Erebus's warp storm had bought the Great Apostle his escape from the Raven Lord's surveillance.

The Daemon Primarch walked the bridge of the Word Bearers' current flagship, the Sanctus Lamentum, breathing in deep. The air was foul, reeking and rank, but beneath it he caught something else. Something strange and familiar at once.

Freedom.

"Ah..."

Lorgar made his way to the command chamber. Through the holographic projection on the command table, he opened a channel to his detestable descendant.

"It is a great honor to see you again, my lord."

"You're looking remarkably well."

The Dark Apostle in the projection smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.

Anyone watching could see he had very little genuine respect for the Primarch before him.

Lorgar's daemon-scarred face showed nothing. He asked, calm and level.

"What did you call me out here for, Erebus."

"The Gods require you, my lord."

"By now you've surely heard the news of Horus's return — the Corpse-Emperor has forgiven him, and Lupercal is once again his faithful hound. The other Gods' champions, the other Daemon Primarchs, have all failed."

"I am not a warrior." Lorgar cut him off. "If Mortarion, Fulgrim, Angron, and Magnus have all failed, do you think I can fight Horus and the rest of them? And I know there are two more Primarchs at his side right now, one of them a clone of Fulgrim, and Konrad Curze."

At least Lorgar was honest with himself about his limits.

And at the mention of Horus, something shifted in his eyes. Indignation. And something that looked almost like longing.

He would never forget how the fallen Wolf God had humiliated him, thoroughly, without mercy, after his failed bid for power during the Horus Heresy.

But he would also never forget what Horus had been before his fall. How warm he was. How easy to be around. How radiant, how beloved.

Why did it have to be Horus who came back, and not that foolish dog Leman Russ?

Enough to make anyone sigh.

Erebus, for his part, was not pleased with that answer.

He had pulled Lorgar Aurelian free from Corax's pursuit, briefly, at great effort, and not so he could sit around doing absolutely nothing.

"The Gods' game must go on, my lord."

"The Gods' favored champions have suffered defeat after defeat. You stand apart from all their factions. I believe that makes you considerably more interesting to them."

"And with the vast congregation of followers under your command, I think there is more than enough here to accomplish something truly great."

The words were genuinely enticing.

Lorgar was the first Primarch to fall, yes, but he had never truly knelt beneath the banner of any single Chaos God. He and Perturabo both. Chaos Undivided.

He hungered for the Gods' favor. For their blessings. For their power.

But would Erebus, one of the vile figures who had guided him into corruption in the first place, truly be this generous?

"Why don't you go yourself, Erebus?"

"I have more important matters to attend to, my lord."

Blunt. Proud. As though Lorgar were simply unworthy of knowing his grand design.

It was only then that something genuine flickered across Lorgar's face.

Anger.

"I am your Primarch, Erebus. Where is your damned respect?"

"Ah, yes, I have never forgotten what binds us." Erebus shifted, dropping the honorific entirely. "But as things currently stand, Lorgar. You must complete the task the Gods have set before you. I act in accordance with their commands. As must you."

"Hmph. We shall see."

Lorgar gave a cold snort and killed the channel.

He drew a slow breath. Steadied himself.

Then he turned to the attendant waiting nearby, a Blessed Son, a Word Bearers warrior with a daemon riding behind his eyes.

"Summon the Dark Council. All of them. I have matters to discuss."

The Dark Council governed the Legion's affairs in Lorgar's name, its ranks drawn from the most senior Dark Apostles in the Word Bearers. Erebus sat among them, holding the ecclesiastical authority. Military command belonged to Kor Phaeron, Lorgar's adoptive father.

When they had all taken their seats, Lorgar's vast frame walked slowly into the chamber.

"We welcome our lord's return."

The Dark Apostles bowed. Every gesture was precision-crafted respect, each one performing the part with care.

Lorgar could read every one of their small calculations perfectly. He said nothing of it. These men were what kept the Word Bearers running, and that made them useful.

He walked across the obsidian floor of the council hall, candlelight carving shadows across the daemon-marked ridges of his face, light and dark shifting with each step.

His voice was low. Not loud. It rolled through the chamber like an ancient scroll unfolding in the silence, each word unhurried, each word carrying weight. Every bowing Dark Apostle heard him clearly.

"In the Gods' sight, you have maintained the Legion well in my absence."

"Be seated, my children. We have a great undertaking to plan."

Even after so long away from command, Lorgar still understood his Legion. He had his own pieces on the board within it. Which meant he believed perhaps half of what the Dark Apostles told him.

Still, as things stood, the Word Bearers were among the most powerful of all the Traitor Legions. The only force that came close was Perturabo and his Iron Warriors.

Legion-scale Chaos Astartes. A fully organized void fleet. Countless mortal worshippers and daemons behind them.

Looking at what he had, Lorgar found the confidence rising in him. He had the strength to fight Horus and the rest of them. He had the numbers.

"Guilliman, Horus, and the other Primarchs have returned to the Imperium. They launched the Indomitus Crusade to prop up my father's rotting empire, and along the way they have dealt heavy blows to the other Gods' champions. My brothers."

He let that settle.

"We will become the Gods' new favorites. We will accomplish what those Primarchs and Traitor Legions could not reach. And our first step is the elimination of three of the Imperium's loyal Primarchs."

"Rumors from deep in the warp place them on Armageddon — the world once called Ullanor — fighting the greenskin Orks. We let them grind each other down. Then we move in and harvest their skulls for the Gods."

Excited laughter rippled through the hall.

They held Lorgar in contempt, that much was obvious. But these words had cut straight to what they wanted to hear. In an age when the loyal Primarchs had returned, the Word Bearers standing aside and doing nothing was a humiliation. Now there was a path forward.

But Kor Phaeron sat quietly for a moment before he spoke.

"My lord, intelligence from Macragge tells us that Horus and his companions have rebuilt their Legion. In raw numbers, I fear we cannot match them."

"I know." Lorgar rose from his throne. "Which is why I have a contingency. We find allies."

He reached out and opened a channel on the command platform, casual as placing a call.

----------

Aboard the Vengeful Spirit.

Abaddon was soaking in a blood pool, trying to recover, and his mood was black. Vashtorr the Arkifane's plans had collapsed into nothing. The relic was in Lion El'Jonson and Sanguinius's hands, and that alone was a headache without end, never mind the worlds those two Primarchs were steadily liberating across the Dark Imperium. His strongholds were being torn out by the roots, one by one.

He had imagined cutting off both their heads more times than he could count. It remained, for now, imagination only.

"Those damned Primarchs, why can't they just stay dead in history's coffin where they belong?"

He ground the words through clenched teeth and crushed the goblet in his hand. It had been fashioned from the skull of a cloned Horus. It shattered.

A knock at the door. An attendant entered with a message.

"Warmaster. The Great Apostle Lorgar Aurelian requests an audience."

Abaddon's jaw tightened.

"Damn it. Him again."