He wished Tarasha Euten was there. He wanted her counsel now, more than any other’s. He needed to hear her dismiss the premise of his corruption.

Is that what you call making a mistake now? He could hear her voice in his head. He could see her wry expression as she spoke those words.

Only she was on Macragge, not the Samothrace. She had not spoken. The words belonged to his wishful mental constructions. They served no purpose. They were an attempt at self-absolution.

They were meaningless.

The edges of the athames cut the light of the vault. They were darkness staring back at him.

The Samothrace shook again. The tremors were taking on a new violence, as if the hunger outside the hull sensed the blood pouring from the psychic wounds within.

A fleet’s anger streaked through the empyrean to the shadow, and did nothing.

‘Auspex,’ Sanguinius called out. ‘Have we hit or not?’ On the primary tactical screen that had descended before the window shutters, the hololithic renderings of the battle had shown him the arcs of cannon fire and the trajectories of torpedoes, all heading directly into the vague mass of the enemy. The Red Tear’s cogitators struggled to create a logical representation of the unreality beyond the hull.

‘I can’t tell, lord,’ Mautus replied. ‘If we did, there is no visible effect, but I can get no readings at all on the ship. It may even be outside our range… I mean…’ He paused, frustrated over the uncertain meaning of the word range in the warp. ‘I don’t think we are closing with it.’