‘To what end? To no end.’ The daemon rocked its head back and forth, mocking him in sing-song rhythms. ‘To what end? To no end.’ It stopped. ‘You shall serve. You will see the glories, and you shall serve. It is written.’

‘I have been tempted before,’ Sanguinius snarled. ‘I did not fall then. I will not fall now.’ He tried to lift his sword. It would not move. The female daemon tapped his neck, warning him to cease, inviting him to try again.

‘Tempted,’ said Madail. ‘Tempted by the divided. You shall be, as I, the undivided. Before was not for you. Now is for you. Now is destiny. Now is the truth of fate. Become what your form decrees. You are the Angel of Ruin.’

‘I will not.’

‘No? You will embrace futility? You choose death? To what end? To no end. No, you will not die.’

‘I will,’ Sanguinius declared. ‘I will die before I betray the Emperor. I will die before I bend the knee to foulness.’

‘Bend the knee. Bend the knee.’ The daemon’s eyes blinked at his foolishness. ‘You do not comprehend. You do not see the path. I will show you. I will teach. You will follow.’ Madail turned around, embracing the colossal space of the enginarium. ‘Veritas Ferrum,’ it said. It stretched the syllables out, the inhuman voice mocking the mortal language and savouring the irony of a name made into a greater, more appalling truth than its makers could have guessed. ‘Behold the transcendence. Ship of glory, ship of legend. What was it before? A thing among many. What is it now? Shaper of worlds, breaker of real, destroyer and sovereign. Kill Horus, the imperfect vessel. Become perfection. Chosen of all, beholden to none.’

Madail raised its staff. The blades glowed blindingly. The daemon pointed them at Sanguinius, and the light shot into his eyes. Visions assailed him, and he knew they were visions. He was living the reality of the future. He was seeing the promises of the daemon. At first, the visions were vague. He felt triumph. He was surrounded by a golden haze, and the sound of fanfares. Then there were figures in the haze. They were kneeling. Gradually, they resolved themselves into Lorgar and Perturabo. The vision became defined. It was the surrender at the Imperial Palace again. Sanguinius pushed away from the vision. He struggled to tear himself free. The daemons held him down, but the vision obeyed his command. It disintegrated. Other images took its place. He sat upon a high throne, receiving the tributes of a million worlds. He marched across fields of battle, and his enemies fell at his mere gesture. He reached out, and armies burst into flame. On another world, he lifted a hand and he summoned towers of silver into being.

He encompassed the galaxy with his wings, for he was a god.

No, no, no, no. This is not my fate.