=== Kharath ===
The temple of Mortis was no longer the serene courtyard where once the Father had stood watch. Now it was a crucible of corruption, a nexus bleeding warp-light into every stone and arch. The skies above boiled with storm-clouds that did not belong to this universe, their lightning bolts arcing purple, blue, and sickly green, feeding into the ritual circle that glowed at the center of the courtyard.
Kharath stood at its heart.
He was no longer merely a man, nor even a Chaos Sorcerer. His body had become the vessel of his god's promise, a daemon prince of Tzeentch. Fifteen feet tall, his wings stretched wide in leathery majesty, their span blotting out the flashes of the lightning above. Horns curled from his head like the crowns of ancient kings, jagged and cruel, while his once-baroque armor had fused into his flesh, plates of twisted ceramite and scales merging seamlessly into his body. His eyes blazed with shifting hues, as though thousands of irises swam behind them, and his voice carried the resonance of both mortal and daemon when he spoke.
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He raised his clawed hand above the ritual circle, and reality itself shivered. The ground beneath his talons cracked as lines of fire traced themselves outward into intricate runes, warping Mortis' pure Force nexus into a vessel of the Warp. Each syllable he uttered bent the air like iron under a hammer, his chants weaving corruption into the very bones of the world.
"Soon… the prison will shatter," Kharath murmured, a grin splitting his monstrous visage. His voice was a chorus of whispers, screams, and mocking laughter. "She will be unbound… and this universe will drown in the tide of blood and ash."
At the edge of the courtyard, a figure knelt. The Nameless Sorcerer, his armor broken and scarred from his fight with Yoda. He leaned on his staff for support, his breath ragged. Yet his eyes never wavered as they fixed on Kharath.
"Guard the circle," Kharath intoned, his claw pointing toward him. "Summon the others. No one must break the ritual, no matter the cost. When the Fifth Chaos God is free, your suffering will be rewarded."
The Nameless Sorcerer bowed his head. "As you will, my lord." His voice was hoarse, but resolute. He staggered to his feet and departed, his shadow stretching long across the warping ground as he made his way to the gathering forces.
The path wound through the shattered remnants of the temple, where once light had thrived. Now, corruption had taken root. The Nameless Sorcerer's gaze fell upon the first of the assembled, Grievous.
The Necron cyborg was no longer the half-shattered wretch who had once fled defeated from the Black Templar, or that's what he told himself at least. Kharath's warpsmiths and the Nameless Sorcerer himself had rebuilt him afterwards. His already grotesque frame had been further twisted, his plating engraved with runes of sorcery, his claws tipped with shimmering energy. Around him, his army clanked and shifted, the "necron" host. They were not true Necrons, but cybernetic abominations, slaves from across the galaxy that had been stripped down of their flesh and minds, then built back up to what they were now, their eyes burning an eerie green. Each one carried weaponry grafted into its frame, plasma cannons for arms, blades fused into hands, missile pods where torsos once were.
Grievous turned as the Nameless Sorcerer approached, his deep mechanical growl reverberating. "The legions are ready. These constructs thirst for slaughter." His claws flexed, sparking with energy. "I will see to it that no Jedi, no Marine, no Mandalorian reaches our master."
The Nameless Sorcerer gave a curt nod, though his voice rasped. "See that you do. Their combined might is formidable, and they will throw everything at us. The ritual must not be disturbed."
A sound like muttering drew his attention. In the shadows of a ruined colonnade sat two broken figures. Yaddle rocked back and forth, her once-kind eyes clouded black. She muttered endlessly, strings of prophecy and nonsense spilling from her lips. Her hands clawed at the air, as if tearing unseen fabric, and around her sparks of unstable Force energy cracked in the gloom.
Beside her slumped Sifo-Dyas, similarly ruined, his body gaunt, his hair a matted mess. His voice came in low, frantic whispers, conversing with beings only he could see. Both had been driven mad by the Warp, their forms twisted, their auras poisonous to the Force.
The Nameless Sorcerer regarded them for a long moment, then spoke softly, as though addressing children. "Your time will come soon. Hold your madness close. When the enemy arrives, unleash it."
Neither responded in words, only more muttering, more unsettling laughter from Yaddle.
Finally, the Nameless Sorcerer ascended a broken pillar overlooking the battlefield. Before him stretched the mustered army. The remnants of the Separatist legions stood arrayed, war droids by the tens of millions, tanks and artillery pulled from hidden caches, all restored and corrupted by warpcraft. Among them were the cyborg "necron" constructs.
He raised his staff, voice booming across the legions, broken armor crackling as he shouted.
