Unbowed in the heart of the furnace Guilliman and the Lion redoubled their blows against Madail. Sanguinius could barely see them. The foul brilliance of the fire turned them into silhouettes. Madail slowed them, but could not stop them. They were jagged shapes, indomitable in their attacks, striking through a firestorm with immense blows to smash open the daemon’s body. They were titans of war, and with their features hidden, they were myths, embodiments of strength and courage raining down judgement on the terrible priest.

Yet Madail moved. Its skull eyes still spewing fire in an unending torrent, it heaved itself up. Sanguinius jammed his spear and sword deeper into its chest, holding the daemon down. Tremors ran through its body, growing stronger. It was drawing the energy of the warp into it. It would rise again. It was imprisoned for the moment, caught between two points in the materium. It must not free itself. It must not cross to one point or the other. As long as the portal was open, the daemon was a threat.

On the threshold of the portal and the temple, Sanguinius saw what he must do. Here time changed. Here the Warmaster fell. Here the Angel was tempted. Here the galaxy pivoted.

Azkaellon reached the threshold. He hunched against the blasts, wracked by pain but no less determined than Guilliman and the Lion.

‘Free your primarch!’ Guilliman shouted.

Azkaellon reached forwards in the vortex of warp and materium. Layers of his armour peeled away in the storm. ‘My lord,’ he cried to Sanguinius, ‘give me your hand!’

‘No,’ said Sanguinius. ‘I must stay here.’

Azkaellon froze, rigid with horror.

‘Roboute,’ Sanguinius rasped. Speaking was difficult. Battered by the instability of the portal, he was weakening. He clutched the seconds as they went by, holding them with the slender, silver thread of hope that was all that remained to him. ‘Leave me. Leave Davin now. I will hold the daemon as long as I can.’ He looked at the Lion. ‘Now is the time. Destroy this world.’ The portal linked Davin and the Veritas Ferrum. The planet had been dead, but now it was convulsing with power.

Sanguinius writhed in pain. He dared not wonder if he could last until the evacuations were complete. He could not think of the hours. Only of the seconds. One by one by one. He would hold for this one. Then he would fight to hold for the next.

Madail strained futilely against the Spear of Telesto. ‘This is not your fate!’ it raged. ‘Fall or rule! You do not fall here!’

Sanguinius ignored the daemon. He had to. The hope for a meaningful death was too precious. ‘Go,’ he pleaded with Guilliman. He turned his eyes to Azkaellon. With my last breaths, I will spare my sons, he thought. ‘Go!’ he roared.