Amenthas rings his staff against the stone again and this time it is my past that overtakes me. I see Dagra Thul, choking on his own blood. Lady Oraylis and her blinded eyes. Efrayl, his limbs locked in seizure. Shipmaster Vallien, shot dead by his own crew. The thousands we lost to the abyss, and to the void afterwards. I see Sofika in pieces, speaking my name through the blood in her mouth. I see worlds burning, and people pleading. Executions and interrogations. I see Sharvak, dying with a smile on his face. Then, last of all, I see my father, lying still in the spire tower while his birds sit around him, turning their wings.

‘You are exactly like me,’ Amenthas says. ‘You are driven by the past. Focused on the future. You search the stars for a way to undo your own mistakes. The only difference between the two of us is time.’

He shakes his head.

‘Long ago, I watched my brothers turned to dust,’ he says. ‘I saw their souls shattered and scattered across the ether-tides. Since that day, they have spoken not a word to me save for assent. No laughter. No companionship. For ten thousand years I have walked the stars in the company of empty shells. I have been alone.’

Amenthas turns his staff once, and another portal opens on the dais beside him. An armoured warrior strides out. Another Thousand Sons legionary, just like him, though this one doesn’t wear a serpent’s mask. This warrior’s armour is much more plain than the sorcerer’s, save for his mask, which is shaped to resemble the face of a hunting bird. Amenthas looks at him a moment.

‘Ishilan,’ he says.

The warrior doesn’t answer at the sound of his name. He doesn’t look at Amenthas. He merely moves to stand beside him. Then Amenthas turns his staff a second time, and more portals open all around the edges of the chamber. More Thousand Sons stride out and take up position around the commandery. There are dozens of them, but not a single one speaks. They are all completely silent, save for a sound like shifting sand.

‘I thought that I would restore my brothers on Hellebore,’ Amenthas says. ‘But it was merely a means to find you. To have you gather a whole host of martyrs to your cause and bring them here.’

He raises his staff and Sofika jolts in the air, her arms flung out like wings.

‘I did not lie to you, inquisitor,’ Amenthas says. ‘There will be rebirth, and restoration, but it will not be that of your God-Emperor, or of your dying dreamer. This day belongs to me and my brothers. To those who serve the True Gods.’