"Prepare yourselves! The Imperium and the Republic will come. They will come with fire, with faith, and with fury. They will hurl their strength against us in a tide of war. But we…" His voice grew louder, warped, amplified by sorcery until it carried like thunder. "…we need only endure! Hold the line! Bleed them! Break them! Until the ritual is complete, and the fifth Chaos God is free!"
The legions answered with a roar of metallic voices and mechanical screeches, weapons raised, claws extended. The ground shook beneath their unified cry.
The Nameless Sorcerer lowered his staff slowly, his breath ragged again, but his optics gleamed with grim satisfaction. He turned back toward the temple, where Kharath's chants had reached a fever pitch, the air itself bending and screaming as the daemon prince worked his ritual.
The Nameless Sorcerer raised his gaze to the heavens, and he watched as the sky split.
Stars vanished beneath the emergence of titanic shadows, thousands of ships rupturing from hyperspace in waves. First came the Imperium's fleet, battle-barges shaped like cathedrals, their hulls bristling with towers, gun batteries, and gothic spires. Their shields shimmered with malevolent power, and even from the ground, the sorcerer could feel the righteous hatred seething within them. Strike cruisers, escorts, and frigates fanned out, their weaponry already primed for war.
Beside them, the Republic's armada slipped into view, their Venator-class Star Destroyers gleaming with crimson and white.
"Look!" His voice thundered, carried by the warp until it shook the air, the earth, and the marrow of every living thing within earshot. "Do you see it? The deluded children of a dying galaxy! They gather their strength, thinking themselves united. Imperium. Republic. Men. Aliens. Machines. All arrayed against us, thinking their combined might will halt destiny!"
He gestured to the horizon, where serried ranks stretched into the distance. Grievous stood at the fore. Behind him, his legion of skeletal cyborgs shifted restlessly, the green glow of their ocular implants casting a sickly light across the plain.
Further back, the remnants of the Separatist armies assembled, endless ranks of droids clattering into formation, their weapons raised. Interspersed among them were cultists and mercenaries gained throughout the years, ragged banners depicting the sigils of Chaos raised high. The twisted Jedi, Yaddle and Sifo-Dyas, huddled near the ritual site, their broken minds muttering in fractured harmony, their power bleeding uncontrolled into the warp.
And towering above them all, Kharath, Daemon Prince of Tzeentch, stood at the heart of a growing maelstrom. His wings stretched wide, blotting out the storm above as arcs of warp lightning leapt between his horns.
His talons traced sigils of impossible geometry into the air, each stroke tearing at reality itself. The ritual pulsed like a heartbeat, sickly light spilling outward, staining the ground with corruption.
The Nameless Sorcerer raised his staff high, and its crystal head burned with warp-fire. "Hear me, legions of Chaos! Kharath opens the way! He rends the veil between worlds, and through it the legions of the Great Four shall march! Blood shall rain from the heavens! Fire shall consume the faithful! The galaxy shall drown in madness, and we, we shall be its heralds!"
The army roared in response. The droids clattered their weapons against their frames. Cultists howled, falling to their knees in ecstatic frenzy. The cybernetic soldiers of Grievous' host raised their weapons to the sky, their green optics flaring brighter. Even Yaddle's cracked laughter echoed eerily, as if some part of her understood the meaning of what was to come.
The Nameless Sorcerer turned his gaze skyward again. Already, the first lances of the Imperium's ships were breaking the atmosphere, golden beams stabbing downward like the wrath of angry gods. Explosions erupted across the battlefield as their bombardment began, carving craters of molten glass into the earth. The shields of the Separatist lines flickered into place, shimmering domes of energy that barely held against the punishing fire.
And still, the Sorcerer smiled beneath his broken helm.
He spread his arms wide, the warp whirling around him in coils of color and madness. "Hold the line!" he roared. "Hold until the veil is torn! Kharath shall open the portal, and when it widens, the tide will shift. The armies of Chaos Undivided will come forth, World Eaters, Death Guard, Thousand Sons, Black Legion, the Emperor's Children, all will descend upon this world! And not even the Corpse God shall withstand us!"
The battlefield trembled as though in answer. From the ritual circle, a crack split open in the fabric of reality itself, faint at first, but glowing brighter with each passing second. The air grew heavy, vibrating with the screams of things pressing against the veil. Shapes writhed just beyond sight, horns, wings, claws, and the glint of countless hateful eyes.
The Nameless Sorcerer lowered his staff, his optics fixed on the heavens. The Imperium and Republic had come with overwhelming numbers, yes. But they had come into the jaws of Chaos itself.
