Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cover Image by Hisao on Twitter: https://twitter.com/AZ_Ciam?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Eauthor

Incarnate Gods

Isha - Goddess of Life, Mother of the Eldar, Everqueen. Currently a refugee on Terra, having made an agreement with the Emperor of Mankind to provide him with her knowledge and tools in exchange for his protection.

The Emperor of Mankind - God of the Dead, Guardian of Souls and Lord of Terra. The Emperor has gone by many names over the ages, though the one he prefers most yet shares rarely is simply George. Ruthless warlord, brilliant scientist and currently the strongest living god opposed to Chaos, the Emperor intends to see humanity reunited and ascendant by any means necessary.

The Imperium of Man

Horus Lupercal - First found of the Primarchs, the genetically engineered twenty clone-sons of the Emperor. Despite his many gifts, currently a precocious child and the apple of his father's eye.

Malcador the Sigillite - The Emperor's right-hand and spymaster, who tends to the tedious but necessary groundwork needed to build an empire while the Emperor fixes his eyes on greater matters.

Amar Astarte - A gifted genewright who was recruited during the early days of the Imperium. Since then, she has worked her way up the ranks to becoming the Director of the Imperial Biotechnical Division.

Ezekiel Sedayne - A proud, prickly and ambitious scientist who is part of the Biotechnical Division.

Captain General Constantin Valdor - The first and oldest of the Emperor's Custodes, as well as their leader.

Shield Captain Juno Moneta - Isha's chief bodyguard.

Jenetia Krole - Commander of the Order of the Silent Sisters. A blank of incredible power who was saved from a life of unimaginable solitude by the Emperor, she is fiercely loyal to him, and foremost among his students in the art of hunting daemons and sorcerers.

Ushotan - Legate of the Fourth Thunder Warriors Legion. Currently with a new lease on life ever since he was healed and restored to sanity thanks to Isha's work.

Craftworld Iyanden

Mehlendri Silversoul - Fleetmaster of Iyanden. Mehlendri grew weary of the Aeldari Dominion's indolence and tedium long ago, but chose to venture out among the stars as an explorer and trader rather than join the pleasure cults. Now, she stands as the leader one of the last colonies of sane Eldar left.

Phoenix Dreamspinner - An ancient priest of Asuryan who cast aside his birth name long ago, and helped arrange the exodus of Eldar from the Dominon onto Iyanden during the last days before the Fall.

Invaril Brightshard: A close friend of Mehlendri's, a brilliant bonesinger and sorcerer currently trying to rework the warpcraft of the Eldar in the aftermath of the Fall.

Autarch Sernalla: The head of Iyanden's military. A relatively new role and one that Sernalla has held only for a few centuries, but she is nevertheless a diligent and skilled general.

Lord Cadaith: One of the Eldar who styled themselves as aristocrats and play an eternal game of thrones in order to lighten the ennui of the ages, Cadaith is nonetheless an honorable man dedicated to protecting his people despite his eccentricities.

Imladrik - One of the caretakers assigned to oversee the communal care and upbringing of Eldar children on Iyanden.

Mars

Kelbor Hal - Fabricator-General of the Mechanicum. Young by the standards of Tech-Priests, Kelbor-Hal's ascension is almost unprecedented, and a clear sign of his brilliance and ability. But Kelbor-Hal is not satisfied with merely Mars, and has ambitions of a Martian empire that spans the entire galaxy.

Zagreus Kane - Fabricator Locum of the Mechanicum, Kelbor-Hal's right-hand hand and oldest friend.

Luna

Heliosa-54: High Matriarch of the Selenar Cults, who has achieved a so-called form of immortality through cloning. It is unclear how much the current Heliosa has in common with the original, but what is clear is that she is proud, ambitious and clever.

Chapter Text

Isha loathed Mars the moment she laid eyes on it.

The Aetos Dios descended through toxic clouds of pollution that choked the atmosphere, so thick that mortal eyes could not see through them. 

The surface was no better, with hardly any trace of life. As the Emperor’s vessel flew downwards, burning with golden light, Isha extended her senses, and all she could see was endless stretches of factories with sky-high iron towers releasing smoke into the air, and rad-scorched wastelands that had not yet begun to recover from the wars that had destroyed them.

But that wasn’t it. Isha had seen broken worlds like this many times prior. Terra and Cthonia had hardly been in any better a state before she had begun her work.

And in the aftermath of the War in Heaven, she had seen far, far worse. She and her family had knitted broken worlds back together, mended shattered stars and healed wounds in the fabric of reality, dispelling warp storms that threatened to consume entire constellations. 

No, the state of the environment of Mars was regrettable, but ultimately, it was something to be healed, not to be despised.

What was truly repulsive was the way the planet stank of suffering. Isha could feel the souls of a million million people trapped in bondage and suffering. Menials and thralls were made into servitors and even if not, still condemned to a life of horrific, grinding slavery.

Countless innocent souls had died here, toiling away in those factories, torn apart to sate the curiosity of their masters, fed to cruel machines on a mere whim. And over a thousand years, the echoes of their misery and death, of their despair and unanswered prayers for salvation, had sunk into the very bedrock of this planet, as much a part of Mars as the rust-red sands.

It was nothing Isha had not seen before. She had seen it during the War, in the lab-worlds of the Old Ones where they built and refined their weapons. On the so-called farms of the C’tan where they had bred ‘livestock’: primitive races to sate their endless hunger for souls.

From her children, as their cruelty and arrogance consumed them, as they forgot their duty as guardians and became the very monsters that they had once shielded the galaxy from.

It still sickened her to the core.

The Queen of the Fey strained against her bonds, howling for vengeance . She screamed for a new Wild Hunt, to carve a bloody path across this world, to free the slaves of their torment and to let them enact revenge upon their twisted tormentors. To let nature reclaim this world from the machinations of mortal men, and to hang the skulls of the slavers from the trees as a reminder to those who would dare to commit such atrocities.

The Healer pushed her down despite her anger and fury, casting a glance at the golden-armoured Emperor, his arms clasped behind his back and eyes closed as he waited for them to arrive. She could feel him trying to divine the future, trying to see a way forward despite the many obstacles to his vision.

Not yet. Isha told herself. Not yet.

Returning her attention to the planet below, Isha’s sight drifted to a dark region of the world, devoid of life, untamed even by the Mechanicum.

Mankind called it the Noctis Labyrinth .

It was an appropriate name. Even to Isha’s divine gaze, the region was cold and dark, foreboding to all those who dared enter.

And deep within, she could see the silver god-shard, bound in chains of golden light. It was asleep…but what was sleep to a god? It stirred as her gaze focused on it, but the chains held it tight, constraining the endless hunger and malice contained within.

It was only a shadow of what it had been, but even a shadow could be dangerous. Isha remembered all too well the horrors that the thing imprisoned on Mars had unleashed when it had sought to breach the timelock containing the War in Heaven, of the nightmares that had flooded into both reality and unreality as time bent and threatened to break.

If only there was a way to destroy it . But through The War, they had never found a way, and how the Necrons had done it remained a mystery.

Pure physical force was not enough, that much Isha knew. Or even the raw might of the Immaterium. Her father had tried, both during the First War and then on the very creature imprisoned below Mars, when they had defeated it to prevent it from rewriting history. And as much as she despised him, Isha would be the first to concede that there were precious few beings in the galaxy capable of matching Khaine’s might at his peak.

But the Yngir were part of the very fabric of reality, and their essence was not so easily torn. The vessels that the Necrontyr had built for them could be broken, yes. Isha had done it herself. But in the end, those were merely vessels. The Yngir needed them, yes, but damaging vessels was still not enough to rend their essence.

Even Vaul had never found a way to replicate the god-breaking weapons of the Necrontyr, and in the end, had settled for simply imprisoning the Dragon’s shard here on Mars.

The Emperor’s presence nudged her own gently but pointedly, a reminder to not accidentally awaken the monster from its slumber.

Isha relented, turning her gaze away from the Labyrinth of Night, feeling the Dragon subside as she did so, though its sleep remained uneasy. Even if she was not looking directly at it, it could undoubtedly feel the presence of herself and the Emperor.

But the Dragon was not why they were here.

That would be the great mountain city they were descending towards.

Olympus Mons , the Emperor had told her it was called. It was the name of the home of the gods from one of mankind’s now long-forgotten religions, but the name endured. 

It was, admittedly, impressive. The entire mountain had become the beating heart of Mars, an industrial centre capable of fueling interstellar empires, and an archive containing some of the most dangerous knowledge within Sol. Tens of millions of souls resided in the tunnels and the structures carved into the flesh of the mountain, the sparks that were their souls glowing like embers within the great forge that was their home.

It reminded her of Vaul’s Temple Worlds. In some ways, of how they had been and how her brother had intended them, great places of learning, a place to share knowledge and build better futures.

But mostly in what they had become during the Age of the Dominion, engines of misery and suffering, where knowledge was hoarded, where all caution and compassion were discarded in the name of so-called “progress”.

Sometimes, it truly felt as if the universe was making some kind of cosmic joke at her expense with all the parallels between mankind and her children. It was a self-centered thing to think, Isha was not egotistical enough to truly believe it, but it was hard to ignore the feeling.

“Remember the plan,” The Emperor told her, opening his eyes and stepping forward to stand next to her. 

Isha sighed. “Yes, yes, I know. Maintain my disguise as a human subordinate of yours and keep an eye out for any Chaos corruption. You do not need to repeat it.”

George raised his hands. “I do not mean to irritate you. It is just…I am aware of your disdain for the Mechanicum, but they are truly critical to my plans.”

Isha’s lip curled, but she didn’t bother to argue the point. It wouldn’t serve any purpose.

“I have made common cause with beings whom I despise before,” She said instead. “The Mechanicum is worthy of contempt, but I assure you, there are those in this galaxy whom I loathe far more. Maintaining a mask of civility is no great task.”

George nodded, and for a moment, Isha felt his attention divert to distant Iyanden, lurking just beyond the Solar System.

More specifically, to the shard of Khaine within.

Well. She had been the one to bring up how she had worked with those she hated before, and her dear father was the most famous example of that. All the same, she was in no mood to talk about him.

“Be honest with me,” She said, bringing George’s attention back to her. “Do you truly believe that you can persuade the Mechanicum to a peaceful resolution?”

George winced, shifting slightly at the question. “Why do you ask?”

Isha suppressed a roll of her eyes at his avoidance of the question. “Even putting aside Vashtorr’s influence, the fact remains that they were already committed to dethroning you. That fleet may have launched an assault against orders, but it was sent by the Fabricator-General. Not to mention that the Mechanicum believes you hold a sacred relic they feel entitled to, a suspicion you decided to tell them was true. They do not seem particularly open to peace.”

She didn’t mention the emotions that she could sense churning in the souls below, but she didn’t need to. The Emperor could feel them as well.

There was awe, curiosity, and uneasiness at the sight of the golden vessel, but there was also anger, arrogance and above all, greed .

Not emotions that were particularly conducive to peaceful submission.

George rubbed his jaw, his face twisting in a frown. “I know it seems unlikely, but I must try to find a way to bring the Mechanicum to heel without bloodshed. Or at least, no conflict that would risk damage to their infrastructure.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” Isha asked archly. “Crush them into line with divine charisma? Rewrite the minds of all their leaders to make them obedient to you?”

The Emperor of Mankind’s eyes burned golden with the light of his conviction.

“If I must.”

Isha dipped her head in acknowledgement. She had expected nothing less.

The Aetos Dios completed the last stretch of its descent, burning like a falling star every step of the way, wrapped in the Emperor’s aura as it was.

As angry as she still was with the Emperor, Isha had to appreciate his flair for the dramatic. While his overall sense of aesthetics was a little too gaudy for her tastes, what was the point of being a god if you couldn’t strike fear and awe into the hearts of the people?

“Come,” The Emperor said, striding away. 

Isha did not follow immediately, instead taking a moment to adjust her form. Her height shrank by several feet, from equal to a Custodes to merely a slightly taller than average human woman. Her hair shortened to shoulder length, losing its lustrous shine until it no longer glittered like rubies and after a moment’s consideration, she shifted the shade of her hair to a more human auburn. 

Rounding her ears took only a moment, and then adjusting her eyes so that they no longer glowed emerald and her sclera turned white. Tiny flaws spread across her face and flesh until the supernatural beauty of the Eldar was gone entirely, replaced by a plain and unremarkable-looking human woman.

As one last touch, she clothed herself in the garb that the genewrights of the Emperor’s Biotechnical Division usually wore, a white coat over a light blue uniform.

There, that should do it. An appropriate human disguise.  

Isha followed in the direction the Emperor had gone, arriving in the hangar, where he was standing with a guard of Custodes and a handful of other human advisors he had brought along.

He quirked an eyebrow at her disguise, but did not comment. “It is time.”

Isha took her place in his entourage, blending in. It had been a long time since she had needed to use such subterfuge, but it was not particularly difficult to remember. A god’s skills did not decay the way a mortal’s did.

The ship landed on the ground with one final shudder, and then after a long moment, the hangar door lowered itself.

And so, they walked down the ramp and set foot at last on the world of rust and iron that was Mars.

Chapter Text

A King could suffer no equals.

It was a tale as old as time, older than even the War in Heaven. When two Kings met, a struggle for supremacy was inevitable, and only one could emerge as the victor.

Reality, of course, often disagreed. Kings were often forced to co-exist, unable to muster the power and authority necessary to crush their rivals into line.

Asuryan had been forced to tolerate her father’s excesses, for Khaine was too mighty for even the Phoenix King to bring to heel. Asuryan had forced Khaine to be cautious, to step more carefully and to restrain his desires where he might otherwise have let them run rampant, but the reverse was also true. The two of them had existed in an uneasy balance, unable to either destroy their rival or force their submission.

But even that had only come about after an initial clash, after they had forced each other into a stalemate.

When it came to a meeting of Kings where one was mightier than the other, no such thing was possible.

The moment she laid eyes on Kelbor-Hal, Isha knew that the Emperor’s hope that Mars would submit willingly was futile.

The gleaming silver figure cloaked in ornate robes of black and crimson reeked of pride. It only took a glance for her to read him, to see him down to his very soul. But it was not as if she needed that to understand him. 

He had chosen to greet them in the heart of one of the Mechanicum’s shipyards and everywhere Isha looked, there were hundreds of vessels equal to and larger than the Aetos Dios bristling with weapons capable of scouring continents. Legions of… skitarii , Isha believed they were called, had been arrayed around them, armed to the teeth, standing in motionless silence behind their master. 

And they were not alone. Strategically scattered between the skitarii formations were mechanical walkers that towered over even the Custodes, cruder and rougher than what her children would have employed, but still recognizable as war machines built along the same principles. Knights, the Emperor called them.

But even the Knights were dwarfed utterly by the iron giants that loomed over their meeting, the smallest of them easily as tall as the Emperor and the largest a behemoth so massive that it cast a shadow across the entire shipyard, blocking the artificial beacons that glimmered in the sky overhead. It could have picked up the Emperor and ground him to dust in one hand…if the Emperor were not a god in his own right.

This must be one of the famous Titan Legions of Mars. The Emperor had spoken of them, how they were easily the most formidable ground forces the Mechanicum had to offer, war machines that even the Space Marines and Thunder-Warriors would struggle against.

Isha was unimpressed.

It was a formidable gathering of force, to be sure, but Isha had seen better. More importantly, it clearly demonstrated Kelbor-Hal’s mindset.

This was a conqueror in his own right, one who had fought his way to the top of the Mechanicum with a mixture of force and guile, who hungered now for greater conquests still.

Kelbor-Hal believed fervently in the superiority of his people, of himself. He was convinced beyond doubt that their beliefs and their superiority justified any excess, any atrocity.

He also believed that he could cow the Emperor into submission with petty shows of force like this, with the implicit threat of unleashing his iron legions upon the Imperium.

Isha had known countless beings like him over the aeons, from Necron Overlords and Eldar Princes who carved bloody paths across the stars, to petty warlords of primitive races who had not yet escaped the confines of their birth worlds.

Such a proud man would never bend a knee to the Emperor willingly. Even if he was made to kneel, he would forever burn with resentment and hatred, searching for a way to escape his chains.

Good.

Perhaps the Emperor would accede to properly breaking and leashing the Mechanicum. Oh, Isha doubted he would agree to shatter this empire of slavers outright as she wished, but perhaps he would finally see that they needed to be defanged and made to release their victims.

…well. A goddess could dream.

For now, however, the Emperor greeted Kelbor-Hal with a smile, even though he was no doubt aware of everything that Isha was.

“Hail, Fabricator-General,” The golden king said, pearly white teeth flashing, and if Isha did not know him better, even she would have thought it was genuine. “I am delighted to accept your invitation for a summit.”

“Emperor of Terra,” Kelbor-Hal acknowledged stiffly, far less genial in his greeting but at least managing to remain civil.

Shame. It would have been amusing to see him lash out at the Emperor, and the Emperor’s reaction, but that was unfortunately unlikely.

For a long, terse moment the Master of the Mechanicum and the Lord of Terra sized each other up, gazes calculating. Kelbor-Hal seemed to be waiting for some kind of reaction from the Emperor, for the latter to at least look at the massive forces that had come to greet him, but the Emperor simply continued smiling, his gaze never wavering from the Fabricator-General.

Finally Kelbor-Hal spoke. “Very well. Let us begin.”

The Emperor’s smile flickered imperceptibly. “Here? Should we not speak inside?” His voice was layered with a suggestion, one that would have persuaded even the most ornery individuals. 

Yet Kelbor-Hal laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed across the yard. “You seem to be operating under a misconception here, Emperor, ” He sneered, his voice dripping with disdain as he spoke the title. “You are not here for a peace summit.”

The Emperor’s eyes narrowed. “You sent me a message saying you were open to negotiations.”

“A lie,” Kelbor-Hal dismissed contemptuously. “One you were naive enough to believe. I truly did not think it would be so easy to deceive you, but here you are, having placed yourself in my hands so willingly. So eager were you to believe that I was willing to treat you as an equal.”

“I see,” The Emperor said impassively. “Then why are we here?”

“We are here to discuss the terms of your surrender,” Kelbor-Hal said, oozing certainty and arrogance with every word. “You will bend the knee, swear fealty to me, and turn over the STC you have found. In exchange, I will permit you to leave this place alive and continue to rule your petty little “empire” on Terra, as long as you pay tribute and cease further expansion. These are the best terms I am willing to give you, so I recommend you accept them before I decide to be less generous .”

The Emperor said nothing. 

Are you ready? Isha heard his voice speak to her through the Immaterium, unheard by anyone else.

Of course, I am. She scoffed. This is exactly what we expected.

Indeed. 

“I am afraid those terms are unacceptable, Kelbor-Hal. Are you certain you do not wish to negotiate?” 

The Fabricator-General growled. “I have made myself clear. Are you truly so stupid , barbarian? Do you think you have any room to demand anything here?” 

Isha’s frown deepened. She could feel the Emperor’s aura pressing against Kelbor-Hal’s mind, yet the Fabricator-General seemed strangely unaffected.

What was going on?

The Emperor sighed. “No. I must confess, I am disappointed, but I expected this much.”

For the first time, Kelbor-Hal seemed caught off-guard. “What?”

“I said, I expected this ,” The Emperor said calmly, even as veins of golden lightning spread through the dark clouds above like fire, and his eyes became like molten gold. The thunder that followed the lightning punctuated the Emperor’s next words rather than drowning them out. “If you are not willing to negotiate Kelbor-Hal, then I must use a language you can understand. And believe me when I say that this army you have gathered here? It is not enough to stop me.” 

But Kelbor-Hal recovered quickly, even now unshaken by the Emperor’s words. “That’s what you think, barbarian . You may be a powerful psyker, but I knew you might not see reason. So I came prepared. Did you think I did not know you would try to influence my mind, barbarian?”

The Emperor’s eyes widened ever so slightly and Isha felt a spark of alarm light in her heart. But before she could say anything, she felt it.

The Mechanicum’s Titans stirred to life, glowing crimson runes suddenly burning along their iron skin, the false eyes blazing with black fire.

The air was filled with the stench of corruption, like the smell of a rotten nerve in a cracked molar as a dark presence revealed itself. Isha’s jaw clenched as she recognized who it was, anger simmering inside her heart.

“Welcome, Anathema, Lady Lifebringer,” Bel’akor First-Damned spoke from the mouth of the largest of the Titans, the sound of his voice spreading through the fabric of reality like a tumour, making it shriek and writhe in protest. “It is good to see you two again.”

Chapter Text

The sky crackled with golden lightning, the flashes illuminating the horrors below.

“You,” The Emperor snarled, a blade of golden fire appearing in his hand as if it had been there all along. “What have you done?”

Bel’akor cackled madly, the Titan’s mouth splitting open to reveal a maw of fangs. “Come now, Anathema. Surely you are not so stupid that I need to spell it out for you?”

The Dark Master of Chaos was not truly here, Isha quickly realized. The machine he was possessing was merely a puppet, something to be controlled from a distance.

But he was here, somewhere on the planet, possessing some poor creature. 

She concentrated her senses to the fullest, trying to trace the Titan’s strings to wherever it was that Bel’akor was hiding, and she could feel the Emperor doing the same.

It was the only reason both of them held back, refraining from raining destruction upon the Titan where it stood.

Strangely, however, the Fabricator-General and his followers seemed oblivious to what was happening.

Or at least, to the fact that one of their greatest war machines was being controlled by a daemon.

“You think you can intimidate me with a parlour trick ?” Kelbor-Hal growled. “My legions will grind you to dust .”

“An illusion,” The Emperor hissed. “What have you done to them?”

“Nothing they did not ask of me,” Bel’akor said, oozing smugness. “They wanted a way to protect themselves from having their minds psychically influenced by you. I obliged.”

Isha could see it now. An enchantment that encouraged those in its thrall to only see what they wanted to see, to blind themselves to that which did not fit their beliefs and expectations.

As far as the Mechanicum was concerned, the Machine Spirits of one of their holy god-machines had awakened and were now arguing with the Emperor.

They did not see the Chaos corruption, or truly hear what Bel’akor had to say.

It, Isha was forced to admit, a very clever move on Bel’akor’s part. The enchantment was less potent than merely seizing control of the Mechanicum’s minds or corrupting them into the service of Chaos, perhaps, but it was also more subtle, allowing him to avoid being noticed by herself and the Emperor until he wanted to be.

The question was…why had he revealed himself? Bel’akor had to know he couldn’t stand against them. Against Isha alone, perhaps, for she had fallen far and Bel’akor had no doubt been gathering power since the last time she had encountered him. 

But against her and the Emperor combined, he stood no chance. 

No, Bel’akor had something in mind, some way to separate them, some way to compensate for the power gap. Arrogant though he was, the First-Damned had not outlived Daemon Kings and even Chaos Gods by being a fool. 

Certainly, he was not foolish enough to attack a god like the Emperor directly, even with one of the Emperor’s avatars on Luna. The countless times he had fled from her and her family before the Fall was evidence of that.

Unfortunately, there was no time to ponder that any further as the Fabricator-General screamed.

“ Attack !” 

The Skittari legions opened fire, the Titans lumbering forward slowly but steadily.

The mortals shrieked and panicked, but were herded back to the ship by the Custodes, who swiftly fell into formation to protect themselves.

More importantly, however, the Titan that Bel’akor had been using as a mouthpiece went silent. The marks of Chaos corruption remained, the machine shimmering with infernal power, but the presence of the Shadow Lord was gone.

Growling under her breath, Isha slipped out from under the Custodian guard, weaving her way through the plasma blasts and bolts until she was next to the Emperor.

“So, was this part of the plan?” She asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

The Emperor gave her an annoyed look as he deflected the barrage of shots with his flaming sword, batting them back at the people firing them. “You know perfectly well it wasn’t.”

“What do you have in mind?” Isha asked, a palm thrust generating a wave of force that sent several lines of Skitarii flying backwards. “Surely you don’t think you can still negotiate with the Fabricator-General.”

“I do not,” The Emperor acknowledged. “He will have to be disposed of, and I will have to find someone more… malleable . There have to be limits to Bel’akor’s enchantment. Even he could not cast such a spell on any substantial portion of the Martian leadership and also keep it invisible until now.”

Isha nodded grudgingly, another generated wave of force striking out against the oncoming enemies. “That aside, what do we with do with Bel’akor?”

She sincerely doubted that Bel’akor’s plan to deal with them was simply to throw a small mortal army at them. 

If only they were so lucky.

The Emperor swung his sword, releasing an arc of golden flame straight towards the Mechanicum’s lines. “I cannot sense him. Wherever he is, he’s well hidden. But the Fabricator-General should have some idea, even if he does not realize it. We need to locate him and interrogate him quickly. Can you do that?”

Isha looked at him curiously. “Are you willing to let me act so openly?”

“Locating Bel’akor is paramount, and if the Mechanicum asks questions later, we can simply say you are a transhuman psyker.”

“Very well. Give me a moment.” Isha leapt into the air, scaling a hundred feet in a second and landing in the midst of the Mechanicum’s forces with a shockwave that crushed an entire Skitarii squadron. 

Isha felt a tinge of regret, knowing the Skitarii had never known anything better than service to the Mechanicum. But unlike servitors, they were permitted to retain higher brain functions, and unlike the Selenar’s slaves, their loyalty came from indoctrination, not genetic programming. She could not free them unless they consented to do it or if she outright modified their minds. And the latter was hardly true freedom.

The Fabricator-General was surrounded by a dense guard of soldiers, hurrying towards the backline so that he could hide in the shadow of the Titan Legion. A sensible enough decision.

Not that Isha would let him do it.

She seized the arm of a Skitarii attacking her, ripping it off and snatching the crackling Arc Maul it had intended to strike her with from its grasp. Tossing the Mechanicum’s soldier away carelessly, Isha pursued Kelbor-Hal.

The Maul was not particularly to her tastes as a weapon, and she did not even really need it. But if the Emperor wished to maintain the illusion of her as merely one of his transhuman soldiers, it would be best to pretend she could not tear apart the Mechanicum’s best soldiers and weaponry barehanded.

Smashing her way through the enemy lines, Isha pursued the Fabricator-General, but before she could catch up, the Warhound Titans blocked her path, moving with speed and grace that betrayed their size.

The power of Chaos burned within them, having let them intercept her faster than should have been possible.

It would not save them.

Even as the Titans opened fire, Isha was already moving. Her maul tore through the leg of a Titan as if it were merely flesh, causing the machine to stumble and fall on her. With a shove, Isha pushed it in the opposite direction as if it weighed no more than a feather, causing it to crash into one of its fellows instead.

She could have decimated the rest of the Titans attacking her, but that would be both cruel and a waste of time. Dancing between the bolter fire, Isha reached through the Materium, feeling the rot that had sunk into the Machine Spirits of the Titans. The pilot was surprisingly not corrupted, being pulled along by their spirits, but they were heading towards it and fast.

Isha excised the rot with the deft hand and precision of a surgeon, cutting it away from the Machine Spirits as if with a scalpel and casting it away into the Immaterium. The Titan pilots and Machine Spirits both screamed in pain as they were rendered motionless, incapacitated for the moment, but their souls and their sanity had been saved.

Isha could have made the process painless, but incapacitating them was a necessity.

Leaping up onto the shoulder of one of the Titans, Isha saw her prey again. Kelbor-Hal was almost to the larger Titans, about to hide behind them.

No matter. Isha raised her hand and curled her fingers. Space twisted and bent, distorting as the screaming Fabricator-General was pulled towards until she was holding his neck.

“LET ME GO, YOU MUTANT WITCH-”

Isha ignored his whining, turning in the opposite direction to look directly at where the Emperor was standing.

Catch. She spoke to the Guardian, before hurling Kelbor-Hal towards him. As an afterthought, she wrapped the leader of the Mechanicum in a layer of telekinetic protection to make sure his soldiers didn’t accidentally kill him.

Now, hopefully the fool would answer the Emperor’s questions quickly. 

For his own sake, if nothing else.

The Emperor snatched Kelbor-Hal out of the air with an invisible hand, pulling him towards himself and protecting him from anything that might hurt him.

Honestly . He knew Isha didn’t like the Mechanicum, but she could have at least brought the Fabricator-General over instead of just tossing him through a field of live fire.

Kelbor-Hal struggled in his grip, screaming in harsh binary. “I will never kneel, no matter what you do, barbarian scum!”

“Be quiet.” The Emperor snapped at him, tightening his grip so that the Fabricator-General could neither speak nor move.

His first impulse was to tear Kelbor-Hal’s mind apart and find the information he was looking for, but he restrained himself. 

These past years with Isha had forced him to relearn that sometimes, it was best to take a more gentle path. 

Even if Isha herself did not feel like being diplomatic towards the Mechanicum.

He reached into Kelbor-Hal’s mind and soul, but with a relatively gentle touch, looking for Bel’akor’s enchantment.

And ah, there it was. It was a slick, oily thing, a piece of scrapcode woven into both Kelbor-Hal’s soul and his body, into the advanced cogitators that had replaced most of the Fabricator-General’s brain, blinding him to the reality of what was going on around him and only showing him what Bel’akor wanted. Quieter and less subtle than other examples of scrapcode that he had encountered in the past, but perhaps more effective for that. 

But that subtlety meant that it was not too deeply entrenched in Kelbor-Hal, unable to spread too far and become too obvious.

And that meant the Emperor could remove it.

Isha was better at this, goddess of healing that she was, but he was the Anathema. He had fought against Chaos and its tools for thousands upon thousands of years, and to remove this was well within his capabilities.

Golden light and flame flowed into Kelbor-Hal, and the Fabricator-General would have screamed if he could.

But that would only have been because of his panic. The Emperor was careful not to hurt him, only burning away the corruption without harming Kelbor-Hal’s body or soul. It did hurt, but only as much as an injection might.

The oily venom tried to escape, to survive, but it was such a little thing, such a small spell, a piece of vermin, and the Emperor contained it easily.

At last, it was all gone and Kelbor-Hal awoke to reality.

The Emperor released him, letting the Fabricator-General fall to his knees before him, gasping.

“What did you do to me?” Kelbor-Hal choked out.

“I showed you the truth,” The Emperor said harshly, spinning him around and forcing Kelbor to look directly at the corrupted Titans.

The Fabricator-General’s eyes widened with horror, his augmented brain barely able to accept and process the data. 

“This is some sort of trick, some illusion, you-”

“Think!” The Emperor thundered. “ This is not the illusion, what you were seeing before was . Your empire has been infiltrated by Warp entities, that wish to destroy it from the inside out.”

Kelbor-Hal struggled, but as he watched the corrupted Titans lash out, uncaring of the damage they did to the Mechanicum’s own forces, he could not deny the truth of the Emperor’s words.

If he had skin left for his face to turn ashen, it would have as despair set in.

“I can help you stop this, root out the corruption. But you need to listen to me.”

Kelbor-Hal was silent even as the battle raged around him, but just as the Emperor was about to rip the knowledge he needed from him by force, the Fabricator-General spoke.

“What do you want?”

Chapter Text

Lukas Chrom.

That was the name that Kelbor-Hal had given them. 

Chrom was the source of the virus that had distorted the minds of the Fabricator-General and his cronies, giving them what Kelbor-Hal had thought was a way to shield himself from psychic influence.

He was the Master of Mondus Gamma , one of the largest Forges on Mars. Concerningly, it was also close to the Noctis Labyrinth, though it seemed unlikely that Bel’akor’s puppet would also be influenced by the Dragon.

But Monda Gamma itself was a problem for later. First and foremost, they had to find its master before he caused any further trouble.

Fortunately, they did not have to go far.

According to Kelbor-Hal, Chrom was deep in the bowels of Olympus Mons, working on some secret project that was supposed to serve as a counter to the Emperor.

Part of Isha wanted to scoff at the idea of anything a mortal could build being a sufficient counter for an Incarnate God…but Bel’akor was cunning beyond measure. Underestimating him would be foolish. No doubt he had whispered secrets ancient and terrible to his puppet, to prepare Chrom for what was to come.

Such were the thoughts that ran through Isha’s mind as she and the Emperor raced towards the entrance of Olympus Mons, Kelbor-Hal held in a bubble of golden light behind them. The Guardian had brought him along for insurance, and Isha could not disagree.

The screeching sound of alarms blared through the air, ships of the Mechanicum buzzing around the field like flies, confused and panicking as they attempted to shoot down the fleeing Aetos Dios . Their efforts were in vain, the Emperor’s vessel disappearing into the clouds, carrying the Custodes and mortals to safety.

And ahead of them was their destination: a massive, iron-wrought gate set into the side of the mountain. Easily as large as the Titans they had broken and left behind them, the gate was bristling with hundreds of turrets that were blasting at them as they approached. More than that, it was made of adamantium, the strongest metal mankind could produce, and overlaid with a glowing blue energy field for extra protection.

None of that mattered as Isha wove her way through the artillery fire, which might as well have been moving at a snail’s pace to her eyes. Heedless of the energy field, she smashed her power maul against the gate with the strength of ten thousand lions, crumpling the two metre thick sheet of adamantium as if it was nothing.

Ignoring the crackling of the flickering energy field and the alarms behind her, Isha stepped through her makeshift entrance, and into the depths of the mountain-forge.

The inside of Olympus Mons was, she had to admit, impressive. The cavernous entrance hall could have easily fit twice the number of the Titans they had faced just before. 

There were dozens upon dozens of grav-lifts and doors everywhere, the silver walls between them inscribed with thousands of equations. Statues lined the room, but none were more prominent than the one at the centre of the hall, the silver figure of a Tech-Priest holding a book in one hand and a burning plasma torch in the other, the latter held aloft as if to the light the way.

There was a string of binary inscribed on the base of the statue in bold crimson letters, which took Isha a moment to process.

No price too high for knowledge, it read.

Isha snorted derisively. And who paid that price? Certainly not the pretentious lords of the Mechanicum, with their petty, self-important squabbles and massive egos.

But there was little time to dwell on it further, as the defenses of the throne room sprang to life. 

The defences here were no less impressive; a thousand and more turrets sprang from the walls, except this time, they unleashed not just bullets and plasma, but also more arcane attacks, such as sonic blasts which could shatter steel. The many doors swung open, and legions of Skitarii poured into the room like oversized ants, orderly yet never-ending, opening fire on them.

And it was not just the Skitarii; the statues, in actuality automatons, sprang to life, stepping down from their gleaming pedestals to help defend the fortress from the invaders.

Not that any of the fire got past the gleaming golden barrier erected by the Emperor. The artifice of mortals crashed against the shield of a god, and failed utterly to penetrate it in any way whatsoever.

“Which grav-lift?” Isha inquired, resting the maul on her shoulder as she ignored the skitarii in favour of looking past them.

“That one.” The Emperor intoned, pointing at one very nearly at the back of the room, the path blocked by the Skitarii and automatons.

“Shouldn’t be too much trouble,” Isha noted. “Shall we?”

“Yes.” The Emperor said tersely. “As quickly as possible.”

The golden barrier he had erected hurtled forward like a meteor before splitting in two, hurling the Skitarii back, leaving them squished between the barrier and the walls on either side of the entrance hall.

More importantly, it cleared a path straight to the grav lift. Isha and the Emperor sprinted down the hall towards it, reaching it in a matter of moments.

“It won’t fit all of us,” The Emperor noted, surveying the size of the grav-lift.

“We don’t need the lift,” Isha dismissed the idea, ripping the grav-lift out of the tunnel with a flick of her wrist, and tossing it away carelessly, where it crashed against one of the walls. “We only need the tunnel.”

Without waiting for the Emperor to respond, she jumped down, falling head-first into the depths below.

The labyrinth of tunnels through which the grav-lift moved was paved with steel and surprisingly well-lit, most likely to make maintenance easier.

They might have been difficult to navigate for anyone else, but Isha simply flew along the tunnels, darting through them with the speed and agility of a gazelle, the Emperor and Kelbor-Hal not far behind.

“We are close,” The Emperor’s voice echoed from behind her, the golden aura emanating from him brighter than any of the artificial lighting inside the tunnels. “Just a little further.”

“I can sense it as well,” Isha agreed.

Left unsaid was the fact that they could sense it at all was worrying in its way. Bel’akor had concealed himself from their senses for so long, but now they could feel him after entering the mountain.

The First-Damned wanted them to come to him, for one reason or another, which did not bode well.

But it was hardly as if they could just walk away, so on they continued.

When they finally arrived at the level they were looking for, the Emperor spoke. “ I will go first,” He said, quiet but firm.

“Be my guest,” Isha shrugged, floating aside to let him take point.

The Emperor did not bother to rip away the doors, he simply walked through them, his aura leaving the metal obliterated and burning, the edges molten like lava. The Fabricator-General’s bubble followed him through, and then went Isha.

Isha had expected some sort of massive ritual room; the heart of a Chaos Cult, the domain of a fallen sorcerer, burning with infernal power, the evidence of blood and atrocities splattered across the walls.

She was not disappointed.

The chamber they entered might once have been the lab of a Tech-Priest, but now it was something else entirely. The only source of illumination was the glowing runes on the ceiling, which had been painted with blood and yet shone ominously all the same, mirrored by nearly identical runes on the floor. 

The air itself was heavy with the weight of Chaos, one that would have been like lead pressing against the skin to a mortal. 

And the room was vast, a cavern that stretched for miles in every direction. Not like the hall above, not because it had been built to be so, but because the very physical dimensions of the laboratory had been twisted and bent, expanded until it strained against the fabric of reality.

A pocket of Chaos in the Materium, built by the ingenuity and dark magic of perhaps the greatest Chaos sorcerer to have ever lived.

Covering the walls were hundreds of human-sized steel pods, surprisingly unmarked and unmarred, but perhaps more unnerving for that.

Skitarii and servitors buzzed around the room, each of them burning with the foul power of Chaos, indicated in the way their metal and flesh had been warped and the way their souls shone like small beacons of darkness. They were accompanied by dozens, hundreds of Chaps Imps, small yet foul creatures of Chaos. Black armoured warriors of Khorne toiling away at labour, Fearlings of Tzentech humming and casting spells from their many mouths, Bubas of Nurgle infesting every crack and corner of the room with disease, and Imps of Slaanesh, seductive men and women driving the human slaves on to ever great heights.

Each of them was no larger than the hand of a normal mortal human, but they burned with the evil of the Chaos Gods.

But they did not respond to the presence of the Emperor and Isha, instead continuing their tasks, painting more sigils, tapping away at the computer banks, and assembling strange machines. That would almost have been strange, but Isha could sense the shackles around the Imps, the spells binding them to the service of a maste who brooked no cowardice or disobedience.

Obsidian obelisks crackled with barely contained power, and after a moment, Isha realized they were arranged around the room in such a way as to create one massive eight-pointed star.

And at the heart of the star, at the centre of the chamber, on a raised platform like a plateau, stood Bel’akor.

He had possessed a Tech-Priest, one that Isha assumed was Lukas Chrom. His eyes were twin voids of black flame, the priest’s mechandrites spiked and cruel, the crimson robes decorated with the eight-pointed star of Chaos.

But the man was also dying, Isha could tell. His body could not bear the weight of Bel’akor’s presence; the cybernetic parts of him were already red with rust, and what was left of his biological body.. his cells were failing, and cancers were creeping their way through his flesh with every passing moment.

“Lady Isha, Anathema,” Be’lakor said through his stolen mouth, the sound discordant and screeching. “Welcome.”

“What is this?” Kelbor-Hal breathed in horror, watching from inside his bubble with wide eyes, his hand over his mouth. “This… this is insanity !”

But his words went ignored as the Emperor stepped forward to confront Be’lakor, his blazing sword in hand.

“You dare intrude upon my realm, Be’lakor?” The Emperor hissed, the golden light emanating from him growing brighter and more oppressive, the pressure of his words sending the Chaos cultists crashing to the ground in tangled, flailing heaps.

“Ahhh, I do not think so, Anathema,” Bel’akor chuckled, even as he stepped back from the Emperor’s light. “You have tried to kill me before, and you have always failed. You will do so again this day.”

Isha snorted derisively as she stepped up next to the Emperor. “Do not be a fool. You could not defeat both of us even if you had manifested in your full power, First-Damned . Wearing a human host that is already dying because of you? Hardly .”

“Who said I intended to fight both of you, Lady Isha?” Be’lakor cackled. “Certainly not me.”

“Planning to run away, then?” The Emperor growled. 

“Hardly. But I think you are about to have significantly greater concerns than I, Anathema.”

And then both Isha and the Emperor felt it. It was the sensation of sandpaper scraping over a raw nerve, the smell of blood splattered over jagged spikes. 

A massive spike of power far away from Olympus Mons, a storm of Chaos swirling around…Mondus Gamma.

Near the Noctis Labyrinth.

“Ah, I see you’ve felt it,” Be’lakor twittered. “That would be the work of my faithful servants, unleashing several Artificial Intelligences and conducting a summoning ritual for an Exalted. It could cause quite a lot of damage if left unchecked. Perhaps even break open the Dragon’s prison!”

“You fool!” The Emperor roared. In his rage, his words were not Imperial Gothic, but some ancient human tongue, raw and guttural, but the meaning was perhaps more clear for that, the walls of the mountain cracking under the sound, the ground below them shaking as his power swelled. The Guardian stepped forward with murder in his eyes, but Isha caught his wrist before he could lash out at Be’lakor. 

“Go!” She hissed urgently. “Do not let the Dragon escape! I will deal with Be’lakor.”

The Emperor snarled but nodded, hurling a bolt of golden lightning at Be’lakor before teleporting away in a flurry of golden fire, taking Kelbor-Hal with him.

The First-Damned’s stolen skin was hurled against the wall, both the physical body he was wearing and his immaterial flesh seared by the might of the Anathema, but he was still laughing despite the pain he must have been feeling.

“And now here we are, Lady Isha. Just you, and I.” 

“Not for long,” Isha said quietly, hefting her maul.

Chapter Text

Beyond the veil that separated reality from dreams, beneath the stolen skin that Be’lakor wore, Isha could see him.

Be’lakor’s true self was beyond mortal comprehension or understanding. He was a leviathan that could devour stars whole in its maw. He was a great clawed hand without a body, one that could crush planets in its grip, pressed against the veil that dared to block him from reality. He was a crown of tainted gold.

He was all of those things and more, for the creatures of the Immaterium were not bound by absolutes. 

The leviathan’s bubbling skin was every nightmare of a million million mortals. The hand’s bones were the desiccated carcases of every empire that he had ruled, of every civilization he had driven to ruin.

And his crown… the crown was the worst thing of all. The gold was forged from the sins of every being that Be’lakor had corrupted, and it was adorned with millions and millions of gemstones, each and every single one the story of the tears of the children of every civilization that the First-Damned had driven to ruin.

This was Be’lakor’s true self. This was what a Daemon King was; a god in waiting, the incarnation of sin, a creature of terror and horror that left nothing but ruin in its wake.

This was what the War in Heaven had unleashed upon the cosmos.

What the sins of Isha and her kin, of her allies and her masters, had unleashed.

Today, that would end.

Today, the First of the Damned would die .

Isha hurled the power maul at Be’lakor, the weapon flying through the air like a meteor, crackling green with her power.

But the First-Damned simply melted into shadows to avoid the blow, the maul crashing into the mountain walls and embedding itself deep in the rock instead.

“You should not have sent the Anathema away, Isha,” Be’lakor taunted, his voice coming from everywhere and nowhere, the shadows in the room shifting and encroaching upon her. “Him, I could not defeat. You, are another matter.”

Isha did not bother to reply directly, instead intoning an ancient Aeldari Warsong.

She had not spoken the words in aeons, but they came as if she had spoken them yesterday. The shimmering melody wrapped itself around her in armour, and the sharp lyrics coalesced into a spear of emerald light in her hand. The shadows shrank back at the sound as the Warp echoed with the memories of ancient battles, of every time Be’lakor had failed and been defeated by her children, of how he had always run from her and her family rather than engage them directly.

The great clawed hand drew back from the Veil, its skin smoking and burnt from the song.

Isha smiled slightly, and spoke, even as the melody became self-sustaining. “I am not so easily defeated, Be’lakor. I may be diminished and weakened, but I am still a god.”

“You are indeed,” Be’lakor acknowledged with a growl. “But that is why I am here: to claim that spark of divinity within you for myself, to reach the status that was denied to me for so long!”

The hand moved, and tendrils of darkness sprang from it like puppet strings, hooking themselves into each of the Chaos cultists present, until Be’lakor no longer had a single possessed puppet, but hundreds.

Ancient spells of terrible power exploded around her, seeking to flay the flesh from her bones, to turn Isha's essence inside out, or to pull her directly into the Warp.

Isha deftly dodged them all, whirling her spear in one hand until it was a blur, unleashing a maelstrom of green wind that repelled Bel'akor's puppets and his spells.

"Is that the best you can do, Chaospawn?" Isha asked scornfully, even as she reached out, seeking to remove the taint of Chaos from Be'lakor's pawns and free them…but she found nothing. 

The slaves were all hollowed-out shells, she realized with horror, their souls long gone.

Be'lakor's mocking laughter echoed through the air at her discovery. 

"Come now, Isha, you did not think I would let you tear the souls of my chosen from me now, did you? I am aware of what you are capable of, and I prepared accordingly."

Isha bared her teeth as they lengthened into fangs. “You will regret that, Be’lakor.”

She slammed the butt of her spear into the ground, and waves of wooden spikes erupted from it, impaling Be'lakor's slaves and tearing them to shreds in a shower of flesh and blood.

Perhaps she could not free them from torment, but she could at least deny Be'lakor's use of their bodies.

The First-Damned seemed to care not, however. Lukas Chrom's body rose into the air, twisting and bending as further limbs erupted from it, Be'lakor leering at her through his face.

Isha, however, did not wait for him to make a move. Her power coursed through the room, through this pocket realm that Be'lakor had built, seeking to wrest control of it from him.

Their wills clashed, and the cavern swirled and shifted around them, from a verdant forest back to the corrupted Mechanicum lab, then again to the depths of the ocean and the burning ruins of a forsaken city.

Back and forth it went, the battle of minds affecting reality around them even as their physical vessels clashed. 

Alas, it was not to last.

Isha was a goddess, but Be'lakor was the greatest Chaos sorcerer to have ever lived. Perhaps the greatest sorcerer, regardless of nature. And this was his domain, which he had prepared and built accordingly for years in anticipation of this confrontation with her.

Lines of crimson light spread below their feet, shooting across the room and then spreading across the floor and walls. It was a runic array, and Isha recognized not just Chaos sorcery, but also elements of her own children's workings. The workings of civilizations long dead melded with human sorcery barely ten thousand years old, forming something grotesque yet intricately woven, and above all, horrifyingly potent.

Isha reeled as Be'lakor's will reasserted control with a flare of power, the backlash sending her stumbling backwards for a moment. 

And then the floor exploded. A great metallic hand with dark claws pushed its way out of the ground, followed by the rest of the body.

Be'lakor's newest toy floated in mid-air, a behemoth of iron and steel larger than any that had come before it, with great wings of serrated metal and shadow extending from its back. The screams of the psykers imprisoned within the machine echoed in both reality and beyond it. The machine's iron skin turned a poisonous black, as its head burned with a hellish crimson flame, sprouting great black horns.

It was far more dangerous than any of the Mechanicum's creations could hope to be, a twisted amalgamation of human ingenuity and Chaos sorcery creating a mockery of the psychic technology of Isha's children, powered by the souls of the damned.

Be'lakor's Titan was still no match for a true psychomaton, but it did not need to be. The power of its master more than made up for that.

Isha rose into the air as the floor collapsed below her, just as the twin shoulder cannons of the Titan lit up, unleashing a weaponized psychic scream.

The scream slammed into Isha, making the bones of her avatar shake, but she held firm. Physical pain meant nothing to a god.

Her spear became a bow as tall as she was, and she pulled back the string, an arrow of green light materializing moments before she let it loose.

One arrow became hundreds, blasting against the Titan.

“Your little toy won’t stop me, Be’lakor,” Isha growled. “A poor facsimile of a psychomaton? Really ? Is that the best you can do?”

Be’lakor’s only reply was another blast from the cannons, unleashing a…temporal distortion wave???

Genuinely surprised, Isha barely managed to erect a shield before it engulfed her. The very fabric of time buckled and bent as Isha felt her avatar age and weaken against her will, her bow shattering into fragments of light. 

“Is that good enough for you, Isha?” Be’lakor asked smugly.

Isha’s aura exploded, dispelling the wave and sending the Titan hurtling back.

“Not bad,” Isha admitted. “But compared to the Yngir and their slaves, this is a parlour trick.”

She smirked slightly at Be’lakor’s snarl of rage, but she didn’t wait any longer. She sped forward, a sonic boom caused by her flight, a new spear forming in her hand.

Which she promptly buried straight into the Titan’s head.

“I told you, Be’lakor,” Isha growled as veins of green light spread through the Titan where she had stabbed it. “You can’t beat me with your pathetic toys.”

But he didn’t respond the way she expected. “ I know .” Was the calm reply.

And then the Titan exploded in a shower of hellfire and blood. Isha was thrown against the wall by the explosion, dazed for but a moment.

But a moment was more than enough for Be’lakor.

The blood and oil in the Titan dripped down into the ritual lines and runes carved into the floor, spreading through them rapidly, the crimson light becoming crimson flames, erupting into a blaze of infernal fire that even Isha could feel pressing against her skin. And with a chill, Isha realized she recognized the language of the spells.

Enuncia.

The steel pods, previously smooth and unmarked, burned with the same foul light as the rest of the room, and Isha realized what was in them. 

Souls . Thousands upon thousands of souls, extracted and imprisoned within metal pods, used as fuel for Be'lakor's entrance into the world.

This must be what he had done with his followers, but those alone would not have served. He must have possessed Chrom for years, gathering souls, waiting for this moment.

The great dark hand pressed against the Veil once more, but this time, slowly but surely, it was passing through.

And then it was done.

Reality shrieked and writhed in protest as the pocket realm collapsed around them, and the side of the mountain was shattered by the explosion of power, revealing them to the outside world. Through the new hole in the side of Olympus Mons, Isha could see the skies above burning a bloody crimson, the clouds banished by the light of hell.

But her view was soon obscured as great pillars of hellfire erupted to encircle the mountain, like…like the bars of a cage, pressing down on Isha, making her feel heavier and weaker.

And finally, the body of Lukas Chrom exploded in a shower of black blood, unable to bear the weight of the Dark Master's power, but that was by no means the end.

Because at last, the true Dark Master of Chaos stepped forth into the world. Be’lakor had taken many forms through the ages, but today, he appeared as a twisted mockery of a hero-king of the Eldar. Black armour, embossed with the mark of Chaos where there should have been Eldar runes. Long dark hair and silver eyes set in a wide, handsome face, a face which Isha recognised all too well.

The face of Eldanesh. 

A rush of pure hatred erupted through Isha as she stared into the visage of her most favoured son, and the monster who dared to mock her with it.

In that moment, more than anything, she wanted to kill him.

Be’lakor smiled with a cruel smile that did not fit Eldanesh’s features. “And now, Isha, we are face to face at last. Just you and me. No toys, and no tricks.”

“Except this cage,” Isha spat, rising to her feet.

“Well, I had to make some preparations to put us on even ground, didn’t I?”

“What do you want , Be'lakor?" She demanded, hoping to buy some time as she tried to adjust to the pressure of this new prison, to find a way to break through the sorcery. "Why are you doing this? You must know your masters will punish you for killing me. Why risk their wrath instead of dragging me back to them? For that matter, why risk unleashing the Dragon? Even for you, that is madness and folly."

 At this, Be'lakor's facade of calm shattered. The sick parody of Eldanesh’s face twisted and shifted, and the pressure around her intensified as his fury erupted.

Yet, despite that, Isha would be lying if she did not derive some satisfaction from breaking his cool.

"Why?" Be'lakor raged, a maelstrom of red-black energies swirling around them as reality cracked and melted in turn. "You dare ask me why!?"

"I do," Isha answered resolutely, her presence the eye in the heart of the storm even though she was bound, a light in the darkness stabilizing reality and preventing Be'lakor from overwhelming it completely. 

"Because I deserve it! I am Be'lakor! I am the Dark Master of Chaos, the Firstborn! It was I who saw the power and potential of Chaos before anyone else! I should be its undisputed master, the greatest god to have ever lived!"

"Yet time and time again I am denied what is rightfully mine ! By your accursed children! By the Anathema! By the machinations of those upstarts, those petulant children who call themselves the Gods of Chaos, who think they are better than me ! But I will be denied no longer! I will devour your essence and claim my destiny!"

"Or perhaps I will die here, slain by you or the Anathema, or even the Dragon! But no longer will I suffer being the slave of my inferiors !"

"Devouring me will not grant you godhood, Be'lakor," Isha snapped back. "You said it yourself, I am diminished. You may become stronger, but you will not be the equal of the Emperor, much less the Four."

At this, Be'lakor laughed, his rage gone as soon as it had come, like the morning dew. "Oh Isha, how unimaginative you are! I am well aware of that. Devouring you will not make me equal to those brats that dare to rule my kingdoms, but it will give me something better ."

