By the time Lorgar sensed something wrong and turned back, two Gloriana-class ships and three Abyssal-class battleships had already encircled the entirety of Colchis.
Colchis's defensive forces were in no way inferior to those of the Word Bearers — but when the boarding assault came, they were still badly stretched for numbers.
That said, because the Abominable Intelligence cohort could operate at close to eighty percent effectiveness, the situation — though far from good — had been ground into a stalemate.
What actually concerned the Word Bearers most was the situation on the ground. Only three thousand had been left in garrison, and simply manning the star-fortresses, the Gloriana and Abyssal hulls had already pushed them to the limit — let alone the other capital vessels.
To make matters worse, the traitors had somehow almost completely severed their communications. They were effectively blind — even inter-fleet signals were dropping in and out. All that kept them functioning was the logic engine's powerful calculation and their commanders' battle management.
When had this ever happened to them? They were the ones who cut other people's signals. The idea that their own communications could be severed by an enemy was something they had never had to think about.
Most of the Word Bearers were also deeply unsettled by the sight of "themselves" — larger, more powerfully built versions of them on the attacking vessels. They couldn't understand why these copies were all so much bigger.
And when they saw the Truth-Churches aboard the enemy ships — not opulent, not even particularly grand, one might say humble — most of the Word Bearers couldn't hold their composure.
The Emperor permits belief. He always did. Anyone can believe, as long as it doesn't delay the Great Crusade. That's it. That's the whole thing.
Then what had all their resentment been about? What had all the complaints been about? What had the rebellion they had launched in his name — the one Lorgar himself had led — actually been for?
In truth, even Lorgar, hearing this from the mouths of sons who had successfully retreated back to him, had already begun to waver. Especially when he heard that some of his sons had experienced genuine revelation inside those Truth-Churches — which sent this man, who had spent years converting to a new faith because of the Emperor, and then again because of the Emperor, spiralling into fresh confusion.
The scripture-runes covering his body had begun to give off faint traces of Chaos energy. His inner state was unstable — and no god favours a wavering worshipper. Unless the worshipper is a Primarch.
"Father — only the Chaos Gods are true gods. The False Emperor stole their divine power. He deceived us, deceived all of humanity — all so that one day he could sacrifice the entirety of mankind as a stepping stone to apotheosis."
"We must stop him! We cannot allow him to become that dark and evil king! The Chaos Gods have sacrificed almost everything for this great cause — how can we, their faithful servants, shame them!"
Erebus stood beside Lorgar, guiding him. And Kor Phaeron stood nearby, staring at this mortal enemy with barely-concealed hatred.
Again. Every opportunity, this wretch took it. First at the moment of converting to the Gods — and now, when Lorgar needed guidance, it was Erebus at his ear, right there, locking down every advantage.
Kor Phaeron would admit it — he genuinely, deeply envied Erebus. Given any opportunity at all, he would make certain this wretch died at the hands of the Abominable Intelligence. But the creature was too vigilant, too careful — a match for him in every respect. It made finding the right moment almost impossible.
"Lorgar — don't let the False Emperor's tricks cloud your mind. Let us smash those lying churches and destroy the False Emperor's dogs together."
Kor Phaeron decided to compete with Erebus for this moment. With his own strength and Lorgar's power, nothing could go wrong — and it would show well.
"Father — their support hasn't arrived yet. If we act now we may compromise the Warmaster's plans. The Angel has been waiting in concealment all this time."
Erebus intervened immediately. Nothing could be allowed to jeopardise the gods' great design over a moment of impatience.
"What do you mean by that, Erebus? Are you questioning Lorgar's capability? Even without the Angel, between the three of us we can handle this False Emperor's servant!"
Kor Phaeron was not going to let Erebus win. It was just one Lorgar — three Primarchs acting together, and they couldn't manage it? Please.
Did he think the Warmaster himself was coming?
Then — a transmission reached them that stunned all three of them silent.
"Impossible! Those were the Red Angels — twelve thousand Eaters of Worlds in combined formation!"
"How could the traitors have killed them? Absolutely impossible! Send scouts again!"
