Angron curled up in the darkest, dampest corner of the Abyssal Maw's dungeon.
He was in agony.
The pain did not come entirely from his flesh. True, the wounds left by his fight to the death against those treacherous Aeldari still gaped hideously across his body. Green alien toxins clung to him like maggots burrowing into bone, constantly eating away at his extraordinary ability to heal. But a deeper agony came from his Primarch body, which was growing unchecked at a terrifying speed. His bones lengthened, fractured, then reshaped themselves. Every second, he could clearly hear the teeth-grating creaks coming from inside his body. Meanwhile, hunger churned in his stomach like molten lava. He had eaten nothing for three days.
But none of it compared to the torment deep within his soul.
His gift, his innate ability to sense and empathize with the emotions of every living being, had become the cruelest of curses.
The despair, fear, hatred, and numbness of tens of thousands of slaves... pierced his mind ceaselessly, like thousands of poisoned needles. He could feel the suffocation that lung disease inflicted on the old slave in the next cell. He could feel the anguish of a boy in a distant mine tunnel, driven to the brink of collapse by overwork. He could feel the thick, inescapable despair that filled the entire dungeon, mingled with sweat, blood, and the stench of death.
That torrent of emotion was about to drown him.
Like a young beast driven into a corner, he tensed every muscle and let a low growl rumble in his throat. His bloodshot eyes swept warily over his surroundings. The mortal slaves kept their distance, frightened by his enormous size and the blood that had yet to dry on his body. They avoided him as though he