Magnus appeared at his side, like an excited Probationer about to take the Liber Throaand become a Neophyte. The primarch peered through the canopy and took in the geometric precision of the landscape.

“Incredible,” he whispered. “The genesis of a world. The order of the universe described in mathematics, perfect shapes and geometry. How like my father to choose this place. He knew it would speak to me. It is the shards of my youth on a planetary scale.”

The Stormhawk dipped lower, banking its wings on its final approach, and a vast, conical landmass slid into view. It was a gigantic stratovolcano, steep-sided and rugged with hardened lava, tephra and blackened ash.

It pierced the clouds, and Ahriman knew with utter certainty that a great amphitheatre was carved within its heart. A column of purest light soared from the summit crater, invisible to mortal eyes, but a blazing spear piercing the heavens to those with aether-sight. A gathering thundercloud, shot through with golden lightning, filled the sky above the volcano.

Ahriman had felt the light’s presence as soon as the ships of the 28th Expedition had translated into the Nikaea system, but to actually see it ahead of him was like waking from a coma into a brightly lit room.

“Throne, it’s glorious,” said Magnus. “That is true power, a mind that can reach across the galaxy and bind an empire together in the dream of Unity. It humbles me to know we serve so magnificent a master.”

Ahriman didn’t answer. His mouth was dry and his heart thundered in his chest.

The light wasmagnificent. It was glorious and incredible in its potency and purity.

Yet all he felt was a mounting sense of dismay.

“I have seen this before,” he said.

“When?”

“On Aghoru,” breathed Ahriman, “when I swam the Great Ocean hunting the threads of the future. When I met Ohthere Wyrdmake, I saw this: the volcano, the golden light.”

“And yet you said nothing? Why did you keep it to yourself?” asked Magnus.

“It made no sense,” said Ahriman, unable to keep the dread from his voice. “The visions were fragmentary, disjointed. It was impossible to tell what it meant.”

“No matter,” said Magnus.

“No,” said Ahriman, “I believe it matters. I believe it matters very much.”

LANDING LIGHTS WINKED in an ever-decreasing cruciform pattern as the Custodes’ remote pilots reeled the Stormhawk in. The other two craft remained in their holding pattern, and would not descend until the first bird was clear. The Stormhawk slammed down in a hammer blow of burnt metal and gritty sulphurous backwash. As soon as it landed, a strip of white light extended onto the platform as a blast-shielded door lifted open.

Elongated shadows stretched from the detachment of warriors in armour of blood red and amethyst that marched from the side of the mountain. Massively wrought and precise, the honour guards of Astartes took up their position before the Stormhawk’s assault ramp. Some carried gold-bladed rhomphaia while others drew enormous silver-bladed swords, which they reversed and set on the platform with their gauntlets resting on the pommels.

The Stormhawk’s ramp lowered with a whine of pneumatics, and Magnus the Red descended to the surface. Followed by Ahriman and the shuffling form of Kallimakus, the primarch stepped from the ramp and took a deep breath of the hot, burnt air of Nikaea.

Kallimakus let out a soft gasp, and sweat gathered on Ahriman’s forehead, though he said nothing. A detachment of nine Sekhmet warriors formed up behind Magnus, subtly matching themselves before the warriors on the platform.

These were no ordinary Astartes; these were the elite of two Legions. The sword-armed warriors were no less a force than the Sanguinary Host, the elite protectorate of the Lord of the Blood Angels. The Phoenix Guard of Lord Fulgrim stood with them, their long-bladed rhomphaia held ramrod-straight at their sides, perfectly poised and immaculately presented.

Their presence could mean only one thing.

Two giant figures emerged from the volcano, walking side by side like old friends. Ahriman’s heartbeat spiked at the sight of them, the first a gloriously caparisoned warrior in armour of gold and purple, with flaring shoulder-guards and a billowing cape of scarlet and gold. His hair was brilliant white, bound at his temples by a band of silver, and his face was one of perfect symmetry, like divinely-proportioned Euclidian geometry.

The second figure wore armour of deepest crimson, the colour vital and urgent. Wings of dappled black and white rustled at his back, the feathers hung with fine loops of silver wire and mother of pearl. Hair of deepest black framed a face that was pale and classically shaped, like one of the thousands of marble likenesses that garrisoned the Imperial Palace of Terra. Yet this was no lifeless rendering of a long-dead luminary; this was a living, breathing angel made flesh, whose countenance was the most beauteous in existence.

“Lord Sanguinius,” said Ahriman in wonder.

“And Brother Fulgrim,” completed Magnus. “Firmitas, utilitas, venustas.”

It seemed they heard him, for they smiled in genuine pleasure, though the words must surely have been lost in the feral growl of the Stormhawk’s cooling engines.

The primarchs were illuminated in the reflected glow of the volcano, their smooth features open and welcoming. They wore the faces of eager siblings pleased to see their brother, though they had seen one another only recently at Ullanor.

Magnus stepped towards Fulgrim, and the master of the Emperor’s Children opened his arms to receive his brother’s embrace. They spoke words of greeting, but they were private, and Ahriman allowed himself to look away from the majesty of the Phoenician’s countenance. Next, Magnus turned to Sanguinius, and the Primarch of the Blood Angels kissed his brother’s cheeks, his greeting heartfelt but reserved. Only now did Ahriman notice the warriors accompanying each primarch. Sanguinius had two attendants, one a slender ascetic with a killer’s eyes and another with such pale skin that the veins of his face were clearly visible beneath.

Ahriman took his place beside Magnus as he and Sanguinius parted. Magnus turned to him and said, “Brother Sanguinius, allow me to introduce my Chief Librarian, Ahzek Ahriman.”

The Lord of the Angels turned his attention upon him, and Ahriman felt the full force of his appraisal. Like Russ before him, Sanguinius evaluated Ahriman swiftly, but where Russ sought out weakness to exploit, Sanguinius looked for strength to harness.

“I have heard much of you, Ahzek Ahriman,” said Sanguinius, his voice surprisingly gentle. For all its apparent softness, there was violent strength concealed within it, like a riptide beneath a placid seascape. “You are thought highly of by many beyond your Legion.”

Ahriman smiled, pleased to hear such praise from the lips of a primarch.

“My lord,” he said. “I serve the Emperor and my Legion to the best of my ability.”

“And what abilities they are,” said Sanguinius with a knowing smile. The primarch turned to introduce the warriors at his side. “Magnus, this is Raldoron, Chapter Master of my protectors,” said Sanguinius, placing an elegantly sculpted hand on the shoulder of the warrior with the lethal eyes. Next he turned his attention to the warrior with the pale skin. “And this is Captain Thoros, one of our most vaunted captains of battle.”

Both warriors gave deep bows, and Ahriman had a sudden flash within his mind, like a single, incongruous pict frame slipped within the passage of one moment to the next: A screaming, multi-limbed arachnid beast, all fangs and blade-limbs. So swift was it, Ahriman wasn’t even sure he’d seen it, but it lingered like a harbinger when he looked at Thoros.

He shook off the image as Fulgrim turned to his warriors. Both were proud and haughty with an air of casual superiority that immediately made Ahriman wary. As flawlessly presented as their primarch, they were perfect in every way, but had none of the humility of Sanguinius’ praetorians.