walls, some antediluvian structure from the time before time was counted. Curze knelt down to examine the walls, noting that each brick was inscribed with symbols he could not understand, not even a hint of comprehension of what these glyphs meant. Nonetheless, it was clear they contained great power, both from how they felt as well as the fact the Lion had chosen to build this Fortress instead of prosecuting the Siege of the Palace. Curze stiffened, then turned around in time to see his brother walk into view. Lion El'Jonson stood before him in all his terrible glory, and when he registered what Curze had been observing, he frowned. His prey in sight, Curze wasted no time, for there were no words for a conflict such as this, there couldn't be. The Lord of the Night let loose a scream, one which had been building within him since Tsagualsa and infused with psychic power. In an instant, every lumen in the chamber was shattered, leaving the two primarch to battle in utter blackness. This was no disadvantage to either one of them of course, for one was blindfolded while the other instantly adapted to the dark, and thus without words or light the brothers fought. Curze landed dozens of blows in those first few seconds, Mercy and Forgiveness pistoning from every possible angle in an attempt to kill Lion. Each blow was blocked of course, for a battle between demigods would not be decided so quickly. The two went back and forth, across the length of the room, their surroundings occasionally illuminated by the sparks of their weapons clashing. At first the Lion had not taken him seriously, but soon started after Curze not only survived his initial blows without a scratch but managed to score first blood. The battle raged on without either saying a word, the only sounds being the clash of their blades and the shaking of the Fortress around them. Both were all too aware the Emperor was on his way, but did not let up for a moment. So too were they aware of the presence of the Ruinous Powers, the foul gods observing this battle with the same sort of interest as gamblers betting on a sporting event.

The future became the present which became the past as Curze relied solely upon his foresight, receiving his visions mere fractions of a second before they came true. The two seemed evenly matched, both taking dozens of wounds as Curze's claws gouged deep rents into his brother's black armor in conjunction with the Lion Sword flaying pieces from him in return. That most treacherous of feelings, hope, reared its head within Curze: all he had to do was hold off his brother until the Emperor arrived, for even the Archtraitor would not be able to hold off the both of them. The Lion seemed to sense what he was thinking as he stared at his brother, looking past his blindfolded eyes as though he were peering directly into his brother's innermost thoughts. Both primarchs had lost their helms, which now lay strewn upon the ground along with copious amounts of demigod ichor.

With a mighty effort, the Archtraitor knocked the Lord of the Night backwards, though he curiously did not rush forward to maintain his advantage. Curze began to move back in to press the assault, and then the Lion spoke. Reality shifted in the blink of an eye, faster than Curze's visions could foresee. One moment he was leaping through the air, and the next he was flat upon his back, pinned to the ground with irresistible force as the Lion was suddenly on top of him, his mouth bleeding copiously. The Lord of the Night could not make sense of it, but he had no time to think as the breath was driven from his body. Looking down, Konrad saw the Lion Sword had transfixed him to the ground, its black blade shining as it poured out his lifeblood into the thirsty ground below. The blow was clearly mortal, but that did not mean it had to go to waste.

With the last of his strength, Konrad stabbed his brother with the golden stone he had taken from the fields of Mount Ararat. Its glassy edges pierced through the armor like it was nothing, but the angle was wrong, and so Curze's arms fell limp, only a nick instead of the mortal wound it was intended as. The Lion seemed more saddened than angry by such defiance, and with almost gentle care, he reached down, removing Curze's blindfold and pocketing it before turning to stare directly into his brother's sightless eyes. Visions flickered in Curze's mind's-eye, but with no small effort of will, he forced them away, preferring to live in the present during what little time he had left.

"For a time I considered you my truest brother. No others grew untouched by civilization, only you and I." Curze did not reply, the last of his life force ebbing away. "You came closer to the truth than almost any other, yet you clearly did not grasp the import of what you have witnessed. A glass to see further, a word to open hearts, a sword to kill unborn gods…" The Lion spoke in a low but clear tone, clearly hoping for some sort of reaction, though none was forthcoming. He sighed. "Die now, brother. History will be kinder to you this way." As the Lion fell silent once more, Konrad lifted his head, and let out a laugh that spattered his blood across his brother's armor, and voiced his reply.

"I…always knew you were… a monster. Death… is nothing….compared to vindication." As Curze fell silent, a great gust of wind filled the room, energies flickering around the Lion Blade still embedded in his now-lifeless body. Thus died Konrad Curze, Martyred Lord of the Night.

Post-Heresy: Dawn without the Sun

The best part of the Eighth Legion died within a few hours of their father that day, both spiritually as well as in terms of sheer numbers. Even as Konrad Curze fell in the dusty caves of Urartu within the Lion's fortress, his sons were giving their lives by the hundreds in the confused melee high above. It was pure chance as to who lived and who died as tens of thousands of ships, loyalist and traitor alike, tore each other to pieces in a battle where there could be no winners, only survivors. The Eighth Legion's time within the Ruinstorm had left them utterly without mercy, and no quarter was given to any caught in their path. Krieg Acerbus led from the front, his chainglaive moving expertly in the hands of one with a true talent for murder alongside hundreds of raptor squadrons as they leapt from ship to ship. Dreadclaw drop pods rocketed back and forth like torpedoes, ferrying bulky Contekar terminators, who reaped a bloody toll alongside their less-armored kin. Many began to decorate their armor with trophies from the fallen, a savage throwback to the legion's distant past, though few living still remained from that dark time. On the Nightfall, First Captain Sevatar had finally outrun the Phalanx, which had turned its attention to more pressing matters. The flagship of the Eighth now formed the center of the line as one of the largest Imperial ships remaining, and many foes fell to its guns as the tide of battle turned in their favor.

Within several hours, the traitors had been fully thrown back, the last of their ships fleeing for the system's edge in a headlong flight that left many of their number stranded upon Terra. The Night Lords did not relent, pursuing the oathbreakers all the way to the Mandeville points even as most of the legion descended upon the Imperial Palace. For the next several days, the Eighth occupied itself with hunting down the last of the traitors within the Palace itself, a cat and mouse game in the lightless and half-destroyed corridors deep beneath the surface. However, this was only a distraction to keep the legion occupied, a brief respite from the tragedy about to unfold. Sevatar was the first to uncover the truth of their father's demise, his visions calling him toward Urartu, where he and his Atramentar retinue discovered the ruins of the Lion's fortress. The grounds here were glowing, a faint gold hue suffusing the area as a testament to the Emperor's power, but it was the men there that most caught his attention. The rich crimson and gold of Word Bearers elite marched in a loose formation around their primarch Lorgar, who wept softly as he carried the broken bodies of both the Master of Mankind and the Lord of the Night. Sevatar would never forget this sight so long as he lived, and though his spirits were as shattered as Nostramo, he assumed a stoic demeanor, and approached the primarch. The gracious Lorgar was quick to turn over his brother's lifeless body to his sons, and so the Night Lords brought their father's body to the Nightfall until they could decide what could be done with it. For the first time in decades, the Kyroptera met once more, Sevatar presiding over a small group of officers representing around forty thousand Astartes. Some were familiar faces to him, expert commanders such as Krieg Acerbus or Kheron Ophion; others were new, recognizable only from visions, such as Talos Valcoran. Together, the seven commanders assessed the legion's situation, and plotted out the next steps. All were powerful precognitives whose power had only increased after their father's death on the battlefield; most often these visions were of the immediate future, though sometimes they were more far-reaching. Such knowledge came at a terrible cost, wracking the legionary with terrible seizures which left them temporarily defenseless, and thus the most powerful were those who had learned to operate on instinct while in the grips of such a vision.

