Eden received yet another grim dispatch—this one from the front where Guilliman held the line.
Another nexus world had perished, and without the slightest warning.
Every living thing on the planet was gone; the defense flotilla reduced to drifting scrap.
They had put up almost no resistance at all.
By the time Guilliman brought his fleet to bear, the enemy had vanished without a trace, leaving only wreckage in their wake.
No question—this was the work of the Chaos gods. The foul divinities of the Warp had grown cagier and more troublesome, intent on bleeding the Imperium white.
They had all the patience—and all the time—to see it done.
Tarko's expression was grave as he reported, voice low.
"Your Majesty, our psykers' readings show the Warp's intensity in the Veiled Sector rising again. They say the darkness is spreading, and the suffering deepens."
Eden let out a slow breath. "Perhaps we should commit more armies, erect more defenses, and accelerate the reclamation of the dark-side regions.
"That also means we need faster Webway routes. Can the Engineering Department repair the collapsed lines?"
On the Veiled Sector's dark side, only a dozen Webway nodes remained usable; most routes were collapsed or unnavigable.
That was damage from the ancient War in Heaven, where sections of the Webway had buckled, crippling transit.
Thus they could use only a handful of nodes. Everywhere else they were forced to rely on Warp travel. Crossing even from one subsector to another could take weeks—or months.
Which was why they were always a step late—never able to catch the unknown enemy, rarely in time to halt the creeping dark.
"The Mechanicus and the Webway Office have investigated. They believe the structural frames still exist and can be repaired.
"But it will take a long time."
Eden's brow tightened. "We can't wait that long. Where's the bottleneck?"
"Machinery to scour and stabilize chaotic spatial energies. The Mechanicus has early prototypes, but they'll need more time before mass deployment…"
Tarko knew every item that needed briefing and explained the Webway-restoration snags in the simplest terms.
After all, His Majesty the Savior wasn't exactly a tech-priest.
"Oh. Got it."
Enlightenment dawned across Eden's face, and he nodded. "We're missing a shielded tunnel-borer that can dig inside Warp turbulence. That's what's slowing the works."
"You're correct, my lord."
Tarko assented respectfully. His Majesty's phrasing wasn't quite cog-to-cog, but it was close enough.
"Hmm—Warp tunnel-borers…"
Eden's eyes unfocused as he rummaged through the dustier shelves of his memory. "I'm pretty sure we already have something like that in the Imperium. Where did we stash it?"
Since the Imperium's founding, they'd gathered a mountain of odd, dangerous relic-tech and artifacts. Most of it got sealed away—or destroyed.
Like curating a museum collection, which was a bit of a waste.
But what else could you do? With the Changer of Ways and the Warp forever meddling, and the Mechanicus bound by creed, who would dare poke too deeply? If you didn't lock it up, what then?
At least those research taboos had loosened now.
"The Tuchulcha Engine, the Plagueheart, and the Ouroboros!"
Suddenly, Eden spoke three unfamiliar names.
The recollections flowed. "Emperor's teeth… We were sitting on this kind of treasure?"
The Tuchulcha Engine was an ancient device with a mind of its own—a Warp artifact, you could say—that enabled highly efficient, precise Warp translations.
After Caliban's destruction, that engine had lain hidden within the Dark Angels' fortress-monastery—the Rock.
It was the Tuchulcha that let that citadel pierce the Warp faster than most and even ignore certain eddies and tides.
A pity such a wonder had been buried under secrecy—so long that even the Dark Angels had half forgotten it.
They ascribed the Rock's translation gifts to the Emperor's grace.
Alongside the Tuchulcha, the other two relics—the Plagueheart and the Ouroboros—mattered just as much.
Combine all three, and you could assemble an engine called the Disharmonic Engine—able to punch through the veil between Warp and realspace and carve a rift that bridged both space and time.
