"First blood."
Dreagher wiped his mouth and repeated it quietly.
"First blood."
The War Hounds were known across the Crusade as brutal shock troops—blue and white warriors who advanced without hesitation and left little standing behind them. Other Legions whispered that the Twelfth was unstable, that massacres followed in their wake.
That was only half the truth.
The War Hounds possessed ferocious discipline.
They had to.
They knew their own tempers. They knew the storm that lived in their blood. So they forged ritual, structure, and tradition to contain it. The gladiatorial pits were not chaos. They were regulation.
There, rank meant nothing.
Captain and neophyte fought as equals.
Victory was determined by skill and endurance.
Brotherhood was proven in blood, not speeches.
Khârn removed his armor.
Dreagher did the same.
The circle formed.
No audience cheered. No banners flew.
Dreagher struck first. His chain-broom spear snapped forward, spike whistling toward Khârn's abdomen. Khârn pivoted, axe descending with brutal precision. The haft of Dreagher's weapon splintered under the impact, pinned to the deck plating.
Khârn closed the distance.
The edge of his axe bit across Dreagher's shoulder.
First blood.
Dreagher staggered back, breathing hard.
"You win. Again."
Khârn said nothing. He stepped away, retrieved his armor piece by piece.
Dreagher watched him.
"He's locked himself away again?"
Khârn paused.
"Yes."
Not just again.
Always.
Since returning to Terra, Angron had refused them.
He trained alone.
He ate alone.
He either accompanied the Vice-Emperor for surgical consultations—or sealed himself inside his chamber.
Every senior officer of the Legion had attempted to speak with him.
Every one had been driven out.
Khârn lowered his gaze.
"He does not accept us."
Dreagher was silent for a long moment.
"So what do we do?"
Khârn looked toward the Primarch's quarters.
"We try again."
The Cage
She is lying to me.
Angron sat upon the throne constructed for him—an Imperial symbol of command and authority.
He despised it.
The chamber lights were extinguished. He preferred darkness. In darkness, at least, the world made sense.
She is lying to me.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling loomed above like a cage dome.
He remembered Nuceria.
He remembered his brothers and sisters—true brothers, forged in chains and blood.
Many had been taken for augmentation.
Others he had left behind deliberately.
He would never see them again.
She is lying to me.
When the Emperor had arrived, radiating impossible authority, Angron had known the truth immediately.
This was another master.
When the Emperor explained the purpose of the Primarchs, Angron had almost refused.
Almost.
But he saw what refusal would mean.
Nuceria would burn.
His surviving gladiators would die.
The Emperor would not argue twice.
So Angron submitted.
Not for himself.
For them.
For their freedom.
And in doing so, he forfeited his own.
She is lying to me.
Angron rose suddenly and smashed his fist down.
The throne shattered under his blow, adamantium frame bending like tin. Fragments scattered across the chamber floor.
He sank down onto the wreckage.
He would accept death.
He would accept failure.
He would accept the Nails consuming his mind.
But he could not accept false hope.
He could not endure being promised salvation only to have it torn away.
That would break him more completely than any torture.
He wanted to believe her.
He wanted to believe the one person whose touch dulled the Nails' torment.
But he had seen Perturabo's look.
Seen the Emperor's indifference.
Seen the doubt.
He was not blind.
"My lord."
"Leave."
Khârn did not leave.
"My lord. You must speak with us."
Angron stood.
"I said. Leave."
Khârn remained.
Angron struck him.
The blow hurled Khârn across the chamber. He rose.
Walked back.
Angron struck again.
Khârn rose again.
And again.
And again.
Eventually, Angron stopped.
"What is your name?"
"Khârn. Your son."
"What do you want?"
"To be led."
Angron laughed softly.
He did not hate the Legion.
He respected their discipline.
Their unity reminded him of his gladiator family.
But he was breaking.
The Nails chewed at his thoughts.
He could barely restrain the urge to kill.
How could he command?
"Leave," Angron said quietly. "Before I forget mercy."
Khârn hesitated.
Then, in desperation, he knelt.
"If we take the Nails as well… will you accept us?"
Silence.
Angron stared at him.
Of all the madness in the galaxy.
He wanted the Nails removed.
And this fool offered to embrace them.
Before Angron could answer—
A voice drifted from behind.
"Oh my. That's a fascinating proposal."
Khârn's spine went cold.
Yuki stood in the doorway.
Smiling.
"Hm? Did I just hear something about voluntarily implanting Butcher's Nails?"
Khârn opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Her tone remained light.
"So you're unhappy with me? That must be it. You think I'm not working hard enough on removing them. So you're volunteering to double my workload."
Behind her, Eusonis' expression promised violence.
Khârn felt the weight of a thousand instructors judging him.
"I—"
"Oh, yes," Yuki continued thoughtfully. "The Twelfth has gladiatorial traditions, doesn't it? Counting wounds?"
Khârn nodded weakly.
"Excellent. Eusonis, have a friendly match. Ten thousand wounds should suffice. Don't get injured."
"Yes, Mother."
Eusonis seized Khârn and began dragging him toward the arena.
"One hundred thousand," he corrected calmly.
Khârn: ?
When silence returned, Yuki approached Angron.
She reached for his hand.
He pulled away.
The Nails flared immediately, pain flooding back.
He did not react.
"Are you lying to me?" he demanded.
"I am not."
"Time?" Angron roared. "You ask me for time?"
He crushed fragments of the ruined throne beneath his heel.
"If you cannot do it, say so. I will not hate you. Of all of them, you are the one I do not hate. But do not lie."
"I can remove them."
Her voice did not waver.
"Perturabo does not think so."
"And what makes you think he is right?"
Angron bared his teeth.
"My entire life."
He stepped forward.
"Who saved me when they forced me to kill my adoptive father?"
"Who saved me when they drove the Nails into my skull?"
"Who saved me when I tried to escape and was dragged back?"
"My name is Angron. Anger. Slaughter. That is what I am."
Yuki tilted her head.
"Then what about Nuceria? Did we not come?"
Angron froze.
She took his scarred right hand and held it between her palms.
"You are Angron," she said softly. "Nothing else."
She traced letters slowly into his palm.
N. G. E. L.
"Angel."
He stared at her.
"That word belongs to you."
"You are an angel too. You simply do not see it yet."
Angron dropped to his knees.
He laughed.
Not mockery.
Not rage.
Something broken.
A tear cut down his scarred face.
"I believe you," he said hoarsely. "Whatever the truth is. I believe you."
She helped him to his feet.
"Come. Your brothers are waiting."
He stepped beyond the chamber that had become his prison.
He did not know if he truly believed.
But he chose to.
Inside the arena—
Khârn: "Brother… isn't that enough?"
Eusonis adjusted his grip on his blades.
"Still ninety-eight thousand to go. It will be efficient."
Khârn: …
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