It had been a restless drift-cycle aboard the Nightfall, the Night Lords’ great flagship, entombed in silence but for the pulse of the Geller field and the distant creak of hullbone. The chamber of Kassandra Kurze, sealed by blackened adamantium and crimson rites, was still — until the silence ruptured.

A scream tore through the walls like glass shattering in water. The cry in terror and pain.

Chains snapped from the ceiling as the Night Hauntress woke, lungs heaving, gauntlet-claws scratching at the floor. She had seen it again — the end of all light, of all law, voices from the warp laughing while the galaxy burned. The vision that kept torturing her, driving her to insanity.

The door hissed open hesitantly. A mortal lieutenant, barely older than a cadet, stepped into the cold gloom, sweat already forming at his brow, having been the unfortunate to have to check in on the Primarch. He paused at the threshold.

She stood barefoot in the middle of the floor, shadowed hair tangled, a trickle of dark blood at her lip from where she'd bitten it in sleep. Her voice was quiet, but commanding.

"I am fine. Leave."