"Sanguinius." Nareth looked at the golden-armored figure opposite him. The edges of his pristine wings were singed black in places.
"We, as the anvil, have drawn out the enemy's main force, the Warlock Titan."
"We'll leave them to it."
Sanguinius immediately understood that by 'them,' Nareth meant the Ordo Sinister, a secret even Primarchs could not fully penetrate.
Seeing Nareth order the Shadows of Order to withdraw from the psychic node, he issued the same order.
Nareth looked towards the psychic mist deeper within the craftworld, opening a channel to issue a command to William Wood, Lord of the Twelfth Chapter.
"Prepare!"
Securing spoils of war was as important as pursuing the Aeldari.
Sanguinius watched his crimson-armored sons pull back from the node, then followed Nareth's gaze.
The light dimmed rapidly.
The crystals within the Aeldari construct, burned to glass, grew dark. Large crystal chunks of the collapsed dome were stained with shadow...
Four Reaver Titans came into view. Their long strides left afterimages in their wake.
Ripples of time undulated. The unmarked Reaver Titans moved with the same swiftness as the elegant Aeldari Titans.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh...
Dark light leaped, colliding with the solar brilliance from the Warlock Titan's elegant spear.
Light and darkness clashed. An explosion capable of destroying an entire hive city, yet utterly silent.
The dead silence of darkness engulfed everything, light and sound, wraithbone fragments and shattered ceramite plates, all burned and melted into wisps of ominous shadow.
Sanguinius looked at Nareth. 'Can he also see the future?'
If Nareth hadn't warned them, his Astartes would have been torn to shreds by the devastating explosion.
As Sanguinius pondered, he felt a shift and turned his head.
A Warlock Titan strode towards them. The spear in its hand blazed with light brighter than a star, striking one of the Reaver Titans.
The Titan's void shields instantly collapsed. Hurricane-force lightning tore it apart, smashing it like a toy.
After destroying the Reaver, the Warlock Titan did not press its attack. The soul entombed within gazed into the distance, at the three approaching Mon-keigh constructs.
With every step they took, the very ground of their home, Magc'Sithraal, shuddered.
The entire craftworld reviled them.
As a guardian of the dead, he would destroy these Mon-keigh constructs.
As the Warlock Titan turned its arm, a cold dread began to spread through Sanguinius's veins.
The memory of an oval chapel on Melchior flashed before his eyes.
"His name?"
Raldoron, his Blood Chief, spoke. "Alotros."
"Under Captain Targas of the 111th Company."
"Brother Alotros is dead." Azkellon, in golden armor, stepped from the dark doorway, glaring at Raldoron. "You should not have brought him here."
Raldoron was about to speak, but his Primarch spoke first: "Commander of my Guard, that is not your decision to make."
The steel in Sanguinius's voice made Azkellon's face go pale. "Stand aside."
Azkellon stepped aside, but still stubbornly insisted: "This should be handled by us. Quietly."
"Quietly?" Sanguinius shook his head firmly. "No, my son. No Blood Angel will simply and quietly fade away."
As he entered the Nephilim temple, his gaze fell upon Alotros.
"Look at me."
Alotros's bestial gaze met his Primarch's. Sanguinius saw the raw hunger in them.
Alotros snarled, his hands clenching into claws, his fangs bared.
Sanguinius knew it was too late, but he tried to reach him nonetheless, extending a hand.
"My son, take one step back."
"Turn back from the abyss. Return to us. I will save you."
Alotros blinked, as if hearing a language he did not understand.
"My fault," Sanguinius said. "The fault is mine. But if you help me, I will set it right."
He took a step forward. "Alotros, will you help me?"
A wild, feral intent surfaced on Alotros's face. Sanguinius felt a profound, hollow ache.
"Roar!"
Alotros, consumed by a maddening rage, screamed in the tribal dialect of Mesa from Baal.
Sanguinius pieced together the fragmented words, understanding his son's meaning: He only wanted to sink his teeth into living flesh, to drink deep of its rich, crimson liquid.
Sanguinius did not move. Alotros beat against his golden armor in frenzy.
