Our Father's Leash is Made of Blood and Iron

An Angron short story

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"Subduing death is an ancient fantasy, which our ancestors on Earth have pursued so ardently over the centuries. There is something sadly ironic about the fact that we have focused so hard on the destination that we have forgotten the journey.

After all, isn't there so much opportunity in life? Imagine if we tamed life instead of death. Imagine the human mind peeled back and harnessed, at the whim of its masters. Who knows what sublime things we might create?"

Dazsrar mil V'kan, Nucerian legatee nuncio - M27 (apocryphal)

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Thaw came, and with it, the corpses that everybody had forgotten.

Local stories made it very clear that the snow was a mystical screed laid by the stars, so their shine wouldn't be tarnished by death. The stars, he had been told, were a symbol of life on this world. Perhaps it had something to do with the times before the Long Night, when spaceships were a delightful sight.

For him, spaceships were murder incarnated. The weapon of a coward, who couldn't face his enemy and take his life honourably.

'It's an interesting thought, sire,' his equerry had said.

He had shared the thought with the transhuman warrior - his son - because it felt so real to him. There was a disturbing irony to think that he, the Unbeaten, was now the High-Rider of a spaceships fleet.

Warships, he corrected himself. This new thought lightened his mood for a while, but he didn't share it, this time. Everything was so new to him, and the memory of his homeworld too fresh. But there was a battle incoming, that he knew for sure. An occasion to give this world brand new corpses, for one last but glorious time. He was hungry for blood, and his warriors - his sons - were too.

After all, they were the World Eaters.

I

Dreagher stepped into the snow, and let his eyes roam over the landscape. Hills covered with a white blanket, and here and there, one could discern a black earth as hard as stone.

Nothing impressive.

He left the Stormbird's ramp and went into the so-called secured landing area, chuckling to himself. Their cousins loved to give technical names to places they walked on, such as secured landing area, as it could give them some logistical advantage. For his part, Dreagher just had their dropships landing at this very place because it was convenient, not caring to give it a name or not.

Behind the hills was the Fists advanced post, built upon the ruins of some ancient town. The VIIth was standing for almost eight months, and the upcoming spring bore new threats. Some reptilian xenos, if Dreagher remembered well. A hardly intelligent race, who slowed down the submission of this world.

'It's gloomy,' someone observed behind him.

Horzt just came out of the Stormird, and was judging the landscape with a serious look. He had let his helmet hanging from his belt, and was examining their new battlefield with eyes as black as the void.

'It's a place,' Dreagher laconically responded. 'There are enemies, and we kill them. Then we leave'.

Seeing that he would get nothing more, Horzt shrugged, and set about gathering the legionaries.

With a roar of turbines, the Dente Acuta initiated his landing in the middle of the muster, without consideration for the Astartes below. The imposing dropship had not yet touched the ground that a massive figure fell from it, and received itself perfectly on the frozen ground.

Instinctively, Dreagher was tempted to kneel down, but he held back at the last moment. All of them knew how much Angron despised obedience.

This vision was one of pure majesty for the World Eaters. Five weeks had passed since Desh'ea, five weeks of barely tamed rage and inarticulate sorrow haunting the Adamant Resolve. These past five weeks, Angron learned very little, and was more a stranger than a general.

But here… Dreagher almost cried. His gene-sire was more than he could have ever hoped for ; Angron stood perfectly still, squeezed in an armor made of motley pieces. A bronze pauldron coated a shoulder, while the other was simply stripped. A ceramite plate, rougly bent, covered his torso, and a chain petticoat was falling down his muscular thighs. Plunged in his head like a thousand knives, an archeotechnologic heap of cables was slightly jumping on his skull. The almost imperceptible tremor was waving through the divine body, preparing it for battle.

The Primarch was nothing like the stories told by the First of Caliban, the Wolves of Chtonia or the Angels of Baal about their own lords. But at this very moment, Dreagher knew for sure they were the World Eaters, and they had found their lost father. They weren't the War Hounds of Terra anymore, sent by the Imperial Army generals according to their whim. No, they really were Legiones Astartes, serving Angron of Nuceria. From now on and forever, the XIIth legion would be proud to serve such a master.

In unison, the World Eaters raised their weapons and bawled a welcome, at last unfettered from the wait of the last weeks.

But Angron wasn't listening to them. The features of his harsh face were drawn with deep concentration, as he inhaled the air insistently.

'Blood'.

His voice rolled in the freezing air like an unspeakable edict, a word that would suffer no challenge whatsoever.

'I smell… blood. I hear… death'.

Angron closed his eyes, then took a deep breath, his square jaw soon twisting with a carnivorous smile.

'Blood !' he screamed.

Going from utter stillness to a frenzied run, the Primarch leaps into the hills, his long black cloak flapping in the wind.

Frozen like a statue, Khârn was boiling with rage. The dark interior of the Skylance dropship was lit only by the lenses of the various helmets present; occasionally the clatter of servitors disturbed the silence, as did the atmospheric rubbings.

Khârn paid no attention to any of this. His fists opened and closed slowly, the only gesture his subconscious would tolerate. Containing his anger any longer would have been complicated, especially if he had to face Angron.

According to his internal chronometer, the 8th captain had three minutes left before they hit the ground, but perhaps it would already be too late. Perhaps their impatient lord had already run to the xenos, to quench his insatiable thirst for battle. The example was bad, in Khârn's opinion, and harmful. Several members of the 8th company had expressed their desire to join the surface, and in itself, Khârn did not blame them: this would be the legion's first action with the Primarch, and the honour of participating was great.

But they were a legion of the Imperium. Some tended to forget that, especially when the battle was so close. Khârn had had to use threats, and also Mago's support, to force his brothers to stay aboard the Adamant Resolve. Discipline had to be maintained, even if the Primarch decided to go into battle earlier than planned.

'Company captain Khârn?'

Adept Achir-Tel stepped around the mass of the space marine, and stared into the bronze helmet with his three luminescent eyes. Despite the shadow of his hood, the pursing of his lips was obvious.

'Captain...'

'I heard you, adept,' Khârn cut in abruptly. 'What's the matter?'

'The auspex have spotted the Dente Acuta, as well as the assault force. However, it appears that the landing zone is free of allied forces, which appear to be heading towards the Imperial Fist outpost. Conjecture: Primarch Angron has engaged the enemy.'

'Engaged?'

'Shots were spotted from the...'

