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Chapter Text

Radjedef's long, skilful fingers turned a blank game piece over, savouring its physicality and potential. It was almost time.

He lowered the piece to the board, placing it in one of the hexagonal spaces in his deployment zone. A small effort of will rippled forth. For a second, the pieces he had set in both deployment zones rippled in red and blue, and he saw them spread across the board. They shifted so quickly that to an unaugmented observer, they might have become a blur of purple. Radjedef was not naturally inclined towards Time sorcery, but he had learned a few tricks over the last few years. As potential gaming scenarios revealed themselves to him, all forking off his opponent's preferred openings, a twisted smile cracked his tattooed face. This was just one part of a larger plan he had prepared for the day. Any moment now…

"Cheating before we start, Setka?" 

The spell snapped sharply, casting blank pieces around the board. An echo of his power reverberated around them, ripe for use. Radjedef quickly pulled it back into himself, allowing it to bolster his charisma. Feigning sheepishness, he looked up at Afshar, who stood at the door to his game room. "It's not cheating if we haven't started," he said, his voice mild. "I'm studying your opening moves." He stepped out from behind the table and opened his arms.

Afshar's sapphire sabatons thumped against the smooth floor of dark, stained wood. He teased his old friend as he crossed the room to greet him, saying, "Much good that that'll do. Have you ever won against me?" 

"Not once," Radjedef replied. "But the Changer of Ways may yet see fit to grant me a win." 

The two sorcerers embraced. In the past, such a meeting would have been typical for them. However, the two had seen much less of each other in the years since Sortiarius’s translocation into the materium and their own return to reality. There was a strange air of formality to their meeting now, punctuated by Afshar’s choice of attire. In a move that secretly shook the other sorcerer, Afshar had come to Radjedef's tower armoured. His flat-fronted Mark IV helmet, a relic of the years before the fall, was mag-locked to his belt. That helmet was the only part of his armour that Radjedef recognised, and even it had been modified with a tall crest and the addition of a pair of curved golden horns. The rest had been completely remodelled in the years since they had last seen each other. Talismans now hung from various corners, clinking against ceramite as he moved. A silvery-white loincloth covered in orange sigils fluttered between his legs. Only his face was largely unchanged; while a friend in the Cult of Mutations had refined Radjedef's appearance and covered his skin with shifting sorcerous patterns of blinking eyes and feathers that often looked more real than the skin underneath, Afshar had stayed pure, touched by neither magical nor mundane augmentation beyond those gifted to him upon his ascension over ten thousand years prior. There was only one exception. 

As the two embraced and parted, Radjedef cupped his Brother's face, peering intently at his left cheek. "Is this kohl?" 

"No."

Radjedef's thumb brushed the teardrop-like marks mundanely tattooed into Afshar's previously pristine skin. He didn't need to say anything; he knew the mark was intended to replicate the ancient motif of the All-seeing Eye. That same symbol had been carved into the helmet Afshar's idol Ahzek Ahriman had worn before he had supplanted the elder Amon. Radjedef did not remark further upon it. He just shook his head, disappointed. 

Afshar didn't say anything either. He reached for Radjedef's bare hand with his gauntleted one, drawing it away from his face before releasing it. "Shall we play?" he said, moving to sit down. "It will have to be a quick game today, no special rules. I have another commitment later."

"More tattoos?" Radjedef joked as he slid into his seat, pausing to unhook the dangling edge of his red robe from the back of his chair. 

Afshar didn't laugh. "No," he said quietly. "I'm leaving."

Any mirth Radjedef had been trying to build withered. Though he had no skill in foresight, he had seen this change coming since their legion had returned to the materium. Still, the seemingly imminent nature of his friend's departure surprised him. "Straight after our game?" he asked. 

"Straight after."

A profound, aching misery and a strong feeling of doubt gnawed at Radjedef's hearts. "I see," he said. He banished the doubt before it could take root and began to pick blank game pieces from the box, gently nudging them into the shapes of tiny legionnaires. "Well, you can't leave yet. We haven't played."

Afshar removed one gauntlet and joined him, transforming blank pieces into his own army. "Of course. But wait. Before we start, it's only fair…" As he placed his last piece, he made a small gesture with his hand.

The brazier in the corner flared, spilling a sweet-scented smoke out. The smoke whispered, but Radjedef could not understand the words. Afshar inhaled and extended his hands over the board. Power flowed through him so smoothly that it almost seemed to come from his own soul rather than the immaterium. Afshar's eyelids and lips fluttered a little as the board was topped by the translucent purple blur of moving shadow pieces flickering in and out of view. Within seconds, it was done. The final wisps of smoke vanished into Afshar. He lowered his hands, and the pieces stood where the two had laid them. In truth, they hadn't moved; he had merely revealed all their possible moves, sorted to respond best to Radjedef's playstyle. It was a refined little spell in its own right and much more practical than the time-based method Radjedef had employed earlier.

Radjedef couldn't help smiling, proud of Afshar's superior abilities. "The Cult of Prophecy has refined your old skills."

Afshar bowed his head. "Indeed. Now that I've done this, we are on an even footing."

"Ah, come off it. You know our battlefield has never been balanced." Radjedef picked up the terrain box. "Two obstacles since you're in a hurry?" 

"Three," Afshar said, reaching for the box. "I have the time to play properly."

"Play properly?" Radjedef laughed. "Tell me, Afshar, what is the goal of this game again?"

Smirking, Afshar reached into the obstacle box with his ungauntleted hand. Between his fingers, the plain cube he drew out twisted into a tower-like shape. "As our long-departed Master Ohrmuzd Ahriman said—" 

Chapter Text

"The goal of Shatranj Alsaahir is not to play properly. It is to practise your arts and use them to gain advantage while appearing to follow the rules. You must cheat, but do so carefully, lest your opponent see through you and impede your efforts."

Ohrmuzd Ahriman stood silhouetted against the window-wall of the sumptuous training suite. His eyes were thickly ringed with kohl, and the light streaming in from behind him caught on his robe's blue, orange and silver stripes, casting his shadow deep into the room. Behind him stretched the spires of Al Wasl, each one a giant around 800 metres tall. Their building, the Burj Alf Mitr, was the tallest of all at 1000, and the room they sat in was only six floors from the summit. 

Five pairs of neophytes in grey robes edged in blue stared up at the handsome legionnaire, their eyes wide with admiration. The last pair, seated at the back furthest from the window, stared at each other instead, grinning and nudging each other under the table, hissing playful threats back and forth. They felt their Master's eyes on them and quickly stopped, looking up into his shadow. 

If Ohrmuzd was angered by their childish enthusiasm, he didn't show it. Instead, he clapped his hands. "Begin!" 

Eyes glowed in blues and purples as psychically inclined neophytes turned to their magics. A scream and a smell of burning hair flooded the room, and Ohrmuzd strode over to a table. Flicking the fire away from a singed player, he thumped the opponent on the back, scolding him, "Murdering your partner is a forfeit, just as leaving the table is. You may be destined for the Pyrae, but that does not mean you cannot play intelligently. Focus. Choose the right moment to strike at your opponent's pieces, not his body."

Shaking his head, he paced the room for a few minutes before drawing up beside the two who had been joking together. The two were so engrossed in their game that they barely acknowledged their Master. He watched them for a few minutes in silence before speaking. 

"Kemal Afshar and Setka Radjedef. Stop."

The young men's hands dropped to the table, and as they did, a strange chattering that had stolen into the room unnoticed suddenly ceased, leaving a vacuum that felt more silent than silence. The other neophytes were taken by surprise. Some jumped to their feet and rubbed at their ears, exclaiming in shock. 

Ohrmuzd waved them down. "Return to your games!" He turned back to the two. They sat as still as statues, looking up at him with fear in their eyes. The Master sighed. He squatted beside the table, gathering his robe between his legs. "I understand what you were doing," he said quietly. "Afshar, you have been using foresight to see what would make for the most exciting game to watch. Radjedef, you opened a mental connection with your friend, and he is telling you what moves to make. At the same time, you have been spreading a psychic drone to confuse the other students, which would make your game seem cleaner by comparison. It is an impressive cheat, I grant you. Who came up with which part?"

"The basic idea was mine," Afshar admitted. 

"But I came up with the drone," Radjedef piped up.

"Such large-scale thinking must be commended. It will serve you well on the battlefield. Still, it defeats the point of the game. You must play against each other, not together."

The neophytes exchanged glances. "We can start again," Radjedef said. 

"We don't need to," Afshar said. "I win in three turns."

Ohrmuzd frowned. He peered at the board. Then the creases on his forehead smoothened, and his piercing blue eyes closed. "Oh, I see."

Radjedef looked between the two of them. "What? What's happening?" 

