Combat reports came through with relentless efficiency. Guilliman cycled through each of his sub-commander’s direct vox feeds one after the other. The Pride of the Emperor continued to shiver minimally from the bombardment it suffered from Guilliman’s fleet. Reports from the Gauntlet of Power said their foe was taking heavy damage, but there was scant evidence of any of that inside Fulgrim’s ship. The two ships had passed each other, their escorts fighting rapid duels to clear the way for the two flagships to lumber about and make another pass. Lesser ships succumbed to concentrated firepower as other vessels lent their might to the struggle. Guilliman’s fleet was fighting well, but it was heavily outnumbered. He did not have much time.

The Second and First companies ascended stairs as tall as hills. The atmosphere became cloying with the scents of sweat and perfume and blood. An overpowering musk that derived from no mundane body penetrated the Space Marines’ respirator grills, though they had sealed them tightly enough to defy hard vacuum.

The last time Roboute Guilliman had walked the Triumphal Way, it had been as an honoured guest. The Emperor’s Children had lined the stairs and landings in their hundreds, and bright light had sparked from their artistry as they saluted him. His brother had greeted him warmly.

Guilliman felt a pang of sadness for what might have been. Now, in the murk, he returned like a thief in the night.

The atrium to the Heliopolis emerged suddenly from the unnatural dark. From its rear, the Phoenix Gate came at them like an ogre striding out of its cave in challenge. Guilliman had his men halt and spread out. The reports from the other strike groups crackled in his helmet, interrupted by hellish screams and moans, as – with sorrowful eyes – Guilliman took in what Fulgrim had done to the Phoenix Gate.

In the days before the war, the Phoenix Gate had been a masterpiece of the sculptor’s art. Together, the closed bronze gates had depicted the crowning moment of Fulgrim’s life.

The Emperor still stood there, holding out the palatine aquila to Fulgrim, whose figure also remained. The giving of this honour was the ultimate display of respect from their father, and the gate had been a reciprocal show of devotion from His son. Behind the two figures, a crowd looked worshipfully on.

In all other respects, the gate had changed.

The rich artwork was much abused. All over the soft bronze had been cut artlessly with profane symbols. The figures behind the two principal actors had been reworked into cavorting, lewd things of unnatural origin. The work was of variable quality. Some of it was executed with skill, other parts crude, and its inconsistency destroyed the careful illusion of depth its original sculptor had created.