With a lurching flop, the clock-daemon lurched forwards. For a head, it had the eyeless skull of an equid left long in the forest, green and grey, the honeycomb of its dead marrow showing where the outer layer had failed. It walked hunched over on the knuckles of its elongated fingers, though it had no wing membranes to join them. Indeed, it appeared half finished overall. As it moved its oily surface dulled, becoming leathery, rotting skin. A choking miasma of decay filled the cathedral.

The wind died.

‘Back, daemon!’ shouted Guilliman. He raised his sword.

‘I am Qaramar of the Lost Second,’ said a rasping, hideous voice that came from nowhere and everywhere. ‘Last Watcher of the Last Moment. Fifth in Nurgle’s favour. I cannot be killed. I have seen the end of time. I will be there when the final atomic motion of this hateful realm decays into blessed entropy, and Chaos will be born anew. I am sent here to be your executioner, anathema’s get.’

‘It’s a trap!’ yelled Tigurius. He raised his hand, and blazed out a fork of warp lightning.

‘Take it down!’ yelled Colquan.

All at once, the primarch’s party attacked. Bolts hammered into the daemon’s unnatural body. Psychic power washed at it.

The daemon marched forwards, its spirit still knitting matter into its false body. The temperature plummeted as it sucked the energy from reality around it. Bullets disappeared like pebbles dropping into water, sending out ripples in the air and nothing more. The thing tossed its head. A stinking mane that looked like rags of seaweed flicked out around its bare skull, and the lightning and fire of the Librarians was turned aside, blasting into the cathedral. It stomped forwards, growing larger as it moved. Now its skin was full of holes, and ribs gleamed beneath; a moment later, it was smooth and supple, untouched by time. As it stalked forwards, like a dragon from ancient legend, it aged and died, aged and died, over and over, though its mismatched skull remained the same throughout and the stink remained, whether its state was flush with youth or ripe with rot.

Qaramar snickered. ‘You cannot harm me. I am the end of time. I am the last moment of decay.’