"What happened?"
Lorgar was completely disoriented.
Brother — didn't you go down to cut people? Not only did you get yourself exiled, you burned through the Eaters of Worlds as well? Are you still on our side?
"Has a Primarch already reached Colchis's surface without us detecting it?"
Erebus felt certain something was wrong — though he couldn't work out what.
"What Primarch could reach the ground engagement without us noticing? We've sealed every Warp route in and out of Colchis — and raised Warp storms around the perimeter. How did anyone enter Colchis without us knowing?"
"Then what is happening?"
"How is it possible for anyone to destroy a full Legion led personally by a Primarch in this timeframe?"
"Don't tell me the Red Angels had another episode and somehow did it to themselves—"
"Enough!"
Kor Phaeron was growing more agitated by the moment — but Lorgar cut him off.
"Take First and Second Company and the Blessed Sons. Come with me and find out exactly what is happening."
"Why can't we get through on any communications? The logic engine has never made errors like this before."
Angron stood beside Lorgar, watching the logic engine display nothing but strings of meaningless corrupted data — not a single coherent transmission — and felt a vague, spreading irritation.
He could absorb the emotional states of those around him. But when it came to processing his own inner turmoil, outside of Macragge and Lorgar's company, he could generally only grind through it alone.
"Nothing is coming out of Terra. We still don't know what's happening."
"Do you know — when your son met me and told me you'd defected, I nearly cut him down on the spot. Because you had only left my side three days before."
Angron looked back at the Word Bearers' Third Company commander — standing there with that look of firm resolve — and understood only after the explanation that they were talking about a different Lorgar.
"Colchis has the Warmaster's Abominable Intelligence cohort and fleet in defence. It can hold for a while. But two Primarchs attacking together — and they're defected versions of us."
A vein pulsed visibly across Lorgar's forehead. His fanatical loyalty to the Emperor made the sight of any traitor almost physically unbearable.
In the command chamber, Kor Phaeron and Erebus felt the golden flame rising from Lorgar's building fury — burning hotter and more intensely.
The golden radiance lit the entire room, scattering a considerable amount of the oppressive atmosphere that had gathered.
"I will not spare a single one of these traitors. The Sword of Secrets will pierce their bodies and incinerate their souls!"
"The sons we sent to Terra still haven't reported back. Once we've finished here, we need to get to Terra as quickly as possible."
"Understood."
Just as they were pushing through the outer perimeter of Colchis — forcing their way out of that small knot of Warp storm — a fleet significantly smaller than their own cut into their formation at high speed and began boarding.
Lorgar and Angron both knew these ship markings perfectly. Against the deep purple and blood-red hull livery, the Blood Drop insignia of the Blood Angels could not have been more conspicuous.
"Sanguinius? How is this possible?"
Angron could barely believe it. The perfect Great Angel — fallen to Chaos?
And by the look of things, blessed simultaneously by two Chaos Gods who loathed each other.
Had he been forcibly corrupted? Had Chaos used his sons as leverage against him?
These bastards.
Both Lorgar and Angron instinctively refused to accept that the Great Angel had willingly defected. Whatever the reason, he must have been forced into this somehow.
"Whatever the reason — we cannot hold back when the moment comes. Something catastrophic may have already happened on Colchis. We may be walking into an encirclement designed to cut off reinforcement. The target may well be me."
Lorgar could only estimate this in broad strokes. Angron hadn't thought that deeply — the Red Sand Angel's temperament was as volcanic as ever. Showing mercy to enemies was cruelty to yourself.
And this was precisely why, throughout the Great Crusade, the organisation that the Administratum had found most consistently difficult to work with was not the Iron Hands — despite their devotion to flesh-is-weak ideology.
Ferrus would level everything in his path, but he always managed to spare every facility of genuine importance.
The Iron Warriors were the same. Actually rendering a planet's surface completely flat was rare for them — waste was something to be ashamed of.
But Angron was different. Even without the Butcher's Nails — even with the gentleness and kindness he showed to his sons and to ordinary people — on the battlefield he was something else entirely.
