The War Hounds fleet pierced the darkness, slipping silently into the 500 Worlds, which had already been thrown into utter turmoil.
The ships' prows gleamed with a dull metallic sheen beneath the cold starlight, their silhouettes stark and sharp.
On the bridge of the Legion's flagship, Angron stood before the command console. He was about to order the fleet to lock onto that Death World when an invisible sensation struck him first.
It felt like a needle piercing the back of his neck, faint yet irresistible, tugging insistently at his attention and drawing his gaze toward the surface of that gray-brown planet.
Angron frowned. Without hesitation, without waiting for further analysis from the fleet or considering any tactical deployment, he boarded a single-occupant Drop Pod and launched from the flagship's flank, plunging straight toward the Death World's atmosphere.
The Drop Pod passed through the thin air, friction setting its shell ablaze with crimson fire.
Angron felt the pod shudder violently and the terrifying heat radiating from its walls. He let that guiding sensation draw him through the desolate sky, landing on a weather-worn rocky plain deep within a canyon.
The hatch blasted open, and a scorching wave of air swept dust into his face.
He stepped onto the ground. The metal plates of his armor still trembled from the impact, giving off faint, rumbling vibrations.
He raised his head and saw the two figures in the distance.
One golden, one gray-black, they crossed and separated in the canyon's shadows.
Sanguinius remained striking even in the dim light. His enormous white wings were now covered in dust and scorch marks, and small wounds littered his bare upper body, yet he still stood straight upon a split rock.
The other figure, a gray-black body forged from liquid metal, stood at the bottom