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"I..."
Vulkan's voice caught in his throat. His lips moved, trying to say something, but the words lingered on his tongue, refusing to take shape.
He stood there, his towering body seeming unbearably heavy, as though an invisible mountain weighed on his shoulders and bowed his back.
He fell silent.
His sons' screams echoed in his ears, like countless steel needles piercing his eardrums, piercing his heart.
Those voices were filled with pain, fear, and despair.
They were his children, the warriors he had trained with his own hands, nurtured himself, and personally led into battle.
Now they struggled beneath the torment of the plague, their bodies devoured by those horrific viruses, their souls eroded by those corrupting powers.
He heard their shouts, heard their sobs, heard them calling his name.
He did not know what choice he should make.
His compassion told him to surrender.
To save Nocturne, save his Legion, save the sons who were still suffering.
If he merely nodded, merely spoke that word, all the pain would end, all the torment would cease.
His sons would be healed, his homeworld rebuilt, his people given peace.
He could accept the gift and become something better, stronger. He could continue protecting his people, only in a different way.
His reason told him to resist.
He could not betray the Imperium, could not betray the Emperor, could not betray the brothers who fought beside him.
The Imperium needed him. This war needed him. The Word Bearers on Millennium World were waiting for his reinforcements.
If he surrendered here, if he yielded here, everything he had done, everything he had upheld, everything he believed in would come to nothing.
He would become