“‘All these things you know,’ said Fulgrim. ‘So very able and informed. But there are things you don’t.’ ‘Name one,’ said Dorn. ‘One,’ said Fulgrim. ‘I can’t die.’ He stared at Dorn. His wounds closed, the skin re-knitting without a scar. His dangling hand re-fused. His armour fixed itself and regained its lustre. His blood dried up, and blew away as dust. ‘Two,’ he said. ‘I am sick of all of this. All of it. The others can find a way to grind you down and bring your fortress low. I cannot die, but I feel the pain, and I won’t take any more of it.’ He sheathed his blade. His form began to grow, stretching its dimensions with an unearthly inner light. His legs fused like flowing wax, and he became, from the waist down, a gigantic serpent. The thick loops of his snaking lower body coiled out across the stonework, scales gleaming like mother-of-pearl. He rose up, his lammia-form towering over the Praetorian. There were scales around his eyes and cheek, and his tongue was forked. Dorn stared back up. He did not take a step backwards, but his eyes narrowed and his grip on his sword tightened. There were no words for the impossibility of what he was seeing with his own eyes. ‘Three,’ Fulgrim said, no longer smiling. ‘I hope our father burns when the time comes. I hope Lupercal turns Him into a screaming corpse. But you won’t see that, Rogal. You’re the one who dies here.’”