The Kyroptera recognized the delicate state they were in: without a primarch, there would be none to represent their interest in the days ahead; would the legions be allowed to remain independent after the treachery of so many? In addition, without Curze, none would be able to release his sons from their sins, a fact which had not escaped the notice of many legionaries, who had already begun to paint their gauntlets crimson. Control would need to be asserted, and quickly, lest the legion tear itself apart from grief. After a night of deliberation, the Kyroptera determined the legion's future, and set about putting their vision into action. While the Eighth mustered and reorganized, political officers known as Arbiters were appointed to every company. Generally taken from the ranks of the Chaplaincy, these Astartes would later come to hold many roles, but for now, their task was to maintain order at any cost. While this took place, Sevatar met with Lorgar and Malcador the Sigillite, who both agreed with the First Captain's suggestion of a grand funeral. Thus the Ingens Sepultura was organized, the largest mourning event in recorded history. Though on par with the Triumph of Ullanor two decades before, no amount of ceremony could ever express just how much mankind had lost during the Leonine Heresy, how many lives and how much potential forever burnt to ash in the fires of the Lion's ambition. Even the most stoic Astartes shed tears during those days, weeping for their fallen comrades, and in the case of the Night Lords, for their fallen father. The climax of this grand event was the Cortege Dominus Nox, the Eighth Legion's collective catharsis. Each and every legionary capable of walking unaided mustered outside the walls of the Imperial Palace, nearly forty thousand in total, and in grand procession, the sons of Konrad marched the hundreds of kilometers through the winding streets at the heart of the Imperium. Over the course of a week, the Eighth passed across the width of the Palace, past all the ruined walls, shattered bastions, and the literal mountains of the dead. In the midst of this procession was the stasis casket containing the earthly remains of their father, and each Astartes took a turn in this most solemn of events. Though the scars of the Siege were still evident everywhere they passed, the body of Curze had been cleaned up, his armor repaired and his wounds hidden so that the stasis field would preserve him as he ought to be remembered. The sole exception was his blindfold, which Lorgar had sworn was not present when he discovered his brother's body, but few paid much attention to this seemingly insignificant detail at the time. The Cortege came to an end as the bier was transferred outside the Imperial Crypt, where Curze's surviving brothers would bear their brother to his final resting place at the summit of the Tower of Heroes. The Ingens Sepultura came to an end with a final, dismal tolling of the Bell of Lost Souls, and as it fell silent, the Heresy had come to an end.

With the past buried, only the future remained, a new Age of the Imperium, an Age of Justice that the Night Lords were determined to make their mark upon. Years turned into decades as the Eighth Legion gradually rebuilt itself. Through careful negotiation with both the Word Bearers and the Cult of the God-Emperor, Konrad Curze was commemorated as the primary martyr in the church's festival calendar, his sacrifice ensuring that the common people would support the Eighth, and by extensions, the other legions too. Such support would be sorely needed, for the legion was bereft of a homeworld in the wake of the destruction of Nostramo near the end of the Leonine Heresy. The Night Lords thus were forced to become fleet-based in a manner similar to the days before they had been reunited with their primarch. They took part in the Scouring alongside the other legions, fighting under the command of Warmaster Lupercal and then Lorgar, winning fame and glory as the Imperium was finally cleansed of the traitorous taint which had persisted since the Heresy. After the fall of the Saint upon the world of Thessala at the hands of Guilliman, command of the vengeance fleets, of which the Night Lords were no small part, fell to Leman Russ, who oversaw the final transition out of the Scouring. However, even with the traitors defeated, there was no peace to be found amongst the stars, for countless worlds still remained outside of Imperial control. Being fleet-based, it was relatively easy for the Eighth to fall back into their old role of roaming the stars, seeking out new life and new civilization and incorporating them into the Imperium. Many, including the High Lords of Terra, believed the traitors to be destroyed forever, and left the Eighth to their own devices so long as they continued to serve, but there were some who were not so optimistic. The visions of the Kyroptera foresaw a future in which there was only war, including conflict with fellow Astartes, and the precognition of Sevatar in particular called him toward the galactic northwest. As the decades turned into centuries, and the legion commanders died in battle and were replaced, many began to doubt the First Captain, for his patrols in Segmentum Pacificus had not uncovered anything unusual. The Kyroptera began to squabble amongst themselves, and it was only through the intervention of Magistrate Talos Valcoran that it did not escalate to open conflict. In exchange for resigning command of the legion, Sevatar was freed from the normal chain of command, which was given over to Gendor Skraivok, a Nostraman veteran of great skill. Alongside nearly five thousand warriors, mostly veterans of the Leonine Heresy, the Prince of Crows departed from his brethren, journeying to Segmentum Obscurus while the rest of the legion moved over to the more dangerous wilderness of Ultima Segmentum.

Following the call of his visions, Sevatar's forces moved to establish a base upon the world of Cadia, the closest habitable system near the vast Warp storm known as the Eye of Terror. During the Scouring, many traitors had fled into the inhospitable depths of the Eye, and Imperial forces had been quick to label them as destroyed, confident that nothing could survive inside. As a member of the Night Lords, Sevatar knew full well it was more than possible to survive within such a realm, and his visions only became stronger the more time he spent near the storm. The Night Lords quickly set up a base of operations upon a temperate world they named Cadia Prime, purging its corrupted native population and extracting its resources to fuel their war effort. For six long centuries, the Prince of Crows suffered in the shadow of the Great Eye, constantly assailed by daemonic whispers and doubts, forgotten by the rest of his brothers, who were occupied elsewhere fighting across Ultima Segmentum. The forces under his command were slowly whittled away in battles against orks and pirates, occasionally assisted by forces from the Iron Hands or Space Wolves, the legions nearest to Cadia. Recruitment was slow and ultimately declining, for there were few safe worlds to recruit from this close to the Eye, and by the turn of the millennium, barely a thousand Astartes remained. Sevatar was now closing in on nearly twelve hundred years of age, the oldest non-Dreadnought Astartes still in the Emperor's service, but no foe, including age, could stop the Prince of Crows from fulfilling his destiny.