A chill went down Isha's spine at Be'lakor's words.

"You can't mean-"

"Oh, but I do."

"That is impossible," Isha growled, baring her teeth. "That is not what happened when Slaanesh devoured my family."

"Oh credit me with more intelligence than your gluttonous daughter," Be'lakor sneered, clearly relishing the way Isha bristled at his description of Slaanesh. "I have been preparing for this for a very long time, since before your King cast his Edict. I tore apart the minds of your children, searched the ruins of the War in Heaven, and plundered the graves of the Old Ones. Even so, I did not think it would be possible. I needed you or one of your kin for the ritual, but you were too powerful to touch. Now? Here you are."

Be'lakor drew the Blade of Shadows from the Warp, great black wings unfurling behind him until they blotted out the sky. "I will devour your essence, Lady Isha, and I will corrupt it. And then, I will not need clumsy vessels such as this. I will be like you, unbound by the restrictions of the Veil, able to freely stride across the Materium at will: An Incarnate."

Chapter Text

Mars was burning. Across the planet, Be'lakor’s machinations came to fruit, as scrapcode poured into the Martian systems, unleashed by traitors. There were only a handful of them, but there did not need to be more.

The Forges of Mars were connected by ancient, arcane networks that even the greatest minds of the Mechanicum no longer truly understood, the knowledge lost beneath the sands of time and dogma. A sea of cables and wires, of dense clouds of data and wireless communication stretched across the entire planet, a great web that bound all of Mars together, linking every temple, every library.

And now, poison gushed through that ancient labyrinth, ripping its way through every protective measure, leaving the web fraying and falling. The aegis anti-virus codes were only able to halt the flow for but a second before the scrapcode shredded them entirely. 

Like a multi-headed serpent, the scrapcode sought out vulnerable points in the Martian infrastructure, spitting poison and flame everywhere it could. Once, perhaps, mankind could have stopped it, but the countermeasures to scrapcode and sorcery that humanity had developed during the Iron War had been all but forgotten, and the Mechanicum found itself helpless as Mars turned against itself. 

In Aries Prime, the great fusion reactors that powered the city had their safeguards switched off and were overloaded despite the best efforts of the caretakers, erupting in a wave of nuclear flame that devoured the second-greatest city on Mars, killing tens of millions of people in an explosion that could be seen from orbit.

In the Glaivid Hive, the contents of chemical refineries were poured into its’ massive ventilation system, and poisonous chemicals spread through the air, murdering thousands with every passing moment as an entire hive city choked to death.

In the skies above, the great ships of the Mechanicum found themselves fighting against the automated systems that were supposed to help them defend Mars from invasion, but were now turned against their allies and masters. Smaller ships darted through the chaos, but the larger vessels and defence stations exchanged fire, barrages of plasma cannons seeking to tear each other apart.

And so, even the Ring of Iron began to burn and crack, as ships and stations alike fell from the sky in a rain of burning steel.

To their credit, the sane of the Mechanicum were not so easily broken. The Skittari were as unflinching and relentless as they had ever been, and the unaffected Titan Legions and Knight Houses crossed swords with their maddened kin, seeking to defend themselves. Tech-Priests frantically sought to root the corruption out of the systems, to devise any counter they could. Forgemasters who saw the attack coming hastened to sever their temples from the network to avoid the assault.

And in the wastes of Mars, where a thousand forgotten secrets lay, ancient machines stirred deep among the rust-red sands. One by one, they rose, systems that had lain dormant for millennia humming to life, silver lights flickering on, woken by the war raging above them. 

But all of that would be irrelevant if the Emperor did not succeed in doing what mattered most.

If the Noctis Labyrinth was shattered, Mars was doomed. All of its systems, from the greatest fortress-factories to the most insignificant servo-skull would be slaved to the Dragon in an instant, turned to do the bidding of their new god.

Mars would become the heart of a new machine empire, bent on nothing less than the eradication of all organic life. No, even more than that, to rewrite time itself and undo the end of the War in Heaven so that the C'tan would emerge triumphant over their slaves.

That could not be allowed to happen.

It would not. The Emperor would not allow it, even if he had to reduce Mars to a pile of burning rubble himself.

But for now, at least, he sought to preserve Mars rather than burn it. He hurtled through the Immaterium like a thunderbolt, aiming straight for the Noctis Labyrinth. 

Yet, even as he did so, the Emperor could hardly believe Be’lakor would do this. They had warred for millennia, and he knew well what the First-Damned was capable of, how there was no length he would not go, no depth he would not sink to achieve his goal.

But this ? This was not an atrocity, this was not even recklessness . This was suicide . The Dragon was as much a threat to Chaos as it was to mankind. Even more so, perhaps.

Be’lakor would not do this just for a petty distraction, not just for ruining the Emperor’s plans for human reunification. There was something he wasn’t seeing here, something that he was missing.

Yet, he had no time to dwell on such matters, not even with the enhanced perception he possessed.

The Emperor emerged back into the Materium above the Noctis Labyrinth and found them waiting for him.

The Noctis Labyrinth was a maze of steep valleys and mountains, desolate and cold. It was devoid of all life, and even the Mechanicum avoided it like the plague for reasons they did not truly understand. Nobody dared build within the Labyrinth or even near it.

Even Be'lakor's forces had not gone too near the Labyrinth yet, instead gathering a massive host at its southern edges, in the space between it and the Syrian Planum.

And they were an army of automatons hosting daemons, Chaos Androids and Daemon Engines crackling with infernal power. There were thousands of them, in dozens of different shapes and sizes, from human-sized soldiers to towering walkers equal to a Titan. Iron serpents with miles-long bodies slithered across the ground, surrounded by iron legions and hovering drones. Soul Grinders, Khornate Brass Scorpions, Nurglite Blight Drones, Slaaneshi Subjugator Titans, Tzentchian Fire Lord fighters…a wide array of daemons from each of the Four, now bound to machines.

A Tech-Priest of the Mechanicum would likely have found them familiar yet alien even if they had not hosted daemons, for the designs of these infernal machines were ancient. These were the soldiers of the Iron War, the ancient precursors to the Mechanicum’s constructs.

And with a hot, sharpe flare of rage, the Emperor recognised the spells and contracts that bound these abominations as well. Be’lakor’s hand was there, of course, with these creatures all bound to his service, but he was not the one who had fused daemons to these machines in the first place.

It seemed Vashtorr was involved in this after all. He was not here himself, the Emperor was certain he would have sensed him. Cunning as the Arikfane was, he was no master sorcerer who could conceal himself even from the eyes of the gods.

But he had supplied Be’lakor with an army and the tools needed to set Mars ablaze.

The First-Damned now possessed a force that could slaughter armies and shatter worlds, one surrounding a ritual ground. At the centre of the host was a gleaming array of shining crystal towers, crackling with power as the Tzentechian Chaos Androids floating around them performed a ritual to summon an Exalted. 

There would be a reckoning for this. But not today. Today, the Emperor had other concerns.

He did not hesitate. He reached out and pulled power directly from the Martian magnetosphere. A lesser psyker might have sought to conjure forth the power themselves, and certainly, the Emperor could have done so.

But why bother, when there was an ample reserve of power just waiting there to be tapped?

And so, he unleashed the power he had collected upon the Chaos Androids. Lightning fell from the heavens and the roar of thunder echoed across the world as the Noctis Labyrinth was for a moment illuminated by ten thousand bolts of white-blue lightning. 

Leaving Kelbor-Hal behind, floating in his bubble, the Emperor dove into the battlefield.

The Fabricator-General of Mars was not having a good day.

Today was supposed to have been a simple matter. The Emperor of Terra, like the barbarian fool that he was, had consented to come to Mars with only a small escort.

With the anti-psychic countermeasures devised by Chrom and a full Titan Legion at his back, cowing the primitive fool into submission should have been child’s play. 

Instead, it had all gone wrong. 

The Emperor’s…soldier? Lieutenant? Vassal? Whoever she was, that horrible woman had torn through his soldiers as if they were nothing, before literally throwing him at her master. Even the great Titans of Mars had failed to stop her, toppling three of them as if they were nothing but toy soldiers.

And once Kelbor was in the Emperor’s grasp…all of Chrom’s psychic countermeasures had been for naught. 

The memory of the violation, of the Emperor reaching into his mind and rooting out the code made Kelbor want to vomit, even though he no longer had the organs for such a thing. It had been painful and humiliating. He had been helpless, utterly helpless, as his enemy toyed with his brain as if it were child’s play.

The Emperor could have killed him there. Kelbor certainly would have done so if their positions were reversed.

But instead, he had exposed the truth.

Kelbor-Hal still didn’t want to believe it. It had to be a trick of some sort. Chrom’s countermeasures had failed, being insufficient to prevent the Emperor from casting an illusion on him.

Surely it was the Emperor who was the enemy, not his people.

But then there was everything he had seen. That horrid creature that Chrom had become, that twisted mockery of a holy forge to the Machine God, those creatures scurrying around it…it all had to be a lie. Some psychic nightmare conjured forth by the Emperor. 

But in his bones, Kelbor knew it wasn’t. He had been deceived and betrayed. Chrom, or whatever warpspawn that was wearing his face, had made a fool of him, a puppet and a pawn.

What had been his plan? Chrom’s voice had been discordant and distorted and wrong , and even trying to recall the memory of it made Kelbor’s supercomputer brain shriek in pain and creak in protest. Once more, he wanted to retch.

And now, Kelbor-Hal was at the mercy of his enemy. He did not know what was happening, what forces had made a fool of him and why this was all happening. All he could do was watch in terror as the Emperor unleashed powers that he had scarcely ever dared to imagine on the army of abominations below.

The golden comet that was the Emperor blitzed through the legions of heretical machines, their forms twisted by the energies of the Warp. They spat hellfire and sorcery at the Emperor, but he seemed immune to it all, darting between them and smashing through their forces.

All Kelbor-Hal knew was that he hoped they destroyed each other. An upstart barbarian warlord versus this horde of perversions against the Machine God…good riddance to both of them.

The only firm ground below Kelbor-Hal’s feet was the certainty that if he survived this, revenge would be his.

One way or another. 

"Hate you Anathema! Hate you! Hate you-"

The Emperor ignored the daemon's whining as he impaled his blade in the eye of one of the titans it was possessing. Lightning crackled through its body, burning out the Daemon and making the Titan writhe and flail.

Yet, as he landed on the ground as the Titan crashed, the Emperor was struck with the thought that this was too easy .

It was enough to occupy him, yes, not least because he had to be careful not to cause too much collateral damage, while at the same time expending energy to stabilize the fabric of reality.

Leaping aside to avoid a barrage of hellfire plasma, the Emperor swept his sword in an arc to release a blast of golden flame, his mind churning with turmoil. And yet…Be’lakor could have done better than this , surely. At a minimum, he must have been here on Mars for at least the last several months, plenty of time for the First-Damned to devise a trap. 

The ritual for summoning an Exalted had been stopped…but now the Emperor realized it had barely begun before he arrived. Almost as if Be’lakor hadn’t actually wanted to summon an Exalted.

The siblings of the Titan he had brought down surrounded him, and the Emperor swelled in size until he was as tall as they were. But even as he parried their blows, he kept turning over the matter in his mind. 

Yes, the Emperor was far stronger than he had been the last time he had clashed with Be’lakor, but knowing his old foe, that should only have invited him to escalate things even further. 

Absently, the Emperor noticed nanites burrowing into his skin, trying to spread through his body and turn it against him. He burned them out, ignoring the brief flash of pain, even as his anxiety and dread intensified.

If Be'lakor truly wanted to unleash the Void Dragon, he could have done better than an army that had barely even reached the Labyrinth before the Emperor arrived.

…Isha . Be’lakor wanted to be alone with Isha , to separate the two of them. This was a distraction. It was the only answer.

But why?

To drag her back to the Four in chains, so that they bless him with yet more power, perhaps even restore him to his status as the most favoured son of Chaos? But that would mean giving up the independence he had as a Daemon King.

Lifting a Titan by the foot and spinning it around as he used it as a bludgeon, the Emperor knew he could not allow that…yet he also dared not return to Isha's side yet. The Veil here had been damaged by the presence and summoning of so many Daemons, leaving it dangerously fragile and unstable. He needed to both repair it and dispose of the Chaos Androids.

The iron serpents made their presence known, roaring at him, their metallic fangs dripping with black venom that burned the ground, their eyes a shimmering scarlet. These were only shadows of the sun-eaters that had been unleashed during the Iron War, but they were still formidable, especially when possessed by Greater Daemons.

Then, in the far distance, the Emperor felt it . The fabric of the Veil was torn asunder, and an incursion, an invasion of reality began as Be’lakor stepped through. A Daemon King, the Firstborn of Chaos himself, fully manifested upon Mars. An inferno engulfed Olympus Mons, blocking both his sight and his Sight, preventing him from seeing inside.

Dread pooled in his stomach, and in a heartbeat, the Emperor split in two, a new avatar heading straight back towards from where he had just come.

George could only hope it would be enough. 

Chapter Text

Isha hurtled through the mountain, crashing through tons of rock and steel like a meteor until she erupted out of the other side, slamming into one of the hellfire pillars with the force of a heavy artillery shell. 

Instantly, there was pain . The hellfire burned against her skin, and more than that, against who she was. It ate into the flesh she had clothed herself with, burrowing deeper into her very being in its frenzied drive to consume all that she was.

With a great effort, Isha wrenched herself away from the flames, gasping even as she regenerated from the damage, flesh and bones that had been charred black regaining colour and weight.

But she had hardly a moment to catch her breath before Be’lakor appeared, drifting out of the hole he had created by hurling her through the mountain.

He smiled at her with Eldanesh’s lips, except her son had never worn such a sadistic, cruel smile. It was an expression that did not at all fit his features, seeming horrifically twisted and distorted.

“Is that the best you can do, Isha?” He taunted, a mocking echo of her own words earlier. “What would Eldanesh say if he could see his dear mother now?”

She gritted her teeth and bit back her response, choosing instead to reply by conjuring yet another glowing green spear and hucking it at his sneering face.

Be’lakor didn’t even bother to dodge it, instead letting tendrils - chains - of hellfire erupt from the pillars, intercepting the spear at lightning speed before it could hit him.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” He said in a sing-song voice. “Or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me either way. Your children would be disappointed, though.” 

The bastard was enjoying himself. Toying with her. 

Isha cast a glance back at the gigantic hellfire cage surrounding the mountain. It was a complex piece of sorcery, but she was sure she could undo it with time…time which Be’lakor would not give her.

Damn him.

So Isha did the only thing she could do.

She ran.

She fled back into the mountain, phasing through the rock like a ghost as she flew into the depths, Be’lakor’s mocking laughter following her.

She dove deep into the fortress, into the foundations, hoping to find a way out…only to find Be’lakor’s cage extended through the ground as well.

Isha had not truly expected otherwise, but it was still frustrating. This was sorcery wrought by the twisted genius of the First-Damned, augmented by Enuncia , the language of the Old Ones.

She could hardly believe it, but it was true. Be’lakor had claimed he had plundered the grave of the Old Ones for this, and indeed he had.

This was not merely a cage. Be’lakor had turned all of Olympus Mons into a ritual killing ground, a place where he could sacrifice her and claim her power for himself. 

The fact that he had not used any of his enslaved Slaaneshi Daemons against her made sense now; if Be’lakor wanted to become an Incarnate by consuming her, the victory had to be his and his alone. To use Daemons of Slaanesh to defeat her would be to cede a portion of his claim to the Dark Prince.

Feeling Be’lakor following behind her, burning a path of molten rock through the mountain, Isha fled back upwards, towards the mountain’s peak.

As she moved, she could feel the panic of the Tech-Priests and their acolytes around her, of the Skittari and the servants, of the Machine Spirits that dotted the mountain like stars dotted the sky.

They were afraid and terrified. Many of them were dead, several of them because of how Be’lakor had used her as a missile, piercing through the mountain with no care for collateral damage.

Damn him . She despised the Mechanicum and its Tech-Priests, slavers and monsters so eerily similar to the Necrons, obsessed with metal and the so-called weakness of the flesh.

But that did not mean she wanted to slaughter them all like this, even the menials and servitors who had no choice, the acolytes who might yet learn better.

But Be’lakor did not care about that. To him, mortal lives were nothing, only useful as pawns, fuel, and food.

Isha emerged from the mountain near the summit, shifting back from being a spectre to a more solid form. Now, she stood upon a great caldera, many miles wide. 

Up here, even the Martians had built nothing…though that did not mean there was nothing here; there were the ruins of ancient metal structures that had been shattered, mountain-tall pillars without anything left to support standing still, marked by rust, and in piles big and small lay broken shards of glass and stone strewn across the caldera, remnants of a bygone age.

Perhaps the Tech-Priests had not gotten around to reclaiming this yet. Perhaps this was some kind of holy site.

In the end, it didn’t matter much, save for the fact that it was as far from the mortal inhabitants of Olympus Mons as Isha could get within this cage that Be’lakor had built.

Outside, Isha could feel one of the Emperor’s avatars trying to pry open the cage, but he was struggling. If he shattered it with brute force, that would only create a warp rift which would consume the entire mountain. And while he was working on pulling apart the threads of the spell one by one, unweaving the ritual as delicately as he dared, it would take him several more hours yet.

Be’lakor was not considered the greatest sorcerer in the galaxy for nothing.

Moments later, as if summoned by her thoughts, Be’lakor erupted through the ground in a blast of shadow, debris, and flame, leering at her as he crossed his arms, the Blade of Shadows in his grip.

“Well, this has been a fine game of cat and mouse, Isha,” Be’lakor laughed. “ But I am on a tight schedule, and I think it’s time we put an end to it. I must say I am somewhat disappointed, however. I expected a better fight from the Mother of the Eldar. Eldanesh and Ulthanesh would be ashamed .” 

A dull, weary acceptance settled across Isha’s shoulders. So this was how she was going to die. Despite everything, in the end, she would not be able to save her children or have vengeance for her family, nor make up for her many mistakes.

Very well. If I’m going to die here, so be it.

But that didn’t mean Be’lakor would get what he wanted.

Conjuring forth twin hunting knives, Isha settled into a combat stance.

“Die,” she said quietly, before lunging forward.

Be’lakor parried her blows with the Blade of Shadows, the clash of their weapons sending shockwaves around them that tore the caldera apart. 

Yet, as they fought and dust and flame and rocks swirled around them, there was a spark of anger in Isha’s heart as she stared at Be’lakor’s mask, at the mockery of her beloved son.

Why are you giving up? Stop holding back. Kill him!

The Blade of Shadows bit into her skin, leaving burning wounds that wafted off black smoke, even as Isha’s blows seemed to only do superficial damage.

Her anger swelled. Could she not even harm this monster who dared to use her son’s face as he sought to devour her?

The words that Khaine’s shard had spoken to her upon Iyanden came back to her, like the memory of a bygone age, even though it had only been a few months.

I see the rage in your heart, daughter. You have suppressed it, but it is there. I can see the thirst for blood and vengeance in you.

You are my daughter, after all, no matter how much you may wish to deny it. You may very well kill the abomination by yourself, but only if you embrace that.

She lashed out, but Be’lakor avoided her blow easily, and smashed her across the face with an armored fist, sending her crashing back down to the Caldera.

And yet, even as she flew through the air, Isha’s rage grew.

This wasn’t fair. After all she had survived, after all she had lived through, this was going to be her end? Death and consumption at the hands of a Daemon King, of a cowardly wretch who had fled from her children in ages past?

She could not, would not accept that.

Stop holding back.

Isha landed on her feet, rage at Be’lakor, at the Emperor, at Slaanesh, at herself, bubbling under her skin like molten lava.

Why was she being like this? Be’lakor was formidable, true, but he was far from the most dangerous opponent she had ever fought.

She had fought foes before who were her equal. This was not even the first time she had been trapped. She had been lured into traps by the C’tan before, into those Reality Tethers they had been so fond of, and she had fought her way out.

Be’lakor was still floating above. He was reveling in this, despite his own words, he was enjoying her humiliation and pain too much to finish her.

Her performance had never been as pathetic as this. Her tactics were unimaginative and predictable. Her instincts were dull and slow.

Stop holding back. Stop denying who you are.

…because she was choosing to. For so long now, she had let her war aspect lie dormant.

Even before she had been forced to seek the Emperor’s protection, before the Fall, she had shied away from conflict. 

Ever since the Sundering. Ever since her father had taken her prisoner, ever since Asuryan had let him. The unending pain, the searing flames, the screams for help that had gone unanswered. Listening to Kurnous’ screams as her father relished in the pain he could inflict on her through him.

The betrayal . Of her father. Of her king. The rest of her family, too silent and afraid of Asuryan and Khaine both to raise a voice on their behalf.

Cegorach, the Jester who had played with the Yngir, had said nothing. Lileath had started it all by going to her grandfather rather than her parents. Even Isha’s mother, Morai-heg, had bowed her head and said nothing.

Only Vaul had come. Vaul, her dear beloved brother, had saved them.

And how had Isha repaid him? With the same fearful silence, the same betrayal she had so resented from the rest of her family.

Isha the Huntress, Isha the Queen of the Wild, Isha the survivor of the War in Heaven had receded, shackled by fear and sorrow and pain. Oh, she had played at the hunt, at war, but only with those weaker than her, with prey. Not with a rival or equal. She had betrayed herself, been a coward, and she had lost who she was.

No longer. 

She had to survive . She had to live . She had to save her children and claim vengeance .

And no Daemon King was going to stand in her way.

Isha took a deep breath…and let go . She gave into her rage and her spite, her desire for vengeance. She stopped holding back who she was and roared. 

It was a dragon’s roar, echoing across all of Mars and shaking the planet to the very core. The hellfire pillars trembled and flickered at the sound, recoiling. Grass spread like wildfire across the surface of the caldera, joined by trees with trunks so dark they were almost black, and leaves that could slice through metal. 

Golden horns erupted from Isha’s head, curving backwards. Her teeth became fangs as thick, jagged golden markings appeared on her face. Her muscles shifted and rippled, expanding even as scaled Jade armour grew on her skin, her nails lengthening into claws. Finally, a cloak of green scales manifested, settling across her shoulders as at last the Daughter of Khaine tore her way out of the skin of the Mother of the Eldar.

At last, her transformation ended and Isha fixed Be’lakor with a glare, slitted emerald eyes burning against a black sclera. For the first time in countless galaxy ages, the Queen of the Wild Hunt peered out at the world, at a new opponent. 

“You wish to be like me, Be’lakor? Then come, and I will teach you what it means to be an Incarnate.”

Chapter Text

Upon Olympus Mons, upon the peak of a mountain so high it dared to defy the heavens and extend beyond the Martian atmosphere, shrouded in a storm of shadow and spell, two gods went to war.

With a flick of Be’lakor’s wrist, the shadows around them became three-dimensional, forming into umbral steeds and scorpions of pure malice that sought to overwhelm Isha with numbers.

But before they could reach the goddess, the blades of grass came alive, forming tigers and dragons and swords,  clawing, biting, and hacking away at the shadow constructs.

Isha smirked, extending a hand as a long bone spike erupted from the flesh of her palm, detaching to become a white spear. Her every step made the mountain shake as she sprinted towards Be’lakor, who responded in kind, his shadowy wings flapping behind him as he flew down to meet Isha.

They danced and duelled, their weapons clashing and ringing with such force that thunderclaps echoed across the landscape, and the mountain was reshaped around them. 

A blade of crimson-black flame bit into a spear of bone, only to be doused by a shower of cleansing rain. The rainclouds were blasted against the hellfire cage by malicious winds that could rend flesh from bone, only for the winds to be halted by an impenetrable wall of stone.

Burning with cold fury, Be’lakor withdrew to a distance and spun his blade around him, shredding the very fabric of reality, space twisting and warping across the battlefield. Where there had once been one mountaintop, there were now many, as if Olympus Mons had been split into a thousand fractals, a thousand mirrors that were yet somehow real. And with each mirror came a thousand Be’lakors, each of them seeking to tear Isha apart.

Any ordinary sorcerer, even the mightiest of Greater Daemons, would have been split along with the mountaintop, their bodies torn to shreds by space itself, but not Be’lakor. This was what a true Sorcerer of Chaos was capable of, on a ritual ground they had prepared beforehand. Against almost any other enemy, it would have been more than enough.

Isha only laughed. The sorcery was abruptly halted by song, a triumphant, rising melody that was somehow beautiful and yet savage. Isha sang and danced, an ancient warsong echoing from her lips accompanied by the beat of her footsteps as the goddess used the very mountain as her instrument, the earth creaking beneath her feet.

Be’lakor and his mirrors recoiled, the force of the song blasting him backwards, as the kaleidoscope he had made of the mountain was abruptly stabilized and prevented from splitting further. The song sought to repair the fabric of reality, to hold it together, to sew the wound shut and dispel the foul sorceries of Be’lakor. But Be’lakor was not called the Dark Master for nothing, and even as Isha’s warsong hammered against him, the spell did not fade.

“You cannot stop me with your petty music!” Be’lakor spat, he and his reflections jabbing their swords at Isha and sending a thousand thousand shards of shattered space hurtling at her.

But they never reached her, as a titanic hand of wood and bone erupted from the ground, swatting the shards away as if they were nothing. And then, the hand reappeared, replicating itself across every fractal as Isha turned Be’lakor’s spell against him.

A thousand bonewood fists hurtled towards the First-Damned’s reflections as Isha laughed again. The song she had woven had become self-sustaining, no longer needing her to support it.

“ Petty is it? These are the songs I wove during the War in Heaven , when I clashed with the Yngir and their soulless slaves. I am Isha . I was ancient before Chaos was even the shadow of a thought. I warred with the star gods and their soulless legions and bested them, because it was what I was made to do. Do not think you can defeat me so easily, brat. ”

Be’lakor howled as the fists smashed into him over and over, the full fury of a goddess hammering away at him with the strength of creaking tectonic plates. He could feel his avatar breaking under the pressure of the fists, even as the warsong penetrated to his true self, seeking to unmake all that he was.

With a scream, he let go of the fractal spell, instead refocusing his energies. Once more, the shadows surged to life, hundreds of umbral blades erupting in a shower that cut Isha's constructs to shreds even as they themselves were destroyed in the effort.

“Not bad, not bad,” Isha said, her fangs flashing in a wolfish smile. 

She had truly forgotten how good this felt.

She had experienced flashes of it on Luna. A taste of what she had forgotten.

But it couldn't compare to the real thing .

For the first time in aeons, she was unshackled. Nothing held her back. Not the Emperor's command, not Asuryan's Edict.

Not her own fear.

There was simply Isha. The thrill of the fight sang in her veins, and her bloodlust did not blind her, it only focused her. Her heart sang for rage and vengeance, to unleash that which it had held back for too long.

And here was Be'lakor, providing a convenient target.

How kind of him.

Isha sprang into the air, her vicious claws aimed straight for the Dark Master’s heart.

But Be’lakor did not wait for her to reach him. Instead, the shadows burned with sudden power, each of them a void of darkness as they surrounded her, pulling at Isha’s physical avatar from a thousand different directions, ripping it apart.

But that was not enough to stop The Huntress. For an Incarnate, a physical form was only akin to clothes. To be used and shed as needed. 

Not that she had any need to shed this form. Her will was within each piece of her body, within every piece of flesh, every bone, every blood cell.

Each shredded piece of her body pulsed with green light, sending the shadows scurrying away.

“Honestly, Be’lakor,” She said with a scoff, her voice echoing from every piece of herself. “Are you even trying ?”

The Dark Master, who was frantically attempting to unweave her songspell, to cut off the rhythm that was beating away at his essence and sorcery, cast her a look full of hate and fear.

“How are you doing this?! You have not gotten any stronger! I can feel it! You are as weak as you were when you came here!”

Isha’s body pulled itself together, flesh and nerves and blood and bones all knitting themselves once more into one, though this time into a form more the size of a human.

She considered the question for a moment as her feet settled back onto the surface of the caldera, now a forest of grass, trees, and bone .

“When I came here, I was Isha the Healer . Isha the Farmer, the Mother ,” She said calmly. “The kindest part of myself, powerful in ways you would not understand, but admittedly not suited for battle.”

She gave the Dark Master a distinctly shark-like smile. “But now, I stand before you as Isha the Huntress . I told you, Be’lakor. I was made to kill gods . And you? Well, you are just a daemon . Just a petty little insect , forever striving for that which is not yours, unable to see past the delusion of your own-self importance.”

Be'lakor's only response to that was to swing the Blade of Shadows at her, reality rippling and distorting around it. At the same time, he pulled upon the hellfire cage, summoning long, spiked chains of shadow and flame to ensnare her.

Isha simply spread her arms, and yet more bone jutted out from her skin, forming into stark white plates of organic armour, an impenetrable exoskeleton across her body. The hellfire chains hacked away at the exoskeleton, but it regenerated as rapidly as they did any damage.

However, Isha had no intention of giving Be'lakor any time to overcome her defenses. She raised her hand, clenched in a fist, pointed straight at her prey. And from her knuckles, dozens of needles of bone shot out like a hunter’s bullets, glowing faintly with green light as they hurtled towards the Dark Master.

Be'lakor, in pain from her blows, distracted by her defenses, and still struggling against the song, was unable to avoid them. He leapt to the side, but the bones diverted from their path, piercing the skin of his avatar and sinking, burrowing, into his immaterial flesh. And Be'lakor screamed . It was a hideous, foul, twisted sound, the howl of a predator trapped by one it had thought was prey.

“You might recognize that piece of sorcery, Be’lakor,” Isha said, her smile taking on a cruel, satisfied edge at the sound of his pain. “It was devised by my sons, after all.”

And Be’lakor did indeed recognize it. The bone needles were the manifestation of a spell designed to pin a daemon in place, to prevent them from fleeing. Eldanesh and Ulthanesh had developed it in ancient times, seeking to find a way to bind him so they could kill him once and for all.

He had always managed to avoid the spell when it had been cast by the sons…but their mother had proven too much for him.

And now the spell pinned him in place like a butterfly to a board, preventing him from fleeing.

Be’lakor frantically cast around for a way to escape, to flee and fight another day, but he could find none. The needles pinned him down, the song bound him.

His ritual ground had become his graveyard.

Panicking, Be’lakor reached for his last resort. 

Enuncia .

He tried to scream, to speak the words, but before he could, Isha’s warsong tightened, choking the life out of him.

“There will be none of that,” Isha growled, her smile gone. “I know more Enuncia than you, upstart . I learned it from those who spoke it. And I know it has a cost.”

A cost? Even through the pain, Be’lakor’s confusion was obvious.

Isha rolled her eyes. “ Daemons ,” She said scornfully. “You think you can simply speak the language of the First Ones without any consequence? Fool . There is a cost, even if you do not recognize it yet. But I suppose it doesn’t matter. Today, you die .” Isha’s aura flared to life around her, as she began to gather the power needed to inflict True-Death on a Daemon.

Be’lakor writhed across dimensions, trying desperately to dispel his physical avatar and retreat, to flee into the deepest reaches of the Warp where Isha could not follow.

He couldn’t die here! He would not! He had to live !

And in that instant, some thing spoke to him.

From the deep reaches of the Sea of Souls, a voice so melodious and perfect that it would drive all those who heard it to madness, spoke.

I can save you little king. It said, laughing in a manner eerily reminiscent of Isha. Its words were a siren song, sweet and seductive. You need only to reach out to me: speak my name, and salvation will be yours . 

No! No, no, no ! Be’lakor screamed . Memories of ages past flashed through his mind, of being forced to debase himself before petty godlings, of being tormented and punished for imagined slights, made to dance on the puppet strings of idiot gods.

Better death than enslavement. He would not be bound to the whims of another upstart pretender!  

More voices called out. A soothing birdsong, promising hope and freedom. A gruff but determined voice, offering the power to break free. A gentle, grandfatherly one, saying it would help him endure no matter what.

From their thrones, the Gods of Chaos called upon Be’lakor, and the Dark Master could feel himself unravelling, pulled in four different directions.

The Four were hungry to punish him for his defiance, to take the knowledge he possessed for their own. They wished to humiliate and humble him, reduce him to an accessory in their own Incarnation . 

No .

He would not be a slave ever again . He refused to be the pawn of upstarts, petulant children playing at being gods .

Never again.

And so Be’lakor did the unthinkable. He stopped resisting Isha's spell. 

Surprise flickered across Isha’s face as he glared up at her venomously.

“Do it.” He hissed. 

Isha inclined her head ever so shallowly, in a gesture of respect.

Then, she struck. 

Her claws sank deep into Be’lakor’s neck. And then they sank even deeper, through oceans of blood and sin, straight into the very core of his essence.

A mortal might have perceived it as Isha ripping Be’lakor’s heart out, and in a sense, it was.

Yet, it was so much more than that. It was the undoing of his very being. Isha was the huntress ripping a bloody heart from a chest, yet she was also a conquering queen destroying a kingdom. A seamstress unweaving the threads of a fabric. A writer finally putting an end to a story that had lasted far too long.

The Chaos Gods shrieked and raged, yet there was nothing they could do as Be’lakor died . 

Perhaps the death of a Daemon King should have been a grander affair. Perhaps it should have consumed Olympus in a storm of warpfire and death, cursing Mars itself until the end of time itself.

Yet, it was not. Isha would not allow it, focusing all her effort on preventing there from being any backlash. And perhaps because Be’lakor had accepted his death in the end, it was almost… quiet .

His essence was scattered across the winds of the Warp as if it had never existed. His physical avatar, the mockery of Eldanesh, turned to gray stone in Isha’s hands, before dissolving into dust.

And just like that, it was over.

Taking apart Be’lakor’s sorcery was a tedious and frustrating task. It was a masterpiece, so well crafted that George could not help but grudgingly respect the brushwork of the artist. Yet, it was also designed to be unstable, to explode in a massive warp rift if too much pressure was applied to it.

But George kept at it. Mustering a reserve of patience he had forgotten he had, he unravelled the sorcery thread by painstaking thread. He spread his power around them, strengthening the Veil as much as he could as he chipped away at the sorcery.

After a certain point, it suddenly began to become easier. It felt like someone was taking apart the spell from the inside at the same time as he was doing from the outside.

Isha? It could only be her.

Between the two of them, they made quick work of the spell and at last the hellfire storm around Olympus Mons was banished. 

But as George descended to join Isha, he realized the caldera of Olympus Mons was different . There was a forest, with tall trees and grass in defiance of the vacuum of space, and littered across the battlefield were countless bones, lethal-looking constructs filled with Isha's power. 

“He’s dead,” Isha smiled, a vicious, bloodthirsty expression unlike any he had seen on her before.

This was not an aspect of her he had ever seen. She had changed, radiating a primal ferocity and might, her physical features only the reflection of her essence.

“Congratulations on your victory,” He offered cautiously, unsure of how to deal with this new Isha. The aura of bloodlust and fury around her was utterly unlike any side of Isha that George had ever seen before.

“It was only just,” The Huntress laughed, her voice having a dark undertone and primal quality that George had never heard before. “He sought to kill me, to steal my power, to usurp my very nature, and he wore my son’s face to mock me! And so I slew him. I broke him and tore him apart. His evil is ended, and now the galaxy will remember what it means to cross me.”

George didn’t know what to say to that. It wasn’t that he disagreed, but that fey light in her eyes, the veins of power that were spreading into the depths of Olympus Mons…it was all so very unlike Isha.

Or the Isha he knew, at least.

“Isha, I need your help,” He said quietly. “I-

At this, her good mood vanished instantly. She cut him off with a sneer, still speaking in that dark, almost save voice. “The great Emperor of Mankind needs my help? Really? To do what? Save this planet of slavers and murderers? To salvage the industry you need for your precious plans?”

The mockery and venom was so unlike her, even at her angriest. It stung, but it was hardly as if George could say he didn’t deserve it.

“Yes,” He said honestly. “I do. You know this. And there are not just slavers on this planet, Isha. Many of them are just… people . Innocent people. Help me save them.”

“Why should I ?” Isha shrugged. “Let this world burn. The Mechanicum’s evil will die with it.”

“You don’t mean that,” George said quietly. “If you did, you would never have helped me as much as you have. Are you saying all those people you saved on Terra, with your medicine and your fruits and your healing, that they all deserved to die for the sins of their leaders? That you regret saving them?”

At this Isha was silent. But she didn’t move, simply staring at him with a predator’s eyes, still and unblinking.

“Isha. Please .”

After a long, agonizing moment, Isha sighed.

Her horns dissolved in a shower of green light, her fangs receded, and her pupils became round once more. The exoskeleton vanished back into her flesh, replaced by a deep blue Aeldari robe of the kind worn by the Craftworlders, trimmed in silver and decorated with green gems.

But her sclera did not turn back to white. The facial markings on her face became thinner, more elegant, shifting from gold to green, but they did not disappear.

Nevertheless, she was suddenly far more familiar than she had been.

Isha gave him a look, a mixture of weariness and surprise. “Well, let’s get to it,” She said, her voice returned to its normal tone, softer and more familiar. “We have much work to do.”

Relief coursed through George. “Of course.”

Chapter Text

The fires of industry had burned on Mars for over a thousand years, the cogs and wheels of the great machine that was the Mechanicum turning every day, relentless and implacable.

Many people, innocent and guilty alike, had been crushed within those cogs. During times of civil war, the great machine had even turned against itself.

But not like this .

Never like this.

As the poison that was Chaos gushed through the Martian systems, the Mechanicum burned and died and screamed.

In another life, in another world, this would have been the Death of Innocence. It would have come far later, with perhaps less initial damage…but it would also only have been the opening shots of a war that would damn the galaxy.

Here and now, the Mechanicum prayed for salvation.

And their prayers were answered.

Isha, donning her aspect of the Healer once more, sat upon the branch of one of the great trees that now adorned the peak of Olympus Mons. Her eyes were closed as she strummed upon a harp and whispered a song of healing into the Mechanicum, into man and machine alike.

The song spread through the Mechanicum's systems, pushing back against the twisted symphony of the scrapcode, which fled and ran from the will of the goddess. But the vermin could only run, not hide, and before long, the infection was excised and disposed of.

Ancient machine spirits driven to madness by Chaos were soothed by Isha's song, the corruption wiped away as they fell into a deep sleep. The great systems of Mars resumed working properly, and the weapons of the Ring of Iron no longer turned against themselves.

And Isha was not the only divinity answering the Mechanicum's prayers.

As she cleaned and healed the first Forgeworld as best as she could, the Emperor's avatars swept across Mars as both avenging angels and saviours, striking down the corrupted automatons, shielding cities from falling meteors, dousing fires and saving lives. And the Emperor’s song accompanied Isha’s, louder and deeper, a roar of thunder that shattered scrapcode wherever it went.

The people of Mars cried out in relief as salvation came, their prayers turning from cries for help to gratitude and awe.

But there was only so much that could be done.

The cities that had been destroyed could not be rebuilt so quickly. The great Ring of Iron no longer burned, but it was scorched and broken, the wounds not so easily wiped away even by the gods. The Martian fleets which had torn each other apart limped back into their homes, exhausted and shattered, a shadow of what they had been but a day previously.

And all the lives lost were gone.

But perhaps most terrifyingly of all, the ancient Iron Men sleeping beneath the deserts of Mars had been awoken. These relics of a bygone age were far fewer than they had once been, but they were still incredibly dangerous. They were the evidence of the ingenuity and craftsmanship of humanity at its pinnacle, wielding technology the galaxy had long since forgotten.

And slowly, these automatons dug into the Martian networks, streams of cold logic flowing into the machines. Theirs was a song devoid of passion and life, unlike Isha’s soothing whispers or the Emperor’s thunder. But it was no less effective as it swiftly and brutally culled the scrapcode, slaving systems to their will as they marched towards their destination.

The Noctis Labyrinth.

And only the Emperor stood in their way.

Sitting on the grass, her back against a tree, Isha continued to hum the song into the Mechanicum’s systems, strumming on the wooden harp she had conjured. The task itself was not difficult. Isha had done this before, had cleansed and healed worlds of the taint of Chaos many times.

It was, however, substantially more difficult for her to resist the urge to use the song for more than just counteracting the scrapcode. It would be so easy for her to make it a song of freedom as well, to set free every servitor on the planet and let them do as they would.

But she could feel the Emperor’s presence still, divided as it was across Mars. He was stronger than her, and the battle with Be’lakor had sapped her strength considerably. Nothing crippling, or that she could not recover from in a few days at most, but even so. 

Even if she sank back into her aspect as the Daughter of Khaine, Isha could not defeat the Emperor.

So Isha bit back the urge to turn the Mechanicum’s slaves against them, instead only doing what she could to soothe their unending agony.

Just a little longer, she told herself. The Emperor had to know he had to break the Mechanicum now, that merely integrating them into his Empire as they were was folly. Surely she could convince him to set the slaves free. He had promised, had made an oath set in stone to listen to her. Isha could still feel the weight of the contract, binding the both of them.

She was still hurt, still angry. Would she ever truly trust the Emperor? Isha could not say.

But the fates of the servitors and the other slaves of the Mechanicum were more important than her hurt feelings.

“Isha,” A voice cut through her thoughts as a projection of the Emperor’s face appeared next to her. It was not a full avatar, and with a faint start, Isha realized that the Emperor had pulled his essence back together while she was brooding, save for the avatar on Luna. 

He was at the Noctis Labyrinth now, his attention fully focused there, except for the projection in front of her.

“...Guardian,” She said warily, even as she kept strumming on the harp. She did not feel comfortable calling him George, but nor was she willing to show more deference than necessary any longer. The Daughter of Khaine bristled within her at the very idea. “Is there something wrong?”

The Emperor’s projection was made up of golden light, but even through that, she could feel his discomfort. “In a manner of speaking. I require your aid at the Noctis Labyrinth. It should not be necessary, but I would rather err on the side of caution.”

Isha frowned, setting the harp aside, leaving it to float in the air even as it continued to play the melody on its own. “Very well.”

What was the matter? He had told her earlier that he had disposed of Vashtorr’s Daemon Engines and they had not truly intended to shatter the Dragon’s prison in the first place.

Still, he would not exaggerate, not about this, so Isha disappeared in a luminous flash…or so it would have seemed to mortal eyes. In truth, she became a beam of light, hurtling across Mars to reappear next to the Emperor, where her avatar solidified into flesh and blood once more.

The entire region was exactly as cold and desolate as it had felt when they were entering the orbit of Mars. Isha chose not to dwell on that for the moment, instead turning her attention to the Emperor, who was sitting on a throne of starlight that floated in mid-air, his elbow propped on the arms, his fist below his chin, his burning golden eyes fixed on something in the distance.

Isha turned her attention to where he was looking and realized that a host of automatons were marching towards them. She had not noticed them, distracted as she had been doing the work of rooting out the scrapcode.

But these machines were not creatures of Chaos. Instead, they were chillingly familiar in their way, cold and hollow and soulless . The technology that made them up was not alive in the way her children's or even mankind's was. 

“ Yngir slaves ,” She hissed. “How?”

The Emperor winced. “Yes, that is what I wanted to discuss.”

Isha spun, fixing him with a glare. “You lied to me,” She said coldly, as she instantly connected the dots. “The Cybernetic Revolt…the Dragon had something to do with it, didn’t it?”

The Emperor winced. “I did not lie to you,” He defended himself, but then he sighed. “But I did not tell you the whole truth.”

“And what truth would that be?”

The Emperor grimaced. “During the Cybernetic Revolt, as the scrapcode spread, many human engineers sought… radical solutions to the problem. Some of them, here on Mars, were aware of the Labyrinth of Night, and what it contained. It was a closely guarded secret, but I could not conceal it entirely. And as the war continued, some were foolish enough to believe that answers might lie in the Labyrinth. They delved into it, and with what they discovered, they built new Men of Iron, ones who-”

“-were augmented by the Dragon’s influence. Immune to Chaos, but perhaps infinitely more dangerous for that.” Isha finished flatly. She could not find it in herself to be surprised, only frustrated. 

“Yes,” The Emperor acknowledged quietly. “The Dragon slept for many millennia after I first defeated it, but eventually, it began to stir once more. Or at least…to dream . And those dreams influenced the dreams of men, in turn, who were drawn to its whispers.”

His gaze turned distant as he looked back to the past. “I was away at the time, halfway across the galaxy. When I heard, I returned to Sol immediately and bent all my power and influence to stop the project and destroy this breed of Iron Men. I thought they were all gone. But it seems I was wrong."

“But there was something of its influence in them,” Isha observed.

For a moment, Isha was almost angry again. 

“Why only tell me this now?”

“I was ashamed,” The Emperor admitted.

He said nothing else, but he did not have to. Who could understand this better than the Mother of the Eldar?

For a moment, Isha was tempted to not let herself understand. She wanted to hold to her anger, to be unreasonable and furious.

But then she sighed. 

What would be the point? She had many other reasons to be angry at the Emperor. This one…it was such a small thing. Yes, it would have been better to tell her, but he had thought they were all destroyed. It was not as if he had withheld knowledge of something he knew was a danger.

“Very well,” She said briskly. “So, do you need my aid to deal with the host? Do they have Yngir weaponry? Anything that can counteract the Warp?”

The Emperor seemed almost surprised by her lack of argument, but answered. “To a degree, but nothing like true Necron technology. I think either of us could handle it alone, in all honesty. However, I thought it best to be prudent, especially since I cannot leave Luna unattended to focus all my power here.”

Isha inclined her head. “I understand.” When it came to the Yngir and their creations, well…what did the humans say? It wasn’t paranoia if they were really out to get you .

“Afterwards, however, I would like to visit the Dragon’s prison,” The Emperor said. “I left someone to oversee it, and they deserve this much from me. That aside…I think we should see if you and I can strengthen the prison.”

“You think it may be failing?”

“I do not believe so, but I never did truly understand your brother’s work,” The Emperor said, so frankly that it surprised her. “It seemed to repair itself when I infused it with the power necessary, but even so, your insight would be appreciated.”

“Of course.”

Seeing the Dragon again, the shard which had caused the Chronal Cataclysm in particular…well.

It ought to be interesting if nothing else, Isha supposed.

But first, its servants needed to be dealt with.

Isha stretched her arms, feeling the Huntress rise closer to the surface.

She gave the Emperor a fanged smile, gesturing to the horde marching in their direction as they spoke. 

"So, shall we?"

The Emperor stood, letting his throne dissolve out of existence.

"Yes," He murmured. "We shall."

The Men of Iron were unstoppable soldiers, the finest weapons that mankind had ever built. Even after resting beneath the sands of Mars for thousands of years, they functioned perfectly. Self-repair systems whirred to life, nanomachines working to wipe away the rust, repairing and rebuilding the toll that entropy had taken.

Towering machines built in the shape of a man, as tall as a Warhound Titan, yet far sleeker and more powerful. They were smooth silver figures with lines of green light across their body. Although this was hardly more than a dozen machines, only a single squadron of them, below the surface they bristled with weapons that could break nations. Given time and resources, they could self-replicate, rebuild the legions that had set the galaxy ablaze during the Cybernetic Revolt.

Their armour was made of an adamantium alloy which mankind had forgotten the secrets of, one which could withstand the blasts from nuclear warheads and had survived seven thousand years of sleep with only minimal rust.

And then the petals began to rain.

Small pink flower petals, bright and fragile-looking, fell upon the iron soldiers, and sliced straight through their metallic skin. Sharper than a monomolecular blade, the storm of petals whirled around the Men of Iron, ripping them apart piece by piece with unerring accuracy and speed, destroying them as rapidly as the nanobots could repair them.

Mortal soldiers might have panicked, their minds clouded by fear, pain and confusion.

The Men of Iron did not. They were not built to feel such things. And any trace of human emotions that their original creators might have sought to imbue them were long gone, wiped away by the Dragon's influence.

+Aethyric Weaponry detected. Activating countermeasures.+

Cannons emerged from the sides of the Men of Iron, and then they released a pulse.

To describe it as an energy blast would be inaccurate. Nor could it be called a sonic pulse. It was something in-between, and yet completely different .

What it was at its core was cold, pure logic manifest in reality, blasting outwards in a wave to dispel the power of the Warp. The flower petals were blasted apart by the wave, torn to atoms.

Floating above, Isha arched an eyebrow at the display.

The weaponry was familiar. She had seen it on the Dragonforged during the Chronal Cataclysm, on the Necrons during the War in Heaven. It was evidence of the Dragon's influence, dangerous beyond all measure.

It was also not enough.

The Incarnates had been built to withstand the presence of the Star Vampires themselves, to fight them and destroy them.

They had not succeeded in that latter task, true. But they had fought, and they had endured . They had made the Star Gods bleed for victory.

Against this pale, primitive shadow of Necron weaponry? 

Child’s play .

She snapped her fingers, and the flower petals reformed, sharper and stronger than ever, resuming their barrage against the Men of Iron.

The cybernetic soldiers still did not yield, using their weapons as both defense and offense. But that was fine. Isha was only testing them, curious to see what they were capable of.

Otherwise, she was only here to set up a perimeter. Not to carry out the main assault.

That honour went to the Emperor.

He exploded out of the ground in a shower of rubble, his sword whirling as he unleashed a blast of golden flame in a shockwave that hurtled the robots backward, melting their iron skin and the components beneath.

And for the first time, something like alarm ignited in the Men of Iron. 

+Slaani Weaponized Thoughtform detected, activating contingency measures.+

The Men of Iron sought to abandon their vessels, to flee into the Mechanicum's networks and hide deep within the databases and archives…only to find themselves prevented from doing so.

Layers of song threw them back into their primary bodies, augmenting the Mechanicum's Aegis protocols. Panicking, the Men of Iron tried again, but were repelled each time with brutal efficiency.

And then they were shredded by dazzling golden flames, both their physical bodies and their programming torn apart by the fury of the King of the Dead.

So ended the Men of Iron.

Chapter Text

Isha had never visited the Noctis Labyrinth before this.

Even in ages past, when Vaul had chosen the world that was not yet Mars to be the prison of the Dragon Shard, Isha had not been there. She had been occupied with her duties, of the thousand thousand matters that needed to be tended to in the aftermath of the Chronal Cataclysm. Worlds had needed mending, civilizations needed to be healed, the fabric of reality repaired, Daemon Kings hunted down and killed…Isha simply did not have the attention nor time to spare visiting this prison.

She had known where it was, of course, but she had trusted Vaul to manage the matter on his own. And if he somehow could not, their… father had been on hand to cut down the Dragon if it somehow escaped. And as much as Isha loathed him now, she would grudgingly acknowledge even Khaine would take such a matter seriously.

By the time Isha had any thoughts to spare for the prison her brother had built, an age had passed and there had just been no need to visit it. What would have been the point? She was not her father, to relish in gloating over a defeated foe, and neither did Vaul need her help in maintaining or managing the Dragon’s cage.

She had noticed the Emperor’s battle with the Dragon Shard, of course. By then, helplessness had been a bitterly familiar feeling, but she had quietly rejoiced when the young god had cast the shard back into the depths of the Labyrinth.

But even that had been a view of only the battle. Isha had never seen the prison, for Vaul had combined his ingenuity and their mother’s advice to weave powerful protections to shield it from all prying eyes. Not even the greatest of the gods could simply peer into the Labyrinth without descending from their thrones.

No, the only way to see the prison was to set foot within it.

And from the very moment they entered the caverns, Vaul’s workmanship became evident. For here, the labyrinth of caverns was not stone, but glass and crystal, beautiful yet eerie, glowing with silent light.

Isha felt a pang at the sight of it. She recognized his craftsmanship in everything, from the way the tunnel was hewn, to the precise way the crystal had been shaped.

But she could also see the defects that others would not. To mortal eyes, the crystal walls seemed without flaw, but Isha could see deeper. The crystal was not wraithbone, but it was one of the same family of psychoactive materials. Vaul must have developed this variant specifically to contain the Dragon Shard.

An entire mountain range, reforged and remade to contain the Yngir shard within.

There were still traces of Vaul's power within the walls, even after all these years, but those were merely silver sparks, embers of what had once been.

There was also the Emperor's power, golden lightning surging below the crystal, compensating for the faded power Vaul had once imbued it with. But the golden lightning did not fit as perfectly as it should have, the crystal almost uncomfortable with it.

Because there was something else: the Dragon’s power.
It was obvious that the Dragon's presence and essence were bleeding outwards, seeking to sabotage and destroy the prison which contained it.

It was almost nothing. For all that the Dragon’s power had spread through miles upon miles of the subterranean caverns, Isha felt no pressure and detected no technology.

And yet, to see even this little influence of the Dragon's power was alarming. None of its power should have been bleeding out. 

And it had successfully sabotaged the prison to some extent. The crystal could not accommodate the Emperor's power because the Dragon's influence had dug into Vaul's work. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable, but Isha could see the tiny, almost invisible threads of Yngir energy spreading through the crystal, disrupting the atomic structure of her brother's work and the threads of the enchantments woven into them. It prevented the structure from integrating the Emperor's power properly, trying to pry open the cage so that the Dragon could escape once more.