Yes—functionally a Warp "tunnel-borer." In fact, the Disharmonic Engine was likely the very god-tech the Old Ones once used to fashion Webway routes.
"The Tuchulcha is definitely inside the Rock, and the Ouroboros likely is as well. That just leaves the Plagueheart's whereabouts."
Eden sifted through the strands, catching at loose threads.
A new guess took shape. "Wouldn't surprise me if the Plagueheart is already in my hands…"
In the original skein of fate, Vashtorr the Arkifane, that daemon demiurge of machines, conspired with Abaddon to sting the Dark Angels, aiming to steal the Tuchulcha and the Ouroboros.
He'd meant to assemble the Disharmonic Engine and use it as a "key" to tunnel the Webway.
Most likely to crack open some Old One vault—or wield it as a weapon of ruin.
"Short-sighted fools. Imagine using the Disharmonic Engine for… roads. High-speed corridors. Point your armies, and they arrive—anywhere."
Fortunately for the galaxy, Vashtorr's "great work" never launched. It died mid-ritual—ripped apart by the Emperor Himself.
And Eden had "liberated" the Arkifane's hoard—quite a haul.
Those artifacts had been parceled out to various research hubs. The Plagueheart might be among them.
Secure the Tuchulcha, and its machine-spirit would sense its siblings. Sacred devices called to one another.
"With the Disharmonic Engine, not only would the Redemption Crusade run smoother, the Imperium could restore a lattice of Webway lines—and maybe begin the counteroffensive!"
Eden's excitement spiked; the desire to seize the Engine burned brighter.
He wouldn't just repair collapsed routes—he'd cut new ones.
Warp tunnel-borers, Ork labor gangs, Imperial resources—there it was: a low-spec Webway construction corps!
Once upon a time, Imperial armies had barely dared to step into the Warp's domain.
But with the Disharmonic Engine, he could shape corridors and carry fire into the Warp itself—a strike the Imperium had never truly mustered.
Of course, he would need more strength—and ample Blackstone armaments and vehicles to suppress the Warp.
And carving doors between reality and the Immaterium? Risky. Drill in the wrong place and you might tap a cesspool—and find yourself with a mess like Holy Terra.
But what if the first spur led to the Holy Sun, and from there, a second spur jumped to some Chaos-held expanse?
Wouldn't that make the Imperium's march-route easily held—and viciously hard to take?
Eden grinned, mind racing.
Sooner or later he would lead a flood of armies into the Chaos gods' own haunts—and scour them with fire.
FIRE!!!
He reined himself in with an effort and shelved the daydream.
"First things first—get the Tuchulcha and stabilize the Veiled Sector."
Then he issued orders:
"Tarko, rally additional fleets and resolve the Avalonis situation at speed.
"Then reach out to the Dark Angels. Inform them the Imperium requires the Rock. Also—what of the Lion's trail?
"I want him to persuade them personally…"
The Dark Angels—remnant of the First Legion—had stubbornness to match their primarch. Donkeys with bolters.
How else to explain a ten-millennia manhunt for the Fallen?
Now this 'hopeful primarch'—the Emperor of Mankind—meant to open their sacred fortress-monastery, the Rock, and extract the Tuchulcha and the Ouroboros.
They might well refuse.
Better to let the Lion handle it.
Surely the First Primarch—the Lion—would read the board and choose rightly.
Eden turned to Tarko. "By the way, we already sent José and the Redemption Fifteenth Fleet to fish the beset Lion out.
"It's been long enough. They should have found him by now, yes?"
"I was just about to report." Tarko shook his head, delivering the latest.
"José received the Lion's distress call and brought the fleet to a feral world, but they couldn't locate him."
"Did the Ten Thousand Eyes spring a trap and snatch him?"
"Negative, my Emperor.
"He came under orbital fire, led his force into the woods to ride it out, and then… translated away via some manner of Warp-psychic transit."
"Forest. Warp translation."