"Your friend has convinced you that you are working together, and to some extent, you are. He has engineered this game to make you look better than the other neophytes in the room. But even an exhibition game must have a winner." Ohrmuzd cocked his head. "Did you not think of that?" 

"No,” gasped Radjedef.

"Neither did I," Ohrmuzd chuckled. "If it hadn't been for the drone, I might have realised sooner. I think he let you do it both to distract you from his plan and make you look superior to your peers." He looked at Afshar, smiling. "Am I right?" 

As he looked up at the Ohrmuzd, Radjedef realised Afshar's expression was only a hair short of adoration. Ohrmuzd was the kind of man who inspired honesty. A twinge of worry echoed in his chest.

"Yes, Master," Afshar said, and Radjedef relaxed.

Ohrmuzd placed a hand on Afshar's head. "My brother will want to meet you, I think. He would nurture your talents well. And as for you—" he smiled at Radjedef, "It seems you may be suited to the Athaenean. Good for you. I will make a note of this. You may depart now. Take the rest of the hour to rest, for once your specialist training begins, you might never rest again."

The two stood and bowed deeply before leaving the room. 

 As soon as they were in the corridor, Radjedef threw an arm around Afshar's shoulders. "How about that? We both got what we wanted! And I did a good job making you seem like the mastermind, didn't I?"

Afshar wrapped an arm around his waist and pushed his head against Radjedef's, grinning. "It was a joint effort,” he said.

“Yes, but whose idea was it really to win off the board through social engineering?” 

Afshar rolled his eyes dramatically. “All right, fine. Your plan to socially engineer our way into the cults we wanted went perfectly. But I did get myself into a good winning position.”

Radjedef released him, agreeing. “Nobody can beat you when it comes to the rules, and with your foresight…” He shoved him gently, mocking his voice. “‘Look at me, Master Ohrmuzd. I win in three turns.’ You didn't have to show off that much, you know!” 

“Unlike you, I like the game,” Afshar said, shoving him back. 

“I like it well enough!”

“No, you like to manipulate your opponents into giving you what you want. Usually, the win.”

Radjedef complained, “How else am I supposed to beat Brothers with potent foresight?”

“You could learn to play better or expand your grimoire from telepathy and charisma. Even though it’s permitted, your strategy is not much fun for your opponent. Remember the time you made Zhibek concede by reminding him of his mother’s execution?”

Radjedef winced. “That was bad.” He grabbed Afshar’s sleeve, “Look, I promise I won't do that to you. At least, not for a long time. So, even though you’ll be in a different Cult, don’t stop coming to play with me, all right?”

Afshar smiled at him. “As if I’d stop. You’re the only person I know who can lose five games in a row without throwing a tantrum.”

The two pushed through a gilt-glass door into a room filled with velvet-covered lounging sofas in silver, sapphire blue and sunrise orange. Their bare feet sank into the plush carpet. In front of each sofa rested a table with a traditional coffee set in the middle. Radjedef lounged back on the sofa with the best view out of the window while Afshar perched on an edge, pouring out the thick, sweet coffee traditional to their part of the world. As he passed Radjedef a cup, he said, "I can't believe Master Ohrmuzd ran the test. Did you even know he was back on Terra?" 

“No, but I'm not his biggest fan ever.” Radjedef took a sip. “I do think he's great, but I wouldn't know much about him if you didn't talk about him so often.”

“I just think we should all aspire to be like him.”

“I suppose, since we don't have a genesire to look up to yet...” Radjedef said. "Well, what about his brother? They're twins, aren't they? Lucky you, now you get to fall in love with the other one too.”

Striking like a scorpion, Afshar put his coffee down and pinched his friend hard, making him flinch away, wincing and laughing. "Shut up!" 

In a smooth motion, Radjedef leapt and tackled him, trapping his head under his right arm. The coffee in his left hand sloshed, but he didn't spill a drop. As Afshar squirmed in Radjedef's grip, Radjedef's laughter turned to reflection. He released Afshar and said, "You know, I'm glad we got to meet Master Ohrmuzd too, but I'm a little disappointed he didn't see through the final layer of our plans.”

Afshar relaxed, putting his legs up over the couch's arm and letting his head rest in Radjedef's lap. “I think he did. He just didn't say anything because it might have given the others ideas. After all, he—" 

Chapter Text

"—was the greatest of our Order. Perhaps even of our Legion. And yet, the Change took him too." Afshar sent Radjedef's final piece flying. "Execution. I win."

Radjedef blew out his cheeks and ran his hands through his long, dark hair. "Fair, fair," he said. "I don't think either of us were feeling this game today. Thank you for ending it quickly."

Afshar didn't reply. He stared down at the blank piece that had previously been a Librarian, his face crumpling into an expression of grief, hatred and disgust. 

Radjedef jumped up from the table. Taking Afshar's arm, he escorted him from the room and down a Dark-curtained hallway. Their rooms in Central Tizca were sumptuous; had they been playing in either of their suites in the Corvidae or Athanaean temples, there would have been many delights with which to distract Afshar. However, they usually played Shatranj Alsaahir in the more spartan rooms of the Order of the Jackal, which they had joined together after their Cults made it hard to find time for each other. 

 At first, it was a good arrangement. The Jackal’s rooms were not luxurious, with each one only having enough space for a bookcase, a brazier, a ritual space, and a bed behind a curtain. Afshar and Radjedef had made the best of it, sleeping and setting up a Shatranj set in Radjedef's room and using Afshar's for ritual purposes. Unfortunately, the increasing pace of the flesh change and the ramping up of the Great Crusade led to the 15th Legion taking heavy losses. Both Afshar and Radjedef had been called upon to join their Jackal Brothers in carrying out funerary rites and disposing of Brothers who had succumbed to the Flesh Change. 

As Jackals who were neither Apothecaries nor members of the Khenetai blade cabal, they had seen less fighting in the Great Crusade than most of the Thousand Sons. For the same reason, they had seen more death than most. Radjedef was beginning to grow numb to it, but Afshar only seemed to grow more sensitive. Every time they were called in to collect what was left of a changed Brother, something inside him seemed to die a little more. He still lived, but grief was suffocating him. 

At times, his personal demons grew so potent that he could not rest. After discovering that Afshar had spent weeks awake without resting his whole mind, Radjedef had taken to watching over him. Sometimes, when he seemed overly exhausted, Radjedef would put Afshar to bed. He would project an aura of relaxation, stroking his hair and singing old Terran songs until he fell asleep. At other times, when he seemed too agitated to sleep, Radjedef would take Afshar to a different environment and sit with him while he regained his sense of composure. 

In these moments, Radjedef, who had initially been tempted by the Order of Blindness, was glad he had been swayed into joining the Jackal. In their Cults, they were separate, but their shared Order kept them together.

Still, the Jackal's base was a strange place. Unlike the pyramid temples of the Cults, the two other Orders kept giant spire-towers. Most of these had tunnels beneath too, but only the Jackal eschewed spires and pyramids, keeping the bulk of its base within the Prosperan crust. The tunnels ran deep below the city, connecting a series of houses, most of which were disguised vents, courtyards, open-sky ritual sites and crematoria. Radjedef guided Afshar through these many tunnels until they climbed a staircase and emerged within a quiet square enclosed by walls. Anyone who had seen this place from the outside would have assumed it was a noble family's city-house; no one would have guessed that inside the open roof lay a pool of silvery liquid enclosed in a ritual circle of glowing crystals, and multiple ornate cushioned benches from which to meditate upon this arrangement. The air was cool, and the soft-coloured light of the glowing crystals bathed the courtyard in a relaxing atmosphere. 

Radjedef and Afshar stumbled in together. Sitting before the meditation array, they huddled together like hive urchins seeking warmth. Though he was the larger of the two, Afshar rested his head on Radjedef’s shoulder. Neither of them had spoken since they left the game room. They didn't need to. Though their black and red robes were finer than anything they had worn on Terra, though their wrists and necks were spangled with gold to match the trim of their new red armour, though their hair flowed like silk and their minds were replete with knowledge and magic gifted to them by their Primarch and his planet, the depressing reality of their dwindling Legion weighed heavily on their shoulders. 

Suddenly, Afshar spoke. “If the change comes for me when we’re together, Setka…”

Radjedef swallowed hard. “I’ll do it for you if you do it for me.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Radjedef held him even tighter. He could feel the brush of Afshar’s eyelashes against his neck every time his friend blinked. His heart ached with pity.

But Afshar wasn’t done. “Listen. I am thinking of leaving the Jackal.”

“What?” Radjedef hauled Afshar up by the shoulders. Afshar looked away, and Radjedef ducked from side to side, trying to meet his eyes. “Why, Kemal?”

