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They are three, coming to be ground and torn by jaws of eight and edict of four. They believe in the illusion of choice, in the ragged dream of their struggle. The disciple of reason, the holder of secrets, and the winged nobility, they are infused with fire. It will burn them. I will burn them.
We should have known, Sanguinius thought. We should always have known. My sons and I most of all. How could we believe there could be angels without daemons?
‘Theoretical,’ said Gorod. ‘If the boarding assault has no practical chance of taking the ship, its target must be a narrower one.’ ‘Me,’ said Guilliman. ‘Titus’ evidence points in that direction.’ ‘I agree. Your practical had better not involve me leading from the rear.’ ‘I’ll revise it.’
The changes we cannot see are the most dangerous. History altered is worse than history forgotten.
When your goals align with the enemy’s, let the enemy labour for you.’
I must not believe I wield such cataclysmic power. No one should. The idea is corrupt and corrupting.’
He wondered if Horus or Lorgar really understood what they had unleashed. Was this what they wanted? They could not rule here. There would be nothing to rule. They would be the slaves of these powers.
Only they were more complete than he admitted. The destruction of a world had punched a hole through an immaterial net. The Lion wondered how far he could extend the principle. The vision was tempting in its simplicity. Horus and the rest of the traitors could not rule if they had no bases. The Lion pictured a programme of deliberate, systematic annihilation. If a world had fallen to the enemy, a campaign to take it back was a waste of resources. Break the worlds and break the foe, he thought.
His blood was running cold. Be sure of my decisions? he thought. You have no idea how long I have been second-guessing them. And he had been right to do so. The Lion had almost made the worst possible one. We are so fragile. We command this much might, and we can fall so easily.
Perturabo kneeled before Sanguinius. His armour was shattered. Within and without, the iron had been smashed. In the distance, Sanguinius saw Guilliman and the Lion leading more of their fallen brothers in chains, bringing them to the site of their surrender.
‘By paths of eight and gods of four, I am Madail the Undivided. By fates of eight and edicts of four, you shall serve. You shall be the Angel of Ruin.’
‘I have been tempted before,’ Sanguinius snarled. ‘I did not fall then. I will not fall now.’ He tried to lift his sword. It would not move. The female daemon tapped his neck, warning him to cease, inviting him to try again. ‘Tempted,’ said Madail. ‘Tempted by the divided. You shall be, as I, the undivided. Before was not for you. Now is for you. Now is destiny. Now is the truth of fate. Become what your form decrees. You are the Angel of Ruin.’
Temptation could not touch him, for there was no glory he desired. He fought for Terra and for Baal. He fought for the Emperor and the Imperium. Death could not touch him, for he was the lord of the Blood Angels, and in this heart of the enemy’s domain, it was he who had come as death.
He staggered back from the portal. The herald stood in the midst of the portal, neither in the temple nor in the Veritas Ferrum. Bestriding realities, enveloped by the storm of the warp, he should not have been visible any longer. He should have vanished the moment he entered the portal. His silhouette was visible, bent over of the body of the daemon, his sword transfixing the Undivided. The edges of his outline trembled, as if the immaterium sought to eat away at his being. His stance over the writhing daemon was strong. He was motionless, already a symbol more than a warrior of flesh and
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