Nykona Sharrowkyn walked along the lower decks of the cruiser Samosores.
Most Imperial warships possessed enormous amounts of redundant space. These vessels, several kilometers long, were like cities floating through the void, filled with countless dark, damp conduits beneath their decks.
In those lightless places, mortal servants and crewmen lived generation after generation, forming a strange yet balanced ecosystem alongside mutants and alien creatures.
And now, within those shadows untouched by light, the true lord of darkness had arrived.
Nykona sped through the maze-like conduit decks at a pace no mortal could match. He seemed born as one with the shadows; even as he moved at high speed, not even the faintest footfall could be heard above the ambient noise.
He was somewhat surprised by the remarkable qualities of his new suit of power armor. Its servo systems were truly silent, like a walking black hole that swallowed every sound whole.
In the gloom, he swept past several passing mortal servants like an underworld raven. Bloodstains slowly emerged at vital points, while his genetic detection nerves extracted the memories he needed from their blood.
"It reeks of Word Bearers. Corruption and decay—the curse from the deepest reaches of the Warp."
The Son of the Raven would never forget the scent of his sworn enemies, nor the slaughter his father Corax had inflicted upon those blasphemous beings who called themselves the Blessed Sons.
Anger and hatred intertwined, burning to ash within Nykona's heart.
He entered a tranquil state, becoming shadow itself as he infiltrated his true destination.
The cruiser's main observation deck.
From the shadows, he finally saw a Word Bearers Astartes walking ahead. He wore the common Mark IV Maximus-pattern power armor, its former gunmetal surface covered by a dark crimson paint scheme. Black paint had obscured the old squad insignias and markings.
Nykona's instinctive combat response was suppressed by superhuman will. The surge of adrenaline subsided. At this range, there was no chance he could miss. A single bolt round would be enough to tear apart the enemy's fragile helmet lenses or punch through the weaker armor around the joints.
What surprised him even more was the Ultramarine standing beside that Word Bearers officer: a tall figure clad in blue-and-gold, his Praetor-pattern power armor polished smooth and gleaming.
Had the Ultramarines betrayed the Imperium alongside the Word Bearers?
Nykona considered the matter silently, but he did not leap to a conclusion.
"Luciel," the Word Bearers warrior said, spreading his arms as though offering the warmest welcome. "My brother."
"Chorl." The Ultramarine responded with equal enthusiasm. They embraced, their heavily armored bodies scraping together with a ringing metallic clatter.
This deeply moving reunion of old friends unfolded entirely before Nykona's eyes.
Had he not endured the agonizing betrayal of brothers at Isstvan V, he might truly have been moved by the brotherhood displayed by the Ultramarines and Word Bearers.
After forty years, the Ultramarines who had once brought destruction to the Word Bearers' Perfect City had once again forged ties of brotherhood with them.
Yet the Son of the Raven, exquisitely sensitive to killing intent, detected a nearly imperceptible irregularity in the Word Bearer's smallest movements.
The Word Bearer's hand remained within a second's reaction time of his boltgun.
Nykona merely watched in silence, hidden in the shadows. Even the ship's avian servitors could not perceive this uninvited guest in the slightest.
The Ultramarines' hospitality toward their battle-brothers was beyond reproach. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, they provided their brothers with a meal that could almost be called exquisite.
An Astartes' stomach could adapt to nearly any organic matter, and even certain metals were part of their diet. When necessary, they could swallow the utensils along with their food to replenish trace metals.
But this was an obvious gesture, representing the Ultramarines' strong goodwill.
These Ultramarines, shaped by their genetic father Roboute Guilliman into near-perfect men, still felt a trace of guilt over burning the Word Bearers' Perfect City on the Emperor's orders.
They were doing everything possible to rebuild the bond between them and prepare for the cooperation to come.
"My battle-brothers, why have you changed the colors and markings of your power armor? And where have those sacred words engraved upon it gone?" At last, Luciel could not resist asking.
Had these Word Bearers truly severed themselves completely from their past after the destruction of the Perfect City?
"In truth, we adopted this new appearance to commemorate the remaking of our essence. The Word Bearers have always struggled to find our place in the universe. Unlike you Ultramarines, our path has been far more difficult, even—"
Chorl's voice paused, then he spoke words so dangerous that Luciel's heart lurched.
"I despise Lorgar, my genetic father. His beliefs are so fickle and irresolute. Compared to the primarchs of the Imperial Fists, Lunar Wolves, Iron Hands, and Ultramarines, he has suffered so many defeats that we are ashamed even to mention them."
Faced with a Word Bearer's humiliation of his own genetic father, Luciel was so stunned that he briefly forgot to breathe.
He had never heard of an Astartes holding such a vile attitude toward his genetic father. It could even be called naked rebellion.
Not even the Iron Lord of Olympia, the being capable of ordering decimation eleven times over, could have offspring so rebellious.
"Lies," Nykona muttered from the shadows.
"But fortunately, our awakening did not come too late. We found an entirely new path, one that leads directly to The Empyrean and reveals to us the primordial truth."
"What must I do to prove that I too am committed to this great and magnificent cause?"
The Word Bearer's bearing and words left the Ultramarine somewhat confused. He did not understand what spiritual refuge these cousins had found now. In the past, they had revered the Emperor as a divine sovereign and taken his will as guidance in all things.
And all of that ran contrary to the Imperial Truth.
"During the fighting on Isstvan, I learned some unique techniques of war—things the Ultramarines lack." The Word Bearer ran his fingers over the wineglass on the table, swiftly catching Luciel's interest.
The Ultramarines were the legion most adept at learning. They never hesitated to imitate the strengths of their brother legions and incorporate them into their own style. For that very reason, many legions saw the XIII Legion as a group of arrogant egotists with no respect for others.
"Forgive me, but my genetic father is compiling a book encompassing the art of war: the Codex Astartes. What techniques of war could possibly fall outside the Codex?"
Luciel raised his wineglass, puzzled. "I never heard of any fighting in the Isstvan system. When did this happen? Why has Lord Guilliman not learned of it?"
"Not long ago, and that war has already ended. The price paid by the Imperium was terrible. This enemy was unlike anything we had faced before." Chorl laughed as he spoke, without the slightest hint of grief, making Luciel uncomfortable.
"More terrible than the Rangdan Campaign, more horrifying than the Ullanor Campaign. The Imperium's enemy discovered the power of betrayal. It was not a tactic, nor was it some weapon. It was a conceptual force. The deeper the betrayal, the greater the power..."
The Ultramarine's rational mind could not comprehend what this betrayal the Word Bearer spoke of meant. It sounded like some elusive sorcery.
The Word Bearers had always been obsessed with faith and sorcery, utterly unlike the Ultramarines.
"Yes. The power of betrayal destroyed three legions. The Rangdan xenos could not do it. Nor could the Greenskin Orks' emperor. How detestable—and how tragic."
Nykona's fingers had already closed around the trigger. He was waiting for the Word Bearer to reveal the true face beneath his false mask.
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