Khârn swore, and shoved the adept aside. He made his way to the cockpit, where he could see the vast expanse of black earth and white snow. Less than a kilometre from the Stormbirds' gathering stood the Imperial stronghold.

Residential buildings and roads could still be seen, but angular prefabs dominated the centre and outskirts of the city. With his enhanced vision, Khârn could see that most of the civilian buildings had been simply recycled, their materials converted into makeshift barricades.

An entire side of the bastion was under siege. Attacked, rather. A shapeless mass of dark green creatures were massing against the dykes, striking and biting.

'Bring us closer!' shouted Khârn, beside himself.

Despite the distance, it was impossible not to notice Angron. The majestic gladiator of Desh'ea stood in the middle of the enemy lines, laughing at the danger. He struck out with his powerful fists, or grabbed the xenos before smashing them brutally to the ground. Around him, the World Eaters formed a shattered circle of a hundred Astartes, unaware of this tactical aberration. Able to organize themselves efficiently, the legionnaires seemed to have given in, as they too often did, to the intoxication of combat.

Achir-Tel entered the cockpit, and took a quick look at the situation.

'Captain Khârn. I suggest...'

'Silence. Get as close to the Primarch as you can, and drop me'.

'He doesn't seem to…'

With lightning speed, Khârn turned and sent his fist into the adept's chest. He crashed into the landing ramp and did not move, his neck forming a meaningless angle.

The captain felt a vague sense of remorse, but the anger was too much.

'You,' he said.

The two servitors accompanying Achir-Tel had not moved at all since they left the Adamant Resolve. The huge object they held in their mechanical arms was inert.

'You,' repeated Khârn. 'Give it to me'.

Bruised in many places, Dreagher had never felt more alive. He had long since lost his bolt pistol, and was wielding his chainsword with both hands.

Another of the xenos appeared in front of him, its two forepaws ready to grab him. A smile lit up the captain's face. He ducked the first blow and swung, hoping to slice through the pair of powerful legs that supported the creature; the chipped teeth of his weapon skidded on the thick leather, and a powerful riposte sent it tumbling.

Over three metres tall, with a wide mouth lined with sharp teeth, the xeno was almost as fast as it was strong. One of its paws grabbed the captain's helmet, and the other one gripped of his legs.

'No,' Dreagher growled through clenched teeth. 'Not today'.

He deactivated the bronze helmet's magnetic clasp, and drew his gladius at the same time. His sharp blow sliced through the limb, and Dreagher fell ungracefully to the scarlet snow.

He moved back into a defensive position, only to see Khârn falling from the sky.

The eighth captain crushed the xeno under his weight, and straightened up in an almost nonchalant manner. A chainsaw axe lay in his hands - but what an axe! The weapon was far too big for an Astartes, even one as large as the late Gheer.

A Skydance made regular passes over the opposing horde, its weapons tracing bloody furrows through the xenos. Completely exposed, the enemy was retreating under this onslaught, but the World Eaters were not about to leave any survivors.

Khârn looked around, then drew his bolt pistol and pulled the trigger. The xeno charging towards him collapsed, its mouth shattered by the reactive mass projectile.

'Dreagher'.

Khârn's voice was dangerously calm, full of pent-up anger.

'The 11th had to secure a safe zone, make contact with the Fists there and then welcome the Primarch'.

'Indeed. You can be angry, brother, but don't you dare hold me responsible for this mess. If you want to pick on someone, look behind you'.

Covered in dark blood, Angron leapt onto the battlefield, his brutal blows killing the straggling reptilians. A dozen deep scratches were already healing on his exposed skin, and several shreds of metal had been torn from his armour.

Their yellow breastplates scratched in all directions, the Imperial Fists marched out of the city, weapons raised.

Khârn counted nineteen Astartes. The original message from the 224th expeditionary fleet had mentioned an entire company and regiments of the Imperial Army as auxiliary support.

The message was two months old.

The contingent of the VIIth was led by a captain, his ornaments tarnished with blood, and his black cloak shredded. With a proud step, hammer on his shoulder, he approached Khârn and struck his breastplate with his fist in salute.

'Captain Aryl Archid, VIIth Legion,' he introduced himself soberly. 'Thank you for answering our call'.

'Khârn, of the 8th company of the XIIth'.

'Your approach was unorthodox, captain Khârn, but we are grateful. It is an honour for us to be supported by your Primarch'.

Without responding, Khârn glanced at his lord. Angron continued to roam the scarlet snow, stalking the slightest prey.

Ghalan Surlak and other World Eaters were already heading for the Fists, providing expertise and care for the more seriously injured.

'The situation is delicate', Archid said in his firm voice. 'The xenos are a far greater threat than we anticipated. The current population had managed to secure several areas effectively, but it seems that our arrival has only made things worse'.

'They're just big lizards,' Dreagher replied, approaching. 'They're tough, but I can't see how they're dangerous'.

'The numbers,' Archid replied. 'Soon after we arrived, we secured the three main population centers, but hordes of xenos emerged from the earth and ravaged everything. We settled here in the hope of luring them away, but their numbers seem... considerable'.

'Why here?' asked Khârn.

'We've located what appears to be a nest, a few dozen kilometres from here. Most of their forces seem to be coming out of it. The idea was to lure them out in order to reduce their numbers, and then mount a single, definitive counterattack. We…'

The Imperial Fist paused. With a quick, almost impatient step, Angron approached them. The Primarch didn't seem to care that his armor was down to a few pieces of metal, or the many wounds that dotted his pale flesh.

-Khârn,' he grunted. 'Mmmh. Who is this cousin?'

'Captain Archid of the Imperial Fists, sire'.

Without a sound, Angron looked at the yellow-clad warriors, as if sizing up their strengths and weaknesses. A grimace of disdain twisted his features as the Astartes dropped to one knee.

'Get up, builders. I am not your Emperor to make you crawl before me like grubs'.

Slowly, the Fists rose to their feet, but Khârn noted that their posture was now more one of distrust than deference.

'Imperial Fists,' Angron breathed, sniffing. 'Rogal Dorn's, isn't it, Khârn?'

'Yes, sire'.

'You build, I believe. But the World Eaters destroy, little man of flesh. They throw down stones, as I did at Hozzean, and break skulls, as I did at Desh'ea. Do you have a problem with that, son of Dorn?'

'My lord. We fight for the Imperium, in any way necessary'.

The black iron of Angron's teeth revealed itself in a wide smile as a trickle of blood left his lips.

'Sire,' intervened Khârn.

