Efilar and her officers were deep in discussion, finalizing tactical arrangements for a surprise strike on Abaddon, when a violent tremor shook the fleet. The command deck lurched underfoot—an abrupt and unnatural convulsion that signaled far more than a simple warp fluctuation.
Behind the Canoness, blazing seraphic wings unfurled. The living saint stood alone at the breach, projecting a radiant barrier born from unwavering faith and psychic might. Her aegis barely stabilized the collapsing conditions wrought by the sudden warp surge.
All around her, the Adepta Sororitas lifted their voices in solemn hymn. Their unified devotion, amplified through the saint's presence, formed a psychic lattice—a mental bastion against the maddening gale of the Empyrean.
Without this sacred bulwark, the entire Imperial fleet would have been torn apart in seconds—scattered through the currents of the Immaterium, where only madness or daemonic corruption awaited.
The attack struck without warning. Even seasoned veterans were caught unprepared. Recon ships of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica failed to detect the origin of the disturbance. The assailant remained hidden, cloaked in the mists of the warp—silent, patient, and deadly.
It was like being stalked by unseen predators. The Imperial fleet, once confident in its righteous mission, now felt like prey adrift in a sea of malice.
The Warp bared its fangs.
Whispers seeped through stress fractures in the Gellar fields—impossibly ancient, full of madness and promises. Though not immediately fatal, their insidious influence gnawed at the minds of mortal crew and soldier alike, causing writhing pain and psychic pressure that made men scream in agony and beg for silence.
Nightmares plagued them. The great storms of the warp, howling like the breath of daemons, disrupted fleet communications. Even the Astronomican—the Emperor's own divine light seen through astropathic vision—began to flicker. A terrifying omen.
Psykers, exposed to the Immaterium's unrelenting gaze, were the first to break. Madness overtook many. Space Marines had no choice but to subdue them by force and deliver them to the chapels of the Ordo Astralis—the only places within the fleet sanctified enough to offer them fleeting peace.
Yet even that sanctuary could not soothe the more pressing fear.
The Astronomican's failing light meant more than disorientation—it meant doom. Without it, the fleet could no longer navigate the boundary between realspace and the Immaterium. They would remain adrift in the Warp, their coordinates unknowable.
Even the most advanced navigational cogitators—built under the direction of Magos Dominus Belisarius Cawl and refined by Archmagos Gris—were of no use here. The Eye of Terror itself had swallowed them whole.
The Eye—maelstrom and blight—where the Materium and Immaterium merge into a grotesque parody of both. A place where reason fails, where only the Emperor's will could pierce the veil. And now, even that divine light dimmed.
Not even War Marshal Dukel, should he try to mount a rescue, could find them without a trace.
To make matters worse, all attempts at communication with the wider Imperium had failed. Vox signals dissolved into howls. Astropathic messages vanished into the sea of souls without reply.
If nothing changed, they would die here. Forgotten. Unmourned.
Efilar's fleet had stumbled into a Chaos snare.
The living saint, blade unsheathed, stood ready. Her wings of fire cast their light across the void. She expected battle, prepared for Abaddon himself—but something was wrong.
Abaddon was a blunt instrument, a hammer of Chaos. Cunning, yes, but always swift to strike. This… this was different.
This enemy was patient.
Efilar had fought hundreds of engagements across the Segmentum Obscurus, but never had she seen such restraint from the forces of the Archenemy. These were not the frenzied butchers of Khorne, nor the erratic beasts of Tzeentch.
No, this was precise. Measured. Wolf-like.
They did not strike immediately, but circled like predators—probing the fleet, testing for weaknesses. The fleet's outer vessels were harassed at intervals. When larger formations attempted to provide support, the enemy would vanish, having already inflicted their damage.
Bit by bit, attrition wore down the defenders. The damage was not catastrophic, but it was cumulative—and that was far more dangerous in the long term.
The wolves had tasted blood. Soon, they would commit.
Across the decks of the fleet, mortal soldiers trembled. Fear did what bolter fire could not—break them. Even the Primaris Astartes, bastions of transhuman endurance, began to show the strain.
