18. Walking with Fire (End)

When the man in black armor fell, the sound was almost like thunder. All around him was darkness like a tomb, and naturally, a tomb was never without the dead—people hanging high overhead, their eyes forever unclosed.

They were all crew members of the Vengeful Spirit. They had boarded this enormous warship full of passion and anticipation, having received years of professional training beforehand and learned all the knowledge they would need.

They simply had not known what this job truly meant.

In truth, no one had known—not even the Warmaster himself.

But he understood now.

He lay on the ground, drawing the rotten air around him deep into his lungs. His face looked swollen and haggard. The valiant man he once was seemed to have left, without leaving anything behind for this surviving shell. Whether from pain or some other reason, he crawled across the floor for a while before finally lying flat on his back, motionless.

He had no strength left to move. None at all.

The knocking beyond the Court's doors grew increasingly violent. He tried to open them, but his eyes first fell upon the dead hanging overhead.

He knew them. He knew every one of them. He had spent almost as long with them as he had with his own Legion. Some of the older veterans had even watched the Sixteenth Legion develop step by step. They were already very old and could have retired to spend their remaining years in peace, but they refused.

"We serve you," they had said. "Until death."

We serve you, the dead said as well. Until death.

Horus stared at him.

Was he crying? Probably not. And even if he wanted to cry, he could no longer do so.

His tears, his blood, and every part of him that