The 8th captain had no desire to let his unpredictable father start an ideological discussion with his inflexible cousins. The outcome would only be uncertain, and Khârn had no wish to take a stand against the Astartes.

'As I was telling your captain,' Archid continued, 'we have...'

'I heard,' Angron cut in. 'The battle is ahead. We... mmmh, we're going'.

'My lord? Is it wise to advance like this against the xenos?'

'Paperskin,' sighed the Primarch in a dangerously low tone. 'I am taking my sons into battle. Walk, or stay here'.

With that, the master of the XIIth turned and walked away.

'All units,' Khârn called out through his vox. 'Regroup behind the Primarch, prepare for battle. Dreagher, contact the fleet. Tell Mago to prepare companies for an assault, and Vel-Kheredar to prepare heavy support'.

'Heavy support?'

'We don't know what we're up against, but an armored spearhead might come in handy. Capitol Imperialis, Decimators, that sort of thing. We have to be ready for anything'.

As the clatter of confirmation echoed through his helmet, Khârn joined his father in a long stride. Angron walked briskly, in a silence disturbed only by the occasional grunt; a few nervous twitches agitated his face, and blood trickled gently down his chin. As far as Khârn could tell, it was all related to the metal cables rattling around on his skull.

'Sire. I have a gift for you'.

Angron glanced quickly at the squire, then stopped short when he saw the object being held out to him. Even under the pale blue cloth, the general shape of the weapon was visible.

With almost surprising delicacy, the Primarch dropped the cloth and took hold of the axe with both hands.

It was a magnificent piece of work. Achir-Tel was a talented adept, and he had put all his art - and his teams - at the service of Khârn's request. The three weeks of travel between Nuceria and this icy world had produced a weapon as tall as an Astartes, its handle wrapped in creya leather. These reptiles that roamed the toxic expanses of Australasia were once prime targets for aspiring War Hounds; before cruisers and their training cages took them to the stars, Khârn and his brothers had stalked these monsters across their barren steppes, honing their martial skills so they would never die, and continue to conquer.

Angron sighed as his large hands tightened around the gigantic hamp. The leather was perfectly rough, and provided a grip that not even perspiration could diminish.

With an impassioned look that reminded Khârn of a butcher about to set to work, Angron detailed the head of the weapon. The carmine ceramite matched perfectly with the bronze ornaments, whose lightning bolts recalled the armies that had torn each other apart for control of Terra. The teeth of the chain were a stark black, but depending on the angle, a metallic, lethal sheen could be briefly glimpsed.

Finally, the top of the weapon ended in a long spike, sharpened to a molecular level by the Mechanicum's learned adepts.

'Sublime,' murmured Angron.

For his part, Khârn was fascinated by his genetic father's reaction. Perhaps for the first time since Desh'ea, the Primarch no longer seemed to be prey to his heartbreaking memories, and his perpetual pain. His breathing was slower as he recognised the beauty and lethality of this masterpiece.

Then, like a bubble suddenly burst, the moment evaporated as Angron started walking again, his massive weapon in hand.

'Come, Khârn. Show me how the World Eaters conquer a planet'.

II

In blood, and pain. These were the only things Chmarus' life had come down to in the last seven hours, and he could feel the lactic acid in his muscles as surely as the heat in his backpack. If they didn't stem this new tide, this expedition would be over.

Without paying attention to the warning runes on his heads-up display, Chmarus brought his mace down on one xeno, then another, and another.

To his left, centurion Te'Garr and two Imperial Fists threatened to be overwhelmed by the encircling reptiles.

After a brief moment of hesitation, the young Astartes raised his left hand and opened his mind.

The fork of lightning swept over the xenos with a shrill howl. The filaments of energy bounced off the ground and headed for new enemies, driven by the spirit of Chmarus.

The blue of the lightning had a thousand colours from the Warp, the shades of which, if they had not been too changeable for the naked eye, would have destroyed an otherwise healthy mind. Scales jumped and flesh burned, organs burst and charred eye sockets smoked.

The young codicier felt his mind on the verge of collapse, but he maintained, despite the unbearable pain, the expression of his powers. He wore the livery of the XIIth, and would prove worthy of it.

Then suddenly, Chmarus' mind was filled with a new pain, a burning pain. It was a torment that no human being could have endured, and that even a geno-forged mind could not fully comprehend.

A pain worthy of a demigod.

His name was Angron, and his pain was delicious.

The Nails. He had a vague memory of it, made up of reminiscences of Nuceria, and something more abstract. As if... as if his brain was diagramming neural implants in a chain connection; he saw electrical signals bouncing between copper nodes and flesh synapses, with...

Blood.

Images appeared in his mind, translated into words he didn't know he knew. He visualised black iron cables, with majestic micro-circuits. He imagined the twitching of his atrophied hypothalamus, fed by a flow of blood so rapid...

Carnage.

He remembered what he was supposed to be, though. He was a Primarch, a legion's master. His mental faculties were superior, far superior, to those who had proclaimed themselves his masters. He was not a slave rescued from the lifeless mountains, but a...

Annihilation.

His name was Angron, and he would win in the end.

'To the death!' he shouted through bloody teeth.

The Nails tightened their grip, and he felt almost ecstatic. For the first time in his life, he was fighting; he wasn't facing doomed slaves, or frightened silver soldiers. He was not leading a slaughterhouse dance, where only time slowed down the inevitable crowning of his revenge.

He was facing monsters, and he would beat them. This victory would be beautiful, and worthy.

Khârn's gift whirled in his hands, mowing down the enemies without distinction. The edge of the blade was perfect, cutting through scales as if they were cloth; the kinetic force of the weapon alone propelled limbs into the air, and repelled the endless waves of xenos.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The air was a bright red, almost offensive. Enemies glowed crimson, with dark red flashes. The blood itself, in all its intoxicating richness, was vermilion, and oozed amaranth as it poured into the carmine snow.

Angron's world was summed up in this indecent color, and he drowned in it with pleasure. The weapon in his hands distributed death, and the Nails fed him with rage. His life was measured only in the present, in an immediacy of pure violence. He went forward, always forward, pushing without respite. His broad strides caught the future before it escaped, baptizing the preciousness of the moment in cascades of destruction. The past no longer mattered, for Angron was moving forward, always forward.

He bathed in destruction, unable to stop. He was the king of this place, of this moment, crowned by the black iron that encircled his tortured skull. Nothing could even slow him down; he was inescapable death, advancing with his face uncovered. His blows were an indisputable edict, a truth that did not care about the enemy's fighting spirit.