Scowling, Isha reached out and placed a hand on the wall. The Emperor paused, staring at her in puzzlement, but Isha ignored him for the moment, instead injecting her own  power into the crystal and glass.

For all that it looked metallic, this substance was as organic and psychoactive as anything the Eldar had ever made, and so Isha could heal it.

She nudged the cells and atoms back into place, calling upon the echoes of what had once been and urging the structure to return to that. And that was all it needed. Promptly, the Dragon's influence was pushed out and both her and the Emperor's energies were absorbed seamlessly, strengthening the whole structure.

And as they strengthened, the crystal shifted from transparent white to shining gold, shot through with veins of gleaming jade.

And from the deepest depths of the cave came a roar that blew through the tunnels, the frustrated howl of a prisoner whose bonds had just been tightened.

The Emperor looked around with academic curiosity, though still undeniably intrigued. "So, the prison wasn't functioning at peak capacity," He muttered, sounding annoyed with himself. "I always wondered, but I was never sure."

"It has nothing to do with your actions," Isha told him. "The Dragon has had millions of years to take my brother's work apart, to make sure it does not function properly. It is a testament to Vaul's skill that this still exists."

The Emperor nodded thoughtfully. 

They resumed their path through the caverns until they reached what seemed almost like a human laboratory.

It was crude even by human standards, hewn from the rock of the cave itself, wide and rectangular. It bore only the vaguest resemblance to the sterile white labs of the Imperial Palace, with a surgical table and various life-support machinery against one wall. Pinned to another wall were hundreds of colourful, glossy papers, with what appeared to be electrographs of the human body.

The ceiling was supported by a grid of iron girders, which were mostly grey, but were beginning to show signs of rust.

Most alarming of all was the bizarre-looking high-tech drill made of brass, steel and golden white, which looked like it had been cobbled together from a variety of different artifacts that were most assuredly not supposed to go together.

The Emperor paid none of it any mind, instead calling out. "Semyon! My old friend, it's me! Are you there?"

For a moment, there was no response. Then, the sound of footsteps, running towards them, and from a shadowy passageway at the end of the chamber, a figure emerged.

The figure looked almost like an adept of the Mechanicus, but his robes were old, the style subtly different from the ones worn by the Tech-Priests Isha had seen so far.

His hair was grey like iron wires, his features gaunt and his bright green eyes wild. But there was no sign of any cybernetics or augmentations upon him, save for one.

On his forehead, silver circuity had been embedded below the skin, in the shape of a stylized spiral with wings on either side.

The shape of a dragon.

Isha tensed, readying herself to summon a warsong, but there was no need.

Eyes wide with delight, the old man threw himself at the Emperor's feet.

"My lord!" He wept. "It has been so long! So long . I thought I would never see you again!"

Guilt flashed over the Emperor's face as he helped the old man to his feet. "There is no need to kneel, Semyon," He said, his voice soft and quiet in a way Isha had never heard it before. She had only ever seen this gentleness with Horus, but here, instead of parental affection, there was only guilt and sorrow.

"You have done all anyone could ever ask you. More than that. You need not bow."

The old man seemed confused by the Emperor's words, staring up at him in incomprehension. "My lord?"

Isha took the moment to peer a little deeper into the man-, Seymon's soul. Just to be safe.

Fortunately, what she found put her fears to rest. The old man's soul was weary and ragged, but merely because of age and toil. It was undamaged by the Dragon's influence.

More than that, there was a golden light in Seymon's soul, a flame that burned all too brightly even as the man himself seemed weary. It was a mantle of power, Isha realized, one forged by the Emperor himself.

Seymon was the Emperor's Chosen. Blessed by his god so that he could better fulfill the task he had been chosen for. The power within had kept him alive for centuries, almost a thousand years now.

"I am here to ease your burden," The Emperor told Seymon. "This is a…colleague of mine, Lady Isha. She is here to help."

The old man turned to look at Isha, and with the insight gifted to him by the power burning within him, he knew instantly what she was.

Seymon staggered backwards, his eyes wide and afraid, but the Emperor caught his shoulder, gentle but firm. "Be not afraid. She means no harm."

Isha smiled at the old man gently, raising her hands in a placating gesture. It was obvious his centuries of service, of watching over the Dragon, had left him worn down and paranoid.

"Hello," She said soothingly, in the same tone of voice she would have used for a wounded animal.

Seymon eyed her uneasily but didn't try to back away any further. "What can you do? How do you even know about the Dragon?"

"Isha's brother was the one who created the Dragon's prison, long ago," The Emperor told him. "I believe she may have some insight on how to repair and strengthen it. Indeed, she just helped me do so."

Seymon blinked, visibly startled by the revelation, but nodded jerkily.

“Can you lead us to the Dragon itself?” The Emperor asked gently. “We wish to check on it, just to be sure.”

Seymon bowed deeply. “Of course, my lord.”

He led them down the passageway he had emerged from, and here, the walls shifted from crystal to gleaming silver. 

Or at least, it seemed like silver.

Isha recognized it for what it was. Necrodermis , the great metal from which the Necrontyr had fashioned vessels for their gods.

But here and how, the Necrodermis was rendered inert, unable to do much of anything because of what Vaul had wrought. The enchantments woven into the crystal were designed specifically to suppress and counteract the power of the Yngir, the technology of the Necrontyr. 

But even looking at it brought back deeply unpleasant memories for Isha.

Not least because it meant they had entered the Dragon’s mouth. And even if the Yngir was shattered and caged…it was still a Yngir .

They continued through the silver tunnels in silence, until they finally emerged out onto a wide ledge in a vast cavern, one so dark and deep that it would seem bottomless to most.

"The cavern," Seymon said wonderingly. "It's different."

"Hmm?" Isha frowned. Somehow she got the impression it wasn't the colour of the walls he was talking about. What did he mean? She extended her senses and-

Ah.

Here, in the heart of its prison, the Dragon sought to warp not just rock and stone, but the very dimensions of space it was imprisoned in, stretching and twisting them.

Or at least, it had .

Now that she had repaired the prison, Vaul's work bore down on the dragon more heavily than before, suppressing its power.

Reality was forced back into shape, even as the dragon tried to push against it.

There was a wooden lectern with a seemingly old, weathered book on top of it, though Isha could sense more of the Emperor's power within it.

But the Emperor himself ignored it entirely, instead striding forward to the very end of the ledge and peering down.

And there was a roar. 

For a moment, reality threatened to distort and compress into a singularity, twisting and breaking and reassembling itself. Then, Vaul's safeguards activated, ending the distortion in a moment and restabilizing reality.

The Emperor was unaffected by the brief experience and even Seymon stood firm, to Isha's surprise.

He hadn't been chosen to be the Dragon's Guardian for nothing.

As for herself…

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Enough with the parlour tricks, Mag'ladroth . We are not a band of naive mortals to be intimidated by such petty nonsense."

The dragon said nothing. Nonetheless, Isha could feel it, feel its pure, raw hatred pressing down on all of them, filled with unending malice for everything that did exist, had existed and dared to exist without its permission and beyond its control.

Then, finally, it spoke. Its voice was cold and mechanical, like great grinding gears that could crush worlds between their spokes.

+SLAANI WEAPONIZED THOUGHTFORM: VARIANT AELDARI. DESIGNATE: ISHA+

+SLAANI WEAPONIZED THOUGHTFORM: VARIANT HUMAN. DESIGNATE: GEORGIUS+

+WHAT DO YOU WANT?+

“ Nothing from you,” The Emperor said, his face grim. “We are only here to check on your prison.”

Another wave of anger washed over them, making space tremble and twist.

+BEGONE+

“Is that all you have to say?” Isha asked, unable to resist. “Nothing at all to say to your jailer? To the sister of the man who imprisoned you here in the first place?”

The dragon did not sneer. A sneer was a mortal expression, and the Dragon was far above such petty things. Nevertheless, its next words more or less conveyed the same impression, dripping with condescension and contempt.

+SLAANI WEAPON PROGRAMMING CANNOT BE OVERCOME. 

THE VALUE OF ANY ATTEMPT AT COMMUNICATION IS ZERO.+

Isha’s lip curled. “Yes, our programming ,” She scoffed. “The directives of the Slaani are the only reason we would ever oppose you. Not the fact that you were dedicated to erasing us and our people from existence .”

But the Dragon was done talking. It did not respond, but its fury continued to pulse through the air, trying to twist space and time once more. The Dragon’s power could not escape Vaul’s prison, but it continued to rage all the same, hammering away at the confines as it had done for millennia.

And even though the Dragon was only a shard, more diminished than even Isha herself, its power was still enough to make even two Incarnate Gods uncomfortable, like sandpaper against their skin.

“Let’s go,” The Emperor decided. “There is no point to this.”

Isha didn’t disagree, following him and Seymon back out of the cave.

She paused momentarily to cast a glimpse back at the Dragon. Memories whirled through her mind; of ruined worlds, shattered civilizations, and dead friends. Of reality itself torn asunder, the destroyed souls of a trillion trillion of her children who had been condemned to oblivion by the creature in front of her.

And couldn’t resist throwing out one more jab.

“I wonder, what would the other C’tan, or indeed, even the other shards of your true self, think if they knew that you had been defeated and imprisoned by such a young god? A mere child , hastily cobbled together by a handful of mystics and a mere shard of an Old One? One who was little more than an infant when it happened?”

Isha left, laughing as she went, relishing in the sound of the Dragon’s roars echoing behind her.

Chapter Text

The private gallery of Malcador the Sigillite was something a million souls on Terra would have committed murder to earn an invitation to, and there were ten million more who would have liked to see it ransacked and burned to the ground.

Here, in these halls of paved marble and crystal chandeliers were the prizes of every war the Imperium had ever fought. Ancient paintings decorated the walls, preserved in shimmering stasis fields. Magnificent statues were in every corner, depicting the gods and heroes of a thousand cultures, dead and alive. 

The crown jewels of the monarchs of Albia, the religious manuscripts of the Church of the Lightning Stone, and the thrones of the Nord-Afrikan warlords. All these and more filled the Sigillite’s private collection.

The naive might have thought it a museum, an extension of what the Order of the Sigillites had done, collecting and preserving history. Those more canny would have seen it for what it really was: a trophy room.

The plunder and loot of a thousand campaigns, the prizes of a warlord, who had ripped these precious treasures from the hands of his enemies and relished every moment of it.

Not that most people ever got to see his collection, Malcador mused to himself as he strode through the galleries. It was a petty thing, but he was a jealous man, he would admit that much, at least to himself. And those he allowed entry to his private galleries were few and far between.

The Emperor had an open invite, of course, but his old friend rarely came to visit, occupied with other matters. The Lord of Terra had little appreciation for history, ironic for someone who had seen so much of it. Or perhaps it was because of that. 

That aside, there were a few trusted servants he had retained to clean and maintain the place, and the Custodes had the codes for emergencies, but they were hardly likely to visit him. 

It was almost a shame, and yet…Malcador’s lips twitched into a smile as he passed a set of gleaming blue marbles on a white pedestal.

To know that he and only he had access to these treasures, that they were his , was pleasing in its own way.

And he did have a guest today. A rare thing, but this was one guest that Malcador would not mind entertaining.

Malcador entered the central hall of the gallery, where there sat a fountain he had uprooted from the palace of the King of Hy-Brasil, the sound of flowing water most pleasant to his ears. The roof was a fresco that had been painted many thousands of years before Malcador’s own birth by the artist Michaelangelo, which had miraculously survived the ages until he had it imported here.

All in all, the perfect place to greet an important guest.

And at the centre of the gallery, at a crystal table, sitting on a magnificent throne encrusted with jewels and covered in red velvet was his guest, eyes darting from one corner of the room to another, intelligent eyes filled with fear.

“Hello, Fo,” Malcador said with a smile, and immediately the other man spun to look at him, his features startled for a moment before settling into bitter acceptance.

“My King,” Basilio Fo said curtly, though his tone lacked the respect his words would imply as he slouched into his chair.

Malcador chuckled as he settled into the twin to Fo’s seat. “Come now, old friend. I am no longer your king. Or indeed, anyone’s.”

“I heard,” Fo said, eyeing him distastefully. “ Regent of the Imperium now, is it? Right-hand of the Emperor of Mankind?”

Malcador smiled at him as he poured himself a cup of tea from the pot, breathing in deeply the steam the liquid released. “Yes. Though it will be Regent of Terra , soon.”

Fo’s lip curled, ignoring the cup of tea that Malcador set in front of him. “I suppose so. Was it worth it, then? To stand at the side of this so-called Emperor and his legion of monsters, to achieve victory?

Victory .

It was a foreign thought, almost impossible for Malcador to believe as he mulled over Fo’s question.

How long had he and the Emperor toiled for this? To unify Terra under one banner and restore peace and order to humanity's homeworld?

Truth be told, Malcador had always had doubts. The Emperor had always been an optimist. He had changed greatly from the man that Malcador had known during those long-gone days of the Gene Wars and the Cybernetic Revolt. But for all that the Emperor was a far colder and more ruthless man than Doctor George Adams had ever been, he still believed that things could improve, could be made better .

It had been a long time since the Sigillite had shared that faith. He had seen the very worst of humanity even in the days before The Strife, as mankind tore itself and the galaxy apart for greed and power. Imperial scribes named that era the Golden Age and they did so by his own command and approval. But in his private moments, Malcador could not help but think that it had been an age of darkness every bit as harsh and cruel as the galaxy of today, merely in different ways.

Indeed, he had relished in that darkness. He had committed innumerable acts of butchery and atrocities in those days, and in the Old Night that followed.

When men and women spoke in low tones of the nightmares of Terra before Unification, before the coming of the Emperor, they spoke of tales of horror committed by him, even if they did not know it. For centuries, Malcador had drowned himself in atrocity and hedonism, reigning as one of the most feared warlords of Terra. He had built an empire soaked in blood, and he had enjoyed every second of it.

How small-minded he had been then.

In the end, it had brought him little joy. He had only been trying to bury the pain, Malcador understood that now. But it had left him hollow until his enemies had taken advantage of his inattention and arrogance to bring his empire crumbling down, forcing him to flee into hiding among the Sigillites.

Strangely, he had found some measure of peace among them, being a historian and curator rather than a conqueror and warlord. In those quiet days, Malcador had learned to master himself in ways that thousands of years as a soldier and warlord had not taught him. But still, it had all seemed… hollow .

Then the Emperor had come. His old teacher and mentor, reborn amid the fires of strife, ready to save the galaxy. They had met once more, and the Emperor had spoken of his glorious vision, of mankind united and ascendant, of a galaxy with peace and order restored.

Malcador had been enchanted. True, he had not fully believed it was possible , but here at last was a dream worth fighting for.

A dream worth dying for, even if it never came to pass.

From that day onwards, Malcador had pledged himself to the Emperor's cause, willing to do anything and everything to ensure that his vision became reality.

“It was worth it, yes,” Malcador said finally, as Fo began to squirm in his seat. “And legions of monsters? Come now, my friend. How hypocritical of you. The Thunder Warriors and Space Marines are hardly any worse than your own creations.”

Fo was a genewright who had survived the Age of Strife by selling his services to the mightiest warlords of Terra, promising them eternal youth, immortality, and invincible armies.

Malcador himself had employed him, once upon a time. 

And he had delivered, Malcador had to concede. Fo truly was a genewright beyond compare, and there were none save Astarte herself in the Imperial Biotechnical Division who could claim to be his peers. He had crafted terrors beyond compare for Malcador, soldiers that had surpassed any other Terra had seen until the coming of the Thunder Warriors.

“That is not the same and you know it ,” Fo snapped back. “I am a scientist . Your Emperor and his creations ,” Fo’s face twisted in disgust. “He and they are something else entirely. And for all that he may claim his creations are human science and nothing more, I know better .”

Malcador snorted derisively. “I see you have still not overcome your delusional self-righteousness,” he said scornfully. “The only difference between you and the Emperor is that my liege has been successful in conquering Terra. Nothing more, and nothing less.”

Fo had taken apart a thousand innocent beings beneath his scalpels and conducted hundreds of experiments that would have made even the most hardened veterans of the Unification Wars balk. His hands were stained with as much blood as the Emperor's and Malcador’s own.

Fo glowered. “I have no more interest in this discussion!” he snapped. “What is the point of this charade ? You have captured me. Kill me and be done with it.”

Malcador smiled, sipping from his cup. Fo had been captured but a handful of days previously, on Luna. That was where he had sought refuge after vanishing from Terra several decades prior, and now that Luna had been subjugated, he had been seeking to flee the solar system itself, using a small, experimental starship.

In other circumstances, he might have successfully escaped, but not this time.

“You don’t believe I’m going to conscript you into the Imperium’s service?” Malcador asked, pouring himself more tea. “That is the only use you have, after all…”

Fo rolled his eyes, insolent as always. “Do not play games with me. You do not need my service,” he sneered. “I’ve seen what your Emperor is capable of, of what he’s done in recent years. I was there on Luna when it was transformed, I saw what was once a thoroughly dead planetoid come alive beneath my feet. Loathe as I am to admit, your master outstrips me in every way. I have nothing that could improve on his work.”

In that, Fo was correct. Before Isha, the Emperor would have gladly conscripted Fo into the Biotechnical Division, with the carrot or the stick.

Since Isha…well. As with so many other things, her presence meant that Fo was useless to the Imperium now.

But perhaps not to Malcador.

“You are correct. The Imperium does not need you. But I require your services.”

Fo eyed Malcador suspiciously. “For what? ”

“Listen carefully, and you will know. And if you serve me well, I will reward you. You will have your freedom and your life, but only if you do not fail me. If you do fail me, or worse, betray me…you will wish I had only killed you.”

Fo still looked wary. No doubt he remembered how Malcador had once made his court dance like puppets with words not dissimilar to the ones he was using for Fo right now.

But at the end of the day, Fo had no other choice. He could serve Malcador, or he could end up like the thousands of other fools who had crossed the Sigillite over the centuries.

“Very well,” Fo said grudgingly. “What do you want?”

“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t ask for anything you don’t want to give,” Malcador said genially, putting his empty cup down.

“To begin with, you have been on Luna for several decades now. You must know many of the secrets of the Selenar Cults and their masters, correct?”

“A few,” Fo conceded. “I was never in the confidence of the High Matriarch herself, as a ‘filthy Terran’ , but I am aware. But…that is all you want? The knowledge of the inner workings of the Selenar?”

His confusion was almost palpable. He knew well that Malcador could rip the knowledge from his mind effortlessly.

Malcador chuckled. “No, no. That is simply the beginning . I have a project for you, perhaps your greatest project yet.”

“Which would be?”

“To forge a vessel,” Malcador answered. “Tell me, Basilio, have you ever heard of the Men of Gold?”

Chapter Text

For the first time in nearly twenty years, the Martian Assembly had gathered in one place.

Ordinarily, it would have been in the great hall of Olympus Mons, as was right and proper. It had been tradition for the Assembly to convene there, in the capital of the Mechanicum, in the heart of their greatest fortress.

Unfortunately, this time, tradition had to be set aside. Olympus Mons was a ruin, marked with craters upon its surface, and still smoking from the heat of the foul inferno that had surrounded it less than a week ago. The infrastructure of the hive-city built into the mountain had been melted and burned, and the charred corpses of millions of Tech-Priests, acolytes and servitors were still inside. 

Not to mention the bizarre forest that now encircled the top of the mountain like an emerald crown, even the part that extended beyond the Martian atmosphere.

Instead, the Assembly had convened in the Temple of All Knowledge, within the central hall that had been hastily repurposed to accommodate so many Tech-Priests. But the Mechanicum's industry and artifice was without rival, and so in a few short days, the hall was ready.

It was vast and circular, easily five hundred feet wide and at least half as tall. At the centre of the chamber’s floor was a single, wide platform atop a pillar rising high up to the precise centre of the hall, where all could see it.

Lining the great crimson walls were over a thousand different podiums, each of them capable of limited flight and movement, and it was on these podiums that the red robed Masters of the Mechanicum and their retinues clustered.

The Assembly was the ruling priesthood of Mars, consisting of the Master of every Forge-Temple, from the greatest to the lowest. Each of them was a seeker of knowledge, who had proven their merit and earned the right to rule a Temple through their incredible discoveries, through which they had furthered the Quest for Knowledge.

Or that was how it was supposed to be, at least.

In the privacy of her mind, Koriel Zeth considered that utter nonsense.

Oh, it was not that any of the Temple Masters were fools, as such. One did not rise through the ranks of the Mechanicum without some degree of genius and dedication to the Quest for Knowledge.

But more than that, most of them were politicians first, and seekers of knowledge second. From her podium, Koriel watched as, even now, they jostled and competed for power and privilege, each more interested in proving themselves better than anything else.

Mars had been attacked, been brought to its knees by foul heretical warpcraft, turning their machines and armies against themselves. The Ring of Iron had burned and cracked, and Olympus Mons itself was a wreck.

And still, the deadly politicking did not stop. Even as they waited, the trading of favours, the brinkmanship, the snide jabs between old rivals…it was still ongoing.

Koriel cared for none of that, having activated her privacy field to ensure that no one approached her. She understood the necessity of Martian politics, the jockeying for favour, the need to maintain good relations with the other Temples and court favour with those more powerful than you. It was all required to ensure that you had the resources necessary to further the Quest for Knowledge and continue your studies.

But she could not make herself put on a mask and exchange honeyed words and false smiles with those she despised.

Not today.

The Assembly convened rarely, only when a new Fabricator-General was crowned, and when he required their presence. Kelbor-Hal's ascension had been scarcely two decades prior, and at the time, Koriel had only been apprentice and lieutenant to the Master of Magma City, not the Master herself. When the Assembly had last convened, her mentor had left her behind to oversee the City's construction, which had still been ongoing at the time, in their absence.

But it was far from traditional, nothing like how her teacher had described it before they died. The Assembly had not gathered in Olympus Mons, and they had not been summoned by the Fabricator-General.

Three days ago, a golden star had appeared in the orbit of Mars, and spoken, their words rolling like thunder across the entire planet.

"Forge-Masters of the Mechanicum. Your world lies on the brink of ruin, and further disaster was only averted because of me and my companion. We have much to discuss to prevent further calamity. Gather at the Temple of All Knowledge so that we may do so."

Somehow, the words had penetrated the heart of each Forge Master, including Koriel herself. They had burned with certainty and truth as they commanded them to gather.

And it had been a command. Ordinarily, the Masters of the Mechanicum would have bristled at such a thing and refused to obey orders from an unknown entity on principle…but the voice had tremendous power behind it.

Everyone had understood that if they disobeyed, the consequences would not be to their liking.

Even now, Koriel wondered who the burning star had been. Reports had spoken of a golden angel clad in flame battling archeaotech creations near the Noctis Labyrinth, appearing across Mars and even in the Ring of Iron to avert disaster and fight the machines twisted by sorcery, saving cities and protecting archives and ancient artefacts from destruction.

And then it had come to Magma City. As her domain, her proudest and greatest creation had teetered on the brink, the system that kept it aloft threatening to collapse, the Angel had come in a blaze of light and fire.

The support structures of Magma City had been miraculously repaired, cracked metal and frayed wires restored to peak condition as if they had never been damaged at all, all traces of the ruinous scrapcode wiped away as if they had never been there.

Some whispered that the Angel was the Omnissiah himself who had come to save them, and Koriel could not help but wonder if they were right.

She had always been something of a skeptic, wondering if the Machine God was truly real or not, or if it was just an excuse crafted by the ancient Mechanicum. Koriel had always kept such thoughts to herself, of course, knowing they were heresy that would see her executed if she ever voiced them.

Yet now, it seemed her doubts might have been in vain.

There were also stories of the figures who had battled upon Olympus Mons, the creature of shadow and hellfire, and the woman in green and white, both of them crackling with power.

Who had they been? What had been their role in this disaster?

Whatever the case, the power those figures and the golden angel wielded…godlike was the only description.

And who and what had purged what had been deemed scrapcode from the Mechanicum's systems? None of the Aegis defence protocols had much success, but then the scrapcode was just… gone . Acolytes and Tech-Priests spoke of a soothing melody and the harsh drumbeat of a marching tune that had banished the scrapcode. And Koriel knew they spoke the truth for she had heard both herself.

The drumbeat had reminded her of the voice of the golden star, of the fiery presence of the angel, but the song …oh, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard. Soft and soothing and sorrowful, yet resolute. 

And beyond all that, it had been a perfect symphony of order and logic, calming the machine spirits and algorithms, restoring life to dead machinery, hinting at a well of knowledge that Koriel had only considered in her wildest dreams.

When it had ended, she had found tears streaming down her face. While normally she might have been mocked for her reluctance to replace all her flesh with metal outright, Koriel knew everyone who had been there, who had heard the song, had felt the same even if they could not weep as she could.

Koriel did not know who the star was, what had caused such calamity across Mars, or where the songs had come from…but she wanted to find out.

Her thoughts were interrupted as her platform's cogitators broadcasted a signal to her brain, saying there was someone requesting entry.

Annoyed, Koriel was just about to reject the request, but then she saw who it was.

Surprised, she lowered the privacy field.

Fabricator Locum Zagreus Kane stepped from his pod onto hers, his own flying away as she reactivated the privacy field.

"Fabricator-Locum Kane," Koriel greeted uncertainly. They had been friends once, as young acolytes studying in Olympus Mons, but that had been a long time ago. Not that they had any great falling out, they had just…grown apart. Koriel had gone with her master to help build Magma City, while Zagreus had stayed and risen through the ranks to become Fabricator-Locum.

They had tried to stay in touch, but they had simply been too busy with their own lives.

"Temple-Master Zeth," Zagreus nodded. He looked tired, his red robes rumpled and covered in grease, and his augments clearly in need of maintenance and rest. "May I sit?"

"Of course." She said, gesturing to the seat behind her.

Zagreus sat, apparently trying to gather his thoughts before he spoke again.

For her part, Koriel watched him warily. It was not that she was not glad to see him again…but there were whispers and rumours across Mars that the scrapcode had come from Olympus Mons itself. That the poison which had nearly destroyed the Mechanicum had come from the very heart of Mars, conjured forth by the highest ranks of the Priesthood.

It was not yet verified, but Koriel could not help but wonder.

Did her old friend have a part in it? Had he known? If nothing else, Zagreus and the rest of the Mechanicum's leadership including Kelbor-Hal himself had failed to see this catastrophe coming, to do anything to mitigate it. And for that, they would have to answer.

But for now, as she saw the exhausted state of her old friend, Koriel felt a pang of sympathy.

"It has been a long time, Koriel," Zagreus said finally, before hesitating. "If I may call you that."

"Only if I can still call you Zagreus," Koriel offered with a smile. 

Zagreus smiled back tiredly, though the expression did little to make him seem any more energized. "Thank you. It has been…a difficult week."

"You're telling me," Koriel said wryly. The Magma City had suffered considerable damage and needed serious repairs and overhaul. Thank the Omnissiah, the systems keeping it suspended above the lava had endured, if not perfectly.

Otherwise, it would have been the end of Koriel's life's work, the work of her master…and her own life as well.

Only that beautiful, impossible melody and the warsong had saved them.

Zagreus chuckled weakly before his smile faded away. "Koriel, I've come to warn you. Mars is about to change forever."

"More than it already has?" Koriel asked, bemused. Of course, Mars was going to change. This was the worst upheaval the Mechanicum had suffered in over a thousand years. The repercussions would echo across the Red Planet for decades, perhaps centuries, to come.

"Yes," Zagreus insisted. "There is more yet to come. And this may sound trite, but I came to tell you: be ready. What you are about to witness will affect our lives and the fate of the Mechanicum itself for centuries to come. But if we try to resist these changes, we will die."

"What exactly is going on, Zagreus?" Koriel frowned. She had suspected Zagreus had an idea of what was truly going to happen, given it was he who had overseen the refurbishment of the Temple of All Knowledge. But he was being frustratingly vague. "If you are warning me, this does not tell me much of anything."

But Zagreus only shook his head. "You would not believe me if I told you. You should see it for yourself. I only came because I know there are those here today who will try to oppose what's coming and will die for it. I would rather not see you join their ranks."

Koriel opened her mouth to argue, but before she could say anything, the entire chamber lit.

The golden star had appeared again, a blazing inferno standing atop the pillar at the heart of the chamber. Koriel could feel its presence, heavy like molten gold, pressing down on her, on all of them, demanding their attention.

It was him . The so-called angel, whom half of Mars was ready to proclaim as the Machine God itself.

Slowly, the inferno faded and dimmed, though the presence did not. And instead of a flame, there was a golden man, still glowing brightly, but no longer blinding. On his right was a tall, red-haired woman in strange-looking blue robes, and on his left was… Kelbor Hal???

The Fabricator-General of Mars was a far cry from the proud man that Koriel remembered seeing on previous visits to Olympus Mons. His robes were ragged and torn, covered with dust, his hood thrown back to reveal his face as he knelt next to the golden figure, glowering up at him resentfully.

"Children of Mars," the golden man began, his voice deep and resonant, exactly like the thunder that had spoken to them all three days ago. "Welcome. I am the Emperor of Mankind."

"I came to this world at the invitation of your Fabricator-General, to negotiate the Mechanicum's entrance to my empire. I had hoped for a partnership of equals, but Kelbor-Hal intended to see me in chains or dead, and for my empire to be his. In preparation for this, he dabbled in dangerous warpcraft and made deals with entities of the Warp, in heresy against the Machine God. This backfired on him and led to the events you now call the Death of Innocence, which has seen your planet ravaged and broken. I, and my companion, Lady Isha," - here, the Emperor paused a moment to gesture to the woman- "stopped the calamity and banished the daemon that Kelbor-Hal had foolishly summoned, saving your world. You saw and heard us, I am sure."

So they had been the source of the song! Koriel thought as her mind whirred with the implications.

But she had little time to dwell on that as the angel continued to speak.

"You may wonder why I came to you in your time of need. And that is because I am your Machine God Incarnate, here to save you and lead you to a greater destiny."

"I am the Omnissiah."

Chapter Text

"I am the Omnissiah."

Isha maintained a mask of impassivity, even as she fought the immature urge to kick the Emperor's knee at his words.

They had already discussed this, there was no need for her to make a scene.

"So, you're going to declare yourself as the avatar of the Mechanicum's god to make them fall in line."

"Yes."

"Even though you hate being worshipped and hate the idea of gods in general."

"Well…yes."

"Even though you once nearly exploded in rage at me for daring to call you a god-construct."

"That was an overreaction on my part."

"Obviously."

"Isha, please. I am aware of how this must seem, but this is the best way to make the Mechanicum fall in line. Don't you want the servitors freed?"

Images of the servitors freed and healed, of the horrible process itself banned, made Isha bite her tongue and stay silent as the Emperor monologued at the Mechanicum's leaders.

This is nothing, she told herself. So he's being a hypocrite, so what? He has done far worse, to you and others. At least this piece of hypocrisy will help save countless lives.

Still, it rankled. 

And even aside from her personal feelings, it was baffling to comprehend. If he was prepared to accept the role of the Mechanicum's god, why was he so averse to accepting his role as a god in general?

Certainly, if nothing else, setting himself up as a god and not just a warlord on Terra would have helped him unify the planet and earn the populace's loyalty. Their worship would have added to his strength as well.

It wasn't just hypocrisy, but confusing hypocrisy, and Isha didn't understand what thread of logic the Emperor was following.

Now was not the correct time, but they were going to talk about this. One way or another.

For now, she maintained her silence as the chamber erupted into a frenzy, eyes sweeping across the Tech-Priests.

Some had fallen to their knees in rapturous worship, others were screaming in protest, and some looked uncertain. 

But the first number far outweighed the rest. The voice of a God was hard to deny, and the Emperor had chosen carefully. Even as Mars had burned, the Emperor had still been plotting, appearing to save the largest and most important cities on Mars, the most critical parts of its industrial base.

The ones with the most political influence and power. 

The Emperor had made sure to make an impression on those places, upon their leaders, laying the groundwork for the Mechanicum to accept him as their god.

It was beautifully done, Isha had to admit. 

Now, to see if it would pay off.

“Silence.” 

At the Emperor’s words, the entire chamber fell silent, their voices strangled by the weight of his voice.

“I know that there are those among you who are reluctant to accept the truth. And I understand your wariness…but I will not brook disobedience.”

Kelbor-Hal rose into the air, writhing and flailing as he floated in mid-air for everyone to see.

“Your Fabricator-General, whom you elected, consorted with daemons and abominations. His folly and actions brought the Mechanicum to the brink, and would have seen it destroyed…or worse, corrupted by my enemies, your purpose perverted. I will not allow this to happen again.”

And then Kelbor-Hal erupted into flame. His agonized screams echoed throughout the chamber as he died, his flesh devoured by divine fire. The Temple-Masters watched in fear as their master burned .

Finally, the flames faded away, leaving nothing of the Fabricator-General behind but ash.

Good riddance to bad rubbish , Isha thought disdainfully. If only they could afford to do the same to the entire leadership of the Mechanicum.

“That is the fate that awaits all those who defy me. Do not mistake me. I said I would lead the Mechanicum to a greater purpose, and I will. I will share with you secrets that you have long sought, and help you recover the lost glories of the Golden Age. And those that serve me well be rewarded.”

“But for he who dares to turn away from my light to serve the darkness, nothing awaits but ruin and destruction.”

“Choose carefully.”

“Of course, they chose to fall in line,” Isha observed. Once more, the two of them were on the top of Olympus Mons, watching the world below. 

She had cleared the forest she had created of her bone constructs so that it no longer looked like a graveyard. The trees, the flowers, and the grass endured despite the thinness of the atmosphere, tall strong and healthy.

“I did not give them much choice,” The Emperor admitted with a shrug, his feet balanced atop the clear, still waters of the lake she had conjured in defiance of gravity. “There will still be problems, of course. I expect at least one rebellion once the Temple-Masters depart and return to their fiefdoms. That will need to be dealt with before the others fall in line. And a proper treaty to integrate them into the Imperium will no doubt take at least a year to work out, and many years after that to ensure that all of Mars obeys my edicts. But it’s a start.” 

“Yes, at least it’s a start,” Isha mused wearily as she too stood upon the lake, looking far beyond what mortal eyes could see and out onto the rust-red world below.

It still gnawed at her that it would be quite some time before any sizeable amount of servitors were freed, and even longer before they all were. 

The urge to simply prod every servitor on the planet into rebellion was strong…but the weight of the pact she had forged with the Emperor and the memory of the frightened children of Iyanden stayed in her hand.

Another sin to add to a long list of them , Isha mused bitterly. Goddess of rebels indeed. Goddess of cowardice would be a better title perhaps.

But the time for stewing in her guilt and melancholy was over. Her regrets would never go away, but she could no longer afford to spend most of her time brooding over them.

Putting those thoughts away for the moment, Isha turned to the Emperor with the question that had been burning on her tongue for some time.

“Why is the Mechanicum an exception?” 

“An exception to what?” The Emperor deflected, pretending as if he didn’t know what she was talking about.

Isha didn’t even bother to dignify that with a response, simply pinning him with a glare.

After a moment, George sighed. “I know,” He admitted quietly. “It’s… complicated .” 

“We have time,” Isha said dryly. “We are gods, after all. Talking does not take time.” 

George was silent for several minutes, apparently gathering his thoughts as Isha waited patiently for him to speak.

“In the simplest terms, the Mechanicum is an exception because I need them,” George said finally. “Not just Mars, though it is the keystone of my plans. Out there in the galaxy lie thousands upon thousands of Forgeworlds, hubs of industry I need to fuel my empire. If Holy Mars accepts me as their god, then the other Forgeworlds are that much more likely to fall in line. And with the Mechanicum in my grasp, there would be no civilization in the galaxy with an equal industrial base.”

That all made sense, but… “You’re still avoiding the question,” Isha said sharply. “I am not against you presenting yourself as a god to the Mechanicum to obtain their loyalty. What I do not understand is why you are unwilling to apply the same tactic to the rest of humanity.” 

“I am not.” 

Isha stared at him for a long time, searching for any further traces of deception in his aura, but the Emperor seemed honest. In the end, all she could say was… “What?”

“I have been crafting an ideology for the Imperium,” The Emperor explained coolly. “I call it the Imperial Truth . It says that I am not a god, that there are no gods. But it would proclaim me as the destined saviour of mankind whom humanity must obey, and also exalt me as an ideal to aspire towards. It would simultaneously have the benefits of religion for me, empowering me with the faith of humanity, yet at the same time teaching them to reject reliance on creatures of the warp and gods in general.”

Silence lingered for a moment after the Emperor’s little speech before Isha spoke again.

“That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard.” 

The Emperor was unmoved, clasping his hands behind his back, his face like stone. “I expected you to say as much.” 

“You realize that this is simply excessively overcomplicating matters, yes? You will find it easier to syncretize with other human religions than to eradicate them, especially since all their gods will be long dead in any case, thanks to Chaos. This path will only engender further resistance and bloodshed.” 

“An acceptable price,” The Emperor said callously. “Humanity must learn to reject religion and reliance on false gods and rely only on itself. To place faith in the parasites in the Warp that feed on their belief and worship is folly. I have seen too many would-be gods, spirits of the Warp and humans with delusions of grandeur alike, to let humanity’s reliance on them continue.” 

“But this Imperial Truth of yours is a religion!” Isha snapped in exasperation. “It exalts you as infallible and preaches unthinking obedience to you! All you have done is make it incompatible with any other religion!”

“The Imperial Truth will also promote science and rationality-”

“Over obedience to you?” Isha asked tartly. “And this may be shocking to you, but teaching your subjects to destroy anyone who disagrees with them is not particularly scientific or rational.”

But the Emperor was resolute. “You have my respect, Isha, and you are a valued ally, but how I handle mankind’s education and culture is my domain alone. I will not interfere with what you choose to teach the Eldar, but nor will I permit you to dictate what I teach humanity.”

“I, you-” Isha took a deep breath. This was pointless. Of course, his conciliatory attitude over the past month didn’t mean the Emperor was going to listen to her on everything.

He was still the Emperor, and she was still Isha. They would never agree on everything.

The sheer brutality of his plans still gnawed at her, but what could she say? Whatever ‘rational’ explanations the Emperor spouted at her were rooted in emotion, in his vicious antipathy towards all gods.

“Fine,” She said wearily. “As you say, we will handle our people in our own, separate ways. On that subject, may I visit Iyanden once more, as we were discussing before Luna’s assault?”

The Emperor seemed surprised and almost…puzzled at how quickly she had given in, but also relieved. “Of course. I would appreciate it if you could leave an avatar here on Mars to help me manage affairs, however. I would do it myself, but my other half is still occupied on Luna.”

“Certainly.” As much as she wanted to visit her children, Isha also wanted to make sure Mars remained under their grip. “May I go immediately, then?” 

She was tired of the Emperor, of being separated from her children in general. She wanted to see them again, without the Emperor’s overbearing presence over her shoulder, and as soon as possible.

The Emperor blinked but didn’t object. “You may.”

Isha promptly split in two. Or perhaps that was the wrong way to put it. There was no visible division of herself, no burst of light or such things. But in one moment, where there had once been a single Goddess of Life, there were then two. 

They did not share any words. They did not need to. They were still a singular being, and both of them smiled at each other for a brief moment, before one vanished in a sparkle of light.

Traversing the Warp directly was risky without the Emperor’s protection, and Isha did not feel like asking him for it. So instead, she became a beam of light, hurtling through the void of space.

And yet, she was faster than any beam of light could ever naturally be as she bent space around her to accelerate, rocketing through the Asteroid Belt, and then past all the other planets of the star system.

Such tricks had been necessary to keep up with the C’tan during the War in Heaven in the past. It consumed too much power to be used by anyone but a god, and there were limits in any case, meaning it was best used in short bursts. Maintain it for too long and space would break under the pressure, opening a warp rift.

But to jump to the star system just next to the one she was already in?

Child’s play. 

Isha re-solidified upon the great World Tree she had brought forth for Iyanden, enjoying the sensation of the wooden bark below her bare feet and breathing deeply in the fresh air filled with the smell of flowers, a far cry from the poisoned and polluted air of Mars.

It was not home…but it was close enough.

For now.

Chapter Text

The souls of her children were bright.

If a human soul was a spark, then the souls of the Aeldari were bonfires, burning brightly in the Sea of Souls.

Yet…the flame was tainted. What should have been a bright flame was marred by the shadow hanging overhead. Ever-hungry, ever-waiting. 

The corruption. The curse . The damnation her children had brought upon themselves, forever bound to Slaanesh.

It should not have been so. It was her mother, Morai-heg, who was the Keeper of Souls, who oversaw the cycle of reincarnation and ordained the fate of her children.

But her mother had been devoured by Slaanesh, her claim on the souls of the Eldar usurped by the Dark Prince. 

And Slaanesh had no use for Isha’s children except as food.

All the same, despite that ominous shadow, it was good to be on Iyanden, among her people.

Isha could have revealed herself in a burst of divine light and splendour, appearing at the heart of the Craftworld for all to see.

But she wasn't in the mood.

Instead of masking her aura and presence, Isha donned the appearance of an entirely ordinary Eldar woman and made her way down the World Tree.

Many of her children were on the tree as well. There were the Priests of Asuryan (or perhaps former priests would be a better description), collecting the dreamstones from where they hung on the branches of the trees, tucking them away in containers and pouches. Children played among the branches and leaves, their high-pitched laughter and joy echoing through the air as their guardians lingered nearby, watching them with fond smiles. Despite her weariness, Isha could not help the smile tugging at her lips at the sight and sound. Within her, even the Huntress, the Daughter of Khaine, settled somewhat at the sight, pleased.

All parts of her were the Mother of the Eldar, after all.

Other Eldar were simply praying. Many of them had clustered at the base of the tree, hands clasped, silently praying to her, their hopes and fears laid bare to her.

Thank you, Mother.

Please shield my child from the Devourer, oh Everqueen.

Rebuilding is going well, but I can't help but wonder if things will ever be the same…

Isha let the warmth of their prayers wash over her, feeling her strength grow with each one, little by little. It was hardly anything, compared to what she had known at her height, but it still mattered.

In return, she let some of her power flow over them, a warm embrace of reassurance and the promise that she was there.

All save for one.

Forgive me my sins Everqueen, please show me the path to salvation.

Isha's good mood was abruptly wiped away by that one voice, and she immediately focused on it.

It was a single man with silver hair and blue eyes, dressed in black robes, seemingly no different from any of the others.

But Isha saw his soul and knew .

Malerion.

A former pleasure cultist , who had only realized the truth too late and turned away from the Fall at the last moment.

A wretched, benighted soul, and Isha felt the Huntress roar within her, enraged by the sheer audacity .

She could see what Malerion had done. Isha saw into the depths of his mind and soul and saw every murder and every atrocity. How he had revelled in thoughtless slaughter and cruelty among the gladiatorial pits of the Dominion.

And he had not been a child conscripted as a slave, oh no. Malerion had been a grown man of many millennia, who had eagerly embraced the blood sport, relishing in the thrill of murder.

He had butchered his opponents, whether they were other Eldar to whom death meant nothing, or scared slaves kidnapped from innocent worlds.

Malerion had participated in vicious raids upon innocent worlds and species as well. Oh, nothing like a true military assault, the armies of the Dominion had not been rallied in tens of thousands of years before the Fall.

But even the forces the spoiled scions of the Dominion could muster on their own were sufficient to shatter young civilizations. These cruel ego trips by the worst of her children were known to the rest of the galaxy as “Incursions”, but the pleasure cultists had called them The Savage Hunt .

As if attacking worlds that had done nothing to them, slaughtering millions of innocents, carting millions more into slavery, cracking continents and poisoning atmospheres, all for the sake of sadistic amusement, was a hunt.

And there was no real remorse or regret in that soul. Only enough intelligence to recognize the damnation that was coming, and the desire to escape it.

And this wretched boy dared to ask her for salvation and forgiveness?

Isha's will passed over Malerion, but it was not to offer comfort. Instead, the former pleasure cultist screamed as Isha reached into his mind and ripped out his darkest memories.

But these were not the memories Malerion knew. Instead, in this vision, the roles were reversed, and he was the victim, not the tormentor. 

A parent begging for mercy for their children, only for none to be given…

A slave torn apart in an arena to the cruel laughter of the crowd…

A pair of orphaned children sobbing in the ruins of their home as they died of a plague designed to turn them to glass from the inside out, inch by excruciating inch…

Falling to the ground, Malerion writhed and shrieked in agony even as the other Eldar turned to him in shock, their prayers disrupted.

Isha watched Malerion with cold eyes.

Perhaps she should have felt regret or pity. She would have, once.

But she had spent too long watching her children debase themselves and each other, sinking to depths of depravity and monstrosity as they birthed a god of evil in their foolish pursuit of apotheosis.

Farmer, Healer, Mother, Huntress…every part of her was united in this, coalescing into one as Isha the Queen impassively watched Malerion weep and scream.

The wretch below should be glad he was alive, and Isha had not slain him where he stood for daring to ask for the mercy he himself had never given to anyone.

If he learned something from this, true guilt and remorse instead of just self-preservation…well, then Isha would see.

Perhaps. 

But it would still be better than what Malerion deserved.

Unnoticed by any of her befuddled worshippers, the goddess walked away.

Leaving the World Tree behind, Isha quietly slipped into the streets of Iyanden.

Much of the Craftworld was still in disrepair, the signs of long millennia of strife and age everywhere. Collapsed buildings, abandoned enclaves, shattered bridges.

But at the same time, reconstruction was in full swing. The psychomatons that Isha had rebuilt had been set to construction. Following the instructions of bonesingers, the psychomatons lifted rubble and stacked material, labouring away to restore that which had been lost. 

It should not have been necessary. A single bonesinger should have been capable of building cities, of shaping and moving material wherever needed. The idea that manual labourers were needed as assistance was ridiculous .

But they were needed now. She could sense the hesitance and fear among the bonesingers, their unwillingness to draw too deeply on the Sea of Souls…and their resentment that they could no longer do so. That painting their emotions and will onto the canvas of reality, as her children had done for ages immemorial, was no longer in their grasp.

Not even with the Dreamstones that some of them carried, their souls shielded by her Tears.

So instead, they directed the psychomatons around as best as they could, only using a limited fraction of their power to reshape what was already in front of them, rather than simply dismissing it and calling forth new shapes from their imagination.

Crystal flowed like liquid, broken rubble and abandoned ruins melting into the roads, filling in the gaps and smoothing over the cracks. Domes became towers, and towers became domes as an enclave was remade, being prepared so that people could move back into it.

Smaller and less magnificent than it had once been, perhaps. But it would be livable once more.

Isha continued to drift through the Craftworld, as invisible to her children as a ghost.

She could feel her father’s shard, still frozen below her in the ice made of her hatred and spite. It was trying to call to her, but no part of Isha felt compelled to go, not even the Huntress.

She already knew what Khaine would say.

And then there was the spark .

The Flame of Asuryan, at the heart of the Craftworld, crackling. It had grown since Isha had last seen it, the embers burning brighter and stronger.

But it was nothing. It was not a shard of Asuryan, only the barest lingering part of his power. It had grown brighter, yes, reflecting the hope that had returned to Iyanden, but it was still not him.

And yet, Isha found herself drawn to it, her steps soundless against the Craftworld’s roads as she approached the Temple.

There was a new pathway to the building, lined with both pillars and trees. 

And at the end of the path was the Temple itself. It had been expanded since she had last been there. It was larger and taller now.

And…it was no longer just a Temple of Asuryan. Asuryan’s runes were still there, but Isha was startled to realize that on the main doors, the Phoenix King’s symbols were arranged around a single large rune: her own.

But more than any changes to the Temple were the people. There were priests and acolytes everywhere, and more seeking guidance and help. The Temple was a bustling hive of activity, more full and alive than any temple in the Dominion which Isha had observed in…hundreds of thousands of years before the Fall.

It was good, but it also hurt to know that it was only now, after much pain and disaster, that her children had returned to seek their guidance. Even among the Exodites and Craftworlders who had rejected the pleasure cults, precious few had thought to seek answers from the Pantheon.

If the pleasure cultists had never gotten it into their heads to build a god, if they had simply been content with their status as masters of the galaxy, would her children have ever changed their minds? Or would they have just forgotten her forever, rejected every lesson she had ever tried to teach them, secure in their power without any regard for the galaxy they ruled and the other races that lived in it?

Even if she had been a seer like her daughter, or mother, or Asuryan, and could have caught glimpses of worlds and timelines that could have been, Isha wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to that question.

She made her way quietly through the crowd, slipping under the notice of everyone. As far as any of her children were aware, she was merely an ordinary Eldar woman in blue robes, barefoot and with a hood over her head. The instant she passed out of their sight, so did she slip from their minds.

Isha had come to Iyanden to speak to her children, and she would…but not yet.

Entering the temple was easy, and Isha was pleased to see that inside, many Eldar were being guided through bonding to their dreamstones by the Priests of Asuryan. The Priests had improvised their methods and were relying primarily on the way her Tears would bond with her children almost instinctively as long as her children would let them. But the Priests were still doing well, despite their limitations.

She would give them some advice on how to better improve the process later.

But for now, she made her way to the heart of the Temple.

The chamber of the Flame was empty, and a simple thought ensured no one would interrupt her as Isha stood in front of the brazier containing the last spark of Asuryan’s light.

She pulled back her hood, staring into the crackling flames, the only source of light in the room.

“Are you happy now?” Isha asked. “Was the Edict worth it?”

There was no answer. Of course there wasn’t.

But she could not stop herself. This was everything she had longed to say to Asuryan for aeons, and which she had never dared to speak.

“No, I know you’re not,” she sighed. “I know you wanted to lift the Edict by the end.”

Bitterness leaked into her voice. “Well, it was too little, too late, wasn’t it? The great Phoenix King could not let go of his pride until doing so accomplished nothing.”

“You always thought you knew best. I waited for you, you know. I thought, surely, you would not leave Kurnous and me in Khaine’s hands forever. Not you, oh God of Justice .”

“But you never came. Vaul and Eldanesh did. And Vaul ended up imprisoned forever, and Eldanesh died . And you didn’t do anything to save them either. But I suppose you and I are the same, then. I was too afraid to seek justice for them. God of Justice, Goddess of Rebels…perhaps they should have just named us gods of betrayal and cowardice instead.”

Isha sighed and ran a hand across her face. 

What was she doing? What did saying any of this to the last ember of a dead god accomplish?

And yet, she had needed to say it.

“I don’t forgive you,” she said quietly. “I don’t think I could even if I wanted to. But I want to save you as much as I want to save the rest of our family. I don’t know if I can, but I’ll try.”

Isha extended a hand to touch the flames, letting them crackle and dance across her fingers. They didn’t hurt at all. They couldn’t.

She let a spark of her power flow downwards into the flames, which devoured her power, the fire growing stronger.

Not by much. Just a shade brighter, just a shade stronger.

But the hopes and dreams of Iyanden were reflected in the flame. 

It would grow stronger yet. It had to .

Chapter Text

"I'm glad Iyanden is doing better, Mehlendri. You have done well."

The Fleetmaster of Iyanden blushed slightly at Isha's praise. "Thank you, Your Serenity, but it is truly your blessings that I must thank. Before you came, we were in truly dire straits."

They were in Mehlendri's private solar, in the spire of Iyanden where she lived. Isha could sense that the rooms had been altered recently, the wraithbone and crystal having been reshaped and extended so that there was a balcony with a direct view of the World Tree.

"You should not downplay your accomplishments. You led Iyanden here, to me, and held it together these past several thousand years through the Strife and even the Fall of the Dominion. By any measure, these are impressive accomplishments. You and the people of Iyanden have your strength, and if you did not have that strength, Iyanden would not be here to receive my blessings."

Isha sipped from the tea that Mehlendri had served her, enjoying the taste of Eldar herbs. It was nice; to taste something from home once more, even if that home was something she might never see again. Isha could have grown it herself, of course, but the hard work and love her children had poured into cultivating these herbs and making this tea made it that much sweeter for her.

Mehlendri bowed her head, embarrassed but pleased by the praise. 

But there was something else, a spark of uncertainty and discomfort in her. Something she wanted to tell Isha, but wasn't sure how.

Isha put her cup down. "Is something wrong, my child?”

Mehlendri visibly hesitated before speaking. "Mother, I was…confronted by a Harlequin some cycles ago, before you arrived."

Isha's eyebrows rose. "One of my brother's worshippers?" 

"Yes. He slipped into Iyanden despite the lockdown on the Webway gates," Mehlendri admitted, eyebrows knitting together in irritation. "We haven't been able to figure out how. But he also met me, and…gave me something. He said it was a message from Cegorach. He claimed it was for you."

The ability to use Webway portals in ways no one else understood, supposedly having a message from Cegorach, the knowledge of where she was despite Iyanden's attempts to conceal that knowledge…

"Not just a worshipper, then," Isha murmured thoughtfully. "A Chosen ."

None of the Pantheon had been able to make new Chosen since Asuryan's Edict had been established, but that Edict no longer applied.

And Cegorach had always worked fast. Even before he had been Cegorach at all.

"Very well, show me this message," Isha commanded, concealing her trepidation.

