The crimson-armored warrior raised his blade, poised to sever Abaddon's grotesquely swollen head.
"What would happen if Abaddon didn't die here?" Horus, still bound in chains, asked the scholar quietly.
"The future you see would unravel. All becomes uncertain," the scholar replied.
Horus fell silent.
As he released the fury and confusion in his heart, the chains that bound him unraveled and fell away.
"Let me kill him with my own hands," Horus said with calm finality.
"Oh?" The scholar's eyes sparkled with intrigue. This decision, it seemed, did not belong to the path that had once been written.
"Meahahahaha." His sudden laughter echoed through the chamber. Horus's deviation from fate delighted him.
"The galaxy shifts without end. Blessings and curses entwine. After agony comes sweetness. Fate mocks the living with cruelty. All things, in the end, are empty."
Horus said nothing.
His companion—part sage, part daemon—was brilliant, but more often than not, unhinged. Horus did not understand his ramblings. Nor did he wish to.
Then the scholar held out a weapon.
A crystal dagger—elegant, ancient, terrible.
"Hope is the galaxy's deadliest poison," the scholar said, now solemn. "It stretches pain. It deceives the dying into believing they will live."
Horus took the dagger.
His eyes turned to Abaddon, cold and resolute.
The Despoiler lay collapsed, bleeding from countless wounds. Foul, tainted ichor pooled beneath him, thick with the corruption of the gods who once favored him. As his life force bled away, so too did the gifts of the Warp. His mind faltered. His breath rasped. His presence—once imposing—now reeked of death and rot.
He was no longer the Warmaster of Chaos, no longer the bane of worlds.
With a soft crunch—like steel slipping into overripe fruit—the crystal dagger pierced his bloated, stinking form.
No great battle. No heroic end.
Only a blood-slicked chamber and a blade forged in prophecy.
His flesh collapsed inward, deflating like a ruptured carcass, his body shriveling with unnatural speed. His once-titanic might evaporated into nothing.
In his final moment, Abaddon's gaze cleared. Lucidity returned.
He looked to Horus—truly saw him—and his expression twisted with complex sorrow.
"I will not apologize. Nor will I ask for your forgiveness," Abaddon whispered. "We are both proud men, father."
He paused, then added, with breath faltering:
"Stay away from them. They are not your kin. Stay away from power and ambition that do not belong to you. Do not let this tragedy repeat between us—between father and son."
His last words rang out—hoarse, urgent:
"Stay away from them!"
And then he died—slain by the blood of his blood.
Horus stood in silence.
He had believed himself numb to his son's fate. But now, with the corpse before him, sorrow seeped into his soul like a poison.
The greatest tragedy in the galaxy: kin killing kin. A rebellion of blood.
Grief cloaked him like a shroud.
But he did not notice the eyes upon him—his four closest companions each watching in silence, their expressions unreadable.
Some mocked. Some scorned. Others seemed amused.
But none offered sympathy.
Elsewhere.
Within the Eye of Terror, the vast Warp storm churned—a maelstrom feared even by daemons. No creature of reason willingly entered.
But the Imperium of Man is not ruled by reason.
A fleet of Imperial warships surged through the Warp, carving through the madness like blades through flesh.
Just as the daemons had once ravaged the Materium, so too now did Mankind deliver vengeance.
The void shimmered with impossible colors, psychic turbulence, and blasphemous entities—but the Emperor's vessels endured.
Wrinkled hulls groaned under pressure, cathedral-towers loomed from their decks, stained-glass windows told stories of martyrdom and fire. They were warships—but they were also sanctuaries. Floating cathedrals of wrath.
At the vanguard sailed a flagship—adorned with the radiant golden Aquila, twin-headed and glorious.
Behind it, a hundred more cruisers arrayed in a spearhead formation—an armada of divine judgment.
Each vessel held thousands of warriors.
Their mission: to bring the fire of the Warmaster and the Emperor to the daemon worlds. To purge. To destroy. To cleanse.
Destruction was their gospel.
Already, they had scoured dozens of daemon-infested planets. Warp-tainted realms had been reduced to ash. Blasphemous icons torn down. Eldritch altars shattered.
