"Cover the Primarch's withdrawal! We'll take over here!"
Company Captain Garro's voice cut through the frozen silence, hoarse but unquestionable.
Several Contemptor Dreadnoughts rumbled in through the rear passage, their heavy footsteps shaking the deck as they took up key firing positions.
Their thick armour was riddled with battle scars. Amid the hum of servos, their Autocannon barrels slowly swivelled and calibrated, locking firmly onto the four remaining withered figures wreathed in ghostly blue arcs.
The Khrave Progenitors stood in silence, their "gazes" passing over the Dreadnoughts' gun barrels to focus on the immense figure kneeling in the centre, propping himself up with his scythe.
Mortarion's presence had become a delicate fulcrum that kept either side from acting rashly.
"Get the Primarch out," Calas Typhon's voice came over the Communications Channel, deeper still and carrying an unyielding resolve.
"Now."
"No."
Mortarion's voice reached them, weak yet exceptionally clear.
He slowly raised his head. Beneath the shadow of his hood, his pale jaw was visibly clenched.
Blood dripped from the edge of his faceplate, but the cold, rational flame deep within his eyes had not gone out.
"I cannot leave." He gasped, each word seeming to force its way painfully out of his lungs.
"My numerology tells me that if I leave now..." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the sons sworn to defend him to the death, then over the silent Dreadnoughts. His voice carried a weight that bordered on foresight.
"You—all of you—will die here. The probability exceeds ninety-five percent."
With that, he braced himself on the scythe embedded in the floor. His muscles bulged, and amid the groans of overstressed joints and armour, he straightened once more.
He pulled the scythe free, gripping its enormous curved blade in both hands again. Though his arms still trembled almost imperceptibly,