Primarch and Warmaster

Ten thousand years had passed.

Abaddon's gaze froze as memories dragged him back into an abyss from long ago.

Guilliman had been just as dazzling then!

Like a star, like the sun, he had the bearing of a born king. He could embrace all things, yet he possessed the might of thunder, inspiring countless people to revere him.

His brilliance made everyone beside him seem diminished, like rats in a gutter.

The Warmaster had been just as dazzling then!

Abaddon snapped back to the present and stared at the "dazzling" Guilliman. His teeth ground together with a grating sound, blood-red veins bulging on his forehead. His eyes brimmed with spite, resentment, and hatred. "Guilliman!"

Guilliman gave no answer. He simply stood there like an ancient monument, silently watching the Chaos Marshal in all his wretchedness.

Was that mockery? Amusement?

Or both?

Guilliman's blue eyes were like a frozen sea of stars, with an unseen storm gathering deep within them.

There was neither rage nor contempt in his gaze. Only cold, absolute reason, as though he saw through everything and looked down on Abaddon's clownish antics.

Yes, Abaddon felt that everything he had done made him a clown in the Primarch's eyes.

He had thought he was turning the trap against its maker, only to find himself surrounded. Every "victory" had been bait the Primarch had cast to lure him in!

Only now did Abaddon understand.

That was why the Black Legion had met so little resistance along the way. Those feeble Ultramarines had all been bait laid by Guilliman!

"You used recruits to lure me in, Guilliman. You spared no expense!" Abaddon sneered, determined not to give ground in words even if he had lost. "I never thought the perfect Primarch would stoop so low. Sacrificing so many recruits! Hahahaha!"