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It was not uncommon for Abaddon to summon Khayon to the throne room. Often, it was here that negotiations were conducted. The glory of Horus' legacy and their triumph at Canticle City could only carry the emerging Black Legion so far. Warlords who possessed the wisdom to recognize the inevitability of Abaddon’s rise surrendered or signed pacts. He demanded only their martial support, offering in return the allure of brotherhood—a bond few could resist. Yet, those who were too drunk on the powers of the Warp, those who thought themselves gods’ chosen, required more persuading. Whether it was the silent menace of Telemachon, the crackling display of Khayon’s psychic power (always made to seem accidental), or the hungry whirr of Lheor’s chainaxe, Abaddon had no shortage of tools to win submission.
But this time, there was no assembly of messengers or defiant warlords. When Khayon pushed open the heavy doors, the room stood empty, save for Ezekyle’s imposing figure seated upon the throne.
“Khayon,” Abaddon greeted, lifting his gaze from the reports in his hand. “Always on time.”
“I wouldn’t want to disappoint,” Khayon replied, an involuntary smile curling his lips. He had long since abandoned the pretense of embarrassment over how Abaddon’s praise affected him. Instead, he allowed himself to bask in the warmth of it, the rare indulgence of Ezekyle’s approval.
His gaze lingered on the Warmaster’s form, taking in the way the black Terminator armor sat on him, the way the title of Warmaster had begun to reshape Abaddon’s presence. Day by day, his brother shed the remnants of the disarmingly charming pilgrim he had once been, his transformation into a warlord of legend nearing completion.
Khayon couldn’t deny that he liked what he saw.
“Why did you call for me?” he asked, his voice smooth yet curious. “Do you have something urgent to discuss?” He cocked his head, letting his long mane of dark hair spill over one shoulder, the movement deliberate. The elegant curve of his neck was exposed as he cast a glance up at Abaddon from beneath his thick lashes.
“Or did you want…”
He allowed the sentence to hang in the air, unfinished, unwilling to seem too eager—too forward. For all his mastery of the Arts, Khayon found himself unable to name what truly passed between them. There were no words to capture the unrestrained, wild passion they shared, the willing surrender, the tangible reminder of his place as Abaddon’s chosen instrument. Words failed him, so he sent a feeling instead—a flicker of memories: desperate kisses, tangled limbs, moans that echoed like prayers.
“No, and no.” Abaddon’s response was firm, though his sharp eyes caught the faint flicker of disappointment in Khayon’s turquoise gaze. “I have a gift for you, Iskandar. One I believe you will enjoy greatly.”
A gift? The word struck Khayon like a blow. Abaddon had never given him a gift before. What they shared was not transactional; it was a bond of brotherhood that transcended such gestures. Material possessions, when exchanged, were always functional or symbolic. Even Sacramentum—that peerless blade forged from the Worldbreaker’s shards and the psychic echo of Sanguinius—was not a gift but a promise, a weapon born from their shared dream.
And yet, the notion of a gift from Abaddon left Khayon stunned. His surprise must have been plain on his face, for Ezekyle chuckled, low and deep.
“You’re already surprised, and I haven’t even shown it to you,” Abaddon said, his tone bordering on amusement.
Khayon, however, was no longer listening to the words. He had retreated into the currents of his thoughts, trying to sense the direction of this moment, to glimpse even the faintest sliver of Ezekyle’s intentions. He reached deep into his inner sight, though it yielded nothing. Abaddon, as always, allowed him no such luxury.
“Bring it in,” Abaddon commanded, his voice resonating like a blade striking stone.
Khayon heard the heavy doors behind him swing open, followed by the unmistakable thud of ceramite boots striking the metallic floor. The sound was measured—two of the Justaerin advancing with slow, heavy steps. It didn’t take long for Khayon to understand why. The dull clatter of thick, heavy chains echoed through the room, dragging against the floor in metallic protest. Whatever they were hauling fought against its bindings, thrashing and raging, claws screeching against the cold steel. Despite its ferocity, the thing was being pulled forward, inch by relentless inch, into the throne room.
Khayon’s mind raced to piece together the scene. Was this a Neverborn, perhaps intended for his Tarot deck? The Cthonians were hardly known for subtlety—binding a daemon in chains to parade it before him seemed fittingly… practical. Or perhaps it was one of the exotic beasts whose skulls adorned Abaddon’s private collection, offered to Khayon as a trophy—a right to kill bestowed as a gesture of favor. It was all speculation, but better than nothing.
