13 The Limits of Hatred (IV)

In the darkness, a voice quietly spoke.

"How many more times are you going to do this?" he asked calmly, but with disappointment.

"I haven't for ten years—"

"—My question is, how many more times?"

After a long while, he received an answer.

"I don't know."

"So I thought." He smiled, cutting but unsurprised. "But then again, this divine power is truly obedient to its heartless master. Whenever you call, it comes; whenever you command, it obeys. Have you ever thought about why? You clearly abandoned that shell of a body."

"No."

"Why?"

"Vengeance is only natural," replied the god born in an age of savagery. "That is why it has always answered every call, no matter who makes it."

"But there is a price," Konrad Curze said quietly. "It has different plans for everyone who calls upon it. And for you, it wants you to return and take control."

Thunder rumbled. He did not answer, merely walking deeper into the cave through the darkness until he finally drove the blade in his hand into a monstrous beast. It did not awaken, instead sinking into an even deeper slumber.

"Lorgar Aurelian."

The dead brother who had once held grievances against him softly spoke his name, his voice laden with devastating sorrow. The god sat down and stroked its malformed, tormented body in silence.

The darkness was utterly still.

He had been here before.

Long ago, he had been here before—but where exactly was this place?

Ruins painted in blood, a sky blackened and obscured by smoke and war, trembling ground, and giants clad in crimson armor.

Was this a battlefield, or some unknown hell?

He looked around in confusion, only for an aged face to abruptly appear before him when he turned his head.

The man had no hair.