Shortly after the war, the fleets of the Adeptus Mechanicus docked in orbit over Darok. The priests of Mars brought with them vast quantities of environmental transformation engines — mighty machines that would hasten Darok's recovery and remake the wounded world into a more suitable bastion for human life.
At the same time, a delegation of Interrogator-Chaplains from the Dark Angels descended upon Darok.
Foremost among them was Asmodai, the Master of Repentance — the Empire's most feared Confessor, a legend even among the Inquisition.
Yet even for Asmodai, these were not days of triumph. Of late, fortune had turned against him. Few times in his long service had he been so consumed by wrath as he was now.
Efilar, one of the Warmaster Dukel's closest followers, had long heard whispers about Asmodai and the Lion.
If Asmodai himself had heard such rumors, he would have sooner cut out the tongues of the rumor-mongers than let the lies spread.
Two great changes had rocked Asmodai's world in recent years: one good, one grievous.
The good news was that Lion El'Jonson, the Primarch and Gene-Father of the Dark Angels, had returned to the Imperium.
The bad news — worse than any wound — was that a cadre of shadowy warriors clad in black had followed the Lion. After tireless investigations, Asmodai had uncovered a horrifying truth: these warriors were the Fallen.
To Asmodai, traitors were an abomination beyond redemption. His hatred was absolute. His zealotry only deepened with age, consuming him wholly.
He tolerated no mercy, no compromise. Among the Dark Angels, none pursued the Fallen with greater fervor. No law, no chain of command, not even Imperial decree could divert him from his holy hunt.
He would chant litanies of vengeance without end, stoking hatred for traitors among his brothers, driving them to ever-greater acts of fury against the enemies within.
Yet Asmodai's very obsession isolated him even among his brethren. His single-mindedness made even the Grand Masters wary of his counsel.
And so, when he discovered Fallen walking freely beside his Gene-Father, no words could describe the storm within his heart.
In secret, he attempted — more than once — to strike down the Fallen.
But no man trespasses upon the Lion's domain unpunished.
Lion El'Jonson was a lord who brooked no defiance, even from his sons.
Roaring with fury, the Lion personally halted Asmodai's actions, stripping him of command and relegating him to ceremonial duties alone. His authority was shattered, though his title remained.
It was as if the Imperium's sharpest dagger had been left to gather dust.
In the silence that followed, despair gnawed at Asmodai's soul.
He could see his fate with terrifying clarity — buried alive, rusting away unseen, his edge dulled by the slow, cold hand of time.
"Great Lion, Emperor's Knight, most loyal Son of the Master of Mankind… why have you permitted treachery to walk freely? Why not tear out their throats and crush their blackened hearts?"
His grief was a wound that would never heal. Yet he would not raise his hand against his father. To do so would be to become the very thing he despised.
"Was it not I who led the Dark Angels against the traitor Rune's palace? Was it not I who rallied our brothers on the daemon-world of Amity? It was I, Asmodai! I am your most loyal son! Those traitors should be cast into chains and flayed — just as you taught us! No betrayal is too small to be tolerated!"
Alone, Asmodai wept bitterly — a terrifying, broken figure. His howls of anguish echoed with such raw despair that any who heard them might have wept alongside him.
But within the dark cell where he now stood, he was not truly alone.
Caligus, the High King of Darok, knelt before him — or rather, collapsed like a broken puppet.
Terrified beyond reason, Caligus shook with every sob that tore from Asmodai's lips. He did not feel sympathy; he felt only dread.
Then Asmodai turned to face him.
Gone was the sadness. In its place bloomed a smile — a terrible, predatory smile that froze Caligus' blood.
Terror gripped the High King so fiercely that he lost control of his body. A spreading wetness soaked the floor beneath him.
Asmodai's smile widened.
After long months of useless idleness, the Warmaster Dukel had entrusted him with a task once more — to aid Saint Efilar in rooting out corruption.
For Asmodai, it was a sacred duty. He would not fail.
A living traitor lay cowering before him. After so long in chains, Asmodai once more tasted the rapture of righteous fury.