Tentatively, he reached out with his true sight, allowing his mind to brush against the being. The sensations hit him in a torrent: unbridled rage, primal and all-consuming, radiating like waves of heat from its core. It was a bestial fury, claws raking flesh, teeth splintering bone, the wet tearing of muscle. Yet beneath the madness, Khayon felt something else. A flicker of humanity, buried deep within. A soul, battered and fractured, but unmistakably human, pulsed beneath the layers of insanity like a dying ember struggling against the weight of ash.
The creature’s snarls grew louder as it was dragged further into the room, its roars reverberating off the walls like a caged storm. Khayon kept his eyes fixed on Ezekyle, who remained seated on the throne, watching him with a glint of amusement in his cold gaze.
“You can look, Iskandar,” Abaddon said, gesturing toward the creature with a casual wave of his hand. His voice carried the weight of command, yet there was a note of satisfaction beneath it, as though he were savoring the moment.
Khayon turned, and the sight before him struck him like a blow. A wave of shock rippled through him, and a half-formed question died on his lips before it could take shape.
What stood before him, chained to the floor by gleaming metal rings and bound in thick iron, had undoubtedly once been one of the Astartes. Now, it was a grotesque shadow of that former identity, a creature more beast than man. Fur sprouted unevenly along its clawed hands and over parts of its face, where patches of skin were still visible beneath the coarse hair. Its lips were pulled back in a feral snarl, saliva dripping from its half-canine jaws, the muzzle wrapped tightly around them doing little to contain the froth. Its legs had warped into something grotesquely animalistic, twisted into an unnatural hybrid of human and beast.
Khayon’s gaze sharpened, scanning the creature closer. Beneath the layers of deformity and rage, he began to notice remnants of its former self. Fragments of pale blue armor still clung stubbornly to its torso, scarred and battered but unmistakable. And then, as the creature lunged against its chains, the light caught a symbol etched upon the remnants of its armor: a charcoal-grey wolf’s head set against a field of yellow.
Khayon froze, his breath catching in his throat. The symbol was seared into his memory, impossible to forget. A Space Wolf.
“One of the warbands caught him in the Eye. His brothers are all dead, but they saved the honor of killing their leader for me.”
Abaddon’s voice cut through the snarls and guttural growls of the captive, the earlier flicker of amusement gone from his tone. Now, it was low, resonant the voice of a commander. It carried an authority that seemed to reverberate through the air, sinking into Khayon’s very bones.
“But it should be your honor to kill the last of the Wolves.” His words pierced through the steady thrum of blood in Khayon’s ears, and Khayon felt his fingers tighten around the hilt of his jamdhara. Rage stirred in his chest—not reckless or impulsive, but ice-cold. It was the rage of someone staring into the eyes of an ancient enemy, one brought low and made to pay for countless sins.
“Make him suffer for all he’s done to your brothers, to your homeworld,” Abaddon commanded, his voice like iron. “Avenge them.”
The words rang through Khayon’s mind as he stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and the captive. The Wolf thrashed against his chains, teeth snapping together in a futile attempt to bite, but the bonds held firm. Khayon’s gaze met the beast’s eyes, tinged with the yellow madness of the Warp. Once, this creature might have resembled the Wolves he had seen on Prospero—those who had burned his world and slaughtered his brothers. But the Warp had reshaped it, had stripped away the mask of humanity to reveal the true form of its soul: a mindless, savage killer, a beast driven only by the instinct to destroy everything beautiful, subtle, and pure.
Khayon looked down at it, and a grim, cruel irony settled over him. Once, he had been the one brought low by the Wolves, struggling for survival amidst the burning ruins of his home. But now, the roles were reversed. Now, he was in control.
A spark of aether cracked in the air next to him, sharp and bright. The beast’s fur bristled, rising in response to the static currents of Khayon’s power bleeding into the atmosphere. He took another step closer, and for the smallest fraction of a second, the Wolf flinched. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but Khayon saw it. The sight made his heart swell with dark glee, a cold, triumphant satisfaction. The nightmare that had haunted him for so long was now afraid of him.
Without warning, Khayon’s hand lashed out. The backhanded strike landed hard against the captive’s face, the sharp edges of his spiked gauntlet scraping against the metal muzzle. The force snapped the Wolf’s head back, and Khayon felt a savage satisfaction bloom in his chest as he saw a trickle of blood run down where his gauntlet had struck.
