Stabbed by the Lion

The Lion’s face contorted in a fury, driven by his unspeakable grief. ‘You never learned!’ he cried. ‘You should have been faster! It was your pride that kept you in the void!'

Still Russ made no move, though the Lion’s eyes were wild and dangerous.

‘And I am guilty, just as you are,’ the Lion urged again, his grip on the sword tight. ‘So fight me, and we will pass sentence on each other, the guilty slaying the guilty. I will not ask you again.’

It was then Russ knew that his brother could never turn aside. The Lion looked as if he was barely seeing the world around him. Perhaps he was back in the Tyrant’s throne-room, incensed, his unimpeachable pride at stake.

So Russ made no move. He left his chest exposed, held static under the blade’s shadow, undefended, and shook his head.

With a cry that was more pain than triumph, the Lion shoved his blade deep, carving through flesh, the steel shrieking as it bent against a primarch’s bones.

Russ roared out, his back arching, and felt the blackness rear up to cover him. He collapsed, the sword still buried in his chest, hitting the ashen floor with an echoing crack.

Wolf King