Varex made a sharp gesture, and two bodyguards imdiately stepped forward to flank him. Telax, refusing to be cowed, let his barbed whip slide from his arm like a serpent, venting a hiss of refined toxic mist.
Almost everyone in the hall shifted their grip onto their weapons, bracing for a lee where a stray blow or a hidden shiv could end them.
"Enough... truly, enough."
the sudden voice shattered the lethal standoff. Virsuto stepped out from the crowd, interposing himself between the two like a wedge of cold iron.
"Our brothers have yet to be committed to the flas, and you wish to brawl here?" Virsuto said with visible weariness, his gaze flitting between their faces. "Does anyone still rember that we ca here to mourn, to nd our rifts, and to unite?"
"I rember perfectly. In fact, that is exactly why I summoned Telax," Varex said, seizing the offered opening to de-escalate with practiced grace. "It is simply a pity that so choose to obsess over trivialities."
All eyes fell on Telax. The muscles in the veteran's jaw bunched and flexed, but eventually, he chose to suppress the conflict.
"Vain words. You would do better to show us action."
"Action... of course I have actions." Varex allowed a victor's smile to spread across his face. He tilted his chin upward, his voice echoing against the high vault. "Let us continue! Though they are dead, they shall live in our hearts—though perhaps even we who rember them shall not live much longer. The warband needs new blood, more perfect warriors! Fortunately, I have prepared a batch for you in advance! Tomorrow, I shall select the worthy from among the new blood to receive the plate. Then, I shall lead you to greater glory!"
A murmur rippled through the gathered Astartes. Telax's face darkened, yet he found no ground for rebuttal. Selecting new blood and overseeing their armoring was a birthright of the Warband Leader.
Varex maliciously savored his opponent's expression before letting his gaze sweep past him to the unarmored initiates at the rear. It had to be said: Telax had trained them well. Each was robust and spirited—whether they were to be used as playthings or as armored brothers.
The only flaw was their total lack of appreciation for art and beauty.
He licked his lips and turned back to the golden coffins with a look of feigned regret. He adjusted the angle of a decorative skull six tis before finally speaking in a slow, asured tone:
"Now, let us bid them farewell in the most elegant of ways. The Dark Prince will reward them—just as He rewards ."
He hooked his finger toward a slave waiting for death below the platform, drew a slender dagger, and began to "carve" with delicate precision. In the space of half a heartbeat, nearly every Astartes in the room lunged toward the remaining slaves, partitioning the "sacrifices" among themselves.
Blood sprayed. Amidst muffled whimpers, "artworks" began to take shape. The masters' techniques were so exquisite that the slaves were kept alive even as their forms were reinvented through suffering. The Astartes, intoxicated by their "art," would step back to admire their handiwork, "modifying" a detail here or there before hoisting the living sculptures onto simple racks. They hung these offerings around the coffins so that the dead, even in their rest, could enjoy the rhythmic song of the victims' agony.
In this ritual—where the line between mourning and torture had long since dissolved—most of the veterans worked with a feverish intensity, competing, mocking one another, or contemptuously sabotaging a rival's piece, which often led to a brief exchange of blows.
The new bloods, who had never witnessed such a desecration, stared in petrified silence. Their world was fracturing and collapsing before their eyes. Truen gazed heavily at the power armor racks behind the nine caskets; the plates were a ss of cracks, scorch marks, and twisted, parasitic growths of warp-flesh—vilely corrupted. Sebastian swallowed hard, forcing himself to watch. Behind his terror, a small fla of fury was beginning to catch.
"This is sacri—"
A heavy hand clamped down on the initiate's shoulder, forcing the word back down his throat. Sebastian spun around in anger, only to find Enkidu had slipped beside him, making a sharp gesture for silence.
Sebastian snapped back to reality, rembering he was in the belly of a nightmare warband and that his brother was desperately trying to keep him out of the vortex.
"Dammit... when will this ever end?"
"Soon, I think," Enkidu answered, his voice carry the airy drift of deep thought. "We are traveling through the Webway. If I haven't miscalculated, we are heading toward a place where the worship of Chaos is strictly forbidden. When we arrive, soone will teach that madman the aning of consequences."
"Where is this place? What is it called?" Sebastian asked urgently.
Enkidu looked at him deeply, his eyes holding sothing shadowed and indefinable.
"The na of that place is Commorragh."
With a final shriek, the last rack of "art" was erected. Varex ascended his dais once more, looking down at the diverse forms of the Astartes with satisfaction.
"Incredible. To express our sorrow, we have created such wondrous things." He stared cheerfully at the slaves impaled beside the caskets, feeling a surge of pleasure travel up his spine to warm his nerves. "However, no matter how much we wish to linger, it is ti to say goodbye. Let us watch them depart with the utmost poise."
He opened his hand. A single spark drifted from his fingertips, instantly igniting the prothium-soaked caskets. Pink and violet flas roared upward. Jewels ran like liquid fire down lting gold, turning incandescent before fading to ash. Spices spiraled up in the heat, blanketing the writhing, curling forms of the slaves...
Everything returned to dust.
The funeral was over. It had begun with the clash between Varex and Telax and ended with the fire that consud the golden caskets. No matter the glory the dead held in life, they had ultimately returned to the earth.
Enkidu walked through the corridors of the upper deck, feeling a rare sense of liberation.
In just a few days, too much had happened: the Rogue Trader, the alliances, the Craftworld raid, and now the Webway. The endless stream of minutiae had left him dazed and exhausted. returning "ho" felt like stepping back into a different lifeti.
"Boss Enkidu," a familiar voice called from behind.
"What is it?"
He turned to see Bellator hurrying toward him, followed by a cluster of peering new bloods.
"Nothing much, really," Bellator said, scratching his head. His face showed the fragility of soone who had been severely shaken. "I just wanted to ask you a question."
"If we die like those guys did today... will you rember us?"
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