Loken froze. The reactor chamber was gone, the vast machines replaced by a slanting cavern of natural rock overlooking a deep fault. A spit of stone projected out over the blackness beneath. Water fell from above, spattering off the faces of the rocks. He knew this place. Even through the mist of madness, he would always know this place. This is where it had begun, where he had seen the first sign of what was to come: The Whisperheads. Sixty-Three Nineteen. The beginning of the end. All again, here and now.

‘Mersadie?’ he asked. The kill instinct faded. He was not Cerberus. He was Loken, captain of the Luna Wolves.

Mersadie pointed at the cascade. ‘Do you see your story? It’s there. Just look.’

He felt himself begin to look… He stopped. His mind flashed clear.

Samus. It was Samus. He snapped forwards, sword lighting, arm rising, Cerberus snarling rage and vengeance with his mouth.

Mersadie turned. Blood had run from her eyes and clotted on her cheeks.

‘Loken!’ she cried, eyes wide with terror. ‘Loken!’

His blow faltered.

‘Mersadie?’

She took a step towards him. Hands rising, fingers shaking.

‘Oh, you poor fool…’ she said. ‘No.’ And she smiled as her hands closed on his wrists with a sound of shattering ceramite and snapping bone.

Frigate Persephone, Inner System Gulf

‘Lord Sigismund, we are approaching boarding range with the Phalanx. The Ophelia and Son of Stars are locking formation with us. Coming alongside now.’

‘For our oaths, my brothers,’ Sigismund called, raising his voice over the roar of the ship as he brought his sword up and rested his head against the flat of the blade.

‘Stand ready!’ roared Rann, slamming his fist onto his shield.

The doors of the boarding gantry stood before him. Behind him and spread through the staging chambers was every warrior of his command who could yet wield a blade. They had taken a single oath of moment – find Rogal Dorn. The primarch was still alive, Sigismund was certain of it. Inside his helm, he watched the distance runes cycle down to nothing.

Too slow… much too slow…

The whole of the Persephone was shaking as it poured the last of its ammunition into the ships converging on the Phalanx. Sigismund’s force had left its slower ships scattered in a thin arc between them and the oncoming enemy vessels.

The deck around them was quaking as vast gantries extended from the flank of the Persephone. Chains rattled through tank-sized spindles. Amber lights flashed from red back to amber. A metallic roll of thunder boomed through the chamber.

‘Alongside now,’ said the voice of the bridge officer in Sigismund’s helm. ‘Boarding gantries in hull contact.’

Sigismund closed his eyes, felt his will pull the beat of his hearts down into a low drumbeat of calm.