The carnage of gore, the mounds of bleached skulls, and the shimring discharge of azure warp energy left little doubt as to the architect behind this recent gambit.
Deep within the Immaterium, Tzeentch felt the shattering of his amulet. Beside him, Khorne watched with a gaze of burning mockery.
"It seems the sches of the feckless Weaver of Fates have failed once more," the Blood God spat.
Tzeentch cast his sight through the veil to the freezing void, where the massive chanical fleets of the Iron n hung suspended beyond the borders of the Sol System. The civil strife he had engineered had failed to ignite; the decaying Imperium and the searing, golden radiance of the Throneworld remained an intolerable eyesore.
With a flick of disdain, the Great Conspirator dissolved into a streak of blue light, vanishing from Khorne's presence.
Guilliman remained unaware that the potential schism between Axion and the Imperium had long been factored into the shifting calculus of the Warp-fiends. Once again, the Emperor Himself had stepped into the fray to make playthings of Daemons.
…
A wave of sacrilege had washed over Terra, an affront that imdiately drew the cold, sharp gaze of the Inquisition.
Swarms of Inquisitors from the Ordo Hereticus descended with their retinues in grim succession. What followed was a Purgation of blood initiated from the heart of the Throneworld itself. These agents of the Holy Ordo road Terra like predatory hounds, conducting a ticulous titration of every Imperial institution, beginning in the Solar System and spiraling outward through the Segntum Solar.
Across the galaxy, thousands of Planetary Governors and millions of bureaucrats from various administrative tithe-organs were put to the torch in the searing light of white phosphorus executions.
However, Guilliman's decree to abolish the wearing of expansive, identity-concealing cowls t an immovable wall. The Ecclesiarchy and nurous reclusive Cults and Sisterhoods voiced such strident protest that the Lord Regent was ultimately forced to abandon the initiative.
Amidst these blood-stained records, Axion successfully extracted intelligence regarding the Aeldari Craftworld Alaitoc, though certain figures and data-strings within the archives struck him as aberrant.
As the Iron n's heavy transports and Thunderhawks touched down, Axion and Guilliman prepared to depart Terra. With the High Lords in session and the Legio Custodes standing watch, Guilliman felt confident that, short of a full-scale Iron Man invasion, Terra's defenses were inviolable.
The Imperium had a mountain of crises demanding the Regent's attention, the most vexing of which remained the task of contacting the elusive Ynnari, specifically, Yvraine.
As the chanical chassis returned to their berths, the Iron Man fleet ignited its engines once more. Regardless of Guilliman's maneuvers, Axion maintained his own strategic protocols. The massive fleet churned the tides of the Warp, setting a direct course for the Segntum Obscurus in the Imperium Nihilus.
Axion intended to attempt diplomacy first. If the Xenos assisted him willingly, it would be optimal. If not... Axion was certain that the Aeldari would find themselves much more cooperative when faced with the threat of a Dinsion Collapse Bomb.
…
Within a secluded sanctum upon Craftworld Alaitoc, Asurn sat in silent ditation.
He was surrounded by a circle of young Aeldari warriors. As the progenitor of the Path of the Warrior and the first of the Phoenix Lords, his movents were as epheral as starlight. He had dedicated his existence to imparting his martial mastery to the youth of his race, tempering their skills in the fires of constant battle. No matter how many calamities he endured, there were always those ready to follow in his wake.
Asurn had founded the Path of the Warrior and the first Shrine of the Dire Avengers. In the ages following the Fall, he found he could not abandon the Path; there was no middle ground between protecting his kin from the hunger of She Who Thirsts and forging a new destiny. The Path of the Warrior threw open its gates to all Aeldari as the waning sunset-race began to unify under that na.
During this era, Asurn beca the most traveled of his kind, visiting nearly every Craftworld to train those who sought to beco Dire Avengers. These apprentices studied under the Phoenix Lord, and when they eventually departed for the stars, they wore the mantle of Exarchs. The Aspect Warrior culture formalized across the Craftworlds, and Asurn's greatest disciples went on to found their own Shrines, ascending as new Phoenix Lords.
No Craftworld would ever deny him entry.
As he concluded the day's instruction, Asurn rose. The Sword of Asur, the Diresword, slung across his back gave a subtle, rhythmic tremor. Sensing the anomaly, Asurn drew the blade and pressed the spirit stone embedded in its hilt against his brow.
This blade had tasted the blood of a thousand wars, and within its gem resided the soul of his brother.
"Tethesis."
Though Asurn had preserved his brother's spirit, the soul had long since lost its cohesion following a Daemonic incursion. It was a silent, fractured thing, incapable of true speech. Most often, Asurn could only commune with it through echoes of raw emotion.
This ti, however, the sensation bleeding from the stone was one of profound dread and foreboding.
"Asurn, Hand of Asuryan. We know well the sacrifices you have made to defend the dignity and survival of our people. Even now, the Aeldari face a multitude of shadows. The Seer Council of Alaitoc hopes to borrow your strength and wisdom to deliberate on a looming threat. This gathering is vital to the continued existence of Alaitoc; we trust you will not refuse this summons to duty. We await your presence."
An Aeldari stood at the threshold of the sanctum. Unlike Asurn's iconic wargear of crimson and blue, this herald wore the refined, flowing robes of blue and yellow characteristic of Alaitoc, adorned with intricate gemstones and finery. The ssenger bowed with deep reverence.
Asurn lowered his blade and looked toward the herald. "Necrons? Or Daemons?"
Asurn was well aware that the forces of Alaitoc were locked in a bitter war against the Necrons. Beyond the soulless machines, only the Daemons of Slaanesh typically posed a threat of this magnitude to a Craftworld.
The herald shook his head.
"The Imperium of Man, then?" Asurn asked, a hint of surprise in his voice. He knew the organization known as the Inquisition had captured many Alaitoc outcasts in the past, using barbaric and bloody thods to extract Aeldari lore. Yet, he had never considered them a true threat to the Craftworld itself. The current Imperium was a pale shadow of the human federation that existed before the fall of the gods. Were it not for the Imperium's sheer, clumsy scale, the Aeldari would have little trouble repelling their xenophobic crusades.
"The Council of Seers has glimpsed another prophecy of the End Tis," the herald replied grimly. "It is cold, pitiless, and saturated with slaughter. It threatens the Craftworld, perhaps the entirety of our race."
For the Aeldari, life was a constant navigation of prophecies and visions. Fate danced before their eyes like a gossar veil, tantalizing yet impossible to fully grasp. Since the death of their gods, the once-clear foresight of the race had beco mired in a chaotic morass. While they had lost the crystalline clarity of the past, their remaining precognitive abilities still served as a vital, if flickering, lantern for their species.
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