Crack!
A sharp, violent crack shattered the stagnant air of the command deck.
It was neither the clash of metal nor the rupture of machinery, but the heavy thud of a body hurled against a bulkhead, mingled with the faint cracking of ceramite armor plates.
Temur, Company Captain of the White Scars' Sixty-Fourth Company, flew backward as though his powerful body had taken a direct hit from a battering ram. His feet left the deck, and he slammed into a bulkhead several meters away, making even the thick wall groan under the impact.
He slid to the floor, his shoulder and back plates scraping against the metal with a piercing screech. His once-proud, straight back hunched over. Even through his Helmet's Visor, one could imagine the sudden shock and pain on his face.
The source of that fury, Jaghatai Khan, Primarch of the White Scars, stood before the command dais.
He was not wearing his full battle armor, only light leather armor and combat fatigues suited to moving about the ship, but this did nothing to diminish his overwhelming presence.
His towering frame was like the majestic snow-covered mountains of Chogoris. Every muscle was taut with suppressed fury, holding the strength to tear a tiger apart.
His usual openhearted, unrestrained manner, as free as the winds of the steppe, had vanished. In its place was a cold rage that almost seemed to freeze the air around him.
His phoenix eyes, which usually shone with keen intelligence and an untamed spirit, now burned with terrifying fire, fixed upon Temur as he struggled to rise.
One of the Khan's hands rested tightly on the hilt of the weapon at his waist, its knuckles white.
The treasured blade had accompanied him through countless campaigns and drunk its fill of blood. Though still sheathed,