And soon, they would learn that not even their united fleets could cage what Kharath was about to unleash.
=== Palpatine ===
The command deck of the Republic's flagship was a symphony of activity, officers hunched over holotables, blue-tinted maps flickering as data streamed in from the surface below. Red klaxons pulsed faintly, illuminating the vast bridge in rhythmic waves of light. Outside the viewports, space was alive with fire. Turbolaser batteries flared from Republic warships, answering the bombardment of the Imperium, but it was the golden lances from the Gothic battle-barges that stole the eye.
Palpatine stood at the heart of it all, his hands clasped behind his back, robes flowing about him. His eyes narrowed as he watched the Imperium's ships carve their hatred into Mortis' surface.
For a heartbeat, he felt his own stomach tighten with fury. If the Imperium simply burned Mortis to ash, Kharath's ritual would be undone before it ever reached its crescendo. The Fifth Chaos God's prison would remain sealed, and all his Master's work… their work… would unravel.
The galaxy would slip from his fingers.
He turned sharply, crimson and gold light reflecting off his pale skin as he faced the Republic's fleet commander, a decorated admiral who stood hunched over the main tactical display. "Deploy the army to the surface," Palpatine said, his voice soft, measured, but carrying the weight of unquestionable command.
The admiral froze, shoulders tightening. Slowly, he straightened, his expression caught between confusion and disbelief. "Deploy the army…? Chancellor, with all due respect, why would we? The Imperium has already begun their bombardment. If we press the surface, if we focus our firepower, the Separatists and whatever twisted forces they've gathered below will be obliterated before the ground campaign even begins. To send our forces down now is to throw them into the path of their bombardment. We would risk losing divisions before they even-"
The words choked in his throat as Palpatine's gaze snapped at him. His lips peeled back slightly in a thin snarl. "Are you…" His voice dropped, laced with venom, "…questioning my authority?"
The bridge seemed to grow quieter. Even the hum of consoles and the chatter of officers at their stations faltered as if the entire command deck recoiled at the weight of those words.
The admiral swallowed, beads of sweat forming along his brow, but before he could stammer out an answer, Palpatine cut him off, his hand slicing like a blade through the air. "Enough."
His eyes swept across the bridge, searching, until they landed on a tall, sharp-faced officer standing off to one side, hands clasped neatly behind his back as though awaiting a chance to prove himself. Wilhuff Tarkin. Palpatine's thin lips curled into something that might have been a smile.
"You." His voice rang out, commanding attention. "Tarkin. As of this moment, you are commander of this fleet. The title and the responsibility are yours."
The deck went still. The admiral's face drained of color, realization dawning that his career, and perhaps his life, was already over. Tarkin, for his part, did not falter. Not for a moment. He stepped forward, boots clicking against the deck plating, and inclined his head in crisp acknowledgment.
"At once, Chancellor."
There was the barest pause. A ripple of uncertainty spread across the bridge crew. Officers exchanged glances, doubt written in their hesitation. Deploy the army into the maw of the Imperium's firestorm? Into a world already crumbling beneath orbital bombardment? The order bordered on madness.
Tarkin's voice cracked like a whip. "You heard the Chancellor's command. Deploy the army. All assault groups, prepare for atmospheric entry. Venators, open hangars and prepare deployment corridors. Ground units are to make immediate descent to the designated drop zones." His tone allowed no argument, no room for question.
Still, one of the junior officers spoke up, disbelief tugging at his voice. "Commander… surely you can't mean, we would be sending them directly into—"
Tarkin's glare silenced him instantly. "You heard my order. I do not repeat myself. Deploy them. Now."
The bridge came alive in a frenzy of movement. Orders relayed. Holotables shifted. Sirens blared as massive hangar bay doors began to open across the fleet. The dark of space was suddenly awash with light as torrents of Republic troop transports poured forth, LAAT gunships diving into formation, gunships and walkers secured in their bellies. Streams of fighters and interceptors poured out as escorts, flanking the waves of descending ships.
Palpatine stood unmoving in the center of it all, his pale eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.
Yes. Yes.
The Imperium might rain its fire upon Mortis, but the Republic's armies would be there on the ground, fighting in the flesh, ensuring the ritual's protection. And with them there, amidst blood and fire, Palpatine would be able to influence events directly, guiding the battle as his Master required.
He allowed himself a thin, quiet chuckle as he turned back toward the viewport, watching the streams of transports descend like fiery rain upon Mortis.
