Sigismund placed the golden helm and gazed up into his Primarch's steel eyes. Even in this direst of moments, Dorn's majesty dominated the room, his gold-and red marking him as the Emperor's most fervent son.
The demigod's eyes were still looking down, even though Sigismund now stood to the right of his sire. The first captain was about to speak when a bang on the door brought Primarch and Marines to their senses.
The black doors opened violently and one of the marines guarding the door entered, dragging a flailing, sweating man, a soldier of the palace's guard.
"Kelsen", Rogal Dorn asked, his voice that of cold steel, "what is this intrusion?"
"Said he wanted to serve under the banner of the Emperor's Champion", answered the Veteran.
The Primarch barely managed to hide his surprise, but Sigismund made no effort:
"How is it you know of this ceremony, curr? Are you in league with the wretches coming to kill the Emperor?"
The man seemed to take the suggestion like a blow to the stomach and sprang to his feet.
"No, Lord! I was told by the Emperor himself to carry your standard", he said, his voice still more serene than should be the case for one facing a Primarch and three squads of a Space Marine Legion's first company. He went on to explain how, while he performed his final oaths, the Emperor appeared to him and spoke of the cerimony and the role he was to play in the coming battle.
Dorn was about to order the man, Antiochus, thrown out of the room and into detetion, but Sigismund placed a hand on his Primarch's arm...and spoke to him of uniting all of the Emperor's peoples...
Phracops couldn't hold back a caw of cruel glee as he ignited a whole squad of Blood Angels on blue Eldritch fire. He watched the warriors melt to black pools in seconds, mesmerized with all the power he'd gained since the Emperor's savage dogs sacked Prospero.
A glimmer suddendly got his attention, but he'd have noticed its source a second later anyway. A most unusual party was advancing towards him: under two huge standards - one of Rogal Dorn and the one Phracops couldn't quite place, familiar as it was -, a golden warrior in magnificent armour, a second Astartes, a regular human shouting at Horus' forces like a madman and a diminute Adeptus Mechanicus on tracks trudged through the carnage all around them, the leading champion pointing a tremendous sword at Phracops.
The standard bearers and the Martian adept stopped a few meters from the Daemon Prince, but the golden warrior kept advancing as if he hadn't noticed this. Amused, Phracops tilted his head:
"Yes, Dornian worm, leave the agony to your comrades. Come to a quick death", the Thousand Son said, thrusting with his staff in an impaling move.
No lapdog of the imperium should've been so fast. The Astartes whirled away from the staff with a trail of fire from the candles on his backpack, and gained momentum to deliver a devastating knee strike, the bladed laurels of his leg armour connecting with Phracops' knee joint and severing the limb almost instantly.
The Daemon Prince dropped to the ground, followed by the chainbladed part of the warrior's sword. Phracops had a few seconds to feel humilliated as the weapon's teeth sank into his spine .
Then, suddendly, as the world disappeared in black, a metallic sting brought it back with a jolt. A trophy. Phracops was being held as a trophy by the pathetic Mechanicus, kept alive to witness whatever was about to take place. Though he was loathe to admit, panic took hold of him, and it only got worse when the golden champion picked his head up.
"Traitorous scum! I am Sigismund, First Captain of the Imperial Fists and Champion to the Emperor and Rogal Dorn. Behold your near future, and know that you are but the first to feel the cold steel with which our Lord repays traitors. So come, then, taste the vengeance of the just, and the righteousness of their crusade".