the world that doesn't need us

[primarchy]

[ There's very little light left in the world; that's what happens when the angelic host falls, when even the heir to the supreme primarch is half corrupted, half fallen himself. When all the primal beasts who were meant to oversee the balance of the elements have forgotten their purpose and lost themselves to the addictive thrill of battle, there's no hope for balance, no hope for harmony or peace.

Especially not when Lucifer himself stands at the front of the army of fallen angels, his black wings spread.

Lucifer, whose name has been whispered across the sky: feral, wild, monster, nothing more than a beast. He came back, but he came back wrong.

There's barely a trace of the serene arbiter who once watched over the harmony of the skies. Not in the wicked curve of his mouth, not in the blood dripping from his sword, not in the clinging, dark leather of his armor. The only light left in him is in the half-mad glint in his eyes, battle-lust shining bright as he turns to Sandalphon.

Sandalphon, who's come to face the Fallen host. Sandalphon, who still carries light around him, who still hasn't entirely fallen. Sandalphon, who would stand against Lucifer and his hoard.

Lucifer raises his hand, waving the other angels back. He lands, boots sinking into the blood-soaked earth, his sword ready in his hand as he approaches Sandalphon.

And sinks to one knee, the sword dropped to the muddy ground as he wraps one hand around Sandalphon's thigh. As he tilts his head back, smiling up at Sandalphon radiantly, worshipfully, breathing out: ]

Sandalphon. You've come.