The echoes of his words still hung heavy in the air, a defiant echo against the relentless tide of Chaos. Sanguinius stood atop the ramparts, his golden armor gleaming in the dim light filtering through the smoke-filled sky. His gaze swept across the battlefield, a sea of crimson and steel where the fate of humanity hung in the balance.

The Emperor's palace loomed in the distance, a fortress under siege, its walls scarred by the relentless assault of the traitor legions. Sanguinius knew that this was their last stand, a desperate gamble against overwhelming odds. Yet, in the hearts of his brothers, a flicker of hope remained, kindled by the fiery words he had just spoken.

As he turned to leave, a figure emerged from the shadows, a cloaked figure that moved with an eerie grace. Sanguinius paused, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword.