On the blasted, churned, ichor-soaked plain that was and would later be Megiddo, a disbelieving silence spread around the tattered remnants of those mighty armies that clashed on the field, as they saw the impossible happen. The Light that has defined their existence, their struggle, diminished, became fainter, fragile - just as six hundred and sixty-six flickering hexagrammic wards flared to new life, dragging the howling, struggling Beast back into the pocket of oblivion from whence the insane and broken have called it forth to destroy and devour all that was.

Tension suffused the atmosphere, as aeons-old enemies measured each other in the wake of their Father being forced on His knees by the effort required to save His wayward children. Angels of the various Choirs gripped their weapons tighter, the remnants of the mightiest Seraphim making their way to stand beside their Lord to protect Him in the brief moment of vulnerability, their determination pulling the lower-ranking angels back from the edge of panic and fury. At the side of his Lord, Metatron prepared to voice the clarion call to battle - for he was sure that no Fallen or Devil could or would resist a weakened God, and would attempt to strike Him down.

From the battered ranks of the bat-winged devils, their four Satans emerged, gazes locked on the kneeling figure of their ancient enemy, the One who cast them down for their defiance. The torn legions of Hell reformed behind them, yet none had made to attack.

The Grigori likewise reformed their battle lines, as their Governor and his second stepped forth, their night-dark wings seemingly drinking in the Light that was denied them when they have forsaken the dictates of Heaven.

Metatron took a deep breath, determined not to allow his Lord and Father fall to the enemies, and to strike the first blow when the impossible truce invariably shattered - and was held back by Michael's hand on his shoulder. The de facto warleader of Heaven's Host nodded towards their ancient enemies, a small smile at his lips.

"Hold, brother, and watch them - I suspect we are in for a pleasant surprise for once."

The Voice of God scoffed beneath his unyielding, stern mask, and yet he listened to his brother's advice - after all, God made Michael the commanding general for a reason, and his brother proved his worth on countless battlefields of the Eternal War.

A heartbeat later, his eyes widened.

With dignity worthy of the mightiest of the Seraphim, the four Great Satans bowed their heads to Him who was their enemy - after all, their pride, the essence of their mightiest sin, would not allow them to break their word of truce, when the other so obviously held up His side of the bargain. Behind them, the legions of Hell briefly knelt to honor the sacrifice of a worthy Adversary.

At the vanguard of the Grigori, Azazel and Shemhazai bowed, grateful that their warning was heeded and their beloved humanity was sheltered, despite their flaws. Behind them, the ranks of Fallen bowed or knelt, the implications of their Father's action conjuring the possibility of redemption for many of them.

The ranks of angels relaxed, before they too knelt to honor their Father.

Despite the losses, the pain and grief, the bloodshed, for a brief, eternal moment, all was right and peaceful in the world.

And then, high above them, the stars and constellations changed, and the demented howl of a corrupted, bestial son echoed across the blood-soaked battlefield.

For an eternity, he was tormented by visions of his own demise, the death of his sons, of his father, the destruction of the beautiful dream that was Unity and which has lain at the heart of the Imperium.

For a moment, he felt the temptation, the desire to avoid his cruel fate, to save himself and stand at the side of the one who was his closest brother. He would simply have to sacrifice his sons to the Eightfold Path, and lose them along with himself to mindless bloodlust and battle.

Of course, there was only one answer possible for him if he wanted to stay true to himself - and he would treasure the look of sheer disbelief and thwarted fury of the two would-be tempters when he spurned their offer and cast them both back to the hell that spawned them.

Yes, there was a price for his defiance, and to his great sorrow, it was not only him who had to pay it - no, the cost of his action burdened his beloved sons as well as the father whose dreams he shared.

Still, it was the only way, and he would not change it.

And so, he did not regret his choice and course, not even when, after battling horrors unending at the birthplace of humanity, he faced the thing that wore the features of his once-closest brother. Without a chance at victory or survival, he fought on, to ensure that the one who came after him had a chance at defeating the empowered beast that was Horus. He broke his great red blade, barely managing to open a chink in the impenetrable guard of the warp-infused monster - and he bared his fangs in triumphant defiance even in death.

His body broken, his mind and soul fell for an eternity, across the swirling eddies of the Immaterium, unable to reach the shining beacon of his father's light - and then a portal yawned to swallow him, a gap between the dimensions.

He fought the pull, unwilling to relent in his never-ending quest to rejoin the Emperor's light, to return to his father's side.

Then he saw - and for an eternal moment, he was stunned. After all, ever since the duel aboard the Vengeful Spirit, he saw nothing of the future, only the immutable past. He considered for a brief heartbeat, then made his choice - really, it was the only choice he could make.

For a brief moment, there was a deafening silence on the field of Megiddo, as even the Seraphim could not process the unspeakable act, and could not react in time before the black-winged assassin plunged its blade into the back of his kneeling Father.

The Light died, and under the uncaring gaze of never-seen constellations, a vampiric, bloodthirsty grin lit up with demented menace.

This world will burn under the merciless gaze of my stars.

Their cleansing fires will herald the new age of the Primordial Truth.

All of you shall be nothing but fuel for that pyre.

I am the Corrupted Son of God.

Lord among the Grigori. Shepherd of the Stars.

I am Kokabiel.

I have come.

He saw it all. Again, a cherished son struck down his Father, and the Light, the future of Mankind guttered, threatened to fade entirely, as the corruption of the Ruinous Powers threatened to engulf it all.

Not again.

Never again.

A vortex of nameless, scintillating colors howled into existence above the blood-soaked, darkened battlefield, and from within, a giant clad in once ornate, battered blood-red plate slammed down between the kneeling figure and Kokabiel. A broken, red blade parried the gray, stone-like sword before it could touch skin and draw blood. The immense, cracked ruby set into the chestplate glowed with baleful light. A pair of mighty, snow-white pinions spread wide, forming a barrier before the would-be assassin. The tears tattooed on the marble-like aristocratic face shimmered in the warm golden light of the halo that ignited above the majestic being's noble head.

For a brief moment, there was silence.

For the same moment, there was nothing but cold disdain on the perfectly sculpted face of the giant, then Sanguinius, Primarch of the Blood Angels, loyal son of the Emperor of Mankind, most venerated martyr of the Imperium, bared his fangs at Kokabiel, the psychic echoes of his wrath battering at the senses of every being present.

"Not this time, traitor." A lightning-quick exchange of blows sent Kokabiel reeling back, the Fallen's wings spreading wide, shining with the light of the void between the stars. "Now, you'll face my wrath, heretic."