High-ranking daemons were captured—bound in reinforced stasis-cages, sealed in vaults of adamantium and hexagrammic wards.
"We shall bring the fire of ruin to the unclean," declared Saint Efilar, as he stood wreathed in flames. No one questioned him.
Under the fleet's relentless bombardment, dark stars were extinguished. Planets screamed as they died.
Across the sea of souls, imprisoned daemons wailed within their cages.
But no mortal aboard the fleet was disturbed by the sound. On the contrary—it was music. A reminder of victory. A balm for the righteous.
With void shields flaring and macro-cannons blazing, the Imperium's ships tore through the Empyrean like thunder across a corrupted sky.
Unstoppable.
Even the bastions of daemons were reduced to cinders beneath their guns.
A psyker of the Astronomican strode down the polished corridors of the Devotion, the flagship.
An emaciated ascetic, his gaunt form bore the weight of decades in prayer.
Runes of the Emperor were etched into his scalp, glowing faintly—a permanent declaration of faith.
In his hands, a dataslate shimmered with cold, white light.
He marched with purpose, following a daring fleet as it carved a path through the Warp.
Dukel understood the peril. Everyone aboard did. But like most who walked these steel corridors, he didn't care. If the Emperor, the Warmaster, or the dream of unified humanity demanded it—his life was theirs.
His boots echoed along the twisting corridors of the warship, the maze-like interior humming with the distant thrum of plasma engines and the groan of metal under Warp strain.
He passed through the primary macrocannon battery deck, the air thick with promethium fumes and the thunder of weapon calibrations.
Eventually, he reached the rest sanctum of the Astartes.
Towering Primaris Space Marines, clad in the colors of their Chapter, gave no challenge to his approach. They respected faith. They respected resolve. And Dukel had both.
They stepped aside without a word.
Past banners of battle-honor and the marble effigies of long-dead Warmasters lining the Avenue of Glory, he finally arrived.
The command sanctum of the fleet's master.
Living Saint Efilar stood at the center, her expression fixed in contemplation, watching a slowly rotating tactical hololith. Around her, Magos, senior commanders, and fleet officers conferred through vox-links and noospheric relays, issuing orders and adapting formations.
The chamber quieted slightly when the Astropathic Court's psyker entered.
"My lady," the psyker began, his voice strained with pressure, "I bring ill omens. For days now, I have felt... unrest. It is no mere anxiety—it is the Warp's warning. I implore you: return. Send word to Warmaster Dukel. I fear the location of Abaddon and the Spirit of Vengeance is a grave trap. It is no longer a place the Imperium should tread."
Saint Efilar did not reply at once.
She studied him, then looked again to the tactical display. The Warp voyage was already deep in progress. To turn back now would be chaos. But the psyker's instincts were not to be taken lightly.
Before she could speak, another voice cut through the room—sharp and unwavering.
It was Asmodai, Interrogator-Chaplain of the Dark Angels.
He would not allow hesitation.
"Lady Saint, there is no cause for doubt," Asmodai declared, stepping forward in his sable robes, the crozius clenched in one gauntleted hand. "Our intelligence is accurate. Abaddon is vulnerable—surrounded by rabble and heretics barely fit for scrap. This is our chance to sever the head of the Warmaster of Chaos and offer it to Lord Dukel himself."
"Warmaster Dukel will be pleased beyond measure. If we hesitate, Abaddon will rally, and the devastation he brings will dwarf what has come before. The Warmaster must not be denied."
Asmodai understood men. He understood devotion. He invoked Dukel's name three times in a single breath—not by accident.
He knew that for Saint Efilar, the Warmaster's joy was reward enough.
"With Abaddon slain," Asmodai continued, "Dukel's glory will ascend further still. A million worlds will kneel in unity beneath his banner. Humanity will be one voice, one purpose. The greatest Supreme Commander in our species' history will stride across the stars."
Efilar knew his intent. Yet even so, the vision he painted stirred something within her. On her radiant face, a glimmer of hope appeared—hope for that future.
Victory in this battle. Abaddon slain.
If it came to pass, Dukel's will would become unassailable. No Lord Solar, no High Lord of Terra, would question him. The fractured wills of the Imperium would unite. Mankind's greatest dream—unity—might finally be within reach.
