u/CompetitionTrue7021

Now, Horus is many things—Warmaster, consecutive Galaxy Bachelor M31 for 200 years running, Post Finesse son in the galaxy, but one thing he is not is infinitely patient.

So while he allowed Angron to sulk and complain freely about what they were about to do, he is definitely going to put his boot down when Angron does something he doesn't like. That is especially true when it comes to ruining his meticulously crafted plan to destroy three loyalist Legions.

This paragraph is a continuation of my last post here's the link to read it: 

https://www.reddit.com/r/40kLore/comments/1t5p0a1/book_excerpt_dropsite_massacre_horus_tries_to/

This covers Chapter 13 (pg.153-154, 157-160) and chapter 14 (pg. 164-166, 168-169).

Context: After Angron ruins Horus's hype moment and leaves the meeting, Kharn goes after him to check on him and calm him down. Unfortunately, he follows a path of bodies that leads to the vox network, where Angron is trying to alert the loyalists about Horus's plan.

>Clack-clack!

>Kharn tries to get his mouth working as he reaches the sally door from the Fortress out onto the black sands of the plateau. There is a human soldier guarding it.

>'Angron...' he forces out.

>Clack-clack!

>The soldier shakes his head, denying or uncomprehending. Khârn does not care. He grabs the human, fingers around his throat, scarred face inches from the mortal's eyes.

>'Angron... Where?' he forces out. The mortal is shaking in his grasp but raises a hand and points south. Towards the lines in front of the III Legion command zone. Khârn tosses the human away, hears the man cry out in pain. He begins to move, leg dragging, jaw jammed open. The lights of the Fortress glimmer behind him, laughing at him in silence. He fixes his eyes on the distance and keeps moving.

>It is not hard to follow Angron's path. All he has to do is follow the corpses. He can smell them before he sees them: offal and gut fluid, then bits of servitors, Mechanicum adepts, mortal soldiers scattered and torn, a boot with the foot still in it, a halved skull.

>A ragged lump of meat, embedded with bits of machine. No shots have been fired. The guns he finds are cold. They did not have time to thumb the safeties off. The blood is still warm.

>He drops over a firing wall into one of the outer trench lines. Body pants and bits of skin hang from the firing step. A severed head and portion of shoulder rotates on a gun strap that has snagged on a trench brace. Still no gunfire to guide him. Khårn is breathing hard, trying to move faster.

>Where is Angron going? What is he doing? He can't think to get through the central fortress lines and, what reach a vox-nexus? Shout a warning to Ferrus' fleet that they have enemies at their backs? There is a vox-nexus right in the central portion of the Fortress. There's no way of reaching it from inside without going through the Sons of Horus and half the Emperor's Children. But there is no way or hope of reaching it from out here, either. There are two kilometres of trenchworks and redoubts before you hit the walls.

>He stops.

>He thinks of all the time that Angron has spent out here, nun ning dust through fingers, gazing at stars and mountains as though dreaming of the past.

>Except he was not.

>Infected by rage, bitter, broken by betrayal and loss, but he is a primarch still, a mind and being made for war. He thinks of his primarch's eyes in the war councils, seeming distant, seeming not to see. His mind is cracked, but it is still a mind that can take in information at a glance. He thinks of what Angron must have been looking at as he gazed at the Fortress.

>He wants to swear, but his jammed jaw won't move.

>He tries to run, steps hitching, dust blowing past him, while across the Fortress the alert sirens have started wailing. He snatches up and thinks that he sees fresh stars in the firmament. He cu and hurries on.

>

>•••••

>

>Clouds have swallowed the light of the approaching fleet by the time Kharn reaches the buried tunnel mouth. The blast hatch covering it has been torn open. Hidden in the maze of trenchworks, it was made to be overlooked. It is supposed to be used for troops to emerge in the middle of the enemy once they have advanced this far.

>The tunnel inside runs down and back under the black sand to the root of the Fortress. Its walls are fused rock and sand-glass. They glisten in the strobe flash of emergency lights. Blast doors stand open, jammed in the process of closing, corpse hands still on locking controls. The call of alert sirens fills the air, but they are not for Khan or Angron. They are sounding because out there in the dark there are enemy ships in-system. The enemy are here.

>Angron knew, thinks Kharn. He waited. He was ready. Patient, like a tiger.