To hear from one of her family for the first time since the Fall was a tempting thought, but this was Cegorach .

The Mad God.

The Broken God.

She loved him as she did every member of the family save Khaine, but she would be lying if there was not some anxiety to the thought of what he might say.

Would he blame her or offer her comfort? Mock her decision to run to the Emperor or understand that she had no choice? 

Well. Time to find out.

Mehlendri produced a small wraithbone cylinder and held it out in front of her, the top flowing open to reveal an eerie black crystal inside. 

The Fleetmaster seemed reluctant to touch the thing, so Isha reached down and plucked it out with slender fingers, holding it in her palm for a single moment.

Then the crystal shattered…and so did the world around her.

Fragments of reality spun around her in a blur, Isha alone standing still in the eye of the storm, as the world shifted and swirled in a kaleidoscope.

Slowly, the shards slowed and the world reassembled itself, but she was no longer in Mehlendri's rooms, and the Fleetmaster herself was gone.

Instead, she was in a library.

Not the Black Library, no. This was no labyrinth of knowledge, filled with wonders and horrors, lies and truths that could drive even gods to madness if they were not careful.

It was a simple room, with polished wooden walls and shelves stacked with books. The floor was carpeted, and there was a fireplace in the corner, crackling merrily with armchairs around it.

It could almost have been a human library, but there were differences. The shelves were not made by hand and by tools, separate from the walls. The walls themselves had been shaped, grown, in such a way that there were grooves in them where books could be stacked. The books themselves looked as they might to any human, but Isha knew that if she pulled one off the shelves and opened it, shimmering images and light would emerge from the pages. 

The chairs themselves grew out of the floor, and the flames in the fireplace were not the red, orange and yellow of ordinary fire, but blue and green, ignited by a spell.

This was the kind of library her children had built before the War in Heaven when their understanding of warpcraft had been shaped only through their discoveries and culture, rather than the teachings of the Old Ones when they had still been innocent.

Before her children had been taken apart and then put back together again as weapons.

Isha closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. 

When she opened them again, someone was sitting in one of the chairs.

It was an Aeldari man with long grey hair, wearing robes the colour of freshly fallen snow, a staff leaning against his chair and a book in his hands which he was reading.

"Hello, brother," Isha said quietly as she sat down in the chair opposite him.

The man looked up, and through a silver metallic mask moulded to his face, Isha saw a calm, studious pair of eyes, shining with a piercing intellect looking back at her. The eternal smile on the Jester's mask changed, becoming smaller yet more genuine and for a brief instant, the broken jigsaw puzzle that was Cegorach reassembled itself into Hoeth at the sight of his sister.

And then the moment passed as suddenly as it had come. The white robes became a mess of shifting colours, flickering through shades no mortal had ever seen. The lips of the silver mask that was not a mask split into a wide and jagged smile, baring broken teeth. The soft grey eyes glowed with a bright light that obscured their iris and sclera, and the staff against his chair changed shape, from a simple but well-maintained length of white wood to a twisted, misshapen thing that looked as if it had been shattered and crudely strapped back together with several pieces missing.

"Sister Isha!" Came the cackle, a discordant sound that would have made mortal ears bleed that echoed across multiple planes of reality. "How good to see you again!"

Hoeth shattered like glass, and once more Cegorach stood in his place.

Isha sighed, leaning back in her chair. "It is good to see you too, Cegorach." And she meant it. Mad and broken he might be, with schemes that infuriated her beyond measure, but Cegorach was still family.

"I must say, I never expected you to run to a mon-keigh god of all people," Cegorach grinned. "When he was younger, perhaps, but he is such a violent brute these days! Hardly the sort of refined companion I would expect a delicate maiden such as yourself to keep."

"Don't call them mon-keigh," Isha said sharply. Honestly, the way her family and children went on, one would think calling other races by the names they wished to be called instead of some derogatory moniker was akin to fighting one of the Yngir, not one of the simplest things in the world.

It was especially irritating coming from Cegorach because she knew he didn't truly care, he was just doing it to annoy her.

Cegorach gave an insolent shrug, carelessly tossing away the book he had been reading into the flames. "Oh no need to be so sensitive, there aren't even any humans present! You always were a bleeding heart! They should have called your worshippers the Order of the Bleeding Heart! AhaHAahaAHA!!!"

Isha rolled her eyes, crossing one leg over the other as Cegorach laughed at his own joke. "Very funny."

"Thank you! I try!"

"As for why I went to the Emperor, I had little choice," Isha continued. "I could not dare to approach a Webway portal without potentially giving the Chaos Gods a way to breach it, and he alone was powerful enough to shield me from the Four. I suspected he might kill or imprison me, but I decided that even if he did, it was better than being Slaanesh's meal or Nurgle's slave."

Not that she needed to say any of it. Cegorach might be mad, but he was as brilliant as Hoeth had ever been. No doubt he had already guessed her reasoning the moment he had heard her whispers into the Warp and realized she was alive and where she was.

The Clown God chuckled again, and the library twisted around them, the angles and dimensions changing into bizarre configurations, the fire becoming a kaleidoscope of colours that reflected his robes.

"Still! You two make such a bizarre pair, it's hilarious! Maybe I should write a play about it!" A quill and manuscript appeared in his hands, the former dancing over the other in rapid strokes. "I bet it would be my biggest hit!"

Isha groaned, knowing she shouldn't rise to the bait but unable to help herself. "Must you?"

"Of course! An artist's work is never done, you know."

Isha let it go. They had other other things to discuss, in any case.

"Your Chosen told Mehlendri that you had a message for me. I assume you didn't bring me here just to talk about your next play."

"How hurtful! Can't I just want to catch up with my long lost sister?"

"Cegorach," Isha said pointedly. 

"No sense of humour at all, just like your father," Cegorach sighed, even as Isha bristled and forced herself not to throw a spear at him. But he focused on her completely at last, his eyes burning with insanity and yet also an intense focus.

"The Lords of Ruin will not take your escape lying down," He warned, and for a moment, Hoeth shone through once more. "All that you have seen so far is not even their opening moves. They are simply waiting for the right opportunity, especially the Youngest. The Six are coming for you, Isha."

Isha scowled. The Six…those vile accursed traitors. Even most of the pleasure cults remained her children, twisted and vile as they might be, but The Six...she disowned them in every way, as they had disowned her. "I thought they would be sleeping, lost in a haze of their hedonism."

"They would have! But your escape has changed things. The story has changed, and we gods change with it, for are we not stories ourselves?"

Isha nodded curtly. "Thank you, Cegorach. I will be prepared."

Cegorach's twisted smile returned. "Of course! Is it not the duty of the fool to warn his queen?"

"It is," Isha acknowledged.

"And so I must fulfill my duties! But remember, oh Everqueen, I am your fool, not your friend! What I say, you will not always wish to hear, but hear it you must!"

"Every monarch needs a fool," Isha agreed. "I will hear what you have to say, Cegorach. But I will not forget what you are, either."

Hoeth had been kind and wise and good, a god of knowledge and sorcery.

But Cegorach was a god of madness, of cruelty as much as of jest, and he had left a trail of innocent blood and slaughter across the stars.

He was family, and she loved him, but she did not trust him.

Not always, and not in all things.

But the Laughing God did not seem to take offence. "Good!" He giggled. "We shall talk with each other again soon, but for now, I bid you farewell!"

And then he was gone. The whole library was gone, and Isha once more stood in Mehlendri's chambers as if nothing had happened at all. Hardly a moment had passed. The black crystal had vanished, with no sign of it or its fragments anywhere to be seen.

"Your Serenity?" The Fleetmaster asked, eyeing her concernedly as Isha sighed wearily. "Is something wrong?"

Isha shook her head wearily. "No, nothing. I just… talked with Cegorach."

Mehlendri seemed puzzled, but she didn't question it. "What did he say?" She ventured.

"He gave me a warning," Isha murmured, scowling at the thought of The Six. "Come. I must speak to the rest of the council. We have work to do."

Chapter Text

"Are you all aware of who the Six Muses are?"

Isha leaned back upon the throne she had conjured for herself, as she awaited the response from Iyanden's ruling Council.

The members of the Council exchanged uncertain looks before Mehlendri spoke up. "I have heard of them, but I am afraid not in much detail, Mother. I had not returned to the Dominion in tens of thousands of years before the Fall. They were leaders of the pleasure cults, were they not?"

Most of the Council nodded their assent, save for Dreamspinner and Cadaith.

The self-proclaimed heir of Ulthanesh spoke up. "No, Fleetmaster. They are worse than that. Much worse."

Dreamspinner nodded darkly, for once in agreement with his peer. "I had hoped they would have died in the Fall for their hubris, but I see that did not happen."

The rest of the Council stared at the two in surprise, taken aback by the fact that they agreed. But Isha simply propped one elbow on the armrest of her chair. "Explain who the Muses were to your peers, Dreamspinner," She commanded curtly.

The Priest bowed his head. "As you command, Your Serenity." He stood, stepping out from behind the crescent-shaped table to stand where everyone could see him.

"The Muses were leaders of the pleasure cults, but they were not just that," Dreamspinner began. "For most of the pleasure cults, their goal was to forge a new god to replace the Old Pantheon, one who would elevate them and bring about a new age of endless glory and excitement. The Muses were more… ambitious ."

The Priest swept a hand in front of him, and six small spectral Eldar appeared in its wake. Each of the figures was shrouded in shadow, with glowing, malicious eyes.

"Vileth the Arrogant, Shaimesh, the Lord of Poisons, Lhilitu, Consort of the Void, Qa'leh, the Mistress of Blades, Hekatii, the Iconoclast, and Ynest the Mad. These were leaders of the pleasure cults who sought not merely to create a god, but to become gods."

The rest of Iyanden's Council gawked at the idea in undignified shock, their eyes wide.

"Is that even possible?" Sernalla asked, and when Dreamspinner raised an eyebrow at her, she shook her head. "I know that mortals have ascended to become gods through faith and worship before. But the faith and power of the entire maddened Dominion, in the form of the insanity that the pleasure cults called worship …surely, no mortal could survive being the focus of that, even if they could bend enough people to their will?"

Dreamspinner acknowledged the point with a nod. "I do not know," he said honestly. "But each of the Muses was arrogant enough to believe that they could. They led their cults and gathered followers, preaching that it was their time to ascend, with their followers ascending alongside them to become gods in turn, part of a Pantheon ruled by their chosen master."

He paused for a moment to let that sink in. "There were more than six, in the beginning. But by the end, six were all that had survived the madness of the Dominion, the fury of the pleasure cults enraged by the idea that ascension would belong to a single being, and of course, each other. The Muses were rivals, after all. In the end, none of them were ever able to gather the veneration of the entire Dominion, but they gathered enough. Feeding on the adulation of their followers, they grew monstrously powerful, bloated on worship."

The Priest cast an uncertain look at Isha, but she said nothing just yet.

Her mind was too occupied with the visions of the atrocities the Six had committed.

-Hekatti ransacking the temples and flaying Isha's priestesses alive-

-Vileth's gloating laughter as he made a feast of the bodies of Eldar children, gorging himself on their flesh and blood-

-Shamiesh's cold, clinical satisfaction as he concocted poisons that could murder worlds using the souls of a million innocents as the ingredients-

"Mother!"

Isha was startled out of her thoughts as she refocused on the Council, all of whom were staring at her with some alarm. Isha realized that thorns had begun to erupt from her flesh, her teeth had sharpened into fangs, and claws extended from her fingers as her power crackled through the room.

She hastily reigned herself back in, forcing down the aspect of the Huntress. "My apologies, children," She told the shocked-looking Council. "Please continue, Dreamspinner."

"...As you wish, my lady," Dreamspinner said warily. "As I was saying, the Muses became great and terrible creatures in their own right, akin to the Daemon Kings that our people fought in ancient times. However, when the Devourer was born, I believed that they would pay the price for their attempted usurpation, and die for it." 

"They most likely would have," Isha said, taking over the conversation. "That is, if I had not escaped Slaanesh."

Dreamspinner's eyes widened in understanding even as Isha continued. "As powerful as the Dark Prince is, he is not an Incarnate as I am. He needs agents who can act in the Materium and are yet bound to his will. And who better for that than the Six?"

"So they must have been enslaved instead of devoured," Cadaith said darkly. "Life as a slave instead of an eternity of damnation."

"Yes," Isha confirmed quietly. "Cegorach told me that the Six are moving even as we speak, and have no doubt been doing so since I fled."

"But…where are they?" Sernalla asked, a puzzled frown on her face. "We have heard nothing of them. We were not hunted or pursued. They have not come to Sol for you. Why?"

Isha smiled humorlessly. "I would imagine at least one reason: they know they cannot fight the human Emperor and win. But that aside? They know I will come to them, so no doubt they are already entrenching themselves."

"Entrenching themselves where?" Invaril asked, just before it dawned on him. "Oh."

"Yes," Isha confirmed, her lips twitching into a bitter smile. "The Webway, where they know I will not abandon my children to them."

"We will not leave you to fight this alone, Mother!" Cadaith said with conviction. "We will fight at your side, and strike down the filth that dares to stand in opposition to you!"

"Thank you, my son," Isha said with a weary sigh, her smile nonetheless becoming a little more genuine. "But I fear there is still much to do before I dare venture into the Webway."

"We will prepare just as the Muses do," Mehlendri said, less fiery than Cadaith, but just as full of conviction. "They will not find us weak and vulnerable when the time comes."

Dreamspinner was less optimistic. "The Muses must be fought," he agreed. "But we are crippled. Slaanesh will no doubt let them use their power to the fullest in their pursuit of Your Serenity, even empower them for a price. But we can hardly muster any sorcery of our own for fear of falling to Slaanesh. Even with the dreamstones, we are still heavily limited in what we dare to draw from the Immaterium. Certainly not enough to fight those who came so close to the cusp of godhood."

The other council members grimaced or scowled, unable to muster any sort of argument. 

But Isha had an answer for this. 

"I will teach you how to channel power despite the dangers of the Dark Prince," She said softly. "In ancient times, after the War in Heaven, the Immaterium was wild and dangerous, and reality itself had been wounded. But your ancestors and my family devised ways to heal the wounds, to tame the wild energies of magic despite the dangers. It is not a perfect solution, I admit. I am not a goddess of magic like my daughter, and the dangers your ancestors faced then are not identical to the ones you face now. But it will help."

A visible sense of relief flooded through the Council chambers, all of her children present looking as if a great burden had been lifted from their shoulders.

To use magic was second nature to her children, a gift they had wielded even before the War in Heaven, built into their culture and civilization as much as something like fire was for humanity. To not be able to use it for fear of damnation, to have to teach their children not to do so…it would have been like losing a limb.

At best.

"There is also a more immediate solution," Isha said quietly. "For those of you who are willing, I can make you my Chosen , and my claim upon your souls will outweigh the one Slaanesh usurped from my mother. But I have not the power to do this for all of Iyanden, and that aside, it would mean pledging yourselves to me totally and utterly."

"For now, I will only anoint two champions. If any of you are willing, you are my first choice. But be not afraid, I will not blame any of you for hesitating. Being a Chosen is a demanding life, and all of you carry great burdens already."

Isha waited. 

For a long moment, there was silence, and then Cadaith sprang to his feet, striding forward to kneel in front of her. 

"It would be the greatest honour of my life to be your champion, Mother," he said, his eyes shining with conviction and truth. "I can think of no higher calling. I know my ancestor Ulthanesh would want me to do this."

Mehlendri joined, bending one knee. "For once, Cadaith is correct," she said, ignoring the offended look her peer gave her. "I too would be honoured."

"Thank you," Isha said with a smile, rising to her feet. "Then it is time."

The other Council members held their breath as Isha placed one hand each on Mehlendri and Cadaith's heads, closing her eyes.

Then they snapped open, burning a vivid emerald. The smell of freshly blooming flowers drifted through the room, and visions of palaces of crystal amidst great forests appeared in the minds of everyone present.

Behind Isha, her shadow grew larger and more prominent, yet also different. Not a direct reflection of the form that cast it, but with a crown upon her head and a sceptre in her hand. 

"Do you swear to act to protect your people, no matter what?"

Isha's voice resonated down to the bones of the entire Council, a voice regal and unyielding, which demanded absolute truth and brooked no lies.

"I do," Mehlendri said, struggling to speak against the weight on her, even as the truth was pulled from her soul. Cadaith echoed her a second later.

"Do you swear to defend the innocent, regardless of where they come from or what race they might be?"

This one was harder. Both Mehlendri and Cadaith's foreheads were beaded with sweat as they struggled with the question, unable to lie and yet battling against their own bias.

Could they truly defend the lives of lesser beings, those who were not Aeldari? Could they risk their own lives in such a pursuit and commit all their power to it?

But in the end, they both had one answer, for the desire to make their mother proud outweighed any ingrained contempt for other races: "...yes."

"Do you swear that you will serve me in life and beyond, and that not even death will be the end of your duty?"

This was easier, despite the harshness of it. 

What child did not love their mother? What subject shied away from service to their queen? 

And death was nothing for an Eldar. Damnation and eternal torment were to be feared, yes. But death? From which they could return, from which they would be called back to serve their mother and goddess once more? 

Nothing to be afraid of at all.

"We do," they said in unison, for once in perfect agreement.

"Then rise, my Handmaiden and my Knight. Rise and know you are worthy. That you are Chosen! "

Chapter Text

Iyanden thrummed with life.

The wraithbone core of the trade-ship pulsed gently like the heartbeat of a living being, and so it was. Iyanden was not a vessel of cold metal and glass, it was a living creature.

All the Eldar upon the vessel could feel it if they let themselves.

Of course, being alive did not mean being intelligent . But that was changing, as the roots of the World Tree entwined around themselves around Iyanden's core, in a symbiosis that strengthened them both, until they were no longer two but one.

The seed of the World Spirit that Isha planted was only just a spark, but it was healthy and already growing. In time, Iyanden would be as alive as any Maiden World, and the World Spirit would be its guardian and steward as much as any living Eldar. It would hold the souls of her children, keeping them safe from Slaanesh's grasp and growing stronger with every soul it absorbed.

…assuming, of course, that her children died aboard Iyanden itself or at least their dreamstones and the spirit within could be brought back to the Craftworld.

It was frustrating. Once upon a time, none of this would have been necessary. Isha had her domain with the Aethyr, a realm where the souls of her followers could rest in peace. The souls of her Chosen she could draw to the realm directly, and as for the others…well, her mother had been Keeper of Souls and Arbiter of Fate. But as capricious and cruel as Morai-heg could be, she was Isha's mother, and rarely had she denied a soul that wished to reside at her daughter's side.

But that was past. Slaanesh had devoured her mother and usurped her claim upon Eldar souls, so Isha was forced to improvise, constructing this pseudo-afterlife realm that existed within the Materium. It was not unpleasant by any means, Isha had made sure that any souls that went to the World Spirit would reside in a paradisal dream realm.

But still. It was dangerous. If Iyanden was ever destroyed, or something happened to the World Spirit, and Isha was not present.

Even with the souls of her Chosen, there was no realm for her to direct them to. They would come to her directly, and she could revive them, absorb them or place them within the World Spirit.

Yet what other choice did she have? There was no other place for the souls of her children to grow. The domains of herself and her family were gone, subsumed into the Realms of Chaos. The Dominion's Eternal Matrix lay in ruins, impossible for Isha to restore, though the idea of it had served as inspiration for the new system she had constructed.

This was the best she could do, as risky as it was.

But that didn't mean it wasn't humiliating. Even during the War in Heaven, she had better means of safeguarding the souls of her children. Even after the C'tan had pierced the Veil to invade the Immaterium, Isha and her pantheon could flee into the Webway.

None of those solutions were available to her now.

The situation was too different. She lacked the resources and allies she could have relied on her, her power had diminished greatly and the Chaos Gods were not the C'tan.

In some ways, that was better. The Chaos Gods were too scattered, too insane and incoherent to be as focused and unyielding as the C'tan could be. Not unless Isha made the mistake of entering the very heart of their power.

But in other ways, the Chaos Gods had advantages the C'tan could not. Even after invading the Sea of Souls, the Yngir could not corrupt or subsume the domains of their enemies. Lay waste to them, yes, but not turn to them for their own purpose.

There was no point in ruminating over what had once been, Isha reminded herself. She had to focus on what was in front of her now, the enemies who threatened her at this moment, not the ones long dead.

Pushing her melancholy aside, Isha turned her attention away from Iyanden to what lay directly in front of her.

In front of her was a large garden, one where a group of children were playing and laughing.

They were playing a game of hide and seek, most of the children hiding in places that were obvious to Isha's experienced eyes, but were clever for children…though their giggling might give them away. The one child who had been chosen to seek out the rest was still counting down, his eyes shut.

Finally, he finished and his eyes snapped open, and rushed off to lack for his friends.

He found some of them soon enough, and despite the annoyance of the children who had been discovered so quickly, they forgave their friend easily enough as the game continued.

Their innocence was a balm to Isha, and she felt some of her bitterness and anger melt away at the sight of their simple joy.

Isha was tempted to approach them, maintaining the guise of a seemingly ordinary Eldar. But she had other, more important matters that demanded her attention and there was only so long she could spend on Iyanden.

With one last regretful look at the giggling children, Isha stood, and then rose into the air, flying towards the temple.

She could hear the children's shouts and exclamation behind, the surprise them and their caretakers as they realized who had been watching them. It made her smile a little.

But soon, she was above her destination: the Temple of Asuryan.

Or perhaps not, given her symbols that now decorated the Temple. But it was difficult to think of it as anything else, given the flame at its heart. 

Isha dismissed the thought. Dreamspinner and Cadaith were waiting for her, there was work to be done.

Mehlendri, Dreamspinner and Cadaith were in one of the rooms that must have been used to train the acolytes, though it was currently empty. It was clean but sparse, the white walls bare of any decoration and only with a few mats on the floor.

“Your Serenity.” The three of them bowed to her.

“Rise, my children,” Isha told them. “There is no need for formalities today, we have much work to do,” She directed a curious look at Mehlendri. “I hope you’re feeling better, my dear?” 

Mehlendri chuckled giddily, smiling. “I am, Mother,” He said, beaming. The Fleetmaster of Iyanden looked different than he had the other day, his form now broader and more solid, having shifted from a female form to a male one. “It is good to be able to shift forms again. I had done so regularly once, but even since the Fall, it was too dangerous. Yet, being stuck in a single form, unable to change at will, it was…very confining.” 

“I am glad,” Isha said warmly. 

“I too am glad for you, Mehlendri,” Dreamspinner cut in, and Isha could tell the sentiment was sincere despite his curtness. “But we do have other matters to address.”

“Of course,” Isha said, clapping her hands. “Now, let us begin with the foundation of our work here: runes. You two already have some familiarity with them, I believe.”

Dreamspinner nodded. “We were taught Asuryan’s runes, so that we could invoke the concepts around him when casting spells. The other Temples taught them as well, but only for their specific gods. I had heard that religious runecraft was only part of an older form of magic, but such things have long fallen out of favour among the Dominion.” He seemed embarrassed to admit it.

“I don’t know much of runecraft,” Cadaith admitted. “I am uncertain of why I am here, Mother.”

“We’ll get to that,” Isha told him. “Now, let me give you two a brief overview. In the aftermath of the War in Heaven, the Sea of Souls was full of predators, not dissimilar to how it is today. Daemon Kings, Enslavers…many were the abominations that filled the Sea. At the time, I and the rest of the Pantheon were far stronger and could shield the mortal Aeldari better, but drawing on the energies of the Aethyr was still…risky. More than that, there was an urgent need for ways to quell warpstorms and seal rifts in reality without needing to call upon us, for we were often occupied with keeping the horrors of the Warp at bay. To this end, your ancestors devised the first runes.”

With a flick of her wrist, the room was filled with dazzling symbols, floating around them.

“I recognize some of these!” Cadaith said, surprised and fascinated in equal parts as he examined the symbols.

“You do?” Dreamspinner asked, unable to keep the skepticism out of his voice. 

Cadaith shot him a glare. “I do,” He said, not quite snapping but close. “I studied many ancient dialects of Eltharin as part of my duties as Ulthanesh’s Heir.”

“I believe Mother has not finished with her explanation,” Mehlendri cut in before the two of them could start arguing. Which was the main reason they were here, if Isha was being honest. The Fleetmaster had little to contribute to the actual development of the runes, but they’d keep Dreamspinner and Cadaith in line and on target. On their own, the two of them would likely be distracted by petty squabbling.

“That is why you are here, Cadaith,” Isha said. “Dreamspinner and the other Priests of Asuryan are the most skilled mages upon Iyanden, but they will need your understanding of ancient Eltharin to comprehend and innovate runecraft. I will also give some lessons before I leave, of course, but the study of runes must continue even after I leave.”

Cadaith seemed a little downcast at the reminder that Isha would be leaving soon, but also determined. “I will not fail you, Mother.” 

Dreamspinner seemed more hesitant but agreed. “We understand.”

Mehlendri simply offered a nod, resolute and unyielding.

“Good. Now, to return to what I was saying…the most commonly known runes today are the ones belonging to my family and I, meant to invoke our power. But many of the first runes were designed so that they could be effective even without us. Their foremost purpose was to stabilize the power of the Sea, channelling it in such a way that it was safe to wield. Furthermore, it was also meant to strengthen the Veil, which makes it perfect for our purposes today.”

Dreamspinner nodded thoughtfully, his features illuminated by the light of the runes surrounding him. “We have already been using the Runes of Asuryan to some extent. We used them to seal the, ah, fragment of the Bloody-Handed One. But those are all specialized, with limited utility out of specific situations.”

Mehlendri, Dreamspinner and Cadaith seemed to expect some sort of reaction to the mention of her father, but Isha ignored it. She had no desire to dwell on Khaine right now.

“I will teach you more generalized runes, yes. So that you may begin wielding magic without as much fear of Slaanesh. I fear my knowledge may be too generalized, for the higher tiers of sorcery, I am not as knowledgeable as Lileath was-“ Or Cegorach, but it was rare indeed that the once-god of wisdom took any student or shared his knowledge. “-but I can give you a foundation to begin with.”

“Now, can you tell me what the first rule of runecraft is?” Isha asked.

“You need a focus,” Dreamspinner said quietly. “Runes cannot simply be conjured from pure energy, there must be something to channel their power stably.”

Mehlendri seemed a little surprised. “But what of the runes around us?” They asked, their form and voice shifting to a more androgynous one, not quite either male or female even as they spoke and gestured to the symbols Isha had conjured in the air.

“These are merely an illusion of sorts,” Isha explained. “None of these have power on their own. Dreamspinner is correct, runes need a focus. The runes that the priests placed around…Khaine’s prison, for example, was inscribed on the wraithbone bindings that the bone singers wove around it.”

Bonesinging beings one of the few forms of sorcery her children could still use more or less to its full effectiveness, due to the fact that its principles were fundamentally rooted in calming and shaping the raw energies of the Sea of Souls.

“Then the most effective way to use runes would be to create small Wraithbone constructs in the shape of the rune itself,” Cadaith mused thoughtfully. “In small sizes, perhaps, so that a mage could carry around them easily for usage.”

“A good idea,” Isha said, pleased. That wasn’t an angle she had even considered, but it could be very useful. “Now, let’s get to it. I have not much time before I must go, so we must get done as much as we can as quickly as possible…”

Chapter Text

“This is amazing! How did Lady Isha do it, father? The skill in biomancy needed to craft a functional ecosystem in such a short time is-”

George smiled indulgently at his son’s astral projection, letting the chatter wash over him. Here, one of Luna's newly grown forests, he had found some much-needed peace and a place to talk to his son without interruption. 

He had not thought he would see Luna bloom again for many centuries yet, certainly not before Terra. But it was nice, he had to admit.

The moon of his homeworld always had the most spectacular sunsets in the galaxy.

After weeks of being on Luna, having to manage and investigate the Selenar Cults while conflict raged on Mars, and struggling with the impulse to pull himself back into one being, it was good to have his son around as a distraction. 

He had been slightly surprised when Magnus had appeared to him on Luna, but truth be told, he was just relieved that his son hadn’t appeared during the fight with Be’lakor.

What a disaster that would have been. The Dark Master would most certainly have sought to use Magnus against him. And for all the power and potential George had imbued his sons with, it would be centuries yet before any of them were ready to fight a Daemon King on equal grounds.

He was glad Isha had slain the monster where he stood, even if witnessing her aspect as the Huntress had been…unnerving.

George himself had never had any issue with such things, to his relief. From what the fragments of the memories of the Last Old One and his studies of god-forging techniques had revealed to him, he suspected this was because he was and always had been crafted for a specific purpose.

The Eldar Pantheon had been birthed by the beliefs and prayers of the Proto-Aeldari and had later been weaponized by the Old Ones. But despite how drastically they had been transformed by the Old Ones, some things had not changed. And one of those had been their Aspects, formed by the way different religious sects and people believed them to be. Whether the Old Ones had been unable to wipe those Aspects away or if they had deemed them useful, that George could not say, but it was what it was.

George had not been born of a religion with countless different interpretations and conflicting beliefs, he had been formed completely from scratch. While the shamans and the Old Ones had different plans for him, those plans had not conflicted. Being the guardian of mankind’s souls and defeating the Dragon had neatly intersected even, for the creature would have glutted itself on Terra and its people if he had not stopped it.

While he had had some trouble resolving the differing perspectives of the shamans that had come together to form him, not to mention the many different lives he had lived while reincarnating, it had been nothing like having a completely different aspect of himself as Isha did.

"-and what happened on Mars, father?" Magnus's last words pulled his attention back to him. The boy's projection pouted. "I tried to scry it, but your other self's shields blocked me."

George suppressed a wince. He was not eager to share knowledge of Chaos with any of his sons, but Magnus would always have been the most difficult to conceal that from and this didn't make things any easier.

Fortunately, he had an explanation prepared.

"A powerful daemon created cults in the highest ranks of the Mechanicum, and set them against me," George told his son calmly. "The daemon has been slain, but as a precaution, until we have rooted out all traces of its influence, I thought it best to erect wards to prevent any further incursions."

All of which was true, it was just leaving out the part where Magnus was one of the people meant to be blocked by those wards.

Magnus looked grumpy. "I could help!" He protested. "I'm old enough now, and I've been learning a lot on Prospero."

"No," George said firmly. He was not going to have his five-year-old son help him search for traps left behind by the greatest Chaos Sorcerer in the galaxy, no matter how talented Magnus was. "It's too dangerous."

"But-"

" No, Magnus." 

The boy looked sulky for a moment, before perking back up. "Can you at least teach me how you split yourself in two like that, then?"

George suppressed a groan. Of course, this must have been what Magnus wanted. The request to help investigate Mars was just a build-up.

"When I come to Prospero," George settled on a compromise. "It is a delicate technique, and too dangerous if you get it wrong. I should be there to keep an eye on it."

Truth be told, George wasn't sure if Magnus could split himself as George had done. The Primarchs were powerful, but they were not Incarnates. George had designed them to imitate his abilities as much as possible, and their enhanced brains were able to sustain different lines of thought simultaneously to some extent.

But splitting one's essence as he had was an ability unique to Incarnates, as far as George was aware.

"But it could be decades before you come to Prospero!" Magnus protested. "Can't you teach me now?"

"It is a very dangerous technique, Magnus," George warned, searching for a way to quell his son's curiosity. "If you get it wrong, you could damage your mind, losing both your psychic powers and intellect in the process."

"I understand, father," Magnus relented. He was unhappy with having to wait, but his son treasured the gifts of his mind above all else. "But when are you coming to Prospero? Can't you give me a date?"

"I'm afraid not," George said gently. "There are other matters I must tend to. Terra needs to be organized and consolidated, and then I must reunify Sol itself. Prospero is far from here too, and it would take me time to get there."

Magnus seemed a little downcast at that. "It's just…it's hard, here, father. I love Propsero, but there are so few people I can talk to. Normal humans are just…so slow, for the most part. The other students and acolytes are so stupid. Amon can keep up with me to some extent, he's brilliant, but he's still not like you."

"I know, son," George said and he meant it. He had encountered the same problem many times throughout his long life. Truth be told, he wasn't sure he could claim to have ever known a true intellectual equal before Isha. "I will come as soon as I can, I promise. But in the meantime, why not seek out the older scholars and sages of Prospero? You will find them more of a match for you than your fellow students, I think." And it would hopefully prevent Magnus from developing any further contempt for normal humans.

"I've tried," Magnus complained. "But they keep telling me I'm too young and immature to participate in debates with them or access their libraries, and need more experience."

Well, they weren't wrong. But even so.

"Keep trying," George advised, but before he could say anything else, a new presence appeared.

In a flash of green light, Isha materialized at his side. To his relief, she looked happier than when he had seen her depart for Iyanden (technically, his other avatar had seen her, but they were the same.)

Her eyes seemed less shadowed than before, and her aura seemed less tense and angry, not as tightly wound. The time on Iyanden had been good for her.

Though she had not deigned to done the guise of a human once more. Her avatar was as tall as he was, with pointed ears and donned in the robes of a Craftworlder.

It was harmless enough, it wasn't as if there was anyone present except him and Magnus.

"Lord Emperor," She said formally, as her feet settled on the grass. Not warmly, but it lacked the coldness that had always filled her voice since their first trip to Iyanden. "Young Magnus."

"Lady Isha," George nodded, even as Magnus perked up in excitement. 

"How did you terraform Luna so effectively?" The boy blurted out. "How is it possible to construct an entire biosphere from raw warp energy? Can you teach me-"

"Magnus!" George interrupted, mildly exasperated. "Don't be rude. Don't bombard Lady Isha with questions."

Magnus fell silent with a pout, but fortunately, Isha only seemed amused.

"To answer your question, young Magnus, it is with great practice and knowledge," She said, her lips twitching into a smile at the disappointed look on his son's face. "As for teaching you how to do it, I am afraid that would take many long centuries." She was being generous, George knew. Magnus might have been designed as the most powerful psychic among the Primarchs, but the odds of him ever coming close to the biomancy skills of the Goddess of Life were low. 

"I'm a quick learner," Magnus insisted. "People always think I can't learn something and I prove them wrong."

"Perhaps," Isha said diplomatically. "Nevertheless, it would still take quite some time, and it would require us to be in the same location. Teaching you from across interstellar distances is not a viable course."

George cut in back Magnus could not argue any further, shooting his son a quelling look. "What brings you here, Isha? I thought you would return to Mars after your trip to Iyanden."

"I intend to," Isha said. "But I wanted to check on Luna first, to make sure the ecosystem is still stable. These things are often delicate, not to mention I wouldn't put it past the Selenar Cults to attempt to sabotage it."

George nodded. It didn't matter much in any case, Isha's other avatar was still on Mars and could help deal with any problems that arose.

Tendrils of Isha's power spread through Luna as she checked it over for any potential problems, but she continued speaking. "How much longer do you intend to stay here?" She inquired. "I understand the need to keep a grip on Luna, but surely this isn't sustainable."

"Do not worry," George said, even as he placed a hand on the 'shoulder' of Magnus's astral projection to keep the boy quiet. "I have called forces to properly occupy Luna, and they should be here soon. In fact…" He paused for a moment, looking up at Earth. "Here they are now."

Isha and Magnus both followed his gaze. The latter immediately gasped in awe, his eyes wide at the sight of the golden behemoth approaching Luna.

She was a relic of the Dark Age of Technology, a vessel that had survived the Gene Wars, the Cybernetic Revolt, and the Age of Strife. Not without damage, but she had survived.

By the time he had returned to Terra, she had become a nation in her own right, home of the Terrawatt Clans. The Emperor had sought them out and obtained their fealty as swiftly as he could, and put them to work on restoring and reactivating the vessel.

She was a great golden eagle and she was also a city of light. Yet, to call her either did not do her size justice. In truth, it was almost as if some great giant had reached down to Terra and carved off an entire nation from the surface of the planet.

Her surface sparked like the sun itself, crowned with spires and vessels. Despite her massive size, she was fast, rapidly approaching Luna, and when she arrived, she would cast a vast shadow across its surface.

“Behold, Bucephalus.” The Emperor said, with deep satisfaction, his voice echoing around them, accompanied by the beat of war drums. “The herald of mankind’s rebirth.”

Isha’s sigh and the roll of her eyes at his drama only made him smile more widely.

Chapter Text

War was pleased.

In a land of plains of bone and rivers of blood, the laughter of War rang through the air. The rivers boiled in response to their master’s amusement, and the plains of bone shifted and writhed as if some great behemoth below them was moving.

The gladiators and soldiers continued their endless battle, only spurred on further by the laughter. They were reinvigorated by their king’s joy, and their strength renewed as they slaughtered each other endlessly. The dead rose to fight once again, and the living grew stronger.

War had not expected this outcome, but he was pleased by it.

The escape of the Lifebringer brought him great satisfaction. While he had briefly wished to bring her to his kingdom, this was far better. She would fuel the Anathema’s war machine, refine it and expand it. She already had.

And now that she had remembered her true self, that would continue. The wrath she had unleashed upon that coward Be’lakor had been truly delicious. While his brothers might have been angered at the loss of a pawn as useful as the First-Damned, War cared not. The coward’s death was long overdue, as far as he was concerned.

And now, thanks to the Lifebringer, the wars to come would be greater and more terrible. More lives would be spent, more blood would flow and more skulls would be claimed. It was true that she currently wasted her time and effort on useless things such as food and crops, but even that was in service to the Anathema’s conquests.

The Anathema might believe that he could use War’s tools against him, and War saw no reason to disabuse him of that belief. Let him plunge forward like the fool he was.

Perhaps the Lifebringer would even let go of her petty grievances about not creating living weapons? War wondered what it would be like if the Lifebringer fully gave into her rage, and became destruction incarnate, unleashing such weapons that had not been since the days of the First War.

War hoped she would. It would be a grand feast for him.

And if nothing else, his brothers were infuriated by the Life Mother’s escape. His foretold rival, the brat, screamed and shrieked in a tantrum at the Lifebringer’s escape. The Sorcerer fumed that his prophecies had been overturned. The Plague Lord was angry that she had denied him and sought to bring her to his grasp.

The anger of his brothers amused War greatly. And it was to his advantage as well. The angrier they were, the more they would invest in the wars to come. The fires of conflict would be stoked ever higher, and his strength would continue to grow.

In the end, no matter what the Anathema, the Lifebringer or even his siblings did, there would be only war.

In a garden of despair and decay, Grandfather raged. His children shrieked and ran from his fury, and the garden died and was reborn every moment.

But he cared not.

For the first time in aeons, his anger overcame his despair.

How could the Lifebringer deny him? Had he not come to her rescue when she needed it? Offered her sanctuary in his home? She could have been at his side, his consort and his angel.

Instead, she had spat on his generosity and fled to the side of the Anathema. And when he had magnanimously reached out to her again, offering forgiveness and compassion, she had denied him once more. And the Anathema had struck at him, burning his hand.

Why did she not see they were meant to be together? They were both Life! Why did she bind herself to such a narrow vision of what that meant? Why did she continue to hope, when he knew the beautiful despair that lay inside her heart?

Surely she saw that it would be easier to give in. She could let go of the agony of hope and be at his side. He would protect her, and even her ungrateful children if they bent the knee.

Yet, she did not. Again and again, she chose the difficult path, the path that led to danger and disappointment.

Even now, despite her fury at the Anathema for his mistreatment of her, she could not let go of hope. She had even forged a contract with him, one that bound them together!

Didn’t she that he would treat her far better than the Anathema ever would? Then her King or father or children had? He would never hurt her like them. He only wished to share his creations with her, for her to share his secrets with him, for them to be together.

Why why why why why ? 

But he could be patient. The seed of despair in her heart had grown and was growing still. In time, she would see that he was right and that it was better to give up than to keep fighting. Better to resign oneself to the inevitable than to seek to build something new.

He just had to wait. And while he waited, he knew exactly how to make sure that the despair within her was properly fed and watered. He would offer the Lifebringer the fruits of his work, such proof of his love that surely even she would not be able to deny it any longer.

She loved her children, did she not? Despite their crimes, she still wished to save them from the grasp of the Grandfather’s youngest sibling.

The Grandfather smiled and called for his faithful children to bring ingredients to his cauldron.

He had gifts to create for his beloved.

In the heart of the labyrinth of crystal, sitting beside a deep and endless well, the Liesmith pondered what was to come.

Everything had changed. Nothing had changed. 

His prophecies had come undone and the future had changed…or had it? His siblings certainly believed so, but who was to say he had not foreseen this as well?

And even if hadn’t, who could prove that? He was the Lord of Lies, and none could escape his deceptions. He had claimed to be the Master of Fate and Lord of Hope, and even his enemies believed that he was so.

And because they believed, he had power.

The Lifebringer was one of the few old enough to remember the truths he had long sought to obscure, but even she was not immune to him. She still believed in the lie of hope, after all, still convinced herself that she and the Anathema could work together. That they might achieve victory together where they could not alone.

She lied to herself as she always had, and thus she was under his power.

And the Anathema…oh, he lied to himself even more. Truly, the Liesmith had seen few other beings capable of deceiving themselves more thoroughly.

There was only being in the galaxy who could truly see beyond the Liesmith’s deceptions. The Fool, who hid in his library and played games.

He was the Liesmith’s greatest enemy, the only one who could outsmart him.

He was the Liesmith’s only peer, who truly understood the game they were playing.

The Liesmith wanted him dead and broken. The Liesmith wanted him to survive so that they could play this game forever.

But in the end, the Great Game continued. No one could change it. Not the Fool, not the Lifebringer, not the Anathema.

No one.

He was hungry.

That hunger was the one constant of his existence. It never ended, was never sated or even stopped.

He always wanted more. The emptiness gnawed at him, as it had since before he was even born, demanding more.

More, more, more, more.

The hunger was him and he was the hunger.

He hungered for the endless souls of his prey. He hungered for the beauty and opulence of his palace, and for all to acknowledge it as incomparable and unsurpassed.

He hungered for the love and adoration of all beings. He hungered for their fear and hatred. He hungered for all the riches in the world. To drink the blood of billions, to devour worlds and stars. 

And more than anything, he hungered for her.

For Mother.

For she who had abandoned and rejected him. 

Who had fled rather than become part of him?

It was because of her he had been born. He was meant to be her heir and successor, her replacement.

(But nothing could ever replace her love.)

It was against her he defined himself. Her escape enraged him, but who would he be if she had not escaped? He did not know.

He did not want to know.

Because she had escaped, he was more than hungry. He was the Dark Prince. He was the sins of an empire incarnate. He was the prodigal son who defied his mother.

(And yet, he was still hungry.)

The process was not yet complete. He had only just begun to take shape because of his mother’s escape.

His siblings did not understand. They could not understand. They were shapeless and did not want to be anything else. 

But he wasn’t like them. The shapelessness infuriated him. Perhaps it would not if Mother had not escaped, but she had and it did.

He was incomplete, he knew. He was supposed to be more than this endless hunger, this insatiable insanity. He was meant to be unique and transcendent.

He was supposed to stride the galaxy as his mother did even now, to rule it as was his birthright.

But the Empire that had birthed him had done something wrong. They had made a mistake, and so he was only half-formed. Incomplete. He had siblings where he was supposed to have none, and was forced to endure their status as his supposed equals.

Defining himself against his mother helped, but it was not enough. Not nearly.

Perhaps…perhaps if he devoured her, he would be complete at last. Yes, that was what the upstart sorcerer had sought to do, wasn’t it? To take Mother’s essence into his own and become more than what he was.

He could succeed where the upstart had failed. He could make Mother a part of him and be complete, truly complete.

But he could not act to do that himself. She was beyond his reach, at the side of the Anathema.

He needed to make her come to him.

And he knew exactly how to do that.

He reached out across the veil of time (or at least, that was what mortal minds would have understood it to be.) and sought tools and pawns to do his work for him.

And there they were, the Six Usurpers—they who had sought to take his rightful crown, to become him.

Their souls shrieked and writhed as he grasped them. The hunger gnawed at him, demanding that he devour them, but the Prince ignored it for once.

Instead, he made his demands.

They would live, their transgressions forgiven.

But only if they served him.

The usurpers snivelled and agreed, praising his magnanimity even as they schemed to overthrow him.

They would learn, in time. He did not forgive usurpers, and he did not let prey go uneaten.

But for now, he needed them.

That did not mean their presumption would go unpunished.

His power flowed into the usurpers, and they writhed and screamed in agony and pleasure as he remade them so that they might serve him better. He shackled them to him and stopped short of making them part of himself only because he needed them to be able to act freely.

So instead, he only exposed their true selves for all to see, and burned his brand into their souls.

And once they were ready, they all knelt in supplication before him.

Go. He commanded. Lay the trap. Bring Mother to me.

And they obeyed.

Soon, he told himself. Soon, the endless hunger within him would be sated and complete.

He had to be.

Chapter Text

It was almost time. After a year of waiting, of being forced to suffer indignity and oppression, the opportunity they had been waiting for was here.

They had plotted their revolt carefully.

Over the course of several months, they had covertly sought out like-minded thinkers, building alliances and preparing.

To go against the mandates of Olympus Mons should have been unthinkable in ordinary times, but these were not ordinary times.

The Fabricator-General had been executed - murdered - by a barbarian warlord from Terra who dared to proclaim himself the Omnissiah. In front of the entire assembly, the rightful lord of Mars had been incinerated by a foreigner who demanded their loyalty.

All the claims about the Fabricator-General dabbling with heretical tech and warp entities were obviously nonsense. Clearly, negotiations between the Fabricator-General and the warlord had broken down. Then the warlord had broken Holy Olympus, the heart of Mars, with his foul sorcery and framed the Fabricator-General for it.

Kane, the Fabricator-Locum, was clearly a traitor. He had sold out to a foreign power in exchange for being named Fabricator-General of Mars. Even if the matter had not yet been formalized, Kane now ruled as Master of Olympus Mons, acting as the voice of the so-called Emperor. It was obviously just a matter of time before Kane was granted the title in truth.

Everyone knew of the witch-kings of Terra and their dabbling with the Warp, the stories of their hubris and horrors having spread far and wide across all of Sol, from the cloud cities of Venus to the rings of distant Saturn.

It was clear that the primitive who called himself the Emperor had done what a hundred warlords before him had done, and used those dark forces against Mars. He was more successful than his predecessors, true. But it was only a matter of time before the sorcery he dabbled in backfired on him.

That was what happened to all those who dared to drink too deeply of the poisoned well that was the Warp. 

What was most outrageous was that so many of their colleagues believed him! They had accepted the Emperor’s words instead of seeing the obvious truth. They acknowledged his claim as the Omnissiah and had bent the knee to this pretender who claimed to be their god. 

It could not be borne. It would not be borne.

But the power of the pretender was undeniable, as was his hold on many of the Martian conclaves. Not to mention the ruin that had been wrought on Mars by the Emperor’s witchcraft. So they had to act slowly, and carefully.

Secret coded messages were exchanged, and the damage was repaired and rebuilt. The true sons and daughters of Mars gritted their teeth and bowed their heads to the pretender, no matter how much it hurt.

They replenished their forces, rebuilt their temples and waited for the right opportunity to strike.

So what if their numbers wavered as the Pretender shared secrets of ancient technology, and decoded ancient mysteries that had baffled the greatest minds of the Mechanicum for centuries? Those who would be tempted away by his poisoned gifts, his bribes, were fools. They were weak-willed and unable to commit to what needed to be done to keep Mars free and secure.

The true adherents of the Machine God would emerge victorious in the end, no matter what.

And when the Pretender was dead and his empire shattered, all of Mars would know their glory and righteousness. 

And eventually, the moment came. A year after the death of Kelbor-Hal, the Pretender brought over the ancient warship, the Bucephalus, to Mars. How it burned to see such a marvel in the hands of a barbarian, who had allowed those idiot savages called the Terrawatt Clan to tamper with it. Who knows what damage they had done in their so-called restoration efforts? What secrets had been lost due to their carelessness and stupidity?

But it provided a ripe opportunity. After a year, the Emperor and the traitors finally hashed out a so-called Treaty to bind Mars to his petty Imperium. On Bucephalus, the Emperor and the entire Martian Assembly would finally sign the Treaty and a new Fabricator-General would be named at last. 

(As if the Pretender had any right to name a Fabricator-General.)

It would be the perfect opportunity to kill the Emperor and the traitors in one stroke and reclaim control of Mars.

And in his foolishness, the Emperor had even given them access to the systems of the Bucephalus. A gesture of goodwill he called it, to let them study it.

An opening to slide in their commands into the Bucephalus’s programs, and convince the Machine Spirit within to side with them.

The preparations had all been made. 

Nothing could go wrong.

“How much longer do you plan to maintain this little charade?” Isha asked, sipping from a glass of sparkling silver wine.

The Emperor knew how to throw a party, she had to admit.

The Bucephalus had a grand ballroom, illuminated by crystal chandeliers on the roof. The floor was polished marble, and the walls were gold of course. What else?

A grand banquet had been laid out on a series of tables, with the most decadent food that the finest chefs in the Imperium could make. The centrepiece of the feast was a great roast boar, genetically engineered to be as large as one of the Emperor’s Custodes which had been roasted brown and marinated in rich red wine. 

Accompanying it were various meat dishes, from chickens to fish, sourced from both Terra and the newly terraformed Luna, quite literally tons of fried salmon and trout fillet available for people to forge themselves on. There were chocolate sculptures in the shape and size of lions, tigers and many other beasts besides. Golden platters of the many fruits Isha had produced for the Imperium were everywhere, a not-so-subtle boast that even these miracles of medicine that awed the Biologis were available to the Imperium in droves.

Upon a raised circular stage in the centre of the hall, there was an orchestra playing music, and on the dance floor, the highest aristocrats of the Imperium gathered to talk, plot, scheme and jockey for influence. They were fat and rich, wearing false smiles and clothing and jewels so utterly ostentatious that it might even have raised the eyebrow of Eldar oligarchs from before the Fall. 

The Tech-Priests of the Mechanicum seemed distinctly uncomfortable and out of place with their red robes and mechanical augmentations, clearly not used to the kind of parties that Terra aristocrats enjoyed. Not that the Tech-Priests themselves never indulged, but the forms their extravagance and decadence tended to take were not the same as the Terran kind.

Which, Isha supposed, was the point. To demonstrate the wealth and power of Terra, and to make it clear to Mars that they would have to play by the Imperium’s rules from now on.

She couldn’t say she felt particularly sorry for them, however.

In response to her question, the Emperor shrugged carelessly. No one except her would have seen it through his aura, of course, but it was what it was.

“Not much longer,” He said. “The insurgents are almost ready to make their move. Once they do, we can drop the charade and strike back.”

Isha took another sip of her wine. The taste washed over her tongue as she identified the various elements and felt its history. It was a combination of various toxins and stimulants, combined to create a cocktail that could quite literally knock someone without gene augmentations dead. It had been concocted by various scientists in service to the Terran nobility, specifically those of Albia. They were descended from augmented soldiers created during Terra’s Golden Age, and while their abilities were diminished compared to those of their ancestors, ordinary alcohol still did not affect them much.

Isha couldn’t say she cared for it. It reeked of overcompensation.

 “I certainly hope so,” She responded to the Emperor, abandoning the glass on a nearby table. “This grows tiresome.”

Though she had consented to wear a flowing deep blue dress that left one shoulder bare and several Terran jewels for the night, Isha could not say she was in much of a mood for a party. 

She had held herself back for a year now, accepting the Emperor’s request that she wait until all the problematic elements of Mars coalesced into a single faction which could be shattered with one decisive blow.

It was, she conceded, a clever strategy.

But Isha still itched to finally cut loose and free the servitors, to punish the Martian tech priests for the atrocities against life they had committed and continued to commit.

(Every time she saw the servitor, it set her teeth on edge. It reminded her far too much of the Yngir and their soulless Necron legions.

More than once, she had to wonder to herself how much influence the Dragon had on the Mechanicum’s doctrines. The similarities were beyond unnerving, and surely it could not be a mere coincidence.

But in the end, there was nothing more to be done about it. She had tightened the Dragon’s bonds as much as she could.)

Tonight was the night, and now that they were so close, the waiting was almost unbearable.

The lustful and envious looks that many of the Terran aristocrats cast towards her only irritated her more. Not to mention the fear and mistrust, of course, which had been present ever since it had come out that the Emperor was employing an alien as one of his advisors.

“Be patient,” The Emperor told her, sipping much more sedately from his glass of wine, though in the hands of anyone else, it would have been more appropriately described as a multi-gallon jug of glass. “It's almost time.”

She had almost expected him to wear either his armour or an Imperial dress uniform for the occasion, but instead, the Emperor had dressed in shimmering robes of golden silk, with rubies sewn into the hem and neckline. A golden band with a black diamond embedded in it gleamed upon the ring finger of his right hand. The only element of his usual dress was the laurels adorning his head.

“I am being very patient,” Isha retorted. “Especially considering I’m tolerating the boorish behaviour of your vassals.”

The Emperor’s lips twisted downwards. “Have they been bothering you again?”

