Horus died. Sanguinius died. Reality flickered between the two alternatives. The deaths came faster and faster, agony and triumph turning from instants into constant states of being. Time thrummed, vibrating. Darkness and light took form in Sanguinius. States of being took on definite contours. The darkness was rage. Betrayal and pain fed into an anger that blinded him in his final moment, the wrath so consuming it seemed to burst from within and take on a life of its own independent of Sanguinius. The light was justice. It brought an end to Horus’ treachery. It brought the revival of hope. The darkness had the strength of many futures, yet they all ended with the last blow. The light shone in the one destiny, the one series of actions that saved Sanguinius and killed Horus. Through that light, time continued. It described his future beyond slaying Horus on the Vengeful Spirit.

Sanguinius chose the light. He chose it and he chose it and he chose it. It grew brighter. He grew stronger. Victory’s radiance ­dazzled. It overwhelmed the darkness. The endless cycle of death stuttered. It weakened. The anger of betrayal lost its grip. Sanguinius pulled himself away from rage. His justice was cold, and it was implacable. The light of the Blade Encarmine and the light of victory fused. They were the same, and the light grew and grew. The reality of the Vengeful Spirit faded. Soon there was only the light. It intensified, blinding, and it became the piercing white of the portal once more.

Sanguinius soared through the featureless brilliance.

But the dark would not release him willingly. It surged back. The light faded. The rewritten future slipped away from his grasp. A black tide rose beneath him. It tainted the light. His wings beat against limbo. He tried to climb. The darkness was faster. It rushed up, a deluge. It swallowed him. He choked on it. It filled his lungs. It filled his eyes. It filled his mind.

This is the choice. Let me guide your hand against Horus. Turn from me, and behold what will come.

The voice was not his. It spoke without sound. He thought that, if he could hear it, he would recognise it.

He breathed again. His lungs pulled in familiar, dusty air. Wind whipped against his face, stinging, scouring. The darkness dropped from his eyes, and he was on Baal. His armour was torn open. His chest ached. The pain of his death lingered. He stood on the highest spire of the monastery-fortress of the Blood Angels. The sky was black with smoke. Below the fortress, the landscape of canyons and jagged ridges was strewn with the guttering remains of tanks, transports and mobile artillery. Clouds of ash billowed on the wind. War had come to Baal, and war had ended.