As M31 turned into M32, as the Imperium was busy celebrating the anniversary of the first millennium of the Emperor's rule, the Eye of Terror began to contort, vast aetheric flares spasming in frenzied swirls. These stellar events were visible for hundreds of light-years around, the Warp ensuring that all would notice the portents of doom about to unfold. From the center of the Eye, a vast fleet erupted from its tartarean depths, an armada clad in black and led by a ship which no veteran of the Leonine Heresy could ever mistake or forget: the Eternal Crusader. However, as the traitor fleet began to push out through the safety of what would in later days come to be known as the Cadian Gate, they soon found their presence was expected. Striking at the traitor's heart like a bolt of lightning came the battle-barge Umbrea Insidior, crewed by the First Company of the Eighth Legion and led by the Prince of Crows in search of justice and vengeance. Scans showed these vessels to be now proclaiming themselves not as the Imperial Fists but as the Black Templars, but it was clear their ancient hatred had not abated. However, their raid quickly came to a grinding halt as their vessels became backed up attempting to exit the Eye, for it was clear they had not anticipated a loyalist assault so early on. The Night Lords were vastly outnumbered, but they had already won, for news of the traitor's return had already been relayed out of system. Now it was just a matter of killing as many as possible before they finally fell. Dozens of lesser ships perished at the hands of the mighty Night Lords battle-barge, but no singular vessel could survive the weight of fire from a fleet of that size. Crippled and silenced, the Umbrea Insidior was assaulted by boarding teams from the Eternal Crusader itself, but the battle had only just begun. Hundreds of Eighth Legion Astartes unleashed bloody murder within the halls of their flagship, killing and being killed in turn as they sought victory through every means possible. Soon only Sevatar remained, his visions now coming to an end as his Atramentar gave their lives to help him reach the location of the traitor commander.

It had gone about as well as expected, Sevatar thought. A little talking, a little posturing, a dishonorable blow, and now there was nothing left but to murder each other. There were only so many possible warlords that could have gathered a fleet of this size from the disunited traitors contained within the Eye, and it was with no little satisfaction that Sevatar learned he would be facing Sigismund. The Prince of Crows and the Templar-King had been rivals even before the Lion had rebelled, and Sevatar had always enjoyed the fact he had come out on top in their bout so long ago, even if he did have to resort to unorthodox tactics to do so. Murderous cries echoed from the Sword Brethren who surrounded him on all sides, cheering for their master as he spoke with unadulterated hatred in a rasping baritone as their combat began:

"I accept any challenge, no matter the odds." Sevatar simply spat in reply to Sigismund's words, and as the duel progressed, it began to seem more like a promise than a boast. This was no honor duel, but rather a fight to the death, and with growing chagrin, Sevatar realized his opponent had barely aged at all, his helmetless features showing none of the ravages of time which so plagued Sevatar. The High Marshal had always been an expert swordsman, and his massive Sword of the High Marshals effortlessly blocked every strike from Night's Whisper, the ancient chainglaive which Sevatar had wielded since the days of the Heresy.

Sigismund struck again and again, but Sevatar just would not give in, fighting on despite his age, despite his wounds, despite being outmatched. The Prince of Crows had become the condemned once more, his gauntlets stained with both the blood of Sigismund, as well as his own blood, which flowed freely from his many wounds. Red stained the High Marshal's tabard, obscuring its iconography, and it came off entirely with the sound of shredding fabric as the traitor drew a second sword, the dreaded Black Blade. Now wielding two swords, the Templar-King pressed the offense, taking as many blows as his opponent who simply refused to die.

His body a mangled mess, Sevatar was finally forced to his knees, his weapons shattered from lasting longer against Sigismund than anyone ever had before, or possibly ever would. The Master of the Templars looked little better, impaled through the chest by his own blade in one final act of Nostraman mockery. Sigismund leaned in, ready to hear his defeated foe's final words as a mark of respect to a worthy opponent.

"Did you expect a speech? Forgiveness perhaps? We were murderers first, last, and always. Frak you, you honorless bastard." Sevatar gave a hacking laugh, his blood spattering in Sigismund's face, before falling silent. Thus died Jago Sevatarion, First Captain of the Eighth Legion.

After the destruction of Sevatar's forces, Sigismund and his First Black Crusade, as it later came to be known, wiped out all traces of their existence, obliterating their fortress upon Cadia and moving out to ravage dozens of sectors around the Eye of Terror. With the bulk of their forces far away in Ultima Segmentum, the Eighth played no major role in this conflict after Sevatar's death. It was many decades before they learned the truth behind the death of their heroic First Captain, whose body was never recovered, though some say it remains aboard the Eternal Crusader to this day as a mark of respect from the Destroyer. Whatever the case, the years continued to pass, centuries turning into millennia as threats came and went, but the Night Lords continued to endure, enforcing the Emperor's will across an ever-darkening galaxy. They eventually transitioned from being fleet-based, settling upon a world on the eastern fringe, and from there, they plan their operations across the northeastern quarter of the Imperium. Tens of thousands of light years square, the Eighth is pulled incredibly thin defending this region of space not patrolled by any of the other eight legions. It is they who have faced the bulk of the neverending Tyranid swarms, who even now press in at their homeworld. Curze's legacy of precognition has remained strong in his sons, but such visions show nothing but dark days for the legion ahead, and none can be certain of the future as the 41st Millennium comes to a close.

Homeworld, Recruitment, and Gene-seed

Little knowledge of the Night Lords original homeworld of Nostramo still remains as of the 41st Millennium, likely as a result of direct censorship from the Eighth themselves. It is not difficult to see why the legion most dedicated to enforcing law and order would seek to hide the details of how lawless Nostramo was, as well as conceal its ruin at the hands of a traitor legion. Thus most Imperial archives show the Eighth as being fleet-based all the way from the Great Crusade up until M34, where they settled upon the world of Prism, a world located east of the galactic core in the heart of Ultima Segmentum. The sole planet in the Cozamalotl System, Prism itself is a rather unique world compared to other legion homeworlds. Three quarters of its surface is covered in thick jungle, and is deadly enough to be considered a Death World in its own right. The remaining portion of the world consists of a dozen or so hives, containing the bulk of Prism's population, as well as the legion's fortresses, vast Gothic structures which loom over the rest of the hive spires beneath them. Vast stormfronts constantly sweep across the planet, drenching the cities as well as encouraging exponential growth of the native plant-life, which must constantly be pruned lest it overtake civilization. This endless struggle is likely intentional on the part of the Eighth Legion, a lesson to make all aware of the constant tension between order and chaos, between law and anarchy. Only the Night Lords themselves dare to enter the heart of the jungle, to stride boldly through the darkness beneath the thick canopy as they hunt and train. Native tribes exist within the wilderness of Prism, wretched clans of cannibals and outlaws who have fled the hives to escape the watchful eye of the Eighth, and so must be constantly hunted, for none may escape the long arm of the law.

