"Hah... hah..."
In the brief lull of their standoff, only ragged breathing echoed through the stagnant air.
Lorgar's and Mortarion's chests rose and fell slightly. Sweat mingled with dust, steaming faintly white from the surface of their Power Armour.
The fresh scars on Apophis's ornate armour and its dimmed nebular radiance proved that their storm of physical attacks had not been in vain, but neither had it inflicted any truly grievous wounds.
Apophis slowly adjusted its grip on its staff. Beneath its indistinct face, two points of cold, spectral light swept back and forth between Lorgar and Mortarion.
It seemed to have regained some of its composure—or rather, the cold detachment with which it reassessed the situation after suppressing its anger.
"Go on," its voice sounded directly in the two Primarchs' minds again, returning to that infuriating, leisurely mockery, like a snake flicking its tongue.
"Why have you stopped? Where has all that courage gone? Is this the extent of a Primarch's strength?"
It raised its staff slightly. The ghostly blue crystal at its tip pulsed dangerously, wreathed in strands of psychic energy that remained terrifying even under suppression.
"Or, without the psychic energy you depend upon, are you merely snakes stripped of their fangs, left to struggle with brute flesh alone?"
Provocation.
Naked provocation.
It sought to goad them with words, to make them expose an opening in their anger or disrupt the fragile coordination they had only just established.
Lorgar's golden eyes regarded Apophis calmly.
He was not angered by such cheap provocation. Even the fighting spirit in his eyes subsided a little, giving way to deeper, rapid calculation and assessment.
From the corner of his eye, he glanced at Mortarion beside him, who was equally silent, though his killing intent had almost become tangible.
The suppression of