The deathly silence persisted — yet Sevatar now perceived the faint, cloying scent of blood suspended in the air. He crept cautiously into the syndicate's lodge; the habitual gathering place of his family, and the seat of the Godfather.
He swept his gaze across the chamber. There were no signs of struggle. Upon the dining table and the reception counter, freshly filled wine glasses and yet-to-be-served dishes sat in quiet arrangement — as though time had abruptly frozen at a single instant, and every occupant had simply... vanished.
Sevatar wished, desperately, to believe this was merely some crude jest perpetrated by his syndicate brothers. Yet the swelling chorus of death-whispers rebuked him.
"Silence!"
He snarled, attempting to suppress the terror flooding his breast. And, miraculously, at his utterance, the whispers receded — leaving only his own ragged breathing, echoing through the empty corridor.
With the clamour abated, Sevatar's cognition sharpened. He registered details previously obscured by panic.
The blood-scent is fresh. And he has... left a trail.
His gaze dropped to the floor. A faint, almost imperceptible track, delineated in crimson.
He understood, with cold clarity, that an entity capable of annihilating his entire family without detection would never commit such an elementary error. This blood-trail was deliberate. An invitation.
...I should turn back. Now.
The closer he drew to this unknown entity, the more acutely he felt himself falling — plummeting into an abyss from which there was no ascent.
The thought of flight flickered through his consciousness and was extinguished. Sevatar did not believe he could outrun such a predator. Nor would he spend the remainder of his existence in skulking concealment.
"Damn it. Fight, then."
His expression recomposed itself into fierce defiance. He drew his pistol and combat blade in a single, fluid motion, resolving to counter-assassinate the moment he acquired a target.
He followed the blood-trail. His footfalls grew lighter, slower. He deliberately merged his silhouette with the shadows, minimising his presence to the utmost.
Hah... Hah...
His respiration and cardiac rhythm accelerated. Adrenaline flooded his system.
After what felt an eternity, he arrived at the trail's terminus.
The Council Chamber.
The blood-trail led directly to the closed door. Sevatar knew, with absolute certainty, that the killer awaited him beyond it. And that retreat was no longer an option.
He verified his pistol's safety was disengaged. His palm pressed against the door.
"Enter, Jago Sevatarion."
A voice — impossibly familiar — emanated from within.
Sevatar's hand froze upon the door. Yet he recovered swiftly. He inhaled, deeply, and pushed.
CREAK——!
The groan of the hinges was an invitation from the abyss.
Sevatar snapped his pistol upward — and froze.
Cold sweat drenched his spine. He stood, paralysed, before the chamber's occupant.
"Necromancy... A very familiar discipline. Regrettably, I have not employed it in some considerable time."
"Had I retained the faculty... this place would be considerably more... animated, would it not?"
Sevatar could not articulate the horror that seized him in that moment. He understood, now, why the dead reviled him so.
Before him, atop a mound composed of countless corpses, sat a figure who was — in every particular — himself.
The man was arrayed in war-plate Sevatar had never before beheld. He regarded Sevatar with an expression of cold, languid amusement — the very aspect attributed to a legend recently coalescing within the Nostraman hive:
The Night Haunter.
"Who... who are you?!" Sevatar's voice was a rasp, a snarl. He demanded the identity of this entity who dared to impersonate such an insignificant wretch as himself.
The monster was too similar to him. Yet his frame was more formidable, his physique honed to transhuman perfection. And his countenance was bisected by a vicious, vertical scar.
Sevatar wished to deny it. To convince himself this was mere artifice — some grotesque masquerade.
Yet, in the depths of his being, he knew.
The monster was him.
"You wonder who I am...?"
"Eighth Legion. First Company Captain. Jago Sevatarion."
"By order of the Legion Commander: I have come to slay the past Sevatar. "
Clad in his distinctive pattern of Night Lords power armour — 'Pale Step' — the Raven Prince descended, step by deliberate step, from his throne of accumulated corpses. He re-helmed himself. His tactical auspex flared crimson.
BANG!
Gunfire.
Sevatar did not meekly surrender his existence to this... other. He emptied his pistol's magazine into the Raven Prince's chestplate.
Ting. Ting. Ting. Ting.
Each round flattened against the ceramite and ricocheted into the darkness.
"Feeble resistance. Accept your fate. "
As the gulf between Primarch and Astartes was unbridgeable, so too was the chasm between mortal and transhuman.
His ammunition expended, Sevatar hurled his empty pistol at the Raven Prince, pivoted, and fled the Council Chamber.
"Flee... A judicious selection."
"Yet — is it not somewhat belated for such prudence, Sevatar?"
The Raven Prince's form dissolved into shadow — a technique mirroring the Primarch Curze's own. He pursued Sevatar at a leisurely, measured pace. Not to slay — but to enjoy the hunt.
What do I do?!
He knows this terrain as well as I. With such a deficit of information, escape is impossible. This absolute disparity in puissance — it cannot be compensated by any means at my disposal...
Sevatar's psychological fortifications crumbled. He understood, with perfect clarity, that this was precisely the effect his pursuer intended. Yet, in this moment, he found it almost impossible to even flee the syndicate's sphere of influence.
"The game of cat and mouse... concludes."
SHHK——!
Sevatar threw himself backward by pure instinct. Yet the left side of his face was still laid open — a shallow, sanguine furrow carved into his flesh.
The Raven Prince emerged from shadow. He had, notably, refrained from employing his signature power glaive. He assaulted Sevatar with lightning claws alone — as did his fellow Night Lords.
"You are fortunate, Sevatar..."
"Had you delayed your retreat by a single heartbeat, your cranium would now be bisected."
Sevatar collapsed. He could no longer attend to his counterpart's words. His cheek was drenched in blood; one eye was temporarily blinded. The searing agony of the laceration eroded his tenuous grip upon consciousness.
Yet he refused to die. Even as his awareness guttered, he dragged himself upright.
"Oh?"
"It seems... fortune smiles upon you this night."
As though sensing something, the Raven Prince inclined his helm towards a distant quarter of the hive. Then, without further elaboration, he dissolved once more into shadow — bounding into the depths of the warren.
Only after his departure did Curze — who had traced the Night Lord's spoor in reverse — finally arrive upon the scene.
He identified Sevatar, collapsed upon the ground, at a single glance.
Still alive... Such injuries require Nyx's attention.
Curze approached the fallen youth. He ignored Sevatar's feeble, instinctive resistance, and rendered him unconscious with a single, precise application of force. Sevatar sank into darkness.
Before his departure, Curze cast a final, penetrating gaze in the direction the Raven Prince had fled.
"...My beloved son. You permitted him to escape."
A shadow darker than shadow materialised in the gloom behind the Raven Prince. The Night Haunter — the future Konrad Curze — suppressed the faint, simmering wrath in his voice.
"There shall be no second lapse... Do not disappoint me again, Sevatar..."
"...Yes, father."