This is an above competent short story first published in the Age of Darkness anthology and later in the larger short story and audio drama collection, Lupercal's War. It suffers greatly from comparison to the tales that came before it in the main novel series, Prospero Burns, The First Heretic, and A Thousand Sons (Nemesis not so much) and other surrounding media, After Desh'ea, Butcher's Nails, and Kharn: The Eightfold Path. There is an established weight to this moment in time and the characters in it that bring additional scrutiny that, sadly, it does not measure up to. This is only compacted by a truly significant moment that is not rendered with the impact it deserves.

Prospero has burned. Magnus and his remaining sons have fled. The Sisters of Silence and Custodes are on their way back to Terra. The Wolves of Fenris slink into the shadows with bloody maws, nursing the nihilistic trauma from their duty as the executioners of their brothers. A squad of the Thousand Sons, returns to the ashes of their world with no knowledge of the perfidy that fractures the galaxy. Their leader discovers an unexpected hound digging among the ruins of this world devoured by war. When their paths cross, their fates are sealed.

I'm guessing if you have read/ listened to this you are familiar with the ludicrous Council of Nikea (allusions with one letter different? Just do it) and the tragedy of Magnus. That is unless you followed the unfathomable directions of the Lupercal's War collection: Start Here. In a nutshell, the Emperor, one of the most powerful psykers ever to exist ever, said, "no more space wizards!", whistling, looking coy, and winking at his platonic life parter, who just happens to be another of the most powerful celestial sorcerers of all time. Magnus did a whizzbang to get to Terra at gods speed when he found out Horus was doing a Heresy, totally wrecking the shit out of his dad's mancave in the process. To teach his wayward son a lesson he sent his were-executioners, quiet daughters, and Oscar trophies to destroy his son's world, slaughter all his sons (their cousins), and murder his boy.

All that literally just happened just before this story takes place, as well as us having spent some time with Angron, reigning champion of tragic parenting and valedictorian of the school of hard knocks. He is a precious, traumatised, angry baby, and his sons, the newly christened World Eaters represented by Khârn, the charming, charismatic, and loving member of a polycule with a Bearer of the Word, Argal Tal, and the Daemon who possesses him (collectively known as Khârgal Tal). Up until this point Khârn has the voice of a Russian Daemon of whiskey and lust (this might only be relevant to me). The important thing is the World Eaters and their Primarch are kicked puppies/ Warhounds with big teeth, Khârn is very cool, and we are all super smart because we know about a certain special character that has existed in Warhammer 40K for a very long time...

With everything more interesting than this story relayed and my disappointment delayed enough, the out of the loop Thousand Sons come back to a World Eater welcome and their leader has a tete-a-tete with Khârn. That's it. A little bit of action. Some underwhelming dialogue and exposition. What should have been a moment where I cried at other possibilities that fate is to cruel to allow to happen, so they must surely live on in fanfic. And, far and above the greatest atrocity committed by this story, and something that actually cannot be blamed on Wraight at all, Jonathan Banks didn't get the brushed cotton and bourbon sex voice memo for Khârn. I'll never be happy again.

Obviously, this is all a little hyperbole and fangirling because I have to cope with my disappointment and my own Butcher's Nails of AuDHD. Wraight does a decent job and Banks is a brilliant narrator when he is not burying a chainglaive in my heart. This is an almost impossible moment to get right, not least of which because of the expectations and established emotional tone, not to mention the many, many different writers and performers who have left their own individual marks on the narrative leading up to this.

Honestly, if I wasn't so heartbroken and constantly re-evaluating the grading on a curve I personally feel necessary for works from the Black Library, simply because the quality vacillates so wildly, there may have been a fate where I gave this a very generous 4/5. But self-pity causes the Nails to sing like the Redeemer in a bag of cats and so a respectful and earned 3/5 it is.

Next up in Lupercal's War is Little Horus by Dan Abnett featuring the second pretending to be part of a sculpture play of this collection, which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice. Right? ( )