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The impact thundered like a mountain cracking open. The hall buckled as the Twisted’s vast body lurched, spines rasping against the air itself until the sound scraped the mind. Ketal slid backward under the shock, boots carving a dark arc across the polished floor, and steadied himself in the same breath. He drew a long, deliberate inhale through his nose, found Helia with a glance, and marked her absence.
She had already fled—far and fast. He allowed himself a quick, silent approval. The speed of her retreat deserved praise, and the choice itself had been correct. Protecting her while fighting a Primarch would have been impossible. He narrowed his eyes at the thing that had filled the inner palace and spoke in a voice flattened by focus.
“How did you get outside?” he asked it.
“I think you know the answer,” the Twisted Primarch replied, and mirth like rust on bone rode the sound. “You, of all beings, brought me out.”
“So it was as I thought,” Ketal said.
The Twisted had escaped the Demon Realm, and the reason was painfully simple. Ketal had killed what had been sealing the White Snowfield. The moment that gatekeeper vanished, the barrier began to fail, and through that failure the Primarch pushed a portion of itself into the Mortal Realm.
So this is my sin, he thought, and the taste that rose in his mouth was strangely bitter.
Even so, a point did not fit. He set it down plainly.
“You should have been fighting the others,” he said. “How did you come out alone?”
The three Primarchs had warred with one another since creation first found its shape, and they would continue until whatever stood beyond war itself reached out a hand to stop them. Even when Ketal stepped beyond...
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