“You and I are neither apothecaries nor recruiters. Every day, on battlefields and in ritual chambers, we witness the deaths of our Brothers. We send the honourable dead on their way with candle, cake and coin before singing their name into the chapter’s Dirge, and we burn the changed and record their loss in a secret ledger, but it is all grisly drudgework. There are barely any acolytes because we have grown even more selective lately. All we do is watch our numbers shrink. We joined the Jackal to learn from Master Ohrmuzd, didn't we? But his first priority was always his Company, and then the Pavoni. Our Order barely came in third for him, and I can see why. Besides, he has been gone for years. Unless we join the Khenetai, there is no reason to stay any more.”

“But what will you do instead?” Radjedef asked. “Will you join another Order? If you are considering the Order of Blindness, perhaps I could go with you. That would have been my preference from the start.”

 “Elder Amon's Order?” Afshar shook his head, thoroughly rejecting the idea. “No, I won't be joining either of the other two. There is enough for me to learn within the Corvidae alone. Magister Ahriman is almost as strong a leader now as his brother was. Many of my Cult Brothers have also become much stronger under his guidance. I am one of the few who have been unable to benefit from my Cult's ascendancy. Our work for the Jackal has become so heavy that it even keeps us from partaking in the wisdom flowing into our Cults of late. It has been so long since I learned anything. Please, Setka. Please understand.”

“No!” Radjedef's fingers squeezed painfully at Afshar's shoulders. "You can't go! If you go, who will look after you when you are struggling?”

“If I go, I will get better. Or perhaps I'll die, and then it'll all be over.”

“Don’t talk about dying! Don’t you know who will have to perform your rites if you die? Or worse…” Afshar finally met his eyes as Radjedef continued. “Who will have to live knowing that you received no honour in death because you changed? Who will have to strike your name from most of our records? Who will have to see that your gene-seed is destroyed? Who may even have to grant you the Emperor’s Mercy—"

"Enough!"

Radjedef fell silent for a moment, but he didn't release Afshar. "If the Flesh Change finds you when I am not there, I will never forgive myself," he continued. "Our Order suffers it the least. Staying here is our best chance to survive. We only need to hold out until our sire finds the cure."

"Do you really believe he will do that?" 

"Do you not?" 

Afshar sighed. He glanced around them, peering at the bushes and the other benches before replying. "I'm not sure. Everyone who can has drawn a card or two for it, but no one has received a solid answer. In addition, there is a rumour going around the Corvidae that Magister Ahriman is worried. If he, with his formidable powers of foresight, is worried, I can't help but doubt."

"Who are you to doubt our Primarch?" Radjedef whispered back. "For that matter, who is Ahzek Ahriman to doubt him? I know you respect your Magister Templi, but he isn't half the man his brother was, and neither of them could touch the greatness of our Sire. If anyone can lift the curse on our Legion, Magnus the Red can." 

Afshar doubled down. "That's the thing, I'm not convinced anyone can cure us. Surely the Emperor Himself would have fixed this flaw if it were possible?" 

Radjedef felt doubt creep into his hearts. "Is that what Ahzek Ahriman says?" 

"No," Afshar replied. "It is what I see with my own eyes."

Radjedef shook his head. "My dearest Brother, you are depressed."

"So let me go. This job depresses me. Please." He took Radjedef's hands in his own. "I swear by my hearts, when we are both here in Tizca, I will go out of my way to spend time with you. We will play Shatranj Alsaahir almost as often as we do now. We may even stand together again on the battlefield someday. But not to collect the dead."

Radjedef hung his head. "Fine," he conceded. "But you must keep your word. You will, won't you?" 

"I will—”

Chapter Text

"—try, but I am not convinced this game is playable without employing our arts." Afshar reached out to the board and moved a piece forward. "Perhaps we should just play Regicide or Kuturanga?" 

"Where's the fun in that?" Radjedef said. "It's a long way back to Prospero from Nikaea. You would be sick of either game within a week. Come on, play properly.” 

"Have you forgotten what Master Ohrmuzd said? The purpose of the game is not—" 

Radjedef smirked. "Of course. So, follow his instructions." 

The two sat facing each other in a recreation room aboard the Photep. Dark panels of wood covered the walls. Embossed recesses were lit by inset light strips, illuminating carved figurines and painted game boxes. The board they played on was set in resin over a light panel. Each time a piece was placed, the board glowed beneath it with light that echoed the colour of the piece. A small panel on the wall showed the name of a piece of music, which played softly in the background. The environment was perfect for a comfortable afternoon spent gaming together.

Radjedef focused on the board for a moment. One of his Librarians moved forward without him touching it, and as it landed beside Afshar's Titan, the Titan turned a red shade, with the board's glow changing to match. He had won over Afshar's most prominent piece.

Afshar looked unbothered. Though he could still take one last turn with the Titan, he took his Librarian from his deployment zone, moving it into the trees he had placed near the centre of the map. "In case you have forgotten, we have been ordered not to use our powers."

"By a kangaroo court, not our Sire." Radjedef moved the titan towards the woods, a waste of a move that neither won nor lost him anything.

"That kangaroo court you speak of was headed by the Emperor Himself." 

Radjedef didn't know what to say to that. He returned to the game. He focused intently for a moment. Then he smiled and sat back. "Your move."

"What did you do?" Afshar asked sharply.

"If you can't tell, I'm not going to tell you," Radjedef replied. "Why not use your powers to work it out? I've heard your favourite Magister uses his."

Afshar's eyes narrowed. He reached for his Librarian before changing his mind. "You didn't do anything last turn, did you?" he said. "Enough foolishness, Setka." He picked a new piece from his box. He placed it, declaring "The Arbiter."

Rolling his eyes, Radjedef transformed the unit for him. "You know that unit is as likely to hurt you as it is to hurt me?" 

Afshar shrugged. "Today might be the day you win. Let's see."

Secretly, Radjedef was annoyed. He had quietly marked every human-sized unit of Afshar's as his spies. To show that he had spies in play, he had started with several fewer units. However, he had cheated by only starting with three fewer rather than a nearly empty deployment containing only two large units and a Commander. The Titan had been a lucky win for him, but Afshar's choice of an Arbiter made things difficult. The Arbiter was a non-aligned piece that anyone could activate, but the activator would have to spend a turn doing so. It would attack whoever had the stronger units until parity was reached. Now that Radjedef had taken the Titan, it seemed like they had achieved parity. However, the truth was that Radjedef's position was much stronger. Thankfully, the Arbiter was a weak unit. He moved his Librarian towards the Arbiter in Afshar's deployment zone, intent on killing it.

Afshar summoned another Arbiter. 

"Seriously?" Radjedef said.

"If we are at parity, you have nothing to worry about. I have wasted two turns." Afshar began to smile. "But I know we are not. You started with spies. I believe I know where they are."

"Where?"

"All my human-sized units. As soon as I chose to deploy a Titan, I knew what you would do."

"So you have been using your powers," Radjedef said, triumphant. His Librarian took another step towards the Arbiters. 

"No, I just know you very well." A third Arbiter. 

Radjedef's smile fell. He moved the Titan to join the Librarian. It was heavy, and he was too agitated for fine control; he had to move it manually. 

Afshar's smile increased to a grin. He placed another Arbiter on the board.

Radjedef wasn't sure what he was playing at. He moved his stolen Titan forward again so it stood near Afshar's woods.

Afshar shook his head. "You should have activated Arbitration."

"What good would that do? We are at parity."

"It would have given you two turns and a retaliation to respond to this." He tapped the Titan. "Final Order," he said. "The Titan shoots my Librarian." 

"No!" Radjedef threw his arms into the air as the Librarian in the woods was shot, turning red as it revealed itself to be a spy. 

"As a Raptor, this Librarian has a shield. It gets to retaliate before it dies. Roll for it."

Radjedef cast a six-sided die. High numbers allowed him to choose the target; low numbers meant the Librarian would retaliate against the unit that shot it. A tiny nudge set the die to a five."I shoot an Arbiter," he said. 

Afshar removed an Arbiter from his deployment zone. His smile remained. "Now it is your turn."

"My Titan is spent for this round," Radjedef said. "But the Librarian in the woods shoots another Arbiter."

Afshar removed a second. "And now it's my turn," he said. "I activate Arbitration."

"Alright." Radjedef reached for the Librarian in the woods.

"The other one, Setka."

"What?" 

"You showed it to be Pyrae earlier. It will explode when removed. The explosion will catch your Titan. The Titan's explosion will catch the woods, igniting the Librarian within and my other two units nearby. This will leave me with two units that I know are spies."

"And then?" Radjedef asked. 

