At least in captivity, Sevatar had time to plot, to muse, to process. The Thramas Crusade was over. Most of the VIII Legion had escaped, scattering to the solar winds. The bulk of the Night Lords would join the march on Terra, though he doubted many would ever stay at the front lines long enough to besiege the Throneworld. He sensed a great deal of raiding for plunder in the Legion’s approaching future. The thought would’ve made him smile, if he’d been anywhere else but a Dark Angels containment cell, caged by a cube of shimmering force.

The first cell they’d thrown him into had been a more conventional trap of reinforced iron. Sevatar had spat his way through one wall in less than fifteen minutes, dissolving it with his acidic saliva. When a guard came to check on him, he’d merely pointed at the hissing hole in the wall, almost large enough for him to fit through.

The Prince of Crows