‘There is no time,’ the Lion corrected. ‘We are in contact with the fleets again.’ He glanced up through the broken roof. Sanguinius followed his gaze. The night was greyer than it had been when they entered the temple. The void flashed. Stars blazed and died. There was war in the void, and the firmament itself seemed to be drawing closer, cracking, closing in on the world. ‘The Veritas Ferrum is laying waste to our fleets,’ the Lion said. ‘It has withstood cyclonic torpedoes.’

‘Not easily,’ Sanguinius said. He thought of the eruption inside the ship.

‘Easily or not, it lives. And every ship the daemons kill becomes one of their number.’

Sanguinius moved forwards. His legs were weak. His chest felt like a ruined shell. Pieces of him, physical and psychic, had floated free and were grinding against each other like bone. If he confronted all the ways in which he was broken, he would not walk at all. ‘Davin is the target,’ he said again. ‘The ship is vulnerable through its master, and we hold its master.’

‘Then we must withdraw our forces while we still have fleets to use,’ said Guilliman.

As they moved away from the portal, Madail called to Sanguinius. ‘The Rage will come!’ The daemon said no more, roaring in helpless anger at the herald. The last shout fanned the flames of grief in the Angel’s breast. He glanced at Azkaellon. Will I warn you of the curse that will fall on our Legion?

I cannot. Not without revealing its cause.

He could not tell Azkaellon that the loss he had faced a few moments before was inevitable. He could not destroy the hope of the Blood Angels in the midst of war.

The primarchs and their guards made for a breach in the eastern wall. Sanguinius paused at its threshold. He could feel time slipping away. From outside the temple came the thunder and angry rattle of combat. The armies of the three Legions had engaged the tide of daemons. In the sky, ugly blossoms of fire marked the deaths of more ships. And the void was filled with a grey fog, the shell of bones completing its contraction, coming to enclose Davin in its final tomb. There truly was no time. Even so, he paused. He looked back at the portal. It twisted on itself. Wave after wave of mutating fire bellowed from the interior. A storm had turned on itself, and was lashing out with the force of its ruin. In the heart of the maelstrom, the herald stood bowed, his sword planted. He radiated his own light. The silhouette shone golden. At the last, just before he turned away, Sanguinius was sure he saw the shape of wings spread from the herald’s shoulders once more.