"On your turn, you will be forced to activate a spy, leaving me with one unit I know is also a spy. On my turn, I could give final orders to lead to a draw, but I will summon a final Librarian."

"Ah," said Radjedef. "But then I will activate Arbitration, which will destroy your Librarian."

"You mean your Librarian. I will mark it as your spy as I summon it. As it is destroyed, I will reveal it to be a Pyrae. Its explosion will take the other two units. You will then have none left."

Radjedef dragged his hands through his dark hair. "You'll win without a single unit! Ridiculous." He stared at the board, blinking and gritting his teeth. "Maybe there's something else…"

"I'm sorry, Setka," Afshar said gently. "You lost as soon as you agreed to play with spies and Arbiters."

Radjedef sighed, leaning back in his chair. "No, I lost as soon as I agreed to play with you."

"Surely you won because you enjoyed the game?" 

Radjedef granted him a loss-worn smile. "As ever. And I did win at something else."

"What?"

"You must have used your powers at some point. When did you use them?"

Afshar acquiesced. "Fine. I used them right at the beginning to work out the best optional rule to add if I wanted to beat you without using them any more." Radjedef gestured at him, indicating that he should keep talking, and Afshar huffed. "And I used them to work out the best move after you spent a turn baiting me. You're right; I haven't fully stopped practising. I have cut out ritual work entirely, though. We wouldn’t want anyone interrupting our games to accuse us of sorcery, would we?”

Radjedef retorted, “Some of those at Nikaea would do so regardless of what we were actually doing. I may not have your gift of foresight, but I can’t see things going well for our Legion, whether we abide by the Edict or not.”

“I can’t see this going well either. Considering this and how you were right about our Sire ending the flesh change, perhaps you do have some talent for foresight.”

Radjedef reached across the table, lacing his fingers with Afshar’s. The physical contact seemed to relax Afshar. They were quiet for a moment before Radjedef spoke. “Whatever happens, let’s face it together.”

Afshar smiled. “With who else—”

Chapter Text

“Setka?” 

Radjedef looked up from the board he had just set on the table. Above ground, the first Space Wolf drop pods had just smashed to the ground. Even from the underground Jackal base, the thumping reverberations were unmistakable. Still, Radjedef seemed unperturbed. His smile was serene, as if this were just another social visit. "Kemal! You came quickly!" 

“Of course. The end of the world is upon us. There’s no time to dawdle.” Afshar strode in, his red armour reflecting the flames of the brazier in the corner beside the game table. He mag-locked his right gauntlet to his belt, picked up the box of blank pieces and placed a ruined warehouse near his deployment zone. “Cults and Orders, or only Cults?” 

“Your call.”

“Cults and Orders, then.” 

They chatted about unimportant things for a few minutes as they finished laying out the terrain and their units. Then, they began to play. The game was short. Radjedef cast a mist over the board and attempted to use telepathic units to communicate through it. Afshar, however, used his own to clog the communication pathways before twisting the mist to his advantage, slaughtering Radjedef's units with explosives targeted by scouting stealth operatives. So quick was his win that Radjedef could not help laughing at himself.

“This may have been my worst showing yet,” he said. “I feel rather cheated. I was ready for at least an hour of play but lost in less than ten minutes. Another game?” 

“We could,” Afshar said. “But let me do a small divination first. I can feel a strange premonition hovering just outside my ken. Better to draw it out.” He stepped away from the table, crouching on the smooth stone floor. Drawing a tarot deck from a pouch locked to his belt, he chanted the names of the ancients of Tizca, entering the First Enumeration. He drew two cards first. “The Beast Ascendant. The Warlock Reversed. Same as this morning, both discordant.” He drew four more, arraying them below the first two. “The Seer and the Jackal, that's us. The Locked Door reversed. The Fountain of Tears.” He winced and drew one final card, placing it above the others. “What is that?” he murmured. “I think it's supposed to be the Chaplain, but the image is only of his tempormortis. It lies smashed, spilling its sand into three piles. I've never seen it like this before.” He gently lifted the card, squinting at the text engraved in the metal rim of the hourglass in the image. “Time no longer,” he murmured. 

“How bad is that?”

Afshar looked up at Radjedef. “About as bad as it could possibly be, I think. Tragedy, both widespread and specific. A pivotal moment that leads to loss and destruction. Then, the end of time.”

Radjedef swallowed. “Any direct advice?”

“Reversal of The Locked Door can indicate an interruption or breach, so we should prepare for that. I'm unsure how that interruption connects to the following cards, though. Does the breach lead to the tragedy of the Fountain of Tears, does the Fountain apply more generally to the Legion, or is the Fountain just part of a sequence of events… And why has the Chaplain changed so? Why is there such a focus on time or the destruction thereof?”

Radjedef pulled a rolled-up plastek-covered mat from a holder in the corner. He unrolled it on the floor and drew two concentric circles in the middle with an erase pen. “One interruption? Or more?” he asked. 

Afshar picked up The Locked Door, focusing on it. “It feels singular, but part of a greater whole.”

Radjedef began to write symbols on the mat. “Pass me another mat, and then lay out the terrain yourself,” he said. “I will prepare two rituals: one to deal with one intruder, another to deal with many.” As Afshar passed him the second mat, Radjedef locked eyes with him. “Let us hope we won’t have to use the bigger ritual,” he said.

Afshar nodded and turned to reset the board. 

Several minutes later, as Radjedef finished drawing the second ritual schema, a strange feeling of pressure filled the air. For the first time that day, time seemed to hiccup. Radjedef jumped, clutching his schemas, but Afshar waved him to the table. “The veil between the materium and the immaterium grows thin as the Cults rise to battle. Come, let’s play quickly so we can go join them.”

Stashing the schemas under his chair, Radjedef sat and began to place pieces in his deployment zone. “You plan to join the fighting?” he asked.

“Yes. The Magisters have determined that our only chance of survival is to fight. All Brothers who didn’t leave the planet on the fleet have gone to their cults or gathered in working groups.” Afshar frowned at him. “Wait, are you not planning to fight?”

“No. I am neither one of the Khenetai nor an Apothecary who can salvage gene-seed from the battlefield. Most of my Cult left on the ships. There’s no one here for me to answer to, but our genesire, and his order was for us not to engage.”

Afshar’s eyes grew wide. He leaned over the board, his voice on the verge of fury. “The Athanaean left, and you didn’t go with them?”

“Correct.”

“Why!?” he asked. He slammed a hand down on the board, knocking over several pieces. “Setka, this is no laughing matter. Tens of thousands of Brothers will die today.”

Radjedef leaned over the board too, reaching to pick up the fallen pieces. He stood them up before meeting Afshar’s eyes. “They were ordered to run. How could I run and leave you here?”

Afshar’s expression twisted into several different forms in quick succession: shock, anger, affection, regret. Eventually, he sighed and raked his fingers through his thick shoulder-length hair. “I understand,” he said simply. “Let’s play.”

Their second game was longer. Afshar had set up the terrain fairly, and both of their units crept behind the walls in search of the perfect opportunity to strike. Whenever one seemed to gain an advantage, the other cut him down to size. Yet, Afshar ground millimetre after millimetre of advantage from the game, harrying Radjedef back until his troops were split, crouching inside two broken buildings. 

Radjedef was enjoying the game, but he had begun to worry. If he lost soon, Afshar might leave to go fight. Then, what would he do? The persistent anxiety was interfering with his ability to strategise. He frowned at his pieces, hunching his back and rubbing his chin as he tried to work out the best move. 

Afshar leaned down, crossing his eyeline. “What's wrong, Setka? Your heart isn't in this, I can tell.”

Radjedef bit his lower lip, still staring at his soldiers. 

“Come on,” Afshar insisted. “Tell me what's wrong.”

Radjedef went extremely still for a moment. Then, he murmured. “The game is almost done. What will you do if I leave with you afterwards?”

Afshar straightened his back, sitting upright. After a moment, he replied, “What will you do if I stay here with you?” 

Radjedef looked up at him. In Afshar's eyes, he saw hope, though he wasn't sure what the hope was for. His heart seemed to thump a heavy rhythm in his chest.

The thumping grew louder and more external. Radjedef realised what it actually was and instantly forgot what he had been thinking. He slashed a thought into Afshar's head. +It's here!+ 

The door slammed open. As the Thousand Sons jumped to their feet, a monster in singed grey power armour bore down upon them. Neither of them could guess how the Space Wolf Terminator had found its way into the Order of the Jackal, but the man inside the armour was too drunk on bloodlust for his entrance to have been calculated. The hulking soldier had lost his gun and squad, but he showed no signs of caring. Ashfar and Radjedef knew as soon as they saw him: what stood before them was no longer a cousin, nor even a beast, but a nightmare. 

