Bona stepped out of the underground shelter. Amid the smell of smoke and gunpowder, a faint, cloying presence lingered in the air. He knew this was no physical scent, but an emanation from the Empyrean.
He looked up at the sky. That supposed "splendor" was nothing more than a wound that would not heal, leaking twisted, maddening colors. Any mortal who tried to peer into its mysteries would have their soul torn apart and devoured in an instant.
He thought of Grandpa Malcador. The old man had once described Terra's ancient night sky, glittering with stars, beneath whose tranquil darkness humanity could let its thoughts roam freely.
That age, along with its fairy-tale sky, had long since died, overrun by madness, absurdity, and suspicion.
But it was time to end all of this.
Bona turned, his gaze sweeping over the forces behind him.
Eleven Primarchs stood like a wall forged from resolve and hatred.
At the forefront, Roboute Guilliman was checking the tactical display on his wrist, making sure there were contingency plans. Beside him, Lion El'Jonson stood with his arms folded, silent, his eyes sharper than any blade.
Horus stared thoughtfully at the Black Legion without a word, while Magnus edged farther away from Perturabo beside him, repelled by the rusty smell that clung to him.
The radiance surrounding Sanguinius grew increasingly dazzling, while the temperature of Fulgrim's phoenix wings climbed ever higher.
Elite warriors selected from the various Legiones Astartes stood silently behind their Gene-Fathers. The elite of the Aeldari Reaper Host were also poised to strike, standing on one flank with the Triarch Praetorians on the other.
Bona said nothing. He had no need to. He found his answer in everyone's eyes.
He turned back toward the Chaos-tainted void and slowly raised his right arm. His fingers