And fired the shot heard ’round the world.

SURROUNDED BY A pack of fur- and armour-clad warriors, bearing great axes and bloodied harpoon-like spears, Leman Russ approached the Great Library of Phoenix Crag. Though Ahriman had seen the Wolf King before, Leman Russ at war was an entirely different proposition to Leman Russ at peace. One was brutally fearsome and intimidating, and the other utterly terrifying, an avatar of destruction as monstrous as the bloodiest culture’s renditions of their gods of murder, war and death combined.

A living engine of destruction, Ahriman saw Russ clearly for what he was: pure force and will alloyed into a living weapon that could be aimed and loosed, but never called back.

The Wolf King reached the end of the causeway, and Ahriman saw Ohthere Wyrdmake at his side, the Rune Priest’s expression impossible to read. Together with his enormous wolves, Leman Russ marched towards the Thousand Sons. Ahriman expected the Wolf King to charge wildly towards them, to confirm every negative caricature his detractors painted, but he came slowly, with infinite patience and infinite fury.

His packwarriors awaited his return, aching to do harm.

All Ahriman could hear was the footsteps of Russ as he marched across the causeway. His stride was sure and measured, his expression set in stone. His frost-shimmer blade leapt to his hand, a weapon to cleave mountains. Magnus went to meet him, his curved golden sword bound with the power of the sun: Two war gods marching to battle, the souls of their Legions carried with them.

Ahriman wanted to say something, to halt this inexorable confrontation, but the sight of the two primarchs drawing together with murder in their hearts robbed him of speech.

Before either one could speak, a blistering sheet of light flashed into existence between them, a coruscating fire that shimmered with the light of the brightest star. Impossible images were thrown out by the light, faraway places and the bitter tang of incense, burned plastic and reeking generators that thrummed with power.

A hard bang of displaced air boomed from the mountainside, and the light was gone.

A broad-shouldered giant in battle armour of granite grey with skin of gleaming gold stood in its place.

“The Urizen,” whispered Ahriman.

“THIS ENDS NOW,” said the golden-skinned warrior.

He stood between Magnus and Russ like the arbiter of a fistfight. Ahriman’s previous impression of Lorgar was utterly dispelled as he looked upon the soulful features of the Word Bearers’ Primarch. His eyes were kohl-rimmed and filled with infinite sadness, as though he bore the burden of a sorrowful secret that he could never, ever, share.

Lorgar’s armour was dark, the colour of stone that has lain beneath the ocean for aeons, its every perfectly-nuanced plate worked with cuneiform inscriptions taken from the ancient books of Colchis. One shoulder-guard bore a heavy tome, its pages yellowed with age, fluttering in the disturbed air of his teleportation.

A cloak of deepest burgundy hung from his shoulders, and though he appeared unarmed, a primarch was never really without weapons.

Ahriman heard every word that passed between the three primarchs, each indelibly carved on his mind for all time. Their import would haunt him for the rest of his span.

“Get out of the way, Lorgar,” snarled Leman Russ, his veneer of apparent calm slipping for a moment. “This does not concern you.”

“Two of my brothers about to draw each other’s blood?” said Lorgar. “That concerns me.”

“Get out of my way,” repeated Russ, his fingers flexing on the hide-wound grip of his sword. “Or so help me—”

“What? You will cut me down too?”

Russ hesitated, and Lorgar stepped towards him.

“Please, brother, think of what you are doing,” he said. “Think of all the bonds of love and friendship that will be lost if you continue down this path to bloodshed.”

“The Cyclops has gone too far, Lorgar. He has spilled our blood and must pay.”

“BLOOD SPILLED THROUGH misunderstanding,” said Lorgar. “You must calm your fury, brother. Anger is no one’s friend when hard choices must be made. Let it cloud your mind and all you will have when it is gone are regrets. Remember Dulan?”

“Aye,” said Russ, and his thunderous expression mellowed. “The war with the Lion.”

“You brawled with Jonson in the throne room of the fallen Tyrant, and yet now you are oath-sworn brothers-in-arms. This is no different.”

Magnus was saying nothing, and Ahriman held his breath. Two such mighty beings facing one another with their aggression simmering so close to the surface was the most dangerous thing he had ever seen.

“Should we do something?” hissed Phosis T’kar, looking to Ahriman for guidance.

“Not if you want to live,” said Ahriman.

Titanic energies were bound within the immortal flesh of these warriors, and the tension crackling between them was razor-taut. Ahriman could feel their awesome psychic presences pressing against the lid of his skull, but dared not open his senses.

“You would stand with the Cyclops, Lorgar?” said Russ. “A wielder of unclean magicks? Look at the corpse of that… thing over there, the one with my bullet in its heart. Look at that and tell me I’m wrong.”

“An instability of gene-seed is no reason for two brothers to go to war,” cautioned Lorgar.

“That is more than just unstable gene-seed, it is sorcery. You know it as well as I. We all knew Magnus was mired in the black arts, but we turned a blind eye to it because he was our brother. Well, no more, Lorgar, no more. Every warrior of that Legion is tainted, wielders of spellcraft and necromancy.”

“Necromancy?” scoffed Magnus. “You know nothing.”

“I know enough,” spat Russ. “You have gone too far, Magnus. This is where it ends.”

Lorgar placed a golden hand upon his breastplate and said, “All the Legions wield such power, brother. Are your Rune Priests so different?”

Russ threw back his head and laughed, a booming roar of great mirth and riotous amusement.

“You would compare the Sons of the Storm with these warlocks?” he asked. “Our power is born in the thunder of Fenris and tempered in the heart of the world forge. It comes from the strength of the natural world and is shaped by the courage of our warrior souls. It is untainted by the corruption that befouls the Thousand Sons.”

Now it was Magnus’ turn to laugh.

“If you believe that, then you are a fool!” he said.

“Magnus! Enough!” barked Lorgar. “This is not the rime for such debate. Two of my dearest brothers are at each other’s throats, and it grieves me to know how this shall disappoint our father. Is this what he created us for? Is this why he scoured the heavens looking for us? So we could descend into petty bickering like mortals? We have greater destinies before us, and must be above such lesser concerns. We are our father’s avatars of conquest, fiery comets of righteousness set loose to illuminate the cosmos with his glory. We are his emissaries sent out into the galaxy to bear word of his coming. We must be bright, shining examples of all that is good and pure in the Imperium.”

Lorgar’s words reached out to all who heard them, the fundamental truth they contained like a soothing balm. Ahriman was ashamed they had allowed things to spin so violently out of control, seeing the true horror of this situation.

Brother against brother. Could there be anything worse?

The golden primarch seemed to shine with inner light, his skin radiant and beatific as he spoke. Hearts once raging were now calmed. The Space Wolves lowered their blades a fraction, and the Thousand Sons’ defensive posture relaxed in response.

“I will not stand by and let him destroy this world,” said Magnus, lowering his khopesh.

“It is not yours to save,” snapped Russ. “My Legion discovered this world. It is mine to do with as I see fit. Its people had a choice: join us and live, fight us and die. They chose to die.”