The moment Ferrus Manus's head fell, his death rippled through the Warp.
He had led his sons and allied forces into Horus Lupercal's trap.
His frustration stirred towering gray waves in the Great Ocean, while his shame blasted deep ravines into the Empyrean.
Blazing, boiling fury burned the seas and seethed the heavens; endless regret froze into thousands upon thousands of Predators.
Turbulent emotions collided with a thunderous roar.
The loss of unfulfilled ambition echoed through the Warp, mingling with unwillingness to accept defeat and casting the form of a Daemon.
A pearl-adorned body slowly took shape.
The King of Sapphires was born.
On the surface of Isstvan V, every Iron Hand who witnessed Fulgrim slay their Primarch fell into madness, consumed by boundless hatred.
The distinctive scent of pheromones spread as a supple figure extended enormous claws toward the other side of the mirror.
Ferrus's death planted the seeds of madness, tearing an abyss into the hearts of the Iron Hands that would never heal.
The moment he was born, the King of Sapphires noticed the regret buried beneath the emotions the Iron Hands suppressed with reason—the regret of failing to protect their Primarch.
He greedily drew strength from the hatred condensed out of endless despair and grief.
"What a delightful delicacy."
He greedily swept his gaze over every Iron Hand, including those not on Isstvan V, whose connection to him was faint.
The King of Sapphires flexed his claws, branding wound after wound upon the souls of the Iron Hands, extending from the levels they could perceive into emotional dimensions beyond expression.
He disguised a vicious curse as a way to help the Iron Hands escape their hatred of weakness:
The flesh was weak; the machine would ascend.
Only thus could they avoid repeating the tragedy of their