Thus, it had come down to this: Victory or death. Cyrus looked across the corpses of his fallen brothers. His failure had meant their deaths. The guilt hung heavy upon Cyrus' mind.
With what little strength he had left, the mighty Astartes hefted to his feet. He removed his damaged helmet and tossed it to the side, drawing the attention of the Cultists sweeping the halls.
"Whilst I draw breath, I stand," he said, his raspy voice a testament to the injury he had sustained. Blood poured from the corner of his mouth and what remained of his eye. The cultists entered, one firing his Autogun and the other brandishing a crude saber. Cyrus raised his Bolter level with the head of the sword-wielding Heretic and pulled the trigger. The self-propelled Bolt flew through the air on a contrail of fire, embedding itself in the Cultist's forehead and detonating within, causing a geyser of blood and viscera to spray out.
"Whilst I stand, I fight," he continued, and shifted his focus to the one with the Autogun. Bullets from the weapon hammered his armour, some piercing and embedding into Cyrus' skin. He winced slightly as his system failed to numb the pain. He fired another Bolt at the shooter. He met the same fate as his companion.
As he struggled to his feet, he noticed a figure in the doorway. Large, foreboding. The figure made Cyrus' blood boil with terrible fury. There stood a Chaos Terminator. The sheer idea of something as holy as Terminator Armour being used by a Heretic and a Traitor was sheer mockery of the Imperium.
"Whilst I fight," he said at last as he prepared to attack with his sword. "I prevail!" He charged the Terminator.
Vroom.
Bang.
Boom.
Both Heretic and Astartes fell. The Terminator, his head cleanly severed. Cyrus, hand clutched to his gut, vision fading.
"I know no fear," he rasped out, as the last vestiges of consciousness left his soul, and he faded into rest. After all, Brother-Sergeant Cyrus was very, very tired.
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