Something echoed through the universe—a deep reverberation, like the mournful cry of some colossal thing as it died. Or perhaps like the sound of a gale blowing through the hollow ribs of a corpse.
Horus stopped writing and threw down his quill. Even now, he still preferred to truly write something, rather than scribble on his Personal Terminal. Meaningless as nostalgia was, it was one of the necessities of human survival.
He lifted his head and glanced at the porthole. The view beyond was constantly rotating, because Terra Space Station had split into two sections, carrying out their work around Holy Terra without rest, day and night.
Work.
Horus lowered his head in silence, his right hand quietly clenching.
His fingers were long, his palm broad, and his whole hand was powerful. It could be used to hold a pen and write, or to hold a sword and kill. With his movement, a faint, gentle white light seeped slightly through the gaps between his fingers.
Salvation.
His essence—he had never thought that one day, he would actually gain such power.
Horus gave a bitter smile and rose softly to his feet, easily bumping into the ceiling. At some point, his build and features had already returned to their original appearance. According to the Imperial Fists left behind on Terra Space Station, he had changed inside the Medical Pod while screaming in agony.
Thinking of that scene, he shook his head.
Could it be that everything connected to the Warp became terrible?
Without thinking any further, he turned and walked out the door.
The corridor was empty. That was normal. Terra's reconstruction had been put back on the agenda. Most people were busy down on Terra's surface right now, and Horus had originally wanted to join them, but he had been