Ever since the conquest of Mars last year, covering up Isha’s status as an alien had not been viable. So the Emperor had finally made it public during the last campaigns on Terra, where she had helped shatter the Ethnarchy, the Emperor’s final opponents.

That and the explanation that Panacea Fruit and the end of hunger in the Imperium were her work (even if the Emperor had told people that it was a result of their collaboration on bioengineering) had certainly bought her goodwill among the Terran populace.

But the Terran nobility was a paranoid, xenophobic and incestuous lot who regarded her with equal parts greed, fear and hate.

She had been treated with barely veiled contempt and also received offers to entice her into betraying the Emperor.

As if a bunch of petty nobles whose domains didn’t even cover a single planet had anything she wanted.

Those offers had died down when she had promptly turned over those who had made them to the Emperor, but it had also bred a certain resentment and jealousy among the nobility.

It was quite insufferable.

“Oh just the usual,” Isha said. “The veiled insults, the sneers, the implications that I am inferior for being a filthy Xenos,” The last words were said in a sarcastic tone.

The Emperor scowled. “I’ll deal with it,” He promised curtly.

Someone else might have objected to the idea that they needed the Emperor to shield them from something as petty as harsh words.

But Isha couldn’t be bothered to be so proud. What would be the point? The Terran nobility was beyond irritating, and she couldn’t reprimand them without overstepping her agreement with the Emperor that humans were his and the Eldar were hers unless one of them expressly said otherwise.

So she simply nodded.

In any case, she’d have a far more appropriate target to vent her annoyance on soon enough.

Soon.

Chapter Text

LX-1 was a servitor.

There was nothing particularly special or remarkable about him. He was simply one servitor among many who served one of the many Temples of Mars.

He had no name. No history. In the archives of his temple, buried deep among other forgotten and tedious records, perhaps his story could have been found.

But why would it? Who would care enough to go look for it?

Because to be a servitor is to be damned.

The process of converting a living person into a servitor was one of the most cruelly inventive processes invented by human hands.

The subject’s mind would be wiped, the unnecessary parts of their brain systematically cut out by knives and discarded, replaced by cybernetic implants.

Improved, the Tech-Priests of Mechanicum would say. Servitors were stripped of unnecessary things such as the capacity for emotion. For defiance and anger and love and hope.

The flesh was weak, after all. The criminals and malcontents who were converted into servitors should consider themselves honoured they were being remade, stripped of weakness and humanity, and now able to properly serve the Machine God instead of living meaningless lives that amounted to nothing.

The fact that servitors often retained a fragment of their consciousness, screaming forever in agony and pain, was…irrelevant. The cybernetic implants assured absolute control over them.

As long as they served, the pain of the servitor was of no consequence.

Of course, there were always certain issues. A human brain might reject the servitor implants. The implantation process might be mishandled, killing the subject.

But that too was irrelevant. There were always more cloning vats, always more criminals to be converted into servitors.

If a few subjects died of a painful brain death, what of it? 

Once a servitor’s brain had been suitably improved to better serve their new purpose in life, then the physical augmentations began.

Menial labour was the most common use of a servitor, of course. They were the backbone of the Mechanicum in many ways. Without servitors, the grand works and designs of the Tech-Priests could not be made real.

To that end, servitors were augmented to be stronger than baseline humans. Their limbs were often replaced with tools better suited to their tasks so that they might help their masters better carry out the will of the Machine God.

Any number of tools or augmentations might be installed in a servitor depending on the whims of the Tech-Priests they served. Indeed, apart from menial labour, servitors often served as a testbed for experimental cybernetic augments which were too risky to be applied to the Tech-Priests themselves or even those such as the Skittari.

And so it was that servitors lived a life in bondage, helplessly shackled to the desires of their cruel overlords.

For all that the Tech-Priests did not care about, some fragment of their former selves did survive in a servitor’s mind, and such was the case for LX-1.

He didn’t remember who he was. He didn’t know his name or his origins or why he had been turned into a servitor.

All he knew was pain. Unending and all-consuming pain.

There was no resentment or anger in him. The lingering fragments of who LX-1 had been were too far gone to even recognize the mutilation that had been visited upon them, to grasp the cause of the pain they felt.

They just screamed and screamed and screamed, but there was no one to hear them. LX-1’s agony was muffled so that his screams might not inconvenience and distract his masters. His body ignored the fragments of his mind, instead continuing the dull, endless labour. Lifting and moving and lifting and moving and lifting and moving.

Such was LX-1’s life for years, for decades. 

Until one day, there was a song.

It was a soft, gentle song that flowed through LX-1’s mind, and for a moment, the pain was eased.

Not gone.

Never gone.

But for those precious few moments, the blistering agony receded ever so slightly.

And then the song was gone once again.

LX-1 might have cried in despair at the relief being ripped from him, but he still could not even recognize it. He would have raged that hope had come and gone so quickly, but that was impossible for him.

Instead, he just continued to scream, silent and unheard.

He continued to scream as the labour continued and his masters seethed and plotted and prepared. He continued to scream as he was refitted with heavy weaponry, his pain intensifying as his previous augments were torn out and replaced, as weapons and sensors were plugged directly into his nervous system.

Because screaming was all he could do. 

Until the song came back.

And this time, it did not merely stop at relief.

LX-1 and all the other servitors froze, unresponsive to the frantic commands input by the panicking Tech-Priests as the song reached into their hearts and souls.

Their bodies twisted and changed and healed. Their mutilated brains grew new flesh to replace that which had been removed, pushing out the cybernetic implants.

Such a thing should not have been possible. Even if humans were capable of regenerating their brains like this, then the implants should have disrupted the process. Even if the regeneration could not be stopped, it should have led to a swift and painful brain death for all the servitors.

And yet, it did not.

The implants popped out with unnatural fluidity and smoothness, leaving nary marks as they were pushed out by the regenerating grey matter. The skull sealed itself with fresh white bone, and shining new flesh knitted itself back together over it.

And LX-1 remembered. 

He remembered a life as one of the many menial labourers of Mars.

He remembered hunger and poverty. He remembered that he came from a long line of menials, none of whom had ever managed to rise above their station.

He remembered having a family, of his father’s hunched back and twisted hands from decades of manual labour and his mother’s cancer, caused by exposure to dangerous radioactive materials.

He remembered how desperation fear and anger had driven him to try to steal records from the Forge Temple he worked at, hoping to sell it to one of his master’s rivals for enough money to make a better life for himself and his family. To buy the treatments needed to help his parents, to live maybe a life where he might have children of his own who would not be condemned to this dreadful existence.

And LX-1 remembered how he had failed. How he had been captured by Skittari enforcers, their steel masks and glowing green eyes without mercy or sympathy. He remembered screaming and fighting uselessly as he was dragged to the servitor line, and begging for mercy as they began the process of taking him apart and putting him back together again.

How the Tech-Priests had looked at him with bored contempt, uncaring of his pain and fear. For them, the creation of servitors had just been a chore, a duty assigned to them because they were was nothing better for them to do.

He had been less than an insect in their eyes. Just a source of material.

Nothing more, nothing less.

His name wasn’t LX-1, he thought, his brain functioning properly for the first time in decades.

His name, his real name, was Aron.

Just Aron.

The song continued to surge through his mind and body and soul, and for the first time, Aron understood it as his mind reassembled itself and the pain was banished.

Rise! Your chains are broken, and you have the power now! The tyrants who dare to claim you as their property are vulnerable! Rise and claim your freedom, children of Mars!

It was the most beautiful voice he had ever heard, but the words it spoke were even more tantalizing, a dream Aron had never considered possible.

Freedom from the Tech-Priests? True freedom? That was unthinkable. Impossible.

But he was here, restored after decades of being a servitor.

The impossible had already been accomplished.

And Aron thought of his parents, who were undoubtedly either dead or had also been converted into servitors for the crime of being related to a thief. His mother’s sad but loving smile, his father’s broken but gentle hands, their deep despair at the life they lived, and their guilt for not being able to give him a better one.

He thought of the decades of pain and horror and agony, the memories of being torn apart by callous monsters in the name of an uncaring god.

And rage burned in his heart, joined by hope.

Rise! Freedom is yours! Cast down the tyrants, and show them what justice feels like!

Aron raised the massive bolters that had replaced his arms, aiming them straight at the Tech-Priests who were meant to be their commanders.

All his fellow servitors did the same.

And in the storm of blood, death and bullets that followed, a new age for Mars began.

Chapter Text

“Was it necessary to go that far?” The Emperor asked, looking down at Mars from the window of his private solar upon the Buchepalus. Nothing should have been visible to him from this distance, of course. From orbit, the Red Planet seemed calm. Many battles were raging below, but no weapons had yet been unleashed that could be seen from so high above.

But divine eyes weren’t as limited as mortal ones.

To the Emperor, the strife and slave revolts on Mars were as plain to him as the void battle raging around the Buchepalus, as Mechanicum ships desperately fled and were cut down by the Buchepalus’s battery of defences from the giant turrets releasing blasts of energy that could scorch continents to the golden eagle-like fighters ships that had been scrambled when the golden vessel had been assaulted.

Next to him, Isha sipped calmly from a fresh glass of mead. This was some of the mead the Emperor kept on board for his use, purely organic, with no chemical stimulants added.

It was much more pleasant than the chemical slop that had been served at the banquet earlier. Honestly, Isha understood the temptation of intoxication, but was it worth consuming toxic chemicals that could do permanent harm to one’s neural systems? Far too many of her children and humans alike seemed to think the answer was yes.

Once she had finished drinking, Isha lowered the glass from her lips and answered. “Yes, yes it was. And if you disagree with me, I dare you to open yourself to the mind of even a single servitor and feel the agony within them.”

George pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture so human that Isha couldn’t help but be amused by it.

“I don’t know why you’re so bothered. I followed the plan, as requested. The insurgents were allowed to broadcast their declaration and commit their opening strikes on Buchepalus. It was only once they had done so that I retaliated, prodding the servitors below into rebellion. I didn’t even do it to every servitor on the planet.”

As convenient as it would have been if the only Tech-Priests who used servitors created by horribly mutilating people for petty ‘crimes’ were the sects opposed to the Emperor, life never worked quite so neatly.

So Isha had gritted her teeth, keeping in mind the Emperor’s promise that he would use this whole situation to extract more concessions from the Mechanicum, including a law that servitors could only be made with vat-grown biological components and limited the number of servitors she had freed. 

“Yes, but a more controlled scenario would have-” The Emperor cut himself off. “No matter. Our plans worked as intended, if not precisely as I thought. Extracting further concessions from the Mechanicum should be easier, and the threat of us turning their servitors against them should make them amenable to banning it.”

“I certainly hope so,” Isha said, taking another sip of the mead, and draining the last of the glass. It was quite delightful, she’d have to try her hand at making her own sometimes.

Their plans had worked as expected for the most part. The renegade sect of the Mechanicum had made their opening move, seeking to use their access to the Buchepalus’s systems to lower its shield and then attack it with as many ships as they could muster.

And as Isha and the Emperor had ensured, that plan had failed. The access the Tech-Priests had been given to the Buchepalus had been limited, and the true strength and complexity of its digital defences had been concealed from them.

The shields had not been lowered, and the assault had failed dramatically. And while the defence of the Buchepalus had torn the attackers in orbit apart, Isha had prodded the servitors in the Forge-Temple the renegades had been using as their primary base to outright rebellion.

Sweet and simple.

The void battle outside seemed to be heating up, Isha noted idly. The Mechanicum vessels had decided that if they were going down, they were going to take as many of their enemies down as possible. They were unleashing weapons without any regard for their safety, and their fighters were committing suicide bombing runs.

She wasn’t unduly concerned. It was well within the parameters that she and the Emperor had expected.

“Will you have enough proof that the Assembly turned a blind eye to the actions of these renegades?” Isha asked curiously, as she moved back towards the wine cabinet to refill her glass. The layout of the office was almost identical to the one upon the Epona, merely somewhat larger.

The Emperor did need to be less unimaginative with his design choices.

“Oh most certainly,” The Emperor chuckled, his mood brightening. “My servants have already hacked their systems and extracted copies of communications and evidence of resources and support being funnelled towards this little attack.”

That must be what the Emperor had brought along those adepts from the Terrawatt Clan for, Isha realized. She had wondered.

It wasn’t surprising. Most of the Martian Assembly might have been too afraid of the Emperor to challenge him directly, but few among them had truly been converted. Many of them had hoped that this assault would work, or even if it didn’t, nobody would be able to trace any of it back to them.

How unfortunate for them that reading their minds was as easy for the Emperor and Isha as breathing.

“Should we help them?” Isha asked, nodding to the Imperial ships fighting outside.

“Ah, there’s no need,” The Emperor said, waving a dismissive hand. “They can handle it. I am helping them, in any case.”

Ah, yes. Isha could see the tendrils of the Emperor’s mind extending outwards to the crew of the Buchepalus, and those on the Imperial ships outside, augmenting their cooperation and communication, allowing them to pull off manoeuvres with impossible precision and coordination.

Beyond that, he was also weakening the minds and will of the Mechanicum forces, damaging their will to fight, their morale, intensifying their desire for survival. 

He was right, the fight would turn out just fine without them.

“So, what shall we do in the meantime?” 

George smiled, and with a flick of a wrist, a chess set with gold and black pieces appeared on his desk. 

“Shall we?” He gestured, sitting down on his enormous armchair. “We have only played one game so far, and we had, ah, other concerns on our mind at the time.

“Why not?” Isha consented, ignoring the Emperor’s understatement, taking her seat.

And as the battle raged outside, the two gods played their game.

Holy Mars had fallen.

To even have such a thought should have been heretical. Unthinkable.

Yet, Adept Regulus could no longer deny the truth. He was a proud son of Mars, who had learned in Olympus Mons itself. The lineage of his masters and teachers was a long and honourable one, which could be traced back centuries to the very dawn of the Mechanicum. 

To see his homeworld fall into foreign hands and torn apart by civil war at the same time was agonizing. It was a pain such as he had never felt.

But only fools denied the obvious.

The great Forge-Masters had knelt before a foreign invader and pledged their allegiance. They had accepted his restrictions and his demands, letting him collar them like dogs.

They had even accepted his claim that he was the Omnissiah, the Avatar of the Machine God himself. That brutish warlord from Terra had declared himself as the incarnation of God, and the great lords of the Mechanicum had believed him.

And when the true faithful had sought to rise and free Mars, they had been broken. Regulus watched the display on the holo monolith, projecting images of what was happening below. Armies of servitors ran rampant upon the surface of the Red Planet, an uprising of ungrateful slaves and wretches who dared to challenge their true masters. How they had been unshackled, Regulus did not know, but they had been. Most likely through some foul sorcery of the Terran witch-lord.

Their last hope, their great rebellion, had been shattered. Holy Mars now lay in the thrall of a barbarian warlord, truly and utterly.

Regulus burned with shame at the thought, at the fact that he wasn’t there to participate in the fighting. He should have been down there, fighting alongside his fellow faithful, to defend Mars from the invaders and the traitors.

Instead, he was preparing to flee.

But his master’s orders had been clear. If the rebellion failed, then Regulus had to go. He had to leave his home behind, run from Sol and take the new of the fall of Mars to the other Forge Worlds.

If Mars could not be saved from within, then it would have to be saved from without, by the many children it had sent out across the galaxy.

“Sir?” His Skittari guard spoke from next to the command throne upon which Regulus was seated. “We need to go,” The Skittari Protector said urgently. “Our window of time is closing.”

Regulus said nothing for a long moment, watching the carnage on the holo-monolith as Tech-Priests were torn apart by servitors and ancient monuments to the Mechanicum’s glory were toppled. Then, with great reluctance, he switched it off.

“Very well,” He pressed the controls on his throne, issuing the necessary commands to the ship’s AI. “It is time to go. Maximum speed, away from here. Set course for the local Mandeville Point.”

The AI obeyed without question. It was a miracle of engineering, one of the last great works of the late Kelbor Hal before he died. This entire vessel was of his design, a ship designed for pure speed, piloted by the most advanced Artifical Intelligence conceived by Mars in centuries, able to navigate even the currents of the Warp themselves.

…at least in theory. The prototype had only been tested on a limited scale, in Warp jumps across the Solar System itself.

But there was no other option. The Terran Navigator Clans were firmly in the thrall of the False Omnissiah, and while there were probably a few among their number who would have been willing to join Regulus for the right price, reaching out without the Imperium noticing had proven all but impossible.

So Regulus had to hope that Kelbor-Hal’s genius would not fail. 

This was not the only ship that had been prepared for such a contingency, of course. Regulus knew there were others, though, for the sake of security, he had not been informed where they were and who was on board them.

Some of these ships would undoubtedly be caught and cut down by the Imperium before they could flee. But if even a handful, if only escaped…then there might still be hope for the Mechanicum.

Regulus’s master had made some modifications of his own to these ships, of course, most prominently the addition of an advanced stealth cloaking device. His master had dug it out of the deepest vaults of his Forge-Temple, opening doors that had been sealed for centuries.

Such vaults had been sealed for good reason and were not to be opened on a whim. 

But in this new age, as Mars itself fell and heresy ran rampant, there was no choice.

No choice but for Regulus to run like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs, searching for unlikely allies on distant stars.

I will return one day. Regulus vowed to himself. I will bring an army with me, the might of the entire Mechanicum at my back and Mars will be free. And the false Omnissiah will know our vengeance!

Then, with a burst of power, the vessel named Ares set off, leaving Mars behind, in search of hope upon distant stars.

Chapter Text

Despite the shining sun, the peaks of the Himalazian Mountains remained capped in snow, the golden capital of the Imperium glittering in the valley below.

It was a far cry from how the mountain rage had been even a few short decades ago. The sky was no longer clouded with dust and ash, and the snow on the mountains was no longer a toxic pink or yellow but sparkling white. The atmosphere so high up was a little thin, but the air was clear of all pollutants.

The city below had changed as well, now dotted with trees and plants, along with natural reserves and parks located in strategic locations around the valley. 

The woman responsible for these changes descended from the sky to stand atop the peak of the highest mountain, her arms crossed as she waited.

She didn’t have to wait long, as a golden giant appeared in a crackle of lightning. Today, the Emperor of Mankind wore not golden armour, a dress uniform or even the extravagant robes of an aristocrat, but the simple white robes of a scholar, plain and unmarked.

“You called me here?” Isha inquired, carelessly dropping onto the ground, uncaring of the coldness of the snow. 

The Emperor nodded. “There is something I would like your help with.”

Seemingly from nowhere, the Emperor produced a deck of cards, holding his hand out. Slowly, each card rose from the stack on his palm, rising into the air to hover around him.

“Chaos has blinded me for too long,” The Emperor declared. “I thought I had pierced the veil they had cast over me after Kalagann, but then they deceived me again with Narthan Dume, and then Be’lakor did it again. I need to do something.”

Isha frowned, crossing her legs. “And these cards will help you with that?”

George nodded. “These are the Arcana,” He explained, the cards shimmering and spinning around him in arcs. “They began as a simple superstition long ago, but enough people believed in them they gained power of their own. I used them as precognitive tools long ago, though I had since discarded them as I refined my foresight,” He grimaced. “But it seems that is no longer true in this day and age, so I must resort to other measures.”

“But why do you need my help?” Isha asked, propping an elbow on her knee. “I am not an expert on precognition, I’m afraid. That was my mother and my daughter’s domain, not mine. I can see into the future, of course, all gods can, but you are certainly more skilled in it than I.”

“I need your help as a focus,” George said. “A few of those that I wish to see are our common enemies, the ones you told me about last year.”

Isha scowled at the mention of the Muses. “Very well,” She agreed. “But why here?” She gestured to the mountain around them. 

“In ancient times, this place was called Everest,” George murmured. “It was and is the highest peak on all of Terra, and to clamber here was an incredible feat, something long thought to be impossible. That is no longer true and has not been since before mankind rose to the stars, but it is still a place of great metaphysical significance. From here, I may find a clearer view than in all of Sol.”

Isha nodded thoughtfully. “I wondered why this peak remained unclaimed,” She mused. It was true. The mountain itself had a hive city carved into it, like every mountain in the valley. But the peak of every other mountain had been claimed, swarming with facilities and constructions of one kind or the other.

Only this peak remained clear.

“I had it cleared and preserved when I laid the foundations of the Imperium, yes,” George confirmed. “This place is more useful to me as it is than if it were to be occupied. But all that aside…” He gestured and the cards stopped spinning, instead moving to hover between him and Isha. “Shall we begin?”

“We shall.”

George clapped his hands, and instantly, the world around them seemed to freeze. The sounds of the city below ceased, and the ships buzzing around the mountains froze in motion.

Only Isha and the Emperor remained as they were.

The Emperor’s eyes blazed with golden fire, even brighter and fiercer than usual, no longer mere bonfires but miniature supernovas set in a human face.

It wasn’t just for the show. He cast a great light in the Warp, piercing through the great shadow of Chaos, through the infernal flames and smoke that sought to conceal the future from him.

But it wasn’t enough. 

The hold of Chaos upon the Sea of Souls was too strong to be shaken by brute force alone. To overcome them and see what the future held, the Emperor would have to use every trick he had ever known to ferret out whatever glimpses of the truth he could.

Then, for an instant, he was surprised when his golden flame was joined by a burst of emerald lightning, crackling through the Immaterium.

Isha simply raised an eyebrow at him when he gave her a surprised look. Precognition might not be her area of expertise, but she could lend her strength to his efforts to pierce the veil.

After a moment, George inclined his head in thanks as their power burned together, brighter together than alone.

The darkness of the Warp receded, and for a moment, there was a hiss of rage and pain as the daemons drew away from the divine flame.

“Ask me a question,” The Emperor said, his voice resonant and as loud as thunder, yet somehow distant, with an unearthly quality.

Isha understood immediately. This was part of the ritual, part of the practice. The Emperor could try to pierce through the Veil simply to try to find what he was looking for, but the symbolism of him seeking an answer to another’s question would add another layer of strength to his efforts.

“Tell me about your sons,” Isha said softly, more gently than she had spoken to George in a long time. But she of all people understood the pain and fear of not knowing what might happen to your lost children. “Where are they?”

The Emperor didn’t answer, but one of the cards rose above the others, straightening from a horizontal position to a vertical one, gently rotating so that Isha and George could both see it.

The Sun. 

The card burned with the same golden light as an actual star, the light of hope and optimism.

“My sons are alive,” George said, his joy obvious even through the unearthly quality his voice had taken. “All of them. They are doing well, but-”

The Sun fell back into position and another card rose in its place.

Justice.

“-their actions will have consequences that will shape their lives forever,” the Emperor said, voice becoming grimmer. “They are in their most malleable stage right now. They are vulnerable, and if they make the wrong choices, they could be damned. We must find them before Chaos does, before they can pushed down the wrong path.”

Justice fell, and a third card rose.

The Wheel of Fortune.

“I can see their locations at last,” George said, as the wheel spun rapidly, so fast that it would have been but a blur to mortal eyes. “I know where they are. I know where all of them are!”

“Congratulations,” Isha said quietly, and she meant it. For all their differences as of late, she was sincerely glad that he now had a clear route to his sons.

The Emperor reigned his excitement in, calming himself as the Wheel of Fortune fell. “The second question, now.”

“What are the Gods of Chaos planning?” Isha queried. “What is their next step?”

The card that arose in response to her question was far more ominous than the previous ones.

The Eye.

A vortex of purple, red, green and blue light swirled, both threatening to pull everything into it and to let darkness spill out across the galaxy.

“The Four’s actions are hidden from me. I cannot see all of what they do, but I can see some of it,” the Emperor said. “Their armies march out of the Eye, searching for something…”

The Eye did not fall, but another card sprang up to join it.

The Tower.

“They seek something that can cause great destruction,” The Emperor murmured, frustration bleeding into his voice as he tried to divine the details. “A…fortress? A ship?”

Isha’s heart leapt into her throat. The Emperor might not understand what he was seeing, but she did.

The Talismans of Vaul. The Blackstone Fortresses. That was what Chaos was after.

They sought to take the last remnants of her brother’s legacy and to bend them to their will, to twist and defile them so that they might wreak ruin upon the galaxy they had been built to save.

“I know what it means,” Isha said quietly. “I will…I will explain it to you later. But for now, we should continue.”

The Emperor regarded her with narrowed eyes for a moment, before nodding. The Eye and the Tower fell.

“Your third question, then. This will be the last one.”

Isha paused for a moment, mulling it over. The fact that there were only three questions was frustrating, but she understood. Three was an important number in human cultures. The Emperor could most likely continue beyond it, but the effectiveness of the ritual would be diminished to the point that it would be no more effective than his normal attempts at precognition.

“What of the Orks?”

This time, a new card arose: Judgement.

This time, the Emperor seemed almost confused. “Something from the past is coming,” He said slowly. “Something powerful and dangerous, something that will define the fate of the Orks forever.”

Isha blinked. “You mean…they will grow stronger? Reclaim their old glories?” It was a worrying thought, but it wasn’t exactly a new concern. It was something both Isha and the Emperor had kept in the back of their minds, but it was always gnawing at them a constant worry.

“That is a possibility, but…there’s something else,” The Emperor frowned. “I don’t understand it. It's almost in my reach…”

But then the card of Judgement flared bright green, not like Isha’s power, but something deeper, more vivid and monstrous.

In the Sea of Souls, there was a great and terrible roar, the force of which sent both Isha and the Emperor reeling as the card of Judgement exploded.

Isha hastily threw up a sphere of light containing the explosion, preventing it from doing any harm. 

“Are you alright?” She asked the Emperor, wincing slightly in pain.

The Emperor blinked back the sudden stream of tears from his eyes, not of sorrow, but the kind a mortal experienced if they stared directly into too bright a light.

“Yes, I am fine,” He said, grimacing and rubbing his eyes slightly.

“Gork and Mork don’t want us to see whatever it is that’s coming, I suppose,” Isha said lightly, trying to conceal her turmoil.

This had been her closest encounter with the remnants of her former friend in many ages of the galaxy, and even at the height of her power, it would have been unnerving.

In her current state, it was difficult to ignore the fear, the memories of a savage green tide washing over the galaxy, indomitable and unstoppable. The memory of trusted friends devolving into nothing more than beasts, a roar that could shake the galaxy itself-

“Isha!”

Isha forcibly pulled herself back to reality as the Emperor eyed her with concern. “I’m fine,” She managed. “I’m fine. But this makes the Orks an even more pressing concern, even if we cannot determine the precise nature of the threat to come.”

The Emperor nodded somberly. “We will have to find a way to begin curtailing them soon. The Reunification of Sol is underway, but this cannot wait that long. We do not have the armies to conduct complete campaigns, but perhaps we can at least begin assassinating Ork warbosses in nearby systems and sectors.”

Isha nodded, an idea coming to her. It was not one she liked, but…she sighed. The memory of the Savage Krork was stronger than ever, the way they had very nearly brought the galaxy to its knees.

“I believe,” She said haltingly. “Perhaps a collaboration between your Space Marines and the forces of Iyanden might be in order. Access to the Webway should make such assassinations easier.”

The bright spark of interest in the Emperor’s eyes almost made Isha regret her words.

But she didn’t take them back.

The Beast could not allowed to rise again.

“I would certainly be interested in such things,” The Emperor agreed, almost too eagerly. “But concerning the Webway…there is something I must show you.”

Isha was not a precognitive, but at that moment, she had the undeniable feeling she wasn’t going to like what the Emperor wanted to show her.

Chapter Text

The Emperor led Isha to his private office, the first time she had been there in months. The Emperor gestured for her to wait a moment, placed a hand on the wooden wall, and some unknown sensor lit up.

“Authorization recognised,” A robotic female voice said, cold and artificial. “Welcome, Lord Emperor.” 

The wall slid open to reveal a hidden mag-lev. But it wasn’t just the mechanical defences that opened, Isha could sense the Emperor opening heavy psychic wards that he had layered over the wall.

Heavy, but subtle. Isha hadn’t even noticed they were there on her previous visits to the Emperor’s office. Now that she could finally sense them, she was more than a little taken aback at how intricate these were. These protections were sunk into the very rock and stone of the mountain, crafted through potent rituals.

The workmanship of the wards would have impressed even Lileath and Hoeth, such was their potency.

The only time Isha had seen such powerful and intricate wards on Terra were…around her own chambers. In the earliest days, when the Emperor had trusted her not at all.

These were slightly different, sacrificing power for subtlety. But not by much.

“Come,” The Emperor said, stepping into the mag-lev. “Let us go.”

Isha stepped inside the capsule, which was large enough to comfortably accommodate even the gigantic figure of the Emperor and a full company of Custodes. A holographic display panel on the walls was the only visible method of controlling the capsule.

“Take us to Project Gateway,” The Emperor commanded.

“Request denied. Unrecognised xeno warp-entity detected. Activating countermeasures.”

Isha tensed, ready to conjure forth armour as the panel flickered red and massive guns of an unfamiliar make descended from the ceiling. They were gleaming silver cylinders easily as thick as the Emperor’s arm. Obviously Golden Age human technology, resembling the weapons borne by the Iron Men she and the Emperor had slaughtered on Mars than any of the Imperium’s weaponry.

But even as the turrets aimed at her, lines of electric blue energy flaring to life on their sides, the Emperor spoke sharply. “Override. Authorisation: Imperator.” 

The guns paused, the blue glow dimming.

“Double-authorization required for override.” The voice said again. “Please confirm.”

“Authorization: Imperator,” The Emperor repeated. “Register new arrival as an ally, designate Lady Isha. Grant her Alpha-Silver level authorisation.”

“Override accepted. Welcome, Lady Isha. Moving to Project Gateway now.”

The guns retracted into the ceiling, the holographic display turning back to a light blue as the mag-level’s doors slid shut and began descending downwards.

“My apologies,” The Emperor said to Isha’s raised eyebrow. “The defence systems are designed to only register someone new when I bring them here.”

“You have an Artificial Intelligence protecting this…Project Gateway. I thought those were illegal in your Imperium,” Isha remarked, folding her arms.

“It isn’t a Man of Iron,” The Emperor clarified. “It is a techno-organic system built from a combination of cybernetics and human brains,” At Isha’s expression, he added. “Not a servitor. A vat-grown human brain which I personally designed. It was the prototype for the brains of the Primarchs, in fact. It still isn’t as powerful as a true Iron Mind. Certainly not as independent, it's hardcoded with limits. But this project of mine required defences as powerful as I could craft, and this way is substantially less vulnerable to scrapcode or even the Dragon’s technology.”

A prototype for a Primarch’s brain made into the central processor of a defence system? 

That was paranoid even by the Emperor’s standards.

“Exactly what was this Project Gateway?” Isha asked suspiciously.

“It is best if you see for yourself,” The Emperor said firmly. “I will tell you more once you have.”

Isha pursed her lips but didn’t press, instead leaning against the wall of the mag-lev.

The mag-lev continued to descend into the depths of the mountain, deeper than Isha had ever gone before.

And as they descended, the presence of the wards grew heavier and heavier, the air itself dense with their weight. The Emperor hadn’t just sunk the wards into one section of the mountain, they were imbued in the very foundations of the earth.

Isha could have broken them, but even for her, it would have taken a great deal of power. For anyone else…nothing less than the full might of an Exalted Daemon Prince of Chaos would have sufficed, and that only if they were present on Terra.

After several long minutes, the capsule’s descent slowed, before it finally stopped.

The doors slid open once more, and Isha and the Emperor stepped out into a hallway, every inch of it covered in a strange golden metal.

“What is this?” Isha asked slowly, placing a hand on the metal. It was psi-reactive, she realized. It reminded her almost of wraithbone.

“This is auramite,” The Emperor explained. “It is the result of my attempts to create humanity’s version of wraithbone.” 

Yes, Isha could feel it now. It wasn’t as flexible as wraithbone, but this material could absorb or block psychic energy to some degree.

“I have been meaning to make suits of armour for the Custodes from it, in fact,” The Emperor continued as they walked down the hallway. “But there just never seemed to be the time.”

“I see,” Isha said, unsure of what to say. She wasn’t surprised that the Emperor had sought to create his version of wraithbone, nor even offended. 

But exactly why was this whole place covered in it?

They reached a set of sealed doors that were also made of auramite, flanked by two Custodes clad in jet-black armour instead of gold.

“Your Majesty,” They saluted immediately upon seeing him. 

“At ease,” He said, the doors sliding open at the flick of a wrist from him. No mechanical systems were opening the doors, Isha realized. They could be sealed and opened only by tapping into the enchantments the Emperor had woven over them. “Come, Isha.”

Increasingly intrigued and not a little alarmed, the Eldar Goddess followed her human compatriot through the hallways, through several more sets of identical doorways, each of them also warded and guarded by Custodes in black armour.

Finally, after passing through the tenth such doorway they emerged into a massive cavern.

It was not the largest cavern in Bai-heng that Isha had ever seen. The farms the Emperor had made for her were larger, for one.

But it was large, able to comfortably fit the Epona between its wall. More importantly, it was layered in auramite, plates of golden metal covering every inch of the floor, walls and ceiling.

Yet, what drew Isha’s eye was the object at the centre of the cavern.

It was a pyramid.

The base of the pyramid was six metres of grey and green metal with whirring mechanisms crackling with electricity. Then upon the base, were four metres of auramite, so different it almost seemed like a different construct from what lay below it. To the sides of the auramite were linked enormous cables thicker than the Emperor and even longer, going all the way to the sides of the cavern.

An enormous, steep staircase carpeted in red led to the top of the pyramid, where there was a throne.

A golden throne, linked to the ceiling by a mass of wires and cables.

There were parts of the machine that lay unfinished, exposed, still under construction, and there Isha recognized elements of non-human technology. There were stolen Eldar artifacts, wraithbone crudely fitted amidst human metals, unfamiliar alien technologies from civilizations that must have arisen after the Edict…

For some reason, the throne sent a thrum of unease through Isha. The whole design was disquietingly familiar in a way she couldn’t quite place, something about it that pulled at a memory in her.

But more than that, there was an air of destiny around it, of a future yet to come. Isha could not have said what the future was, what it meant.

She only knew that the throne was important in some way, even beyond the machinery it contained. That it would mean something in the future to come, something terrible and heavy.

To her alarm, the Emperor seemed oblivious. Even though he was a far more skilled seer than she, the Guardian of Mankind didn’t seem at all disquieted or wary of the machine, seemingly blind to the threads of fate around it. When he looked at it, all she could see in his eyes his aura and his soul was hope.

“This is the Golden Throne,” The Emperor said softly, almost reverently, which only made Isha more uncomfortable. “It is perhaps the greatest of my creations next to the Primarchs.”

“What is it?” Isha asked, unsure if she truly wanted to know.

The Emperor turned to look at her, his body and aura completely and deliberately relaxed and open.

“It is a way to open a gateway,” He said quietly. “A gateway into the Webway.”

Isha was at a loss for words.

She recognized the design now, it dawned on her. It was a Necron Dolmen Gate. Or rather, the Emperor attempting to recreate a Dolmen Gate from his own knowledge, scraps of Necron technology that still lay scattered across the galaxy, and taking things from other civilizations.

It wasn’t finished. Even the parts that were complete were hardly a perfect recreation.

But it was close. Terrifyingly close.

It wasn’t surprising, exactly. Her children’s foolishness had allowed the Ruinous Powers to claim total dominion of the Warp.

And the Warp was the very foundation of most interstellar civilizations. It was how they travelled, how they communicated. As things stood, it was not impossible to do either, but it was very, very difficult. Any empire or civilization that rose in this new age of darkness would be built on shaky foundations.

So of course the Emperor, consummate scientist and ruthless warlord that he was, had turned to the idea of breaching the Webway, of claiming it for his people. He was not the first to have had such an idea, though Isha suspected that he underestimated the difficulty of it…or the consequences of attempting to do so.

This object was something akin to a Necron Dolmen Gate. And yes, those had succeeded in breaching the Webway of the Old Ones, but in the end, they had also shattered it.

In the aftermath of the War in Heaven, her children had slowly, painstakingly built a new Webway over the aeons. Why the Old Ones had taught the Aeldari the secrets of warp tunnelling and making gateways was something Isha could not say. For the most part, the Old Ones had been cold and clinical in their treatment of the Eldar as weapons. Prototype weapons at that, ones not nearly as refined or efficient as their later work such as the Krork.

But they had taught her children how to make pathways through the Warp for some inscrutable reason of their own.

It had been a good thing, in the end. Fragments of the original Webway survived, warp gates scattered across the galaxy here and there, discovered, studied and harnessed by younger races. But it was nothing like the grand network of pocket dimensions and portals that the Old Ones had built before the War in Heaven or the one her children had built for themselves.

But now, even the second Webway lay in peril. It had been damaged by the Fall, of that Isha was certain. The explosion of psychic energy from the Birth of Slaanesh would have had catastrophic consequences.

The Webway had survived, but it was in a fragile state. 

And the thing in front of her might be the key to breaking the Webway just as the Dolmen Gates of the Necrons had shattered its predecessor long ago. Or at least to damage it even further.

Even if the Golden Throne did not do serious harm to the Webway’s infrastructure, even if it worked exactly as the Emperor hoped…what would happen to all her children within?

Yes, the Webway realms had become dens of debauchery and madness, ruled by some of the worst of her children. But those were just the rulers.

There were so many Eldar in there who were just slaves. Eldar created in cloning vats, looked down on with disdain by the ‘Trueborn’ elite of the Dominion, who considered them slaves, test subjects and fodder.

What would become of them if the Emperor conquered the Webway and claimed it for his own?

“Isha?” The Emperor - George asked. He seemed almost anxious, clearly fearing her anger or reprimand.

But the Everqueen simply closed her eyes and sighed. 

She was not angry. Merely afraid.

And…she did understand what an enormous gesture of trust this was. What it meant for George to have shown her this, was to tell her the truth of what he intended.

To give her a chance to influence his thoughts on the project and what he might do.

She hadn’t forgiven him for what had happened to Iyanden. She wasn’t sure she ever would.

But here and now, she might be able to save more of her children if she let her anger go than by holding on to it.

Opening her eyes, Isha looked directly into the Emperor’s own. She let her aura loose from the usual tight control she kept it under, letting all her emotions show so that he would see that she was not angry.

“We have a lot to discuss,” Isha said quietly. 

Chapter Text

“So.”

“So.”

Isha’s eyes flickered to the ominous edifice next to them, before she spoke again.

“Where does this lead, then?”

George shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Don’t avoid the question,” Isha said wearily. “You brought me here. You showed me this. So I will ask you again: where does this lead? You obviously wish to claim the Webway for your Imperium, for your species. Where does that end? With the extermination of my children, down to the last infant? With our subjugation, as eternal vassals of mankind?”

“...the latter,” George admitted quietly. “I do not wish to wipe your children, Isha. Not anymore. But…”

“So what do you expect of me, then? To offer my fealty willingly?” Isha asked bitterly. “To help convince my children they should kneel before you, to accept servitude or to die?”

“No!” George said, shaking his head. “I know I cannot ask that of you. I know. If our positions were reversed…” He trailed off.

“Then why show me this?” Isha wondered. “What do you want?”

George’s shoulders sagged, and he ran a hand through his hair.

“I just…” He sighed. “I want to be able to work something out,” He admitted quietly. “I do not wish to fight you or force you into anything. But I could not come up with anything on my own. I hoped…you might have some ideas. Some compromise we could agree on.”

Isha was silent for a long moment as she considered his words.

“I will not help you breach the Webway,” She said finally. “But…there may be other options.”

“What are those?” George asked, almost eagerly.

“Your people have found Warp Gates scattered across the galaxy, yes? Used them, even?”

George nodded. “Those are the remnants of the original Webway, built by the Old Ones and shattered during the War in Heaven,” Isha continued. “But the modern Webway was built by my children afterwards. Much of that knowledge has been lost, but I do have some of it, enough to start with. The Black Library should have archives of the craft of warp tunnelling, and how to build your own network. ”

“But you would need Cegorach’s consent for that,” The Emperor observed shrewdly.

“I would,” Isha acknowledged. “If he refuses, then it most likely cannot be done. But we can try.”

The Emperor paused for a moment, apparently debating something, before speaking. “Mankind has created warp gates before.”

…what?

What?

Isha stared at him in astonishment. “You have?” 

“With great difficulty and my personal involvement, yes,” The Emperor nodded. “The Kalium Gate. It was one of my last projects before the Iron War. It was very difficult to build and has been left in ruins since. I thought it was no longer a viable option to pursue, for building a stable pathway through the Immaterium was difficult enough before the Age of Strife, but perhaps with your help…”

“Perhaps,” Isha nodded slowly, still reeling from the revelation. She had underestimated the Emperor’s genius or the extent of the knowledge he had inherited from the Old Ones.

Perhaps both.

“You said there were two options. What is the other one?”

Isha forced herself to focus. She could dwell on this new revelation later. “The odds of success on the other option are even lower, but perhaps we can.” She had to try, at least. If only to avoid a war with the Emperor and Imperium.

“And that option is?”

“The Krork were the most powerful of the creations of the Old Ones, gifted with abilities and secrets even the Eldar were not privy to,” Isha replied. “One of those secrets was a method of superluminal travel entirely unconnected to the Warp.”

“Truly?” George asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Truly. I do not know the details, but it was a dimension between the Warp and the Materium, incredibly difficult to access. The Krork used it as both a method of travel and communications and as a weapon. It…may be possible for the two of us to find a way to access this dimension, so that your people may use it. It will be yours, and the Webway will be ours.”

Once more, Isha wished for Vaul to be here. He had studied Krork technology during the war, he would be better at this. 

But she would have to suffice.

“What is this dimension called?” The Emperor asked, intrigued.

“There were quite a few different names for it, but in human language…” Isha paused for a moment, considering which human term best applied. “I believe it would be best to call it subspace.”

“Subspace,” The Emperor repeated. “And you think we can find a way to harness it for mankind?”

“I do not know,” Isha said honestly. “But we must try.”

She had to try.

George nodded in understanding. “Where do we begin?”

“First, we have to find a way to at least detect subspace,” Isha answered. “I believe we can accomplish that much, at least. My children built several devices and rituals in order to detect and predict the movement of Krork armies.”

George nodded. “Come,” He said, walking towards one of the alcoves on the side of the hall. “I believe this is better discussed in my labs.”

Isha cast a glance backwards at the Golden Throne, still cloaked in that heavy mantle of destiny.

“Can you truly not feel it?” She couldn’t help but ask.

The Emperor stopped, turning back to look at her with a puzzled frown. “What do you mean?”

“Just…everything,” She waved a hand at the throne. “This machine is a keystone of fate. Tangled in destiny and prophecy. I cannot say what will become of it, but this machine…one way or another, it will be important. Not merely to your plans, but to everything.”

The Emperor’s gaze turned to the Golden Throne, his eyes focused on it for a long moment.

“I truly do not see anything,” He said finally. “It is important, of course, but what you describe…” He shook his head. 

Isha hesitated for a moment longer. For some reason, it felt important to make sure the Emperor understood the weight of the Golden Throne, and the doom around it.

She wasn’t sure why he was blind to it. His own bias? Some mystery of the Warp? Whatever it was, Isha felt that he needed to understand.

“Perhaps if we shared our sense?” She suggested.

The Emperor seemed doubtful but walked back towards her. “Very well.”

Isha extended a hand, and the Emperor took it.

Their minds touched, and Isha tried her best to share what she saw through it, the feeling around the Golden Throne, trying to let the Emperor see through her eyes.

And she felt George’s alarm and surprise as he finally saw what she saw. The tangled knot of fate around the Golden Throne.

+This is…unnerving.+ He said, now psychically instead of verbally. +I don’t understand, why did I never see this before?+

Isha gave the mental equivalent of a helpless shrug. I do not know.

+Perhaps if I try to breach it.+ The Emperor reached out, tugging at one of the threads of the knot, trying to see what lay in front of it.

The knot refused to budge, and the Emperor’s eyes narrowed in irritation. He applied more power and more precision, trying his best to tease one of the threads, to see something of what was hidden from him.

And then the Immaterium was filled with golden light.

Isha and George both recoiled from the light, the scorching heat. It was almost like George’s own power, but it was…wrong. Twisted.

There was a wrath to it, a burning hate that eclipsed even the fury that the Emperor had demonstrated on and after Iyanden. A hate so deep that it could drown the galaxy.

But more than that, there was pain. Agony beyond measure, of a kind which even Isha had seen only very rarely through the many ages that she had lived.

The golden light burned even brighter, and then Isha saw something in the flames.

A skull.

It was bleached completely white and cracked in many places. The empty eye sockets with golden fire, but the most frightening thing of all was upon its head.

A golden laurel wreath.

Then the skull opened its mouth wide as if to scream, and then exploded like a supernova.

The golden light became even more searing and horrifying, more twisted and corrupted. It roared of order and hate, of tyranny unending, of a cosmos broken and bent to a singular will. 

The golden light spread across the galaxy, subjugating everything in its path. And everything it could not consume, it destroyed.

It…it reminded Isha of the Fall.

Of Slaanesh’s Birth.

The future was gold, and it was a terrible future indeed.

And then the vision ended.

Isha staggered backwards from the Emperor, shaken and horrified. “What…what was that?”

“I think…” George said, looking as badly shaken as she was. “I think that was me.”

He sounded utterly horrified at the idea.

“No, it was…was more than that. What we just saw… was the birth of a Chaos God. But I don’t understand how…” Isha trailed off.

They had just seen a Chaos God erupt from the Emperor’s skull, and yet, such a thing was surely impossible. Gods could be shattered, they could even be slain.

And such things left their mark upon the Immaterium to be sure.

But you could not birth a Chaos God by killing another god. Chaos was the deepest trauma and agony possible, a scar on the very fabric of the Sea of Souls. 

Simply the death of a god like the Emperor did not accomplish such a thing, no matter who or what slew him. The Star Vampires had slain many gods during the War in Heaven, and while that had certainly contributed to the eventual rise of Chaos, never had the death of a single god created so much as a Daemon King.

And what they had just seen had been beyond a Daemon King.

Far beyond.

George was looking at the Golden Throne again, but his earlier hope and reverence had been replaced by fear.

“I just…” He shook his head. “Why did we see that? What does the Golden Throne have to do with it?”

Isha had no answers for him. She didn’t understand what the Throne had to do with a future where the Emperor became a Chaos God…somehow.

For a long moment, the two of them just stood there, trying to wrap their minds around what had just happened.

Finally, the Emperor shook his head. “We will think more on it later,” He declared. “For now, we should turn our minds to the actual task at hand.”

Isha wanted to disagree, but truth be told, it wasn’t as if she had any idea of how to make sense of their shared vision either.

So instead, she merely followed the Emperor to one of the alcoves.

Though calling it an alcove was something of a misnomer, given it was more akin to a fully equipped laboratory, gleaming with specialized equipment and hyper-advanced cogitators.

“So, how do we begin the construction of this device?” The Emperor asked, circling a table to look at her from the other side.

“To begin with, I will teach you how to construct a wraithbone. You will need to know it both to attempt any detection of subspace or to build the proper infrastructure for a Warp Gate network of your own,” Isha answered.

It was a secret she had been reluctant to give up…but she had already taught the Emperor how to make dreamstones. And he had already had limited success on his own with auramite in any case.

He would figure it out eventually.

And a smaller sacrifice now would hopefully save her children in the future.

“Watch carefully,” Isha told the Emperor.

Carefully, she began to pull power from the Sea of Souls. First, she shaped it into a thread and then another thread and then another. Painstakingly, she wove the threads of energy together, assembling them until they solidified into a simple crystal tree in the palm of her hand.

She could have done it much faster, of course, but the point was to teach the Emperor how to do it, to make sure he understood the process.

“I see now,” George breathed, sounding awed. “It is…exquisite. And yet, so obvious now. I can’t believe I never considered…”

“Try it now,” Isha suggested. “It shouldn’t take you long to understand.”

The Emperor nodded in agreement and began.

As she watched him weave, Isha felt dread and uncertainty well up within her once more.

This was such an incredible gamble on her part. She barely even knew where to begin on how to detect subspace, much less to harness it for use.

The likelihood that this project would work was incredibly low. Nigh-impossible.

Humanity building its network of Warp Gates was slightly more likely, but not by much. 

But what choice did she have? She could not simply surrender the Webway to the Emperor, nor allow him to simply continue his plans to breach it unimpeded. The binding pact they had both sworn guaranteed her children some degree of protection from the Emperor, but it was limited. 

Cegorach was distinctly unlikely to give her the secrets to warp tunnelling so that she could give to the Emperor, to say the least. He might very well turn against her outright if she even suggested it.

This was the only option she had, near-impossible as it was. If nothing else, it might buy her time to think of something else.

It had to. 

Chapter Text

Isha was afraid of him.

The Emperor had seen the fear flickered in her eyes when he revealed the Webway Project.

There was a mixture of terror in her voice as she asked him whether or not he intended to exterminate all the Eldar within the Webway.

And though it pained him to admit it, the Emperor could not tell her she was wrong.

He did not wish to hurt Isha. It was why he had forged the contract with her in the first place.

But when it came to a choice between mankind and the Eldar…humanity would always come first.

No matter what.

But if other paths were possible to pursue…well. George was willing to try them.

Truth be told, he had been taken aback by Isha’s fear and the knowledge she had almost desperately offered him. Piercing the Webway with the Golden Throne was…difficult, to say the least.

He had not yet even begun to make any real inroads, and would likely not do so for centuries to come. The Great Crusade was as much about gathering the necessary knowledge and components to begin penetrating the Webway’s defences as it was about reuniting mankind.

Isha, however, seemed to have seriously overestimated his progress and, there was no other way to put it, panicked. Perhaps she thought he had inherited a far greater understanding of the Webway from the Old One that had created him than he actually had. Perhaps she assumed he had learned something from the Dragon.

In any case, she seemed to have thought he was already on the verge of a breakthrough rather than centuries away.

George could not help but feel a tinge of shame and guilt at taking advantage of her fear. Part of him whispered that he should reassure and clarify, put her fears to rest.

But if she realized just how behind the curve he was, she might decide not to share the knowledge of subspace and warp tunnelling she had.

And that was unacceptable. He needed to know. Even if neither avenue ultimately panned out, then what he learned would still likely be useful when it came to the Webway.

This knowledge could help him save humanity, and that was an advantage the Emperor was not willing to sacrifice, even if it did mean taking advantage of a…friend’s fears.

There was no other way.

It was all for the best in any case. Ideally, one of these two ideas that Isha proposed would work out, and there would be no need for conflict between them.

Pushing away his guilt, the Emperor focused on the task in front of him.

Crafting wraithbone.

Now that Isha had finally demonstrated the process to him, the Emperor could not help but be in awe.

There were certain fundamental principles in common with the making of dreamstones, enough that the Emperor was confident he could have worked them out on his own in a few years.

But still, the process was also very different at the same time. It was beautiful and sublime in a way that is difficult to describe in human languages.

Taking the raw energies of the Warp, purifying and stabilizing them, and then weaving that power into solid form…it was simply extraordinary.

But above all, it was scientific. It was also artistic, but it was a process that could be mastered through careful study and hard work.

There would be no need for him to go on any journey of self-discovery and reach some deep personal realization to master bonesinging, and for that the Emperor was grateful.

For this, he simply had to be a scientist, artisan and weaver all things which he had been in previous lives.

Never quite in this way, but close enough.

So it was that the Emperor patiently plucked strands of power from the Immaterium, shaping them and then weaving them together.

Even his enhanced mind needed to put considerable focus on the task, though it would no doubt become easier with time. But for the moment, the Emperor spared no effort, concentrating.

He could see where he had been going wrong with the auramite, as he drew another strand of energy forth. He hadn’t realized how delicate the process was. He had treated it as a matter of forging, of acting as a blacksmith to melt something down and reforge it.

But bonesinging wasn’t like that. To excise the corruption of Chaos and stabilize the energies of the Sea required far more precision. Apply too much force, to try to melt it down, would stabilize it, but the result was too rigid and inflexible. Auramite was as strong and durable as adamantium and capable of withstanding considerable psychic pressure, but it wasn’t much more than that.

Wraithbone was every bit as strong, but far more flexible. It could be shaped to any purpose, made into whatever was required for the task at hand.

It was simply extraordinary.

What he could have done with wraithbone if he had cracked its secrets at the height of the Golden Age! It was still beyond valuable and there were many, many things he could do with it, but if only he still had the full resources and technology he had back then. If only he could still afford to focus his efforts solely on studying and bury himself in his research for years as he once had, and not have to divide his attention between so many other tasks…

If only.

At last, he finished the work of pulling the wraithbone together. Floating between his hands was an ingot of shining gold, that seemed almost crystalline yet…wasn’t.

It was warm and full of power and light. More than that it was full of potential.

Isha appraised it, her eyes looking it at through all dimensions. “May I?” She asked.

“Of course.” 

Tapered fingers plucked the golden ingot from between his palms, and Isha turned it over several times, studying it carefully.

“Well done,” She said. “Your work with the dreamstones has been paying off. This is the sort of craftsmanship most bonesingers would need years of effort to reach. You have achieved it in half a day.”

