Ruinstorm

by David Annandale

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 bone. He would stand until his work was done. ‘We have little time,’ Sanguinius said to his brothers. ‘We must act while my son holds fate at this crossroads. We must honour his sacrifice.’ It felt like a crime, like a new form of treachery, to turn his eyes from the herald and the miracle of that silhouette in the portal. At the last moment, he witnessed the greater miracle. He saw the outline of wings spring from the herald’s shoulder. A new angel was coming into being. ‘Son of my blood!’ Sanguinius cried. ‘Son of my hope!’ And the angel blazed with gold.