>Kharn keeps moving down the tunnel. He is under the walls now, in the Fortress. There are dead Emperor's Children on the floor, sliced from collar to groin. Blood and other body fluids splash his shins as Khan limps forwards. He has his hand on his seax, but what would he do if an attacker came at him now? He can't feel his right hand. His jaw is working, clack-clack-clacking on air. Why be alive? Why is he here?

>He hears the sound of a chainaxe echo down the passage, close, at sound the comer. There are thick cables bolted to the walls.

>Khârn can feel static on his skin. This is one of the vox and comms nexuses. The coordination of the central Fortress runs through the junctions of cogitators and signal cables. Destroy it and half defences will be blind. But that's not why Angron has come here or why he has butchered his way through the Emperor's Children. He wants to send a message.

>Khârn rounds a corner and sees his primarch. There are corpses on the ground. They must be Emperor's Children, but at this point that is a guess. Angron is hunched over them, shoulders flexing the front of his body is dripping red. Khårn can see a blast door into the vox-nexus just beyond the primarch. It is still closed. Blinding amber light fills the space. Sirens are sounding. His jaw clacks in time with the sound.

>The primarch turns towards the blast door.

>'Angron,' calls Kharn, but the sound is a low gasp

>The yellow light blinks. Kharn's jaw bites the air. His fingers are numb on the grip of his blade. Angron's eyes are circles of reflected light. He is very still.

>'Khârn,' he says.

>'You... cannot...' says Khârn. Every word is an act of will 'You cannot do this.'

>Angron looks at him.

>Then Khârn is tumbling through the air.

>He tastes blood. It is his blood. He is floating, the ground skimming past beneath him. He meets a wall. He feels healing bones break again.

>He has been struck. Angron hit him. A single backhanded blow. A casual lash of force. He hits the ground and the impact brings another gasp of blood from his throat. He is on the ground in the dust. There is blood coming from his mouth. His jaw is working biting air and he cannot feel his right hand.

>A chainblade guns to life. He sees a shadow of a ragged red shadow coming for him, just as the Emperor's Children did before they were bloody meat on the tunnel floor. The chainaxe strikes his seax. Somehow he has drawn the blade and brought it up to block the falling blow of Angron's axe. He feels a bite of rage in the base of his skull, and numbness prickling his fingers.

>Angron is above him. The teeth of the chainaxe scream as they spin against the power field of Kharn's blade. The primarch's teeth are bared.

>'You dare!' he roars, and the chainaxe presses closer to Kharn's face. The primarch pulled the blow, Khârn realises. Angron could have slammed the chainaxe through Kharn's blade, could have hacked down a dozen times in the time it took him to breathe once. He did not. It was both an act of compassion and an insult. '

>'You are a broken shadow who can barely raise a blade, yet you dare to try and chain me!'

>'Yet he has raised a blade,' comes a voice. It is calm yet has the force of a storm wind. 'And if there is a chain holding you, it is mine'

>Angron straightens and turns. The blast doors at the end of the passage have opened. Horus Lupercal walks forward. He is armoured. A red cloak hangs from his back and a wolf pelt covers his shoulders. Worldbreaker is in his hands. He rests the mace's head on the floor as he halts. He looks at Angron, face calm, eyes hard.

>'This cannot happen, brother,' he says. 'There can be no warning shouted to Ferrus and his allies. It will not happen.

>The two primarchs hold each other's gaze.

>'This is wrong' growls Angron. His fingers flex on the grips of his chainaxes.

>"I have listened, Angron,' says Horus. 'I have explained. But words mean nothing in the end. Actions are everything."

>Khan feels a knot of cold in his gut and thinks he might see a flicker of surprise on Angron's face.

>'Horus...' says Angron.

>'No more words, brother.'

>Horus lifts Worldbreaker, then strikes its head down on the foor once. The sound is a thunderclap in the strobing dark.

>Angron draws a breath.

>Then the world is a blur of movement.

>

>•••••

>

>Khârn has lived his life in war. He has seen every face of it: the bloody mangled horror of a field of corpses left to dry under an alien sun the fragile nobility of a soldier running into fire to reach the side of a comrade. He knows that an Astartes legionary at war is beyond most humans' ability to process. You can see it in their eyes - transhuman dread, some call it - the knowledge that you are in the presence of something that can end you instantly, that you are seeing past the limit of lethality and into the abyss beyond.

>Khârn has seen it. He has read the remembrancer accounts of it. He has even tried to understand it. He has always failed. But in the instant when Angron and Horus meet, Khârn sees and thinks he might now understand.

