The skies above Lovek II streaked with sprays of warp-fire, blackening the once gilded spires of the hiveworld; its alleyways and streets transformed into trenches, burbling over with the blood of loyalist and traitor alike.
This was no longer a war, but an exercise in loyalty and sacrifice on the part of The Imperium. Change, in all its terror, had come to Lovek II.
The 3 month struggle was nearing an end, with the combined efforts of the Astra Militarium and a small contingent of Iron Hands Space Marines securing The Imperium any substantial foothold. To be blunt, it would not be long before humanity's defenders were overrun by the sea of shambling horrors; the gibbering, clawed ilk of the Sorcerer God, The Architect of Fate and Lord of Change: Tzeentch.
To make matters worse, it was not by happenstance that the warp-twisted abominations had been unleashed upon this once prosperous world. They were but a tool—an extension of will—for Tzeentch's 'adopted' Thousand Sons.
***
The air undulated under the pressure of such psychic taint, with the barrier between corporeal and immaterium waning by the second, yet the valiant hearts of men endured; until the last man was called home to the Emperor.
Despite the bloody stalemate that spilled into every alley and dilapidating construct, a solitary figure casually observed the fighting below with a curious expression; the swirling disc of Tzeentch by which he rode immediately indicated his loyalties.
Sobek, an arch-magister of the traitorous Thousand Sons Legion, appeared unscathed; cerulean ceramite armor, etched with eldtricth runes and protective wards, entirely unblemished.
While the remaining guardsmen of the Astra Militarium flung themselves–bayonetted lasgun first–into the swelling tide of tendrils and gnashing teeth, Sobek remained entirely unaffected as he surveyed from above.
Occasionally, a misdirected beam of crimson energy would meet its unintended mark before dissipating in a spherical shimmer against the otherwise invisible energy field that surrounded the gil-crested magi.
Uncommon for a 'follower of the dark Gods', but understandably so in the sorcerer's case, Sobek felt no desire to retaliate; disintegrating some naïve guardsman was barely worth the wave of his gauntleted hand.
Even then, an unlucky infantryman of the Imperium would earn Sobek's ire, their skin bubbling with festering boils before every inch of their body erupted in a sanguine geyser at a mere pointed thought.
Minor delays, as the sorcerer could sense the closing proximity of his prize, a relic of sorts hidden within the now crumbling basilica at the heart of the city. Nothing would dissuade the singularly minded arch-magister from obtaining it.
As the fighting roared to a fever pitch outside, Sobek drifted aboard his warp-steed into the heart of the planet's holiest sanctum. It felt–peculiar–to enter the holy site, nearly a million nights had passed since the corrupted astartes had been in such a place.
'Traitor!' A robotic growl shook the temple from one end to the other, a lone figure standing some ways adjacent to the arch-magister.
It belonged to an Iron Hand, a loyalist marine more Mechanicus than man having retrofitted the standard astartes power armor with assortment of additional servos and modifications for bionic compatibility. Unlike the apathetic apostle of chaos, the Iron Hand had been very much bloodied by the consecutive months of heavy entrenchment. His dark, ferrous armor, once polished and slate-colored, had been blued by the purplish fires of Tzeentch's Flamers and rusted by man-blood.
'Are you all that remains,' mused Sobek, his tone unintentionally mocking, 'brother?'
There was a pause as Sobek's boots met the ichor-slicked floor of the cathedral's gallery, stepping down from the gilded disk that had lofted him above the helpless rabble earlier; it felt right to face his former 'brother' on equal footing. 'Our numbers were equally matched when this little spat began. Now, not so much; what a shame.'
The Iron Hand spat from behind his helmet, modulated voice dripping with vitriol, "Brother? What would a fraternity of 'sorcerers' know of brotherhood? Your legion forsook the right to call yourselves our 'brothers' over ten millennia ago; I have no more words for you." The last statement carried great finality.
There was an afterimage in the form of a bluish streak as the Iron Hand swung his plasma pistol upright, the handgun's micro-fusion nuclear reactor humming brightly with a radiant cyan.
'This' made Sobek laugh, a short, snorting chortle that suited a petulant child rather than a seasoned magus.
There was a concussive boom as a sizzling bolt of plasma erupted forth with almost sentient fury. Compared to lazguns, or even traditional bolters for that matter, plasma discharges were relatively slow projectiles that packed extraordinary power behind them. Even then, such a blast moved just slow enough to be seen, but almost never intercepted or evaded.
What should have been a potentially killing shot abruptly lost its momentum, the nebulous orb of crackling energy stalling midair; the Iron Warrior immediately deduced Sobek's sorcerous intervention.
A deduction requiring little actual analysis, as Sobek had mirrored the astarte's speed with a wave of his gauntleted hand and silently launched his counteroffensive.
Space-time folded inward with unsettling force, and it took a great deal of the magister's own effort to deny the influence of the time-field manipulation.
'Coward.' The Iron Warrior grunted from behind his visor, the clacking of his sidearm audible as it trembled between mechanical digits. He'd been frozen in place much like everything else in close proximity; even small particles of dust hung stilly in the air.
Though he was no psyker by any stretch of the imagination, it was by some impossible will alone that the hulking astartes managed to quiver – let alone stutter – under the constricting influence of the Warp and its skillful manipulator.
Despite the appearance of ease, such a feat required a great deal of concentration so brevity would need to be employed.
"'Duty only ends in death', was that our creed, 'brother'? Tell me, is it still?" Sobek spoke plainly, a millennia of daemonic pacts and the influence of Tzeentch granting the master sorcerer a great boons by which he employed effectively. As he curled his fingers inward, the Iron Hand's breastplate popped inward like an empty canister; the sound of armor buckling manifesting as small pops and creaks.
"Well, I must release you of your duty; forgive me." Sobek and the nameless marine rallied their wills against the other, the loyalist's robotic index finger struggling to pull the plasma pistol's trigger once more and the sorcerer struggling to maintain focus; someone had to give.
There was a streak of blazing plasma followed by a trailing haze, the plasma pistol had fired off a successive shot, just as its wielder's torso caved in entirely, crushing his internal organs and caving in his chest cavity in an instant; the Iron Hand was dead.
Sobek was not unscathed, and though he was relatively unharmed, the second bolt of plasma had burst his protective bubble and blasted off a chunk of his pauldron; the teal and silver ceramite blued and blackened against the superheated payload. Sobek lived, but only narrowly.
"Pity." Ending the loyalist was a bittersweet victory but a victory nonetheless; Sobek pushed past the deflated corpse and into the bowels of basilica; eager to ransack it of a most precious relic.
Behind him, the battle raged on as he marched deeper into the ruins.