Lorgar stood motionless amid the drifting gunsmoke and the lingering golden afterglow of psychic energy.
At his feet lay the grotesque, lifeless remains of five Khrave Progenitors. Metal and charred tissue gave off faint crackles as they cooled.
Heavy footsteps approached from behind.
Mortarion came to a halt beside Lorgar, his gait somewhat unsteady, though he still held himself upright.
His blue-gray armor was caked with blood, dust, and fluorescent fluid. Wisps of smoke still rose from the dent in his breastplate.
The shadow of his hood concealed most of his face, leaving only his tightly pressed, bloodless lips and the still-wet blood along his jaw visible.
He fell silent for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the ancient creations that had threatened destruction only moments before and now lay in pieces. Then he turned his head to glance at Lorgar, whose breathing had already steadied.
A flicker of complex emotion passed through his gray-brown eyes: the tension of seeing his sons survive disaster, a sober assessment after witnessing overwhelming power, and perhaps the faintest trace of resentment.
Ultimately, however, a more pragmatic, clearer understanding suppressed them all.
"I owe you a favor, Lorgar."
His voice remained deep and hoarse, broken by exhaustion, yet exceptionally clear.
He said it quickly and bluntly, without embellishment or preamble, as though stating a tactical conclusion that was already an established fact.
With that, he turned without even waiting for Lorgar's reply and headed toward the Command Center, which was still spitting electrical sparks. His steps were as steady yet slightly uncertain as before, and his retreating figure soon vanished into the shadows of shattered equipment and billowing smoke.
No thanks, no pleasantries. Those words, "I owe you a favor," were the strongest and most direct acknowledgment and promise the lord of the Death