Radjedef was unarmed and unarmoured; an Astartes in his state was still dangerous, but easier to kill. The Space Wolf bore down on him first, the long claws of his power fist dripping with blood and oil from a cracked motor. The claws no longer bent with the giant's hand, but they still swiped and tore, tearing at his robes as he jumped away and scrambled up a bookcase, hoping to gain height. A claw caught his calf, ripping it deep before smashing into the metal of the bookcase, denting both the shelf and itself. As the Terminator blinked at the cascade of books from the broken shelf, Radjedef reached for Afshar's mind.

Behind the Terminator, Afshar unlocked his bolter. A single word in his head from Radjedef, a tiny flash of foresight, and he grabbed the first of the two scrolls his old friend had prepared and threw it to him. As Radjedef caught the scroll, the terminator rounded on Afshar. Afshar released two bolter rounds into its abdomen. 

The Terminator's armour cracked further, but it was built to withstand greater abuse. With its power claw now less responsive than before, it reached for the game table with its gauntleted hand as though it wished to use it as a weapon. 

"No!" the sons of Magnus shouted together. Before the Wolf's hand could close around a table leg, Afshar put three bolts into its arm between the wrist and elbow. 

The Wolf roared in pain as the force of the bolts bent his arm back too far, breaking his bones. Though his armour still worked, the arm would now be useless for several minutes as it healed. 

The psychic connection between Afshar and Radjedef snapped, and Afshar knew something was about to happen. He threw himself too hard, tumbling through the curtains into Radjedef's little bedroom, which had once been equally his own. There was no time to scrutinise how it had changed since he had left the Jackal; Radjedef's bolter lay on the bedside table. Ashfar grabbed it, dropping his own empty one. Then he rushed to the curtain, unsure of precisely what Radjedef was doing but ready to emerge when called.

Back in the lounge, Radjedef crouched atop the bookshelf. Brilliant sapphire light spilled from his eyes as he entered the second enumeration. His fingers circled the dial of numbers painted on the ritual schema. Once. Twice. The veil between the materium and immaterium grew thin. 

His perception of time slowed as a series of numbers lit up on the dial. The Wolf turned as Radjedef made an ancient mudra of astrotelepathy, a fist with thumb and little finger outstretched, pressing the extended fingers to the centre of the schema. He lifted the mudra, pressing the thumb to his ear with the little finger hovering near his mouth. The connection stretched away from him, diving deep into the Great Ocean. +Hagonel.+ he sent along the ethereal wire. +Boon Companion.+

"Sorcerer!" the Wolf bellowed. 

The call connected. Radjedef could feel a presence on the other end. +The way is open. You may return.+

"Die!" Claws scythed through the air. 

Radjedef admired the perfect calibration of the swing. Too bad for the Wolf; its ruthless efficiency and honed reaction time could never beat preparation. Each sending took a fraction of a microsecond. It was almost over. +I welcome you. Flow through me. Hunt the hunter.+ He extended the mudra towards the Wolf, forcing three words into its crazed mind. 

+It's for you.+

Each word was a hook into the Wolf's mind, tearing it open and filling the spaces with Radjedef’s tutelary. The daemon's essence rampaged through the gyri of the Space Wolf's brain. The Terminator stopped. Then it screamed an unearthly scream and dropped to the ground, writhing. Its systems failed and its helmet seal cracked, letting blood pour out from underneath its chin. 

Afshar had just reached the curtain when he felt Radjedef touch his mind again. +Kemal! Quickly!+

He pushed through into a room that stank of blood and ozone. Instantly, he fell upon the dying Wolf, tearing the ceramite from its chest. The giant was not wearing a proper body glove. The stench of oily mucranoid sweat filled the air. He placed his bolter right on the chest of their fallen cousin. 

A bolter shot rang out. The attack was over. One more broke the helmet open. There could be no doubt: their Space Wolf cousin was dead.

Radjedef slid off the shelf into Afshar's waiting arms. Afshar was still holding his bolter. The muzzle burned a hole into his robes, but Radjedef didn't notice. His face was pressed against his armoured friend's shoulder pad, his eyes closed.

“You didn't need me to shoot him. He was dying quickly,” Afshar whispered into his hair. “Why did you need him shot as well?”

“The shots were for Hagonel, who was inside the Wolf.” 

“Your tutelary? That Hagonel?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

Radjedef opened his eyes. He met Afshar's and smiled. “My dearest friend. If it had gone on a rampage, don't you think it might have interrupted our game?”

Afshar laughed a short, curt laugh. “I am three turns from winning. Do you really want to play out the rest?” 

“I do,” Radjedef said. “Just give me a moment first. I am a little giddy from that summoning.” 

Afshar shifted, glancing at the open door. “We may not have a moment. Can you feel the ripples in time? We are at a crossroads, and something big is barreling towards us from every direction. Whatever is coming, I can't see where we will be afterwards. There is a good chance we will not survive whatever is about to happen.”

Radjedef held Afshar a little tighter. “Perhaps that's why I'm giddy.”

“Could be.”

“Well,” Radjedef said. “What shall we do now?”

As that question escaped Radjedef’s lips, the cataclysm Afshar had foreseen smashed over them like a giant wave turning two trembling coconut trees into toothpicks. Their continuity splintered into three as the weight of time bore down upon them. 

Across Prospero, time itself broke under the foot of Magnus the Red as he trod upon the grand causeway before the Pyramid of Photep, finally ready to face his doom at the hands of the Emperor's executioner, the Primarch of the Space Wolves, his most hated brother: Leman Russ of the Space Wolves. A few minutes later, most of the remaining Thousand Sons upon Prospero were hurled from reality into the immaterium as Ahzek Ahriman declaimed words of power from the Book of Magnus, saving the 15th Legion the only way he could.

Afshar and Radjedef were first broken by time and then flung into the Realm of Souls by dark magic. When the Thousand Sons reformed in the immaterium, the two were nowhere to be found. Their fellow legionnaires assumed they had fallen on Prospero; if any of them had bothered to divine the reality of Afshar and Radjedef's situation, they would not have harboured any more hope of their return. When the few remaining Jackals sang the names of their lost brothers out into the shifting time clouds of the immaterium as they once would have sung them into their ship's Dirge, Kemal Afshar of the Corvidae and Setka Radjedef of the Athanaean were among the names sung.

“...”

Chapter Text

“...”

Echoes of the spell Ahzek Ahriman cast from the Book of Magnus rippled across the immaterium. Slowly, it gathered Thousand Sons from far and wide. Magnus the Red had shattered, as had the Legion, but all would be made whole again, in time, before being lost once more.

“...”

In a near-faraway corner of the immaterium, where everything and nothing had and would come to pass, three little shards of continuity gathered. They overlapped each other, fell apart, shifted around. No one knew all three remained. They were too divorced from other continuities to cause noticeable knock-on anomalies that would be noticed. Inside one continuity, though, under red skies and over a carpet of blood, two men faced timelessness and uncertainty.

“...Tizca,” Afshar's embodied soul murmured. Radjedef's soul stood beside him, an unresponsive figure still too unmoored from continuity to act. Afshar looked at him, and his soul gnawed with regret and pity. Here, perhaps because it represented a single potential, he felt the future more strongly than he ever had before. It had taken him no effort at all to work out that Radjedef was dead in this version of events.

Afshar linked arms with Radjedef. “Come on, Setka,” he murmured. “Let us find ourselves and undo this damage.” He guided him around the rubble of several houses that had been part of the Jackal's hidden network.

They wandered for a while and for no time at all. Afshar had an impression of what he was looking for, and he moved towards it by a circuitous route. In a sense, he reminded himself, he had already done this walk. For this reason, he would be able to do it for the first time again. 

He tried to lump Radjedef over a wall and was shocked when his friend’s soul phased through it as though it weren't there. He pushed through the wall after him before linking their arms once more. “We're almost there,” he told his unresponsive companion.

They wandered along the wall towards a small plaza that had held a beautiful fountain and a popular outdoor café. Once, children had played in the white-marbled streets as adults in luxurious robes lounged in cushioned canopies, sipping carob liqueur and arguing recreationally.

Now, all that beauty and culture had been turned to ruin. The café windows were smashed, dripping with the blood of the civilian bodies that had been used to break them. The canopies hung in tatters. The fountain had been broken, its tall central spout snapped in twain. The water had turned red with blood, and several inches of thick, dark gore had settled in the bottom. A plastek-covered mat decorated with two concentric circles of runes floated in the scummy liquid. The fountain's rim had been daubed with symbols matching those on the mat. He only recognised one symbol from his days in the Order of the Jackal: “mwt” or death, a combination of a bird, a rising half-moon, and a toppled column. 

