Even when Sigismund and the Imperial Fists had come and killed those Word Bearers left here, their actions had only fed the pool of occult potential lying just under the skin of reality. The Word Bearers’ deaths had been an act of martyrdom in service to the powers of the warp, and, whether Ahriman thought that belief naive or not, the act had power. The comet shrine resonated with ritual significance. Whispers and vortices of emotion trailed behind it as it pulled across the heavens.

Whether what the Word Bearers had done was driven by chance or foresight did not matter. They had created a tool that could be used by more able hands.

Ahriman turned to the centre of the chamber. The stone sphere of the solatarium floated above the floor. Arcs of ghost-light whipped from its surface and earthed in the floor and ceiling. The dimensions of the room swam as he looked at it, and he had to force his mind to stay balanced. Power was building in the immaterium, taking shape and form second by second. Around the chamber, at the eight points of the compass, the pitiful cargo brought in the black containers knelt on the floor. Three thousand and twenty-four mortals. Each of them had a spark of connection to the warp. All of them had been selected from the holds of Black Ships hunted and taken by Horus’ forces. There were scions of planetary rulers, beggars, men, women, the kind, the corrupt and the desperate. Iron, brass and silver chains held them to the deck while silent Word Bearers moved amongst them, painting their scalps and faces with ash ink. Some began to drool blood as the sigils marked their skin. Ahriman’s fellow Thousand Sons stood between the lines of mortals, breathing calm and passivity into their minds. Light and shadow was beginning to fume off them, hazing reality overhead.

He thought of the sacrifices he had made in pursuit of the truth, of salvation for his father, things that weighed true only when balanced against the greatest of needs. Was this need enough for the atrocity they would commit? He was not sure, but he was sure that it was too late to make another choice.

Ahriman breathed out. A ghost-image of his thought puffed into being in the air, spread feathered wings, and then dissolved before it could take flight. He reached his mind out to Menkaura, at the centre of the solatarium. It was like calling through a rising gale.

+How long until conjunction?+

+It is approaching.+ Ahriman could feel the effort in Menkaura’s reply. +Each house aligns. The orbs of the heavens sing, but not all… Blood still remains to be shed. The Queen of Heaven wears a crown of growing fire. The Water Bearer pours his bloody cup into the night. But the Wolf Coin still shines clear. The wheel turns. The sands run…+