Eden couldn't help a wry chuckle. "Seems he's begun to accept the Warp in his blood. And now he's run off—who knows where."
It felt like the Lion was actively increasing the difficulty of his own homecoming. Every time they reached for him—gone.
Now he'd slipped away again. Who could say when he'd re-emerge in realspace—or where.
"We can't wait on him…"
A crease of worry. Eden needed the Dark Angels on side—and the Tuchulcha secured—quickly.
Perhaps… play the family card.
First, cement the father-son bond between himself and the Dark Angels. Then ask for the Tuchulcha. What the godfather says might actually work.
All the more since it was for the Imperium.
Worst case, he'd build them an even bigger fortress-monastery—or herd the fragments of Caliban together and stitch up a little asteroid-base for them.
"And the Fallen.
"If I can win the Fallen and clear the truth of the past, that might soften the Dark Angels' stance."
That settled it.
Turn the Dark Angels and the Fallen into "his kids," the way the Carcharodons and other Chapters already were—a family under one roof.
Soon after, Dreamweaver bled into a short Warp hop to reach Avalonis—refuge of the Fallen—as quickly as possible.
Chaos was said to be upon it.
He would hunt the Fallen even as he helped the world withstand the Warp's assault.
…
Avalonis.
A semi-desert civilized world, its technology at the industrial stage and still some distance from a hiveworld's grim apotheosis.
Hot winds raised veils of dust, sweeping through low, long-leafed forests and stippling the blades with black-red scars.
Blood and spite-slime, borne on the wind.
Rrrrmmm—
A dozen Banehammer super-heavy tanks shouldered into the sandstorm, their treads carving deep scars. Behind them, more armored trucks bounced along, soldiers clinging to their rails.
The Astra Militarum armored column drove hard for the deep wastes. In the distance, they could make out a ragged spatial rent—and hear the abominations howling.
Chaos had eaten this region. Nearly half the desert lay turned to glistening black tar, from which daemons and mutants poured without end.
They had to emplace batteries—fast—or be drowned.
"Warriors!"
The local commander stood atop a heavy command-truck, shouting into the teeth of the wind. His rasp rolled across the column's vox-net.
"We hold our ground! We stop every foe! Nothing vile reaches our capital—our Xerxes City!
"Once we enter the defensive lines there is no retreat, no flight. We fight to the death. Avalonis' sons will not shame the Emperor!
"For the Emperor!"
With a roar, the column punched into the storm. The thunder of artillery swelled. Hundreds of prepared positions flickered across the far flats.
Continuous fire beat against the black tide, a thousand tongues of flame stuttering in the dust.
KRA-KOOM—
A burning super-heavy's hull whirled overhead and crashed down behind the commander in a blossom of fire.
Ahead, other vehicles lifted and flipped beneath colossal, misshapen silhouettes.
The commander's jaw set.
He knew the limits of his world's Guard. They could not stand alone against Chaos' flood.
Fortunately, Avalonis had been blessed with the Emperor's Angels.
The Guard would fix the tide. The Angels would cut the head from it.
"Prepare to engage!"
As the stench washed over them, he gave the order.
His gaze caught—at the edge of sight—a towering figure that made his soul ring and his skull throb, and around it warriors in tattered robes over dark green plate.
They were… the Lion's sons.
But they bore another, secret name.
The Fallen.
BOOM!
Knight-Captain Avka of the Fallen took a tail-swipe from the Greater Daemon that sent him crashing into a heavy truck, flipping it end over end.
He snatched up his power sword as he rose, blood running through his white hair.
The old warrior's plate told a lifetime of battles—scar upon patch upon burn. His robe was coarse sackcloth, threadbare and stained.
Nor was he alone. Dozens of Fallen around him looked the same.
Cut off from their parent Chapter for long centuries, they had lived as exiles, scuttling from shadow to shadow—like lost children.
All of them ragged.