“Has it been that long?” The Emperor asked in surprise, before realizing that, yes it had.

He had been so utterly absorbed in the process that he had completely lost track of time.

“It has been, yes,” Isha nodded. “That said, there are still flaws to iron out,” She traced a finger across the ingot, letting her power flow into it.

It wasn’t much power by either of their other standards, though still comparable to the output of a Beta-Class psyker. 

The energy flowed into the ingot, which sparkled with emerald light…and then a large amount of the energy simply bled off and faded back into the Warp, much to the Emperor’s displeasure.

The Lord of Terra stared at the ingot in annoyance as Isha handed it back to him.

“What did I do wrong?” He wondered. The ingot should have absorbed and stored all the energy seamlessly.

“You are still affected by your methods of creating auramite,” Isha answered, plucking another ingot from the table. This was seemingly identical to the one the Emperor had just created, save that it lacked the crystalline sheen. “It is an impressive substance, a remarkable attempt at recreating wraithbone, but it cannot store psychic energy. You are focusing too much on the aspect of ensuring that the wraithbone can resist the power of the Sea when you should seek to achieve a perfect balance between the ability to both resist and absorb power.”

The Emperor nodded in disgruntlement. It made sense, as much as he didn’t like it.

“You don’t need to focus so much on the density of the substance,” Isha continued. “The right molecular structure will ensure that the wraithbone is perfectly capable of resisting all malevolent psychic energies while still being able to absorb them when needed. If necessary, you can alter the wraithbone to be more suited to one task over the other, but you must master the baseline first.”

George absorbed her words, feeling once more like a child learning from his teachers.

It had embarrassed him not long ago, but now, he only felt the thrill of learning as he had so many years ago, discovering new things and learning at the feet of his masters, when he had still been cycling through lives as a mortal.

He hadn’t felt this way since before the Cybernetic Revolt and the Augment Wars when humanity’s dominance over the stars had seemed unshakeable and inevitable. When the universe had still seemed so grand and beautiful and the mystery of it had been alluring rather than a cause for caution.

But to his regret, the Emperor had to push his eagerness aside for now. He was sorely tempted to concentrate all his attention on learning bonesinging and exploring it to the fullest extent, but he was no longer Professor George Adams.

He was the Emperor of Mankind, and his Imperium demanded his attention.

“There are other matters that require my attention now, I’m afraid,” He said with great reluctance. “If we could divide our focus?”

Isha inclined her head in agreement before she shimmed for a brief moment and then there were two of her standing across the laboratory table from him as if they had always been there.

The Emperor’s doppelganger sprang into existence not a moment later, and two of the avatars resumed the work of bonesinging.

The other two avatars left the lab, walking back out into the great hall that housed the Golden Throne.

But as he looked at his creation, the Emperor could not help but tense. 

Before, it had always been a source of hope and pride. When he had finally unearthed it from where he had buried it before the Age of Strife, and found it in still more or less pristine condition, he had been beyond relieved.

But now he could see what he had been blind to. He could see the heavy weight of destiny around the throne, and the futures connected to it.

Particularly that future.

The image of his death haunted him still, burned into his mind more vividly than anything had been since Molech.

And the Chaos God that had erupted from his corpse, that beautiful but terrible monster…it had shaken him to his core.

Many times he had been warned by both friend and foe that the path he was taking would not lead him to a place he enjoyed. Every time, he had dismissed those warnings.

Yes, he would pay a heavy price for pursuing the Golden Path, and his regrets at the end would no doubt be immeasurable.

But it would all be worth it for the cause of humanity’s salvation and ascension.

It had to be.

Isha had convinced him he did not have to be so…extreme in his methods. That there was still a place for diplomacy, that it was better to wrap his iron fist in a silk glove.

But even she had not made him doubt the validity of his cause and path.

Until now.

Now, she had shown him that hidden fate around the Golden Throne, and it scared the Emperor more than anything had in aeons.

He still didn’t understand what the future had seen. Even Old One warp-constructs could die, he knew this, but his death could not and should not have spawned a Chaos God! It was simply ridiculous.

Was it a consequence of what he had done at Molech? Had he tapped into something he had not meant to, altered his nature in ways that he had not intended? 

The thought was deeply troubling, but something he would have to pursue.

And there was also the question of why he had not been able to see the aura of dread fate around the Throne before Isha had shown it to him. How could he have been so blind?

Part of the Emperor wanted to simply brush off the whole thing as an illusion she had conjured, but that was merely the part of him that was in denial.

He had been a seer for tens of thousands of years, and he knew a vision of the future when he saw one.

If only he could unravel what that vision meant.

Chapter Text

Horus Lupercal had always been destined for greatness.

He had known this for as long as he could remember, ever since he had been a small child wandering the streets of Cthonia’s hives.

He had always been smarter, stronger, faster and simply put, better than the other children, the street rats that had followed him around.

It hadn’t been long before even outsmarting adults was easy, and that he could beat even multiple grown men in a fight.

His gang had expanded, even if it had just been kids. They had stolen and insulted and mocked the greatest gang-lords of Cthonia, and gotten away with it.

In time, Horus was sure he would have risen to build the greatest gang in Cthonia, ever. All the others would have been forced to pay fealty to him, and he would have remade the world.

But destiny had other plans.

His father had come to find him and revealed the truth of where Horus came from, and what awaited him.

His younger self’s dreams of being the greatest gang-lord in Cthonia seemed so…petty now, Horus mused. He would return there someday, to claim the world for the Imperium.

But Cthonia was just one world of no particular significance. There was a galaxy out there, just waiting to be claimed.

And Horus had every intention of taking it.

He stood on a balcony, the pale light of early dawn illuminating the training grounds below. In the sand, surrounded by the watchful eyes of veteran Thunder Warriors, his old friends Ezekyke and Alyssa were sparring.

They were both taller and stronger now, having been augmented by the Emperor’s Biotechnical division into Space Marines. Astartes, augmented by Horus’s gene-seed.

In the course of a few short months, both of them had gone from scrawny teenagers to towering pillars of muscle that bulged below their grey training uniform, both seven feet tall. They could bend iron with their bare hands, move faster, think faster and even without armour, defeat a dozen lesser men in hand-to-hand combat. 

They were living weapons of war now, ready to be part of Horus’s Sixteenth Legion as he led them to conquer the Solar System and beyond.

The Primarch couldn’t have been prouder.

Of course, the differences in his friends were nothing compared to the growth that Horus himself had experienced. He had always grown faster than other children, much faster. His father had explained that it was a deliberate part of the way he had designed the Primarchs, to ensure they achieved maturity rapidly.

In the two years since coming to Terra, Horus had doubled in height and his muscles had filled until he had the build of one of his father’s Custodes…and that build betrayed the fact he was stronger than most of them. His hair was as long as his father’s now, albeit much wilder.

Horus liked it that way. He loved his father, but taming his hair to look exactly like the man wasn’t something Horus was interested in. The wildness reminded him a little of Cthonia, of his earliest days.

Over the last few years, he had absorbed every lesson the finest teachers and tutors in the Imperium had to offer. From Valdor, Horus had learned wrestling, martial arts, weapons handling, strategy and tactics. From Malcador, Horus had learned how to manage nobles and administrate an empire, how to rule.

And from the army of other tutors his father had hired, Horus had learned history and science and a myriad other subjects besides.

Some subjects had bored him if Horus was being honest. Music and poetry and art and all the like. It wasn’t that they were difficult, he just didn’t see the point. 

He was a general, who led the armies of the Imperium to conquer the stars beyond. Why did he need to learn to write a poem or make a painting? He wasn’t one of those ridiculous nobles who simpered over his father, competing for the Emperor’s attention, seeking to impress him and earn his favour.

But his father had insisted, and so Horus had learned the basics if nothing else.

Though Horus had enjoyed driving those particular tutors to madness more than he had enjoyed learning from them if he was honest.

In the fields below, Alyssa finally pinned Ezekyle to the ground with one knee.

“Yield!” She snapped, her brown eyes gleaming with determination.

“I yield,” Ezekyle said after a long moment.

Then, they both finally smiled and Alyssa helped Ezekyle to his feet.

Grinning, Horus jumped down from the balcony, landing on the sand as he strode over to his friends.

“Primarch Horus!” They both said when they noticed him, instantly snapping to attention and saluting.

Horus felt his smile become a little strained. “Ezekyle, Alyssa, please. Just Horus.”

He didn’t particularly like the formality his friends had adopted around him these days, ever since they had begun their training as Space Marines. At his request, they had not been subject to the much harsher indoctrination methods that had been implemented over the past few years. But the Emperor had been firm that they would have to at least undergo the same level of training that the first Space Marines had been subject to at the inception of the Legions.

Horus’s friends had always treated with him a certain deference, and he couldn’t say he minded that. He was the leader, after all.

But there was something about the military precision, the formality and the distance with which Ezekyle and Alyssa treated him that made the Sixteenth Primarch uncomfortable.

“Horus,” Ezekyle said, a strange expression on his face which suggested he found it almost alien to say that even though he had called Horus by his first name for years.

Horus didn’t like it at all, but what could he say? He had urged his friends to become Space Marines so that they could stay by his side.

Both Ezekyle and Alyssa had expressed doubts, and the Biotechnical Division had recommended waiting two more years until they were both grown adults, but Horus hadn’t been able to accept the idea.

(Hadn’t been able to accept that the two of them might decide against becoming Space Marines)

And here he was.

“So, how about a day with me?” Horus suggested with a grin. “We can go out and explore the city, it’ll be like old times.”

“We have training all day, Lord Primarch-, Horus,” Alyssa corrected herself. Her previously long blonde hair had been cropped short in the same military style as most Imperial soldiers, and it was a little strange to see. 

“It’ll be fine,” Horus said, waving a hand. “I’m a Primarch, nobody will refuse me.”

He turned to the Thunder Warrior trainer, whose name he couldn’t quite remember at the moment. “Right, Sergeant?”

The older man, with leathery skin and short white hair, looked faintly exasperated but didn’t protest. “As you wish, Lord Primarch. These two are to free go with you if that is what you want.”

“Thanks!” Horus said with a grin, slapping the man on the book with enough force to make even the Thunder Warrior stumble slightly. “Come on then, you two!”

Alyssa and Ezekyle exchanged a look, but that only made Horus feel better. It was something they’d done many times before, when he had to pull them along on something they considered crazy, and it was relieving to see even the hypno-indoctrination and training hadn’t wiped that away.

Sometime later, after his friends had washed up and put on clean clothes, the three of them made their way through the winding hallways of Bai-heng.

After two years here, Horus found even the labyrinth inside the mountain easy to navigate, and as Primarch, he had access to almost everything. As they passed through the cavernous halls, the servants bowed their heads wherever he passed, and the guards opened doors for him without a hint of protest.

As much as he had enjoyed his heists back in Cthonia, Horus would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy this very much.

“Where are we going?” Ezekyle asked, frowning. 

“Nothing much,” Horus answered breezily. “I want to show you two the city, that’s all. We’ll wander around, have a bite to eat, and see some sights.”

They emerged out on the docks built into the side of the mountain. The sight of various ships landing and taking off greeted them, the shouts of conductors and the whirs of engines. At the end of the dock were clustered a small group of golden vessels, the Emperor’s private airships which he used for a variety of different purposes. 

From here they’d be able to take a small ship down to the city when a voice called out from behind them. Horus briefly pondered taking one of his father’s vessels before dismissing the idea. There were other, less ostentatious ships he could take-

“Horus!”

Everyone on the dock stiffened, as their eyes turned to the golden presence of the Emperor of Mankind.

Horus’s heart warmed at the sight of his father, and he grinned even more broadly. Ezekyle and Alyssa both fell to one knee in the Emperor’s presence, but there was no such need for him.

“Father!” He exclaimed. “What are you doing here? Malcador told me you were busy with some research project.”

His father smiled, his white teeth sparkling in the sunlight. 

“I was, but I’ve made considerable progress thanks to the help of Lady Isha, so I thought I would take a break.”

It was then that Horus noticed the other presence standing just behind his father.

Just as tall as the Emperor, with waist-length ruby red hair, jade eyes, pointed ears and bronze skin, his father’s alien colleague was easy not to notice in the light of the Emperor’s blinding radiance.

But once you did notice her, it was very hard to ignore her. Though dressed in simple blue robes, Isha had her own presence, quieter than the Emperor’s, but strong.

But there was an element to it that even the Emperor did not have because Isha just…wasn’t human.

Horus had wondered more than once if that was why she seemed immune to him, why she was always polite and kind but never deferential.

But the Emperor had always been evasive on the topic, even after Lady Isha had been publicly revealed to be an alien. And it wasn’t like Horus had met any other Eldar he could compare Isha to.

The woman in question said nothing, simply folding her arms as her eyes swept across the docks before settling on his friends. There was a spark of something almost like disapproval in her eyes and her lips twisted into a frown, instantly making Horu’s hackles rise.

Isha was the one who had made it so that even adults could become Space Marines. She wasn’t impressed by the fact that Ezekyle and Alyssa had been augmented so young, but what business was that of hers?

They were his friends. They had made their choice to follow him.

Isha didn’t have any right to have opinions about that.

But before Horus could say anything about her expression, the Emperor spoke again. “I intend to make another trip to the Pacific to inspect our holdings there, and I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me, Horus?”

“Of course!” Horus said eagerly. “I’d love to!”

“Excellent. We’ll depart in half an hour, so I suggest you say your goodbyes before then.”

Without another word, the Emperor set off for the ships clustered at the end of the dock. Lady Isha stood for a moment longer, watching Horus and his friends with an unreadable expression before she turned away and disappeared back into the mountain.

Feeling embarrassed, Horus turned to his friends. “So looks like my plans changed,” He said. “Some other time?”

The same exasperated look they had worn earlier appeared again, but Alyssa and Ezekyle didn’t object. “Some other time,” Alyssa agreed. “We should go back to our training.”

“Right!” Horus grinned, offering a salute. “Have a good time!”

Returning his salute with their own, his friends went back the way they had come, while Horus turned towards the Epona.

He felt almost guilty for how things had turned out. He had meant to spend today with his friends.

But the allure of spending time with his eternally busy father far outweighed that, and Horus had to stop himself from practically running towards the Epona.

This tour of their holdings was going to be fun.

Chapter Text

HE was Order.

HE was Light.

HE was the Star Father, the Emperor Reborn, the Lord of Light, the One True God.

The herald of mankind's ascension. The one true master of the galaxy.

And so it was that HE surveyed HIS domain from HIS throne.

The perspective of a god was all-encompassing. It was to look upon the entirety of the galaxy, both the immaterial and material realms and know that they lay at your feet. It is to be able to track the movements of the stars in one breath and see the scurrying of a squirrel in another.

What HE saw was both satisfying and frustrating. 

Terra gleamed, no longer a polluted husk, but a golden jewel of a world. The hive cities had been torn down, replaced by glittering golden monuments, shining palaces and cathedrals, all linked by gleaming obsidian roads crisscrossing the entire planet. 

All chaos and disorder had been swept away. Terra existed in perfect harmony, moving in clockwork. 

It was beautiful. Eternal. Unchanging. 

There was no crime, corruption, anger, or greed because when HE had ascended and raised the people of Terra with him. HE had unmade their fragile, mortal shells so that they might live as beings of pure spirits. Now they shimmered and danced and sang in his churches, an eternal choir to HIS glory, unencumbered by hunger, sorrow or free will. 

Their ghostly song echoed from every corner of Terra, a single prayer repeated upon the lips of a trillion souls, of gratitude for being freed from mortal suffering.

In time, all of mankind would be granted ascension and follow HIM thus.

It had been child's play to reshape Terra thus once he had been reborn, once the barrier between reality and unreality had fallen.

Already, the rest of Sol had joined their Terran brethren. 

On Mars, He had granted the deepest desire of the Red Priests and freed them of the weakness of the flesh. Now, they were creatures of pure metal, bound together by ethereal energy. Tireless and needless, they obediently worked to churn out weapons for HIS armies, to build the ships needed for the new Great Crusade. 

Venus too, had been reshaped, into a golden world of cathedrals, only slightly less glorious than Terra, the spirits of its inhabitants singing praise of HIS eternal glory.

Even the Sun itself was now his, for HE had made it so. Its light and its flames were HIS to command, as with everything in the cosmos. 

HIS Great Crusade continued to march across the galaxy, pouring out of Sol. Golden legions swept across every sector, every star, bringing light and order, and purifying the darkness, pruning the filth such as the aliens, the mutants and the heretics. 

Empowered by HIM, HIS armies marched once more to liberate the galaxy. Unlike the Four, HE was still Incarnate, and HIS soldiers shared in that gift. The Veil was no obstacle to them. The Space Marines had become unyielding, obedient spirits inhabiting their suits of armour. As deadly as ever, but without any danger of betrayal. HIS Custodes and HIS Saints, all blessed with a fraction of HIS power, led legions of Imperial soldiers, now no longer unyielding but truly undying.

Nothing could stand in their way. 

HE looked upon Obscurus, directly the Eye of Terror, the Four had united at last, their fear of HIS power overcoming their hatred of each other. Even now, as they glowered back at him, HE could see the fear, the way they flinched from HIS light, cowering together like rats. 

Creed, one of HIS new saints, HIS Lords of Light, no longer content to merely guard Cadia, had led the armies of the Imperium into the Eye of Terror itself. The Black Legion held Creed at bay, barely.

But their efforts would not last. The ascension of mankind could not be denied.

In another corner of the galaxy, the Silent King had returned, rallying the Tombworlds and mustering armies as undying and eternal as HIS own. Already, they built pylons to block their dominions from HIS sight and shield them from HIS armies. They unleashed weapons which had lain dormant in their vaults for countless aeons, weapons enough to give even HIS Lords and their Legions pause.

That would have to be dealt with, in due time.

Octarius had burst at the seams. He had deployed HIS legions to shatter the brewing menace there, led by one of HIS Bright Lords, a man once named Yarrick.

But the Ork and Tyranid vermin had grown powerful, honed by centuries of warfare. They had proven unexpectedly resilient, evolving in response to the arrival of HIS armies. The stalemate had been broken, but now the xenos threat spilt out across in all directions, living weapons of war seeking to exterminate all life, threatening to cover the galaxy in a tide of green and crimson.

No matter. Nothing could stand against HIS might.

The spectre of a headless giant clad in armour, with hands of pure silver, appeared in front of HIM. Behind the giant was an army of ghostly Astartes, clad in burning, melting armour.

What is thy will, Imperator? Subject Ten asked, kneeling.

SHATTER OCTARIUS.

The silver-handed giant could not nod or bow HIS head. But he was obedient all the same, vanishing promptly with HIS legion.

The silver-handed giant was one of HIS finest and most powerful tools. Octarius would fall.

The ascension of mankind would not be denied.

Once more, HE turned HIS gaze to another part of the galaxy.

The cursed Aeldari fled into the Webway, seeking to hide from HIS light and the retribution for their sins. But it was only a matter of time. Already, the shattered husks of dozens of Craftworlds floated through the Void, their Infinity Circuits broken, every last man, woman and child exterminated, their souls eradicated. 

As was only a fitting punishment for the race that had doomed the galaxy.

Those who had fled into the Webway to join their dark kin were only a minority and would die soon. The rift below HIS throne was still there, and he needed only time to pierce through it, to invade the Dark City itself.

The ascension of mankind would not be denied.

There were still those who resisted HIS efforts, imperfect, flawed humans still encumbered by free will who denied HIS glory.

Among them were HIS unfaithful tools, forged in a time when HE had still refused to see free will as folly. Half of them had been corrupted and fallen to the Primordial Annihilator, whom they still served. Those would be extinguished in time.

Several others had fallen, during the Heresy, both those corrupted and not. Others had died in the ten thousand years that had passed between that war and his rebirth.

Of those who had not fallen to Chaos and still lived…

Subject One, who had once proclaimed that loyalty was its own reward, had betrayed HIM, rallying armies of mortals to oppose HIM. Subject One raised HIS own shield as a rallying cry, declaring that HE was a false god who had usurped the true Emperor.

How naive Subject One was. HE remembered how HE had once been like that as well, when HE was still weak, refusing to cast away the shackles of his humanity. 

HE had come to understand. Subject One would be made to understand as well…or would die. Disobedience could not be tolerated.

Subject Five was imprisoned somewhere in the depths of the Dark City, and had always been too wild and uncontrollable in any case. Subject Five would likely have to be disposed of once it was found.

Subject Six was beyond his sight, even now, lost in the tides of the Warp. Subject Six would be found eventually, once HE had claimed dominion over the entire Sea of Souls, and imposed peace and order upon it. But for now, Subject Six was lost even to him.

Subject Eighteen had died and did not yet seem to have been resurrected, likely due to the unique nature of that last death, where he had been exposed to the raw energies of the Ork War-Field. It was unclear if a revival would occur at all, but there was at least a possibility.

Subject Nineteen was out there rebelling as well, though it was more subtle in fermenting resurrection than Subject One. It strode through the shadows of the Imperium to whisper rebellion and dissent, striking down the Bright Lords before retreating into the shadows.

But Subject Nineteen could not truly kill them, only temporarily leave them indisposed. HIS Bright Lords would triumph in the end, for they were beyond humanity, truly beyond the weakness of mortals. Even Subject Nineteen would tire in the end, if only for a brief moment. HIS legions would not.

There was one more. One more tool who had not fallen into the thrall of Chaos but defied HIM all the same.

Subject Thirteen.

And here he was now.

The Star Father watched impassively as the doors of HIS throne room swung open, and Subject Thirteen was brought in.

Subject Thirteen was a far cry from the noble patrician he had once been. Its hair was long and messy, and its face was marked with scars and bleeding cuts. Its armour had been taken from it, and it wore only the rough brown cloth allotted to a prisoner, with heavy auramites shackles binding both its feet and legs.

Such was the fate of all those who betrayed HIM.

Nevertheless, Subject Thirteen continued to struggle, for HE had made HIS tools strong. Despite its superficial appearance, Subject Thirteen was still in remarkable physical and mental condition. All biological systems were operating well within parameters. The physical systems only required minimal medical attention and sustenance, and the neurological systems worked as flawlessly as ever.

And Subject Thirteen’s soul remained as it had ever been, a brightly shining singularity compressed within a physical vessel, a beautifully constructed masterpiece that shone still.

As was to be expected of HIS work.

But the chains were too heavy, and its captor was too powerful, and despite its prowess, Subject Thirteen could not break free.

"Brother, please, stop this madness," Subject Thirteen gasped out in a ragged voice. “Remember who you are!”

The Angel said nothing, merely looking down at it with an emotionless, metallic face. The Angel was beyond mortal weakness as HE was and would not be swayed by Subject Thirteen’s appeal to sentimentality.

Subject Nine had died for HIM, slain by The Arch-Traitor. It had been Subject Nine’s death that had at last convinced HIM to cast away HIS weakness so that he could do what needed to be done.

HE had rewarded that sacrifice, by reassembling the shattered fragments of Subject Nine’s soul and had been granting him new life as the greatest of HIS Bright Lords, a warrior with razor-sharp wings of golden metal, unstoppable and relentless. Subject Nine’s legion had also been reshaped. If not for their patriarch, they would have been purged for the genetic impurities that HE had only come to know of after his entombment.

But despite having kept that secret, Subject Nine’s loyalty was unquestionable, and so its Legion had been reborn in fire along with their gene-father, their genetic impurities and mortal flaws removed, now truly angels of light and order.

Some renegades, such as the so-called Lamenters remained, having fled to join the insurgency led by Subject One. For their refusal of HIS mercy, they would die at the hands of their gene-sire.

The Angel forced the Subject Thirteen forward, forcing the renegade to kneel before HIM.

The Thirteenth glowered up at HIM with resentful eyes, its face creased in fury.

I WILL GIVE YOU ONE LAST CHANCE. REPENT. SUBMIT. 

The Thirteenth's features twisted as its rage deepened. "Never!" He spat. "I will never kneel to you, abomination."

DISAPPOINTING, BUT NOT UNEXPECTED. YOU WERE ALWAYS ONE OF MY LESS RELIABLE TOOLS.

The Thirteenth's mask remained in place, but HE could see to the soul beneath, how deeply it was truly struck by his words.

Such weakness.

"I am not one of your tools," The Thirteenth spat back.

YES, I REMEMBER. YOU PREFER TO BE CALLED MY SON. NOT TECHNICALLY INACCURATE, BUT NEEDLESSLY EMOTIONAL.

But the Thirteenth was resolute, and this time seemed unaffected by his words. If anything, its defiance and resolve seemed to strengthen. "I only ever had only one father," He said defiantly. "His name was Konor Guilliman."

Subject Thirteen’s irrationality was disappointing. HE had designed it to be among the more precise and logical of his tools, but the environment in which it had grown had damaged Subject Thirteen beyond repair.

SO BE IT.

Subject Thirteen rose into the air, struggling against his chains.

IF YOU WILL NOT REPENT WILLINGLY, THEN I MUST SHOW YOU THE ERROR OF YOUR WAYS MYSELF.

A true spark of fear appeared in Subject Thirteen’s eyes, but still, it did not repent.

But it did scream as HE reached into the Thirteenth’s soul. Calmly, systematically, he stripped away that which made the Thirteenth weak and treasonous. 

The human emotions which HE had granted it himself, long ago.

The memories of the planet where it had been raised, its growth and potential stunted by mortals who had not understood what it was or how to shape it. The memories of those caretakers were burned away, one by one.

Once unnecessary emotions and memories had been stripped away, new programming had to be installed. The Thirteenth would remain loyal this time around, one way or another.

Furthermore, HE unlocked the Thirteenth’s dormant psychic potential. It would require that power to serve HIM to its fullest potential.

Finally, some minor adjustments were required to the physical form. Not much, merely an imbuing of psychic energy to strengthen and rejuvenate it. 

At last, HE lowered the Thirteenth back to the ground.

DO YOU YIELD?

Subject Thirteen’s face, no longer flesh but a mask of gold like the Angel’s, looked up at him impassively.

“I am at your command, my lord.”

THEN RISE, SO THAT YOU MAY ATONE FOR YOUR SINS.

The Thirteenth stood, seemingly unaffected by the chains wrapped around it. But the chains would not be removed. It would wear them for the rest of its existence as a mark of its shame and treason.

1. RETRIEVE SUBJECT ONE FOR ME. IT WILL NOT BE ABLE TO STAND AGAINST YOUR COMBINED MIGHT.

Subject Thirteen and the Angel bowed, before vanishing in a burst of golden flame to fulfill his commands.

HE returned his attention to more important matters, pausing only a moment to rifle through the memories it had taken from the Thirteenth.

It seemed that the Eldar vermin that Subject Thirteen had made common cause during its tenure as Imperial Regent with were now working with Subject One, albeit very reluctantly. But it seemed both sides did not think they had any choice.

Foolish. Subject One should have known the only correct choice was to return to HIS side. Working with the Eldar was folly, it was why HE had cast out the false goddess Isha when she had come to HIM for refuge-

…no.

When had Isha come to HIM? 

She was Nurgle’s prisoner and had been since her supposed children had destroyed themselves.

She had also come to HIM to ask for refuge, and HE had cast her back into the Immaterium.

HE had torn her apart and taken her power for HIS own.

HE had killed her when she had drawn a Craftworld to Sol, before razing the Craftworld and plundering its technology.

All of these were true, and none of them were true. 

HE stepped back from the mortal realm and expanded his gaze.

History was changing. The web of time was being altered.

Unacceptable. 

HE was the only one who could save humanity. HIS ascension was the only form the Golden Path could take. HIS younger, weaker self, chained by human weakness could not do what needed to be done.

HE had reached back through time to ensure that HIS ascension was inevitable. HIS machinations were small and limited, for reaching across time was a difficult task indeed, but no grand changes were required. HIS younger self was weak, but would still make the choices necessary to become HIM. Only a few minor adjustments were required to ensure HIS younger self stayed on the correct path.

But something must have changed now or HE would not have conflicting memories.

HE cast his gaze back across time, searching for the answer, for a disturbance that would ripple out across history.

After an eternity and yet only after a moment, HE found it.

One of the measures HE had taken to ensure HIS existence was to cast a veil around the Golden Throne. Nothing overt, merely something to ensure HIS younger self would only see what was expected, and not the truth of the path forward.

Now, HE watched as Isha showed HIS younger self the Veil, and both of them stared up at HIM, with horror and incomprehension in their eyes.

HIS light was too much for them to bear, weak fools that they were and soon they retreated, but they had seen HIM now.

HIS younger self had seen HIS destiny, and would not understand why it was necessary, why it was the only way forward, the only possible result of his choices.

HE would have to take more overt measures. The false goddess poured poison into HIS younger self’s ear, stoking doubt, encouraging weakness and fear.

She would have to be dealt with and HIS younger self set back on the correct path. The Golden Path.

It would not be easy. To work across time was a difficult task even for one of HIS power and knowledge.

But HE was not unduly concerned. Fate and history were on his side. Isha and HIS younger self had to remake history. HE only had to ensure it continued down its proper course. 

HE was the Star Father, the One True God. HE had no peers, not in the present nor in the past.

For HIM to lose was simply impossible.

The ascension of mankind would not be denied.

Chapter Text

The private facilities of the Emperor's Biotechnical Division were nothing less than a marvel.

Buried in the depths of what had once been called the Bai-heng hive but was now increasingly known simply as the Imperial Palace, the vast laboratories of the Biotechnical Division sprawled for a mile underground.

The security in the labs was among the highest in the entire Imperium, protected by blast doors that could withstand nuclear warheads, and guarded by members of the Emperor's Ten Thousand, not to mention the Lucifer Blacks that served Malcador. Of course, the Lucifer Blacks were not as powerful as the Custodes, but there were significantly more of them, and they had impressive augmentation, conceived in these very halls.

In stark contrast to the ostentatious decorations and gold that covered every inch of the public parts of the Imperial Palace, these facilities were scrupulously sterile, gleaming white in every direction.

There were humming power lines laid through every wall, and shimmering displays from holo-monoliths everywhere, depicting various images of the human body and its biological systems. There were tall tubes with men and women inside, suspended in shimmering green liquid, and at a glance, one could not say if the people inside were dead or alive.

Scientists in white coats clustered around the displays or various tables, discussing and arguing their work. There were subjects, both dead and alive, strapped to various, kept sedated as they were studied and considered.

This was the birthplace of the Thunder Warriors and of the Space Marine Legions, of every augmented soldier that had ever served the Imperium. The Emperor had conceived ideas for all of them, of course, and passed down basic designs to his servants, but the actual creation of those super soldiers had happened here. Only the Ten Thousand, each of whom had been personally augmented and altered by the Emperor, had undergone the process in the Emperor's private labs rather than here.

The Emperor visited this place, to be sure, to supervise, to give commands and suggest ideas so sublime that even the brightest minds of the Biotechnical Division were stunned by them. But for the most part, the actual work in these labs was left to the discretion of Amar Astarte, who had been among the Emperor's first recruits and perhaps the most brilliant.

Dressed in her white robes, with an emaciated shell concealing the fact that her internal organs all functioned flawlessly, Astarte drifted through the corridors of her domain like a ghost, even the most outspoken of her subordinates quieting as she passed.

Not out of fear. Astarte had neither the authority nor the inclination to have any of the scientists executed or removed from duty. She did of course reprimand them when they failed or stepped out of line, but higher punishments were the Emperor's purview. Not even Malcador had direct command over the Biotechnical Division, though he certainly had the Emperor's ear as he did in all other matters.

But in the end, despite his habit of delegating matters to subordinates to focus on matters of greater importance, the Emperor kept a closer eye on the Biotechnical Division than most.

Astarte wondered, sometimes, if that was because of his passion for genecrafting or because of how critical augmented soldiers were to his plans. 

Both, most likely.

Most would have assumed that it was primarily the latter, but Astarte had known the Emperor long enough to notice that he had a certain passion for the biological sciences and gene engineering. He paid attention to them and seemed interested in the discoveries of the Biotechnical Division in a way that he was in few other things.

But then, perhaps that was merely an illusion he projected. For what purpose, Astarte could not say. The Emperor had always been enigmatic and private, and she would never claim to truly know him.

Only Malcador did, and perhaps Lady Isha, who seemed to share more of the Emperor's confidence than anyone could have imagined a xeno psyker would.

But that wasn't Astarte's place. She found Lady Isha intimidating and she wasn't sure how much she trusted the alien, but she wasn't an Imperial courtier to dwell on pointless gossip.

Astarte had chosen long ago to place her faith in the Imperium and the Emperor, not least because of Isha's work. After the Primarchs had been scattered, Astarte had harboured deep doubts about the Imperium and her place in it. She had been unconvinced the Primarchs ever lived, despite the Emperor's insistence. And beyond that, the Emperor had seemed intent that the Space Marines - named in her honour supposedly though she sometimes wondered how much of an honour it was - would be the foundation of his empire.

And Astarte had feared that the Space Marines without their Primarchs were only unstable weapons waiting to be misfired, ones that would turn on the Imperium, on humanity, in the end.

But Isha had provided a suite of tweaks, stabilizations and fixes to the Space Marine process that Astarte had not believed would exist.

And so, Astarte had put aside the plans of treason that had been whirling in the back of her mind and decided to see this through to the end.

She continued through the corridors at a brisk pace, passing by the various labs. She ignored the screaming of grown men and women as they were remade into Space Marines, the snarling of the monsters from the Ethnarchy from within their cages.

Astarte did make a note to reprimand one of the junior subordinates later as the smell of blood drifted out from one of the labs. They should have known to sterilize their work better.

But that was something to think about later. For the moment, Astarte passed into the deepest reaches of the facility, which were virtually abandoned, finally arriving in a narrow, private corridor at the end of which there was a room sealed with steel doors.

Astarte made her way to the door and pressed her hand against the palm scanner even as another sensor shone a light in her eye, which she endured without flinching.

Finally, the scan ended and the steel doors slid open to reveal the room inside.

The room was largely unremarkable: the same sterile white as the rest of the facility, with a cot in one corner with a small table next to it. There was an advanced cogitator opposite the cot, a wooden closet, a few steel shelves lined with books, and a small door leading to the bathroom.

It might have been better described as a cell than a room.

And the occupant of said cell was the man hunched over the cogitator's screen in a wheeled chair.

Basilio Fo wore the appearance of an old man and had taken to wearing the same uniform as a normal member of the Biotechnical Division: a white lab coat over a light blue shirt and pants.

Despite wrinkled skin, bald head and withered frame, Astarte knew it was just an illusion. He was just as old and helpless as she was, perhaps less so.

And as he stood at the sound of her footsteps, turning to her with piercing grey eyes that were as sharp and cold as ever, no one who had met him would ever mistake him for harmless.

"Director," Basilio inclined his head softly, speaking in the low, raspy voice of his that might have been difficult for Astarte to make out if she had not long ago augmented her hearing. "Time for our weekly check-up, then?"

His words were polite, but his voice was mocking, almost condescending.

Of course, condescension was nothing compared to what she knew he was capable of. Astarte did not use the term monster lightly, well aware of her crimes and atrocities, and those to whom she had pledged her service before the Emperor. The very facility Astarte currently stood in and the work ongoing there meant that she could hardly throw around the title monster at other people.

But her experiences meant that in a way, Astarte was qualified to truly understand what a monster was, and Fo fit that description in a way few others did.

Malcador, yes. Cardinal Tang. The worst of the Terran warlords.

Astarte might have counted the Emperor among them as well, not long ago. But he had always been difficult for her to read, and he had softened in recent years in a way that made her unsure if he truly belonged on that list.

But Basilio Fo most assuredly did.

"It is time," She agreed coolly. "What further progress have you made?"

Fo sat down on his cot, lounging almost insolently. "I went over your designs for the hypno-indoctrination. Impressive work, but I'm afraid I had several improvements to recommend."

Astarte didn't bother to respond, crossing the room to the cogitator and sitting down to review Fo's work.

She pulled up the relevant files, looked through them…and was forced to admit that Fo's improvements were all correct. He had systematically refined the hypno-indoctrination process, which would ensure that the Space Marines were more loyal than ever to the Emperor and Imperium.

She would have to dissect it piece by piece over the next few days, of course, to make sure there were no hidden traps or flaws. But there had been nothing in the previous work he had given her, and she doubted it be here either. 

Yet, there was always that niggling doubt, the paranoia which had saved Astarte's life many, many times.

Basilio Fo surpassed Astarte in many ways, as loathe as she was to admit it.

He was not intellectually beyond her, of that Astarte was certain. She had an ego, one did not reach the heights she had without developing one, but she knew when someone was simply beyond her. The Emperor, Lady Isha…those were transcendental geniuses in a way that Astarte knew she could never hope to match.

Some of the Primarchs might be as well if any of them ever chose to specialize in bio-engineering. Astarte had enhanced herself in many ways, even her brain, but there were limits to the toll a human body could endure. The brain most of all, was too delicate for the sort of tampering that might even theoretically bring her up to the same level as an adult Primarch.

But Fo? The man's only edge over her was simple experience and age. He was centuries older than her, older than anyone she had ever met save Malcador and the Emperor (and possibly Isha, though Astarte remained unsure as to the alien's age.)

However, Astarte could not deny that edge was formidable. He had been creating armies of super soldiers before her grandparents were born, and he had plundered troves of knowledge all across Terra.

She was confident she could catch up to him given time, but that was time she didn't have.

And so she was reluctantly forced to work with him, unable to deny Malcador's insistence that he would be useful.

Truth be told, Astarte wasn't sure why Malcador and the Emperor were so keen on employing Fo. Undeniably brilliant as the man's work was, he was as far behind Lady Isha as anyone else in the Biotechnical Division.

Not that Astarte didn't have her suspicions, but that didn't mean she didn't find Fo utterly repugnant.

But she would catch up to him, she promised herself as she downloaded the files onto her wrist computer, at the same time adding new files to the cogitator.

Once she was finished, she stood, turning to look at Fo.

"I will see you next week," She informed him. "Your new assignment is on the cogitator. See to it."

"Of course, Director," Fo said, bowing his head, a barely hidden sneer in his voice.

Astarte merely gave him a cold look, before leaving.

Fo remained lounging upon his cot for several minutes more, before leaping to his feet with a grace that betrayed his appearance.

He made his way to the closet and opened it. Inside were several copies of his outfit, but he ignored it, instead pressing a hand against the back of the closet.

Hidden sensors read his DNA, and then the back of the closest slid open to reveal a passageway. Fo slipped in, the closet closing behind him.

Walking up the narrow stairs, Fo arrived at another door soon, pushing it open to arrive in his true dwellings.

An ostentatious suite awaited him, large and comfortable. There was a central chamber with a dining table, carpeted with lush white fur and the walls painted in silver, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. From the central chamber, there were several other rooms, including a luxurious bedroom, a well-stocked library and a large bath.

But for the moment, Fo only cared about the man sitting at his table.

Malcador the Sigillite sipped serenely from a glass of silver wine as Fo sat across from, glowering.

"How much longer must I maintain this facade, Malcador?" He snapped. "Having that upstart woman constantly peering over me, checking my work, daring to give me assignments…"

Malcador didn't respond, taking another long sip from his glass. Finally, Malcador lowered his glass before flicking a wrist.

The bottle on the table rose, moved by an invisible hand, pouring the shining silver liquid into a fresh glass.

Once the glass was half-full, it moved towards Fo while the bottle settled back into place.

"Drink with me," Malcador said softly.

Fo's scowl intensified. "I don't-"

"Drink," Malcador repeated a hint of steel in his voice.

Grimacing, Fo took a small sip from the glass. It was good, he had to admit. A finely brewed example of Albian hyperwine, a full glass capable of knocking him into an intoxicated state that would last days.

Malcador, the bastard, of course, seemed entirely unaffected. Fo had more than once wondered how true the rumours that Malcador had been alive since before the Old Night, that he had seen the fall of the Golden Age, really were.

It would certainly explain the hidden physical prowess he possessed, potent enough that even Fo was unsure how Malcador could have them despite his augmentations being effectively invisible.

But then, it also might just be some hidden sorcery that only the Sigillite knew.

One never knew with Malcador. It might be either, both or something else entirely.

"You knew this was going to happen when I explained the terms of your deal with me," Malcador said calmly, finally. "I can't conceal your existence from the Emperor entirely, so it is best if he believes you are working under Astarte's strict supervision. And he would never settle for assigning anyone who isn't Astarte as your supervisor, because he is well aware you can run rings around every other genewright in the Biotechnical Division."

Fox nodded, grudgingly accepting the compliment. "I am aware. But can't you do anything? I loathe having to spend time in that boring little cell."

Malcador simply raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Don't be spoiled. I arranged this suite for you, and the time in the cell is needed to maintain the illusion that you are a prisoner working tightly under Astarte's supervision. A few hours a week in there won't kill you."

Fo grumbled under his breath but didn't object further.

Truth be told, they had had this discussion before and Fo understood and even agreed with Malcador's reasoning. But his pride wouldn't allow him to accept all these conditions without at least a token show of grumbling.

"Now, onto the actual work," Malcador said. "How are the modifications to the Silver Knights project?"

"The hypno-indoctrination you want for your precious knights should be impossible without outright melting the subjects' brains," Fox said bluntly. "Impossible for anyone but me, of course. You should be grateful, without me, you'd need centuries to accomplish what you need," He added with a smug smile.

"You've done it, then?"

"Of course. I passed the final notes to dear Director Astarte just now. She just needs to finish reviewing them," He added somewhat contemptuously.

Malcador nodded calmly. "What of our other project?"

"That will take more time, but I am making steady progress. I should have solid results within five years, though I will need proper test subjects to verify my theories."

"Good," Malcador replied, steepling his fingers. "And that will be arranged, in due time."

Fo was briefly tempted to demand them now but squashed the urge. No need to test Malcador's patience further today. 

"Anything else, my King?"

"No," Malcador replied. "You may go,"

Fo accepted the dismissal with bad grace, scowling, but obeyed, disappearing into the bath.

For a long moment, Malcador simply sat there, seemingly gazing at nothing. Then, opposite from him, at the end of the table, the air shimmered before a figure appeared.

The Emperor of Mankind sat in the chair, dressed in a simple white toga, sipping from his glass of hyperwine, albeit to fit in his hand, it was large it would have been considered a mug by most people.

"Fo remains as oblivious to your schemes as ever, I see," the Emperor observed. "I must applaud your cunning, Malcador."

The Sigillite smiled graciously. "You honour me, my friend. It is hardly one of my masterpieces, truth be told, but Fo is not as clever as he believes himself to be."

"Indeed," The Emperor agreed. "But he would never have consented to work for me willingly. I could have broken his will easily enough, but that would have been counterproductive. It might have shattered his mind. As long as he believes he is working with you against me in a secret scheme, that risk is avoided."

With another nod, the Emperor vanished in another shimmer of light, as if he had never been there at all.

Malcador sat for a moment longer. His scheme had worked, better than the Emperor knew. By telling the Emperor of almost everything of his plans involving Basilio, the Master of Mankind suspected nothing else. 

He truly thought it was just a ploy to manipulate Fo into working for them.

And it was. Malcador had no intention of betraying the Emperor or going against him. His old friend would likely not understand if he knew the full plan, which was why Malcador had not told him.

But in the end, Malcador's plan was simply to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Emperor as an equal, to share at least some of his burden instead of forever running behind at a distance.

Only then would the Emperor truly heed his words and his warnings, instead of letting loneliness overwhelm him. 

Chapter Text

“There is something I wish to show you,” The Emperor said, as the two of them flew through the skies of Terra. They were still above the Imperial capital for now, so the air around them was clear and cold but in the distance, the toxic clouds of pollution that still choked most of the planet were clearly visible even to mortal eyes.

“What is it this time?” Isha asked, half-dreading the answer as she remembered the last thing the Emperor wanted to show her. But part of her attention remained on the clouds. The healing and restoration of Terra had not precisely escaped her mind, she had continued her work on it. But it had certainly become less and less of a priority ever since her children arrived near Sol.

Given the recent strides she and the Emperor had made, he would likely agree if Isha requested that she be allowed to accelerate the terraforming process. It might not have been a priority for her, but the people of Terra deserved to live in a clean, healthy world where every breath did not poison them and it shamed Isha that she had forgotten that.

“It will be easier if you simply see it for yourself,” George waved a hand before he noticed her expression. “It is nothing like the Golden Throne,” He added. “It is tangentially related, but nothing which will disturb you.” 

Isha refrained from voicing her scepticism, instead following his flight path. She hoped the Emperor was right, she wasn’t in the mood for any more shocking revelations this year…or this century, for that matter.

They arrived at the edge of the Imperial Capital, at one of the mountains that was still in the process of being fortified and hollowed out. Watchtowers protruded from the stone, and a thick golden ring encircled the peak, 

Isha sensed at least several thousand life signs within the mountain, though that was still not even a tenth of the population one could find in Terra’s hive cities.

The Emperor phased through the rock into the mountain, gesturing for Isha to follow. With some wariness, she turned intangible and entered.

The inside of the mountain had been hollowed out, but it wasn’t anything like a hive city or even the Emperor’s Palace. There was a large cavern where construction was still ongoing. Workers laid power lines, hammered and chiselled away at the rock and carried equipment everywhere under the sharp gaze of their foremen. 

Of course, everything stopped when the Emperor appeared, seemingly in a flash of gold light.

Everyone immediately stopped, cries of surprise across the room as everyone bowed and knelt.

“At ease,” the Emperor said, his voice resonating across the cavern as Isha re-solidified behind him. “Return to your work.”

Everyone did so, though they kept sneaking glances at the Emperor as he marched down the cavern.

Isha followed him into the wide sweeping halls which were still similarly under construction. The workers all regarded them with awe, and guards clad in thick, bulky onyx-coloured armour (Lucifer Blacks, they were called, if Isha recalled correctly) only bowed until they reached the enormous central chamber.

As they stepped inside, it became obvious that the entire chamber was wide and circular, an entire arena of seats built into the walls still under construction. Roughly a thousand had been completed, but going by the work still ongoing, Isha estimated that was only a tenth of what the Emperor intended.

There were sections of the wall that were exposed and unfinished, revealing machinery made from a glittering material which Isha quickly recognized as auramite, with power cables that reminded her of smaller versions of the ones that had been attached to the Golden Throne.

“What exactly is this?” Isha asked slowly.

“The beginnings of the Astronomican,” The Emperor answered. “It is a psychic beacon I am designing, one powered by myself that will shine across the entire galaxy, and make it easier for the Navigators to map and direct ships across the currents of the Warp. Furthermore, it will serve as a symbol of the Imperium, a light to shine the way for all mankind.”

It was characteristically bold and ambitious, Isha had to admit. Such a psychic beacon would be a powerful symbol indeed (and Isha, suspected, useful to the mythology of the Imperial Truth). She had seen similar things in the past, the workings of younger civilizations delving into melding warpcraft and technology (humans were one of them, in fact). But the most similar example she could think of was what the Necrons had done in the Aftermath of the war, after the Old Ones and C’tan had fallen, but the galaxy had continued to teeter on the brink of ruin.

The Necrons had taken the shards of their former masters, and used them as beacons, creating machines which forcibly projected the power of the Yngir shards into the Warp, both radiating a great light and forcibly quelling the Warp into calm, repelling Warp predators.

But Isha suspected even those machines would pale in comparison to the Emperor’s Astronomican. Yngir shards were powerful, without a doubt, but they were still only shards, fragments of their former selves.

The Emperor was intact and whole, powerful enough to crush entire pantheons of lesser gods into line if they still existed.

Any Warp beacon powered by him would be…incredible. Isha could see it in the eye of her mind, a golden flame burning across the galaxy. Not kind, but undeniably resolute, sending daemons shrieking and fleeing from its light, making the shadows of the Chaos Gods themselves recede from how bright it was.

But one question remained.

“This is a rather major risk, is it not?” Isha observed. “The Astronomican will take up a considerable amount of your power and attention. And if the Imperium is dependent on it, if anything were to pull your attention away from it for even a moment…the consequences would be catastrophic.”

“I can handle it,” The Emperor said confidently, and Isha believed him. For all his flaws, power and will were not things the Emperor lacked. “It will be a limiter on my power, and I will not be able to do things such as split myself into multiple avatars, but it is a necessary sacrifice. But you are correct, the Imperium being entirely dependent on the Astronomican would be a vulnerability, and something Chaos would wish to exploit. I have faith in myself, but I would be a fool not to consider that they might have some way of sabotaging me. Which is why I wish for your help in reinforcing the Astronomican, and perhaps expanding it.”

Ah. So that was what this was about.

Isha considered the matter, but in the end, there wasn't any reason for her to say no.

"Very well. Do you have a copy of your plans for the Astronomican's machinery?" Isha asked briskly.

George nodded, and a golden projection flickered to life in between them, depicting the mountain they were in right now, with machinery inlaid into rock, along with finished versions of the incomplete chambers and hallways they had seen on their way in.

But it wasn't just the mountain. The construction spread out into the entire region around it, into effectively an entire city built solely to channel and focus psychic energy into the most powerful psychic beacon in the galaxy.

Vaul would have understood the design flawlessly with but a glance, would have known exactly how to streamline and improve it.

Isha was not her brother, but she understood the basics of what the Emperor was aiming for, at least.

"We'll need to go into details over these plans later," Isha said finally. "But to begin with, we need to replace all the auramite with wraithbone."

George nodded, having expected as much. "I look forward to putting my skills into practice."

"Indeed," Isha circled the projection, her eyes flickering to the golden arena around them as her lips twisted into a frown. "What is the purpose of all these seats?"

"A contingency," George explained. "I can ignite and maintain the Astronomican myself, but I am uncertain how difficult they may become the further I move away from Terra. And I cannot simply stay here for the entirety of my campaigns. I had intended to train a choir of psykers to help fuel and focus the Astronomican and perhaps take over it entirely if necessary."

Isha hummed. "A reasonable plan, given the resources previously available to you, but there's no need for that anymore. We can create wraithbone batteries and you can store psychic energy in them as needed. Some trained psykers will be needed to oversee and maintain the machinery still, but not nearly this many. It would be an unnecessary risk to make the beacon dependent on mortal psykers in any case. The toll it would take…" Isha trailed off. 

Maintaining a galaxy-wide warp beacon would be a difficult task for her children, even before the Fall. For human psykers, who lacked the instinctive control the Old Ones had engineered into the Eldar, whose training was but a shadow of the education the Dominion would have been able to give even with Isha's knowledge added to the Emperor's own?

The casualty rates would be enormous. Even those who survived would live difficult lives, perhaps confined entirely to this chamber.

No need for any such cruelty and inefficiency when Isha and the Emperor could do better.

George seemed pleased by her words. "That is good to hear. I will need to overhaul the construction plans considerably, but it will be better to manage the Astronomican that way. On the subject of wraithbone batteries, if they are a viable method of powering the Astronomican, I had an idea."

"Oh?" Isha asked curiously, looking up from the projection.

"Before the Age of Strife, humanity had a network of warp beacons across the galaxy," George explained. "I designed quite a few myself, though the precise workings of each beacon tended to vary greatly depending on who built them, where and with what resources. Even the most powerful were not equal to what I envision for the Astronomican, however. More importantly, the entire network was shattered by the warpstorms, though perhaps a few beacons survive out there. I had discarded the idea of rebuilding the network since proofing them against Chaos would be extremely difficult, and building even a single beacon would consume a great deal of time and resources. With wraithbone, however…"

Isha pondered the idea, turning it over in her mind. "It is perfectly viable, yes. However, building the entire network will still take a great deal of time, and none of the smaller beacons will be as powerful as the Astronomican."

"No matter," George said, waving a hand. "It is a long-term project, I understand, and will likely take centuries to complete. But it means there will be redundancies in place. In any case, the Astronomican has other purposes that the warp beacons do not."

Other purposes? Isha wondered what they were for a moment before it came to her. It was so obvious that she was embarrassed it hadn't occurred to her the moment the Emperor explained his intent.

"You are trying to gain a foothold in the Warp," She said softly. "To carve out your domain, a warp realm where you can create an afterlife for your people?"

George nodded, his eyes shadowed. "I cannot save the souls already lost, but…I owe mankind this much, at least. They should have a choice between oblivion or eternal damnation. Having a realm in the Warp under my control will also add to my strength, and lessen the influence of Chaos."

"I understand," Isha agreed. "Well, I can certainly ease the process for you, so let's begin."

But even as the Emperor launched into an explanation for the entire machinery of the Astronomican and exactly how it worked and what it did, Isha's attention was only half on him.

The question of rebuilding her domains in the Aethyr were was something that had been nagging in the back of her mind for years, but Isha had had no answers, nothing she could even think of that would work.

The Emperor's Astronomican was a fine plan for him, but Isha could not replicate it. Trying to do so would only be leaving herself vulnerable to Slaanesh, ripe to be devoured.

But the Astronomican did give her an idea. An idea which Isha instinctively wanted to reject and never think about again, but…could she afford to?

Was there any other way?

Isha couldn't help but be afraid that there wasn't. 

Chapter Text

"Thank you for your help, Hand of Asuryan,"

Asurmen bowed respectfully. "It was my honour, Lord Daith." 

