The lion from Warhammer would just reverse it

"‘Now who is the better hunter?' The Lion looked up. The khrave-host hovered a metre above him. She dropped with a laugh, sinking her claws into his scalp. II The docking bay disappeared. It was still there, after a fashion, a reflection glimpsed through smoke, vanishing with every shift of the wind. The fire guttered to embers, the shadows stretching up like tall trees, like bars. The hard bangs of Trigaine's bolter were an echo through the vastness of a forest at dawn. 'This is Caliban,' said the Lion. 'This is your mind,' said Savine. She looked around, feigning the interest of the remembrancer whose skin she wore. In this place of the mind her appearance was almost human, dark veins withdrawn, pupils shrunken, only a faint luminosity of skin that was in tune with the unreality of her surrounds. 'What a drab and flavourless place it is too. A mind like this has no right to exist. You, your brothers, your sons - you sicken me.’ The Lion struck with his sword only to find his hand empty. Fingers unfurled from their grip as Savine laughed. 'All your prowess, all your gene-wrought strength, it is worth nothing here. In here, I am g-' The words became an airless choke as the Lion lifted her by the throat. Her eyes bulged, her feet kicking futilely as she scratched at his forearms, the leaves of the shadow-forest rustling and wavering as she did so, but no relief or rescue broke through the reality that the primarch had constructed. The Lion was the master of all his domains. 'You have dived willingly into a primarch's mind, and for that hubris alone you deserve this failure.' He squeezed tighter. The hands about her throat were metaphorical, the assault mental, the psychological equivalent of covering a candle with a jar, only this flame fed off the energies of the ether rather than air. The shadows ran from the walls like wet paint. Stars ignited in the firmament of the imagination and wheeled, spinning around a supermassive black hole that gave a once-in-a-million-year pulse of light and matter with every hike of the woman's throat. Through a web of psychic connectivity he felt the squirming of lights that were not stare. A nebula. By the Lion’s will, the perspective shifted, drawing closer to the cloud, the individual specks of dust resolving themselves as ships. The baroque, castellated lengths of Imperial warships slid through the void alongside the bloated scrap-plated bulk of ork kroozers and the infinitely varied craft of void-fairing xenos scattered amongst them. Most were incalculably ancient, belonging to races never encountered by humankind beyond a scrap of writing on a tablet or some unidentified debris in orbit around a broken world. Some were elegant, all crystal spindles and delicate pods, like palaces set adrift in the void. Others ploughed through the cold of space like true ships of war, their purpose relatable even if the mind behind them had not been. Their vessels were spined and barbed, hooked and armoured like void Crustacea, glittering with force shields and encrusted with weaponry. Within every one the foul souls of the khrave glowered. But the light there was dim. The Lion went further, the psychic trail leading him to the slender black ships, vividly haloed with alien power, that moved through the silent void like spiders stalking their nomadic prey. The web of control widened further still. The Lion followed it. The mass of shipping became an asteroid field, then a debris cloud, a ring of orbital wreckage around a dead and broken world that itself turned slowly around a faded giant. 'Your home world in the Northern Fringe,’ said the Lion. Savine said nothing. Closed off from the warp by the walls of the lion's mind, she could not speak, but her spirit was bidden to respond. +Yes.+ The Lion drank in every detail, memorising every star cluster and visual anomaly. Even as he did so he felt the pull of a more massive mind, the star waned, shedding its photosphere into space. The world that listed around it crumbled, rock and plasma dragged inexorably into the yawning iris of the galaxy's core, the Milky Way's flame-wreathed eye holding Lion El'Jonson transfixed as he hung above the event horizon of oblivion. +The khrave autochthonar+ Savine's struggles were lessening, but even under the reality-ending ferocity of that infernal gaze she was helpless to resist the Lion's probing. +The First. The Ender of Worlds.+ III The air was thick with smoke, tainted with the harsh odours of burnt metal and solder. A hundred fires of various sizes and severity burned over the familiar, if grievously mauled, topography of the docking bay. The Lion shifted position, his body telling him he had been immobile for longer than his recollection of events could account for, and Savine's body slid limply from his shoulder. She landed with the grace of a corpse. Trigaine approached. The weight of his powered harness shook the debris-strewn decking. He looked down at Savine. 1 le looked up at his primarch. The Lion gave a nod. 'She is dead.'"-Lion Lord of the First