She thought of Dukel's unwavering courage, how it burned in his eyes like a star. Then, she made her decision.
"We knew the risk when we launched into the stars," she said softly, turning to the psyker. "We embraced death from the first step."
"If our fragile forms can serve the dream of a greater mankind… if our deaths carve the path to the Emperor's light… then how can we justify standing still?"
Her eyes—bright with faith—burned into the psyker's soul.
"We do not fear a battlefield of blades and fire. We do not fear the dark. For in our hearts lives the shared dream of the Emperor, the Warmaster, and all humanity. A future without agony. A future worth dying for."
The psyker bowed his head. Shamed—and inspired.
Efilar's words shattered doubt. If death could bring light, then it was no burden at all.
Every soldier in Saint Efilar's fleet possessed unyielding will and minds fortified beyond ordinary measure. They had long accepted their fate.
The fleet pushed onward, deeper into the Immaterium, cutting through unspeakable geometries toward Abaddon's coordinates.
They swore—on steel, on honor, on blood—that they would end the traitor responsible for thirteen Black Crusades.
But they were walking straight into the jaws of fate.
It was all according to the Lord of Destiny's plan.
The High King had not lied. The cultists had not deceived. Even Asmodai's interrogations had revealed only truths.
But they had been allowed to see those truths.
Abaddon was already dead.
And their doom approached.
This time, they were not marching toward Abaddon, Despoiler of the Imperium.
They were heading straight for something far worse.
Horus—the first Warmaster. The fallen Son. The one whose betrayal shattered the Imperium during the Horus Heresy.
He was back.
More powerful. More calculating. And infinitely more dangerous than Abaddon ever was.
Abaddon's warnings in his final moments had fallen on deaf ears. Perhaps Horus had heard them. Perhaps he had even understood. But if so, he gave no sign. His face remained cold, unreadable.
Following the guidance of his dark allies, Horus seized control of Abaddon's fractured legions. His return ignited the warp-born legions into a frenzy of loyalty—or fear. Power recognized power.
He did not need to plead or negotiate.
Horus commanded.
Any daemon prince or heretic champion who dared defy him was obliterated—torn apart by warp claws or reduced to screaming echoes within the Eye.
Still, there was impatience in him. Even as the Four Gods whispered their approval, he recognized the same flaw in them that had doomed Abaddon. Their promises came with leashes.
Yet Horus didn't have time to dwell on mistrust.
He understood the game he now played: a race against Dukel, Warmaster of the Imperium, for control of the galaxy's fate. And Horus knew—if Dukel was allowed to continue unchecked, the future might collapse into a firestorm neither Chaos nor Man could survive.
So he would use Chaos—as a weapon. Not as a master.
As the corrupted hosts rallied to his banner, news reached Horus of the incoming fleet: Saint Efilar's crusade force, bearing the sigil of the Warmaster Dukel.
Horus did not meet them in open battle.
Instead, he set the board.
The trap was laid in silence.
He remembered well the tactics of the Great Crusade. He had once led it. He had once stood beside the Emperor himself. The Emperor—his father—who had taught him the arts of command, strategy, and loyalty.
Before the Heresy, those years had been the brightest in Horus' long and accursed life. Decades of patient instruction, of being molded into the perfect general. Of being loved.
No Primarch had been more favored. None had learned more.
He had been the spearhead of Humanity's rise across the stars. And then… its doom.
But his fall did not erase his brilliance. Defeat did not erase experience. And now, with the blood of gods boiling in his veins and ancient bitterness burning behind his eyes, Horus unleashed his vengeance.
Saint Efilar's fleet, unaware, sailed directly into the ambush he had prepared within the Warp.
At the moment of contact, Horus gave the order.
And reality ruptured.
The Sea of Souls writhed with rage. Warp currents exploded into a tide of madness. Psykers screamed. Gellar fields strained to the brink. Dreams collapsed into nightmares as the fleet was consumed by a maelstrom of agony and discord.
It came like a tidal wave—insanity after insanity crashing down upon the mortal minds.
What had once been the razor tip of the Imperium's wrath became twisted, bent, shattered by a single, perfectly timed blow.
Saint Efilar's spear—snapped mid-thrust.
...
TN:
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