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The ground bellowed, and the floor where Ketal’s blow had met the Twisted warped and sagged, then crumpled into shapes that had no business existing in a palace. Ketal watched the deformation, and an irritated line creased the bridge of his nose.
“It offends me,” he said in a flat tone.
Every time the thing moved, his carefully held picture of the world—his fantasy of how a world should look and feel—was spoiled by a touch that did not belong. Disgust rose as a dull ache in his throat.
The Twisted tried to mend itself. The wound Ketal had carved across the mass of spines and sinew flexed and shivered. Authority reached in to torque the flesh back into the pattern the Primarch preferred. However, nothing answered.
The scar did not close. It looked erased rather than cut. The marred band remained, a pale gouge that refused to accept instruction. The Twisted levered itself upright and gave a sound too dry to be called a groan.
“You have grown stronger. That strange force of yours remains. You do not suit this world,” the Twisted said.
“And you have grown weaker,” Ketal replied.
Whether it had spent too much strength prying free of the White Snowfield or something else had leeched it, the Twisted was not at its full height. For a being that should have stood taller after consuming two of its kind, this level of decay bordered on startling. Worse, the tether to the capital acted as a collar. Its movements pressed against an edge he could feel.
Ketal’s eyes cooled until they looked like weathered stone.
Can I kill it in this state? he thought. He calculated...
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