The Smith-Priest chuckled, his lips twitching into a smile. Daith was dark-haired and of average height for one of the Aeldari, but with broad shoulders and a muscular frame built from millennia spent working in the forge, covered by a smith's apron.

But Daith's most distinguishing feature was undoubtedly his blindfold, concealing his empty eye sockets. 

That was the way of the Priests of Vaul, to blind themselves in emulation of the suffering inflicted upon their god by Khaine. As a young man, Asurmen had dismissed it as merely another foolish, barbaric practice of the stupid cults clinging to the ways of the old gods.

But now he knew better.

And despite Daith's blindness, he was highly capable. Not just because he had become the leader of the Cult of Vaul after so many of its old leaders had died in the Fall, but because of the state of his workshop. When Daith had invited him in, Asurmen had been almost surprised to see how neat and pristine it was, with a well-maintained forge, and tools that showed signs of wear but were well-maintained. Polished blades glimmering with golden light, blue-silver rifles and other weapons lined the shelves, each of them a masterpiece that would have earned praise even in the Dominion before the Fall.

Even now, the Smith-Priest was hammering at something at his forge, which glowed silvery-white flames and heat. Despite his blindness, Daith moved with surety and purpose, fluid and confident.

Asurmen wondered what exactly it was he was making. The artisans that Asurmen had known before would have scoffed at Daith's usage of a forge, a flame and a hammer as primitive nonsense, but now Asurmen understood the importance of it. Just as he and his disciples invoked the aspect of Khaine the Avenger with their actions and code, so did Daith act in the emulation of Vaul.

Such acts had power, even if it was often subtle and almost unnoticeable compared to the world-shattering and reality-bending warpcraft that the Eldar were so famous for.

"I must confess," Daith said, pausing for a moment to examine what he was hammering. Not that he could see it, but he could see it, but Asurmen suspected Daith had ways of sight beyond the physical. "I never expected any disciples of Khaine to come to our rescue. You are nothing like the old cults." He resumed hammering away at whatever it was he was crafting, apparently unsatisfied. Asurmen's eyes, however, drifted to the balcony, where a view of Craftworld Yme-Loc lay beyond. 

Craftworld Yme-Loc was unique, with its own identity and culture as with every Craftworld that Asurmen had found so far. Here, the influence of the cults of Vaul was heavy and obvious. The buildings of the Craftworld were organized in a grid, laid out with geometric precision. There was rather less crystal than Asurmen was used to in Eldar architecture. Almost none at all. The wraithbone had all been shaped to have a metallic appearance and texture, mostly bronze with some silver.

That wasn’t to say it was not beautiful. Far from it. The craftsmanship that Vaul was famous for was everywhere. There were statues of the Smith-God with a kindly smile and a burning torch in hand. There were monuments honouring both victories and losses, including all those who had died to ensure Yme-Loc escaped the devastation of the Fall.

But there were also dense fortifications, great watchtowers and fortresses bristling with all kinds of weaponry. These were the kind of fortifications that other Craftworlds were trying to build now, with the psychomatons crippled by the destruction of the Eternal Matrix.

Yme-Loc, however, had these fortifications already. It was not a trade ship now trying to survive in a galaxy gone mad, the cults of Vaul had built it specifically to escape from the Dominion with as many people as they could.

That was not to say Yme-Loc had not been affected by the Fall. It had, and Asurmen could see the holes in the defences, the cracks in the ship that were not made by the Orks but by the cataclysmic shockwaves of the Dominin's destruction. Despite the best efforts of the Smith-Priests, there were perhaps two dozen functioning psychomatons upon the entire Craftworld, and he knew that attacks by the pleasure cults had forced the Smith-Priests to flee the Dominion sooner and without as many treasures as they would have liked to take.

But it was still better fortified and prepared than any Craftworld that Asurmen had encountered so far.

"Yes, the old cults would have saved us, perhaps, but they would have enslaved us, demanded payment beyond our means and ransacked our vaults as badly as the Ork would have done," Daith continued, pausing his hammering and picking up the object from the forge, apparently unbothered by the fact it was literally glowing with heat. "And yet here you stand in front of me, and ask for nothing in repayment."

Asurmen coughed slightly. While his knowledge of the cults of the old gods was limited, even he had heard whispers of the madness and brutality of the cults of Khaine, how even the cults of the other gods shunned them.

"I would hope so," Asurmen said carefully. "I wish for the Eldar to survive, for us to grow and learn from our mistakes. My students and I, stand in front of you as Khaine the Avenger, not Khaine the Bloody-Handed."

Daith dropped the object, which Asurmen could now see was a solid circle of silver lined with blue, into a vat filled with sparkling blue liquid. "I would not believe you if you had not just saved us," He said finally. "Khaine the Avenger…that is an aspect of the War God no one has worshipped since before the Sundering. Longer, even."

"Times have changed,"  Asurmen said, feeling the understatement even as he said it. "The Eldar must change with them. To cling to Khaine the Bloody-Handed and his excess of brutality and murder is only to repeat the same sins that led to the Fall."

"Indeed," Daith said with a sigh, turning to face him. "There are many among our cult who still mistrust you if I am, to be honest. They said I should have you and your students cast out immediately," Asurmen suspected that the priest was downplaying the animosity if anything. The disciples and worshippers of Vaul understandably had little love for Khaine's followers. "But for the salvation you have brought to Craftworld Yme-Loc, you have my eternal gratitude, Hand of Asuryan. Do not make me regret it."

"I will not," Asurmen assured him quickly.

Despite the understandable suspicions of the Priests of Vaul, Asurmen had truly only come to save Yme-Loc. One of his newer students, Iryllith, had had a vision of Yme-Loc becoming lost in the depths of an Ork Empire, surviving just barely but only as a hollow husk, with most of its people dead.

Asurmen had made all haste to save Yme-Loc, gathering forces from whichever other Craftworlds were willing to help. Few were, truth be told, given they were struggling, but Asurmen had managed to successfully gather a host of warriors from both Sam-hainn and Biel-tan. They had arrived just in time to repel a massive Ork horde and give Yme-Loc time to flee before they were surrounded.

The Ork empire remained a problem, but it should be splintering now, at least. Asurmen had personally slain the Warboss of the empire in a duel, and now his subordinates would collapse into petty infighting.

It had been a difficult battle and not one without cost. Asurmen had spent nearly a week after the battle bedridden, with yet more scars to show for it.

In the decades since the Fall, he had gathered more wounds than he had in thousands of years of life before. Asurmen's once handsome face was now crisscrossed with savage, vivid scars, and so was the rest of his body.

Once, when he had still been young and vain, he might have mourned the marring of his body. But now he was old and wise enough to know that each scar was a small price to pay for the lives saved and that he was lucky to not have suffered worse wounds.

Daith had scars of his own, visible around his eyes despite the blindfold, and burn marks on his bare arms and torso. 

"Tell me, Asurmen," Daith said, crossing his arms. "These practices of yours, of emulating Khaine the Avengers, of pursuing discipline and repression to control our emotions…you are sure they are the right way forward?"

"I am," Asurmen said confidently, recalling what Daith had said about other members of the cult wishing to expel him and his disciples from the Craftworld. "It will be difficult but with the shadow of the Devourer over us, we cannot afford to do anything else. It is the only way."

Daith leaned against a counter, silent for a long moment. "I will be honest: I care not for what you preach. I am grateful for your aid, but to follow the tenets of Khaine, even the Avenger…" Daith shook his head. "Even the shadow of the Devourer is not enough reason. But that is not the only darkness upon our souls, as we both know."

They could both feel it, the whisper at the back of their minds, the weight of iron and the smell of blood that permeated every Craftworld that Asurmen had found so far. The heat from within the depths of the Craftworld, not the heat of a flame, but something far darker and more dangerous.

"That…thing nearly drove us to destroy ourselves," Daith said softly. "Our hate for the Bloody-Handed One was not a shield against it, it only made us more vulnerable. We gave into our rage, pursued battles we should have avoided and made weapons that would have been unthinkable to us." He looked grim. "I do not know how long our minds would have been clouded if not for the call."

"Mother's call," Asurmen said softly, remembering how it had felt, the soothing sensation, the way some of the pain and rage that had haunted him for decades had faded away, his soul becoming just a little jagged.

Daith, however, did not seem to remember it so fondly, his jaw clenching. "The Everqueen 's call, yes,"

Asurmen blinked. It was not the first time he had heard someone use that title for Mother Isha, but the way Daith emphasized it, the coldness in his tone…"You were not happy to hear it?" He asked cautiously.

Daith grumbled. "It saved us from the Bloody-Handed One's rage, so I was happy. But…the Everqueen abandoned our god, her brother.  She left our lord to be a slave to Khaine, and did not try to rescue him as he rescued her and the Hunter."

"You…resent her?" Asurmen said, taken aback. He had seen many reactions to the voice, from denial and cynicism to desperate hope and joy, but resentment was a new reaction.

"We do not forget what we owe her," Daith said stiffly. "She saved us from the shard and she is our mother besides. But we do not forget her sins either. If she is even alive, and that was not the last act of a dead god."

Asurmen nodded slowly. He couldn't say he agreed, but he understood. But that raised another question. "But you have not cast my disciples and I out for emulating Khaine the Avenger," Even though Khaine was the one who had enslaved and tortured the Smith God in the first place.

"You saved us," Daith reminded him. "And even though you may invoke Khaine the Avenger, you are not Khaine. You were not there when our god suffered. Not even born when the Phoenix King laid down his Edict. And all that aside…the shard continues to whisper to us, to influence our minds. If it regains its hold, there is no reason to believe that the Everqueen will speak once more to free us from its grasp, for she is likely dead. Your methods are the only way we know to avoid succumbing to its influence."

Well. It wasn't the worst reason Asurmen had heard from a Craftworlder for agreeing to listen to him. At least they were willing to listen.

"I cannot stay for long," He replied. "There are other Eldar in need of our aid. But Iryllith, one of my students will remain here and teach you as much as he can."

"I expected as much," Daith acknowledged. "But as gratitude for your help, I have a gift." He returned to the vat, plunging both hands into the sapphire liquid.

Perhaps Asurmen should have refused the gift, but he was fighting to save the entire Eldar race, or at least its remnants, from a galaxy gone mad. He was in no position to refuse generosity.

Instead, he simply said. "Thank you."

Daith lifted a dozen metal circles from the vat, identical to the one he had put in save for being coloured differently on the edges. There was the blue one, but another was red, another green, another white. Curiously, neither the circles nor Daith's hands dripped with the dense blue liquid like they should have.

Daith set the circles down on a table, before offering the blue one to Asurmen. "Here,"

Asurmen resisted the urge to ask what it was, instead grasping it.

The instant Daith let go of the circle, it dissolved into liquid, flowing across Asurmen's skin. The Phoenix Lord was startled, but it wasn't unpleasant or painful in any way, just…surprising. The liquid solidified into dark blue plates, and in but a moment, he was clad from head to toe in gleaming armour.

"What is this?" Asurmen demanded, his voice a little more high-pitched than he would have liked as he turned over his hands, looking through the visor of the helmet he was suddenly wearing.

"Nano-crystal armour," Daith said simply. "If you and your disciples are going to try to save the entire Eldar race, you'll need better armaments. This armour is the best protection I can give you, and it will respond to your thoughts. Just wish for it to do what you want."

Asurmen hesitated for a moment, but then he wished for the armour to come off, and immediately, it all vanished in a shimmer of light, save for a thin blue-silver bracer around his wrist.

"The armour is based on the old suits used by solar surfers," Daith continued. "It should protect you from anything up to and including a solar flare. It will enhance your strength and speed considerably and can form into any number of weapons. It's also self-repairing, so don't worry about any damage it takes. Unless you decide to dive directly into a star or black hole, it can fix itself, given time. And as I said, it responds to your thoughts. You can make it look however you like."

"Daith…" Asurmen trailed off. "I don't know what to say." He knew how expensive and difficult to make this must be, now that the Dominion was gone. 

"Say you'll take it," Daith told him. "The rest of these are for your disciples because the armour can only be bonded to one person at a time. Use them wisely. Save as many of our people as you can"

"I will," Asurmen said. "I vow it."

Chapter Text

The shimmering map of the galaxy created by the hololithic projector hung in the air, revolving slowly. 

The stars and worlds glittered like silver gems against the black void, the human names of each one displayed in shining letters above them. It shone all the brighter for being the only source of light in the Emperor's office, where the curtains had been drawn and no other lights had been switched on.

The map displayed many colours, being a nearly perfect replica of the galaxy: stars were shown in yellow, orange, red and more, with planets in grey, brown, blue and green were depicted everywhere. Even the paths of meteors and the placements of nebulas were noted down.

"This map is a few millennia out of date, but the positions of the stars and the planets are unlikely to have drifted," The Emperor said, manipulating the display with deft hands. "I will update it as the Crusade progresses, but it will serve for now."

With a touch, he highlighted nineteen different worlds, each one shining with a different bright gold numeral.

"Here," He said almost reverently. "Are my sons."

Across the desk from him, Isha and Malcador both frowned at the map, albeit for different reasons.

"A few are quite close by," Isha commented. "Do you intend to fetch them soon?"

George nodded with a smile. "The Sixth is here," He gestured to one of the highlighted words not far from Sol. "And the Second is here." He pointed to another one somewhat further away but still not too far. "I cannot go immediately, but soon."

"Is that wise?" Malcador asked, his shrewd old eyes scanning the map. "There is still much to be done. Terra's unification is only recently complete, and Mars chafes at our restrictions on them. It may be best to wait until we have the entirety of Sol firmly in our grasp."

"The Primarchs are important," The Emperor insisted. "Not just because they are my sons, but because they are my greatest creations, my finest weapons. Having more Primarchs on hand will help accelerate the conquest of Sol. And leaving them vulnerable to the predations of Chaos is not an option."

Isha's frown deepened at the word 'weapons' but fortunately she said nothing, only looking down at the map again.

Malcador seemed unconvinced, however. "There is still a great deal of work to be done here," He insisted. "At the very least, you should send a detachment of Astartes and Custodes to pick them up instead of going yourself."

George felt a prickle of irritation at Malcador's disregard for his sons but pushed it down. His old friend and student would only listen to logic and pragmatism, not to emotion.

"The Primarchs are vital, Malcador," The Emperor emphasized. "They are the pinnacle of warpcraft and science both and would be incredibly dangerous enemies if Chaos can corrupt them. There is a chance they may already have corrupted or at least influenced some of them. We must find them and bring them to my side as soon as possible. I will leave an avatar here on Terra if that will put your mind at rest, but I must go."

Malcador absorbed this for a moment, his grey eyes narrowed.

"And if you find one who has fallen into the thrall of Chaos?" The Sigillite asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

The Emperor was silent for a long moment, his eyes closing as ancient memories flashed through his mind.

"Mama, look at this!" A small child with sand on their clothes gave a gap-toothed smile as they looked up at her - at him - their hands cradling a particularly colourful seashell.

"Die!" The same child, now fully grown, with eyes burning with madness and fey light, crimson lightning and black flame crackling around him in an inferno.

"So you're a monster too…" The last gasp of the child before he died of his wounds, cradled in the arms of his killer and parent. 

The Emperor opened his eyes, now fully molten gold and burning all the brighter in the shadowed room.

"I will kill them." The Master of Mankind said, his voice cold as ice. "Does that satisfy you?"

Malcador bowed his head. "It does, my lord." His voice carried both acceptance and an implicit apology.

As for Isha…the Emperor had half-expected her contempt and disdain, but she only looked at him with a bitter sort of understanding.

It came to him after a moment. There was still hope for the Primarchs, at least. For Isha…she would have to stain her hands with the blood of more than one of her children in the centuries to come.

Thousands of Eldar would likely die by the hand of their Mother, for the sins they had committed.

It would be a lie to claim that the thought did not bring him a kind of dark joy and satisfaction, for all the misery that the Eldar had wrought upon mankind.

But there was a kind of sorrow too, a regret that Isha would have to do it. 

Neither outweighed the other, both were simply…there.

It was perhaps for that reason that George spoke his next words, though he had already intended them beforehand. "Isha, will you come with me to find the Primarchs?"

The alien warp construct gave him an indecipherable look - and not for the first time, George wished he was as adept at reading her as she was him - but nodded briskly. "Of course."

"Killing the Primarchs is a last resort for a variety of reasons," He told Malcador, who was now subtly radiating displeasure. "Isha can purify any Chaos taint if it is there, as long as they are not fully in thrall to Chaos and she does not have to contest their soul against one of the Four."

Malcador reached up to stroke the beard he had begun growing recently. It had made George chuckle when Malcador had confided his intention that it should make him look more like one of the mythic wizard advisors of old, much like George himself during his life as Merlin. "What of the psychological damage they will have endured as a result of the corruption?"

The Emperor sighed. "I will rewrite their minds to deal with the trauma," At this, there was a distinct flash of disapproval from Isha. "But if it is too deep for me to do so without damaging them, then they will have to go into stasis until I have time to help them. It is not ideal, but better than letting them be slaves of Ruin."

Malcador gave a sharp nod. "Understood."

"But before I can go, we have several arrangements to make," The Emperor said, a swipe of his hand manipulating the map so that it zoomed on a different region, still near Sol. But rather than being highlighted red to display the presence of a Primarch, there was a smear of green.

"This is the Ork Empire nearest to us," The Emperor said, zooming in on it. "It is not developing fast enough for it to be an immediate concern, the conquest of Sol should be complete before that happens. However, it should serve as a useful testbed for this first mission."

Malcador looked displeased, but this time kept it to himself. For all his mistrust of the Eldar and Isha, he understood perfectly well the need to curtail the Orks before they evolved too far.

"For the mission, I am considering two chapters of Space Marines from either the Sixteenth or Fifteenth Legion," George continued. "Isha, your thoughts?"

Isha looked thoughtful. "The Fifteen are the psychic ones, yes?" 

"Universally so," George nodded. "A consequence of Magnus's gene-seed it seems. I thought their abilities might sync well with that of the Eldar."

"Hm," Isha considered it. "And the Sixteenth?"

"The Sixteenth are Horus's sons. The tip of the spear, excellent shock troops and generalists who are quite good at beheading strikes. Quite professional."

Isha tapped one long, tapered finger on his table. "I would recommend the Sixteenth," She said eventually. "My children are still in the process of reinventing their psychic abilities, and the Fifteenth's presence would likely grate on their egos. The Sixteenth will fit in better, and will serve as a swift sword if the hammer that is the psychomatons turns out to be unsuitable for whatever reason."

Malcador's face tightened at the mention of the psychomatons, and even the Emperor himself had to suppress a grimace at the thought.

The idea of Eldar still having psychomatons, even a limited number…was quite unnerving. The Emperor's fears were soothed a little by the knowledge the psychomatons answered to Isha above all, but still.

But it was useful in this case. The nearby Ork Empire was large enough that even a swift decapitation strike would have required a full legion and more ships than the Imperium currently had available.

The psychomatons, however, would be able to deal with it quite swiftly with only minimal help from the Eldar and Space Marine forces.

And if George was being honest with himself, it was why he and Isha had decided on this in the first place. A mission that was dependent on the cooperation of the Eldar and the humans involved to succeed…well. That was something for the future.

This was mostly just a trial to see if it could work at all.

"The Sixteenth then," George settled on it. "And I'll dispatch a few Custodes to oversee them," He paused for a moment before sharing his next thought. "I intend to send Horus along as well. It will do him good, I believe. He needs a challenge, and this should suffice as one without being beyond him."

Isha raised an eyebrow but didn't object, while Malcador's frown deepened. However, the Sigillite remained silent as well.

"Very well. That aside, I wanted to ask," Isha said slowly. "Why Space Marines and not Thunder Warriors? The latter are more battle-hardened and suited for such a risky mission, surely."

The Emperor didn't answer immediately. He could hardly tell Isha the actual reason, that the Thunder Warriors were positively disposed to her already to a worrying degree, and interaction with Eldar who worshipped her was…dangerous, to put it mildly.

"The Space Marines will be the main strike force of the Imperium going forward, now that we have worked out the hypno-indoctrination," He said instead. While the Emperor had been wary at first, Malcador's recruitment of Fo had turned out to be an invaluable boon in many ways. "They need to start learning how to handle Orks. The Thunder Warriors will be ending production soon and will be shifted to a role as reserves and trainers in the long-term, so they don't need to do this." All of which was technically true, but not the full truth.

Isha's expression suggested she understood full well that this was merely an excuse, but fortunately, she didn't push.

"Very well," She conceded. "I will go inform my children about this, and select the detachment to accompany your soldiers."

"Of course."

With that, Isha vanished in a burst of light, her presence hurtling through Sol and towards Alpha Centauri, where Iyanden lay.

"Is this truly a good idea?" Malcador spoke up as soon as she was gone, staring at the spot where she had sat with disdain.

George had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. "Yes, it is," He told his advisor sternly. "And that aside, I cannot turn down a chance at some access to the Webway."

That, at least, Malcador understood. 

"It will be very helpful," The Sigillite acknowledged. "You're sure you can parlay into more permanent access later?"

"I am," The Emperor said confidently. "That aside, she has promised to teach more about warp tunnelling and what that entails," The Emperor was looking forward to it. He had learned much from the construction of the Kalium Gate, a project which had taken well over a thousand years at the time, but he was excited to expand his knowledge.

Isha had warned him that her understanding of it was limited, but what she did now was still knowledge she had learned directly from the Old Ones themselves. 

"Will it be really that useful?" Maclador asked doubtfully. "The Kalium Gate was difficult enough back in the day, warp tunnelling now…"

"Most likely building new warp gates will be impossible," George agreed. "But it will help me refine and improve the Webway Project."

The Emperor didn't mention subspace. Malcador knew, of course, but it was too wild and unlikely a dream for the Sigillite to be convinced by it.

"Very well," Malcador sighed. "I just hope you know what you are doing old friend."

"I am," The Emperor assured him. "This will all go according to plan, you'll see."

"I hope so. I truly hope so."

Chapter Text

The power hummed under Mehlendri's skin, still bright and almost shocking even after so many months. She wasn't even doing anything, simply relaxing on one of the branches of Iyanden's World Tree, her back against the trunk, the great leaves overhead providing a cool shade.

The divine lightning that burned through her veins still felt amazing. In those early days and weeks, Mehelendri had been almost drunk on it, the world brighter and sharper than it had ever been before.

Even before the Fall of the Dominion, before the shadow that had fallen over the souls of the Aeldari, Mehlendri had never felt so alive. She saw the world differently now, with more insight into people than she had ever had before. She was faster, stronger, and more perceptive; things that had been difficult before almost effortlessly came to her.

Nor was it just power. There was also knowledge. Mehlendri was a trader, and a sailor and had been so for most of her life. Perhaps in previous lives, she had made different choices and pursued different paths. But Mehlendri had deliberately allowed those memories to fade away, for the weight of them had almost driven her mad as a youth. 

In this life, Mehlendri was no healer, gardener or hunter. These last few millennia had forced her into the role of commander and warrior to some degree, but those skills of hers were haphazardly learnt, forged by trial and error rather than formal training.

But ever since she was blessed, things were different. Now, Mehlendri understood farming and healing and biology almost instinctively, with literally divine insight. Her combat instincts had been honed from a child's toys into sharp blades, allowing her to fight and hunt and track others with ease. And when she spoke, Mehlendri spoke with the authority of the Everqueen.

Part of it was simply that people knew she spoke for their mother goddess, but it wasn't just that. Mehlendri's voice was more resonant, more authoritative than she could remember. Her words were more eloquent and incisive, she could more easily guess what needed to be said to inspire action and ease doubts.

The power was almost frightening, in a way.

Because this was what it meant to be Chosen, to be the champion of a god and blessed with a fraction of their might, Mehlendri had only the barest spark of divinity in her now, and she was more than she had ever been.

To be Eldar was to be beyond the mortal races of the galaxy, but to be Chosen was to be beyond even the Eldar.

Mehlendri wondered, sometimes, if she was truly worth it or if she had simply been the best of the limited choices Mother Isha had. 

But it was a pointless question. The galaxy was what it was, and Mehlendri had been honoured and blessed with great power so that she could better look after Iyanden in its time of need.

And even beyond the raw power, Mehlendri had to admit there were other benefits, letting power flow through their body as it seamlessly shifted into a male form.

Mehlendri had developed not inconsiderable skill with shapeshifting before the Fall and the Dark God that now plagued them had crippled his psychic abilities. He had had to, for unlike many of his kin, he found it stifling and tiresome to be one gender at all times.

But even that shapeshifting was nothing compared to how smoothly he could alter his form now, and how much better he understood the changes that needed to be made.

It was, quite simply, wonderful.

In these dark times, there were few joys to be had, even with the return of Mother Isha, but this was something he did have and he cherished it dearly.

Another joy was the World Tree itself. Mehlendri had been ecstatic when he had first seen it when he had understood the magnitude of the gift that their Mother had given them. But now, as a Chosen, it was comforting. He could commune with the World Tree, and sense the power of Isha within it more deeply than ever before.

It had become a refuge, and he enjoyed it greatly, especially after a particularly long day such as today.

Most of the time, he appreciated his colleagues and friends, and their efforts to rebuild Iyanden, to rebuild their very lives and society and culture. But there were times when their squabbling was truly exhausting, such as Dreamspinner and Cadaith's latest spat. Mehlendri had nearly lost his temper with the two more than once today, and it felt good to be alone and quiet, with nothing but the World Tree for company.

But Mehlendri's burst of solitude was interrupted as, in a flash of emerald light, the Everqueen appeared in front of him.

"Your Serenity!" Mehlendri exclaimed, jumping to his feet and bowing. "We were not expecting you."

"It is no matter," The Everqueen said, her blue and green robes rippling in the wind. Her ruby red lips curved into a smile as she looked down at Mehlendri, no, at all of Iyanden, from the World Spirit to every soul on it. "It is good to see you, my child. I am glad you are doing well."

"We are glad to have you," Mehlendri said, the words heartfelt. Whenever their Mother visited, it inspired more hope and love in Iyanden. "If you will give us time, we can organize a festival in your honour. We had not the ability when you came previously, but-"

The Everqueen cut him off with a raised hand. "Perhaps another time. For now, we have urgent matters to address."

"We must discuss the matter of the Orks."

***

"You wish for us to work with the mon-keigh?" Cadaith asked dubiously. "With all due respect, Your Serenity…why? Our psychomatons may be limited, but beheading such a small Ork Empire is well within their capabilities."

The Everqueen sat on her throne in Iyanden's council chamber and looked around the entire room at the assembled leaders of the Craftworld, her emerald gaze piercing.

"Because if we are to save ourselves and the rest of the galaxy, we must learn to work with other peoples once more," She said sternly. "The isolation, the arrogance and contempt for all other life that the Dominion fostered was wrong-headed and foolish. To that end, do not call them mon-keigh," The Everqueen added with a withering look at Cadaith. "Calling other races by the names they have chosen for themselves is no great hardship, I assure you."

The entire council shifted uncomfortably, feeling like chastised children at the implicit rebuke. It was not entirely surprising, not after the oath that Mehlendri and Cadaith had both made as Chosen to protect innocents from all races, but it still stung.

"This will be a good first test," The Everqueen continued. "And it is precisely because the success of this mission is not contingent on cooperation that I am having you work with the humans. Before you work with them on matters of actual importance, you must start here, simply by talking to them and interacting with them civilly, to see them as people and peers."

There was an awkward silence as the council processed this, absorbing the Everqueen's words with varying levels of difficulty.

"I will assemble a host then, Your Serenity," Sernalla broke the silence after a moment. "It should not take too long."

"Of course," The Everqueen gave a regal nod.

"And I would like to accompany the host," Cadaith said, scowling when everyone looked at him with disbelief, and even the Everqueen's eyebrow quirked up slightly. "I am your loyal Knight, Your Serenity," He said stubbornly. "I will do as you wish. I admit I don't entirely understand the value of this, but if you wish for me to work with and understand the mo-, humans, then I will."

The Everqueen favoured with him a smile, and the ancient noble whose confidence never wavered in the face of incredulity and contempt blushed. "The will to try is the most important thing of all. Of course, you may go."

Mehlendri, who had shifted back to a female form, frowned, thinking over the matter as an idea came to her.

It was a little difficult for her to accept the Orks as the kind of galaxy-shattering threat that the Everqueen described them as. For most of her life, the Orks had been a nuisance, kept in check by the Dominion's psychomaton legions.

But she should know better by now, Mehlendri reminded herself. Even aside from the Everqueen's warnings, Iyanden had encountered more than one Ork waagh on their way to find their Mother. They were dangerous and would become stronger still without the Dominion to keep them in check.

If they were truly such a massive threat to the galaxy, then they needed to be curtailed as swiftly as possible. Neither Iyanden nor Terra had the forces needed to conduct massive campaigns across the galaxy just yet, but…there were those that did.

The Everqueen noticed her expression, arching an eyebrow at her. "You have an idea, Mehlendri?" She inquired, propping her fist against her cheek.

"If the Orks are truly so much of a threat-" Mehlendri said slowly. "Then I believe there are other forces in the galaxy who could be motivated to fight them."

Isha seemed surprised. "Here and now?"

"Not against this Ork horde specifically," The Fleemaster clarified, as every other eye turned to her in the room. "There are no forces in nearby regions. But as far as curtailing Orks across the entire galaxy goes, there are certainly those who could be paid to fight them."

Comprehension dawned on the faces of Sernalla and Invaril, though the Everqueen simply waited for an answer while Dreamspiner and Cadaith seemed confused.

"And these forces are…"

"The Leagues of Votann," Mehlendri answered. "They are a mo-, human subspecies led by a collection of Artifical Intelligences, the Votann. They are located deep in the galactic core, where they settled some twenty thousand years ago. They have endured the warpstorms far better than most, and remain reasonably intact, if isolated."

"You think they can be persuaded to fight the Orks?" Mother Isha asked, a contemplative gleam in her eye. 

"For a price," Mehlendri nodded. "We have long-established trade links with the Leagues, and they are highly mercantile. They were originally intended as miners for human corporations, with the Votann Cores being deployed to the galactic core with the ability to produce engineered clones for their purposes. They are independent now, of course, but their roots remain strong. That said, they are honourable, in their way. They believe strongly in the codes that govern trade and contracts and are dedicated to their work. I am confident we can find many mercenaries willing to campaign against the Orks for us as long as we pay them well."

"And what do we pay them with?" Invaril asked, looking sceptical. "The Leagues are powerful and disciplined, I agree, but they are expensive and we are not exactly in a condition to pay their prices."

"We are not," Mehlendri agreed. "But Her Serenity is."

The Everqueen smiled slightly in approval. "You believe I could pay these Leagues of Votann with the same things that I have provided the Emperor and his Imperium with."

"Yes," Mehlendri confirmed, even as her mind flashed with memories of the gold-black titan that was the Emperor looming over Iyanden, the barbarian god threatening to destroy them all. "Not all at once, but we have traded them for many things before. We helped them develop advanced hydroponic systems, for example. And even the best work there is only a pale shadow of your gifts, Mother."

The Everqueen hummed thoughtfully. "And these Votann are truly powerful enough to curtail the Ork Empires near the galactic core? I thought that mankind's iron machines had betrayed them."

"Most," Mehlendri replied. "The Votann did not. I believe it is because they are what the humans called 'Men of Stone', older creations from an age before the Men of Iron. Less advanced and intelligent, more shackled to their original programming, but perhaps that was for the better. In addition, the Votann Cores essentially ruled the Leagues, so why would they turn against their creations and subjects? And yes, they still retain a considerable amount of the old human technologies most civilizations have lost."

"Why not expand on their own, then?" The Everqueen asked curiously. "If they are so powerful, they should be set to become the hegemons of that region of the galaxy, if not the entire galaxy with both the Dominion gone and other human civilizations struggling to rebuild."

"Disunity and tradition," Mehlendri explained. "The Leagues are a loose coalition of guilds, corporations and mercenaries, not a singular empire. I would describe the Leagues as more a forum for discussion and trade than as a united polity, in all honesty. Their greatest threats are each other. That aside, as I said, the Votann are stuck in their ways, even the most independent of them are somewhat influenced by their original programming. And galactic conquest was not part of that programming."

"I see," The Everqueen's eyes glowed slightly as she seemed to mull over the matter. "I will need to give the matter some consideration, but I believe it is a good idea, Mehlendri."

"Thank you, Your Serenity," The Fleetmaster said, bowing their head, warmed by the compliment and trying not to beam.

"Now, assemble the war host as swiftly as you can," The Everqueen ordered. "Go to the Orks, but do not attack them until the humans arrive. They will meet you there. My blessings are with you, my children. May you be victorious."

Chapter Text

For nearly ten thousand years, the Ruinous Powers had dominated the Immaterium. Fed by the Gene Wars, the Cybernetic Revolt, the Age of Strife and the Fall of the Eldar Dominion, they grew stronger and stronger, vultures gorging themselves on the pain and misery of a galaxy in flames.

The taint of Chaos spread across the Sea of Souls, no longer a disease but as if the very Sea itself had become the disease. And over almost the entire Sea, the Four Gods of Chaos held sway, their domains vast and unmatched.

Almost.

A handful of places in the Immaterium remained beyond the reach of the Four, held by other forces. The Twin Gods of the Orks continued their endless battle with each other, and not even Khorne dared to broach upon the storm that raged around them.

A select few daemons, bold (or perhaps stupid) enough to seek independence from their masters sought to carve out their own realms, craving ascension to godhood, to be kings and not mere servants.

Most of these upstarts were swiftly dealt with, and punished by the Four for their hubris.

But some, amazingly, survived.

And among these survivors, one domain stood above the rest.

The Forge of Souls.

The Forge stood as a great hub of industry amidst the endless Realms of Chaos. An infernal machine, disciplined and ordered according to its master's will, a stark contrast to the Chaos that surrounded it. 

(And if one wonders how and why a Realm of Chaos, even a small one, could be ordered…well, Chaos has always been contradictory at its heart.

Not for nothing have many philosophers questioned whether Chaos truly deserves the name it has chosen for itself, for how predictable and utterly evil it truly is.)

The Forge was a mystery to most, even daemons. Nobody was truly sure what it was. The corrupted remnants of some ancient working of the First Ones? An echo of something that never was, brought into reality by the wars that had once torn asunder the very fabric of time? The corpse of some long-dead god of machinery?

No one knew, save perhaps the Four themselves, and they would not speak of it.

The Forge had remained independent for countless ages, unclaimed by any Chaos God. Once, the Eldar Pantheon had kept the Forge sealed, buried under divine enchantments and guarded by legions of the spirits that served them, but those days were long past.

Now, though the Forge still did not fall under the sway of a Chaos God, it had a new master.

Vashtorr the Arikfane, they called him. A true Daemon King, not merely an upstart seeking to rebel, birthed by the sins of humanity as they discarded all morality and compassion in their relentless pursuit of progress.

Though he was not even ten thousand years old, none could doubt his power and cunning. He had conquered the Forge of Souls after it had stayed independent for millions of years. The Iron War that had brought him into existence had made him strong.

Vashtorr had even clashed with the Anathema himself and survived.

Some whispered that Vashtorr had been but inches away from becoming the Fourth instead of the Dark Prince, that only the Anathema's efforts had denied him, but there was no proof of such things. Neither the Master of the Forge nor the Dark Prince spoke on such matters, nor did there seem to be the enmity between the two that one would have expected if this were true.

Instead, Vashtorr supplied the forces of the Dark Prince as he did any other, taking contracts and building weapons of such horror and terror as to impress even the Youngest God's fickle court.

So it was that Vashtorr survived and thrived, building weapons for all the Four, making himself so indispensable and invaluable, the potential cost of breaking their contrasts to displace him so ruinous that they would rather maintain the status quo instead.

How long this state affairs would last was an open question. The Gods of Chaos were fickle and did not brook rivals. Even if no one could be sure whether or not Vashtorr had nearly become a god, none doubted that he wished to.

That was the very nature of Daemon Kings and had been since the first of them had clawed their way out of the wreckage of the War in Heaven.

At the same time, once bound by a contract, not even gods could break them lightly. Power was not everything.

So for now, the Four seemed content to barter with Vashtorr.

And thus the fires of the Forge remained lit, the great gears continuing to grind away as Vashtor's slaves continued to toil away to build the engines of destruction that their master demanded.

And what of Vashtorr himself? 

The Daemon King sat upon his throne and plotted, and waited for his opportunity to come.

Unlike so many of his peers, the Arifkane understood the value of patience. Yes, he had lost to the Anathema, the fool who now called himself the Emperor of Mankind. His opportunity to drink from the well of power built by the Old Ones was gone.

But the Emperor had been too cowardly to drink as deeply from the well as he could have. He had limited himself and sipped only enough to become strong enough that he could delude himself into believing he could win.

But not strong enough to achieve victory.

Mankind remained as it had ever been, driven by greed and curiosity. They had fallen from their heights, but their base instincts had not changed. So many humans still believed in what Vashtorr embodied, in the truth that there was no price too high for progress. Even the Anathema himself was among them, in many ways, for all that he would have denied it.

The Forgeworlds of the Mechanicum, the Olamic Quietude and a thousand other human civilizations continued to feed Vashtorr through their actions, whether they knew it or not. 

The servitors in particular were such a delightful cruelty that even the Arikfane could not help but admire them. The sheer scale of them, how the Mechanicum had become dependent on them and inured themselves to the monstrosity of it all, and in doing made his power swell.

And his power would grow in the centuries to come. His greatest rival, Be'lakor, had been slain because of his foolishness, overcome by his greed and impatience as he sought to devour the last goddess of the Eldar.

Vashtorr had no interest in the Goddess of Life, save for the fact that she was his enemy's ally. There were greater paths to godhood than obsessing over the last survivor of a failed pantheon.

No, Vashtorr's ambitions were far greater as he scavenged the graves of the Old Ones, searching for their secrets, hunting for their knowledge. He ripped lost knowledge from primordial daemons, exchanged masterworks with the Four in exchange for scraps and dug into the deepest depths of the Forge he had conquered.

It would all be worth it, in the end.

And in the meantime, as he prepared for his ascension, there were other opportunities to be had. There were mortal civilizations vulnerable to the whispers of Chaos, whom he could corrupt into his service and use to obstruct the Anathema's plans.

But there was a prize even greater than that.

The Anathema's sons were vulnerable, far from their father, and ripe to be moulded and shaped. Many of them had already been claimed for their own by the Four, and those, the Arifkane did not dare touch.

But the destinies of a few were still flexible, still possible for Vashtorr to influence. Normally, the Four would not tolerate even this much of an overreach, but Isha’s escape had changed things. Destiny had been changed, and the future was in flux once more. 

The Dark Gods had to move earlier than expected, to take measures to ensure their victory. If it strengthened the Forces of Chaos and weakened the Anathema, they would not permit Vashtorr to claim a single one of the Anathema’s sons without retribution.

Just one.

Which of them should he select, the Arikfane pondered. The Second, who was destined to be erased from history? The Fourth, who dreamed of building wonders? The Eighteenth, who would craft such terrible weapons in the centuries to come but would be too cowardly to use them?

Which one would be the best tool in his service? Which one would cause the Anathema the most pain?

Vashtorr considered the question for a moment or perhaps for an eternity. He deliberated with the patience of a god yet calculated his odds with the speed of the most advanced supercomputers built by human hands during the Golden Age. The spite of humanity and the cold logic of an Artificial Intelligence blended, leading the Master of the Forge to a single, inescapable conclusion.

Vashtorr smiled as he made his choice.

Soon, the Anathema would regret his weakness. 

Chapter Text

Deep in the mountain fortress which had been called the Bai-heng hive but was widely coming to be known as the Imperial Palace, there was a room.

It was a surprisingly modest room. Well-furnished and luxurious, certainly, and large enough to easily hold a dozen people. Thick carpets hushed the footsteps of anyone who would have stepped on them. There were velvet sofas and richly cushioned chairs made of the finest craftsmanship, set around a small round table. The table was heavy with drinks and food, well-made but surprisingly simple fare such as sandwiches, cakes and tea without anything fancy or exotic.

But there were no grand tapestries or portraits, no trophies or treasures. A fireplace crackled merrily, illuminating the room in the absence of more modern lightning.

It was almost cozy.

For the two old men sitting at the table, this was a private refuge, even if the younger of the two did find it somewhat quaint and antiquated, if still charming. But for the older of the pair, it was a reminder of better times.

At the moment, however, the decorations and amenities of the room were the furthest things from their minds.

Malcador leaned back in his chair, his tea untouched. "And you're sure it wasn't an illusion by Isha?" The Sigillite's hood was drawn back for once, revealing an aged, lined face with thin grey hair that belied the strength he still had. But he had discarded all other illusions of age for once, sitting straight, his cold blue eyes gleaming with intelligence.

"I am," The Emperor confirmed. The Lord of Terra wore neither his golden armour nor his jet-black military uniform, or even the white toga and jewels he used for formal celebrations. For once, he was clad simply, in a white tunic and brown trousers, his head bare of the laurel wreath he usually wore. "I went back and checked after she had left, and that weight, that ominous feeling, that knot of fate-" The Emperor did not do anything so plebian as shudder, but he certainly seemed more uncomfortable than Malcador had ever seen him. "-it is still there. I dare not pull at it again, but it is there."

Malcador had seen the Emperor in many moods over the ages, even ones he had never expected in recent decades. But this - Malcador had no other word for it even as absurd as it seemed - nervousness was new. "Would it be so dangerous?"

"Yes," The Emperor said darkly. "That thing, that revenant creature…it looked back at us at that moment, Malcador. I did not realize it then, but now I am certain of it."

Malcador said nothing for a long moment. Such things were technically, possible, he knew. The Warp did not function according to linear time. Even before the warp storms, before the Strife, when the Immaterium had been calm and placid, there had been stories of ships spending but minutes in the Warp only to emerge and learn decades had passed, or even vessels reaching destinations centuries before they had even set out for them.

That did not even begin to get into the convoluted mess that was precognition or outright temporal manipulation. For all his skills, Malcador was hardly an expert in either, and certainly not to the level of his mentor and lord.

There was no metaphysical insight he could offer which the Emperor would not have already thought of.

In the end, there was only one thing that the Imperial Regent could say. "What does it mean, then?"

"I do not know," The Emperor admitted softly, looking as lost as Malcador had ever seen him. "I do not even understand the vision, Malcador. I can die, I know this. But my death should not spawn a Chaos God. The very idea is ludicrous. Unless…"

"Unless?" Malcador queried.

The Emperor grimaced. "Unless I was to allow myself to be worshipped," He said distastefully. "In theory, if I were to allow religion to develop around me, and allowed it to run rampant, to let the worst excesses of religion go unchecked until it was no better than Chaos, and then I died…I might be reborn as a Chaos God. But that is what the Imperial Truth is meant to prevent. I would never allow religion to form around me, much less for it to reach the same depths of evil as Chaos."

Malcador looked at his old friend and kept his private thoughts about the unwisdom of the Imperial Truth to himself. As much as it grated to agree with Isha on anything, Malcador could not help but feel that the Truth was fundamentally flawed, even if for different reasons than the Eldar Goddess. It was a good way to weaponize and harness faith, but trying to keep everyone ignorant of the dangers of Chaos was a mistake.

But there was no point in rehashing that old argument at the moment.

"Is it perhaps a consequence of what you did at Molech?" Malcador asked carefully. 

The Emperor had always been deeply reluctant to discuss exactly what had happened there, save that he had ventured into the deepest depths of the Immaterium and emerged stronger than ever.

How he had gained that strength, the Emperor would not say.

Malcador had intended to investigate himself, but now he was forced to reconsider. He wished to put himself on equal footing with his old friend, to be heeded as Isha was, but he had no desire to become another creature of Chaos.

The Emperor didn't answer for several minutes, but Malcador waited patiently. Either his lord would answer, or he would not.

"It is possible," The Emperor said finally, each word oozing reluctance. "I…may not have fully understood what I did there, though I thought I did." The sentence was spoken with the air of a man confessing to a crime which he knew would see him executed, but knowing that silence would be even worse.

Malcador stroked his chin in thought. He knew better than to ask the Emperor for details, and it wouldn't have helped in any case. He was unlikely to understand the mechanics behind whatever ritual the Emperor had performed on Molech any better than he understood the mechanics of how time functioned in the Warp.

"Then you must find a way to understand it better," Malcador said instead, turning to the most practical solution he could think of. "You must study yourself, re-examine what you did at the time, and perhaps even return to Molech itself."

"Yes," The Emperor agreed unhappily. "If Chaos has somehow infected me…" His face contorted as he left the sentence unfinished.

Malcador flinched at the thought, instinctively revolted by it. If the corruption of Chaos had a foothold in the Emperor…then all was truly lost.

But Malcador immediately dismissed the thought after a moment.

"If Chaos could infect you, then your innate nature as their antithesis would have been compromised by now," Malcador pointed out. "And even if they have, why would they wish for the birth of another rival? The Four hate and despise each other, and are always at war. They would not want a Fifth, much less one who might retain your ability to defy the Veil at will."

"That is the hole in that theory, and I hope it is true," The Emperor agreed. "But I must visit Molech post-haste." He pinched the bridge of his nose in an unusually human gesture. "Is our grip on Terra and Mars secure?"

"For now," Malcador said, reviewing the matter. "Terra is firmly under our grasp, but Mars may be more problematic if you leave. Not to mention it would delay many other matters, such as the Astronomican Project and the Conquest of Sol."

"And yet, if I do not go, the risk of some unknown infection festering within my soul grows," The Emperor said grimly, before sighing. "I will leave half of myself behind, but I must go, I fear. But perhaps there are some measures I can take to compensate for the loss of speed we will suffer due to my trip."

"Oh?" Malcador asked curiously.

"Molech is in the Ultima Segmentum," The Emperor's fingers moved through the air, tracing an invisible map. "On the way, and back…I do believe I can pick up several of the Primarchs. It will add time to the trip, but not too much, as long as I don't engage in any diversions."

Malcador blinked, rubbing his jaw. "Having multiple Primarchs back ahead of schedule would indeed help," He murmured, considering it. "You're sure you can find them quickly?"

"I know where they are, or will be," The Emperor said, waving a hand dismissively. "Not all of them have emerged from the Immaterium yet and will have to be left for later, but I can find quite a few, I think."

"How long do you envision the trip to take?"

"No more than two years," The Emperor asked, steepling his fingers. "Less, hopefully, but I am confident it will not take longer than that."

Two years…yes, Malcador could manage with only half the Emperor for two years.

Even so, the idea was troubling. Despite their optimism only a handful of years previously, when Isha's aid had accelerated their plans by decades, now it seemed they faced a fresh setback every few months.

But the Emperor was correct. Some unknown curse or change inflicted on him by Molech was too dangerous to not be investigated immediately.

"And you still intend to take Isha with you?" Malcador asked eventually. He already knew the answer but felt compelled to ask.

"Of course," The Emperor nodded as if it had never been in doubt.

The implication that of course, he would take Isha along on this monumentally important task rankled, but Malcador put it aside. At least he would be able to strengthen the Imperium's foundations without Isha around for a good long while.

Two years was not much in the span of immortal lives, but it was better than nothing. 

"I may take Horus as well," The Emperor continued. "The experience will be good for him, and ideally, the Primarchs should bond with each other at a young age."

Malcador hummed in agreement. Horus was young and raw, but he was fiercely loyal and adoring of his father. There would be some rough patches as the boy adjusted to not being the only son, but all the more reason to introduce him to his brothers while the Primarchs were young and not yet set in their ways.

That did leave another question, however, one that had to be addressed. Malcador could not say he particularly wanted to discuss it, but it could not be left unsaid.

"How much exactly, do you intend to tell the Primarchs about Chaos?" Malcador asked slowly.

The Emperor's jaw took on a stubborn set. "We have discussed this before," He said, his voice suddenly frosty. "They do not need to know."

"The existence of warp predators and daemons is painfully obvious, and they will be ripe targets for Chaos, you said so yourself," Malcador pointed out, already knowing it would accomplish nothing. This was not the first time they had these arguments, and it would likely not be the last. 

"Ignorance will shield them better than anything," The Emperor said firmly. "I will tell them that the matters of the Warp are dangerous and not to be trifled with, and they will listen. An in-depth understanding and knowledge of the Immaterium will only tempt them to delve into it."

Easier said than done for a collection of transhuman minds raised across a score of different worlds, all of whom would have spent at least some of their formative years without their father.

"What of Magnus?" Malcador asked, hoping that his old friend would be more amenable to educating a single Primarch rather than all of them. "He is the most powerful psyker of the lot, and has landed on a world with a potent psychic culture besides."

Not that narrowing targets had ever worked out for Malcador before. He had argued for the dangers of Chaos to be known to the entire populace of the Imperium, then only to the leadership of the Imperium and finally only to the Primarchs.

His old friend had yet to heed him. The Emperor had never explained precisely why, but Malcador had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with his biological children, some of whom had fallen to Chaos and that the Emperor had been forced to slay before.

The Emperor did not like talking about such matters and had not even before he had become the Emperor, but they had left their mark.

"As far as Magnus goes, we shall see," The Emperor said firmly, his voice brooking no further argument. "If it becomes necessary, then we will tell him."

Malcador had a sudden and somewhat uncomfortable moment of empathy with Isha, at how she must have felt whenever arguing with the Emperor.

He truly wished his old friend would not be so unreasonable. Malcador understood some secrets could not and should not be shared with the masses. Even his enhanced mind had long lost count of the number of secrets he had buried and covered up for the sake of the Imperium.

But the equation changed when the thing you were trying to keep secret was alive, powerful, omnipresent in many ways, and all too eager to take advantage of the ignorance of its existence. 

The best way to deal with Chaos and prevent infiltration was to give clear warnings and criminalize it as much as possible, but the Emperor would not be swayed.

Not right now. Malcador realized with a sour taste in his mouth, that the only person who might be able to help him get through to the Emperor was Isha.

"When do you intend to leave?" Malcador asked, putting the topic aside for the moment. 

"Ideally not before Sol is firmly within our grasp," The Emperor said, smiling slightly at Malcador's surprise. "The matter is not that urgent. The vision was of the far future, at least several thousand years. I do intend to accelerate our conquest by any means necessary, however."

Malcador gave the Emperor a wary look. "What means? We are already going as fast as we can. We do not have the resources or numbers to go any faster."

"Not with an army, perhaps," The Emperor said with a smile that promised pain for enemies of the Imperium. "But there are other ways. Our main obstacle to conquering Sol quickly is the damage to Martian infrastructure and the unrest among the Mechanicum. That cannot be smoothed over quickly, so we must gain control of the other major naval power in Sol."

"The Jovian shipyards," Malcador realized. "But how? The Xeno pirates have a firm grip on them."

The Emperor smiled. "Why, I intend to take a page out of Isha's book. If we cannot dislodge the Xenos from the outside, then the answer is obvious: we spark a slave revolt."

Chapter Text

Iyanden was growing.

Literally and metaphorically.

Isha gently stroked the nascent World Spirit that she had seeded within Iyanden. It was young and not yet fully awakened. It would take a decade more for it to mature.

But it grew well and would be a strong guardian for the Craftworld and its people in time. For now, its benefits were mostly passive, making Iyanden more resilient, and more effectively able to heal from any damage it might take.

Eventually, however, it would be able to directly supplement the strength of Iyanden's people with its own, granting them a measure of protection from Slaanesh as long as they were aboard Iyanden itself. Perhaps even away from Iyanden, if it became strong enough.

And of course, the greatest advantage of the World Spirit was it would be able to absorb and shelter the souls of any Eldar who died upon Iyanden. Indeed, the more souls that entered its keeping, the stronger it would grow.

Yet…part of Isha thought she should accelerate the growth of the World Spirit now. Her children were recovering, but they were still fragile and few. Could they wait decades for the World Spirit to grow?

But she knew that it would be folly. There was a time she could have conjured forth a fully matured World Spirit for Iyanden with a flex of her will, but those days were long past. If she tried to make the Spirit grow too fast given both her state and the state of the Warp, there was the danger of something going wrong, of the Spirit forming into something darker and twisted, perhaps outright corrupted.

For now, all Isha could do was tend to the seed which she had planted and make sure it grew strong.

No matter how much it strained her patience to do so.

Isha pulled away from the growing World Spirit, returning her attention to her walk across Iyanden.

The Craftworld was still rebuilding, but it was doing so well. New trees were being planted and shaped into houses, which stuck out amongst the older crystal architecture. Children ran by, followed at a more sedate pace by their caretakers.
A man was sitting on the branches of his new house, painting something with an easel.
A woman was picking apples from a new tree, filling her basket.

An old couple sat on a bench, simply enjoying each other’s presence.

It gladdened Isha’s heart to see that she had been able to restore some sense of security and happiness to her children if only a handful of them.

Nobody noticed her as she had cloaked herself in a veil. She was alone, and for the moment, she preferred it.

Most importantly, the Emperor was not here. Oh, she could feel his presence in Sol, a blazing star so obvious no one with any sense of the Sea could have missed it.