Where he passed, devastation followed. Blood almost literally filled hive cities and covered surface terrain. The worlds left behind were defined by nothing except fear. Civilian infrastructure and military installations alike were left in catastrophic ruin.
Even the Space Wolves and the Blood Angels — both historically difficult — couldn't compare to him in this regard.
Magnus was the other persistent headache for the Administratum.
Both of them fought with a ferocity that bore absolutely no resemblance to their usual calm, intellectually refined exterior. Every world they conquered required at minimum three times the reconstruction resources compared to the aftermath of any other Legion.
But neither the Emperor nor the Warmaster had ever said a word about it. The overworked officials could hardly raise objections to Primarchs, so they simply absorbed the additional burden and dealt with the aftermath.
Continuously absorbing emotions without any means of release was genuinely agonising. And so Angron had made a habit of directing all of it toward his enemies.
Particularly toward any Eldar he encountered. Angron sometimes felt he would rather dive into the Webway and lose himself in it than let a single one of those Eldar escape.
During one encounter with the Iron Warriors' Third Warband — barely a moment after they had met on the bridge — Angron reacted instinctively at the sight of Eldar on board and killed three Imperial abhumans outright.
To resolve the incident, Perturabo had personally intervened — getting Angron to calm down, look at who he was actually striking at, and then covering the cost, arranging for the three Eldar souls to be installed as senior overseers in the daemon factory. That settled things.
When Lorgar had first encountered this brother, he had been deeply worried. He had made a point of linking up with Angron periodically, using the Imperial Truth to calm this brother's volcanic interior.
The two had grown very close very quickly as a result.
Now, Angron felt that same boundless rage again — the feeling was almost as though the Butcher's Nails were still in his skull.
"We need to go meet this 'brother.' Lorgar — I don't think he's necessarily here for you. If this were an ambush, our backs would be the most vulnerable point. But he's coming at us directly."
Angron said this with a strange gut certainty — the Angel was here for him specifically.
"Hard to say what's going through the heads of brothers who've fallen to Chaos. Maybe they've simply been overwhelmed by corruption and lost their minds."
"Then let me test him. We have nothing to say to these traitors."
Angron drew the two phase glaives from his belt. He would reduce all of them to fragments.
His twelve Eaters of Worlds bodyguard followed their father in silence — but their fingers were already resting on the gauss rifles at their hips.
"Be careful. Something about this group of traitors feels wrong. The Abominable Intelligence cohort will board with you. My Legion will provide support."
"Understood."
Angron strode toward the boarding craft. The Abominable Intelligence cohort was already assembled. Eaters of Worlds and Word Bearers fell in together.
Kharn and the Eaters moved at Angron's flank. This mission was serious — the primary concern was preventing their father from getting too deep into the enemy formation alone when the killing started. Under normal circumstances it wasn't a major issue, but something about this particular enemy felt wrong from the beginning. Better not to let Father charge recklessly.
Kharn and the others, armoured in Tyrant Terminator plate, gripped their enhanced storm shields tightly. These shields — incorporating Necron and Eldar technology — were harder and lighter than anything before them. Even a Primarch's direct strike could be intercepted.
The premier choice for defence — and for carrying your father to safety.
Which was why storm shields of this pattern had become extremely popular across every Legion, and particularly so among every Primarch's bodyguard.
The boarding engagement began moments later.
But when Angron led his force into the Tears of Blood — now transformed beyond recognition — what confronted him stopped everyone cold.
It was almost impossible to imagine how any of this had come to exist aboard a warship that had once embodied honour.
Skulls stacked beyond counting. Blood soaking the entire hull. The stench hit immediately — and even Angron, who had always operated on a philosophy of kill everything, felt his stomach turn.
The torture implements. The Blood Angels around him — bodies half-merged with strange, grotesque appendages, lost in states of horrific ecstasy. This was the first time Angron had ever understood, viscerally and immediately, what corruption and desecration actually looked like.
If this is what worshipping Chaos produces — he would sooner die than give himself to it.
The Blood Angels howled and charged — biting down hard on the hallucinogens in their mouths as they moved, the self-inflicted implements on their bodies driving their frenzy higher.
