Silence made the Heliopolis its domain. Vox reports chattered in Guilliman’s helm, telling of goals almost accomplished, and bringing the clamour of war into the dead auditorium, but the racket was contained by his helmet. The silence was stronger, pressing in hard upon his ceramite faceplate and distancing Guilliman from the men fighting in his name.

At the centre of the Heliopolis was a ring dominated by a black throne. Guilliman recalled standing there beside his brother and speaking in the days when all this madness was inconceivable. A cone of soft light ignited and fell onto it, casting shadows from chunks of rubble and bringing an eerie shine from the black terrazzo of the flooring. Guilliman descended the steps slowly from the Phoenix Gate, down the main stairs whose once shining finish had been scratched dull.

The battle cries of the Aurora Chapter, the war oaths of the Novamarines and the howling of the Doom Eagles all echoed in his helmet. A burst of loud static signalled an explosion. A signifier rune in Guilliman’s helm blinked green – the Aurora Chapter had knocked out the ship’s navigatorium. Garbled reports from their captains competed with the other incoming traffic, ecstatic with hard won victory, signalling their withdrawal. He overheard jubilant calls for teleport lock, and then they were gone.

Other signifiers glowed dull red around the top of his faceplate display, representing his strike teams’ remaining targets. Two more critical systems, two more green runes, and they might escape this yet, but his men needed more time.

‘Continue with your objectives, my sons.’ He spoke clearly into his vox pick up. ‘Fall back upon their completion. The Emperor watch over you.’

He cut his vox. The Heliopolis’ malevolent silence rushed into his helmet.

Guilliman reached the last step and paused at the edge of the inner circle. The last of his heavy footsteps echoed to nothing. The light was unclean, some warp effect obscuring the far side of the Heliopolis from his vision. He was vulnerable here. This was the stage his fallen brother had chosen for their final confrontation: the derelict site of Fulgrim’s lost glories.

‘Fulgrim! I am here. Fulgrim! Your brother, Roboute Guilliman, stands in the Heliopolis again. Will you not greet me?’

Guilliman’s vox-amplified voice echoed around the Heliopolis, each repeat growing with sadness until it became a sobbing caricature.

The effect disappointed Guilliman. ‘My once brother, your cheap sorcery cannot upset me. Come out and face me, if you dare, or have you become as cowardly as you are debauched?’

There was a metallic rattle, and a rasping of scaled skin over stone that echoed around the outer row of seats. Guilliman squinted, but the light before him cheated his vision, allowing him to see only into the circle.

‘I hear you, Fulgrim!’ he cried. ‘Come out into the light!’