The Gellar Fields still held, but just barely. Psychological pressure mounted. Vomiting, panic attacks, depression—symptoms spread like contagion among the ranks. The burden was immense.
Before a single boarding pod landed, Chaos had already begun to win.
The Sisters Hospitaller moved tirelessly through the decks, their chants and prayers forming protective rites, offering fleeting peace to the mortals under their care.
Still, it was not enough.
Weeks passed.
No major assault came.
But the mental matrix binding the fleet's defenses frayed with every day. More and more unclean energies leaked in, distorting perception. Soldiers mistook allies for foes. Dreams became indistinguishable from waking life.
Despair set in.
Efilar, ever watchful, guided her forces through the timeless tides of the warp. Yet even she could feel it—the weight of inevitability. The enemy's general assault had yet to come.
But it would.
And when it did, it would fall on warriors already broken.
Yet even amidst such dire straits, Efilar did not fall into despair.
Her link to the psychic matrix remained intact. Through it, she could still communicate with War Marshal Dukel and the others bound within the Heart-Network. That lifeline brought her resolve—but it did not grant her immediate salvation.
Without precise warp-spatial coordinates, even Dukel's all-seeing eyes could not pierce the veil and locate her. Efilar would need to anchor herself in the swirling madness, using her own telepathic sensors to lock onto the specific rift of twisted time and space that trapped her fleet. Only then could Imperial reinforcements navigate the Immaterium and attempt a rescue.
But time was running out.
The enemy could strike at any moment, and Efilar knew she had to triangulate her position before that final blow landed.
Yet escape was not her only goal.
No, Efilar wanted to understand the foe who had ensnared them—this calculating and brutal adversary, whose discipline and restraint stood in sharp contrast to the usual madness of the Ruinous Powers. Such an enemy could not be allowed to remain hidden within the warp. If left unchecked, they would strike again. And next time, the damage might be irreversible.
Elsewhere in the Immaterium, the colossal battle-barge Spirit of Vengeance drifted silently in the void.
Unlike the raging storms that battered Efilar's location, here there was an eerie stillness. An unnatural calm.
On its bridge stood Horus, his massive frame clad in the baroque, blackened armor of the Sons of Horus—reborn, reshaped. The air thrummed with restrained power. Around him, the warp shimmered with eldritch energies as the Chaos Sorcerers opened the scrying eyes of the warp, revealing distant visions to their master.
Through this psychic aperture, Horus observed Efilar's stranded fleet, twisting in the gale of the trap he had so carefully constructed.
They were struggling—floundering in isolation, groping for hope.
The whispers of the Warp fell silent for a moment as the heavy clang of metal boots echoed across the bridge. A prisoner was dragged forward—his labored breath rasping through torn lungs.
A Primaris Astartes, bloodied and bound, was thrown to the deck.
His armor—sun-washed yellow and adorned with the sigils of the VII Legion—was torn and desecrated. A ragged iron hook pierced his scapula, pinning him in place like a heretic's trophy.
Despite his injuries, his gene-forged resilience kept him alive. His defiant gaze met Horus's with barely concealed contempt.
"You," the Imperial Fist rasped, voice thick with blood. "The son of betrayal."
Each word cost him pain, but his loathing gave him strength.
Horus did not look away. A slow, ironic smile crept across his face.
"'Betrayal' is a convenient lie, child," Horus replied coldly. "You fight for an empire you do not understand. You follow a man you do not truly know."
He stepped closer, towering above the wounded loyalist.
"Dukel offers nothing but endless war. His path leads only to annihilation. Follow him, and you'll find your glory buried in the ashes of regret."
There was no scorn in Horus's voice—only conviction.
Despite himself, he felt admiration. These new warriors—Primaris—were powerful, their strength perhaps even rivaling the ancient daemons. Horus believed that, one day, they would awaken to the truth. Perhaps even walk beside him.
But not this one.
The stubbornness of the VII ran deep. Dorn's sons were built to endure, not to yield.
"You'll pay the price, son of betrayal," the Astartes hissed, his voice filled with hate.