Joy and rage and madness combined into something that contorted their expressions beyond human recognition.
"This is... desecration."
Angron could not accept that a brother Legion had become this. And this was only the Legion. What had the man himself become?
Angron refused to follow that thought further. His enormous frame launched forward. Both phase glaives moved in constant arcs — against these Chaos-fallen traitors, there was no reason for any restraint.
Kharn and the others followed. More and more boarding parties struck across the Blood Angels' fleet. The Eaters and Word Bearers who saw what had become of these "brothers" couldn't imagine what they had experienced to end up this way.
But the Castellax and Thanatar units were not troubled by sympathy. A mob of mindless, frenzied psychotics had no advantages whatsoever against cold machines. Bolter fire and melta would teach the traitors exactly what the Imperium's iron fist felt like.
And on the Fidelitas Lex, Lorgar surveyed the latest wave of Blood Angels who had boarded, his expression grim. These traitors had to die. Not merely die — they had to be erased from existence entirely.
Leaving something this desecrated alive in the world — something so profoundly wrong that the very sight of it was an assault on sanity, something that might enjoy having a chainsword driven into it — was something Lorgar's profound psychological need for purity simply could not tolerate.
The Sword of Secrets erupted with terrible golden flame. When Lorgar reached the Blood Angels who were gleefully hunting for Sons of Horus and auxilia to prey upon, their expressions finally changed.
Nobody in the universe was a fool. However much these creatures enjoyed killing and pleasure, every one of them could feel the sword — and what it meant.
This was a weapon that could erase them completely. Even Chaos could not bring them back from what this blade would do.
Screams filled the Fidelitas Lex. The Word Bearers followed their father, cutting down traitor after traitor. They still didn't know how creatures in this condition had thought themselves capable of a decapitation strike — but the sight of them had been nauseating enough.
Meanwhile — while Lorgar and Angron prosecuted their engagements — Lorgar's force had arrived near the outskirts of the City of Grey Flowers.
Looking at the Titan Legions standing ready. Looking at the Abominable Intelligence cohort that extended as far as the eye could see. Looking at the gun emplacements already tracking their every movement.
Lorgar and his companions now understood exactly how Angron had been exiled.
Against a defensive density like this — without several Legions committed to a full frontal assault, or some kind of insertion team willing to gamble everything on an aerial drop straight into the City of Grey Flowers for a decapitation strike — nothing would get through.
Even if Lorgar came in person, he would be exiled right back to the Warp to wait in queue.
He could not understand where Colchis had acquired firepower of this magnitude. But this Imperium was more powerful than anything he had conceived of.
Was this right?
If Colchis already had defences like this — how were they supposed to attack Terra? What approach could the Warmaster even take? Without Perturabo, even Dorn and Ferrus might struggle to break through a defence grid like this.
Lorgar concluded that crossing to this universe had been a mistake. His sons had surrendered and turned coat. And now he faced Legions that were stronger across the board in both firepower and raw capability.
What was the point of coming?
Chaos had spent enormous resources pulling them through. Was it really just to be an inconvenience to the Imperium?
No.
Lorgar thought of the other Chaos Warmaster. He thought of how, when the two sides had first met, Lheor's power had been genuinely sobering — enough to briefly clear even the Warmaster's head.
Those brothers, too — every one of them was powerfully formidable. Lorgar had wondered then. Chaos's actual goal for pulling them across had been Lheor and those brothers all along.
Now he was almost completely certain. They were cannon fodder. The real assault on Terra was always intended to be those brothers. Their group — himself included — had been pushed to the front as expendable one-use shock troops.
Aside from the Warmaster, who might have some value, everyone else probably counted for nothing against those brothers.
This was not self-deprecation. He simply could not conceive of any way their Legions could assault this Imperium and succeed.
And Chaos never ran a loss-making operation.
Lorgar was a devout believer. But he was not an idiot. At their current Legion strength, even with Chaos blessings, they could not advance under this kind of fire.
Their combined Legion strength was under three million Space Marines. A single charge would cost them enormously.