He would not disappoint his Warmaster.
"Caligus," Asmodai whispered, his voice as soft as it was merciless, "High King of Darok."
"You know, even the Warmaster does not fully grasp the... nature of my relationship with the Primarch. It is a truth I have shared with none. And now... I have shared it with you."
His voice dropped lower, almost tender.
"In exchange, Caligus... shouldn't you share a secret with me?"
The towering Space Marine stepped forward. His massive frame eclipsed the feeble light of the chamber, casting a long shadow that swallowed the trembling king whole.
"No..." Caligus whimpered, his entire body convulsing with terror. Tears streamed down his face as he pleaded wordlessly for mercy.
But there would be none.
There never was.
Asmodai's unwavering determination and iron will ensured that he always completed his tasks with brutal success.
Several days later, Efilar's fleet departed Darok and plunged into the depths of the hidden Warp.
Through the battleship's augur lenses, the saint gazed upon the surreal, maddened void. A Daemon World burned beneath them, consumed by roaring red flames.
The firelight bathed Efilar's flawless features, and the corners of her mouth curved into a perfect arc—a joyful, almost serene smile.
Another Daemon World destroyed. Another honor added to the Warmaster Dukel's ever-growing legend.
Billions of daemons were immolated in the inferno below. To Efilar, the howling of the dying abominations was like a grand symphony, and her expression shone with clear intoxication at the sound.
Standing beside her was a towering figure, observing the same scene.
"Asmodai, you did well," she said warmly, her voice rich with genuine praise. "I hadn't expected you could extract the coordinates of this Daemon World from the Supreme King."
The title she used referred to Caligus, the broken High King of Darok. A pitiful source, but a valuable one.
"The Warmaster will be pleased."
Her praise was not given lightly. In the chaotic depths of the Immaterium, locating a specific Daemon World was near impossible without precise information. To destroy such a world—to burn billions of daemons to ash—was an achievement any servant of the Imperium would count among their proudest victories.
More than that, Efilar understood the strategic necessity.
The Argentum manufactoria, the Warmaster's great factories, devoured captured daemons at an insatiable rate, forging them into the empire's precious Argentum weaponry. Yet even with hundreds of millions of daemons consumed daily, demand still far outstripped supply. Warmaster Dukel had scattered much of his Second Legion across the galaxy to fuel these forges, leaving behind only skeletal forces to maintain the Argentum's constant hunger.
Even then, it was not enough.
The Imperium, stretching across millions of worlds, boasted more soldiers than could be counted. But Argentum arms remained scarce, their potency undeniable: a weapon capable of slaying a daemon in a single blow.
Dukel's greatest ambition—his dream—was to see every loyal Imperial soldier equipped with Argentum arms. He bent his every effort toward this impossible ideal.
And Efilar, ever the devout servant, embraced his dream as her own.
Although her fleet was modest—three battleships and over a hundred cruisers—this single strike against the Warp yielded great rewards: a Daemon World reduced to cinders, and the prospect of harvesting thousands of daemonic essences for the Warmaster's forges.
Even a small fraction of captured daemons would make a difference.
Among her fleet, only a handful of Space Marines were equipped with Argentum weaponry, yet they swept through the daemonic hordes with overwhelming ease.
The power of Argentum arms was a thing no daemon could withstand.
Asmodai inclined his head, his tone measured and humble.
"This is my duty, Saint Efilar. It is not worthy of praise."
Yet even as he spoke, he pressed forward eagerly:
"There are many more Daemon Worlds whose coordinates I obtained. If you would hear my counsel, my lady—let us continue. Together, we could scour countless abominations from existence."
His enthusiasm burned in every word. In his zeal, he even used the formal honorific when addressing the saint—an unusual humility for a Dark Angel, even an Interrogator-Chaplain like himself.
He knew it was presumptuous. He held no command here; he was a guest, no more than an interrogator assigned to aid the Warmaster's cause. Still, his burning hatred for Chaos left no room for restraint.
If these worlds were left to fester, he would know no peace.
