"It's here."
The words left Lorgar's lips not as a warning, but as confirmation.
The syllables were clipped and cold, cutting off the last possibility of waiting to see what happened.
His eyes abruptly sharpened like an unsheathed blade, his gaze sweeping over Curze and Angron beside him.
There was no lengthy tactical briefing, only a glance, an understanding beyond words. On Curze's pale face, those eyes that seemed to hold fragments of the future narrowed slightly.
Beneath Angron's crimson armour, the rhythm of his breathing changed for an almost imperceptible instant.
Intent, strategy, and timing were exchanged and confirmed within a billionth of a second.
The next moment, destruction arrived right on schedule.
"Boom!"
Another bolt of psychic lightning, far thicker than any before it, plunged straight down from the roiling clouds and the shadows of the orbital warships like a spear of judgment.
Its target was unmistakable: the cover sheltering the four of them.
Before the lightning arrived, the scorched stench of air ionized by pure malice and destructive energy struck their faces. The surface of the massive metal shelter began to redden and soften, groaning beneath an unbearable strain.
Yet at the very instant the tip of that destructive thunderbolt was about to touch the ground—
Lorgar moved.
He did not dodge. Instead, he took a step forward to meet the descending lightning.
That single step took him out from behind the relative safety of their cover, exposing him at the edge of that indiscriminate field of death.
He extended his right hand, fingers spread wide, aiming not at the lightning but at its distant source.
There, an immense, twisted will was manifesting, difficult to catch with the naked eye yet clearly "visible" to psychic perception.
Look directly at me, Lorgar silently commanded, golden light bursting into