The battlefield lay silent, save for the occasional crackle of smoldering wreckage. The Sons of Horus were already regrouping, the grim satisfaction of another victory etched into their weary faces. Horus stood amidst the destruction, his towering form casting a long shadow over the blood-soaked earth. A faint breeze stirred his red cloak, and the wolf pelt draped over his shoulder stirred slightly, as if it, too, sensed the weight of his thoughts. Victory, once again—but this time, something felt different.

As he turned to rejoin his legion, Horus felt it: the faintest brush of a mind, a flicker at the edge of his own senses. He cocked his head, his ocean-green eyes narrowing as they scanned the ruins. His gaze settled on a crumpled figure, half-buried beneath the twisted remains of a ruined tank. The man was nearly lost in the rubble, his frail form caked in ash and soot. But the whisper of his psychic presence was undeniable, like a fragile flame amidst the darkness.

Horus hesitated, a rare softness flickering across his stern features. The man was a psyker—he could feel it. Though Horus had little patience for the weak, he understood power when he sensed it. Perhaps it was curiosity, or perhaps the faintest stirrings of pity, but something compelled him to cross the distance, his massive form looming over the broken figure. Bending down, he extended a hand, his armored gauntlet delicate despite its size as he lifted the man with surprising gentleness.

Back aboard the ship, Horus waited, his imposing figure nestled atop a stone chair inside his private quarters as a group of serfs moved to tend to the injured psyker. They worked in silence, their hands careful as they cleaned away the grime and blood. The man’s features were still obscured, his identity hidden beneath layers of soot and bruises, but Horus could sense the flickering embers of life within him. The psyker was weak, but alive—perhaps with potential yet unrealized.