>Chain teeth shrieking. Blows shivering sparks from weapons and armour. Fast beyond fast, fury beyond fury. Horus coming forwards always forwards, striking again and again. And Angron striking from every angle, axe heads hooking Horus' mace, pulling it down searching for an opening.

>It is not a fight. That's too small a word. It is a war. All of the force of armies, all the dead worlds and ended dreams, all there in the ring of weapon on weapon.

>Horus' mace swings down. Angron brings both his axes up. The spinning chains catch the haft of Worldbreaker. The mica teeth bite the adamantine haft. Horus steps back. Angron is snarling, eyes wide. He lashes a kick out. His foot hits Horus in the chest. The red eye on the Warmaster's breastplate shatters. Chunks of red crystal fall. Angron roars and swings. Horus catches the blow with the mace's haft, turns it and rams the head into Angron. Armour cracks. Angron catches his balance, axes raised. Horus holds still. The Warmaster's jaw is set, eyes holes into night.

>'Why is there never a choice?' roars Angron.

>'We are not given choices, Angron. And now Horus is roaring, anger lighting his eyes. 'We win them. We make them ours, by blood and blade. So take yours now.'

>And Angron bellows. It is a sound of pain as much as rage. He cuts. Khârn feels his primarch's blows as much as sees them. He knows them. They are the death blows of the axe fighters on Nuceria, the cuts made by a warrior who will die and take his opponent with him. Right axe from left to right, back-handed into torso.

>A blow to stagger, to bite. And then the second blow, the left axe backhanded into the head as the opponent's counter-blow comes. And two warriors fall. Their ropes cut, honour and blood mingling on the sand. The world will be red. All will end now, crimson and bloody. And Khârn can feel the numbness of his fingers become white-hot pain, and the shriek of the Nails is burning away the grey fog in his skull.

>Angron's axe blows do not land.

>Horus has let go of Worldbreaker. The great mace falls. Horus catches the haft of Angron's first axe. Then the claws of his other hand slash down. Khârn had not seen the blades unfold. They slice through the chain binding the axe to Angron's wrist as Horus twists the weapon free from his brother's grip and slices it back at Angron. Its chainblade meets that of the second axe. Mica teeth jam into each other. Chain drives shriek. Worldbreaker hits the floor.

>A stalemate. But not really. A demonstration that Horus could have ended the fight already, could have ended it with a death stroke, but instead has chosen to take Angron's own blade.

>Horus leans in towards Angron, looking through the locked weapon.

>'What is your choice, brother?'

>

>••••

>

>'I will not submit!' roars Angron. 'Do it! Make your cut! End this!"

>'No, says Horus, and steps back, lowers the chainaxe, and drops it to the floor. The teeth rattle through a revolution and then are still. The whole passage seems still again. The sound of the warning sirens dims. 'No, brother,' says Horus, and there is pity in the words.

>No! shouts a voice in Khârn's skull. Better slaughter than mercy.

>Angron still has the other chainaxe in his hand. The teeth are still spinning. But the fury in his eyes is hollow.

>Hollow... Grey fog... The emptiness of a broken warrior who was not allowed to die.

>'Your war does not end, brother,' says Horus. His voice is low.

>Angron closes his eyes. 'Why?' he asks.

>'Because of what we were made for. Because of Him. Because the only chain you wear is the one He placed on you. And there is only one way to sever it.'

>The teeth of the chainaxe spin to stillness.

>'We should have fought this war with honour. We should want to be everything He is not.'

>Horus nods. 'We never had that choice. He took it from us'

>Angron closes his eyes again. His shoulders hunch. His head dips

>'We were made to kill not for ourselves or live for ourselves, but for other, higher ends. That is what we have no choice over brothet That is the chain that binds us all. You will find no freedom in your own death. But in our father's, perhaps.'

>'Perhaps...' says Angron, and it is not the voice of a warlord, but the small voice of pain, of agony and loss stretched past rage into exhaustion. 'A path of blood from here to there...'

>Horus nods. 'There is no other way, brother, and there never was.'

>Kharn feels something then. Not the fire of rage or surge of pain.Something colder that sits in his guts like ice.

>Angron takes a step forward and picks up the second chainaxe from where it fell. He straightens, begins to wind the severed chain around his wrist.

>'Then let's begin.'

>

>

>

>

Men, have you ever had a moment when you’re on fire and everything is going exactly how you want, until someone shows up and ruins it? Well, Horus is about to experience that, thanks to Angron.

