Any normal person would only feel two things toward Amon: horror and disgust. After the burning of Prospero and the shameful retreat, something inside the Space Marine shattered. He could no longer—and did not want to—defend humanity.
"People are unworthy of being fought for, unworthy of bloodshed," Amon decided. "People are blind and narrow-minded. They hate the exceptional, fear knowledge and everything they cannot comprehend with their pitiful minds. And the result? We have been declared outcasts. We have been defeated. Crushed by brute force. But that is the natural course of events, for power rules the galaxy. The weak perish, the strong rise!"
Since then, Amon had devoted himself to finding what would elevate him above others and allow him to take revenge on the Wolf Legion.
He did not participate in Horus's great crusade, nor did he fight on the blood-soaked walls of the Emperor's palace, deeming that war would not bring him any closer to his ultimate goal. Instead, the Space Marine sought ancient manuscripts and grimoires on long-forgotten worlds. Unfortunately, precious knowledge slipped through his fingers like sand.
Some writings contained the incoherent ravings of long-dead false prophets, others offered nothing he did not already know, and still others were hopelessly damaged. Amon was on the verge of despair, wondering if he had made a mistake by deserting the War Master's army. But fortune finally smiled upon him on Ormund.
In the dead of night, in a half-ruined temple standing alone in the wild steppes, Amon discovered a detailed prayer to one who could rule destiny: "The Great Architect, the Thousand-faced Prince, the Lord of Magic."
Triumphant, the Space Marine immediately began reciting the spell inscribed on the walls. He shouted words unlike anything that had ever existed in human speech, sometimes raising his voice to a shriek, other times growling low. Black lines on the stone slabs formed into fragments of spider webs.
Hideous symbols began to dance, burning with sorcerous fire. The wind tore away the remaining pieces of the roof. The temple trembled with forbidden magic, and images flashed through Amon's mind, accompanied by promises from the Dark God.
"You will become famous..."
A flash.
His name thundered across the galaxy. Countless pilgrims flocked to catch a glimpse of him. He preached from towering pulpits. He condemned and enlightened. Crowds eagerly devoured every word he spoke, words that carried truth and enlightenment.
Exalted fanatics convulsed in fits as he walked down wide boulevards, accompanied by a grand procession of allies and bodyguards. The filthy Fenris was swept away by an army of cultists.
"You will gain power..."
A flash.
He stood atop a tower of pure gold and precious gems. Below, in silent reverence, stretched an army the likes of which history had never seen. Rows of mighty warriors stretched to the horizon, ready to die and kill at his command, while the sun was blotted out by warships. Fenris had not lasted long, and the Wolves had perished in a brutal war.
"You will gain knowledge..."
A flash.
In an instant, the secrets of the universe were laid bare before him. He understood the metaphysics of the ocean's tide and the birth of new stars. He was privy to every dream and hope of humanity. The philosophy and culture of xenos became a logical and coherent picture. He challenged a Primarch and defeated him with magic summoned by the snap of a finger.
Amon had become so powerful and wise that his former brothers fought savage battles for the right to touch his wisdom. Fenris burned in the warp's sea, and its name was forgotten.
"Enough!" the Space Marine said. His head throbbed with pain, but a sinister joy burned in his heart.
"You will have all of this... if you become a servant... Will you serve?"
For a moment, Amon hesitated, and then, deliberately, he gave his answer:
"The Emperor rejected us. He made us sacrifice everything and gave us nothing in return. He destroyed our world. So let the galaxy burn! Death to the false Emperor! I agree!"
In that moment, a bolt of lightning split the darkened sky, striking the base of the temple. The stonework cracked and collapsed, sending up clouds of dust, and the Space Marine lost consciousness.
When the next morning came, Amon awoke. He left Ormund, knowing exactly what he needed to do.
At first, the Space Marine noticed no changes within himself. But the transformations brought by the god he had dared to swear to did not take long to manifest. Once a noble knight, a keeper of the sacred secrets of Tizca, the son of the wisest of Primarchs, he soon became a parody of his former self.
The selfless thirst for knowledge was replaced by a hunger for power. Concepts of honor and loyalty became twisted beyond recognition. Every contract, every oath carried a hidden trap and inevitable betrayal. Friendship and brotherhood were forgotten.