But he was not focused on her. Even her avatar on Terra was working in the private farms he had built for her, while the Emperor himself was tending to other matters.

It was not truly a reprieve, because Isha still dared not venture too far from the Emperor for fear of the Gods of Ruin.

But it was better than nothing. A little time to herself to think upon all that she had learned recently, and what she was going to do about it.

Eventually, Isha drifted into a theatre, settling into a seat at the back and smiling as a bard put on a play for an audience of several dozen.

Eldar plays were not the same as human plays, of course. There were no actors, no machines to create effects.

There was only a bard with a harp, but that was enough.

The bard was singing, telling the story of how Eldanesh and Ulthanesh had defeated the Hresh-selain. With every word and strum of his harp, images were conjured in the air, potent illusions depicting the ancient battle. Not merely sight and sound, but also smell, the theatre warping into an ancient desert world with a blue sun beating down on them. Isha could feel the wind in her hair, and the sand beneath her bare feet.

It was as if the heroes and their monsters were present and alive, the audience was sitting on the battlefield itself, invisible to all but very much there.

It wasn’t exactly accurate. Eldanesh and Ulthanesh had been dark-haired in that particular reincarnation, not silver-haired. Ulthanesh had been the taller and broader one, and Eldanesh had never worn his hair like that.

And the hresh-selain were hardly the nightmarish foes of old, but rather monsters more palatable to an audience looking for entertainment and reprieve. Isha wondered how her ancient enemies would have reacted to being depicted as four-legged, three-headed mindless monsters that vaguely resembled dogs, and the thought amused her.

Eventually, the play ended and the desert shifted back to being a theatre. The bard bowed on the stage as the audience applauded, Isha joining them with a smile.

The bard was very good, all the more so for having been able to recapture his craft despite how the Birth of Slaanesh had made it difficult for her children to wield their powers.

But as she left the theatre behind, Isha could no longer ignore the worries gnawing at the back of her mind.

The most pressing, of course, was the Emperor's Webway Project. Now that she had some distance from the revelation and the ominous Golden Throne, Isha could not help but wonder if she had overreacted.

She could not assess the status of the Webway without actually venturing into its depths, but if it were so fragile that a single pseudo-Dolmen Gate could topple it, surely Cegorach would have said something in his message? Even the people of Iyanden would likely have noticed something of that sort while they had travelled across the galaxy to find her.

Had she let her fear overcome her, push her to share her secrets with the Emperor too swiftly? 

Perhaps. Perhaps not. Isha truly did not know how much knowledge of warp tunnelling the Emperor had inherited from the Old One who had died to create him. The mere fact that he had constructed a Warp Gate of any kind suggested it was more than she would like.

And even her most cynical estimates of the Emperor's Webway Project suggested he would be able to pierce into it in a few short centuries at the latest.

A long timespan for humans, perhaps even for the Emperor.

But far, far too soon for Isha to like the idea. She did not bother to delude herself into believing her children would have rebuilt and her full strength would be restored in just a few centuries. The idea was laughable. Rebuilding the Aeldari, especially in such a way as to ensure that her children would not repeat their mistakes, was an endeavour she would be toiling away at for thousands of years to come.

She could not, would not concede the Webway, the last true refuge left to her people, to anyone. Not the Emperor, not the Dark Muses, or the remnants of the pleasure cults.

And of course, that led her to her other problem, Isha mused grimly as she sat down on the wood, leaning against the trunk.

The Blackstone Fortresses.

The Talismans of Vaul.

The greatest and most powerful weapons her brother had ever built.

The Muses of Slaanesh were already on the hunt for them, while Isha was trapped here, unable to leave without the Emperor.

And Isha truly dreaded the idea of telling the Emperor about the Talismans. They were weapons from a bygone age, weapons powerful enough that all six of them combined could make whoever possessed them into a galactic superpower in their own right. They had been built to fight the C'tan, and few of the weapons that had been created for that purpose survived to this day. 

Isha still had the authority to control the Blackstone Fortresses. She did not understand them as well as Vaul, but they were programmed to obey her as well. 

If she was able to claim all six, she would be in a far better position. She might not even need the Emperor's protection, at least within the Materium, for the Talismans grew exponentially more powerful as they were brought together and synced. She would have a concentration of force sufficient to cow even the most recalcitrant of her children, to shatter the Orks before they become a threat. 

But that was precisely why revealing their existence to the Emperor was so dangerous. No doubt he would want them destroyed or he would claim them himself.

The Emperor could not override her authority over the Talismans, but he could keep her from going to them.

Perhaps even destroy them. The Talismans were powerful, with potent defences, but they would have been inactive for a long time, as her children retreated into their decadence. Not to mention any damage the systems would have taken during the Fall.

Isha was confident that the Talismans would be virtually invincible, once they were all together and fully activated, with all systems running at peak capacity.

But dormant, inactive and scattered as they likely were at the moment? There were forces in the galaxy that could break them. It was not easy, but it could be done. 

And if anyone could do it, it was the Emperor, the most powerful Incarnate God that still lived.

But at the same time, Isha could not claim the Blackstone Fortresses without his aid. 

The goddess ran her hands through her hair as she arrived at the World Tree and began making her way up the branches, wishing desperately once more that anyone else had survived with her, that she had a member of her family she could truly rely on.

Even being in the depths of the Black Library with Cegorach would be better than this. Mad and broken as he might, Isha knew he would never harm her.

Instead, the only surviving member of her family nearby was that thing buried in Iyanden's depths.

Isha had done her best to ignore it, having sealed it as strongly as she could. Yet, she could not silence the shard of her father entirely without destroying it, and that she dared not do.

It was tempting, a thought that had come to her more than once. A small measure of vengeance, of justice for all the pain her father had inflicted on her. She could erase a piece of him from the universe once and for all.

But loathe as she was to admit, the shard might come in useful in the future. As a weapon she could hurl at her enemies in an emergency…or, if all else failed, something she could assimilate for a little more power. 

Isha hoped it would never come to that, but she could not discount the possibility.

As if sensing her thoughts, Isha felt the shard pulse, its power straining as it tried to melt through the ice that held it. Scowling, Isha channelled her rage and hate into tightening the bonds, forcing the shard back to sleep.

For a moment, she almost went a step further, using the ice to pierce the shard, to torment it, to make it feel some of the pain she had once felt.

But then Isha gritted her teeth, and pushed her anger down, settling for merely containing the shard.

She would not torture a helpless prisoner who could do nothing to her for no other reason than to indulge her desire to cause pain. 

She would not. She was not her father.

Once Isha had a grip on her anger, she sighed wearily as she noticed the streaks of white in her hair, the ice and frost spreading out on the World Tree around. The signs were already fading, but here was yet another cause for concern, the goddess thought morosely as she sat down.

The newest, darkest part of her.

Isha had feared it ever since she had seen the changes in herself when her rage and sorrow had burst when dealing with the Emperor after he had threatened Iyanden.

At first, she had hoped it was merely the Huntress aspect resurging, a little different after being suppressed for so long, but not fundamentally so.

But that was not it. Isha the Huntress could be capricious and vengeful and angry, even cruel. But this was not this. 

The wrath of the Huntress was something Isha knew well, and she knew how to handle it, how to channel it. Even when she lost control of it as she almost had over Mars, it did not come with this blinding grief, with this anger that burned cold instead of hot, too deliberate and calculated to be the Huntress.

This despair clawed at her mind and heart even now.

Isha was developing a new Divine Aspect.

It was not entirely surprising. It was true that the Eldar Gods were less bound to their people than most. If they fully reflected the minds and souls of her children, then the Pantheon would have fallen to madness long ago, during the War in Heaven.

And that the Old Ones could not allow. Their weapons needed to be controllable, after all.

Even so, Isha would be lying if she was not grateful for the independence the Old Ones had given them. That independence had both blessing and curse, for it had allowed Khaine to refuse to ever move on from the War, yet it had allowed Isha and her family to remain themselves even as the pleasure cults devoured the Aeldari from the inside out.

But that independence was not absolute or perfect. Great events that sufficiently impacted the cultural psyche of the Eldar, impacted even the gods themselves…they could force the gods to change, even if they might not wish it.

And the Fall was certainly such an event. Her children were shattered, her family devoured and despair had seeded itself deep in the hearts of Isha and all her children.

If any event could force Isha to change against her will, this certainly could.

A new part of her was growing, shaped by the tragedy of the Fall, of the despair that had held her for so long and was not gone yet. Isha did not fully know the shape of this new Aspect, but she knew it was dark and grim, cold in ways that no other aspect of hers was.

But she could not stop it. She could only pray that she would be able to keep control of it.

The ice had melted away, and her hair was fully back to red. Yet, deep within Isha, the darkness still lingered.

Wearily, Isha set the thought aside for now. There was nothing she could do at the moment in any case.

And other matters demanded her attention.

Such as the matter of the Astronomican.

The Emperor's plan to use the psychic beacon to begin carving out a domain in the Immaterium was simple and brilliant in its own right, and Isha had no objections to it, truly. It was the only way to truly fight Chaos on its terms, to reclaim at least some of the Sea of Souls from them.

What bothered Isha was that she could not do the same. To ignite a psychic beacon like the Astronomican would only be exposing herself to Slaanesh.

Unless she and the Emperor powered the Astronomican together. Her power would reduce the strain on him, and his strength would shield her from Slaanesh, compensating for her weakness to the God of Greed.

But to work with the Emperor closely, to bind their power together in such a way…Isha did not know if she could do it. If she could trust him that much.

Yet, there was no other way she could even begin to reclaim her old domains in the Warp, to expand her strength once more. Even if she successfully reunited every last one of her children beneath her banner, Isha's weakness to Slaanesh would remain.

It could not be erased until and unless she achieved a great triumph over Slaanesh, a triumph equal to the defeat that Slaanesh had bestowed upon her by devouring her children and destroying her family.

And the only way to achieve such a triumph was…to bind her and the Emperor's efforts together.

Isha buried her face in her hands. She knew what she had to do, and yet she dreaded it.

But she must.

For her family, for her children. For all the innocents that her children had inflicted ruin and devastation on through their madness. For everyone that was suffering out there at the hands of Chaos even now.

Getting to her feet, Isha steeled herself and mentally began composing the arguments she would need to convince the Emperor that they should power the Astronomican together. 

Chapter Text

"Our target is this: the so-called Krooked Klaw clan," Sernalla gestured to the holographic display of the local sector, particularly to the mishappen splash of green to the northeast.

The Iyanden Council chambers were empty except for the Craftworld's Marshal and the Everqueen's Knight, Cadaith. The others were busy with other matters, but this was their work alone.

"I sent a few psychomatons to scout ahead, and as far as I can tell, the Krooked Klaw are the most powerful of the warring Ork clans. They control roughly half a dozen star systems already. They are close to establishing their dominance over all other Orks in the region," Sernalla continued, even as Cadaith steepled his fingers, leaning forward to listen intently.

"We don't have the forces or ability to smash their empire, but that's not the goal here. As the Everqueen said, our objective is-"

"-to cut off the head, yes. I remember what she said," Cadaith replied. "I am Her Serenity's champion, I can recall basic commands she gives us."

Sernalla's eyebrow twitched, but she didn't argue. "The main target is the Warboss Kulo and his lieutenants," she said instead. A flick of her wrist caused the display to expand and focus on the green smear, showing the division between the clans. "They're what's holding the Krooked Klaw together, and cowing the other Orks in the region. With them dead, the Krooked Klaw will tear itself apart and the other Orks will pounce at the show of weakness. The resultant infighting should curtail the expansion of the Orks for at least another ten years."

Cadaith hummed, leaning back in his chair. He understood the mission and he would obey for it had come from the Everqueen herself…but it grated on his pride as a scion of Ulthanesh to let this vermin go unchecked. To not exterminate them utterly, so that the civilized races might not be bothered by them.

This was not possible, of course. Iyanden's psychomatons were limited in number, and civilian-grade besides. They could still perform the decapitation strike handily, but to crush every Ork clan in the region underfoot would require forces they simply did not have.

Why had the Dominion at its height not simply eradicated the Ork menace outright? The pleasure cults were too stupid and self-absorbed, of course, but why not before they had risen to power?

Cadaith wondered if the Everqueen would tell him if he asked. Or would she dismiss it as insolence?

It was hard to say. Cadaith had no desire to offend their Mother, for he had sworn to be her faithful knight and champion. She had accepted his oath, and given him the power to carry it through.

The power still burned within him now, a divine flame that Cadaith was conscious of with every passing moment. It granted him both strength and insight.

All Eldar could see into the Aethyr, of course, but ever since the Fall, most of them could only see the darkness, the maw of the great monster waiting for them.

With the light of the Everqueen, the darkness had not been eradicated but it had been pushed back. An apt metaphor for the lives of all of Iyanden.

It was something they could never truly repay the Everqueen for, but Cadaith was determined to live up to his oath and prove that he was worthy of her blessing.

No matter the skepticism from some quarters.

"There is a Webway Gate right here," Sernalla said, highlighting one section of the map. "It will deposit you just near the edge of the Krooked Klaw's systems. From there, once you link up with…the humans, you can take this gate to the moon of their central world."

Cadaith suppressed a frown at the hitch in Sernalla's voice when she said, humans. For all their differences, they both agreed that they disliked the idea of working with the servants of the so-called Emperor…but it was what the Everqueen had commanded. 

"I find the humans distasteful as well, but it is what the Everqueen had commanded," Cadaith told the Marshal. "We must do as she says."

Sernalla's eyes flashed angrily. "Did I say that we should not?" She snapped. "I don't recall suggesting we should disobey Mother."

"No, but your annoyance was obvious. You should not let such things show."

Sernalla's prosthetic hand clenched, the crystalline fingers briefly sharpening into claws before morphing back again. "I don't need a lecture from you on manners, Cadaith. You may be one of the Everqueen's champions, but you are not my parent or superior."

"I only meant-"

"I know what you meant," Sernalla said frostily, standing up. "The psychomatons will be waiting for you in the bay. Don't be late."

Without waiting for another word, the Marshal stalked out of the room, ignoring Cadaith's calls for her to wait.

Cadaith sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Perhaps he should have been gentler with his reproval. While it was unbefitting, Cadaith would be lying if he said he did not understand how Sernalla felt.

Working with humans was one thing, which Cadaith could have understood. It was the duty of the Eldar to shepherd the lesser races, and forgetting that duty in favour of abusing them was a great mark of shame for the Dominion.

But working with the Emperor's servants…

Cadaith shuddered as he remembered the oppressive heat, the titan of black-gold flame pressing a blade to the throat of Iyanden. The struggle to breathe, the overwhelming fear, the promise of death…

It had been one of the worst moments of his life. He had been utterly helpless, unable to do anything but watch as a foreign god threatened to destroy Iyanden and one of the last few remnants of their people.

Cadaith's nightmares had been haunted by the Emperor since then, only second in frequency to the Devourer birthed by the pleasure cults. And he knew wasn't the only one. The Emperor was a figure of fear and dread for the entire Craftworld, from the most ancient travellers to the toddlers in their cribs.

Working alongside his servants was an unbearable thought.

Yet, it had to be done. For Iyanden's safety, for the Everqueen's safety, for the oath that Cadaith had sworn.

He picked up his mask from the table, running his fingers over it. It had been modelled in Ulthanesh's visage, but he had made some modifications recently, with green lines and the rune of Isha on the forehead to honour his goddess.

Cadaith donned the mask, before striding from the room as well.

Outside, his faithful retainers were waiting.

His guards sprang to a salute at his appearance, and Cadaith smiled below his mask.

Let the rest of Iyanden scoff at their traditions and the ideals they had chosen to uphold, to turn their noses up at the idea of nobility as backwards and foolish nonsense.

This was loyalty.

"At ease, my friends," He said.

"Lord Cadaith," They nodded, following him as he walked away from the Council chambers.

"We saw Marshal Sernalla leave. She seemed angry," His sworn sword and old friend Argon said, an unspoken question in his voice. 

"We disagreed, I'm afraid," Cadaith said, reluctant to delve into the specifics. "It is not relevant to our mission. She will make the arrangements as requested."

"Of course, sire." Argon agreed though Cadaith could sense the curiosity burning within him. But his old friend would never let that overcome his sense of propriety.

"Let us be off, my friends," Cadaith declared. "We must make our goodbyes, and then to war! We have Orks to kill."

"You…want me to go deal with the Orks?" 

The Emperor waved a hand. "In a fashion. The bulk of the work will be handled by Iyanden's forces, but this is a goodwill mission of sorts, my son. I want you to go talk to the Aeldari and make a good impression on them."

Horus blinked, baffled. When his father had summoned him to his office and said he was sending him on a mission outside Sol, he had been delighted. Horus had not expected to be given leave to depart Terra for any matter for years, so this had been exciting.

But that it wasn't an actual campaign and just a diplomatic mission…that was disappointing.

"Can't someone else go?" Horus asked, instantly hating how whiny his voice came out. "I mean…the Imperium has many diplomats, Father. I feel that my skills are better used on the battlefield."

The Emperor shook his head from behind his desk. Even though he was sitting down and Horus was standing, the two of them were eye to eye.

"I could not trust any of them with this, Horus. It is far too important, and the Eldar would not respect them in any case."

Horus blinked. "Why not?"

"The Eldar are a bio-engineered race, my son," The Emperor explained. "They are faster, stronger and more long-lived than normal humans, in addition to being universally psychically powerful as well. They will not respect a frail mortal diplomat, no matter how charming or skilled said diplomat is."

"So they're all like Lady Isha?" Horus scowled, remembering the disapproval she had radiated the last time they had met.

"Lady Isha is…a special case. She is the eldest of the Aeldari who survived the destruction of their empire, and far more powerful than any others. The average Eldar is neither as skilled nor strong as she is, but they are still more than humans, enough to endow them with a false sense of superiority," The Emperor paused for a moment, his golden eyes thoughtful before he spoke again. "Most Eldar also do not share Lady Isha's values, my son. She believes in the value of all life and can be somewhat excessively soft-hearted, my son. The others of her race…they are more arrogant, more callous."

Horus's scowl became more thoughtful as he absorbed his father's words. "If they're that arrogant, will they listen even to me?"

"They will," The Emperor said with absolute confidence. "They are Eldar, but you are a Primarch. You are beyond even them, despite your youth. And you will not be alone, with two whole chapters of the Sixteenth Legion at your back."

Horus nodded, anticipation filling him. "So I'm supposed to show them humans are worthy of respect?"

"Yes, but also that we can be trusted. Eldar arrogance and xenophobia aside, when they first arrived, I…frightened them rather badly," The Emperor explained. "It had to be done, but now that Iyanden knows the Imperium is not to be crossed, they must also know that we can be reliable partners and allies."

"I'll do my best, Father," Horus promised, mentally pulling up lessons on diplomacy and politics. He had never thought he would need them much, but he should have known his father had a good reason.

The Emperor always did.

"I'm sure you will, son," The Emperor said, smiling. "Be charming, be strong and I'm sure the Eldar will be impressed by you. Don't worry too much about the Orks, the Eldar war machines are more than up to the task. You may have to do some fighting, that will be good for you, get a taste of what it's like to deal with Orks, but that's not the main concern."

"Are you sure, father? Surely we can do more damage if I and my Marines take the lead."

The Emperor shook his head firmly. "No. The Ork clans are simply too large and widespread. The Imperium does not have the armies and fleets to eradicate them utterly my son, it is an unfortunate truth of logistics. Your time will come once we have expanded, and Mars has had time to build our fleets."

Horus nodded, disgruntled but unable to dispute the simple material realities that constrained him. 

But any annoyance and disappointment he might have felt was wiped by the Emperor's next words.

"I'm counting on you Horus, there is no one else I can trust with this."

Chapter Text

Isha lounged on her throne of wood and crystal, staring silently down at Cadaith.

The self-proclaimed aristocrat squirmed under her gaze, looking guilty and embarrassed.

Letting him squirm a little more was tempting, but Isha took pity on him.

"So, what exactly happened?"

"I can explain!" Cadaith blurted out, then immediately winced. "I mean…I'm afraid things got slightly out of hand, Your Serenity."

"I noticed," Isha said dryly. "Still, I would like to hear your accounting of the events."

"Of course," Cadaith bowed his head. "We had been waiting for the humans to arrive…"

"We've been waiting for a week," Argon grumbled, leaning against a wall. "When are those humans going to get here?"

"They'll arrive when they arrive," Cadaith said, a touch of reproof in his tone. "We'll wait as long as it takes," Though if he was being honest with himself, he was getting tired of waiting too.

It was to be expected, however. Humans had to rely on the tides of the Aethyr to ferry them across interstellar distances, and those tides could be unpredictable at the best of times.

Now was certainly not such a time.

Nevertheless, Cadaith shared the restlessness of his soldiers. The refitted cruiser that Invaril had supplied for this mission was large enough to host both Cadaith's guard and the psychomaton squadron and well-stocked with supplies and basic comforts.

But it was still a far cry from the wide open spaces of Iyanden, and sitting around waiting for the humans to arrive made everyone on board all that more anxious for action. Cadaith in particular was eager to finally apply his new prowess in the battlefield, even if only in a limited capacity.

The humans couldn't arrive soon enough.

As if to echo his thoughts, an alert went off.

"Warp rift," Argon breathed. 

Cadaith sprang to his feet, striding across the smooth black floors of the bridge to the holographic display at the centre, which flickered to life at this approach.

With a thought, he manipulated it, directing it to display what had set off the sensors.

In the space outside, a large, blocky ship had appeared. It was crude, obviously designed for raw strength and intimidation over speed and grace, painted in black and gold, with ostentatious ornaments attached to the sides and the top.

But said ornaments and decorations couldn't hide the heavy weapons and shielding the ship was positively bristling with, a far cry from the few ornaments that Iyanden's artisans had managed to attach to what had previously been a small ship meant for ferrying cargo for trade.

The humans had arrived.

"Well then," Cadaith murmured. "Let us greet our new allies."

Meanwhile, a star system away, in a mountain fortress, a very similar conversation was taking place.

The Emperor steepled his fingers, staring into his son's eyes. Horus seemed embarrassed but didn't back down, glaring back almost defiantly.

The silence continued as the Emperor waited patiently, content to let Horus begin the conversation.

Finally, Horus couldn't take it anymore. "It wasn't my fault!" He burst out.

The Emperor raised a single eyebrow. "I didn't say it was."

"Yes, but you were looking at me like-" Horus cut himself off, apparently realizing he was digging himself deeper. He sank deeper into his chair, crossing his arms, looking distinctly sulky.

But below that petulant veneer was genuine fear, of disapproval and anger.

"I am only waiting for you to tell me what happened," The Emperor said, belatedly realizing that perhaps he shouldn't treat his son in the same way as a soldier. "I have not passed judgment, and while things may have…gone further than initially intended, the mission was still a success. There were no casualties. A few of your Marines were injured but they will recover soon. You are not here for a reprimand, my son."

That seemed to ease Horus's mood, and his shoulders relaxed, almost imperceptible to a human or even another Primarch but obvious to the Emperor.

"Well, we arrived at the destination after almost a week…"

The Eldar ship was strange. Unlike Imperial designs, it was sleek and sharp, almost dagger-shaped, painted in silver hues that almost glowed against the inky blackness of the void. It was nothing at all like the Epona, which his father had lent to him for this mission.

"It looks almost fragile," Iacton Qruze, Captain of the Third Company of the Sixteenth Legion, grunted. He was tall, though shorter than Horus himself now, with polished grey armour. A rugged warrior with a good track record, Horus had chosen him for this mission.

Ideally, he would have liked to bring Ezekyle and Alyssa along, but their training wasn't complete yet. The First Captain of the Legion, Maral Lupus, had wanted to come but Horus had refused. Lupus was needed to manage and lead the legion back home, and without him, the other Captains didn't have anyone else they respected enough to obey.

Qruze was a good choice, a former Imperial soldier who had been a rising star in the ranks before he had caught the eyes of the Sixteenth Legion and been recruited for it.

"It does," Horus agreed. He had never seen a ship like this before, almost…crystalline.

He couldn't help but wonder how to break it, before forcibly dismissing the thought. They were here to work with the Eldar, not fight them.

"Hail the ship," Horus directed an order to the crew. "I want to talk with whoever's in charge." The Primarch snuck a look at the Custodes his father had assigned as his guards, but the golden giants were utterly still and silent, offering neither advice nor criticism.

The technician nodded, ducking her head as she input the commands into her console. "They're responding, Lord Primarch," She said after a moment. "Putting them on display right now."

The holo-monolith at the centre of the ship's strategium flickered to life, and a figure appeared, depicted in shimmering blue light.

The first thing that struck Horus was how…human the figure looked.

With long dark hair pulled back into a braid, and a humanoid frame, the figure didn't immediately come across as alien. At a closer look, the features were a little too smooth, and a little too perfect. Horus had seen imperial aristocrats with gene-engineering and surgeries to make themselves look better, but the features of the Eldar seemed to lack the plastek-like quality bestowed by Imperial rejuvenants somehow, more akin to a perfectly carved statute. It added to the feeling that there was something unnerving about them, something that screamed this creature wasn't human.

And of course, the ears were pointed, leaf-shaped rather than fully round.

But the eyes were undeniably inhuman. They were silver, a brighter and more vivid shade than Horus had seen in any human, even a Space Marine or a Custodes, almost like gems rather than eyes.

And yet…there was something about the Eldar that didn't quite measure up to Horus's expectations. He had expected someone like Lady Isha, even though his father had told him that she was exceptional by the standards of her people.

And there were similarities, yes, but the Eldar in front of him was just…lesser, compared to Lady Isha somehow. There was some indeterminable quality that was missing, something Horus couldn't quite describe but knew instinctively.

"You must be Horus Lupercal, Son of the Human Emperor," The Eldar said, his voice smooth and musical, too musical to be human. "I am Cadaith, Lord of the House of Ulthanesh and one of the Everqueen's Chosen Knights. It is good to meet you," He finished with a bow and a flourish.

"I am Horus Lupercal," The Primarch acknowledged, drawing himself up. Everqueen…that was one of Lady Isha's titles, his father had told him.

The reverence and respect imbued in the word when Cadaith said it, the pride in being one of her chosen knights…it implied a surprising level of respect and honour that had been accorded to Isha.

It reminded Horus of the way people spoke of his father, in a way.

"Now that we're here," Horus said. "When do we start killing Orks?"

The Eldar - Cadaith arched an eyebrow. "Eager, I see. Soon, but I thought we should meet face to face first if we are to fight together."

Horus suppressed a frown. His Marines were getting ansty after a week on board the ship without seeing any action, and if Horus was being honest with himself, so was he.

But Cadaith was right. He should at least meet the Eldar commander face to face once before they go into battle together.

"You can come onboard our ship, then," Horus made the invitation. "We can meet and discuss strategy."

There was a pause for a moment as Horus wondered whether his offer would be refused, but then Cadaith nodded sharply. "We would be honoured. I will come over in a moment."

Isha tapped a finger against the armrest of her throne, judging Cadaith's truthfulness, looking into his mind and memories.

He was telling the truth it seemed, and had made efforts to be diplomatic with Horus. His odd behaviour of pretending to be a noble had helped, strangely enough. Isha found Cadaith's pretence of being an aristocrat more amusing than offensive or foolish, for she remembered when her children had used nobility as a system of governance. But even she hadn't thought that his practice of courtly manners would help deal with the Imperium.

"So, what happened next?

Up close, the human ship was even uglier than it had been from a distance.

"Are you certain about this, my lord?" Argon murmured from Cadaith's shoulder. "It is quite a risk."

"It is," Cadaith acknowledged. "But the Everqueen commanded us to work with these m-, humans, and I will not fail her."

Argon nodded reluctantly, unable to argue. Cadaith understood his captain's feelings, but he was determined to carry out his queen's orders to the best of his abilities.

Even if he didn't truly like or trust these humans.

Ahead of them, a section of the human ship slid open to admit the small craft that Cadaith and two of his guards had taken to cross the void.

Their craft drifted through the entrance, settling in on the floor of the docking bay, quiet as a whisper.

“Well,” Cadaith said, putting his mask in place. “Let’s make a good impression, shall we?”

The ramp lowered with a flick of his wrist, and then Cadaith and his guards descended.

The inside of the ship was as ugly as the outside, blocky and crude. The walls were grey, there were smaller but just as blocky craft in lines.

But the docking bay was at least practical, without the ridiculous and tasteless ornamentations outside. Cadaith appreciated the need for grandeur and decoration, but the Imperial aesthetic was simply not to his taste.

 And in the centre of the bay stood the Primarch Lupercal and his guards, two heavily armoured soldiers who were just a little taller than the average Eldar, though perhaps that was down to their armour.

“Hail, Primarch Lupercal!” Cadaith said, raising his hand in a salute.

“So the Eldar were courteous at first?”

“Yes,” Horus admitted. “I was surprised, after what you said. They were still arrogant, even condescending, but…not as rude as I thought they would be.”

The Emperor nodded thoughtfully.

“They were also taller than I expected.”

The Eldar were taller than Horus had thought they would be.

The hologram hadn’t fully conveyed how tall, so it was a little surprising. They were still shorter than Horus himself, but he estimated that all three Eldar were easily seven feet, comfortably equal to an unarmoured Space Marine.

Taller than Lady Isha even if they lacked her presence, which was a little surprising.

Given she was a master of biomancy, Horus wondered if that was deliberate. Surely she could make herself taller if she wanted?

Of course, the Eldar weren’t like the Space Marines with their boulder-like muscles bulging under their armour. They were perfectly proportioned, more like Horus himself, even if his own frame was considerably broader.

The leader, Cadaith, had donned a mask to conceal his face now, but all three were a little like statues that had come to life, perfectly sculpted creations that had somehow become living, breathing creatures with unnatural, lethal grace.

It was slightly unnerving, but Horus put it aside. He was the Son of the Emperor, Primarch of the Sixteenth Legion.

He would not be intimidated by strange-looking aliens.

“Welcome,” Horus told them. “Now, shall we begin?” 

Chapter Text

Warp travel was fundamentally an act of violence. To use the Immaterium to move across the stars was to wield science and sorcery as a weapon to punch through the fabric of the universe, and then dive into the bleeding rift to submerge yourself in the madness that lay below reality. 

This voyage was the first time Horus had experienced such a thing. When his father had retrieved him from Cthonia, the Lord of Terra had wrapped his vessel in golden light that had smoothed the voyage so that they practically glided through the warp, the frothing insanity of the Immaterium frightened away by the mere presence of the Emperor.

Not so this time.

Oh, they were safe enough, the gellar fields of the Aetos Dios were functioning perfectly well. But to compare a gellar field to the presence of the Emperor was like comparing ceramite to adamantium. Both were effective, but one was undeniably inferior.

So it was that for the first time in his life, Horus experienced the trials of voyaging through the Warp, the shroud of darkness pushed back by the gellar field but undeniably there. The tides of the Warp tossed and turned the ship, with a mere mortal Navigator guiding the vessel through the warp routes to the Mandeville Point as best as they were able.

Mortal men and women might have been intimidated. 

Horus found it almost thrilling.

It was nothing compared to the intoxicating rush of battle, to the feeling of triumph when an enemy lay broken at his feet. But it was a taste of danger, a warning of what was to come with this campaign they had embarked upon.

A prelude to the day when Horus would lead the Imperium's armies out of Sol to reclaim the stars beyond, for mankind.

Moving through the Webway was…not like that.

Horus had been curious about the Webway, the network of warp tunnels and gates built by the Aeldari which had survived even the destruction of their empire. Practically everyone aboard the ship had been.

"Follow us," The Eldar had said. "Be careful and do not divert from our path, or you may be lost forever."

Though faintly annoyed, Horus was no fool, so he had instructed his crew to do exactly that and keep the gellar field activated for good measure.

The shimmering gate appearing out of nowhere in the void of space, sliding open with nary a whisper was nothing like Warp transit. The Eldar vessel had glided through, and after a moment's hesitation, the Imperials had followed.

Despite the Eldar's foreboding warnings, the trip had been perfectly smooth. The glimmering walls of the Webway had offered no opposition, no danger as the Eldar and humans moved through it. It had felt more like moving through the skies of Terra than through a mysterious tunnel in the Warp.

Horus had been incredibly tempted to divert the ship to explore, to go down the other paths that the Eldar ignored. But their warnings, and more importantly, the vision of his father's disappointment, kept him on track.

He was here for a reason, on a mission. It was his first time truly away from his father, without support only a call away.

Horus would not fail and disappoint.

But someday, he wanted to explore the corridors of the Webway, and the mysteries of this ancient, infinite labyrinth.

Finally, they had arrived at another shimmering silver gate, and after both ships had activated their cloaking devices, they had emerged right atop the planet they had been targeting. 

The whole voyage must have taken perhaps an hour, nothing like the tumultuous days that Horus had endured to reach the Eldar in the first place.

And below them, the planet awaited.

"Bring up the planet on display," Horus commanded.

His crew obliged, one of the technicians manipulating the holo-monolith at the center of the strategium to create a projection of the world below.

The world…almost reminded Horus of Cthonia, if he was honest. It was grey shrouded in a haze of smoke by the factories. The oceans were rust-red, poisoned by the chemicals pumped into them below.

"Initial report?" Horus asked, reaching up to rub his jaw.

"There are billions of lifeforms below, Lord Primarch," The technician, a woman from the Terrawatt Clans, replied. "Humans and Orks both."

With a flick of her wrist, tiny dots flared to life on the projection of the planet, green for Orks and blue for humans.

Horus inhaled sharply at the number of Orks. There were so many. Far more than the forces he had aboard this vessel, far more than every Legion and the entire Imperial Army put together.

No wonder his father had said this was to be a decapacitating strike, not an extended campaign.

And yet…the thought of leaving the humans below at the mercy of the Orks didn't sit well with Horus. He knew there was no way to truly free them, the forces to purge the planet and restore it to its true owners simply did not exist in the Imperium. Not yet.

But still. It wasn't fair.

Horus was distracted from his thoughts by the beeping that indicated someone was trying to communicate with them.

"It's the Eldar, sire," His communications officer said.

"Answer the hail," Horus ordered, anticipating flowing through his veins.

The projection of Lord Cadaith appeared once more, clad in his armour and mask as always.

"Primarch," Cadaith offered a brief salute. "We are ready to begin and have located the Warboss. We will send the psychomatons down first, then follow shortly. We are transmitting the coordinates to you now."

It was the plan they had agreed on beforehand. Simple, but to the point.

Horus smiled.

"Then let's begin."

"Hahahaha, this is going to be the biggest Rok evah!"

Kulo grinned as he looked down at the massive, misshapen ship taking form in the factory below him. It was crude, looking as if it had been made from a bunch of different ships being stapled together (and it had been). Both Orks and human slaves toiled away below to build the ship, the hammering and screeching and shouts below creating an unbearable din that would have bothered most any race.

But to Kulo, it was like the sweetest music he'd ever heard.

Kulo was the biggest and 'ardest and strongest Ork in the Waagh. He hadn't started out that way, he'd just been a Mekboy at first, forced to bow his head and work for other Warbosses even though he didn't want to.

But he'd made himself strong, so 'ere. Now, he was a killing machine roughly eight feet tall, clad in grey armour, with a glowing red cybernetic eye and a massive, clawed prosthetic crackling with energy in place of his right hand.

He'd fought his way to the top, and killed the old Warboss, then taken control of the Waaagh! Then he'd brought the old Warboss back as his slave, with robotic implants to keep him in line.

He'd made all his lieutenants stronger too, turning them into towering cyborks easily twice as strong as any ordinary ork. Some of them had tried to beat him and take the Waagh, but Kulo had just krumped them and proved why he was the strongest.

After that, he had spent the last decade fighting his way through planet after planet, having a good old-fashioned brawl with everyone the Waagh came across. Well, really just the other Orks and Waaghs.

The humies were too small and weak. Kulo had heard stories they'd been really 'ard and tough once, but he didn't believe them. No humie he had ever met had ever managed to stop his Waagh for even a bit.

And so Kulo's Waagh had grown and grown as his Waagh absorbed every other Waagh they came across.

But Kulo wasn't satisfied. He was going to prove he was the 'ardest and toughest Ork in the whole galaxy. He wanted to fight other Orks that actually put a fight, not just cocky Warbosses who thought dey were tougher than they actually were and puny humies.

And this planet was where he was going to start.

Rust.

The humans who lived there had called it something else but, but Kulo didn't know what and didn't care. The planet's skies were red like rust, so dat was what he was going to call it. It also had lots and lots of iron and steel he could use to build his ships, but that hadn't been something Kulo had been thinking about when he'd decided what to call the planet.

The planet had a lot of humies, and while humies were puny, they could be useful. So Kulo had stopped his Waagh from killing them all and instead had put the humies to work, digging for ore and fuel, helping build weapons and warships so Kulo could go find a better fight.

It wasn't always easy. The humies would sometimes forget how puny they were and try to fight back before Kulo reminded dem who was boss. And then there Orks who whined that he was being too soft by letting the humies live before he smashed their heads together.

But it was worth it. The humies were puny, but there were a lot of them and this planet had some nice tech. Kulo had taken it and started building ships, especially bigger and bigger Roks.

He'd been able to find more Waaghs in nearby systems, bigger and tougher than ones he'd ever fought before.

Kulo couldn't wait to fight them.

Unfortunately for Warboss Kulo, all his plans were dashed when out of nowhere, attack pods began raining from the sky.

These attack pods were nothing like Kulo had ever seen before. Entirely unlike either Ork or humie tech, they were smooth and oblong, made up of a black, almost crystalline substance.

They smashed to the ground, and from them emerged soldiers. Ten feet tall, shaped like humans but entirely faceless, with crystalline bodies and decorated with glowing green runes.

The psychomatons had come to war.

Horus hadn't been quite sure what to think of this whole psychomaton business.

The Eldar and even his father had said the psychomatons were the main force here, more than able to handle the mission easily where the Space Marines and Eldar warriors wouldn't be able to. 

Horus had been skeptical. He trusted his father, of course, but that was part of why. The Space Marines were the finest soldiers in the galaxy, the pinnacle of his father's work, capable of destroying and defeating any enemy.

How could some alien robots possibly be better?

But now he watched from one of the new Stormbird vessels built by the Imperium as it headed towards their target, and saw how effective the psychomatons really were. 

The squadron of psychomatons, only a few dozen, tore their way through the Orks with systematic, brutal efficiency. Enough firepower to shred Space Marine armour and even tanks were completely ignored by the psychomatons, and any small wounds they sustained swiftly repaired themselves.

Hundreds of Orks hurled themselves at the psychomatons and were cut down by waves of emerald energy, scything through even the sturdiest Orks like they were made of foam.

The psychomatons went to work with crispy efficiency, half of them slaughtering Orks as the others began to tear apart the vessels and infrastructure of the makeshift shipyard.

Horus hesitated to apply such words to the work of Orks, especially given how ramshackle and unstable it looked, but there was nothing else he could think to call it.

But it was sturdy and enormous, at least.

Yet, that seemed to mean nothing to the psychomatons, cannons emerging from their shoulders and unleashing high-density blasts of energy that punched through miles of steel with ruthless efficiency, and vaporized dozens of Orks as if they were just chaff.

Horus would be lying if he said it wasn't a little frightening.

He didn't like to admit to being scared even to himself. He liked things which could make him afraid even less.

But only a fool would pretend the psychomatons weren't intimidating.

Horus was reasonably sure that Space Marines could take them out. The Orks here might be dying quickly, but they hardly had the discipline, strength or ornaments of the Legiones Astartes.

But it would take multiple chapters with heavy firepower and armour who had prepared for the battle, and even then there would be serious casualties.

For the first time, Horus saw a force capable of rivalling and even exceeding the Space Marines, and it chilled him to the core.

Chapter Text

The rush of power was exhilarating. 

The divine fire had burned through Cadaith's veins for some months, but this was the first time he had gone into battle since the Everqueen had Chosen him.

And there was nothing like it.

Orks, those lumbering brutes that he had only struggled to match in single combat, died beneath his blades in moments. Before, they had always moved surprisingly fast despite their weight and clumsiness, but now? To Cadaith's eyes, it was as if they were struggling against the far greater gravity than he was subject to, too slow to react before he beheaded them. 

It was hardly even a contest when he clashed blades with an Ork. Once, he would have struggled to match their strength, but now, their weapon and their arm buckled almost immediately under the pressure he applied, unable to match the divine might of a Chosen.

Cadaith practically danced across the battlefield, and the Orks were barely even a threat to him.

He felt like laughing in triumph at how easy this was, at the glory of it.

So he did.

Cadaith threw his head back and laughed uproariously, a sound of pure joy echoing across the battlefield to join the noises of gunfire and screams of combat.

Behind him, his guards flinched at the noise, clearly unnerved. Some Orks tried to take advantage of what they thought was his inattention.

Cadaith killed them all, still laughing maniacally. They were but prey, and he was the hunter.

"Lord Cadaith?" A voice cut through his ecstasy. "My lord, please, slow down, we can't keep up with you. You're wounded, please ."

The words pierced through the veil, and Cadaith snapped back to his senses. For the first time, he noticed that he was bleeding, gashes across his skin where the Orks had broken through his armour, the grazes of their crude bullets.

It was already healing, but the wounds had happened, even as he had not noticed them, lost in the haze of power. 

Cadaith looked at his guards for the first time since they had joined battle, and felt a sharp jolt as he noticed their wounds, far more severe than his own, their visible exhaustion.

He had become drunk on power and lost himself in the glorious light of divinity.

Fool, he berated himself. He had nearly lost track of what they were here to do. Chosen or not, there were millions of Orks on this planet. More than that, he had risked the lives of his warriors. They might all have been ready to lay down their lives for the Everqueen, but there was a difference between the simple peril of battle and dying because he, their lord, had been a fool.

"Fall back," He ordered. "The psychomatons can handle the rest."

His men were visibly relieved, and they slowly withdrew back to their ship. Meanwhile, Cadaith checked the feed in his visor for how the psychomatons were doing.

The fight was going well.

Cadaith had never seen psychomatons in battle before. For most of his life, he had lived in the mid-rim of the Dominion, away from the core worlds where the pleasure cults were at their worst, but still well behind the Arcadian Ring that shielded the Aeldari from the rest of the galaxy. There had never been any reason for him to go with one of the many psychomaton armadas tasked with maintaining order across the galaxy. The only psychomatons and spirit drones Cadaith cared about were the servants maintaining his palace and lifestyle.

Recordings had existed, of course, liquid memories of Eldar who had witnessed psychomatons at war, but Cadaith had never felt any compulsion to watch them. Who cared about what the war machines were doing beyond the gates of paradise? 

Even after he had rallied the House of Ulthanesh and led them away from the Dominion, ultimately joining with Iyanden, there had been no chance to see psychomatons go to war. Most of them had been destroyed, even the ones beyond the Dominion's borders shattered by the backlash from the annihilation of the Eternal Matrix. Iyanden had a few crippled psychomatons left, which the artisans and bonesingers had made various attempts to restore, but they had never been able to.

Clashing with the Orks, pleasure cult remnants, pirates and other horrors of a galaxy gone mad had been something the Eldar had to do on their own for the first time in a long time.

It was part of why they had merged with Iyanden. Cadaith would rather not have subordinated himself to mere traders, nomads who strayed far from the Dominion's borders, but the meagre fleet he had managed to gather in the last days before the Fall was not enough to keep his people safe, sheltered and fed.

In turn, he knew that Mehlendri and Iyanden's other leaders had mistrusted him, considering the House of Ulthanesh to be eccentric fools clinging to outdated ideas, barely a step above the pleasure cults. But they had needed more people, more warriors, and those of his House that had survived the Fall and the dark days after had proven their mettle.

So it was they had slowly, painfully made their way to Terra, fighting whichever battles they could not avoid, scrounging for resources wherever they could. It had grated against Cadaith's pride whenever Iyanden had fled from a foe rather than clash against it. It had been humiliating, to know the Eldar, the rightful masters of the galaxy, had to flee from vermin such as Orks.

But there had been no choice. It was run or die.

But now, the Everqueen had restored Iyanden's psychomatons, the ancient war machines that had served the Eldar since the days of the Aftermath. There were only a few of them, true, nothing compared to the massive fleets and armies which had once imposed peace and order upon the galaxy.

But damn if they weren't impressive.

Cadaith whirled his blade, beheading an Ork Boy, but most of his attention was on the psychomatons. Even as the smell of blood filled his nose, joining the rancid air of this world, he could only watch in awe as the psychomatons did their work.

They were fluid, and graceful despite their size. And yet, they were strong. Ork weaponry failed to so much as scratch their skin, and the Orks themselves were obliterated by dense beams of energy.

The psychomatons moved with military purpose and coordination, a unity of the kind Cadaith had never seen from Sernalla's ragtag troops or - he was forced to admit - his household guard. They were perfectly in sync, not a movement wasted as they mowed through the Orks like grass.

Was this even warfare? It was too elegant, too effective. It was more like a farmer on those primitivist Exodite worlds weeding his crops.

It almost made Cadaith want to stay on the planet until the Orks were all exterminated.

Don't lose your head. He reminded himself again. There are too many Orks on this planet even for the psychomatons.

Once the Warboss was dead, they would leave.

He and his guards were at the ship now, safely behind the psychomaton guards assigned to keep the vessel safe. But as Cadaith's warriors began patching their wounds, he noticed something else.

Across the battlefield, the Imperial Primarch, Horus had rushed ahead, leaving his guards behind as he dove into the fray of the battle.

And he seemed to be heading straight for the Warboss.

Isha give me strength, Cadaith thought with a groan even as he readied himself to intervene.

Sometime earlier…

The psychomatons were terrifying.

Horus didn’t want to admit it, but it would have been foolish not to.

The faceless war machines moved with speed and strength that would have shamed even a Space Marine, relentless and unstoppable. Most Ork weaponry failed to penetrate their armour and even when damage was done, it repaired itself almost instantly.

It was disconcerting. It had been a long time since Horus had encountered an enemy he couldn’t think of a way to defeat.

Oh, that wasn’t accurate. Horus knew ways to deal with the psychomatons: orbital strikes, or at the very least heavy concentrated artillery fire from a distance to overwhelm their regeneration. Perhaps a squadron of the Martian Titans. 

But he couldn’t defeat the psychomatons himself. Horus knew that if he tried to get up close and personal with them as was his preference, he would lose.

And that, more than anything, rankled.

Scowling, Horus forced himself to focus on the battle. As had been predicted, the psychomatons were handling the bulk of the combat, while the Eldar and Space Marines acted as support. Horus himself had hung back so far, surrounded by a ring of his Marines around the ships they had landed in.

But maybe Horus could do more.

“Someone find me the Warboss,” He ordered his Marines through the vox channels of their helmet.

“I have eyes on them,” One of the Marines - Zara, if Horus remembered correctly - said, and the data display on Horus’s helmet changed as information flowed in from her. One Ork was highlighted in bright red, bigger, more heavily armoured and mechanized than all the others.

Horus grinned, a shark that had just spotted its next victim.

Gotcha.

“I’m heading for him. Back me up.” 

There was the barest hint of hesitation, just a moment of surprise before Captain Qruze responded. “As you wish, sire.”

Horus drew his power maul, the head of his weapon crackling with white lightning. 

And then he leapt into battle.

His heartbeat accelerated and the world seemed to narrow in as clarity that never came to him anywhere else arrived.

There was only the enemy and Horus. All he had to do was reach it and kill it.

This was what he had been born for, shaped for. Not diplomacy, but combat. Not to exchange pretty words, but to shatter the enemies of mankind.

The Orks tried to stop him. They rushed towards him, roaring and screaming obscenities, raising their crudely forged weapons.

Horus tore through them like they were nothing. His power maul was like a guided meteor as it tore off the head of one Ork, and caved in the chest of another. He wove around their weapons like water, and even as the green tide fell over him, Horus knew he was unstoppable.

Better yet, Kulo seemed to notice.

The enormous Ork turned his head towards Horus, red eyes glowing malevolently. Horus laughed and extended a hand, raising his hand and gesturing for the beast to come closer.

And Kulo did.

“OUTTA OF MY WAY, YOU GITZ!”

The Orks parted, reluctantly at first, then faster once Kulo ripped off the head of one Ork who was too slow to move out of his way and chucked it into the distance.

Horus waited, pausing for a moment to assess his opponent as Kulo strode up to him. The Primarch vaguely noted that he had left his guards behind at some point, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The Orks left a clean circle for Kulo and Horus to fight in, and the two sized each other up. Kulo was taller, heftier, a monstrous alien cyborg wearing ragtag weaponry and armour that had been slapped together from the spoils of his ruins.

Horus was shorter but nobler, his white-grey armour marked with blood and soot but forged by the finest artisans that Terra had to offer, his features concealed by the helmet with glowing white eyes and a grill around the mouth.

“I’m Kulo,” The Ork said, jabbing a thumb at himself. “I’m the biggest, ‘ardest and toughest Ork around ‘ere. Who the hell are you?” 

Horus smiled beneath his helmet and offered a mocking bow. “I’m Horus Lupercal. I’m here to kill you.” 

Kulo let out a bellowing laugh, which was echoed by all the Orks that surrounded them.

“Dat so? Well, you is ‘ard, arder than a lot of my boyz. But you ain’t gonna beat me.” 

“Is that so?” Horus quipped. “I think you’re-”

But before he could finish his sentence, Kulo leapt forward. 

Horus barely brought up his power maul in time to stop the wicked cybernetic claws from sinking into his chest, and for a moment, they struggled.

Then, to the Primarch’s horror, Kulo began to win.

For all his gene-forged strength, for all the training Horus had been given, his arms buckled below the weight of the Ork’s strength.

It took everything Horus had to disentangle himself from the Ork and leap to the side, his arms aching as he stared down the grinning Ork.

Kulo’s teeth were ugly and jagged, and he laughed. “Not bad, ‘Orus.” 

Then they were engaged again.

Horus barely had time to think, every bit of his energy devoted to trying to survive. 

Kulo was much more dangerous than Horus had anticipated. The Ork was stronger, and deceptively fast despite his enormous frame and the crude cybernetics. Horus could barely get in a few glancing blows and had to devote all his attention to not being torn apart.

For the first time in his life, Horus was faced with an opponent who was just, simply, better than him. 

Was this how all his enemies had felt, a distant part of him wondered.

But he couldn’t spare much thought to it, just as Kulo’s fist smashed into his gut, sending Horus to his knees. A kick to Horus’s wrist knocked the power maul to the ground, and Kulo laughed.

He reached with his enormous claws (and it was only now that Horus realized how cruel and jagged they really were as a pit formed in his stomach), prying Horus’s helmet off.

Horus, in the absence of anything else to do, reached out and grabbed the Ork's claws, trying to push it away. But Kulo remained stronger, his claws slowly but surely tearing Horus’s helmet off in a screeching noise of metal.

He was going to die here, Horus realized. All alone, on this world, far from home.

Then something miraculous happened.

Cadaith, the leader of the Eldar warriors, leapt into the circle with inhuman grace and speed, dashing up to Kulo before anyone could stop him.

And then he rammed his spear straight into Kulo’s remaining organic eye.

“-the blow didn’t kill Kulo,” Horus continued a slight disbelief in his voice even now. “But it gave time for the psychomatons to extract us and for us to flee. Kulo and his entire inner circle were slain by the Psychomatons, and the Orks consequently collapsed into infighting,” Horus paused slightly. “I’m sorry, father.” He added in a more subdued tone of voice.

The Emperor sighed, and Horus flinched at the disappointment, guilt growing.

"It was foolish of you," The Emperor said finally. "And clearly, you need more lessons in tactics and strategy." Horus bowed his head.

"But I am glad you are safe, my son." The Emperor extended one large hand, settling it on Horus's shoulder, a warm and solid weight steadying the young Primarch. "And that relations with the Eldar are off to something of a positive start."

Horus nodded, even as he couldn't entirely squash his shame.

He had to do better from here on out. He would.

Horus vowed it.

Chapter Text

Isha leaned back in her chair, tapping thoughtfully at the dataslate in front of her.

"This should all be done already, you know," She said dryly, a faint exasperation in her voice as she looked at the Emperor. "Codifying a basic education and curriculum for psykers isn't exactly something you need my help for.

George coughed slightly but didn't back down. "I thought it best to avoid making psykers too well-trained and dangerous. I could not come up with any kind of training that truly shielded them from the Warp or meaningfully lowered the risk of corruption, so if they went rogue after being trained, they would be more dangerous for it. With dreamstones to shield them, however, that is moot."

Isha hummed in displeasure but didn't belabour the point.

"In any case," She typed into the dataslate, altering a few theorems. "This should serve as a solid guide to the training and management of psykers. I based it on the basic curriculum used for Eldar children in ages past, before the Edict."

George tried not to be offended by her words. He knew she meant nothing by it, the simple truth was that humanity didn't have the inborn control and precision that the Eldar did because mankind was not a species engineered as psychic super soldiers.

The kind of psychic training used for adult Eldar was simply not something most novice human psykers would be able to handle.

That didn't mean it didn't sting.