Watching her carefully, Asmodai braced for rejection.
But instead, Efilar smiled—and nodded.
"That is exactly what I intended," she replied.
Asmodai blinked in surprise. The swiftness of her agreement left him uneasy.
"But... are you not concerned that Warmaster Dukel might reprimand us for this?" he asked cautiously. "Our original mission was to suppress rebellion. Entering the Warp and waging war here could easily be interpreted as deviation—or worse, insubordination."
He meant no insult. His reminder was earnest. In the harsh strictures of the Imperial Code, even the greatest heroes could fall from grace through misstep.
He himself had already known disgrace: censured by Lion El'Jonson, cast into near-oblivion. He would gladly accept death in the Warmaster's judgment if it meant purging the foulness of Chaos.
But Efilar was different. He had seen the unmasked devotion she bore for Dukel—how his name alone stirred a light in her eyes that could not be feigned.
If this path led to disfavor, the pain she would suffer might be worse than any punishment.
Efilar shook her head gently.
"My Lord's eyes are on tens of millions of worlds at once," she said with soft certainty. "Had he disapproved of our actions, we would never have entered the Warp at all."
Asmodai nodded slowly, though skepticism gnawed at him. He knew well the tendency of fanatics to weave hyperbole around their idols.
Yet he had given his warning. It was not his place to argue further.
And in truth, he feared that any further hesitation might persuade her to turn back—and that was a thought he could not endure.
What Asmodai did not know was that, within Efilar's spiritual vision, she truly saw it:
A burning eye of searing flame, vast beyond comprehension, gazing down upon the battlefield from some unreachable height. It was no metaphor—the Warmaster was watching.
It was no exaggeration to say that Dukel now possessed countless eyes, each fixed upon a different corner of the galaxy.
Efilar's voice grew firm.
"But there is one thing you must understand before we continue," she said, meeting Asmodai's gaze.
"If our crusade succeeds, all glory belongs to my Lord alone. If we fail..."
(She paused, her expression unchanging.)
"—then the blame shall be mine alone." Asmodai said immediately, without waiting for the saint to finish speaking.
Efilar chuckled at his earnestness.
"That won't be necessary. The Warmaster does not punish the loyal," she said, smiling kindly but offering no further explanation.
Their conversation was interrupted by the hurried approach of a herald, his footsteps echoing down the steel corridor.
"Commander," he saluted crisply. "We have uncovered intelligence regarding Chaos Warmaster Abaddon from the captured heretics."
Imperial troops had seized many cultists during the fall of the Daemon World. Though the Tech-Priests—the Magos of the Mechanicus—lacked Asmodai's expertise in extracting truth through pain and terror, they had methods of their own. Using psychic probes and invasive data-drilling, they had peeled secrets from the fractured minds of the prisoners.
Among these fragments was news of Abaddon.
Hearing this, Efilar's brow furrowed slightly.
During the cataclysmic battle on Vigilus, Abaddon had been grievously wounded by Doom—the legendary Slayer—and had fled into the Warp, vanishing from all Imperial sight.
To stumble across his trail now, by pure fortune, was astonishing.
It was a tantalizing prospect. To sever the head of the Dark Warmaster and present it before Warmaster Dukel's throne would be an achievement beyond reckoning.
Yet Efilar's discipline held firm. She tempered her excitement with caution.
In the Warp, lies and truth were difficult to separate.
"Can you determine the extent of Abaddon's forces?" she asked sharply.
It was not that she distrusted the Magos' work—but cultists were mad things, their minds shattered by corruption. Their memories twisted and delusional, often indistinguishable from their hallucinations. Information ripped from such minds was notoriously unreliable.
Even they, the heretics themselves, could not discern which of their memories were real.
As Efilar deliberated, Asmodai stepped forward, his tone filled with certainty.
"Allow me to interrogate them personally," he said, bowing his head in deference.
"I will ensure the authenticity of their information."
There was an unmistakable force to his voice. When it came to the work of extracting truth from the wicked, Asmodai exuded an unshakable, professional confidence.
...
TN:
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