They had been used. Chaos had brought them here as cannon fodder. The ones actually intended to overturn the Imperium and seize power were probably not even those brothers.
Lorgar saw this clearly — and seeing it clearly shattered the perfect image of the Chaos Gods he had been carrying. The way the Emperor had once forced his Legion to kneel, and then had the Ultramarines burn the perfect city before his eyes.
"They're all liars."
The runes covering Lorgar's body continued to pulse. His eyes were full of fury and bewilderment.
"All of them. Liars. They extract what they want from us and discard us without hesitation."
"Why does it always end this way? Every time I believe I've found a true god and devoted myself — they always disappoint me like this."
Having recognised the reality of his situation, Lorgar had entirely lost the desire to prosecute any more war.
"There are no gods! All of them are liars! The Emperor is not a god! Chaos is not divine! All liars!"
Erebus and Kor Phaeron had no idea what had come over Lorgar — but the next instant, they found it difficult to breathe. The power armour on their bodies began emitting sounds of stress — pressure building from outside.
"The two of you as well. There are no gods of any kind. You are just strays who want to extract value from me — and I gave you my trust."
"The Eye of Terror — you pushed me toward it. The Warmaster — you ruined him. I see it now. You coordinated this from the beginning. You were using me to claim credit before your masters. Weren't you?"
"Fath... er..."
Erebus tried to say something. Kor Phaeron — whose raw power had always been the lesser of the two — could produce nothing at all.
The crushing psychic force pressed them both flat. Erebus reached for his ritual dagger — tried to open an escape route — but the force bearing down on him made it impossible to complete a single action.
Every Word Bearer present could clearly hear the sounds of bones fracturing and organs rupturing from inside both suits of power armour.
Blood began seeping from the joins of the plate. Neither man could even produce a scream — which made the cold sweat breaking out on the other Word Bearers considerably worse.
What had happened to Father? Why had he turned on both of them without warning?
Lorgar gave no explanation. His psychic output continued to build — until both figures had been twisted beyond recognition into bloody ruins. Only then did some of the rage leave him.
"Father — what do we do now?"
One Word Bearer summoned his nerve and stepped forward from the rear to ask.
Lorgar found he had no answer to give.
Send his sons in as cannon fodder? Continue the assault on Colchis? Try to dissuade the Warmaster from continuing?
Would they even listen?
Lorgar thought of Angron. Thought of Mortarion and Fulgrim. Thought of those "brothers" they had encountered — the Angel, and Russ. What they had looked like.
Was there any saving them now?
Tears moved across Lorgar's face. The despair of having been deceived — and of seeing no possible future — merged with grief for the brothers, most of whom had ended up on this path partly because of him.
"Go. All of you — go wherever you want. From this point forward the Word Bearers Legion no longer exists. I am no longer your father or your Legion Master. You are free."
Lorgar gave no further response to his sons. He tore open a rift in the Warp and stepped through, leaving a group of Word Bearers staring at empty space.
Father — we haven't boarded yet.
What are we supposed to do now?!
The Abominable Intelligence cohort was already moving. The "traitors" — whose frames had somehow expanded considerably — were closing in. Their Company Commander had just been killed. Their father had abandoned them and left. The Word Bearers were completely at a loss.
And so — when Mophal led the main company's brothers charging forward, ready to die fighting these "traitors," what followed was a mass surrender that left everyone present struggling not to laugh.
The Word Bearers would not normally have done this. Even with their father and company commanders in the state they were in, with the Abominable Intelligence cohort right in front of them, they would not have surrendered out of fear of death.
Space Marines rarely produced cowards.
But this time they had been broken mentally before the fight had even reached them. They were already completely disoriented — and when they saw their former brothers who had "found clarity" again, they were suddenly struck by the realisation:
The Imperium hasn't actually wronged us.
Those ships were built with Imperial resources. Those brothers were soldiers selected from across the Imperium.
What did Chaos actually give us? A collection of daemons who could spiral out of control at any moment? Grotesque mutations that looked like desecration made physical?
