Cassios buried himself deep in the shadows cast by the ruins, his rough fingers unconsciously digging into the scorched earth beside him, his knuckles white with strain.
In the distance, the dull echoes of the mouse-grey behemoth's terrifying strike still lingered in the air, smoke and dust slowly rising like a filthy mushroom cloud.
His cold eyes watched the traitors flung in all directions by the shock wave like broken dolls. A battle lust rooted deep in his blood, almost instinctive by now, slithered through his limbs like a startled viper.
Every muscle fibre trembled under the searing heat of memory. He longed to plunge into that chaos and test, in the most direct way possible, which was stronger: these "new creations" of the Emperor, or "old models" like him.
But he suppressed the impulse. His fingers sank deep into the soil until its cold dampness seeped through his damaged gauntlet.
"Hmph..."
An almost inaudible snort escaped his nose, laden with the weariness of ages and a trace of cold mockery.
Watching the figures struggling to rise amid the ruins, their armour warped yet still radiating danger, he murmured to himself.
"So that's it... You can turn traitor too. Seems you're no different at heart from us 'obsolete models.'"
In that instant, a deeper, darker unease soaked into his weary heart like ice water.
If even these "perfect" warriors, entrusted with such hopes and carrying humanity's future, could fall, if even the Primarch who had created them could turn his back...
Then what foundation did this seemingly glorious Imperium, built upon countless sacrifices, truly rest on?
And where would its future lead?
The thought flashed through his mind for only a moment, yet brought a chill deeper than any physical wound.
Then he shook his head, casting aside those heavy