This paragraph is a continuation of my last post here's the link to read it: 

https://www.reddit.com/r/40kLore/comments/1t20yqr/book_except_dropsite_massacre_blood_before/

This covers Chapter 13 (pg.149-152)

Context:The loyalist forces have arrived and the traitor forces have gathered in the strategium, listening to vox communications from the Loyalists and mocking them. Horus then steps in to remind his men that they are the true loyalists of the Imperium, because they can see through the Emperor’s lies, which hypes everyone up. Just as the moment peaks, Angron barges in, interrupting Horus and generally being a pain in the ass.

>

>'Fadelitas Imperialis...' The words croak from the vox-speakers suspended above the strategium table in the fortress beside the Urgall Depression.

>"This is them?" asks Horus Aximand. The Fifth Company captain looks at Maloghurst, eyebrow raised.

>"Long-range vox picked up their signal cloud just after we detected translation", says Maloghurst. 'It's them, they are here.'

>'At last,' says Falkus Kibre, growling the beginning of a laugh that does not catch. 'Fools come to the slaughter. No idea that we have their signal ciphers because of the Twentieth, no idea that we can hear them, no idea what is coming.' He looks around, face set in the early stages of a pre-battle snarl.

>'Fadelitas Imperialis...' says Horus Lupercal, and his voice carries none of Kibre's glee. 'What does that make us, my sons and brothers?'

>He looks up. Stillness and silence fill the space. They are all here. All Mournival, all the command echelon, all the company captains and commanders: Kalus Ekaddon, Grael Noctua, Kal-geradak, Castius the Third, Argonis, Mortarion and his close cadre too, and the circles of high officers from the Mechanicum, the auxiliaries.

>Khârn with a band of the World Eaters' elite. All are watching, all are listening as their Warmaster leans on the strategium table.

>'Has he engineered this?' wonders Maloghurst. Of course he has.This was a general command gathering called as the attack fleet translated back into reality. The signal intercept, and this moment, were no accident.

>'Hear this, my sons, hear those words in the mouths of those who come to kill us. You know them. We all know them. We all share blood with them and have seen that blood shed on the same battle fields. Are they not our brothers? Are they not our kin with whom we have waded through fire and death, whom we have counted as the best and truest of companions?"

>Horus looks around, meeting the eyes of his sons.

>'Abaddon, did Nerok of the Eighteenth not save you on Gerish? Ultano, are not those wings on your throat a gift of the Nineteenth? Were not we once all one unity of warriors, one brotherhood? And yet we are now divided.' He lays the edge of his hand on the table surface. 'Fidelitas Imperialis... Loyal to the Imperium. And we, we who bled with them, who drank the same bitter cup of blood to make that Imperium. What are we?"

>He closes the fist and strikes the table. The dry sound echoes

>"Traitoris maximus... Traitors to the last. Traitors even though we are the ones betrayed. Traitors because we are the ones who are willing to fight to protect the truth of the Imperium. We the ones who pay the price for seeing that the Emperor is the true threat to the Imperium!'.

>The words ring. The anger reverberates through the Sons of Horus Maloghurst feels it shiver through his blood. Every Son of Horus in the chamber is a wolf again, poised, kill-ready. All eyes are their father. When he speaks again his voice is low.

>'Traitoris maximus, my sons, that is how they see us and those the words that they will carve on the stones they would set above our graves.'

>Horus shakes his head, jaw taut, anger building behind black eyes.

>A growl rises from the crowd.

>'But we are loyal to a higher ideal. We hold a future of truth sacred, free of the lies we were born to...'

>Growls of agreement begin to rise.

>'We are the future. We are its creators and its warriors.'

>Fists clash on breastplates, growls become cheers.

>'We shall end the empire of lies.'

>They roar then. Roar so that their shouts echo off the cold stone.

>"Lupercal! Lupercal! Lupercal Imperator!'

>Horus is looking at his warriors, expression set.

>Maloghurst almost misses the movement at the entrance, in the din.

>He sees one of the Justaerin stationed there move to block the way into the chamber, and then cannon backwards.

>"Brother!"

>The word is loud enough to cut through the roars of acclamation.

>Angron stalks into the room. His eyes are wide, teeth bared. The crowd of warriors parts before him as though shoved aside by the rage rolling off him.

>'You think to silence me!' shouts Angron.

>Mainghunt is already moving forward, looking for Khârn. The Justaerin elite and Mournival are at Horus' side. Only the Warmaster has not moved. He watches Angron as the Red Angel advances.

