Abaddon watched it all on a display enhanced by scan data, not moving from his place as the hours passed. Around him the business of the War Oath’s bridge went on in near silence. It was an act of will for him to remain still, his mind following all the details while the sound of his heartbeats filled his ears, restless and unsettled. But there he remained, watching time and distance pass. There would be battle and bloodshed before victory, but that all rested on these moments. From here, each part of the armada would follow its own path to its own target and its own battles. The White Scars would have seen this first division, and they would track both blades of the divided spear. But not yet. That could not happen yet. There was one more moment of vulnerability and secrecy still to come, one more sliver to be broken off this spear blade.

Abaddon felt the prickle across the skin of his back. His muscles twitched, his armour amplifying the tiny movement with a buzz of servos. He kept his eyes on the display, but bared his teeth.

‘I did not call you to my presence, priest,’ he said, ‘and I have no use for your counsel.’

Zardu Layak halted at his side. The incense reek of the daemon priest filled the air.

‘I go where I am needed, not where I am called.’

‘You are part of the comet strike force. That is where you need to be. The ships of the Fifteenth and your Legion are ready to depart.’

‘But I am not to depart,’ said Layak. Abaddon looked back at him, but the priest was already stepping close, his eyes on the display, his staff tapping the stone floor. ‘I remain here, with you.’

‘You will go to join the spear thrust to the comet,’ said Abaddon. ‘That is my will.’

‘But it is not the will of the gods.’

‘I do not care.’

Layak was silent for a moment.

‘These hands were once those of an iconoclast,’ he said at last, holding up a fist. ‘Did you know that? The warrior who became me burned gods and lived to send the devout and the deluded to the flames.’

‘Your conversion is of no interest to me,’ said Abaddon.

‘I was not a convert,’ said Layak. ‘The man whose face lies beneath this mask was taken, broken and remade. My faith is sacred because it is a lie, and all lies are music to the ears of the Pantheon. Piety like that is false, a creation, but it is pure. You live for Horus, for your Legion, for your brothers. That is your truth. Mine is that I am nothing. I am a son who left his father. I am a brother who made those brothers his slaves.’ Layak nodded to the still and silent figures of the blade slaves standing eight paces away. ‘I am like you, Ezekyle Abaddon.’