The surroundings were not trenches, not wilderness, not a city, but brilliant stars. Beneath their feet was not earth, not steel or concrete, but the empty universe.
There were no rumbling War Machines, no sound of soldiers running, no wind, no heat or cold—only a quiet starfield.
For the Primarchs, this was the first time they had truly walked upon the stars. Some were calm, some were silent, and some felt their skin crawl because there was nothing beneath their feet.
In fact, your feeling was not wrong. The last category in the previous sentence referred solely to Leman Russ.
The Fenrisian bared his teeth as he carried two swords. One was Mjolnir, his old partner, a massive and reliable two-handed Power Sword. The other was one of the runic steel weapons Vulkan had forged with his own hands.
Its shape was rough and wild, more like some beast's fang than a sword, and the entire weapon exuded a terrifying, murderous quality that would make ordinary people blanch. In fact, its mere existence was enough to make people uneasy.
Russ was very fond of it. Naturally, he liked this savage style, and he did not think he would be unable to master it.
But liking it was one thing. He had not named it yet. This was not because he lacked talent in that regard, or because he was too conflicted to simply give it a decent name.
It was only because he had decided to name this weapon according to Fenrisian tradition—after it killed its first enemy, after it was stained with blood, only then could a newly forged weapon possess a name.
Just like newborns born into Fenris's cold winds. If they could not endure the harsh environment and survive a week, then their parents would not name