Among the lightless stars, there existed a forsaken world known as Sotaan.
Horus stood upon its ashen surface, unbothered by the planet's toxic miasma or lingering radiation. The Primarch breathed deeply — once, then again — as blood surged through his transhuman frame, flooding every cell with renewed vitality.
Each inhalation came with unnatural force, far beyond the capability of mere mortals. With precise, iron will, he commanded every fiber of his being. Through microscopic exertion, the very friction of his cellular processes generated a shimmering electromagnetic sheath that began to envelop him.
The breath he exhaled was like a shockwave — vast, thunderous, unstoppable.
He was assimilating the spoils he had retrieved from the Nexus of Eight — that enigmatic locus where the directions of all realities converged.
After several minutes, Horus relaxed, allowing the new power to settle into his form. He tilted his head, gazing toward the binary horizon, where two dying stars — purple and red — crept upward through the sickened sky.
Time marched on.
With that realization, any fleeting satisfaction vanished. Urgency returned.
The treasure he had retrieved allowed him to bypass the Moloch Gate — a tremendous advantage. But even so, time remained his enemy. The gene-template clones would need time to mature… and time was in short supply.
Dukel could arrive at any moment. The Imperium's front lines advanced inexorably.
Stopping the Empire's momentum had become Horus' most pressing concern.
Sotaan was a grave-world — devoid of value, soaked in methane and the echoes of atomic fire. It was a world the Warp itself seemed to disdain. No daemons nested here. Even the maddened beasts of the Immaterium avoided it.
Normally, no one would care about such a forgotten place. It was like driftwood in a starless sea.
Yet from time to time, Imperial vessels passed overhead and dropped torpedoes for amusement.
Don't ask why.
Even Horus, once the Emperor's Warmaster, could not fathom such barbaric waste. But such acts had become common in recent years.
Ever since the Imperium's forces plunged deep into the Warp, the legions under Dukel's command had shed all restraint.
Whether a planet was valuable or not was irrelevant. Whether it was inhabited, infested, or utterly barren — the first response was always the same: orbital bombardment.
They were their master's mirror: brutal, absolute, unconcerned with justification.
Sotaan orbited within a decaying binary system. Both suns were ancient and dying, and though they were spared violent death by their low mass, their spectral light had long since faded, warped further by Sotaan's tainted atmosphere.
But Horus paid no heed to the chill.
Winds gathered around him, kicking up sand and ash in swirling tempests.
As he stood amid the storm, memories of Belia IV returned — the war that had revealed so much.
The Imperium had claimed a decisive victory. The legions of Man marched unchallenged across the scorched earth.
And yet Horus did not leave empty-handed. He, too, had seized what he desired.
But the daemonic hosts of the Ruinous Powers had suffered greatly. Reassembling an army of such magnitude in the short term would be all but impossible.
The warbands under Dukel had proven merciless. His campaigns were clean and swift. Where demons once surged in unending tide, they now lay broken.
In Dukel, Horus saw an echo of the Emperor — the same indomitable presence, the same unrelenting fury.
But now his greatest weapon — Chaos itself — had faltered.
A bitter truth.
Suddenly, Horus tilted his head, as though receiving an unseen message. His eyes narrowed.
Without hesitation, he strode through the swirling dust and arrived at a newly constructed temple on Sotaan's edge.
Within its shadowed halls, a golden giant waited.
"Lorgar," Horus said, halting. "You claim to have found us allies?"
"Indeed," Lorgar replied with a confident tilt of his chin. "Powerful ones — ancient. Follow me, brother."
At his word, a long-dormant portal hummed to life, bathing the chamber in pale green light.
Together, the two Primarchs stepped through. The dizziness of transit passed quickly, and they found themselves standing atop a dune in a vast, desolate desert.
"There is something buried here — an entity older than our memories. Its strength is unquestionable. And I believe… it will listen."
