The cold, dry air of the Rock was a comfort, a familiarity that told Azrael he was back where he was meant to be. He had fought many campaigns over his long years, but Rhamiel was the first that had left him with such unease. The Dark Angels had been victorious, for certain. Winning left him feeling worse than the defeats of the past. At what cost had the foe been vanquished? A favour from an alien? By what means had they been delivered from disaster? The whims of fate?
And the words of the farseer haunted him too. He could not wholly trust anything the eldar had told him. All of it could be lies to manipulate and deceive, for some agenda he might never unravel. Was it simply that he was now Supreme Grand Master? His new position and perspective brought fresh burdens and labours. He had claimed during his trials he would burn star systems, really no different from the assertions of Walker on Grey Paths.
Yet there was more to it. The psyker had known what would happen to the spirit stone, had seen the future so specifically that a chain of events was set in motion as predicted. And the farseer had spoken prophecy to Azrael, unheard by any of the others. The Dark Angel could not unravel the import of it yet, and perhaps might never understand.
But there was something else he needed to know.
He turned his head to the diminutive, shadowy figure that stood close to his desk. It looked at him with coal red eyes.
‘I have to know. Show me. What manner of man am I? What is in my soul?’
The girl stood over him. He wiped a hand over his mouth, smearing blood across his cheek and arm, still dazed. She pulled back the club.
A stone hit her in the temple and she toppled, falling across his legs with eyes glazed. Another boy shouted, pointing at the unconscious girl, insistent, his meaning clear. Azrael picked himself up, still groggy, and retrieved his bone-axe.
He drew back the weapon, ready to strike.