"Perhaps," Horus said, unfazed. "I am but a revenant, a shade returned from the abyss. And I will return there one day. But before that—my mission must be fulfilled."
With that, Horus turned his back on the loyalist, casting his gaze toward the viewport and the captured Imperial vessels adrift in the warp.
Their void shields had failed, and the corruptive touch of the Immaterium now ate away at their hulls. Wretched growths—boils of fleshy pustules and rusted metal—bloomed across the plating. Even the Tech-Priests could hear the machine spirits scream.
Horus observed the ships with something close to awe.
These were no relics. The vessel bore the mark of cutting-edge Imperial technology—new, refined, deadly.
Arrays of lance batteries bristled from its flanks. Macro cannons lined the hull in dense formation. It was a warship that could erase entire cities with a single broadside.
Yet it was not the weapons that made Horus pause—it was the design.
He recognized it.
The innovation. The synthesis of brutal utility and visionary genius.
There could be only one mind behind this.
Dukel.
Even now, Horus admitted it freely—Dukel was the greatest intellect of this age. Perhaps of any age since the Emperor Himself walked among men.
In science and in warfare, Dukel surpassed all his brothers. Ten thousand years ago, even before his legion had been summoned, he was already a legend.
Horus felt no shame in the jealousy that stirred within him. It was not envy born of hatred—but of rivalry.
He believed Dukel to be reckless. Dangerous. A radical whose untempered ambition threatened everything.
Yet Horus also believed he could do better.
Not through raw might. But through purpose. Through balance.
Through control.
He recalled the first time he saw Dukel after his return, an eternity ago. Even then, the seeds of conflict had been sown.
And now, those seeds bore fruit.
Despite the overwhelming odds, Dukel had taken only two warriors to subjugate an entire world that dared to defy his will.
At the time, Horus had thought him insane.
But Dukel had prevailed. Wielding martial prowess that defied all mortal comprehension, he had brought the world to its knees, nearly single-handedly.
In that campaign, Horus—ever proud—had been forced to acknowledge the gulf between them.
It was after that war that Fulgrim, the perfectionist, sought to emulate Dukel. His attempt, however, was blocked by his fellow Primarchs.
Even the Second had offered Fulgrim a sincere warning, quoting an old proverb from his native world.
But Fulgrim had taken the advice as an insult, and Perturabo—the Third—grew resentful, believing Dukel's humility was nothing more than veiled arrogance.
Horus recalled these moments vividly.
Yet, his reflection was interrupted.
The daemon sword Drachanion, slung across his back, began to tremble—angry and impatient.
It was displeased that Horus had not slain the captured Imperial Fist. It hungered for the soul of a worthy adversary.
But Horus responded not with appeasement, but violence.
"Silence!" he roared at the blade. "If you do not learn submission, I will shatter you and cast your remains into the heart of a dead star. You will know eternal silence!"
The daemon weapon stilled, its anger curdled into sullen resentment.
Drachanion understood this master was no Abaddon. Horus was stronger—unyielding, and utterly resolute.
Satisfied with the blade's obedience, Horus dismissed it from thought.
He had long scorned using the blade, forged from the blood of mankind's first murder. But now, in his coming war with Dukel, he knew he must wield every weapon at his disposal.
Each day, new warbands flocked to his banner—summoned from daemon worlds and the Hellforges of the Warp.
But it was not enough.
To mold this chaotic horde into a force capable of challenging the Imperium, Horus had imposed strict discipline. Daemons and traitors alike were required to follow his commands to the letter—or face swift annihilation.
Alone, such order would have been impossible. But with the help of his four allies, his will had taken root.
"Open a link to Fars," Horus ordered the blue-robed Magos Scholaria beside him. "I want a report on their status."
"As you command," the scholar replied, bowing slightly.
The Magos turned the nine-faceted crystal in his hand, each face engraved with symbols that shimmered in otherworldly light. Carefully, he etched a runic circle of nine glyphs onto the blacksteel surface of the command lectern.
Horus watched him with a cold, measured gaze.
The bonds between him and his allies had frayed. Trust was no longer a luxury.
But utility… utility remained.
"Useful, if nothing else," Horus thought.
...
TN:
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