Guilliman was struck by a moment of dizziness. The Alpha Legion's most elite veterans would never miss such an opportunity.
They had paid too much for this. From Calth to Macragge, countless more Legionaries had died to reach Guilliman.
"We are Alpharius!"
At last, one of the enemies spoke. It was like some kind of signal, and like a resolute battle cry.
In his haste, the primarch tried to shield the vulnerable parts of his head with his vambraces, while the enemy's bolt rounds relentlessly struck at his skull and exposed hands.
Guilliman's body continued to suffer injury. His hands were wracked by tearing pain and jolting impacts; he suspected the bones in his fists had already been shattered by the bolt shells.
The fresh laurel wreath upon his brow fell to the floor, bloodied amid the thunder of bolter fire, then was trampled into mud beneath heavy iron boots during the chaotic battle.
He could feel blood running down his face and neck. That wet, sticky sensation reminded him of the red sands of Nuceria, except this time, it was his own blood.
The guards were desperately trying to force open the sealed doors. The magnetic devices brought by the assassins proved to be an enormous obstacle, stretching a delay of mere seconds into a full minute.
Guilliman suddenly recalled his conversation with Fafnir of the Space Wolves. The Wolf had admitted that if he, his hunting pack, and Guilliman were alone in a sealed room, the Emperor's executioners would make the primarch pay the price.
Whether that had been a prophecy from the Space Wolf or a deeper conspiracy was beside the point. Guilliman's voice had already lost its initial strength.
Bolt rounds obliterated every obstacle in their path, ripped through the heavy desk, and left vast spiderweb-like