Prism's location allows the Night Lords to strike in any direction as they defend Ultima Segmentum, more specifically the northeastern portion of it. To the west, the Maelstrom and the Dominion of Storms form a hazardous wall separating them from the rest of the Imperium, while to the south, the Word Bearers of New Monarchia protect the southern flanks, leaving an entire quarter of the Imperium all the way out to the Ghoul Stars for the Eighth alone to patrol. The Night Lords are thus spread incredibly thin, their vast fleets constantly roaming the stars attempting to put out the fires of anarchy before they can spread. Despite the vastness of the realm under their protection, the Night Lords recruit almost exclusively from Prism. This is not because they believe that Hive Worlds or Death Worlds produce tougher recruits, far from it. Rather, the Eighth seeks aspirants who understand the nature of the constant struggle between law and disorder, a lesson which has been beaten into the citizenry of Prism like no other. The various patrol fleets rotate their zones of operation, ensuring that all will have a chance to recruit from the homeworld, though the more remote do on occasion recruit from the worlds they protect. The people of the hives of Prism are model Imperial citizens: orderly and obedient, there has never been a recorded rebellion upon this world. Life outside of the hives is considered a death sentence, not only because of the jungles but also because the legion itself constantly strives to maintain a just society, where any hint of rebellion is quickly snuffed out. This is not to say there is no freedom upon Prism: every citizen is expected to know the entirety of the law, and is free to do as they please within the confines of the Lex Imperialis. These roles are specifically tied to the caste system, which ranges from laborer up to noble, and it is possible, though rare, to ascend castes; the inverse is not true, for demotion from one's caste is a frequent punishment for lawbreakers. The sons of Kurze are the highest caste, for there are almost no Arbites on Prism, but not even they are exempt from the law, though the rules which bind them are those of the legion, not the codes of Prism. They maintain a constant vigil from their spires, using jump packs to leap between the hive spires as they respond to any disturbances while keeping a sharp eye out for potential recruits. The Night Lords do not seek out those who would take joy in using the law as a blunt weapon to beat down others; their duty is one of stern necessity, not malicious punishment. No, the Eighth seeks out those who understand that the law is a shield that covers both the strong and weak alike, and those that would protect others are considered prime candidates.

According to legion philosophy, those in higher castes are more likely to be virtuous, whereas those in lower classes are correspondingly more likely to be criminal, a self-fulfilling prophecy of their own design. By M39, the legion had begun to induct aspirants based on their background: the logical outgrowth of the caste system, it was believed that ancient families, who had no major criminal record, were those best suited to become legionaries. Recruits taken in this manner were still subjected to the typical trials faced by any Astartes aspirant, but those from higher castes were more likely to become officers. However, such families were few and far between, thus both in the name of justice and necessity, the Night Lords have continued to recruit from the lower castes. However, the prejudice inherent in their society has separated such officers from the line brothers under their command. The Eighth has become highly stratified, even going so far as to not allow line brothers to become officers: the highest rank they can rise to is veteran sergeant, for it is seen as a waste of time to attempt to retrain Astartes to become officers. The Eighth looks down upon all criminals, former or current, an outlook which has led to great tensions between officers and enlisted, as well with nominal allies such as the Raven Guard. These exacting standards have resulted in a legion on the verge of fracture under stresses both internal and external. However, such a society is nothing more than the latest symptom of a deeper problem, for it originally arose from the one which existed upon Nostramo, where the nobility were subject to a separate law than the commoners they ruled over. The Night Lords have imposed similar codes across the worlds under their protection, though with varying results since they cannot remain to enforce these laws once they move on to the next battlefield. Nor can they spare legionaries to check, for they have been pulled ever thinner in recent millennia, constantly under attack by the foes which press in on all sides.

The gene-seed of the Eighth is incredibly pure, the result of which being that they are one of the largest legions Only the Sons of Horus and Word Bearers come close to the Night Lords in size. The sons of Curze are marked by only one abnormality, and a minor one at that. Aspirants who receive the Eighth's gene-seed often develop jet black eyes and pale skin, similar though less pronounced than their cousins in the Nineteenth. Contrary to the popular rumor, the feet of Night Lords do not have a tendency to mutate into raptor claws; equally meritless is the slander that the nobles receive higher quality gene-seed than the common recruits, a lie which the Night Lords are especially keen to stamp out. Other noted effects include a marked tendency toward rigid thinking: their tactical flexibility is almost as lacking as that of the Death Guard. However, this may be nothing more than a quirk caused by legion doctrine as opposed to a gene-seed defect. Their operational methodology is enforced from the earliest stages of gene-seed implantation, a process overseen not only by the legion's apothecaries, but also by the Arbiters.

Arbiters

The Night Lords are renowned across the Imperium for their sense of justice and dedication to the law, but very few know the struggle these legionaries have with forgiveness. The concept of mercy is all but unheard of, for the Eighth is much more accustomed to meting out punishment rather than pardons. Legionary transgressions were most often dealt with by painting the gauntlets of a transgressor blood-red so that all might know their failure; such an onus could only be lifted by the Primarch himself, which, after his death at the hands of Lion El'Jonson, became impossible. Many legionaries blamed themselves for their father's death, and sought to paint their gauntlets red, but were stopped by their commanders, who realized the Eighth would quickly go extinct as a result.

A solution to this problem was finally proposed by the legendary First Captain Gendor Skraivok, who changed the duties of the Arbiter from political to spiritual in order to meet the legion's needs. Also known as the Sin Eaters, legionaries who felt they had failed were now able to come to their Arbiters, and confess their wrongdoings. Sin Eaters are often entrusted with the legion's darkest secrets, and are correspondingly empowered to punish those who have truly failed while forgiving those lesser transgressions. However, justice must still be met, and it would perhaps be more accurate to say the Arbiters take the onus upon themselves, the weight of their brothers' sins crushing down upon their soul. No Arbiter is ever eligible for command, nor are they allowed to be entombed within a dreadnought, lest the impurities they carry infect the machine spirits. Many Sin Eaters eventually crack under the strain and begin to seek an honorable death, becoming more reckless in battle, or even committing suicide after a particularly grueling campaign rather than live with the weight of such a burden. The Sin Eaters are the only known Astartes in any legion to have performed such a deed on themselves, but the legionaries under their charge don't seem to mind. The confessional of a Sin Eater is one of the few places enlisted brothers can escape the oppressive class structures of their legion, and so continue to entrust their scruples to the Arbiters.

Combat Doctrines and Organization

For the past six thousand years, the Eighth has been spread across Ultima Segmentum, defending the Emperor's realm from the eastern edge of the Maelstrom to the Ghoul Stars, a territory far larger than any other legion. As of M41, it is estimated that around one hundred and twenty thousand sons of Curze protect the realm, divided into roughly two hundred or so crusade fleets. Each Crusade is generally equivalent to a chapter in other legions, though their numbers do vary depending on casualties; there is no First Company equivalent as other legions have, rather, each Crusade maintains its own veterans. Such ambiguities are unavoidable considering the vast distances involved, but the High Lords of Terra and the Inquisition remain uneasy, for any number of things can happen in the outer darkness of wilderness space. The Eighth relies heavily upon their foresight to seek out threats before they become too big to handle, but it is far from a perfect system. Reliant upon the Warp for such knowledge, an inherently untrustworthy method whose costs are only just outweighed by its benefits, many Night Lord commanders have been lost to disastrous conflicts when their visions proved false. Others have been driven mad by the burden placed upon their shoulders, resorting to more and more brutal tactics until they are declared renegade by their horrified allies. Worst of all are those Night Lords who have been lost to the vile embrace of Chaos, including those turned their backs upon the Emperor during the Leonine Heresy itself, as well as those chapters for whom the stress of upholding order in the ten millennia since has led them to interpret the law in a far more savage manner. The numbers of such traitors are few indeed compared to the actual traitor legions, but the Night Lords still hunt their fallen brothers with single-minded intensity.