As Lorgar finished speaking, the sands around them began to shift.
Emerging from beneath the surface came a host of humanoid figures, their skeletal frames gleaming in the sunless gloom. Each one held a Gauss flayer, glowing with baleful green energy.
"Disarm," one intoned in a voice devoid of emotion. "Or be annihilated."
Horus turned toward the sound, surprised to find a face not unlike a human's staring back at him.
At first glance, it seemed alive. But closer inspection revealed something else — a soulless light flickered in the eyes, like data streams pulsing through neural conduits.
Were they machines? Once-human? Or something in between?
"You are intruders. Your sentence is death," the beings announced as they formed a silent perimeter.
Horus did not flinch. "Lorgar… these are your so-called allies? Xenos?"
Lorgar opened his mouth, but before he could reply—
"FRAK YOU—!" an outburst exploded from one of the figures. "How dare you assume our kind!"
The speaker raged, gesturing wildly. But though the tone was furious, the voice betrayed no true emotion — an artificial simulation, mimicking anger.
It hurled insults at Horus in a patchwork of dialects — Low Gothic, Mechanicum code-fragments, even ancient Solar slang.
But then, suddenly, it stopped.
A flicker of data passed across its eyes — recognition.
Silence fell.
"I recognize you, intruder."
The voice rang out, cold and mechanical. The figure continued, "Son of Treachery. You betrayed His Majesty's glory, extinguished the hope of Mankind, and shattered the shared ideals of the Imperium. Your crimes are as vast as the stars—death is the only fitting sentence."
The figure's voice echoed with righteous fury as he enumerated Horus's ancient crimes—ten millennia of guilt laid bare in a torrent of condemnation.
But then, mid-gesture, half the speaker's face sagged unnaturally. A heartbeat later, the synthetic flesh peeled back into place—too quickly, too smoothly. Horus had already seen beneath it.
A skull of polished metal, a steel mimicry of a human face.
Still, the figure continued its accusations. Each charge was phrased from a human perspective, laced with passion, as if he were a true servant of the Imperium. A loyal son.
And that made Horus pause.
If you're human... then what am I?
He had heard such accusations more times than he could count, yet never had they come from something so contradictory. There was no anger in him, only a flicker of dark amusement. A bitter irony.
He glanced sideways at Lorgar.
He didn't oppose alliances with xenos. Once, he had even dreamed of an Imperium where humanity coexisted with other species. That vision had made even Sanguinius question his judgment.
But even he had limits.
You could not ally with lunatics masquerading as martyrs.
Lorgar stepped forward and spoke, his voice calm and measured. "We come in good faith, seeking alliance against a mutual threat. I believe the master of your dynasty will see the wisdom in this. Stand aside, warrior."
"You too are a traitor," the figure replied, tone stiff with judgment. "A traitor's words are meaningless. There is no betrayal so minor that it may be forgiven."
Without warning, the Necron raised his gauss flayer. A viridescent charge built along its spine.
But Horus moved first.
The energies of the relic he had unearthed at the Confluence surged through him. His body blurred into motion, faster than light should allow.
The activation rune on his warhammer lit up, and a crackling field of dark-blue energy enveloped the weapon. The hammer's spiked head, larger than a man's skull, hummed with suppressed destruction.
With a single swing, the air shrieked.
The blow connected.
The Necron was flung backward, face torn apart as shrapnel of silvery necrodermis scattered across the sand. The lights in its optics dimmed—the power core ruptured, circuits severed.
A second enemy fired. The green bolt of a gauss pulse flashed toward Horus. He twisted aside effortlessly.
The bolt struck a nearby boulder—melting a perfectly circular hole clean through it. The rock hissed and cracked, vaporizing at the edges.
The potency of the weapon drew a frown from Horus—but it did not slow him.
He closed the distance with brutal efficiency, catching the second Necron mid-recharge. One swing caved in its skull like wet stone.
The rest moved in to swarm him.
