Deep within the Gloriana-class Battleship Vengeful Spirit, in a softly lit medical chamber filled with the faintly astringent scent of disinfectant and active pharmaceuticals, time seemed to stand still. Only the steady, monotonous hum of life-support equipment whispered through the room.
Tarik Torgaddon stood quietly beside a heavy recovery pod encased in a transparent shell, his arms folded across his chest. His pearl-white power armour gleamed coldly beneath the blue light of the instruments.
His weathered, hard-featured face had shed its usual fierceness and sharpness, a rare sight. His brow was faintly furrowed, his gaze resting quietly on the pod's interior.
Inside the recovery pod, nutrient fluid circulated slowly, like amniotic fluid in a mother's womb, nourishing the body immersed within it.
A son of Horus, captain of the Luna Wolves' First Company, commander of the Justaerin Terminator guard, and a vital pillar of the Four Kings Council—Ezekyle Abaddon floated silently within.
His signature black topknot had come undone, drifting through the fluid like ink-dark waterweed.
His face, usually aggressive as a drawn blade, was pale from blood loss, his eyes tightly closed. Only his chest moved, rising and falling faintly to the rhythm of the ventilator.
Though advanced medical technology had provided initial treatment for his savage wounds, their dreadful traces remained visible beneath the translucent gel dressings.
"Poor Abaddon." Torgaddon's voice was low, almost a whisper. Rather than words addressed to another, it sounded like a sigh held deep within his chest.
That concern soon reached the warship's nerve centre, the private chamber beside the strategic command hall reserved for the Legion's highest decision-makers.
The atmosphere in the Four Kings Council chamber was as heavy as a star fortress's outer armour.
Horus, lord of the Luna Wolves, sat at the head of the chamber. Even in contemplation, his