His armor held, but the flames of his rage did not abate. They burned ever hotter. The smell of blood, mixed with his breath, washed over Sanguinius.
Sanguinius knew the source of this crimson rage, this bloodthirst.
He could feel it, a poisoned thread coiled within his own genetic helix.
A dark legacy, passed down to his sons.
A latent death-mark.
"I am sorry, my son." Sanguinius spoke to Alotros in sorrow, and snapped his son's neck.
He turned, looking towards the figure emerging from behind a tilted pillar.
"What have you done?" The light illuminated Lupercal's face. Horrified, he pressed:
"What have you done?"
"You... killed him."
Sanguinius turned, placing himself protectively between Horus and the body, blocking him.
"You followed me?" His voice was filled with fury and shock, a thousand emotions tangled within, shame, regret, and more. "You spied on me?"
As Sanguinius was ensnared by the deep-seated fears amplified by the trio of Warlord-class Ordo Sinister Psi-Titans, the Emperor's cold voice echoed in Nareth's mind.
"Hannibal and his Legion have been censured for their crimes."
"From this day forward, all Imperial departments are to delete all data pertaining to the 2nd... and 11th... Legions."
Crack!
The sound of a snapping spine and a death-scream.
'Hah!' Nareth ascended to the Second Level of the Thelema mindstate. Golden light blazed from his spine.
'Russ, a beaten dog!'
'Not even the Emperor can decide my fate!'
He then turned his gaze to Sanguinius, whose face had gone pale. 'Is this... a psychic backlash from the Flaw?'
'Speaking of which, the Blood Angels are in a truly sorry state. Not only do they suffer from the Red Thirst, but after Sanguinius's death, they will also be plagued by the Black Rage.'
'If the opportunity arises, perhaps I will intervene.'
Unlike the Space Wolves, afflicted with the Canis Helix, if the chance came, Nareth might still save the Blood Angels. Provided he could control them.
Nareth's fleeting thought of rescuing the Blood Angels passed, and he turned his attention to the three Warlord-class Ordo Sinister Psi-Titans.
Their dark pulses collided with the Warlock Titan's overwhelming starlight.
In the silent detonations, the entire craftworld shuddered continuously.
As the three Warlord-class Psi-Titans and the Warlock Titan engaged in their psychic duel, Wraithknights joined the battle, engaging the remaining three Reaver Titans and supporting their own Warlock's wraith-construct.
Nareth and Sanguinius spread their wings, diving towards the mass of Aeldari forces surging from the craftworld's depths.
Golden wings unfurled. Bolt shells rained. Plasma beams blazed.
As the craftworld shuddered, Nareth crushed a Seer's skull with his fist, then beat his wings, pulling back from the Aeldari.
He looked towards the center of the battlefield. The ongoing psychic duel between the Warlock Titan's colorful vortex and the Ordo Sinister's Darksun cannons had torn a six-meter-wide rift.
The Warp rift expanded rapidly. The sanity of sixty Aeldari within a kilometer radius shattered. They charged madly into the destructive streams, torn to shreds.
Boom!
In the dead silence, smooth, purple patterns materialized on the Warlock Titan's limbs.
The scent of musk filled the air. Colorful arteries pulsed.
The Warlock Titan, which had been silent, uttered a cry of despair.
Porcelain fragments rained down, rippling outward.
Hundreds of Aeldari near the battlefield broke. They charged forward recklessly.
Those farther back in the formation scattered in chaos.
Nareth watched the craftworld crumbling from the Warp rift, pressed his communication bead, and issued the order.
"The Aeldari are breaking!"
He withdrew his gaze, looking at the Ordo Sinister Psi-Titans. Their molten shells were slowly reconfiguring.
'I destroyed one Warlock Titan. All three of the Ordo Sinister's Warlord-class Titans survived.'
The Primarch's gaze pierced their steel hulls, to the enslaved Alpha-grade psykers, bound by surgical apparatus, trembling, their skin withered, blood seeping from their noses and mouths.
'They won't last long.'
He watched the three Titans carry away the wreckage of the four Reaver Titans. The Blanks in their cockpits said not a word to him or Sanguinius, just as they had entered the battlefield in silence.
....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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