Now, when he encountered other sorcerers of the legion, Amon felt only contempt—when his former comrade was weaker—or burning envy, if they surpassed him in any way.
His once-open and direct gaze had become a shifty, darting glance. His once-wise and honest face had twisted into a malicious, sickly-sweet grin.
Moreover, he learned many truths darker than night. The sorcerer clearly understood what awaited any being after death, especially a psyker.
The warp teemed with savage predators for whom humans were merely food. Amon had often watched them feast in the reflections of wars and disasters, tearing screaming souls apart with their claws.
The Space Marine found bitter irony in humanity's religions, which divided the immaterial realm into heavens for the righteous and hell for sinners. In one thing, they were right—death did not mean the end. The afterlife existed, but only in one form. It was Hell. Regardless of their actions in life, all were destined for the same fate—to become food for the Neverborn.
The sorcerer resolved to avoid death at all costs and not engage in meaningless battles, instead relying on cunning and deceit. Now every word from Amon's mouth carried the poisonous seeds of lies, and every action was part of endless intrigues and elaborate plans for personal ascension.
***
Centuries passed. The Imperium survived a second civil war and was once again united by the Crusade of Macharius. New Space Marine chapters were born, while the old legions faded into oblivion, their names erased from humanity's memory. But for the sorcerer, time flowed differently. Only eighteen years had passed since his fall.
***
Amon first revealed himself on Justus Ultra. He tricked his way into the trust of the local planetary governor and became his close advisor. It was he who sabotaged investigations into rumors of cultists, and when the planet was overrun by a frenzied horde of mutants and heretics, he thwarted the mobilization of the defense forces. Then he sold out the cult, this time to demons, securing numerous pledges of loyalty from them.
A few years later, Amon visited Thunderis, the capital of Hive World Ghost-2, where he summoned a daemon of Slaanesh. The sorcerer placed its bound body into the central ventilation system and, with the help of magic, enhanced the release of pheromones.
Soon, imperial citizens began suffering from hallucinations and nightmares so real they caused actual wounds. Within one long night, the entire hive's population perished, pursued by fears known only to them. As he walked toward his shuttle through deserted streets, Amon smiled, already planning his next raid in the name of the Architect of Fate.
After a year of intricate maneuvers, the sorcerer became the Keeper of the Temple of Knowledge on Irida. For months, he worked tirelessly, embedding unholy signs into data slates and scrolls. The plan succeeded. The sorcery that tainted every book and slate on Irida led to a true orgy of suicides, madness, and, eventually, a senseless civil war.
The conflict quickly escalated into a bloodbath, claiming millions of lives. By the time the sluggish bureaucratic machine sent the Imperial Guard to the planet, most cities had been destroyed, and the survivors had become savage beasts. As he left Irida, Amon laughed, remembering how insignificant a push it had taken to plunge society into the flames of mutual destruction.
He went on to ravage several more worlds. Wherever the former Space Marine passed, only blood-soaked ruins remained in his wake.
***
Thanks to a series of victories and successes, Amon earned a certain degree of fame in the Eye of Terror. However, among traitors, this brought more problems than advantages. Many minor daemons and warlords would have gladly rid themselves of him forever. But Amon always stayed one step ahead.
He skillfully navigated the interests and conflicts of numerous factions, pitting them against each other or uniting them in short-lived alliances. Following the philosophy of his patron, the sorcerer preferred to have most of the dirty work done by others, never putting his own skin at risk.
The Many-faced God watched his new toy with pleasure. He generously bestowed gifts and blessings upon the sorcerer. Blue feathers grew on Amon's shoulders and chest. After Thunderis, a third eye opened in his forehead, and his victories in the Avantis sector were marked by a forked, serpentine tongue.
This deeply troubled Amon. Although the traitor took pride in Tzeentch's marks, he would do well to slow down and take a break. Amon had seen many promising champions and lords rise faster than their will could handle.
Gaining too many mutations, they would eventually turn into Chaos spawn or dissolve into a babbling mass of biomass. Not wanting a similar fate for himself, Amon decided to lay low and hide out on the lifeless moon in the Tanara system, where his operational base was located.
However, when the sorcerer's ship, the Dark Truth, finally exited the warp, it turned out he was already being awaited.