As a result of both their temperament and circumstances, the Night Lords most often fight rebels and traitors. No other legion has truly grasped just how much fear Astartes invoke in mortals; where legions like the Salamanders try to minimize the transhuman dread they inspire, the Night Lords utilize it to the fullest. However, this is not done out of cruelty and spite, as was the intention in the legion's earlier incarnation, but out of necessity. They make no secret of the punishments inflicted on potential rebels, and thus future conflict is averted before it can begin, saving the Imperium both manpower and time. Not even legion command upon Prism is completely aware of the precise movements and actions of the fleets under their command, and so the Eighth is capable of arriving without any notice, ready to bring vengeance to those who would turn their backs upon the Emperor. On worlds that do choose to rebel, no mercy is given, for to break the law is to live outside the law, and none outside the law have any value. All outlaws are treated as equally guilty, whether they are protesting the actions of their government or are openly secessionist. Few Eighth Legion fleets give much consideration as to the reason behind a rebellion, only the source; Xenotic and Chaotic rebellions are of course taken more seriously. However, this does not mean more mundane rebellions are ignored or shown mercy, as the only difference is how many assets are committed to retaking the world. Some have speculated the policies of the Eighth drive rebels into the hands of opportunistic Chaotic or Xenotic groups, but the Night Lords care not for the cause of treachery but the effects, and are determined to snuff out any rebellions lest others begin to think they too might escape from beneath the Imperial bootheel.

The Emperor's Eighth Legion has long been known for its use of ruthless tactics to achieve victory. Originally taking the form of terror tactics, the Night Lords have since refined their methods, achieving compliance through methods different to those of their cousin legions. What the Raven Guard inflicts out of wanton cruelty, the Eighth does out of a single-minded devotion to the concept of law and order itself. In the days before the Leonine Heresy, emphasis was placed upon maintaining control through terror: small infiltrator squads would bring entire planets to their knees through political assassinations and murder, by putting their targets on edge and scared of every shadow. Such methods were undeniably effective, both in terms of effort expended and results obtained as it left resources and infrastructure far more intact than it would be after a conventional war. However, many Imperial commanders judged such methods to be cowardly and unbecoming of the Master of Mankind, and after the Emperor's intervention, Konrad Curze let such tactics die out. However, the mindset which created that sort of thought process never fully went away, and as the centuries passed, the Eighth began to search out new ways of efficiently enforcing order. Over the millennia, they have developed a number of unique methods and specializations that enable them to remain an efficient fighting force. One such specialization of the Eighth Legion is their emphasis on speed. Ever since the days of the Unification Wars, the Eighth has shown a proclivity toward jump pack assault, swiftly bringing justice on wings of fire. Other legions such as the Raven Guard also developed similar doctrines, but the Night Lords have outfitted their units almost entirely differently. Rather than using jump pack troops solely to reach close combat, Night Lords raptor squadrons are primarily oriented toward a fire support role, using their superior mobility to bypass enemy defenses, catching them off-guard as they unleash devastating salvos into where the enemy is weakest. By combining assault troops with drop pod assault, the Night Lords are particularly skilled at getting behind the lines of their enemy, which is in itself rather terrifying for most foes, who are unused to seeing post-human demigods appear as if from nowhere. Bikes are also extensively used by the Eighth, a doctrine known as the Swift Blade. Even as the foe attempts to react to the initial assault, Hussar and Outrider squadrons are already on the move, cutting off and encircling vulnerable detachments one by one. Few foes can withstand the psychological terror of being utterly helpless to escape the Eighth's ever-tightening noose, and often surrender.

For foes too foolish to know when to surrender, such as the mindless orks, or foes too entrenched to be dug out by light infantry, the Night Lords have other measures to ensure none remain beyond the Emperor's judgment. Terminator armor has had a long and storied history in the Eighth Legion, with the vaunted First Company, the Atramentar, matching up against the elite of any other legion, their names known throughout the legion. The Atramentar reaped a bloody toll during the Leonine Heresy, taking heavy losses as they snatched victory from the jaws of defeat upon many battlefields, including Terra itself. As the Eighth rebuilt afterwards, stores of terminator armor seized from the slain were dispersed throughout the entire legion, for the habits of Nostramo die hard. Such foresight soon proved vital as the Eighth gradually dispersed across Ultima Segmentum, and thus an Eighth Legion force can have any number of terminator units, all known as Atramentar, which allows them to punch far above their weight. As a result of how the legion obtained their many thousands of suits, each force can be radically different in terms of the make of their tactical dreadnought armor, a stark contrast to the more uniform, though fewer in number, terminator squads from other legions. The Night Lords have also developed their own unique make known as the Contekar, a variant which trades out the more typical loadout of storm bolters in favor of volkite cavitors, a rare and little-understood weapon hailing from the Dark Age of Technology. Elite shock troops, units equipped as Contekar often decorate their armor with trophies of the slain, those who have been judged and found wanting. Few maintain their resolve in the face of such fearsome adversaries, for the Atramentar and Contekar are emblematic of the Eighth's determination to obtain victory.

Despite being, or perhaps because of the fact it is the largest of the Emperor's realms, Ultima Segmentum is the least explored region of the galaxy. Millions of star systems exist within this untamed realm, only a fraction of which profess allegiance to the Imperium of Man, and even fewer which can be considered safe. Only marginally more secure than the fringes, a vast number of threats still persist within Ultima Segmentum, and these worlds are forced to rest the majority of their hope solely upon the Night Lords. The Eighth is constantly engaged in extermination campaigns against the thousands of minor xenos empires which seek to expand into the Emperor's domains, while Ork Waaagh! sweep down upon helpless worlds with depressing frequency. Divided and isolated, the Night Lords are outnumbered over a million to one by these threats, and must instead rely upon their skill at arms to make up for their deficiency in numbers. The legion has never favored use of the Imperial Guard, considering them ill-suited for more than garrison duty or holding the line until reinforcements show up. In addition, their inability to command such forces as a result of the Edicts Martial has long frustrated the legion, who believe they should be exempt from such a law as a result of their stellar service record. Thus to circumvent such a law, the Eighth has turned to relying upon paramilitary forces known as the Kamazotz.

Kamazotz

Originally recruited as a planetary defense force, the regiments that would come to be known as the Kamazotz were designed to defend the region of space around Prism and the Cozamalotl System. Taking their name from a spirit of the half-forgotten mixture of Nostraman and Prismatic folktales, the Kamazotz quickly proved their effectiveness, and began to recruit en masse from the fief-systems surrounding Cozamalotl. However, the Eighth had little time to supervise all aspects of recruitment, and as the years went on, the legion's ideology of order became twisted and misunderstood by their mortal allies. The Kamazotz are complete and utter fanatics, determined to uphold order by any means, including bending the letter of the law far more than even a Night Lord would countenance, though most are incredibly effective. Worlds garrisoned by these forces are often at the mercy of the regimental commanders, who give their troops free reign to bully and take advantage of those they are supposed to be protecting.

As a result of their efficacy in maintaining a firm grip upon the systems they protect, the idiosyncrasies of the Kamazotz are often overlooked by their Legion overseers. No two Kamazotz regiments are alike, dispersed throughout the hundreds of crusade fleets across Ultima Segmentum, and as a result, all manner of strange beliefs abound, many of which strain the tolerance of the Adeptus Ministorum. The most common and widespread creed of the Kamazotz is worship of the Emperor as the Patyr Caelestis, which in Low Gothic Translates to Star or Heaven-Father. Those who worship the Emperor as such are particularly fanatic adherents of order, believing that upholding the Lex Imperialis is more important than the people subject to it, including themselves. Despite these peculiarities, the Kamazotz are effective soldiers, fighting with the resolve of a fanatic, willingly sacrificing their lives for the cause without a second thought, and it is for that reason more than any other they are considered a vital part of the Eighth Legion.