>'You silence me. The machine priests have slaved the trans-atmospheric vox-systems.' His gaze locks on Maloghurst 'Your crooked shadow has taken our Legion astropaths.'

>'They are needed,' says Maloghurst.

>Angron is a blade-length from Maloghurst before the movement registers.

>'Another word and it will be your last, broken one. Your pet abominations might need feeding with witches, but let us not pretend that it does not serve another purpose.'

>'I cannot allow you to break the plans we have made, Angron' says Horus, voice calm enough to form ice from air.

>'You dare put a chain around my throat!'

>"There can be no warning. No signal. I have said this. I have explained this.'

>'Actions are all that matters!' The shout is sudden, an axe blow to any sense of calm. 'Honour needs no explanation. I need no greater right or truth.

>'Spoken like a tyrant son of a king.' It is Mortarion, air sucking between words, voice a rasp. The Death Lord takes a step from the shadows so that the three primarchs are a triangle, with Angron at the narrowest point. 'You are a selfish child, Angron. You do not agree, and so you would break what we make. You would make all of us pay the price for your sense of what is right. You would kill us and our warriors - not for their ideals, but yours. Just like our father.'

>For a second Maloghurst thinks that Angron will lunge at his brother as he did Fulgrim. But the Red Angel does not move. He just stares, transfixed, like a beast struck between its eyes. The Death Lord turns his back, bows his head to Horus and stalks out of sight. Horus looks at Angron. Maloghurst can tell that the Warmaster is waiting. Choosing, considering what to say. If anything can be said.

>Angron's face twitches, then he too turns and is gone. The gathered leaders of the Warmaster's host watch him go.

>'Khârn...' begins Maloghurst, limping towards the World Eaters equerry. Khårn has not moved. His jaw is biting air, his shoulders hitching as though he is trying to breathe. He looks at Maloghurst. His eyes are unfocused. Then he is shoving a path through World Eaters and Sons of Horus, shouts reaching for him.

>

Hello, my fellow Horizon adventurers! I’ve come today to ask you about the most insane spell combinations you can come up with using the Soulbound talent, Spell Weave.

For those who haven’t delved into Soulbound: Champions of Order (or Soulbound in general) and aren’t familiar with talents, here’s a quick TL;DR: talents are unique abilities, tricks, or quirks your character can learn.

Spell Weave is a special talent introduce in Champions of Order that allows a caster, from any lore of magic (including deep lore and esoteric lores), to combine two spells into a single, multi-faceted and often dangerously powerful masterwork.

So it got me thinking: what can you, the AoS lore community, come up with when you really let your creativity run wild? So write your wild ideas in the comments below.

Now we know exactly why Horus was chosen as Warmaster, his sheer charisma and authority. So whenever he chooses to wield it, no one can truly stand against him. In today case, that someone is Angron. But Horus doesn’t bother with brute force, why lift a finger when he can just throw Angron’s own words back at him.

This paragraph is a continuation of my last post here's the link to read it: https://www.reddit.com/r/40kLore/comments/1t20yqr/book_except_dropsite_massacre_blood_before/

This covers Chapter 3 (pg. 45–48).

Context: Angron begins arguing about how the traitors plan to prosecute the battle and is on the verge of coming to blows with Fulgrim—until Horus steps in.

>

>Fulgrim's mouth twitches into another sneer.

>'Are you saying that because our father did not let you die with your band of slaves, that you think we should give away the greatest strategic and tactical advantage we have?' He snorts a scrap of laughter. 'And there I thought we were acting for a goal higher than the right of the foolish to bury themselves in their favourite patch of dirt'

>Angron moves then. No build up, no bunching of muscle before the surge. Just there. Across the floor. Axe loose in hand.

>Fulgrim grinning at the blow as it comes... Mortarion is between them.

>The force of Angron's charge could have pitched a tank over. Mortarion takes it, feet planted, unyielding. Fulgrim's smile is the sun, his eyes sapphire stars. His fingertips rest on the pommel of his sword.

>'Please...' Fulgrim grins. 'Please do continue, brother'

>Angron is still. He does not step back but shakes Mortarion's hand from his chest.

>Kharn's eyes flicker.

>A blink-blur of muscle, weapons rising and the head of an axe striking the Death Lord in the chest. Mouth opening in a roar and saw teeth spinning as sparks fly from armour and the blood of demigods falls to salt the dust. Phoenician. Death Lord. Red Angel blades that reach for them. All falling.

