‘Yes,’ said Sanguinius. ‘Symbolism. That is a key somehow. In the Signus System, that symbol of the eight-pointed star covered a planet. And there are patterns to the beings of the daemons. They represent things.’

‘Then perhaps so did your victory,’ Kano suggested. ‘We can use their nature against them.’

As they do to us, Sanguinius thought. ‘A single blow can change the galaxy, then,’ he said. Or a single choice. That came before the blow.

‘For the better.’

‘In this case.’ Sanguinius was not satisfied. Too much still flowed from his actions. He dreaded the constellation of circumstances that might grant him even more power.

‘More reasons to be on guard,’ said Kano. ‘Even so…’ He trailed off. Blood drained from his face. His eyes widened in sudden pain.

The Red Tear jerked, a toy in the hand of a giant. The drop from the warp was as violent as it had been before the fortress. The sound pierced the hull in the next moment. High-pitched, vibrating, like a tuning fork struck against madness itself.

Sanguinius supported Kano from the Sanctorum, fighting through the thrumming in his own skull. He felt warmth on his neck. Blood was running from his ears.

‘Where are we?’ Guilliman called. He wiped the blood from his nose and ears.

On the bridge below the pulpit, officers clutched their heads in agony. One man’s teeth had chattered so violently they had splintered. Servitor movements were jerking, spasmodic, unpredictable. The resonance hammered through the hull. The Samothrace rang as if the vibrations would shake it to powder.

‘Where are we?’ Guilliman repeated. The system was not Davin. Much more than that was ceasing to have meaning in this region of the galaxy. Guilliman called for the information to force purpose into the crew, to give them a way forwards through the pain of the unceasing resonance.

The crew responded to the command in Guilliman’s voice. More officers collapsed, but others found strength in duty. The cogitators were spitting out gibberish scrap data, and the auspex array had to be shut down and restarted. At last, Nestor Lautenix spoke, his voice thick with pain. ‘Episimos,’ he said. ‘It’s Episimos.’

‘Thrinos again,’ said Prayto. The Librarian had grasped the railing overlooking the bridge. His posture was straight, but only through a massive effort of will. As painful as the sound was for Guilliman, it was much more harmful for the psyker. Blood droplets had formed on Prayto’s forehead. ‘There were refugees from here,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Guilliman said, sparing him further effort. He had made the connection too. Episimos IV had been well represented in the camp on Thrinos.

The evidence of the Pilgrim’s passing was obvious.