In the Superstar's lowest compartments, the lighting was dim and sparse. Emergency lamps spaced dozens of meters apart cast a faint blue-white glow overhead, throwing mottled patches of light and shadow across the floor.
This was the lowest, most remote section of the warship, used mainly to store spare parts and maintenance equipment. Few people ever came here.
The air smelled of machine oil and metal dust. A low hum drifted through the ventilation ducts—the sound of the warship's circulation systems at work.
A shadow was taking shape in the darkness.
At first, it was only a vague cloud of black mist, slowly swirling in the air as though some living creature were breathing.
Gradually, it contracted and condensed, its outline growing clearer.
First came the shape of a head, then shoulders, a torso, limbs, and finally that pair of unmistakable claws.
Corax stepped out of the shadows.
His pitch-black figure blended perfectly into the surrounding darkness, as though he were part of it, an incarnation of shadow.
He had infiltrated the Superstar.
Corax swept his gaze across the dim corridor, his pupils widening slightly in the darkness as he took in his surroundings.
A cold smile curled his lips. The warship's internal layout was even more complex than he had imagined, but that also meant more shadows to hide in and more corners in which to hunt.
Barannikov, a sergeant of the Word Bearers, was patrolling the lower decks.
He was a seasoned veteran who had served in the Word Bearers for over a century and fought in countless battles.
But against a Primarch, he was still nowhere near enough.
He rounded a corner, his gaze instinctively sweeping toward the end of the corridor. It was empty, with only an emergency lamp flickering overhead.
He was about to move