Sanakhet concentrated. The will of the berserker marine was strong, but even still it was no match for the sorcerer's focused power. What was difficult was the finesse. Wrathfully blowing apart enemies was a sloppy use of raw magic, wasteful, and dangerous. Everything a sorcerer wanted to do had to be mentally compelled, power drawn from the ether and then restrained before it could be released effectively. The true measure of power was not in volume, but in degree of control. 

Instantly, he could see the magic had found its mark, and the Khornate began to show signs of struggle. The beast roared, and Sanakhet felt the touch of the enemy god within him, resisting. Still, his magic would not fail. Guroth was doomed.

“Cousins of Fulgrim!”

The voice carried across the field further and louder than its material counterpart soundwaves could have reached the Thousand Son's ears. An instant premonition, like a cattle prod to the chest, both paralyzed and unparalyzed him simultaneously with its dire warning: Sanakhet was about to die. 

Had Magnus and Lorgar never once been friends? No one here could imagine such a thing, and yet it had been so. A screaming fireball of brilliant, glowing death smashed a direct hit against the astartes where he stood, the light of the explosion blinding all to the instant and certain obliteration of the figure inside of it. The brilliance of the plasma blast in the instant that it landed obscured the details of liquefied armor splashing apart over disintegrating, once-immortal flesh beneath. Laughable was the idea that warp powers could be used to regenerate both hearts. Not now. Not while he was dead. 

"Kill the son of Magnus!"

Seconds passing were an eternity in the warp. Time was meaningless in this instant of realization that Sanakhet endured as the blast came to inevitably collide with his physical body. One thing rose to his mind above all others, his purpose. He remembered what he had come here for, what he had to do, and why he could not allow failure. His father, Ahriman, and his scattered, abused and wayward brethren needed him to succeed. 

Ever since his surrender to the Lord of Change, Magnus had been under the constant vigil of Tzeentch's infinite unblinking eyes, under an inescapable watch for ten-thousand years. How does one subvert against the master of subversion, the changer of ways, the weaver of threads, and the lord of fate? The interest must fade, and the vigil must waiver. Magnus had to escape Tzeentch's attention, if even for a split second. For many millennia, the Red King holed up in his lair atop the obsidian spire, seemingly quiet while Ahriman rampaged across the galaxy in his exile drawing all the attention, the TRUE champion of his denied patron god. Only now, with the cover of a second assault on Fenris, could any such impossible plan be enacted: one planet to be traded for another between the realms, one secret dark enough to hide the future from the endless eyes of fate itself...

The flash of blue fire engulfed its target, dropping it to the ground. Blue flames flickered as the plasma vaporized the physical matter around it. As quickly as is came, the explosive light dimmed to reveal Sanakhet, still alive and on his hands and knees. A desperate kine shield just large enough to cover him surrounded his belittled physical form. The golden trim on his armor was blackened, and his cloak flickered with small orange flames around its edges, but other than that, he was undamaged. The shield had manifested by will alone in an instant, but at a cost. The fact that he had survived was unbelievable. Anyone else would have died, and now, everyone else was going to. 

Planting a foot solidly in front of himself, Sanakhet stood up in defiance of death. Rising like a black knight, the sight of him inspired the thought that perhaps declaring him the enemy might have been a bad idea.