The forest clearing was deathly silent, broken only by the heavy breathing of the warrior pinned in the mud and the suppressed sobs of mortal survivors in the distance.
Lion El'Jonson, lord of the First Legion, the Lion, pressed one knee against the warrior's backplate. His master-crafted power fist clamped around the other man's helmet, and his golden eyes burned with cold fury.
Yet when he carefully examined the black power armor beneath him—scarred by age, archaic in design but reasonably maintained—and especially the familiar crack at the side of the helmet, repaired with a special alloy, the Lion's fury was instantly replaced by immense shock.
"Zabriel?" Lion's voice was hoarse with disbelief, and his grip unconsciously loosened.
He knew this old veteran! A Terran-born warrior, a deacon of the Order of the Three Keys, one of the founding members of the Deathwing!
He had been among the first to follow Lion after his return to the Imperium, a son whose loyalty had never been in question! How could he be here? And how could he... fire upon him?!
"Father..." Azrael's voice sounded behind the Lion, low and heavy, as though he bore an ancient mountain upon his back. "He... is one of the Fallen Angels. We... have hunted them for a long time."
"Fallen Angel?" Lion abruptly turned toward Azrael, his gaze sharp as a blade. "What does that mean? He betrayed the Imperium?"
At that moment, Zabriel, pinned to the ground, seemed at last to clearly see the face of the one restraining him through the gaps in his visor.
That face, though weathered by countless years, still possessed deeply carved features and those majestic golden eyes—it was the gene-father to whom he had sworn his loyalty!
Yet after confirming Lion's identity, Zabriel showed neither reverence nor joy.