In the corridors of the Lower Deck, bolts had gouged countless craters into the bulkheads. The scorched metal edges still glowed a dull red, like unhealed wounds.
The latest explosion had left the entire deck trembling faintly beneath their feet. Fine iron shavings and dust kept falling through gaps in the overhead piping, coating everyone's pauldrons in gray frost.
The air mingled the stench of burning, the sickly sweetness of blood, and the pungent sulfur of the Warp, as though an invisible hand had kneaded them together and forced them down everyone's throat.
The emergency lights overhead flickered every few seconds, carving their vision into alternating patches of light and darkness and stretching the moving figures in the corridor into twisted, hideous silhouettes.
Battle cries, the roar of chainswords, the snickering of daemons, and a low hum of psychic energy intertwined, echoing over and over through the cramped metal space.
The Word Bearers Company Captain still stood at the very forefront of the battle.
Every blow of his Power Hammer carried a golden arc, leaving a brief, searing trail through the air like the tail of a comet.
When the hammerhead struck the blue armor of the Thousand Sons, golden flames burst outward. Armor fragments and the flesh within sprayed in every direction, leaving great starbursts of gore across the bulkheads.
He recited the Holy Word as he struck, his voice hoarse and savage, as though he chewed each syllable to pieces before spitting it out.
His breathing was heavy. A dried wound marked the cheekbone exposed beneath his helmet, but he seemed utterly unaware of it.
With every successful hammer strike, he even gave a short, derisive laugh, its tremor betraying something close to pleasure.
Yet despite his furious swings, more Thousand Sons warriors mingled with daemons in the