Angron killed, slaughtered and dismembered. He was not a gladiator, but a restless butcher, and this whole world would be devoured.

Suddenly, all shades of red merged into one unhealthy, heartbreaking colour. The Nails screamed in his mind, digging deeper into his brain and tormenting his tattered psyche.

With all his muscles clenched, Angron fell to his knees, bloody drool cascading from between his trembling lips. He could no longer see red, but he could hear it.

The laughter and cheers of the lords of Desh'ea, echoed through the perfect acoustics of a marble arena; the sharp language of cruel warriors, beaten by a child in snowy mountains; the cackling of beings that were not, drowned in an immaterial sea; the rage-tinged hope of a warrior, leaving Terra for the first time with his new battle brothers.

He saw it all in his mind, through senses he should not have had. Even the incessant pain of the Nails seemed insignificant in the face of... all of this.

These were emotions, and he felt them with overwhelming vigour.

Chmarus was panting, and in pain.

On his knees, bent over in the muddy snow, he could feel the blood dripping through his faceplate without being able to react. His whole body was in pain, yet refused to obey him.

Was it... his body? Slowly, the young codicier looked at the luminous figure in front of him, whose contours were in constant motion. It was a massive being, with a thousand shades of red; a dark mass rested on what must have been its head, like a leech. Black filaments were sinking into the skull of the figure, and Chmarus had the image of a tumor, which kept the being alive and killed it together.

Then the codicier understood. When the anima of the Primarch looked straight into his soul, he saw the terrible existence that was his lord's.

His armor was dented in several places, and his axe was missing several teeth, but Khârn didn't care.

He was always killing, leaping from one troubled pocket of resistance to another. His instructions on the vox were concise, and allowed the World Eaters to move forward in a somewhat coordinated fashion.

What they had thought was an enemy reconnaissance force had turned out to be a large, dangerous group. These reptiles were slightly larger than their predecessors, with darker scales marked with old wounds. It was probably an elite detachment, aiming to stop the Astartes before they reached the main nest.

This thought made Khârn smile, and he decapitated a new enemy. There seemed to be no end to the assault, but the World Eaters didn't care. The 8th captain and his brothers would have gladly faced every living thing on the planet at that moment; spilling blood in the presence of the Primarch was an unparalleled honor, one that they all wished would never end.

The Primarch.

As if his subconscious had warned him of something, Khârn suddenly turned his head towards his lord and froze. Angron was on his knees, and seemed to be convulsing; instinctively, the Imperial Fists had gathered around him and established a tight defensive cordon.

'Borok!' called Khârn. 'Shabran, Vamor, Asubha! With me!'

With his transhuman speed, the squire sprinted toward his Primarch, ignoring enemies and allies in his path. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the prostrate figure of Chmarus several meters behind Angron.

The codicier was a recent addition to the legion, arrived from Terra shortly before the Primarch was discovered. Khârn had included him in his company, for the young Astartes' fighting spirit and mastery of the Warp were valuable advantages.

But at this very moment, Chmarus seemed to be a danger. For a reason he could not explain, or even clearly define, Khârn saw - felt - a connection between the codicier and Angron. The wires that tormented the Primarch's skull twitched at a frantic pace, and Angron's mouth was frozen in an inarticulate scream.

Without further thought, Khârn quickly raised his bolt pistol and fired a short volley. The projectiles struck Chmarus' armor without piercing it, and the young Astartes toppled over...

... in an ocean of rage. Waves of destruction licked his perfect face, and hemoglobin-laden spray tickled his nostrils. From between his thin lips, held open by the torture of the Nails, filaments of regret escaped. He kept seeing his brothers and sisters, slaughtered one after another. He felt the ineffable struggle to survive that had animated him, and the vital need they had all had to overcome. It had been more than determination; it was an instinct, encoded atavistically by millennia of evolution. Not even the cursed tiaras of enslavement used by the High-Riders had been able to erase that need to conquer life.

And for a brief moment, Angron saw something else. He saw an enlightened Primarch, dressed in silver armor accented with martian red gold. A sublime, ornate two-handed sword hung behind his back, over a cloak of ocean blue; the being of pure magnificence had noble features, and looked up to the stars. He was on the very same frozen world, but the gloomy ruins had been replaced by majestic cities, full of life. Angron, the Silver Angel of the XIIth, stood next to Guilliman of the XIIIth. The two brothers smiled, and looked with pride at the huge parade that was before them.

Entire companies of World Eaters paraded down the wide aisles, led by centurions in gleaming armor. Banners glorifying Terra, Nuceria and the legion were raised high, while war songs in Nagrakali echoed between the marble towers. Khârn and Mago advanced alongside two tetrarchs, the mineral blue next to the azure blue. The two pairs perfectly mirrored Angron and Guilliman, the two half-divine defenders of Ultramar.

The whole was a sublime vision, a vision of unity. It was the consecration of what the Imperium aspired to become, when its brotherhood of Primarchs worked hand in hand for the greater good.

And with a chorus of screams, the vision vanished.

Angron opened his eyes, the din of battle around him awakening his senses. His heavy breathing still made his formidable body tremble, and the Nails dug violently into his limbic system, obliterating any emotions other than pure anger. A warm, almost pleasant sensation rolled behind his eye sockets as his eyelids slowly opened and closed.

Without a word, Angron grabbed the handle of his axe, which had fallen nearby, and stood up.

The Imperial Fists had maintained their cordon, and were firing continuously to preserve their semi-circle of protection. Nothing seemed to deter them from their task.

Khârn and several World Eaters had closed in, their weapons lowered. The 8th captain's blue eyes conveyed incomprehension, but also a certain... pity? Angron let out an aggressive growl, then turned his attention back to Chmarus; the codicier had gotten to his feet, and was carefully avoiding his Primarch's gaze. Bloody streaks marred his face, and the frost on his gauntlets and psychic headdress was nothing like the planet's atmosphere.

After many seconds of contemplation, Angron turned on his heels and walked with a determined step towards the xenos.

He had to kill, and quickly.

Khârn made sure that the World Eaters continued to push forward, and especially that Ghalan kept an eye on the Primarch. Dreagher had taken it upon himself to regroup everyone, and admirably coordinated with Archid.