>Down onto black sands that will Angron has not moved. His is a tiger's stillness.

>'They should know what they face,' he says. They are warriors. They deserve to die with wounds to their front.'

>'You are right.'

>Angron looks around at the sound of the voice, Fulgrim too, the sneer on his features settling back into a serene smile.

>'You are right, my brother,' says Horus again. His face is grim. He is leaning on the rim of the holo-table. The blue light of the projections folds his face in coldness. 'They deserve better than what will happen to them, than going to war in good faith and dying by treachery. They deserve that not to be their fate. Horus nods and looks down at the features of the Urgall Depression sculpted in gossamer light.

>The chamber aches with listening. 'But don't we all deserve that?' Horus looks up. His gaze goes to Angron first. 'We have walked into war for an Emperor and Imperium that cheered us as we died, that threw honours down on us as we waded through horror.' His eyes move to Fulgrim, and Mortarion, and then out to the other legionaries standing in the shadows.

>'It was a lie.' Horus closes his eyes.

>Even through the static-neon itching inside his skull, Khârn feels a cold jolt then, a feeling like putting your foot down only to fall into an abyss where you believed there was solid ground. Horus opens his eyes, and his voice is low when he speaks again.

>'Warriors heaped on the dust, corpses where once there were loyal sons, dead on the ground they fought for. Not given the chance to fight for their future. Encircled by treachery and lies. Betrayed. Massacred. The words fall, cold and ringing. "That is the fate that waited for all of us at our father's hand. For the warriors of every Legion, for all our brothers.'

>He reaches a hand into the light of the holo-projection. Folds of land and battlements glide across his fingers, as though he is running them through sand. 'Whoever comes to face us on this ground will die. They will die without a chance of victory. They will die not because of their weakness but because of the lies that they cannot disbelieve. And we will end them. Not because we relish the task. Not because it is an act of glory. It is not. It is an act of war against the massacre that waited for us all. It is a warrior's mercy!'

>Muscles twitch around Angron's eyes as he gazes at Horus. The Warmaster's face is calm. Control radiates from every detail of his posture: control, power, and strength.

>Then Angron turns away, and stalks to the door. Fulgrim moves

>to intercept him, hand raised, placating.

>'Angron...' begins the Phoenician.

>'Get out of my way, you craven fool!

>Fulgrim's smile hardens into cold beauty. Then he steps aside.

>Angron's lip curls and he walks from the chamber.

Now, if you’re a fan, or if you’ve heard anything about Angron, you know his backstory. He was a gladiator slave who managed to rise up alongside his fellow brothers and sisters, fighting for their freedom. But it all ended in tragedy, with Angron and his fellow slaves facing a losing battle against the High Riders. They were all going to die together, except Angron, who, unfortunately for him, was “saved” at the last moment by the Emperor. Because of that, it’s always been baffling how Angron seemed okay with doing to the three Loyalist Legions on Isstvan V exactly what the High Riders did to him.

Which he was, but not in the way his fellow primarchs intended.

This paragraph is taken from chapter 3 (pg.42-45).

Context: Khârn has recently been “brought back to life” after being run over by a Land Raider, though the incident has clearly left its mark on him. He informs Angron that Horus is calling for a meeting on the plans for the massacre that would soon be enacted on Isstvan V.

>The pair have not moved. The wind flicks at the edge of Khan's cloak and at the sand in Angron's hand. The primarch turns his gaze towards the night gathering in the plateau's bowl.

>'A circle of sand...' says Angron. 'Soon this dust will drink blood. Ours. Theirs. We will fight and bleed here, them and us... It will be a slaughter.'

>Kharn waits. He feels his jaw work, his teeth part to clack. He controls it. Fatigue is a bruised haze in his head now.

>'Horus...' he begins again

>'They deserve to die,' says Angron. He is still looking at the fading light and the deepening bowl of shadow in front of him. 'All of them. All of those that are coming here. All the blind fools. They have earned their end. But this...' He opens his fist. The wind catches the sand and blurs it into the falling night. The last grains rasp on Angron's armor as he stands and stalks away toward the Fortress.

>Kharn feels a twitch in his jaw. Then limps after his primarch.

>'Vile' Angron's word hangs in the holo-curtained air.