Afshar tore his eyes away. He looked around the square, focusing on the piles of flesh and broken grey armour. Two Wolves and several wulfen creatures had fallen here, and countless civilians had been brutalised. His eyes followed a smeared path through the gristly ground. The trail led to a side alley and into a door. The door was closed but not locked. He knew that door. If it wasn’t locked, something must have been holding it shut. Remembering he was not a physical entity, he looked at the wall beside the door. Grabbing Radjedef's hand and steeling himself, he stepped through as easily as stepping through a curtain.

He found himself in a courtyard he knew well. A silvery pool lay in the middle of a glowing circle of crystals. The benches sat invitingly, waiting for Brothers to sit upon them as they focused on climbing and descending the enumerations. The courtyard could not have been less like the battlefield outside. Somehow, in the middle of so much death and carnage, this was still a place of beauty and rest. 

There were only two things out of place. 

Two Astartes reclined against the door. Looking at them, Afshar's soul recognised his own body. Chunks of cracked red armour had fallen away, revealing familiar flesh within the ceramite. His helmet lay a short way away, discarded. Half of his body rested strangely. A crushing blow of some sort had destroyed his left leg and rendered his left arm useless; it must have taken him many nonexistent hours to manoeuvre himself and the other into this position.

The body reclining against his chest was also armoured in shining red and gold. It lay limp and unresponsive between his legs, with its helmeted head lolling sideways against his chest. Afshar knew the man within was lifeless, drained entirely of his vitality. He didn't need to see the face to know it was Radjedef. There was no one else he would have abandoned the battlefield to grieve.

He kneeled beside his dying form, taking in the grief painted on his own face. How desperately he gripped at his beloved Brother's fallen body. Tears rolled down his potential self’s cheek, dripping onto Radjedef's helmet. Even as he lay dying, the potential Afshar cried for his Brother rather than himself. “Anything but this,” the broken Afshar whispered. “Anything.”

Part of Afshar's soul was tempted to leave the scene as it was. There was honour in this tragedy. Though they both fell, they would at least lie dead together, having fought side by side. Still, he looked at Radjedef’s soul which he had guided here, and he knew it was not fair. He could feel there was a way for them to survive, and he knew that Radjedef would have chased that at all costs. No, this board needed resetting. Afshar began putting away the pieces, a strategy of ritualistic denial. Time wound backwards, each move undoing itself as he denied everything that had happened in this continuity. 

“I did not cry over Setka's body,” he began. 

The tears running down his potential self's face dried up as he spoke. They had never been there in the first place. 

He continued, “I did not drag him here through blood and rubble. When I saw he was dead, I did not scream his name so loudly, our Primarch might have heard it. I did not shoot the last wulfen creature with all my remaining bolts. I did not fall to the ground. I did not take a crushing blow from the thing’s claws. I didn't even fight it.” With each utterance, another event was undone until his potential self stood in the square, staring around as a giant hairy monster, all claws and snarling teeth, advanced. In the fountain, Radjedef’s body lay dead. Afshar spoke two more lines. “I did not rise quickly from the Fourth to the Eighth enumeration. I did not hesitate in the fight when the bodies that had fought alongside me suddenly fell.” Then, as the reanimated bodies of civilians rose from the ground, he paused.

On cue, another voice joined in with words of denial. “I did not pour more and more of my personal power into my ritual until I poured too much and expired,” Radjedef's soul said. His words saw the dead Radjedef draw breath once more before rising to his feet. The symbols daubed on the fountain blazed with greens and purples.

Afshar was not watching the scene. He was staring at Radjedef, smiling. He reached for his hand, directing his words to his friend. “I did not counsel you on where the enemies would appear and how many bodies to send after each one while defending your ritual.”

“I did not perform the second rite I had prepared earlier in the day, calling daemons into the bodies of the dead to fight on our behalf. I did not rise to the Ninth Enumeration, focusing all my personal power on the task at hand.”

“I did not lead you out of the Order of the Jackal into the fray.” Hand in hand, the two turned their backs on the fight in the square, following their potential selves back through the Order’s underground tunnels to Radjedef’s room.

“I did not let you armour me,” Radjedef said. Before them, Afshar stripped the armour away, revealing Rajedef’s tan, slightly freckled skin. Their expressions were solemn, but each movement was affectionate. At one point, while Afshar disconnected the cables on his torso, Radjedef’s hand wandered into Afshar’s hair. Afshar looked up from the cables and smiled a hopeful smile at him. 

Afshar’s soul was struck by how certain his potential self seemed of their survival. The potential Radjedef, however, seemed to be under no such illusion. As Afshar returned to the cables, Radjedef’s face grew mournful. The potential Radjedef knew he was going to die, Afshar’s soul realised, but he had kept that knowledge inside. As his potential self finished the reverse armouring, Afshar’s soul turned away from them to face Radjedef’s. “I didn't ask you to come with me. I didn't tell you we should spend what little time we had left together. I didn't tell you that I love you too.” 

Radjedef’s soul had also noticed the disparity between their potential selves’ expectations. He sighed. Then, he looked into Afshar's eyes, his face full of regret. He spoke the final lines, and the other Radjedef's lips moved in reverse as his words slid back into the realm of the unsaid. “I did not tell you that I would do whatever you wanted because I love you above all others. I did not put aside my personal desires to make you happy.” As Radjedef spoke the final words, Afshar embraced him. The potential Afshar and Radjedef embraced too, standing in the same places the two had stood when continuity broke.

Afshar felt that potential reality come loose, like a knot being unpicked. They had returned to the source, to the moment when time fractured. One end had shown itself and been dealt with. Two remained. 

As he wondered what to do, the feeling of time ending repeated. Afshar and Radjedef's souls squeezed each other as time whirled around them, buffeting them to and fro before depositing them on a hard floor. The two helped each other up and looked around; they were in the same place they had been a moment before. 

The body of the Space Wolf still lay in the middle of the floor. Radjedef glanced at it as the two of them ran for the table. Their game lay as they had left it, not a figure out of place. He breathed a sigh of relief. Yet, there was no sign of either player. Their potential selves were not here. “Where do you think we are, Kemal?” he asked. Then, he frowned, staring at Afshar. “Kemal?” 

Afshar was not looking at him. Instead, he stared away towards the curtain of the bedroom.

Radjedef looked at it too. “Are we in there?” he asked, pointing into the room.

To his surprise, as he raised his arm, Afshar raised his too. His lips moved when Radjedef spoke. A sense of dread filled Radjedef. “Oh, no,” he whispered under his breath. “Terra, not this.” His voice grew louder and deeper than usual. A chill ran down his spine as he realised he was speaking with Afshar's voice as well as his own.

Afshar and Radjedef stared at each other. “At least we're both still alive in this one,” they said in unison.

Then, a voice touched Afshar's mind. Radjedef was using telepathy to cut through the strange effect upon them. He said, +This is the one where we lose ourselves.+

“I know. I feel it,” both souls said. “Help me through.” They felt themselves pushed towards the curtain. They resisted. “Do I have to go in there?” 

+You know we do.+

“Guide me,” they said. “Tell me what will happen.”

+I can't, Kemal. Precognition is your role, remember?+

“I don't remember. We can't tell where you start and I end.” The two looked at each other again. They took one step together towards the curtain. Then, one more. 

Each step towards the curtain was torture, but they made it there. The curtain parted by their hands, which slid over each other as they both reached for the edge. They stepped in and saw themselves. 

The air crackled with mutation, prising at the edges of their souls and offering to twist them into shapes beyond their wildest dreams. A mass of flesh pulsated upon the bed, a display of what might happen if they accepted the arcane offers. The mass glowed, fractal curls of magic shining from within their skin before a series of shudders wracked it. Bony joints poked at the skin's surface, only to vanish back within. Occasionally, a glowing eye blinked at them, only to be covered by skin seconds later. The thing’s original shape was gone; now, it had none. It was human, but only in the sense that it was made of human bodies. It lived, but what life meant to such a thing could not be understood. There was no mind left to be communicated with. It was a horrifying mass of hubris and pointless change, still coalescing into a final demonic shape. They had very little time to undo this before the mass became something else entirely, a horror fully enslaved to the Ruinous Powers.

This time, Radjedef began, his telepathy cutting through the illusion of unity. +I did not succumb to the flesh change on purpose,+ he began. +I pushed away all the little things I had done to tie Kemal Afshar to me over the years, separating myself from him before we could merge into one being. I did not draw power directly from the Changer of Ways and loose it upon our bodies. I did not let a twisted image of my hopes and dreams sway me into this ultimate betrayal.+

As Radjedef projected the thought, their identities began to untangle. The ethereal power ebbed and the mass on the bed separated, slowly forming two masculine figures wrapped in a tangle of bedsheets. The taller one was sleeping as the other held the sleeper, inverting the cast of the previous continuity. He looked down at his face with a gentle smile. They were separate once more. 

