Ashigaroth shrieked suddenly as a flare of cerulean light split the sky. Mannfred caught a glimpse of a Stormcast driving the ferrule of his battle-standard down against the street. Comets of celestial energy struck the advancing enemy, hurling burning bodies in all directions. The air shook with the echoes of the magical summoning, and Ashigaroth peeled away, screeching in pain. The energies bit at the dread abyssal’s unnatural substance, and Mannfred reluctantly allowed the beast to flee. He slipped out of the dread abyssal’s skull and back into his own.

Magnificent, Tarsem murmured.

‘You would think that,’ Mannfred said. His head ached. The reverberations of the celestial magic had stung him as much as they had Ashigaroth. ‘In retrospect, it is unsurprising that the God-King plucked your soul from its husk and remade you in his image – you were already halfway there.’

And yet, we were friends.

‘Nagash and Sigmar were friends, once.’ The words slipped out. They tasted wrong. ‘So they say,’ he added, quickly. He was annoyed with himself for even thinking it. Nagash had forbidden such statements.

They were. You witnessed it yourself – you were there, in those dim, ancient days, fighting at the forefront of the first great wars. Don’t you remember?

Mannfred shook his head. ‘Nagash says it did not happen, and thus… it did not.’ He grimaced as he spoke. There was ache in him, where memories had once been. They had been torn from him, like rotten teeth. Or maybe they had never been there at all. There is a hole in you, brother. An abyss, where once there was history. ‘Some things are best left forgotten.’

Is that why you told Ramus you could lead him to me?
Mannfred fell silent.
Why did you say that, Mannfred? If you’ve known where I was, why haven’t you tried to rescue me yourself? There is no opportunity here that you could not have conjured long before now…

‘You know why,’ Mannfred snarled. His voice echoed tauntingly, and he heard the Stormcasts guarding the chamber stiffen. They murmured to each other in low, concerned voices, and he wondered if they thought him mad.

You are mad. As mad as Neferata and Arkhan. Nagash has shattered and rebuilt your mind more times than even he knows. With every failure, every revolt, he pulls you apart and makes you anew. To purge you of weakness.

‘Just like them,’ Mannfred muttered. ‘Just like the Stormcasts.’ Nagash and Sigmar were more alike than either would admit. He ran his claws over his scalp. He’d had hair, once. A jet-black mane, worn in the fashion of – of… of some kingdom, now long forgotten. But he had shaved it, hadn’t he? ‘Vanity,’ he murmured. Or because it reminded you of someone. It made you look like someone. As Tarsem spoke, Mannfred saw the faces of other, silent ghosts… a young woman with a leopard’s smile, a nobleman with eyes like embers. He shoved the heels of his palms into his eyes and tried to push away the faces. ‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘Quiet. I must think.’

Why, Mannfred? What is there to think of? Wondering what you’ll do if Ramus refuses you? Or are you worried that he won’t…

Mannfred swept out a hand, cutting the air with his claws. When he opened his eyes, he saw nothing. Heard nothing. There was only the darkness of his cell. And the darkness in his mind.