Lecter, the Faceless' legion fortress.
In the Primarch's palace, twelve Communion Masters had carved a giant chair from sixty-two elegant Aeldari bones.
Spines, stacked layer upon layer, formed the backrest. Intact skulls, slightly different in shape, were set into it.
Pelvises, fused, formed a seamless whole.
Long, slender leg bones, tightly packed, supported the throne and Hannibal himself.
Enthroned high, he lifted a slab of Ork rib from a platter held by a servant, his movements as elegant as ever.
A telekinetic had shaped them, temporarily preventing spore release, preserving the perfect fungal taste.
He swallowed the rib calmly, watching the hololith before him.
Iron-grey runes advanced steadily. Yellow-brown runes vanished.
A Communion Master in yellow-brown armor approached the throne.
"Father, as you commanded, the forgotten neophytes, led by Meron and Sasebo, have banded together. They plan to surrender to the Wolves."
Hannibal rubbed his fingers. "You seem confused by my command."
"They are your gene-son," the Communion Master said coldly. "They should be given the ritual, made into Faceless, and fight the Wolves to the death."
"I am giving them a choice." Hannibal swallowed the rest of his sentence. 'We have no choice left.'
His index finger, bent like a xenos scorpion's tail, stroked the ring on his thumb, its pattern blurred.
His memory pulled him back to Terra.
His body trembled. His vision filled with golden light.
The light came from his father's eyes, from a supernatural realm.
"Hannibal!" His father's voice was like thunder.
"Do you know what a whale is?"
The golden light faded. Hannibal found his thoughts. He replied, "An aquatic creature of ancient Terra."
"Whales feed on fish and shrimp in the rich ocean," the Emperor's eyes were deep, "but they do not drain the sea dry."
"I understand." As he lowered his head, he saw the Emperor's open hand and the golden ring.
The dorsal fin was mottled. The tail fin was blurred, nearly transparent.
The leaping body was barely discernible.
"You are Cetus." The Emperor's voice was commanding.
"I have given you a gift. But you must restrain your appetite."
Moderation.
When had he lost the ability to restrain his desires?
Thoughts raced through his mind: The indulgent gluttony after days of hunger on Lecter. The first taste of Ork and fungal stew on the Wheel of Fire. The first taste of fear-infused Aeldari desserts. The mustard-covered jellyfish xenos...
He shook his head. He couldn't pinpoint when he and his sons had slid into the abyss of gluttony. But his fate was sealed.
'They still have a chance.'
'Nareth will treat them well.'
'If I entrust them to another brother, Nareth is the best choice.'
He recalled Nareth's teachings on the Wheel of Fire, the various delicacies he had prepared, and the salamander meat he had given him.
'They won't become Guilliman's components. They can still enjoy good food.'
'They won't succumb to gluttony like us. They will, like the Reapers becoming Shadows of Orders, under Nareth's guidance, master their power without being as tense as the Iron Hands.'
'They won't be as brutish as the Wolves, wasting good food.'
Thinking of the Wolves, he rose from his throne, picked up his bone-inlaid greatsword, and strode out.
The Communion Masters set down their knives and forks, picked up their weapons, and followed their Primarch.
The heavy doors opened. The scent of blood hit them.
Hannibal looked out. Ahead of the lines, 1st Company Captain Suarez and 2nd Company Captain Erlang led the yellow-brown Faceless, holding off the iron-grey Wolves.
In the enemy ranks, a savage, massive figure was unleashing unrestrained fury.
The two giant wolves beside him tore yellow-brown figures to the ground, shredding them, as savage as their brothers.
Russ raised his pistol, two boltguns spitting dense barrages, a torrent sweeping over the Faceless.
He lunged at Erlang, swinging his axe, Helwinter.
A faint green light flickered in Erlang's eyes. Green lines lit up on his body. His blade flashed.
Russ spun his frost blade, the howling clash meeting the sword.
With a crack, Erlang's arms trembled, but he had blocked a Primarch's savage blow.
A flicker of surprise crossed Russ's eyes. He let out a deafening roar.
The greater the power the Faceless had gained, the deeper their fall.
Russ roared, swinging his blade in a storm of blows.
The howling storm, the thunderous impacts, drove Erlang back step by step.
In agony, he lost control of his blade. His yellow-brown armor shattered.
With a merciless chop, Russ split Erlang's body in two. Blood sprayed on his armor, instantly freezing into a thin frost by the frost runes.
"Russ." Hannibal roared. His elegant voice, from his split lips, was laced with bestial hisses and unearthly cries of pain.
"Hannibal." Leman Russ's ice-blue eyes met his.
"Hannibal, look at yourself. How far you have fallen." Russ swung his blade.
"You don't know the power I have gained." Hannibal mocked, swinging his own sword. The inlaid Aeldari runes lit up. Cold flames leaped from the blade.
His swift blade shot, entangling the Wolf King's braided hair.
"Your whelps gained evil power and died for their crimes." Russ listed Hannibal's crimes. "Sorcery. Xenos. Mutation."
"You have disgraced our father. You have mutated into a monstrocity."
He howled, swinging his axe, driving his full destructive power against Hannibal's alien strength.
The Wolf King's physique was much stronger. He should have had the advantage in strength.
But the Whale had drawn power from the xenos he had consumed and agility.
His fierce, decisive cuts matched Russ's in the clash. His agile, tricky strikes, swift and deft, overpowered Russ.
In the exchange, Russ, driven by instinct, used the strength, speed, and cunning the Allfather had given him, fighting Hannibal to the death.
After his complete defeat by Nareth on Dulan, he had unlocked his potential in the training cage.
From his hunting experiences and from his wolf brothers, Freki and Geri, he had found power beyond himself.
The power of Fenris's fate line.
The Fenrisians believe their fate line determines whether they die in the hot summer seas or on the winter ice, hard as iron.
The Rune Priests often told Russ, "No one can change his fate line. Not even you."
Russ believed this. But when the Allfather gave him his mission, he gained a new understanding.
If his ill-fated fate line meant he was born to kill his brothers, then that ill fortune was also his power.
.....
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