As the two on the bed rested peacefully, Afshar suddenly returned to himself. Instantly, the realisation of what Radjedef had done in this possible continuity washed over him, leaving a painful bitterness in the pit of his stomach. He tore his hand out of Radjedef's, bending over double and taking several deep breaths. Part of him wanted to tear Radjedef's soul limb from limb. Another part was simply overwhelmed and did not know how to process what he had seen and heard. 

In this continuity, Setka, his dearest Setka, hadn’t saved him from suffering the humiliation of the flesh change. Instead, he had called it upon both of them. 

Knowing that it was possible for Radjedef to betray him was a thousand times more painful than all the things Afshar had seen over his years with the Order of the Jackal. The possibility had never even crossed his mind. If such great darkness lurked within his beloved friend, Afshar wondered, what smaller darknesses could be hiding inside him?

Radjedef placed a hand on his back. +Speak, Kemal.+

Afshar pushed the surge of revulsion down. He shook off Radjedef’s hand and spoke. “I did not fall asleep.” In bed, the other him awoke and smiled, oblivious to what had just been undone. His lips moved wordlessly, as did the other Radjedef’s. As destruction rained down above, their potential selves ignored it, talking and enjoying their closeness as they waited for the end of the world. Afshar’s soul continued, “I did not forget that I wanted to fight.” His other self gestured towards the curtain that separated the bed from their game and the outside world.

Radjedef's soul did not notice this gesticulation. He was staring at Afshar’s with concern. He spoke out loud. “I did not pull you into bed.” The two in bed separated and stood up, talking inaudibly. The next few lines flowed smoothly, the actions of the potential Afshar and Radjedef coming undone as the two souls rejected them.

“I did not kiss you over and over until you had to ask me to pause.”

“I did not remove your armour so quickly that I broke several straps.”

“I did not follow you into your bedroom.”

“I didn't ask you to come with me. I didn't tell you we should spend what little time we had left together. I didn't tell you that I loved you too.” Radjedef fell silent, looking expectantly at Afshar.

Afshar hesitated. His potential self hesitated too, frozen with loving words on his lips.

“You must finish it,” Radjedef said.

“I don't want to,” Afshar said.

“If you don't, we will be stuck.” Radjedef tried to cup Afshar's downcast face in both his hands, but Afshar leaned away, his eyes dark as storm clouds. Still, Radjedef was not deterred. He put his hands on his friend's shoulders. “Please,” he begged. “You must undo and disavow your part, as I have done mine. I promise you, what you have seen here will never come to pass. These continuities seem to reflect our darkest, most selfish thoughts. If we both wish to survive, we must cast them aside.”

Afshar knew he was right. He finally met Radjedef's eyes. The look was not as warm as the one on his potential self’s face, but he tempered his hurt for the moment. He spoke without pushing Radjedef away. “I did not tell you that I would do whatever you wanted because I loved you above all others. I did not put aside my personal desires to make you happy.”

 With that final line, the second continuity frayed like the first had. Time roiled around them once more as the two aberrant timelines fully came undone and were discarded like scraps of cloth cut away by a tailor. 

As time settled, they found themselves in a familiar room, holding each other close. Afshar was armoured. The tip of his bolter, which he had just fired into the Space Wolf lying dead on the ground, burned a hole in Radjedef's tunic. 

They clung to each other for a moment, wondering if the worst was over. Time was still not as it should be, but it did not end. The time stream waited for them.

“Well,” Radjedef whispered. “What shall we do now, then?” 

The spell was broken. Afshar released him. “Now, we must take the final three turns.”

“So this is what we did,” Radjedef said. He pulled Afshar's chair out, showing courtesy to his guest.

“It's what we always do, isn't it?” Afshar sat, then gestured to Radjedef to sit across from him. “We play.”

The board was set, waiting as they had left it before the Wolf burst in. Radjedef moved first, nudging a pair of Khenetai blades out of cover.

Three turns later, Afshar won. 

Ten thousand years came to an end.

Chapter Text

The shadows in Radjedef's tower room grew darker the longer the game dragged on. The galactic map projected onto the roof revolved ominously, the cicatrix maledictum laughing down at them like an abstract depiction of the Changer of Ways. The crystals that lined the shelves and lurked in alcoves pulsed with light, giggling little daemons playing inscrutable games under the twisted smile of their God. 

On the table in the centre of the room, Afshar and Radjedef's battle dragged on for hours. Precious little progress was made as both agonised over the pettiest moves. The brazier beside them burned too hot, then not hot enough. The environment was tense and uncomfortable. Though the tower room had its own malevolent beauty, Afshar longed for their old rooms in the Order of the Jackal. Crossing his arms, he sat back, regarding Radjedef. His sorcerous tattoos were revolting, he thought. He wondered what kind of person would do such a thing to someone else and why Radjedef, who had once been handsome in his eyes, would let someone defile him so. As he observed his once-beloved friend, more unkind thoughts sprung unbidden to his mind. He played his turns uncaringly, slowly wrapping himself in a pall of upset. Finally, he could no longer stand it. He blurted out, “What happened to you?” 

Radjedef glanced up at Afshar, three watercolour-drawn eyes on his cheek opening and blinking as he did. As the eyes sunk back into Radjedef's skin, vanishing, Radjedef replied, “What do you mean?” 

“Something about you has changed,” Afshar said. “It's more than those dreadful scrawls some cretin has left on your skin. It has barely been a decade since we last saw each other, but your very essence feels different. What did you do in that time?”

“Since the Athanaean is gone, I joined the Cult of Manipulation,” Radjedef said. “I have spent this time learning everything I missed out on during our time away.”

“‘Time away,’” Afshar echoed. “That's what you call 10,000 wasted years?”

“I wouldn't call them wasted,” Radjedef said. “We did what we had to do to survive. Now that time is back on our side, we can catch up with everything we missed.”

“No, we can't. There is too much history we haven't seen. Too much we couldn't be a part of. We may learn enough to catch up to the new Brothers who have ascended since our Legion's fall, but we will never be part of our Legion's history in the way our surviving Terran and Prosperan Brothers are. Surely even you can understand that?”

The barely concealed venom in his voice surprised Radjedef. Was he pushing things too far? “I'm afraid I don't,” he said, sticking to his plan. 

“The Rubric happened without us.”

“Without you,” Radjedef said. “I wouldn't have participated.”

“...I would have, but neither of us had the option. You may not care, but I was cheated out of something that matters to me.”

Radjedef didn't argue. He activated a piece, shooting one of Afshar's down. “I think I see,” he said. “Our Primarch was reforged without us, for example.”

“Through deceit and betrayal,” Afshar said. “Perhaps we could have helped stop it.”

Radjedef retorted, “Stop it? It needed to happen.”

They stared at each other. Time ticked on. Afshar moved a piece. Radjedef shot it too. 

Afshar’s hand moved towards the box to summon another piece, but he stopped. “Wait. I smell trickery. You shoot one. I summon one. I could try to end this loop by skipping three turns and summoning a Titan, but I know you will not play for any of those turns and will then summon one of your own,” he said. “In this position, neither of us can win. This is not fun. It is pointlessly gruelling.”

“I’m sorry you aren’t enjoying the game,” Radjedef said. “I suppose I’m just having an especially bad streak of luck today.”

“No,” Afshar insisted. “You never play like this. Even though you are not as skilled as I am, you always play to win. Stale positions like this one are anathema to victory. What are you doing?”

“I’m not doing anything on purpose.”

“You are!” Afshar walked around the board, looking at the game over Radjedef’s shoulder. “There is no way the game would be in this state if you were trying to win. You have another goal.” He jabbed Radjedef sharply in the shoulder. “You’re not trying to win. You’re trying to elongate the game!”

Radjedef leaned back to stare up at Afshar, his expression a perfect mask of indignation. “Are you serious?”

“Am I serious…? It’s obvious! You're trying to draw this game out so I don't leave in time to join Ahzek Ahriman. So I'll be stuck with you again.” Afshar was on a roll. The grievances poured from within like water from a hand pump. “I've been thinking about this all game, you know. Seeing what you might have done to us made me realise the darkness that lurks within your soul. Now, it occurs to me that you've had me in the palm of your hand for our whole lives, and I've been too blind to realise. I've been tied to you for more than ten thousand years, and what do I have to show for it? Nothing but regrets, broken principles and a black hole where love and respect once were. At least in the continuity where we died, I tried to follow my values and died while there was still love in my heart. In the other, as horrible as it was, I followed that love blindly and was happy even as I abandoned my values. Now, what is left to salvage? Why are we even playing?”

