Bjorn was among them, taken on board Russ' personal transport. He ran out with the first warriors, keener to be away from the primarch's side than he was to engage the enemy. It was an honour to be favoured by Russ, but he had not earned it, not in the eyes of his brothers, and not in his own mind. He fought alongside warriors decades older than himself when all he longed for was the company of his old pack. He was wyrd-marked, a bad star. He had never asked for this lofty fate.

Mass-reactive rounds detonated against Bjorn's pauldrons as he ran ahead of all others, marking an access door let into the deck's thick walls as his target. He had a melta charge in his good hand before he reached it, diving below the gunfire blasting out of the loopholes either side of the door to slam the device home. He threw himself to the left as it went off. Thermal reaction spread across the door, turning plasteel bright white with heat. It collapsed into steaming slag. Bjorn dashed through. The enemy were waiting for him, but he attacked without fear, eviscerating the first Traitor Space Marine with his claws, and striking the head from the second while he was drawing his pistol.

Bjorn loped on, alone. He forced his way into a bunker at the base of a reinforcement buttress, but found the occupants dead, their armour burnt and flesh flash-evaporated by a plasma cannon hit.

The Vengeful Spirit shook with the discharge of its main armament, and trembled with the returning impact of the Fenrisian fleet's weapons. Bjorn looked out of the firing slot. There were few Sons of Horus left alive. His brothers were winning. The wind dropped as blast doors sealed entrances to the deck. Resistance was dwindling, bracketed into pockets that allowed more gunships to enter without harrying fire. Automatic turrets were shut down or blasted to pieces, but the deck was far from theirs.

The embodiment of war walked the embarkation deck. Russ had come out of his ship, and was directing his warriors. He bore the Emperor's Spear in full battle for the first time. The Vlka Fenryka were splitting into preassigned hunting parties, heading off towards different parts of the giant vessel. Bjorn glimpsed his own pack, and watched them jog off with a unity of purpose he missed. The air had all vented from the hangar, but in minutes, the decompression wind would blow again as the Space Wolves fought their way from their beachhead and out into the body of the void ship.