>The chamber is one of those repurposed from whatever its dead alien architects had intended. It is vaguely conical. There are eleven walls. Each one is a different width. Kharn has noticed these facts every time he has had to come here. He can't stop himself noticing. The details have hooked into his awareness and will not shake. He finds the machinery that has been installed - the snaking cables, the static buzz, the flicker of displays of control panels - reassuring. It at least is normal. He works his jaw. His thoughts have been fogging ever since he entered the Fortress again. His right side aches. He hasn't been able to focus during the briefing. He hasn't been there. Not until Angron speaks.

>"Vile"

>Then he is there. Right there in the room with Angron raising his head in challenge. The primarch of the World Eaters has said nothing until this point. Fulgrim has done most of the talking, gesturing holo-images into existence as he layers detail of defences onto battle plans. Mortarion has spoken briefly, or Khârn thinks he has. Horus ceded the floor to the Phoenician after the gathering began, and has not interrupted as Fulgrim has purred and expanded and explained. How long has this been going on? Five minutes? An hour? More? Khârn knows that the Phoenician's delivery has been perfect.

>Even through the fog, he knows that he will be able to remember the details purely because of how Fulgrim delivered them. He does not care. He does not want to be here. Not in this room. Not with the fog rolling in his head and the feeling that he must keep checking that his fingers aren't twitching.

>There are other Astartes standing in the gloom haze behind their gene-fathers. Kharn knows them. Some nodded at him when he entered. Others just stared. He does not care. His right side aches.

>But now Angron has spoken, and his word sparks something, a flash behind the grey fog, burning promethium bright. Khân can feel something. Something buzzing at the base of his skull. It feels like it might hurt.

>'You have something to add, brother?' says Fulgrim. The III Legion primarch's expression is serenity sculpted in flesh.

>"This is vile,' repeats Angron. He is next to the holo-display. Red splash markers show projected landing sites for an attacking force. Red and bright... stuttering neon... Khârn blinks. The red is there inside his eyelids. 'It is betrayal.'

>'I am sure that those who will come hoping to take our heads would agree,' says Fulgrim. 'But this is what we are here for, Angron. This is what we are doing. Or had that fact somehow not made itself obvious to you?' Fulgrim glances towards Horus. The Warmaster does not answer the glance. He is looking at Angron. Every eye in the room is looking at Angron.

>'Do you know how to die?' asks Angron, leaning onto the rim of the holo-table. Fulgrim bristles, his smile curdling to sneer. Angron does not wait for a reply. 'You can feel it coming. You know it is there, just over the horizon as night falls. You sleep and know that those dreams will be your last. When you wake, you know that it will be the last time your eyes open to a new day. You know that the next sleep you have will be in the earth. You know there will be pain and blood and that another warrior is going to rip your life from you and scream as your blood flows. You know all this... and yet you rise. You take up your weapon and turn your face to the sky and roar at your killers to come. That is how a warrior dies.'

>'Brother...' begins Fulgrim.

>'I am not your brother!' Angron's roar shakes the air. Khârn feels the Butcher's Nails flare, and his flesh is on fire with pain, and neon fire has replaced the fog in his skull. He is breathing hard, eyes wide and unblinking. 'We have never shared rope or chain, never bled that the other might live. What we share in our veins is worth nothing. Or had that fact somehow not made itself obvious to you?' He points at the red splashes in the hololight. 'Warriors are coming to face us. They think that they are coming to slaughter us, they have risen and taken up their arms. They are ready to bleed and die to put us in the earth. But you are going to kill them with wounds to the back.'

>'So for warrior honour you would do what?' asks Fulgrim. 'Have the five Legions that are on our side declare themselves with us now, before the battle?'

>'Yes,' says Angron. 'They raise their banners and blades. We ours. Face to face, the doomed and the defiant.'

>'And all that we will gain from such folly is greater losses,' says Fulgrim. 'Losses to forces that the Warmaster will need... that we will all need to end our father's tyranny of lies.

>'All that we will gain...' Angron gives a bitter laugh. 'We are already dead. All the Legions and mortals that follow us are dead. Our skulls wait under our skin. Now, later, it matters nothing. All that matters is how we face death and deliver it. And warriors die with wounds to their front.'

>'And your sons that you killed on Isstvan III?' asks Fulgrim, incre-dulous. 'You sent them down to the surface along with the rest, unknowing, ignorant of what awaited them!'

>These were given to me by my sons,' says Angron, holding his arms wide so that the chains clink and the fresh scars on his skin and armour show clear. He lowers his chin, eyes on Fulgrim. 'Where are yours?'

>This is not Nuceria, Angron,' rasps Mortarion.