Supported by their Kamazotz auxiliaries, the Night Lords are often fleet-based, each Crusade fleet patrolling dozens of systems and occasionally reporting back to the legion's homeworld. The sheer size of Ultima Segmentum means the Eighth have fought countless foes over the ten thousand years that they have protected the Imperium, though some foes are more frequent than others. Each legion fleet is a self-contained entity, prepared to fight any and all foes and equipped to operate on their own for years at a time. On the western edges of Night Lords space, the treacherous xenos of the Sautekh Dynasty seek to expand their empire across the heart of Ultima Segmentum. The Necrons remain a persistent foe for the Eighth, and seem to be on the offensive more and more as the 41st Millennium comes to a close. The Eighth has battled many powerful Necron Dynasties, including the Nekthyst, the Mephrit, the Oruscar, and the Bone Kingdom of Drazak out beyond the Ghoul Stars. Greenskins are also a constant nuisance, equally deadly though far more numerous. One particular campaign of note is even now underway as joint legion operations with the Word Bearers seek to topple the Great Tyrant of Jagga, whose advance threatens the vital Forge World of Triplex Phall, a vital manufactory on the Eastern Fringe. The defense of Triplex Phall itself has become a point of pride for the Eighth, for they have maintained a close alliance with the Forge World ever since the days of the Leonine Heresy, where it was a hotly-contested warzone during the Thramas Crusade. Greenskin raiders continue to press ever closer toward Triplex Phall, but their threat is comparatively minor compared to that of a newer and more unexpected threat: the Tyranid Swarms.

In the early years of M41, as the galaxy had its eyes upon the Gothic Sector and Sigismund the Destroyer's Twelfth Black Crusade, Imperial observer stations on the Eastern Fringe began to pick up movement in the intergalactic void, far beyond any settled region. Such findings were swiftly forgotten, filed away for Mechanicus experts to analyze at some future date that would never come. Centuries later, dozens of worlds on the Eastern Fringe began to fall silent, and an investigation by Inquisitor Fidus Kryptman discovered the ocean world of Tyran Primus completely scoured of life, the only information being a data codex containing images of scythe-limbed aliens and swarms of monsters stripping the planet of all life. Kryptman soon discovered many more worlds in a similar state, and attempted to relay a warning, but his message failed to penetrate what his astropath could only describe as a 'shadow' in the Warp. It is unknown how many worlds perished under the initial onslaught of these strange and voracious xenos, and things came to a head upon the world of Almuerzo, where several crusade fleets of Night Lords had gathered. Their prescience calling them to the Tentempie System, the nearly three thousand Astartes of the Eighth Legion were entirely unprepared for the foe which had come to lay waste to the Emperor's domain. As the legionaries waited, the librarians and psykers attached to the fleets began to experience terrible headaches, a psychic blindness that limited their connection to the Sea of Souls and inspired dread in all who felt it. Even as the Eighth attempted to understand this phenomenon, the first organic bio-ships of what would subsequently be termed Hive Fleet Behemoth arrived in the system, their very presence altering the gravity of Almuerzo as they folded space itself. The Night Lords reacted swiftly, their vessels opening fire and killing one, ten, a hundred of these living vessels, but it was not enough. Tyranid ships beyond counting plowed through the Imperial defenses as though they were not there, heedless of losses as they swarmed over everything in their path. Upon Almuerzo itself, Astartes clashed with all manner of strange creatures, from teeming swarms to massive war-beasts that seemed more like living battering rams than sentient individuals.

Within a day, the Eighth was forced into full retreat, having lost nearly three thousand Astartes in one engagement. The Battle of Almuerzo was a humiliating loss for the sons of Konrad Curze, a dire warning that they had been too complacent, too reliant upon their foresight, and when the survivors reached Prism, the Kyroptera swore to defeat this foe. The legion commanders and senior scholars of the Adeptus Mechanicus set about analyzing the data gained from the catastrophic battle, all the while calling together almost the entirety of the Eighth in order to meet this foe head-on. It was evident that Hive Fleet Behemoth was heading in a straight direction, and once sufficient forces had been gathered, the Night Lords struck. The might of nearly sixty thousand Astartes, the largest such gathering in living memory, alongside hundreds of ships from Battlefleet Ultima, met the Tyranids head-on at the Mechanicus world of Daugel Helix. Now armed with all the data from Tyran to Almuerzo, and backed up by countless guns, the Imperium stopped the Hive Fleet in its tracks, a grueling stalemate which was only broken due to the heroic sacrifice of the Emperor-class battleship Dominus Astra. In the midst of the grueling battle, the flagship detonated its Warp Drives in the heart of the enemy fleet, dragging the bulk of the bio-ships along with itself into the Warp. The Tyranids seemed to lose cohesion after taking such catastrophic losses, and were soon smashed into dozens of splinters. The Eighth lost nearly twenty thousand Astartes in this engagement, including their legion master, but were hailed across the Imperium as heroes. However, victory proved to be fleeting, as the fragments of Hive Fleet Behemoth scattered across nearby worlds, now a new threat for the Eighth to handle. Since then, these splinters have become hive fleets in their own right, and entirely new Tyranid fleets have shown up. The latest of these, Hive Fleet Leviathan, was first detected in 996.M41, arriving from below the galactic plane to strike at many different sectors at once, a worrying and entirely new development that stands in contrast to the more straightforward approach of previous Hive Fleets. Far from being mindless beasts, the Tyranids have proven an incredibly deadly foe, one that may well threaten the Imperium's existence as a whole. Observer stations and precognition both point toward a major assault upon Prism from Hive Fleet Leviathan in the near future, though the Night Lords are far less able to meet the Xenotic threat now than they were two centuries prior.

Though the legion most often fights rebels and xenos, this does not mean they do not fight the forces of Chaos as well. Warp threats such as the vile Ultramarines continue to spill out of the Maelstrom at unpredictable intervals, and a rivalry between the two legions has persisted since the days of the Leonine Heresy when the Eighth was trapped within Ultramar alongside the Word Bearers. The foresight of the Eighth has aided the Seventeenth many times, foreseeing when the Thirteenth might attempt to break out of their Immaterial prison, and has helped maintain a close bond between the two loyal legions. The other traitor legions are fought infrequently, due to the distance between the Eye of Terror and Ultima Segmentum, but conflicts do erupt from time to time as the unpredictable nature of the Warp means traitor and renegade warbands do occasionally arrive unexpectedly within Ultima Segmentum. Some of these assaults are intentional, such as the Black Crusades of Sigismund the Destroyer, who, despite leaving behind both his father and the title of Imperial Fists, seems to have maintained a grudge against the Eighth. Most Black Crusade remain within Segmentum Obscurus or Segmentum Solar, for the Space Wolves are constantly vigilant against the traitors who seek to escape the Eye, but some do manage to slip through. One such example of this was the Twelfth Black Crusade, where Sigismund's forces slipped far beyond their usual confines.