Once, he had been powerless, forced to fight for survival amidst the ashes of everything he loved. He had been desperate, broken, clinging to life while the Wolves tore his world apart.
Now, one of those responsible for it knelt before him, bound and helpless, completely at his mercy.
“Vengeance, brother.” Abaddon’s commanding voice coiled around him. Even without turning, Khayon could feel the Warmaster’s presence, the weight of his attention pressing down on him. Abaddon was watching—and he liked what he saw.
“This is how our enemies will look at us,” Abaddon continued. “Defeated. Chained. Made to pay for all they have done.”
Khayon exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his chest loosening as the words settled over him. He didn’t look back at Abaddon; his gaze remained locked on the Wolf. The creature thrashed in its chains, rage and desperation driving its every movement as it strained to get closer to him.
“Pathetic, mindless beast,” Khayon hissed, his voice dripping with venom. He stepped forward, planting his boot on the Wolf’s shoulder. The creature flinched at the pressure, and Khayon pressed down harder, his heel grinding into the joint of its already overstretched arm.
The Wolf snarled, baring its teeth in futile defiance, but Khayon leaned closer, his face inches from the beast’s. His turquoise eyes bore into the Wolf’s yellowed ones, searching for any glimmer of humanity behind the madness. There was none—only the faint trace of what might once have been a soul, now all but devoured by rage and the Warp.
It was almost disappointing. He would have relished extinguishing the last flicker of hope in those feral eyes. But even so, seeing the creature writhe, feeling it flinch and cower, brought him undeniable satisfaction.
“This is for Prospero,” Khayon growled, his voice low and lethal. The air around him grew heavy with power, crackling with unseen energy. It coursed through him, pooling at his fingertips, a pure and searing desire to inflict suffering taking form. Every memory of despair, every sleepless night filled with grief and rage—all of it coalesced into a single, devastating moment.
And then, he released it.
The Wolf’s howl tore through the throne room, a sound that was neither wholly human nor entirely bestial. It was the cry of a creature in agony, a raw, primal wail that reverberated off the walls. The energy coursed through its body like wildfire, twisting and contorting it in ways it could neither resist nor endure. Chains bit into its flesh as it thrashed, pulling fur and skin away in bloody strips. Even its maddened rage was no defense against the sheer, unrelenting pain.
For the briefest moment, Khayon saw something flicker in the Wolf’s eyes—more than madness, more than rage. It was fear. True, intelligent fear.
A dark smile spread across Khayon’s face. He knew that fear. It was the same fear that had consumed him once, back when the Wolves tore through Prospero and left nothing but ash and ruins. Now, all that pain, all that suffering, was reflected back at one of those responsible. Condensed into a single, excruciating moment.
Triumph swelled in Khayon’s chest. This was the future Ezekyle had promised—a future where the Imperium’s slaves, its enforcers, its protectors, would finally pay for their crimes. One by one, they would be brought low, forced to face the consequences of their actions.
It was a future Khayon was eager to share.
The Wolf slumped forward, its body trembling with the aftershocks of Khayon’s spell. Its back heaved with frantic, shallow breaths, saliva frothing and mixing with blood as it dripped onto the floor. Among the mess, Khayon noticed shards of broken teeth—small, ivory flecks scattered in the pool of suffering.
He reached down, gripping the Wolf’s jaw and forcing its head upward. His golden claws dug into the fur and flesh of its cheeks, holding it in place as he stared into its eyes. Somewhere, deep behind the madness, he saw a flicker of recognition—a tired, reluctant acknowledgment of defeat.
“Witch…” the Wolf growled, its voice strained and guttural, the harsh Fenrisian accent barely intelligible through its pain. Its body twitched, still reeling from the torment Khayon had inflicted.
Khayon paid the insult no mind. He could feel Abaddon’s steady, unwavering attention on him still, a silent acknowledgment of his actions. Even the Wolf’s defiance, that last, pitiful attempt to wound him with words, could not pierce the overwhelming sense of triumph coursing through him.
“You failed to kill us all,” Khayon said, his voice laced with quiet, mocking amusement. A chuckle escaped his lips as he leaned closer, his widened pupils glinting with cruel satisfaction.
“And now,” he continued, “see the future that you have brought.”
Khayon waved his hand, and the throne room dissolved into nothingness, replaced by another scene, painted into existence by his will.