>

>'Not Nuceria ... Everywhere is Nuceria. Every patch of sand waiting to be soaked red, every circle of war. I do not know why you stand here, but I know why I do!'

If you’ve read the Horus Heresy series, you already know who I’m talking about. If not, here’s the deal.

Aruken was the Moderati Primus of the Imperator-class Titan Dies Irae, introduced in False Gods. He’s a laid-back, almost cocky character who enjoys teasing his friend and fellow moderati, Titus Cassar.

Cassar, a more prominent side character, was a firm believer in the Imperial Creed and even helped Euphrati Keeler when she was bedridden, with Aruken reluctantly at his side.

Aruken’s last appearance comes in Galaxy in Flames, during the betrayal on Isstvan III. When Cassar attempts to assassinate his princeps for betraying the Emperor, Aruken chooses ambition over loyalty and sides with the princeps instead of his friend, hoping for promotion, maybe even a Titan of his own one day. In doing so, he kills his friend.

That’s where his story ended… for 20 years. No closure. No answers.

While we do learn what ultimately happens to the Titan Dies Irae in Storm of Iron, set in the 40k era (i.e Boom), Aruken himself is never mentioned, leaving his fate a complete mystery.

Until now because thanks to the newer novel of heresy it finally reveals what became of Aruken after Isstvan III and the truth is grim. One that really makes you question whether betraying his friend was ever worth it.

This paragraph is taken from chapter 9 (pg.106-108) where Maloghurst the Warmaster helper makes a inspection on the forces of Warmaster until he arrives at the Titans and gets greeted by Aruken:

>

>'Lord Maloghurst'. The greeting comes from the dark at the other end of the gantry. It is a hiss laced with static.

>'They stand ready to walk?' asks Maloghurst. He does not look around.

>'Do they not look ready?'

>The presence of the speaker settles next to him. Maloghurst feels his fingers twitch and suppresses the instinct to clench his fists.

>

>The Legio Mortis is a force to break worlds with. They are loyal to the cause, and the Warmaster needs them for this battle and all those to come. And that means that Maloghurst cannot throw Princeps Herald Aruken off the gantry and listen to him scream as he falls.

>'The mysteries of the machine are not my domain,' he says carefully. A suck-hiss of static, a substitute for a cough of laughter or a chuckle.

>'They are ready, says Aruken.'The ministrations performed on them now are to keep their spirits subdued while they wait.'

>'Good," says Maloghurst. He straightens, glances to the other end of the gantry, ready to move on.

>"But if they are kept from walking for much longer, they will not remain quiet. They will have to return to deep slumber, reactors cooled, conduits drained of plasma and charge.

>'Why?' asks Maloghurst.

>"Because otherwise they will rip themselves apart where they stand.'

>Maloghurst looks at Aruken then. The man had performed some great act of heroism as part of the crew of the Titan Dies Irae on Isstvan III. An act that has not only earned him command of a Battle Titan, but the role of the Herald of the Legio Mortis. He is the conduit through which the Legio deals with the rest of the Warmaster's forces. He is its voice. And like everything else, he has changed.

>Maloghurst can remember every face he has seen, every voice he has heard, every person he has met. He has met Aruken before, when the crews of Mortis' engines were presented to the Warmaster after his ascension.

>The Aruken he remembers is not what stands before him on the gantry. Wasted limbs dangle from a metal frame. Interface sockets dot torso and skull. Tubes suck yellow fluid into crystal jars. Where there had been a face, there is a dry crumpled skull, bare of skin. A speaker grille sits between Aruken's teeth though he is biting it. Cables trail from eye sockets to a pair of floating servo-skulls.

>None of these changes are what makes Maloghurst want to put a bullet in the princeps. No, that is something else: an itch in the back of his eyeballs and inside his skin....a sensation like the flicker of insect feelers and legs.

>'You cannot waken a beast and keep it chained, equerry' Aruken with another chuckle-rasp of static. 'Bring the harvest to our scythe soon, or we will not walk.'

>Maloghurst lets out a slow breath. "The Warmaster asks that the Legio Mortis do all that it can prolong that time!'

>The remains of Aruken's body twitch in the suspension frame. 'We are. But know that you created this. It is you who sowed the wind...' Aruken rotates before Maloghurst can reply, and floats away down the gantry. 'You made a promise to give the reapers their due. Now you must keep it.'

>Maloghurst looks back down at the Titans, so still that the stillness seems to roar.