They fell just as easily.
Each time a Necron rose, a warhammer descended—crushing skulls and sundering limbs. The fury of a Primarch was not something they were built to endure.
Then they stopped.
Three new figures arrived.
They were unlike the others. Their forms—sleek, artistic, almost noble—stood in sharp contrast to the skeletal warriors before. Each bore elegant, rune-inscribed armor. Their mechanical bodies moved with grace more befitting elves than machines.
They were more than soldiers. They were... royalty.
One stepped forward, spear in hand, and struck the ground with it. A techno-arcane field shimmered outward.
"Cease this idiocy," he commanded, voice regal and unyielding.
The Necron warriors hesitated—but did not immediately retreat.
"Our cause is not yours. We are no one's vassals," one said coldly. "Do the Triarch Guard presume to interfere in dynastic matters?"
"We do not act on whim." The Triarch Guard's voice was emotionless but firm. "This individual is vital to our Lord. Projections indicate he alone stands between us and a threat that could incinerate millions of stars. If no action is taken, all will perish."
The Necrons conversed in a manner beyond mortal comprehension. Their thought-matrices pulsed at unimaginable speeds—millions of cognitive iterations flashing in the span of a breath.
Then, silence.
The Necron warriors lowered their weapons.
The logic was irrefutable.
"You are fortunate," one of them muttered. Behind him, a green aperture shimmered into being.
The Necrons fixed their gazes on Horus—silent, calculating. As if committing every inch of his form to eternal memory.
Then they stepped into the portal, vanishing as the aperture blinked shut.
Silence returned.
"I am the Grand Justice of the Triarch," one of the regal figures said at last. "I have come to ensure cooperation. Which of you leads?"
He turned toward the two Primarchs.
Lorgar cast a glance at Horus.
The choice was clear.
He knew that the proud Warlord would never accept being seen as beneath another.
If he took the lead now, it would sour their already delicate relationship.
"He is the leader," Lorgar said simply, pointing at Horus.
Horus said nothing. His silence was agreement enough.
"We came here in friendship," Horus said coldly. "Yet you welcomed us with threats."
"The previous clash was a misunderstanding," the Grand Justice replied. "We did not expect your sudden arrival on this world."
Horus's brow furrowed. But for the sake of the greater objective, he reined in his fury and chose not to escalate.
"In that case, let us set aside hostilities," he said. "I wish to speak with your lord and forge an alliance."
"We have the authority to negotiate on behalf of the Triarch Council," the Necron replied. "You may present your terms to me."
At that moment, the air seemed to freeze.
The Necron's arrogance—the complete lack of deference—was like a slap to the face. The barely restrained fire in Horus's chest ignited.
A storm of rage burned through his towering form as he glared at the Triarch Guard.
"We come in peace—not as supplicants," Horus thundered. "We face a mutual enemy. If your hubris blinds you, then I will walk away. I'll face my brothers alone, let them slay me, and afterward—when mankind's wrath descends upon you—you'll see your so-called noble race trampled into ash and scrap. You will remember this insult."
His fury rolled through the desert like a thunderclap, dark lightning arcing across the barren sky.
"Send your master. Let him face me."
A pulse of data rippled through the Grand Justice's comm-systems. A single message.
It came from the Silent King—the last and greatest of his line, ruler of the Necron dynasties.
"Your request is acknowledged," the Grand Chancellor intoned, voice mechanical and cold. "You will speak directly to the Silent King. Prepare to witness his majesty."
The Necrons' arrogance once again grated against Horus's patience, but for now, he clenched his teeth and swallowed the rage.
There would be a time.
If he could save Dukel—if he could change the course of the End Times—then the Necrons would be next.
He would teach these hollow ancients the meaning of fear.
The stars belonged to mankind. The glory, to the Imperium. And in the shining golden age to come, these withered relics of a dead empire would find their place—buried beneath the dust of history.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
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