Cato Sicarius swung his sword.
He wielded it as naturally as breathing. He had possessed the Thalassian Storm Blade for more than seventy years.
From the moment it had come to Sicarius bearing that glorious history and the names of the countless heroes who had once held it, he had begun to wield it. This sword, in a certain sense, was part of his life.
He was not wearing a helmet. Thanks to a treacherous thrust from a Slaaneshi demon, it had been damaged. The pale-skinned, unclean-faced specter had retreated into the darkness with a sly grin. It had achieved the result it wanted, and now Sicarius had been exposed to the musky poisonous mist for more than five minutes.
Cato Sicarius was one of the finest among the Ultramarines, yes, that was true. But that did not mean his physiology could break through the limits The Emperor had set for them. He was an Astartes, a veteran of a hundred battles with astonishing experience, but that did not mean he could simply ignore these poisonous fumes.
"You had better bring the new helmet quickly."
Sicarius murmured, then swung his sword and cut off a demon's head. He no longer had the heart to distinguish their types. In truth, he felt himself hovering on the verge of becoming lost, one foot already through death's door.
Until a voice rang beside his ear, carrying the Aeldari's unique grace and a trace of reproach. "Careful, Ultramarine."
Lelith Hesperax leaped nimbly over him, snapping a helmet onto his head with astonishing agility and precision. The movement was as light as a cat's. The helmet locked into place of its own accord, the servos began connecting to one another, and once again he smelled that distinctive scent of purified air.
"No need to thank