Across the breadth of the galaxy there can be no refuge from the sons of the Lion. Plasma burning bright in the gloom, a Veteran Dark Angel surges through the wreckage of a ship. His blade is drawn, held ready. His sole purpose is to deliver absolution.
In the cloying mire of a swamp-filled death world, the sons of Sanguinius make war. Bolter fire cuts through the fog as foes fall in ruin. The Intercessor Sergeant is a relentless force within the treacherous bog, blade wet with Ork blood, armour scarred yet unyielding. His every action promises the xenos foe nothing but death at the hands of one of the Emperor's angels.
The air trembles as Mephiston exerts his formidable will, blood-red armour blazing against the dust and shadow. Vitarus hums with restrained violence, while the volatile power of the warp is wielded in his outstretched hand. Gone is the mask of cold restraint; here the Lord of Death reveals his wrath, a living weapon of the Emperor’s fury.
When lightning strikes, it heeds not the wind, nor does it skirt the rain; it descends from the heavens in an instant, searing the very air that dared impede its path. So too does Neave disregard all who stand between her and her target, delivering the wrath of Sigmar in a storm of sinew and steel. Those foolish enough to bar her warpath find their flesh strewn as a visceral reminder of her hunt, evidence that none can escape Blacktalon’s strike.
Beneath his tattered robes and fungal finery, Skragrott’s power seethes like a cursed elixir. His gaze turned ever skyward, yearning for the cold, unfathomable twilight of the Bad Moon that spoke to him once before. That fateful communion left him more than a prophet—it left him a king, feared and reviled by Gitz and enemies alike. Yet, the Loonking is not content. Obsession consumes him, a relentless hunger that gnaws at his very core. He will tear the realms asunder, crushing all who dare stand in his way. Nothing will stop him from hearing the Bad Moon’s dark whispers once more. Nothing.
Through the ruins of a shattered chapel, Saint Celestine descends like an answered prayer, her golden armour gleaming as a symbol of the Emperor’s grace and wrath. Pure white doves herald her arrival, while her radiant blade casts a blinding, holy light upon the battlefield. Her fierce gaze falls upon the besieged forces of Man, renewing them with both hope and dread. To see Celestine is to behold both mercy and vengeance, a harbinger of redemption and ruin.