“Brother-”

Afshar leaned down, reaching over Radjedef. His voice was a forceful whisper in Radjedef's ear. “Do not try to sway me. I am done with games, and I am done with you.” His fingers found the edge of the table, slipping under it. 

Radjedef turned in his seat, trying to push Afshar away. “Kemal, don't-” 

Afshar overturned the gaming table. The pieces tumbled in a cacophony of heartbreak, and the board shattered in half with a deafening crack.

Radjedef gasped, staring over his shoulder at the wreckage. His eyes rose to meet Afshar's again, and all he saw looking back was fury. 

“You win,” Afshar hissed between gritted teeth. 

“Wait, Kemal. You don't under—”

“I'm leaving.” Afshar strode towards the door, but a flurry of motion and a familiar click made him pause. “Seriously?” he said, his back to Radjedef. 

“Seriously.” Radjedef's golden bolter was in his hands, sigils blazing. Despite the devastation on his face, Radjedef's hands did not shake. Afshar didn't have to look at him to know he would not miss. “Sit down, Kemal,” Radjedef said. “You are taking things too far. Let's talk about this.”

“I'm taking things too far!?” Afshar turned. He took a step towards Radjedef. Then another, and one more. Soon, he was standing in front of Radjedef, the tip of the bolter touching his chest plate. “You will regret pointing that at me,” he said, his voice calm. 

“I already do,” Radjedef replied. “But please understand. You are as dear to me as my very soul. It was not my intention to hurt you with this game. I only took my bolter out to convince you not to leave. Let us make peace. I knew something was wrong when I saw you in your armour, but I don't understand why you resent me so deeply now. What happened?” Still, the bolter did not move. 

“Since our timeline became clear and our Legion returned to the materium, I have had the time and capacity to reflect on our lives. It seems to me that I should have left you years ago, long before Prospero,” Afshar said. “Master Ohrmuzd was right to separate us. Together, we may put on a good show, but what have we done for our Legion? For our Cults and Orders? Ahzek Ahriman suffered betrayal after betrayal. I always believed in his philosophy, yet I never stood by him. And what about you? You always took the side of the Crimson King in our discussions, but did you ever seek him out? Have you ever truly served him? Is there anything you believe in?”

“I believe that we can survive anything together. Even at the end of the Universe, we will be side by side.”

“The end of the Universe? What are you talking about?” His voice grew more desperate. “We were almost lost in time, Setka. Now, we live again. I will not spend my new life as I spent my old one, waiting for everything to come together or fall apart around me. Though the Crimson King and Magister Ahriman stood together again briefly, our campaign against Fenris failed. We all returned to Sortiarius, but Ahriman will be leaving again. You must let me go with him this time. If it helps, let me be dead to you. Remember the rites we carried out in the Order of the Jackal? When I leave, perform them. I will not come to see you again.”

Finally, the bolter shook, scraping the front of his chestplate. “No,” Radjedef said. His voice rose to a scream. “No, no, no!” The bolter fell from his hands, clattering against the ground. Radjedef too fell to his knees. “This was not what I wanted!”

Afshar turned away, unlocking the helmet from his belt and placing it upon his head as he strode towards the door. 

+Stop!+

The word flowed through with such force that Afshar couldn't help but pause. The door was just out of reach. He could so easily have stepped through it. “What?” he said. 

+You bear the gift of foresight, but here is what I see: Master Ohrmuzd, our Cults, the Loyalist dogs, and time itself tried to separate us, yet we have always returned to each other. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Don't you see? We move apart and come together again. It is not my doing. We are inevitable. Please, do not throw our friendship away. Just give me one more minute to explain.+

Afshar took the final step towards the door. He touched the handle. Then, he turned to look back at Radjedef, who stared up at him from the floor, his face puffy and tear-stained. “Speak.”

“I'm sorry,” Radjedef choked. “I played off the board this time. I only meant to lean into my strengths and finally play to the best of my abilities. You may know every rule of Shatranj Alsaahir, but I know you better than you know the game. I have always had the psychic charisma to manipulate others. You know I have. I never honed that power before the Burning because I prioritised time spent with you. However, since our return, I have found a new home in the Cult of Manipulation and have finally been learning how to apply my potential. I wanted to show you how much I have learned since we returned, not to dissuade you from chasing the things you always wanted to do. I did plan to win by engineering your concession, but I went too far. Forgive me. We may not play for centuries, but I promise I will play more sportingly again next time. No social engineering. Just the rules we agree to and our clearer powers.”

“The goal of Shatranj Alsaahir-” Afshar began. Then, he stopped. “Ah.” He turned further back into the room. “I see.” He laughed a short, curt laugh. “You didn't mean to trap me here by delaying. It was part of your attempt to make me concede. What other things did you twist to your purpose?”

“When I saw you in your armour, I knew that you were coming to discuss something serious. Rather than making space for a discussion, I used that knowledge to my advantage. I encouraged an environment reminiscent of our game before the Burning, as well as playing in ways that I knew you would hate, such as stalling the game,” Radjedef replied. “On top of that, I reversed my charisma to heighten your annoyance with me.”

“I see. It stands to reason that making others detest you could be just as useful as its opposite. However, you hadn't accounted for my emotional state upon arrival, had you?”

“No. I didn't expect you to be quite so stressed already.”

“I was dreading saying goodbye,” Afshar said. As Radjedef hung his head, blinking away tears, he continued, “Your reversed charisma is powerful, isn't it? I started to believe the worst of you. Even now, I am still upset.”

“I stopped empowering my charisma a while ago,” Radjedef said. “Some of your upset is genuine.”

Afshar sighed. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“You're still upset over the past that did not happen, right?” Radjedef guessed. “You know which one. The one where I-”

Afshar lifted a hand, and he fell silent. “Please do not speak of that again,” he said. “I have worked through a lot of my misplaced resentment and have no wish to revisit that moment. Frankly, I'm amazed you are not more upset about the one where my desire for us to fight side by side led to your death.”

“You rejected an honourable end so I could live. What is there to be upset about?”

“I almost let it stand.”

“But you didn't,” Radjedef said. “Just as I did not let the other stand. The way I see it, we both want the same thing, Kemal. Even if we are parted, we want to live in the hope of seeing each other again more than we want to die together. That is why we pushed through.” 

As Afshar looked down at him, his distaste for Radjedef's sorcerous markings was gone. He saw only the man who had given him strength when he was weak, who had lost over and over without showing a single shred of resentment, who in every possible timeline had faced down an interrupting Space Wolf while armed only with a ritual schema. If he had not already put on his helmet, he would have found it very hard not to run to Radjedef and pull him into his arms. Instead, he changed the topic. “There is one last thing I am upset about,” he said, willing his voice to a false evenness. “Yours was a horrible, brilliant strategy. Utterly unfair. And if my memory serves me, didn't you promise never to use that type of strategy against me?”

“No, I just said I wouldn't do it for a long time.”

“Ah. Well, ten thousand years does seem to fit the bill.” He paused. “You really were not trying to delay me to keep me here?”

“A small part of me wanted to,” Radjedef admitted. “I figured that I probably could. But it wouldn't have been right to do so. I would have conceded the game before that, and trusted that the paths of fate would bring you back to me someday.”

“Well, then. Congratulations on a well-deserved win.”

Radjedef stood up, blinking back tears. “Thank you,” he murmured. Then, he waved Afshar away. “Go. Your Ahriman awaits.”

“Perhaps one more game? A quick one?”

Radjedef let out a shaky laugh. “One more battle, one more second together, one more game…” He wiped his eyes on his dangling sleeves, then stepped closer to Afshar, squaring his shoulders as if he were issuing a challenge. Though a pattern of little blue tearlike feathers had taken shape under his eyes, the slightest smile graced his lips. “Go, Kemal. Go with my love and my blessings, and come back when you're ready to lose again.”

“Fighting words,” Afshar said. His voice, coming from inside his helmet, was hoarse with emotion. He reached towards Radjedef, stroking his cheek lightly with bare fingers. “We'll see about that.” 

Then, before he could change his mind, he turned away, striding down the glittering corridors of Radjedef's tower and out into Sortiarius's purple night, his gauntlet still mag-locked to his belt.

From far above, Radjedef watched through a window. When he couldn't see Afshar any longer, he turned away and sank down on a heavily embroidered couch. Lying on his back, he stared at the shifting holographic map of the galaxy projected onto his ceiling. A hand on his cheek traced where Afshar had touched him, and the pattern of Afshar’s fingerprints rose in response, hidden within eyelike peacock feathers. “I won,” he murmured, savouring the unfamiliar words. “I. Won.”