Wind. He felt the wind.
It wasn't the cloying, scented musk of the ship, but a crisp, dry breeze. He could almost sll the industry of the world—the sharp tang of chemicals and the grit of processed minerals—and from it, he could discern the hard-scrabble lives of the humans below.
He descended from the transport, his power armor polished to a mirror sheen. He moved as a single drop in a majestic violet tide.
The reception hall was draped in imnse tapestries, woven with gold and silver threads into intricate works of art. Most depicted a single figure: a savior who had fallen from the stars, a treasure granted by the heavens to breathe life into a dying world. Under his rule, millions had been liberated from backbreaking toil, granted the luxury of pursuing the true aning of art and beauty.
Enkidu knew exactly who that man was.
The two hearts in his chest beat in a discordant, frantic rhythm. A soaring longing sang in his blood, yet his soul was hollow with trepidation.
What is a Primarch truly like? What is his temperant? How will he look upon the Legion the Emperor has given him? We have won such glory in the Emperor's na, but... as we are now... will he love us?
He surveyed his brothers.
Every warrior stood with exaggerated grace, shoulders back, heads held high. They displayed their campaign dals and the unique filigree of their armor with desperate pride. Even companies reduced to a single survivor stood tall, clutching their tattered banners to herald glories that were fast becoming ghosts.
A mysterious blight had begun to spread among them. Without warning, a warrior's organs would simply fail. So had their nervous systems savaged, ending their lives in a crescendo of screams and agony. Though the Apothecaries did their best to harvest the gene-seed from the fallen, most of the "Progenoid" samples were declared corrupted or non-viable upon inspection.
The Emperor told them it was the work of the treacherous Selenar Gene-Cults of Luna. He promised that pure samples were being escorted to them, yet the Apothecaries waited in vain for shipnts that never arrived.
With each passing day, more brothers died in their beds. The Primarch remained a distant hope. They feared they would beco the first Legion to go extinct before their father even returned.
But fate, it seed, was not entirely cruel. Before their remaining two hundred warriors could be spent in battle, the Emperor announced he had found the Third Primarch. He was on a world called Chemos, and he was ruling it with perfection.
Now, the Phoenix was coming.
Enkidu stared toward the far end of the hall. The anxious chatter on the vox-channels cut out instantly. As the presence of the Primarch drew near, Enkidu felt hot tears prick at his eyes.
Their hope. Their father.
He was tall, his movents possessed of an impossible, fluid elegance. His face was a masterpiece of human form. Under the vaulted lights, his hair shimred like molten silver. As the Primarch looked upon his broken, dwindling Legion, his gemstone eyes flickered with a montary shadow of disappointnt—a look that pierced every heart present—followed by a wave of profound sorrow.
Then, the Primarch knelt before them.
Enkidu's eyes snapped open in the darkness. It took a long mont for the reality of his surroundings to settle.
The other recruits were still asleep, the silence of the dormitory broken only by the occasional rustle of a body turning on a thin mattress. He was the only one awake.
Why would an Astartes dream?
He rubbed his temples. From what he knew of the lore, Astartes rarely dread. The Emperor had designed them that way for maximum efficiency; in extre cases, they could even rest their brain hemispheres in shifts, like dolphins.
However, there was an exception.
Aside from the physical augntations, the most vital component of an Astartes was the gene-seed. It was more than biological matter; it carried the essence of the Primarch, the mories and combat instincts of previous hosts, and a psychic link to the Warp.
Because the gene-seed archived so much data, "flashbacks" were common among new initiates. They didn't just inherit combat skills; they could be overwheld by the personalities of the dead, eventually believing they were the fallen veteran.
So, am I being influenced by so ancient 'Old-Tir' from the original two hundred?
It was a pity the dream only featured Fulgrim's grand entrance. There hadn't been any actual training or tactical data. Enkidu rolled over, frustrated. If he was going to have visions, he'd prefer so high-tier combat techniques. Survival in a Slaaneshi warband required more than just a legendary pedigree.
As he tried to drift back to sleep, a faint vibration traveled through the deck plating and into his ear.
The ship's chanical hum was constant—a rhythmic, grinding noise. The movents of mortal serfs were usually light and hesitant, born of a fear of being noticed. But this sound was different. It was heavy, arrogant, and carried a slick, predatory weight.
It sounded exactly like the two Chaos marines he had seen in the Apothecarion.
Enkidu vaulted out of bed. He caught the eye of Varangis, who had also bolted upright. Together, they began shaking the others awake.
"What the hell are you doing?" soone hissed.
"Let sleep... I don't want to be awake in this place!"
Enkidu delivered a sharp jab to the noisy recruit's ribs and pressed a finger to his lips.
The small commotion died instantly. As the sound of sothing approaching the door grew louder, every mouth stayed shut. So recruits slunk into the shadows; others ripped the iron railings from their beds to use as clubs. Enkidu climbed onto a high locker, eyes fixed on the entrance.
The footsteps slowed. A wet, slithering sound accompanied the thud of boots.
Enkidu held his breath.
CLANG.
The heavy tal door groaned as it was forced open, revealing the silhouette of power armor. A marine stood there, his pauldrons draped in ghastly cured leather. He held a writhing neural whip in one hand. His face was a mottled purple, fixed in the expression of a hunter looking at trapped prey.
"Not bad," the Chaos Astartes said. Finding the room fully awake and alert, his eager expression flattened into boredom. "You're all up. I was hoping to find a few slackers to hang from the ceiling as an example."
He stepped into the light. "I am Telax, master of The Lash of Agony and your new training instructor. Only those who survive my curriculum earn the right to call brother."
Telax's gaze lingered montarily on Varangis and Enkidu before he turned to leave.
"Now, move. Your first lesson begins now."
Astartes training was always brutal, whether conducted by Loyalists or Traitors.
A typical day for a loyalist might involve dawn orisons, followed by hours at the firing range to master bolt-discipline, then two hours of grueling hand-to-hand combat. Lunch would be a nutrient paste laced with ceramite additives. The afternoon would be spent in tactical simulations or armored spearhead drills. Evening brought more prayers, weapons maintenance, and ritual conditioning.
Chaos Astartes preferred "creative" variations—especially those of the Third Legion.
The mont Enkidu stepped onto the training deck—a place that looked more like a torture chamber draped in remains than a gym—the artificial gravity spiked. The sudden shift nearly slamd him into the floor. He steadied himself by grabbing the ribcage of so unknown xenos embedded in the wall. Around him, the other recruits were sprawling across the deck.
Telax stood on an upper observation gallery, flanked by several other veterans.
"First exercise," Telax's voice bood, echoing through the chamber in a shimring, layered resonance. "Reach the terminal on the far side of the deck and activate it. There is no reward for first place. But the last to finish will receive my 'private' tutelage."
A chanism groaned overhead. Sothing dropped from the ceiling with a sickening clack.
It was the remains of an Astartes. His limbs had been severed at the joints, the stumps bristling with thick tubes and servo-motors. He was suspended upside down by barbed chains. Black oil and dark ichor dripped down his pale, sightless face, staining the deck below.
But he wasn't dead. His milky eyes twitched with a vestige of life.
"That is Noel, my forr lieutenant," Telax said, inhaling deeply as if savoring the mory of the man's final screams. "He was ambitious. A fine swordsman. But he lacked... imagination. Now, he serves as our benchmark. And as a piece of art for my personal collection."
"Now... run to your machines, my dear brothers."
The training deck went deathly silent. Then, every recruit lunged forward in a frantic, desperate sprint.
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