Snowy plains stretched out below grand, jagged mountains—the familiar landscape of Fenris, just as the Wolf would remember it. But this time, it was transformed. The pristine snow was no longer white but a dull, polluted grey, half-melted by the heat of enormous, billowing forges that filled the air with thick, choking smog. The Asaheim Peaks, once proud and untamed, were now riddled with a sprawling web of mines. Fenrisian workers, broken and enslaved, toiled beneath the cruel lashes of their overseers, tearing apart the sacred earth they once revered.
Millennia-old trees lay felled in endless piles, their ancient roots ripped from the soil. Even the Worldsea, once teeming with majestic, living titans, was barren and lifeless, its waters blackened by an unrelenting harvest of its creatures.
Above it all, the Fang, the towering mountain that had stood as the heart of Fenris, was defaced beyond recognition. Its peak was crumbled, the sacred stronghold reduced to ruins. Atop its shattered summit stood a dark altar, from which a river of sacrificial blood poured down its slopes. Here, Fenrisian spirits—once fierce and free—were bound in torment to cold, unfeeling metal, their wild essence twisted into mechanisms of war. Sorcerers, cruel and unyielding, presided over the altar, taming the ancient magic that had once defined Fenris and using it to feed the insatiable demands of Abaddon’s war machine.
The world itself was being dismantled, its very soul stripped away to fuel the Warmaster’s conquest—a bitter irony for a planet once meant to defend the Imperium.
Khayon felt the Wolf’s anguish, the visceral pain of seeing his homeland ravaged, its essence trampled underfoot and discarded. All that made Fenris what it was—its wild beauty, its spirit—was now reduced to nothing more than resources for an uncaring power.
But Khayon knew that breaking a world, no matter how sacred, was not enough to destroy a legion. He had learned that lesson himself.
So, he showed the Wolf a promise of another fate.
The Space Wolves themselves, once a proud and ferocious legion, were no more. They were now nothing but beasts, driven to madness by the flaw in their gene-seed. Those who had not been slaughtered or consumed entirely by their rage were enslaved, their minds shackled by psychic chains. They served as living trophies, held in submission by the legionnaires of Proserpine origin—former victims turned masters. The Wolves’ fierce independence, their defiance, was gone. They knelt, obedient and broken, reduced to little more than pets for their new overlords.
Khayon showed him what remained of his brethren: once warriors, now leashed dogs, their once-proud howls silenced, their spirits crushed.
And yet, even that was not the worst fate he revealed.
The ultimate humiliation was reserved for their primarch.
Leman Russ, the Wolf King, was no longer the noble, feral titan of legend. Khayon conjured the image of him as a wild beast, his mind entirely consumed by the flaw that had doomed his sons. He showed the Wolf how their great leader had been hunted down and slain like a rabid animal, his hide stripped from his corpse and turned into a trophy. That hide now adorned the Warmaster’s shoulders, a brutal reminder to all of who Fenris belonged to, a symbol of the legion’s utter defeat.
Khayon watched the Wolf’s reaction, saw the despair that rippled through the beast as the vision unfolded. He could feel the creature’s pain and fury, but beneath it all, there was something deeper—a hollow, gnawing realization of inevitability.
Fenris was gone. Its people enslaved. Its heroes reduced to nothing.
And its legacy?
A broken memory, left to serve the very forces it had once fought to oppose.
There was a cruel, calculated irony, a twisted mirror of what the Wolves themselves had done.
A single, bitter tear rolled down the Wolf's cheek. The vision had become reality for him, as vivid and real as the chains that bound his body. He understood now, with terrible clarity, that it had all started here—with him. Their defeat, the desecration of Fenris, the annihilation of everything they fought to protect, was no longer a distant, unlikely possibility. It was inevitable. The despair that gripped his heart seeped into the remnants of his fractured mind, overwhelming even his rage.
“The galaxy will burn in our wrath,” Khayon whispered, each word sinking into the Wolf’s mind like a dagger twisting deeper. “And the flames will consume you.”
His grip on the Wolf’s jaw tightened, golden claws digging into fur and flesh, holding the creature’s head steady as Khayon stared into its eyes. He could feel the rage subsiding, smothered beneath the weight of despair and horror. The Wolf's defiance crumbled, his mind succumbing to the crushing enormity of what he had seen.
“This is not a threat,” Khayon continued. “Nor is it an oath. It is a certainty.”
Only when he saw the flicker of true, unrelenting terror in the Wolf’s yellowed eyes did he release his grip. The vision around them dissolved, fading into the empty cold of reality, leaving only the chilling silence of the throne room.