Twelfth Black Crusade

Laying right on the border between Segmentum Obscurus and Ultima Segmentum, the strategically-important Gothic Sector housed vital naval assets, including the mysterious Blackstone Fortresses, vast space stations that contained the firepower of entire fleets. The initial traitor assault was on the verge of stalling before an act of black treachery by one Captain Spire led the Destroyer's forces to seize control of four out of the six stations. What were already powerful starforts proved to be far more deadly in the Everchosen's wicked hands, and were revealed as powerful weapons capable of destroying the stars themselves.

For twenty long years, control of the Gothic Sector hung in the balance as armies rushed to join in the conflict. Forces of the Space Wolves, Night Lords, and Iron Hands, alongside the might of Battlefleet Gothic and the Astra Militarum struggled against the armies of the lost and the damned, and many worlds burned beneath their rampage. Opportunistic Aeldari raiders and Orkish Freebooterz plagued both sides, carrying out attacks seemingly at random, and the fate of the entire sector hung in the balance. The Imperium seemed on the verge of defeat when Warmaster Haarken of the Sixteenth Legion perished at the hands of the Destroyer himself, but from the darkness, hope rose anew. While the Destroyer was occupied battling the Warmaster, Captain Imset of the Sons of Horus led a daring raid that saw four Blackstone Fortresses destroyed, forcing Sigismund to retreat back into the Eye with what was left of his fleet and the remaining two Blackstone Fortresses. However, victory had come at a high price, including the deaths of tens of thousands of loyal Astartes that were desperately needed elsewhere, along with the near total destruction of the Gothic naval yards, ensuring they would not be producing vessels for decades to come.

Though the territory they protect is subject to random and sporadic raids from the various forces of Chaos, the Night Lords' most abiding rivalry is with the Dark Angels. The First and Eighth Legions have hated each other since the Thramas Crusade, and the Night Lords will never forget their father's death at the hands of the Lion. The Dark Angels are incredibly mysterious, managing to show up seemingly without warning, and even the legendary foresight of the Eighth falters when attempting to scry their movements. Many plots and rebellions have been revealed to be instigated by the sons of the Lion, mere distractions to cover their true mysterious intentions. One such instance occurred during the Nova Terra Interregnum, during the waning years of M34. From the lightless depths of the Ghoul Stars, a star-spawned plague swept across the eastern edge of Ultima Segmentum, followed by multiple xenos migrations. Information from this time is all but lost, even to the Inquisition, and the Night Lords themselves are disinclined to speak of these dark days, other than the cryptic claims of 'nightmare engines' and that they had 'unmade that which cannot die'. Whatever the case, the Eighth lost tens of thousands of Astartes, leaving them dangerously undermanned over the following decades. Far to the west, the Ur-Council of Nova Terra declared independence, and thousands of systems soon joined them, while the Imperial response was delayed due to heavy warp storm activity. Though the primary region of rebellion was far away from the territory of the Eighth, the legion master at the time felt it vital that the Eighth lend their aid lest the entirety of Segmentum Pacificus succeed in their rebellion. Only a few companies could be spared to make the long trip across the Imperium, for the rest of the legion was kept busy with their usual wars, but not long after the Night Lords arrived, their precognitive instincts soon led them to discover that members of the First Legion were directly involved in the Ur-Council. Even as the religious wars of the Adeptus Ministorum claimed trillions of lives, a Night Lords kill team struck at Nova Terra itself, and fought Griffayn the Spear-Cast, Voted-Lieutenant of the Firewing, along with several dozen of his infil-traitor kin, experts all in covert warfare. The Dark Angels were either killed or forced to retreat, and the news that the traitor legions were involved quickly gained the attention of the Nine Loyal Legions, whose swift intervention helped bring an end to the Nova Terra Interregnum, though at a staggering cost in lives and resources. New grudges between the First and the Eighth were sworn, and the two have remained bitter rivals ever since.

The Night Lords have many connections throughout the Imperium as a result of how much territory they defend. The exact relations between the Eighth and the organizations they fight alongside and defend vary from Crusade fleet to Crusade fleet, but the Inquisition believes it has a fairly good idea of how most groups view each other. As mentioned before, they are close with the Word Bearers, and maintain decent relations with most legions save for the Alpha Legion, whose secretive nature means is distrusted by the Eighth, for it is always impossible to tell whether or not the Twentieth are truly upholding order or chasing their own mysterious goals. The Eighth has excellent relations with the High Lords of Terra due to their commitment to upholding order, or at least the order which derives from the authority of the Emperor and his Council, and they are highly connected with the Adeptus Arbites, an organization which they helped found after the Leonine Heresy. They have neutral relations with the Mechanicus, Inquisition, and Ecclesiarchy, and poor relations with the Adeptus Munitorum, who see the Kamazotz as a poor imitation and rival to the Imperial Guard.

Beliefs and Warcry

The central, overriding tenet at the core of any son of Konrad Curze is a burning desire for justice. To maintain justice means to keep order, and so the legion shows no remorse or hesitation when called upon to complete the most heinous actions. Backed up by an almost religious level of devotion, the Night Lords are firm in their mindset that those in command are there because of destiny, and that it is wrong to question one's superiors. Compared to other legions, the Eighth are incredibly strict, and many outsiders see them as rigid and humorless, a perception they themselves are aware of. This self-awareness is perhaps part of the reason why the legion operates in such small groups compared to their cousins; these smaller crusade groups, generally around a chapter in size, though often even fewer due to casualties, are both flexible, and minimize any possible resentment from building up. Although no son of Konrad would openly question his superior, they still think for themselves, and a commander who is seen as acting unjustly or in his own self-interest will often be informed of his men's disapproval from his Sin Eater, or even receive a visit from a representative of Legion Command from Prism. The Kyroptera is still active as of the 41st Millennium, though it has expanded slightly from the original seven members. Its roster consists of a rotating band of seven chapter masters known as Counts, generally those whose crusades operate closest to Prism, along with the Legion Master, who is generally known by his title of Prophet, which is indicative both of his ability as well as the largely ceremonial role he plays due to how dispersed the legion is. As of M41, the current office holder is Decimus.

Legion Master Decimus

The Astartes known as Decimus comes from perhaps the most storied lineage in the Eighth Legion. Long ago, the Apothecary known as Mawdrym Llansahai hypothesized that psychic ability, including precognitive skill, could be passed down. Such information would normally be useless to the legion, for Astartes do not have children, but the Primus Medicae was able to prove this held true for gene-seed as well after studying and comparing genetic data he had somehow obtained from his primarch and brothers. As of the Leonine Heresy, the most powerful precognitive was perhaps either Jago Sevatarion, though he proved elusive, and Talos Valcoran, who was more willing to aid Llansahai in his work. After he perished, Talos's gene-seed was implanted in an aspirant who was to join the Librarius, and over the millennia, this genetic legacy increased exponentially in power. Many bearing the bloodline of Talos have risen to hold command over a crusade or even the legion itself, and Decimus is but the latest in this long legacy.