The Word Bearers — whose faith had collapsed with Lorgar's departure — made one more strange and unique contribution to Imperial history.
The boarding fleets still locked in combat with each other in orbit remained entirely unaware of any of this.
Lorgar could not understand how these fallen angels were so numerous — or why their average combat capability was this high. Was it the simultaneous blessing of two Chaos Gods?
He didn't want to think about it. He only knew he needed to exterminate every one of these traitors.
The Sword of Secrets was not made of the Imperium's finest materials — but through something that could only be described as idealist conviction, its performance exceeded anything Perturabo had ever forged. This was because of Lorgar. Or rather — because of a particular kind of acknowledgement.
Lorgar deeply resented Perturabo for imprisoning the Emperor. He had eventually accepted Perturabo's goodwill for the sake of his sons — but he personally refused every form of the Warmaster's assistance. He found the act of betrayal repugnant — even if the Emperor himself no longer cared.
Aboard the Fidelitas Lex, Lorgar looked at his ship — now defiled by these creatures. Even the golden flame had burned away the last traces of their presence — and yet some residual taint lingered.
That putrid, sensuous, maddening smell was something Lorgar's severe need for purity could barely endure.
He was about to order his sons and the Abominable Intelligence cohort to scour the ship with melta from hull to hull — when something made him stop. His eyes locked forward.
In the bridge not far ahead, a new boarding wave of Blood Angels was arriving. And among them — a desecrated winged silhouette that gave Lorgar pause.
The armour was fully red — hung with purple implements. The face was concealed behind a mask that could not be read as either weeping or rage. Blood-red wings folded behind the back.
Left hand: a spear. Right hand: a sword. He walked forward slowly, leading his sons.
"Sanguinius — is it you?"
Only someone who truly knew what the Angel looked like could feel the shock of seeing him now.
The Angel's mask slid automatically to his hip. The face beneath it was perfect — and completely consumed by arrogance. The corners of the mouth were split, torn back to the ears, fixing the face in a permanent grotesque smile. But the fury and pride in those eyes was genuine — not performed.
Two daemon horns had grown from his crown. Whether they were Khorne's blessing or something cultivated through some personal appetite — impossible to say.
"Brother—"
The hand gripping the Sword of Secrets trembled faintly. Lorgar could not accept that the perfect Great Angel had become this.
But the Angel's gaze on Lorgar carried fury — and mockery. A purple tongue emerged from the mouth, coiling around the blood-weeping scar that ran across the face, the taste of blood intensifying his excitement.
"Brother — you smell delicious."
The Angel spoke. Lorgar's skin crawled.
"Let me eat you. Please. Angron has been waiting for me for so long — I don't want to keep him waiting. Just stand still. Let me eat you."
The Angel smiled — a deeply disturbing, deranged smile — and began moving toward Lorgar with slow, deliberate pressure. The golden flame burning on the Sword of Secrets didn't concern him in the slightest.
His eyes were bright with excitement and bloodlust. He savoured the sensation of driving a weapon into a brother's body — the hunger was never satisfied, and that endless hunger made him want to take his time, taste every detail of a brother's essence slowly.
And both Lorgar and Angron smelled so good.
The purple tongue extended. Foul saliva dripped from it, hitting the deck plating with a corrosive hiss.
Then — he suddenly accelerated.
The blood-red spear drove straight for Lorgar's face.
Fast.
Lorgar barely had time to react — throwing himself aside. The spear still caught his face, opening a wound. The corrosive pain was extraordinary — pleasure-toxin and rage-toxin both working to erode his consciousness simultaneously.
Before Lorgar could process any of this, the long sword was already rising in a vertical slash from below. Lorgar could clearly see the Angel's expression — ecstatic, utterly deranged.
Lorgar avoided this attack by the thinnest of margins. The purple blade left a score across his power armour.
But the Angel's attack was sharper and more lethal than Lorgar had estimated.
Under these specific circumstances, the favoured Angel had been force-fed blessings by both Khorne and Slaanesh simultaneously — two gods whose agendas were irreconcilable, each trying to claim him through sheer volume of power. Both hoping he would choose them.