Khayon took a step back. “I will spare you an easy death. You will pay for all the suffering you caused.”
For a moment longer, he lingered, staring down at the broken creature in chains. Then, with a wave of his hand, he reached into the Wolf’s mind. Its defenses were simple, unguarded—a remnant of its former humanity, now little more than a thin thread holding it together. Khayon severed it with ease.
The Wolf snarled, thrashing violently against its bonds as the last vestiges of higher thought were stripped away, leaving behind nothing but an animal driven by blind, unthinking rage. Khayon knew its final thoughts had been of Fenris—destroyed, crushed beneath the heel of the Despoiler, reduced to ash and ruin.
Khayon straightened, his breathing steadying as he turned to face Abaddon. In his triumph, he hadn’t noticed the Warmaster descending from his throne. The heavy weight of Abaddon’s gauntleted hand settled on Khayon’s shoulder, grounding him.
Abaddon’s cold, steady gaze locked onto Khayon’s, taking in his widened pupils, flushed cheeks, and parted lips. Khayon’s breaths came quick and shallow, his body still trembling faintly from the surge of power and triumph that coursed through him. Abaddon didn’t need any psychic gifts to see what it meant.
“This is but a taste of our vengeance,” Abaddon said, his voice low yet resonant. His gaze bore into Khayon’s, the faintest glimmer of amusement flickering in his golden eyes. Khayon’s hand rose shakily to grip Abaddon’s armored arm, seeking something solid amidst the intoxicating rush of victory.
Abaddon knew that feeling well—that pure, euphoric sense of triumph, a joy that surpassed almost anything the galaxy could offer. He had felt it many times before, and now he saw it reflected in Khayon.
Amusement lingered in his expression for a moment, but there was something else, too. Something deeper, almost akin to pride.
“Ezekyle…” Khayon exhaled, the name rolling from his lips like a prayer, trembling with emotion. Overwhelmed by triumph and exhilaration, he surged forward, throwing himself at Abaddon. His emotions boiled over, and almost unconsciously, he floated above the ground, the power coursing through him lifting him effortlessly. His lips crashed against Abaddon’s in a fervent, almost desperate kiss, his triumph and raw energy spilling over into the act.
Abaddon caught him easily, his immense bulk steady against the sorcerer’s weight. His arms encircled Khayon with little effort, holding him aloft as though he weighed nothing. It had been some time since he had felt this—since he had seen someone taste true victory for the first time. Not victory clawed out in desperation, not survival against impossible odds, but an absolute triumph. A total, crushing dominance over one’s enemy. It was a moment to savor, and Abaddon relished the sight of Khayon basking in it.
Abaddon kissed him back, his grin stretching wide against Khayon’s lips. He could feel the sorcerer’s bloodthirsty excitement radiating off him, even through his dulled psychic senses. It was a dark, intoxicating energy, vengeance fulfilled and power finally realized.
Even in his feverish state, Khayon yielded into the kiss, instinctively submitting to Abaddon’s dominance. There was no hesitation, no restraint—only a desperate, burning desire to express his gratitude, to please the one who had given him this moment. He poured himself into the kiss, his psychic essence bleeding into the air as faint whispers of devotion and thanks. The whispers coalesced into incorporeal hands, manifesting from nothingness to caress Abaddon’s shaved temples, trailing across his scalp with ghostly, reverent touches.
Abaddon moved away, carrying Khayon effortlessly toward the throne. His steps were steady and deliberate, the sorcerer’s trembling form held firmly in his grasp. Around them, the Justaerin stepped into the room, their heavy boots resounding against the floor. They moved to drag the now truly mindless beast away, the defeated Wolf reduced to nothing more than an empty shell.
Abaddon spared the creature no thought. Its fate was of no consequence. It had served its purpose, and Khayon had deemed himself finished with it. There were more important matters at hand—matters far more deserving of his attention.
Khayon clung to him, his body trembling with the aftershocks of vengeance and power, his lips feverishly seeking Abaddon’s. He was drunk on the taste of pure triumph, his psychic energy still rippling faintly around him. Abaddon could feel the sorcerer’s unrestrained excitement, his need to express everything he felt in that moment.
The Warmaster allowed it, his own amusement mingling with a sense of satisfaction as he lowered himself onto the throne, Khayon still in his arms. For now, the galaxy, the war, and even vengeance itself could wait.