This done, the squire moved closer to Chmarus, making sure to keep his weapon in hand. While the 8th had indeed remained aboard the Adamant Resolve, awaiting deployment at the appointed time, Khârn had nevertheless attached the young codicier to the 15th just for this mission. Centurion Te'Garr had lost his psychic support on Calimar just before they arrived in Nuceria, along with a good half of his men. As much for logistical reasons as to forge the new recruits, Khârn had led some of the new recruits into the 15th, with the goal that the heat of battle would make them prove worthy of their colours.

In his uniformly blue armour, Chamrus looked exhausted, and ashamed. The blood stood out all the more on his dangerously pale skin, and Khârn was tempted to offer him his arm in support.

'Brother'.

'Captain Khârn,' Chmarus answered, swallowing. 'I... I'm sorry. I don't know what happened'.

'Neither do I,' the squire grunted.

Without fully disdaining them, the XIIth Legion did not hold the members of the Librarius in any particular affection. Magic was something intangible, and since their creation, the War Hounds had no use for anything that couldn't be held in one hand to hit something. For his part, Khârn was more prosaic: archivists had a role to play on the battlefield, and as long as they proved worthy of their other brothers, all was well.

'Neither do I,' Khârn repeated, 'but I think you can explain it better than I can. So explain it to me'.

'I feel as if my mind has... caught the Primarch's. I was sucked in by his emotions, I think. Powerless to do anything else'.

'His emotions?'

'It's hard to explain, centurion,' Chmarus grinned, trying to stand up straight. 'I was taken over by a stronger spirit, filled with violence, hatred and... melancholy, I think. It was the first time I felt things so strongly'.

Khârn nodded softly, then looked at the imperial advance. Slowly but surely, led by Angron, the Astartes were gaining ground.

'I understand. Rest for a moment, Chmarus, and see an apothecary when this is over'.

The centurion shouldered his brother with an almost gentle gesture, then headed back into battle.

The xeno was titanic, even by the as yet unknown standards of this species. Taller than the sacred sarcophagus of Lhorke, this monster was massive, and its scales, marked with ancient scratches, were a dull black.

Dreagher had lost his ranged weapons, again, and his chainsword made an unpleasant sputtering sound. Nevertheless, the World Eater stood on guard, ready to sell his hide dearly. The creature tilted its head briefly, then charged at a bewildering speed.

A massive figure slammed into it, with a particularly deafening sound. The xeno had barely had time to get back on its four limbs when one of them was mowed down by the gigantic axe. Dumbfounded, Dreagher struggled to follow his Primarch's movements as he effortlessly dismembered the monster. Angron's movements were fast and brutal, but highly effective, with almost surgical precision; the single-molecule edge of the axe, propelled by the Primarch's musculature, was simply unstoppable. Like a butcher, Angron did his work, forcing the enemy wave to retreat.

'He is impressive,' a voice said.

Dreagher turned, and greeted Captain Archid with a nod. The Imperial Fist's yellow had disappeared under a thick layer of blackish blood, and in the frigid air, the superheated head of his energy hammer was billowing hot smoke.

'He is,' Draegher agreed. 'I'm proud to be fighting alongside him on this day'.

'Still, he seems rather unpredictable'.

Archid held up his hands in a gesture of appeasement as the World Eater turned abruptly, an evil gleam in his eyes.

'My apologies if I have offended you, captain Dreagher. Our ways of waging war are different, and the VIIth tends to hold certain... conventions'.

Dreagher grunted a reply, then with a few gestures, directed the members of his 9th towards the rest of the fighting.

Beneath his feet, the snowy fluff had turned to brownish mud. Here and there were putrefied remains that testified to the previous conflicts.

'This is a great victory,' Archid said neutrally. 'The creature your Primarch just killed is not unknown to us'.

'Is that so?'

'Our expeditionary fleet did not have a xenobiologist, but local news reports have referenced this monster several times. It is a male leader, who directs the forces of conquest while the queen mother manages the reproduction'.

'So we have a specific target?' Dreagher asked eagerly.

'It's more complicated,' sighed Archid. 'In theory, we strongly suspect the mother is not far from here, and her destruction should stop the organisation and reproduction of the entire species. But with the male dead, who knows what their reaction will be?'

III

They had gathered in what had once been an industrial facility. No sooner had the imperial force taken over than the Fists went to work, fortifying the area with salvaged materials.

Khârn and Te'Garr had implored the Primarch to secure the area and call in reinforcements. The 8th and at least one other company, as well as mechanised support; Angron had remained deaf to their pleas, and had resolutely led the Imperial advance through the cold. Wounded and able-bodied alike, the Astartes had deferred to the Primarch's decision and advanced to this complex. The journey had been made in the silence of fatigue, with the discreet company of the bodies that sometimes emerged from the ground. The Dente Acuta and the rest of the flotilla had stayed behind, the Mechanicum followers having taken the opportunity to inspect the remains of the city.

Archid moved between the buildings, his expert eye judging the progress of the work. Grudgingly, but obediently to centurion Khârn, the blue and white legionaries had made themselves available to their cousins in yellow, and were helping with the work.

Four small buildings were connected by corridors to a huge structure, although the whole was badly damaged. Rust covered walls with holes in them, and despite the many solar panels in the facility, the power supply refused to work. Whether it was due to the ravages of time or a previous attack, the fact was that this pseudo-fortress was not very useful. A good assembly point, probably, but nothing that cannot be efficiently defended in case of an attack.

With a determined step, Captain Archid made his way to the main building, where a war council was to decide what to do next. If he was to be honest with himself, the Imperial Fist felt uncomfortable with this war; the 224th Expeditionary Fleet was bled dry, and once the conquest of this world was over, Archid intended to return to the Phalanx. A resupply of troops and equipment would not go amiss, and seeing their Primarch again would certainly be a good thing. Archid had only fought once at Dorn's side, and the feeling had been so strong.

Angron, on the other hand... throughout his career, Archid had served alongside four other Primarchs, and they had always inspired him to a higher ideal. But the master of the XIIth was clearly not a leader, nor did he exude anything noble. He had renamed his legion the World Eaters - what a name! - when he himself was more reminiscent of a dog, deprived of a leash as well as a master. The consequences were already apparent, for in the space of thirty hours, the Astartes who had come as reinforcements had already lost nearly thirty brothers.

Archid dismissed these unworthy considerations with a shake of his head, and entered the improvised strategium.

The Mechanicum's adepts had set up two humming generators against a wall and redirected the existing cables to an external antenna, so that the ships of both legions had a constant and stable link with the troops on the ground.

