Held, half-prone, Madail lunged, its staff abandoned. Its giant claws grabbed the Angel by his wings. ‘YOU WILL SERVE!’ Madail bellowed, and the air shattered like glass. The daemon’s grip was iron on Sanguinius’ wings. It was still moving forwards. Sanguinius threw himself backwards. Madail, in mid-lunge, went with him.

They fell into the portal.

There was the jolt of a huge disjunction, of two realities forced together, yet separated by the blade of the empyrean. Sanguinius plunged through the violence of the portal. He landed, and his torso was on the floor of the Delphos. His legs were still on the skulls of the Veritas Ferrum’s deck. The daemon held his wings, and he held his weapons. They were caught between the realities, and the warp ran through the centre of their beings. They thrashed. The tip of the Spear of Telesto, embedded in the daemon’s chest, was inside the portal. There it held Madail, transfixing the abomination.

Sanguinius was held too, by more than the daemon’s grip. He was suspended in grief, trapped by fate. He saw his brothers approach over quaking rubble. Azkaellon and the Sanguinary Guard were right behind them. They cut down the daemons that remained between them and the portal, and then they were with him.

They seemed so far away.

Guilliman crushed Madail’s wrist with the Hand of Dominion. The daemon’s claws splayed in pain. The monster struggled, unable to pull free from the Avenging Son’s strength. The Lion brought the Wolf Blade down on the daemon’s pinned arm, grinding through the armour plating of its hide. Guilliman slammed the Hand down again, and the daemon’s hand went limp. Flames licked up and down the wounded limb. The daemon released Sanguinius’ wings and slashed at the primarchs. Its claws cut deep gouges into their armour, but they would not be stopped. The Lion’s sword chewed into the daemon’s flesh. The monster screamed. With a sickening wet crack of gristle, the Lion severed the arm. A deluge of ichor spilled into the temple.

Madail screamed, and the eyes of its skull bathed the temple hall with fire. The walls wavered, shifting back and forth between stone and flesh. They burned and bled, and the broken dome slumped lower. The blast threw the Sanguinary Guard back and swept over the Dark Angels and Ultramarines. The great daemon’s power was overwhelming. Its flames coursed over and through the legionaries’ armour, burning bodies and souls. Azkaellon cried out in pain and determination. Leaning forwards as if against a hurricane, he staggered back through the fire towards his primarch, fighting for every step.