=== Nira ===
The command bridge of the Imperium's flagship was a cathedral of war. Stained-glass projections of tactical hololiths floated across the vaulted chamber, displaying Mortis below. The orbital bombardment had scarred the surface beyond recognition, tectonic fissures yawning open as magma spilled from Mortis' core. Every strike of lance and macro-cannon had been precise, calculated. Nira stood at the center of it all, her hands clasped behind her back, her expression hard as marble.
The officers nearby exchanged clipped words, their voices a murmur beneath the distant thrum of the ship's reactor. Nira's gaze lingered on the burning planet. This was the clean way. The controlled way. End the ritual with overwhelming fire. If Kharath thought to hide, they would simply grind the planet to dust.
But then…
"Regent!" An officer turned from her console, pale light reflecting off the aquila on her breastplate. "Priority transmission. The Republic fleet is deploying their forces to the surface."
Nira's brow furrowed, her head snapping toward him. "…Deploying? They're abandoning orbital superiority?"
The officer nodded, her face tight with disbelief. "Troop transports are pouring from their hangars. Thousands of them. Gunships, walkers, infantry, the entire army. Their escorts are forming descent corridors now." She hesitated, then leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice. "Do we continue the bombardment, Lady Regent?"
The question echoed through the chamber. Tech-priests paused in their chants. Vox-officers turned from their instruments. Even the servitors at their stations seemed to hang in unnatural stillness.
For a heartbeat, Nira simply stared at the tactical hololith, her sharp eyes tracking the Republic's ships diving toward the planet. Foolish. Insane. To throw away the greatest weapon in war, orbital firepower. for the meat grinder of ground combat?
She drew in a slow breath, her jaw tightening. This… this was no accident. Palpatine's hand was in this. She could feel it in her bones.
Her mind weighed the options for a moment. Continue the bombardment, and they would crush the Republic's army mid-descent, killing their so-called allies. But… it would also mean exposing themselves to the chance of annihilating what lay beneath. The Temple. The ritual site. The nexus of Mortis. If they reduced it to rubble… That risk could not be tolerated.
Her eyes narrowed. Fury welled in her chest.
"Cease bombardment!" Her voice cut across the bridge like a whip. "Now. Halt all fire upon the primary zones."
Officers snapped to action instantly, relaying orders down the vox channels. The colossal guns of the fleet, already glowing with heat, began to fall silent one by one, the thunder of bombardment replaced by the quiet hum of the void.
Nira's eyes flicked back to the hololith, her gaze zeroing in on the far side of Mortis, where the Temple rose like a black scar against the world. Her voice hardened further. "Redirect bombardment to the rear lines only. Keep pressure on the Temple and its surroundings. Scour the approaches, bury any fortification they have in that sector."
"Deploy all legions. Ground war begins now. Priority drop zones will be the central plains and the fractured ridges leading toward the Temple."
The officers bent to their consoles again, vox-channels erupting with coded orders. Battle-barges rumbled as their cavernous hangars yawned open. Soon, the skies above Mortis would darken with the steel rain of the Imperium.
Nira's cloak swirled as she pivoted on her heel, her boots ringing against the deck as she strode toward the exit of the bridge. The officers parted before her, saluting as she passed.
"Lady Regent!" one called after her. "Where are you going?"
She did not pause, her voice cold. "To the surface."
A silence followed her as the massive blast doors parted and sealed again behind her.
The corridor beyond was alive with action. Servitors clanked past, carrying munitions. Chaplains barked catechisms of battle to gathered squads of Astartes. Nira's stride carried her through them.
Soon, she reached the hangar bay. Titans of war loomed there, drop ships the size of cathedrals, their engines growling as they awoke. The air was thick with incense and the prayers of tech-priests mingling with the rumble of machinery. Thousands of soldiers, Mandalorians and Astartes alike, were filing into embarkation columns.
At the heart of it all stood Maximus, encased within the towering bulk of his Centurion war-suit. His voice, deep and resonant, rolled across the gathered ranks of soldiers and warriors. He spoke of the war to come, of duty, of the price that must be paid for the survival of the Imperium.
And then, without hesitation, Maximus ignited the thrusters of his suit. A plume of fire roared beneath him as the Centurion frame lifted from the landing pad. For a heartbeat he hovered there, a living titan silhouetted against the void, then, with a thunderous burst, he hurled himself into the black heavens, a spear of vengeance cast into the heart of battle.
Nira's personal drop ship waited for her, its armored plating glinting beneath the harsh floodlights. Its boarding ramp lowered with a hiss of hydraulics as she approached.
She paused for a heartbeat, gazing out across the ordered chaos of the hangar.
She drew her cloak tighter about her shoulders and ascended the ramp, her figure swallowed by the steel colossus that would carry her down into the jaws of war.
===
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