Sitting on upturned crates, forming an almost perfect circle, the Astartes officers chatted amongst themselves; in the center, a hololithic projector representing the planet illuminated the vast room with its opaline light.

At the far end of the room, leaning against a wall and immersed in darkness, Angron seemed absorbed in his thoughts. His hands were tapping on the shaft of his weapon, and Archid could not help but notice that the Primarch seemed to be whispering to himself through his lipless mouth. He was still wearing his mismatched and tattered ersatz armor, but he didn't seem to care about it much. Members of the XIIth had propagated that the creature he'd killed a few hours earlier was the alpha male of the horde; if the rumour was true, he'd laughed when he heard it, and had come up with an appropriate name for his new weapon.

'Captain,' Khârn greeted as he rose to his feet.

'Centurion. Am I not too late?'

'You're just in time,' Taceran said. 'Arbitration would be appreciated'.

The veteran sergeant sported a large vertical gash on his tanned face, acquired only a few weeks earlier; a xeno's claw had ripped off his nose and upper lip and twisted his features. Still, Taceran had remained the resolute rock Archid had always appreciated.

'Watch your tongue, Fist,' spat a World Eater. 'Your captain doesn't...'

'That's enough, Horzt,' Khârn cut in sharply. 'No decision has been made yet'.

Slowly, Archid took a seat on one of the crates, and analyzed the room. Taceran and Cadacus, the two Imperial Fists present at the meeting, wore annoyed expressions. For their part, the World Eaters looked agitated.

'It's about time a decision was made, then,' said Taceran. 'The 224th Expeditionary Fleet has bled for this world for months. My brothers and I thank you for your arrival, but it must end'.

'This submission has gone on for far too long,' Cadacus agreed. 'We are out of ammunition, our auxiliary troops have been wiped out and the...'

'This submission,' Te'Garr interrupted him, emphasizing the word, 'is now under our supervision. Therefore, we will conduct it in our own way'.

'We have a common goal,' Archid remarked. 'The aquila does not yet float on this world, and I take full responsibility for it. That said, there has been too much bloodshed, and even if we kill the queen, there will be pockets of resistance all over the planet. A series of targeted orbital bombardments would effectively cleanse the planet before we reinforce our presence'.

'An orbital bombardment,' Horzt laughed. 'Are you afraid to get your hands dirty?'

Both Taceran and Cadacus leapt to their feet, gladius in hand.

'What are you?'

All the Astartes stood still, then turned their gaze to the darkness. Lazily, with his weapon in hand, Angron advanced in their direction.

'I understand,' he said almost gently, 'that my brother is Rogal Dorn. Is that so, Khârn?'

'Yes, sire'.

Angron smiled unhappily, his gaze fixed on the three yellow-clad legionaries.

'So you are his sons, while mine are the World Eaters. You are cousins. And I am your uncle, therefore. Am I right, Khârn?'

The squire nodded, but slowly. The whole situation made him uneasy; discreet but constant twitches agitated Angron's too-pale face. Involuntarily, Khârn couldn't help but think back to what had happened during their meeting, after De'Shea. Angron's uncontrollable rage was not something he wanted to see again anytime soon.

'And so, my nephews, you wish to return to your flying fortresses. You wish to abandon this world you have bled for, this enemy that will taunt you and feed on the corpses of your brothers. That is... pathetic'.

'It's pragmatic,' Archid replied, standing up.

The Imperial Fist stood tall, and unblinkingly held the gaze of a Primarch.

It was the first time in his life that such brutal criticism had been levelled at him, and the innuendo that accompanied it did not please Archid at all. Surrounded by his brothers who had remained standing, the captain continued:

'We have bled for this world, it is true. And I will gladly bleed for any world we bring back into the Imperium. But we fight for the Imperium, my lord, not for glory'.

'Captain...' Khârn tried in a conciliatory tone.

'Thank you, centurion, but I'm not done'.

The tone was sharp, but Archid's unyielding gaze was directed solely at Angron.

'A ninth, my lord. A ninth. That is what remains of the population of this planet since we embarked on this campaign. We have a way to save them and give them back their world, with the promise of the Imperium's protection. A charge into the heart of the enemy burrow is counterproductive'.

Taceran and Cadacus were motionless, except for their hands that rested on the hilt of their weapons. The World Eaters had slowly risen to their feet, ready to give their father a support all too definitive; only Khârn seemed to want a peaceful resolution to matters, and his uncovered face betrayed a certain anxiety.

Angron opened his mouth to reply when a sudden frown came over his face. He turned and walked towards a console, which he examined for several seconds.

When he turned around, a carnivorous grin distorted his features, and jolts shook his crown of cables.

'Khârn,' he called in a growl. 'Call all your brothers here. Now'.

'At once, sire'.

'Captain Archid. Step forward'.

The Imperial Fist tensed slightly, but obeyed. He raised his head, and held the Primarch's stare. In the semi-darkness, the amber eyes shone with a predatory glow.

'My lord?'

'Lord of the incompetents,' Angron breathed hoarsely.

He tilted his head to one side, and for a fleeting second Archid felt pity for the Primarch's wistful expression.

'But you are right, little builder of the Emperor. Take your brothers, since you consider them so, and go. Walk from where you came, commandeer my ships, whatever you think you should do. We will destroy this world from orbit, your way'.

'My lord... of course, my lord. Shall we reconnoiter the grounds while we wait for you? Secure an area of...'

'Go,' Angron growled. 'Now'.

Archid bowed his head, and left the room, his two officers at his heels.

The remaining World Eaters stood around, glaring at each other in incomprehension. Khârn considered asking his father what to do, but he seemed distant. Angron was lost in thought, and the only movements on his tense body were the sporadic twitching of his fingers and his eyes.

Gradually the other World Eaters entered the room, taking their places among their brothers; only the barely audible hum of power armors disturbed the silence.

As the last of the legion arrived, Khârn could not help but notice the state of the expedition. In less than two terran days, the force led by the Primarch had lost a third of its strength, and the condition of the survivors was aberrant. Lost weapons and shattered armor were added to the many flesh wounds.

'Good'.

Angron's voice rolled around the room like an avalanche of stone, and all eyes turned to him.

'Khârn. Before I spared you, you told me of the strength of the World Eaters'.

'Yes, sire'.

'Draegher. It was you who told me we would conquer worlds'.

'I... Yes, sire. I did say that'.

'Te'Garr. You roar in your training cages, beating your brothers. Your cries of victory echo proudly in your metal ships'.

