A clatter of gears, a hiss of pistons and then light. Brilliant light, pouring down on him, swallowing his sight. He made to shut his eyes, but they were already diluting the glare, dragging it down to brilliance that illuminated but did not blind. He turned his head. The amniotic pool was circular and set into a floor of perfectly smooth black stone. The ceiling above was a dome of the same material. An iris had opened at its centre and a beam of light shone from above.

Primary starlight, said a whisper of new hypno-implanted knowledge at the back of his mind. This was the light of the sun shining down through a shaft through the surface of the moon. He felt radiation fizz across his skin.

There was only one other figure standing beside the pool, a huge figure in a black tunic. His head was bare, his features broad and strong. But it was his eyes that held Abaddon: dark, unblinking.

‘You are Lord Horus Lupercal,’ said Abaddon.

Horus nodded, not shifting his stare.

‘And you are the son of Cthonia of whom I have heard much…’

‘There are thousands of us, thousands and thousands. I am just one.’

Horus gave a snort of laughter, then shrugged.

‘You will be amongst the last to be reborn here. The forging of our warriors will happen out there now, amongst the stars we conquer. For decades we have stepped from these pools into our new lives. Soon that will not be the case. We will take the name and the memory. Luna Wolves… that is our brotherhood. Wolves made by the moon, and raised from night to illumination…’ The primarch reached out with an open hand to Abaddon. A mirror-coin glinted on the open palm.

‘My sons are not given to exaggeration, and Sejanus says that, of all this last generation, I should be here to welcome you into our brotherhood.’

Abaddon looked at the hand of the being whose strength now flowed in his own veins.

‘My lord,’ he said, and felt the truth of it in the space left by all that he had burned and left behind.

‘Rise, Abaddon,’ said Horus.

‘Why does this feel like dying?’

‘Because it is. Because when you take my hand you will not be a son of Cthonia, or the heir of a dead king…’

‘I will be a Luna Wolf.’

‘Yes,’ said Horus. ‘You shall.’

And then, from a place that he had forgotten, came another word, one that felt like an oath.

‘Father,’ said Abaddon.

Horus nodded once.

‘Will you serve me, Abaddon?’ Horus asked.

‘I will,’ he had replied, and taken the coin from Horus’ proffered hand.

Abaddon’s eyelids blinked open.

The War Oath ran on into the fire. The ruin of the vanguard spun past, chewed pieces of metal tumbling, stray impacts exploding against shields. Behind it, the bulk of the armada followed it down.