The Angel consumed all of it greedily. He had no intention of choosing either. But both sides' favour had not diminished by a single degree.
The power flooding in made his attacks more ferocious still. Even when the Sword of Secrets' golden flame scored burns across him repeatedly, the Angel was not driven back — the pain elevated his threshold, pushing it higher, and he began deliberately slowing his assault, even intentionally letting Lorgar land strikes on him.
His body was trembling with excitement. That exquisite pain — combined with the need he could never satisfy — pulled him forward again and again.
He felt it building. That absolute peak.
Since receiving Slaanesh's blessing, the threshold of satisfaction had become impossible to reach — the hunger eternal and empty. Now — for the first time in what felt like forever — that feeling was returning.
Then — in Lorgar's horrified, disbelieving gaze — the Angel seized Lorgar's arm. And drove the Sword of Secrets hard into his own abdomen.
The golden flame's searing agony made the Angel's body convulse violently. The deranged expression of twisted ecstasy — and the sounds that followed — forced Lorgar to watch as purple viscous fluid erupted from the Angel's pores and every orifice.
The fluid fountained outward. The purple serpent-tail behind him snapped rigid.
The Angel collapsed to the deck, shuddering. The expression of depraved satisfaction on his face made Lorgar feel physically ill — particularly the image of those rolled-back eyes and that purple tongue coiling up toward his forehead.
The reeking purple fluid — carrying an unspeakable miasma — drenched Lorgar head to foot. The smell made him gag.
And the Sword of Secrets was still embedded in the Angel's abdomen. The fluid recoiled from the burning of the golden flame — but then surged back toward it regardless, seeking that sensation again — the Angel trembled, and Lorgar trembled with him.
Looking at the figure on the deck — completely incapacitated — Lorgar pulled the Sword of Secrets free with a shaking hand. The golden flame erupted, burning from inside out, fierce enough that even the sons fighting nearby instinctively stepped back.
He drove the blade into the Angel's skull.
The abomination on the deck was gone. But Lorgar could feel it — he had not been erased the way his sons had been. His masters had shielded him.
The residual miasma lingered. Lorgar's eyes had gone red. He looked at the remaining Blood Angels — every one of them equally defiled, equally deranged — and roared. The golden flame blazed outward. The Sword of Secrets lit the entire Fidelitas Lex.
Aboard the Tears of Blood.
Angron looked at the red monster that had appeared before him. The black cables drilled into the skull were immediately, deeply familiar.
"RAAAGH!"
Angron charged with twin chainaxes. Angron caught both with his phase glaives. He felt the force behind the strike — enormous. The sulphur smell. Blood.
"It looks like you've become a slave completely."
He looked at this winged version of himself — enslaved, fully and finally, by the Butcher's Nails and by Khorne. Something like sorrow moved through Angron, alongside the anger.
"RAAAGH!"
Crushing force. But Angron felt no real pressure — the armour Perturabo had made for him, iteration after iteration, gave him too much.
His phase glaives burst forward. Ignoring Khorne's blessings in the Warp. He sheared one chainaxe apart — and drove the blade into Angron's body.
Daemon Primarchs felt nothing anymore. They were no longer beings of realspace.
"Look at yourself. Where is the one who once swore he would never be a slave again?"
"Where is the rebellion leader who stood with his brothers and sisters on Nuceria and fought to the death?"
Angron could no longer follow the words. He couldn't produce a coherent sentence — the Butcher's Nails and Khorne's blessing had filled him with nothing but pain and rage.
"The rebellion leader died long ago. What remained was a slave called Angron. A slave to the Butcher's Nails. A slave to the Blood God."
Slave.
The word struck something deep. Angron roared and struggled — trying to throw off both the phase glaive and this version of itself that stood a head shorter than him.
But Angron's strength exceeded what it had imagined. The phase glaive was buried in its chest and held there, and it could not move.
"RAAAGH!"
A final attempt at resistance. But the other phase glaive had already taken the head.
"You are a slave. But I am not."
Angron drew the gauss blaster from his hip. He fired until the enormous head was dissolved.