The Primarch had slowly approached the gathering, an evil glint in his eye and the bloody Widowmaker in his hand. He looked at each of his sons with deep contempt, the gash on his lips showing an ominous sneer.

'World Eaters!' he suddenly roared. 'The most violent warriors in the universe, who live only to see their enemies die. And yet... yet you are alive here, while your enemies still breathe outside'.

-'Sire...' tried Khârn.

'Shut up, squire,' Angron snarled in a deadpan tone. 'If it was an apology I wanted, I would have called back, mmh... the Fists'.

It didn't escape anyone that the Nails seemed to have sunk a little deeper into the Primarch's skull, and a thin drop of blood beaded under his nose.

'You are excuses,' Angron spat. 'All of you, pathetic warrior excuses. You walk around in your impenetrable armors, howling like dogs, hoping no one will guess your black strings. But I see your failure. I do see the weakness of your arms, the mediocrity of your will'.

'Sire,' said Dreagher, taking a step forward. 'We fight for you, as best we can. And if you ask more, then we will give more. Command, and we will do'.

A murmur of assent ran through the room, before abruptly dying out. Angron's smile stretched wide with a wet sound, revealing two vast rows of sharp black teeth. All the Astartes in the room had seen their lord's anger before, but the emotion dancing on Angron's face was new.

Cruelty.

'My World Eaters,' he snarled. 'You pride yourselves on conquering worlds, and you can't take this one in a day. Thirty-one standard hours; that's, mmh... that's how long a day is on Nuceria. That's how long it took my brothers and sisters to raze a city'.

'Sire...' tried again Khârn.

'That's how long we needed to conquer,' Angron continued, raising his voice. 'And clearly, it is not enough for those who claim to be my sons'.

The Primarch's ragged breathing echoed through the room, drowning out even the faint hum of power armors and generators.

'Then there is only one solution. If you aspire so much to excellence, warriors in name, you must understand the importance of, mmh... of failure. And its consequences. Khârn, will you obey me?'

'Sire,' replied the centurion, slapping his chest, 'command, and you shall be granted'.

'Good,' smiled Angron. 'Then purge the failure of this legion. For every campaign not won in one nucerian day, you will decimate... argh'.

The Primarch coughed, splattering the ground in front of him with rich hemoglobin. He snorted loudly before straightening up, an unyielding expression on his face.

'For every unsuccessful conquest, one tenth of the warriors involved will be put to death by their brothers. In front of me'.

The silence that followed was unbearably heavy. For a long minute, not even the slightest movement disturbed the apparent quiet of the room.

Khârn finally took a step forward and looked the Primarch in the eye without lowering his head.

'Sire. Our numbers are among the lowest in the Crusade. We are moving quickly, but at a high price. Killing each other in a race...'

'Khârn,' Angron growled with a note of warning. 'Obey'.

The 8th captain hesitated. Disobeying his genetic father was almost impossible, so bound was his own body and psycho-endoctrinated mind to the Primarch's will.

But an Astartes spilling the blood of another Astartes... it was an impossibility, a violation of the physical laws of the universe. An unspeakable act that even a mad mind would have described as heresy.

'The purge is beneficial,' Angron murmured. 'Weakness is excised, and threat motivates. Watch'.

The Primarch leapt at astounding speed, knocking over several legionnaires in his path. Still unlit, Widowmaker came down with a wet thud.

Vamor's upper body, sliced from left shoulder to right hip, slowly collapsed before falling noisily to the ground. The 11th company warrior's legs and pelvis soon followed, still expelling a cascade of blood.

Angron turned very slowly, revealing the vast scarlet splatter covering his face and chest.

'Khârn,' he snarled. 'Do my will. A tenth, mmh... a tenth, as a lesson. Decimate... for your Primarch'.

All eyes were on him. For the first and last time in his life, the 8th captain of the World Eaters was happy to wear a helmet to hide his shame. His jaw was clenched as he calculated, coldly and regretfully, how to fulfill Angron's desire.

The bolt pistol at his hip was the cleanest, fastest solution. But if he really had to kill his brothers, he would not honor any of them with a bullet; in life and in death, they were World Eaters.

And Angron had spoken.

Khârn lunged, lighting his chainaxe, his helmeted face expressionless. His tense muscles, strengthened by the synthetic fibres of his MkII armour, propelled him forward as his axe rose. Centurion Te'Garr let out a brief hiccup of surprise before collapsing, his exposed throat torn open by the chainaxe.

Ahorz saw the threat approaching, and was more responsive than his centurion; he raised his energy falx, but the elegant blade was not designed to parry. He attempted a clumsy thrust that slid off Khârn's shoulder before he fell, his head away from his neck.

The decision had been simple, almost mathematical. The 15th was bled dry, and reintegrating its members into another company made sense. Te'Garr and Ahorz were - had been - good warriors, but also officers. Their deaths, in all their absurdity, would at least serve a logistically beneficial purpose for the legion.

There was only one more execution to perform to satisfy Angron's will.

The last choice had not been simple. It was based on rough conjecture, which was neither logistically nor honourably correct. Khârn had made this decision hoping for the Primarch's approval, while hating himself deeply for it.

As if he had sensed the direct threat to him, Chmarus looked straight at the centurion, weapons down, and said:

'I will not fight you, brother-captain'.

Khârn did not answer, and clutched the handle of his axe. The other World Eaters did not dare to move, while Angron merely looked on with an almost bored expression.

'Raise your weapon,' Khârn snarled. 'Raise your weapon, Chmarus, and face me'.

'No. I can't'.

'Chmarus. Fight back. Fight back!'

'If that's what our lord wants, Captain, then no. I'd rather you executed me'.

Khârn made a sound, almost like a groan.

Then he dropped his axe, and drew his bolt pistol. The first bullet shattered the codicier's exposed head, and the second pierced the backpack, tipping the body over. The third, fourth and fifth were nothing necessary.

'Good,' commented Angron.

He stepped up beside Khârn, to whom he gave a brief look of satisfaction. Then, with a clatter of metal, he left the room.

Khârn's breathing was heavy, so heavy that it echoed throughout the room. None of the Astartes dared to make a move, or call out to the squire. The situation was unprecedented, and dangerous.

'Next time...' grumbled Khârn. 'Next time we'll do better. For the Primarch'.

He straightened into a more dignified posture, and after a hesitation so slight as to seem like an illusion, he tossed the bolt pistol to the floor, alongside the bloody axe.