But this did not change: their loyalty to the Emperor and the Imperium.
When Chaos fell upon Avalonis, these fugitives from the under-hives emerged first and threw themselves against the daemons.
Without fear. Without hesitation.
"Holok, Cayton—cover me."
Avka watched the daemon's slavering throng coming on and spoke in a voice both ancient and steady.
He issued orders to his two squad-leaders.
Though the Fallen often scattered, when they gathered for war they still kept the old formations they knew.
Holok and Cayton did not hesitate. They led their squads straight into the press.
They would clear the gnashing horde off their Knight-Captain, give him the room he needed to strike. Nearby, Librarians strained to clamp the Greater Daemon's witch-power.
Over the years in hiding,
Some Fallen had ceased recoiling from psykers. They had learned to accept—and use—the gift.
Thump-thump-thump—
Holok, a veteran of ten thousand wars, raised his bolter and sent a round, then another, then another, each shot neatly pulping a daemon-thing.
His weapon clicked dry. "Damn it. I'm out. Cayton—spare mag?"
In quiet hours, he would never have wasted bolter shells.
You couldn't just requisition them.
Standard bolt ammo went to Chapters, not to gutter-rats on the run.
"Heh. Funny thing—I'm dry too. Was just about to ask you…"
Cayton's smile was a thin, self-mocking slice.
He ripped his chainsword down a daemon's spine in a fountain of putrid ichor.
"Brother, old ways it is. Up close. More satisfying!"
The "old ways": blade-work, at kissing distance—the kind of fight you shared with cut-rate Chaos scum.
There was no help for it. If you had the firepower, you used it. If not—you earned it on the edge.
Skill told. Edges flashed. Bodies fell.
Slaughter as art.
The swordcraft of Caliban's knights—admired across the galaxy.
Under their cover, Avka closed on the Greater Daemon step by step.
He mouthed a knot of harsh syllables. Light crawled along his blade. Death hungered in the air.
"No—"
The grinning fiend realized too late how the noose had drawn tight and heaved against the wards that bound him.
They had found his True Name. His power was stifled.
Where could he run?
To most Astartes, and to many other warriors, a True Name was the only road to felling a Greater Daemon.
"Back to the pit!"
Avka leapt, rammed the enspelled blade through the monster's heart, and watched Warp-filth rush out of the wound in hissing streams.
He seized the instant and drove the banishment home.
The daemon, knowing the Warp would reclaim him, only laughed:
"Lapdogs of the Corpse-Emperor—the darkest dark cannot be banished. Avalonis must fall. None of you will escape…
"None of you!"
The fiend's shape collapsed, and the rest of the Chaos host began to break and run.
But the rent across the desert yawned on. It deepened, blackening until it seemed ready to swallow everything.
"It isn't over."
Avka stared at the tear and his face hardened.
Plainly, they had cast down only the vanguard.
If a Greater Daemon was merely the point—what, then, was the spear?
"Avka. We have to move."
Holok must have read the same omens. He came up quietly. "They'll be on us any minute. Those zealots haven't given up the hunt."
To catch the Fallen, the Dark Angels had spent centuries weaving nets—intel webs thicker than the Inquisition's in some dark-side regions.
All to find a single scent.
The Fallen had lingered too long on Avalonis—and now had shown themselves fighting for the Imperium.
Experience said discovery was not far behind.
Holok's voice gentled.
"I know you fear the daemons will strike again. But the call for aid's already gone out. The Imperium will come."
"And if they don't?" the Knight-Captain asked, softly.
Silence fell over the Fallen.
Eyes lifted to Avka.
Sorrow ghosted across the old warrior's features.
He chose.
"Then I remain. Avalonis cannot share Caliban's fate."
No one argued.
One by one they cleaned their weapons in silence—readying themselves for the next fight.
At that same moment, a colossal warship in dark green armor slid into position above Avalonis.
Radiating wrath.
(End of Chapter)
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