Known as the Prophet for his incredible precognitive ability, Decimus is an accomplished warrior, almost entirely unscarred due to his abilities. It is rumored that he wears a blindfold underneath his helmet in imitation of his primarch, but whatever the case, none can deny his gifts. In battle, Decimus wields many relics, including the Corona Nox, the symbol of his authority; Anathema, a master-crafted boltgun once wielded by Malcharion the War Sage; and Aurum, a relic blade taken from a Blood Angels Master of Executions. The servants of Khorne have tried many times to reclaim this blade, seeing it as a blight on their dubious honor, but the Prophet's prescience has foiled them every time. Decimus spends most of his time in meditation, studying the Grimoire Nostramo and other writings of the primarch as he seeks the skeins of the future that would most aid his legion weather the gathering storm.

The death of Konrad Curze left his legion with little forgiveness, even less mercy, and an abiding hatred for all rebels and traitors. The Eighth looks down upon terror for terror's sake and those who practice it, including the Raven Guard, but many legionaries continue to confess to experiencing sadistic glee while punishing their foes. The apothecaries of the Night Lords are expert interrogators, able to use their knowledge to force all but the most resilient into telling everything they know in hopes of receiving the mercy of death. The Eighth possesses a substantial fleet, perhaps surpassing even the Word Bearers in numbers, though so incredibly dispersed that only the Legion Command knows their true numbers. In void warfare, the naval doctrines of the Eighth revolve around crippling the foe, disabling their vessels in order to board them. The legion still controls the Nightfall, the legendary vessel which has served as flagship for ten thousand years now, and most crew, including baselines, are mildly psychic, rendering the massive warship far more nimble and hard to hit than a ship of its size would otherwise be expected to be. Of all the loyal legions, it is perhaps the Night Lords who place the greatest emphasis on the Librarius, though their focus is restricted almost exclusively to the Divination discipline. The legion's Librarius is constantly engaged in attempting to scry the future, and they rarely enter battle compared to the more typical psykers in other legions. Though much has been lost over the prior ten thousand years, the Eighth believes it is drawing ever closer to understanding their primarch's visions, many of which are contained within his writings. The so-called 'Golden Path' consumed Konrad Curze, knowledge of which he first received during his soul-binding to the Emperor, and his sons have remained faithful to a cause they hardly understand, attempting to decipher and understand it in order to carry out his dream, though they have had little success thus far.

Worship of the God-Emperor is incredibly prevalent throughout the Eighth Legion, though it varies by Crusade fleet, a result obvious considering the circumstances. The dark jungles of Prism are incredibly deadly, and the gleaming hives seem almost heavenly compared to the tribal villages most aspirants hail from. The revelation of psykers and the vastness of the Imperium often serves to solidify superstition into faith, and the legacy continues, an irresistible force even if legion command did attempt to ban it. After the fires of the Leonine Heresy, the Eighth sought to ensure the support of the Imperium in rebuilding, and through a deal struck with the Word Bearers, the nascent Imperial Church adopted Curze as the primary saint in their faith. Every year, the most important and common festival is the Feast of the Emperor's Ascension, which celebrates the moment the Master of Mankind was raised to the Golden Throne and became a divinity. The second most important festival is the feast of Kurzemas, which takes place the day before and commemorates the primarch's death in his father's service. Whereas the Feast of the Emperor's Ascension is one of joy, Kurzemas is a time of justice, and the day is filled with the executions of criminals and military parades celebrating the might of the Imperium. On worlds with thousands of potential executions, mercy is shown to those for whom there wasn't enough time to kill them all, receiving the privilege of being drafted into a penal legion instead of being killed outright. Kurzemas is especially celebrated on worlds where the Eighth Legion has been, and the Night Lords themselves have long since begun to worship their father just as the Kamazotz have.

The Night Lords have maintained their armor colors since the Leonine Heresy. All wear the same midnight blue, with red or gold highlights interspersed with lightning bolts. Each Crusade paints their lightning markings slightly differently, though such distinctions are minute to say the least, and few are capable of telling them apart. Those with good eyesight often claim the white of the lightning transitions through the color of the rainbow before reaching the deep blue, but this remains unconfirmed by the legion. The contrast between the deep blue and white lightning is reminiscent not only of the deep shadows and gleaming spires of Prism, but also the stark difference between order and disorder. Some legionaries claim it is symbolic of justice and injustice, but this is only a portentous saying which amuses the Night Lords to tell mortals in order to see their amazed expression. The practice of red gauntlets has continued, as has the legion's symbol, a winged skull worn upon their shoulders. Many legionaries wear grisly trophies upon their armor, especially those who have fought the Tyranid Swarms or the Contekar terminators, but this is a practice reserved for veterans. The Night Lords have two main war-cries, generally intended to demoralize the foe: "Ave Dominus Nox", which both commemorates their primarch and asserts their mastery of the night, and "We have come for you", which is intended solely to terrify.

Prism, 999.M41

The Prophet sat upon the floor of his chamber, unarmored with his legs crossed. The future had proven more elusive as of late, the Warp storms clouding his visions just as they clouded the Immaterium. A few seconds before it was to occur, a new vision revealed his meditations were about to be disturbed by a knock, but the identity and purpose of this intrusion remained intriguingly opaque. The door opened, and Decimus frowned at the sight before him, the huge bulk of his Atramentar bodyguards filling his small personal chambers located within the highest spire of Prism's central hive. Forestalling his warrior's words with a curt gesture, the Prophet stared into the eyes of the prisoner before him, a warrior wearing impossibly ancient robes and battleplate, ostensibly painted in the former colors matching the pitch black of the First Legion. The Astartes stared back at him, impassive yet somehow disdainful even despite being disarmed. Decimus attempted to speak, only to be cut off by the man before him.

"I am Merir Astelan of Terra, servant of the Master of Mankind. I come to you now, seeking aid, for the end draws near. The First Legion gathers, hidden from sight, and if allowed to proceed unchecked, will destroy reality as we know it." Decimus stared, dumbfounded by the man before him, before finally choking out an answer.

"You come bearing tall tales and the color of our ancient enemy. Even if I believed your tale, the Tyranid Swarms press ever closer to the edges of the sector. My legion gathers to face this threat, and you expect me to give over my warriors to you on only your word?" The man calling himself Astelan frowned back at him.

"I expect you to do your duty, just as your gene-father did. I met him once, and if he were here, he would tell you you cannot spend your existence waiting to see what the future brings, sometimes you have to live in the present. Now come, the Somnium Stars await." Astelan gestured to the door, now hidden behind the towering Atramentar. The Prophet looked back at him, hoping for some vision to confirm this man's words, but nothing seemed to come. For the first time that he could remember, Decimus realized he was actually unsure.

---

A/N: Again, I'm not really sure how this one came to be so long, I've always preferred the Raven Guard to the Night Lords, and yet this one is essentially double the size of that Index. So here is the tale of poor Curze, fated to be this timeline's Sanguinius, tortured by prophecy and fated to die at the hands of the Archtraitor. This is the first real clue as to why Lion wasn't leading the Siege from the front, and I welcome fan theories and speculation. Next up is going to be Rogal Dorn ft. Sigismund the Destroyer, of which this chapter held but a preview. As always, I hope you will leave your thoughts in the comment section, I love to read them. Sharrowkyn, out.