His footsteps led him towards the exit, then a corridor, then another. His mind was numb, and his body, battered by the last day's fighting, took him outside, away from the human settlement.

He climbed a small rocky promontory, made slippery by the stubborn frost. Beneath the whitish layer, Khârn thought he could make out the faint outline of a skull, whose accusing look was all too obvious.

He took off his helmet and took a deep breath of cold air, his eyes closed. When he opened them again, he saw the form of Angron slowly moving away from the complex. From a distance, with the straightness of his posture and the torn cloak hanging down his back, the Primarch looked vaguely like the legends of the old Earth. Khârn was only slightly versed in the extinct religions that had plagued humanity for so long, but these myths shared many common traits. Inevitably, there were faulty angels whose pride or rage had caused them to fall from their almost divine pedestal.

Was this who their father was? A figure once inspiring, but whose sad parody the legion would know only? A broken gladiator, a slave to his own iron crown, forcing his children to decimate each other to ease his pain?

Khârn swallowed, then activated the microphone on his gorgerin:

'Dreagher?'

'Khârn? Khârn, what the fuck?'

'Gather the surviving warriors. We're heading back to the landing site, and we're leaving'.

'Copy that. What about Angron? Are we...'

'He's on its way. Contact the fleet. I want this place razed within the hour'.

He cut off the call without waiting for an answer, and headed for his Primarch. There was nothing holding them back on this dead world. They were the World Eaters of Angron, now and forever, for better or for worse.

Khârn took one last look at the frosty expanse that formed Alecto's landscape, and joined his father.

EPILOGUE

Orfeo Cassandar was screaming, his transhuman voice echoing through the ruins of the city, covering even the distant footsteps of the Titans.

Like all his brothers gathered in a vague circle, Dreagher could not take his eyes off the bloody spectacle. A morbid curiosity kept his gaze on Cassandar, and his slow, painful death.

'It's disgusting,' Argus Brond muttered as he moved closer.

Dreagher opened his mouth to reply, but another cry from the Evocatus stopped him.

Angron's posture was reminiscent of a ghoul from ancient myths. The Primarch was down on one knee and prostrate over Cassandar; the loyalist was pinned to the ground by his own sword, driven deep into the ground through his chest. His two arms and remaining leg hit the ground sporadically, but his neck refused to move. Dreagher imagined that nerves or the spine had been hit.

'It's disgusting,' Brond repeated. 'And yet so... mesmerizing'.

The two captains, covered in blood and dust, did not move. All the assembled World Eaters stood perfectly still, like silent sentinels at a wake.

Each of the warriors present had killed dozens of Ultramarines, and hundreds of human soldiers. The murderous rage that had animated them during the conquest of Armatura seemed to have completely disappeared, however; the Nails had not been completely silenced, but were purring softly, as if appeased by Angron's appetite.

The Primarch grabbed his victim's remaining leg, and bent it at an unconventional angle. Even the cracking of the ceramite could not fully mitigate the cracking of the knee. Orfeo screamed again, a muffled cry as Angron's hand came to rest on his face; the other gripped the captain's thigh firmly, and tore it off in a spray of blood.

Somehow Angron, too, seemed appeased. His movements were fluid, almost lazy; his closed eyes no longer shone with their dangerous yellow glow, and there was something terribly elegant about the way he ate.

He raised the thigh above his head and inhaled the flesh in one great mouthful. The rich haemoglobin trickled down his chin as he chewed indiscriminately on bone and muscle. Kept alive by his transhuman metabolism, despite himself, the Evocatus captain gasped loudly, involuntary tears tracing bright furrows down his dusty face.

Orfeo's range changed in the middle of a scream as his left hand was torn clean off. He barely had time to recover from the pain before the rest of his arm was dislodged, and detached with a sucking sound. With a strange concordance of sound, the trunk of a Titan sounded in the distance.

'This is the first time he's been like this,' Brond muttered. 'What's wrong with him?'

'He's playing for the big symphony,' whispered a voice behind them.

The two captains turned sharply, weapons in hand and adrenaline flooding their veins.

With his face plate reminiscent of an insect, his knuckles inverted and organs visible on his scarlet armour, a Word Bearer faced them. The black tabard covering his torso did not fully conceal the small tentacles curled against his ribs.

'He's playing music,' the priest repeated in an unpleasantly wheezy voice. 'The Red Angel is bringing a new score to the firmament, with notes that he himself has never tried'.

'Silence, wizard,' Dreagher growled through clenched teeth. 'You, urgh... know nothing of our Primarch'.

'But yes, my obtuse cousin,' laughed the Word Bearer. 'He who was once the slave of Nuceria is now the conqueror of Armatura, and one of the first chosen of the Pantheon. I rejoice and so should you, World Eaters, for Angron is blessed'.

Dreagher was unable to answer, and his fists clenched. The Nails began to burn again, and a murderous urge pulsed behind his eyes. A trickle of drool dripped from his lips, but quickly evaporated in the internal heat of his armour.

For his part, Brond had turned and seemed absorbed by Angron's appetite. He stood still, unable to take his eyes off his genetic father. Other members of the legion were approaching, drawn by the carnage; calmer than ever, three heads hanging from his belt, Delvarus walked silently to join his brothers; his armour shredded by heavy bolter fire, centurion Deranax moved towards a group of assault marines, and stood beside them.

With brotherly delicacy, the Word Bearer grabbed Dreagher's wrist, and invited him to turn around as well.

'He is in pain,' he explained in an admiring tone. 'His pain is so great that it possesses him, and only the most extreme acts of violence and cruelty can ease it'.

'Our father was never cruel,' Dreagher replied absently.

'Never, and yet always. The Red Angel changes slowly, and grows in step with the score that pleases the gods. He becomes what he was always meant to be. Let us weep with joy together, my cousins, at the fabulous spectacle that is offered to us'.

Dreagher and Brond did not answer. The Nails were again spreading a soothing warmth in their brains as Angron ate more and more.

In a brutally visual way, Orfeo Cassandar was now just a trunk. His pelvis and shoulders showed only dark red holes with a vague light stain, while blood was already clotting around the bones.

Angron withdrew the sword and swung it carelessly, causing the Evocatus to grumble again.

Then, without further ado, the Primarch split him open. His two thumbs sank into the pierced ceramite, shattering it; Angron pressed his fists deeper, breaking the fused ribs and bursting the organs.

In agony, Orfeo Cassandar was still alive when Angron devoured his hearts.