The Grand Inquisitor of the Triumvirate extended an invitation to Horus—to meet the Silent King himself. The journey was swift, and before long, Horus stood before a monumental structure unlike any other he had encountered.
A vast, pyramid-shaped temple loomed ahead, its apex rising over forty meters high. It was a shrine carved into the void of a dead, jagged mountain. Its entrance framed by a colossal obelisk—a testament to the achievements of a race long thought dormant.
This was Necron architecture: bleak, ancient, coldly magnificent.
Before the temple stood a monument, inscribed with glyphs that glorified Necron conquests. Horus observed it with growing disdain. These xenos considered themselves ageless and superior, yet in their vanity and arrogance, they mirrored the worst traits of mankind.
The temple was cloaked in a dimensional veil—its location tethered to frequencies unknown. Without precise alignment, its existence would remain undetected in the void.
The obelisk's surface was forged from obsidian-black metal, gleaming with a sinister sheen. Lorca, ever the scholar, had informed Horus that this was blackstone, a material capable of suppressing the warp itself. The Imperium, despite its xenophobia, had come to use this same technology—often without understanding its origin.
Gilded runes and esoteric sigils adorned the temple's edges, catching the starlight in an eerie shimmer.
At its summit sat the Silent King, undisputed ruler of the Necron dynasties. A long stairway wound upward toward his throne, flanked by ranks of unmoving warriors—immortal sentinels bearing warscythes and gauss weaponry, eternally guarding their liege.
The Grand Inquisitor walked ahead of Horus, his weapon now a ceremonial blade rather than a war-spear. A regal crown perched atop his head, and a flowing mantle of interlinked metal coils hung from his shoulders.
He strode with unwavering authority, guiding Horus and Lorgar with the air of a master leading his thralls rather than honored guests.
To Horus, this arrogance was intolerable.
He was the Sixteenth Son of the Emperor—the Wolf of Luna, the Warmaster. Betrayed and maligned, yes—but never belittled. None had dared look down upon him with such impudence.
And yet—for now—he endured it.
For the sake of a greater goal, Horus reined in his fury. But deep within, he vowed retribution. Whether it was he or Dukel who triumphed in the end, this alliance with the Necrons was fleeting. One day, they would be cast back into their tombs—forever.
That thought made him smile.
A calculated, controlled smile—one that concealed his wrath and projected diplomacy. It was a smile befitting a Warmaster walking into enemy territory with open hands and a dagger hidden behind his back.
As they ascended the steps toward the Silent King's dais, they passed through a gauntlet of stoic Necron warriors, their silvered forms locked in disciplined formation.
Lorgar—ever the apostle—regarded them with intellectual disdain. He saw in them not a true civilization, but an echo. Empty vessels running on memory alone. No spark of divinity burned in their alloyed shells. They were relics—soulless revenants of a long-fallen race that once battled the Old Ones in a war no human could remember.
At the temple's base stood alien statues—each unique in form, yet unified in posture: heads bowed toward the throne, in eternal reverence.
Gods. Heroes. Symbols of power—all sculpted to pay homage to the Silent King.
Even here, symbolism mattered. It spoke of authority beyond death.
Dozens of bronze-masked Necron Lords—personal guardians of the Silent King—stood motionless around the dais.
Then came the command.
"Kneel, human," the Grand Inquisitor intoned coldly, halting at the foot of the throne. "In the tongue of noble Thrazak, pay homage to the last and greatest—Szarekh, the Silent King."
For a moment, the Primarchs stood frozen.
Then, dark blue energy rippled along the haft of Horus' warhammer, a disintegration field flaring to life.
Lorgar, silent no longer, became wreathed in red-gold flame. His fury, like Horus', boiled to the surface.
"Alien," Horus growled, his voice low and thunderous, "Do not test my patience. No one—no matter their age or power—commands me to kneel."
The threat in his voice was unmistakable. It was the voice of a son of the Emperor, a warlord who had shattered worlds. To kneel here would be to forsake everything he had fought for.
Around them, Necron weapons began to hum—gauss flayers charging silently. A single order could unleash a storm of annihilation.
And yet… no command came.
The Grand Inquisitor's artificial eyes flickered. Internally, thousands of new parameters streamed through his consciousness. Calculations. Projections. Threat assessments.
The Necrons were not mindless automatons. Every move—every silence—was part of a deeper calculus.
In the end, the Grand Inquisitor made no reply. He simply turned back toward the throne and lowered himself onto one knee—his metallic form reverently bowing before his King.
One by one, the throne guards followed.
Then the warriors on the steps.
A tide of ancient obedience—kneeling not to appease, but to demonstrate.
Horus met the Silent King's gaze with cold defiance. No fear flickered in his eyes. No respect.
The Silent King's current form was sleek and elegant, his metal body more refined than the crude warriors who served him. If one squinted, he almost resembled a living being—a corpse revived by the echo of memory and purpose.
"I came seeking allies," Horus said, voice steady. "To fight a brother who has become something monstrous. But I find no allies here—only the bones of a dead empire still clinging to delusions of life."
"Do not test my patience."
The Silent King said nothing. Instead, his herald spoke in his place.
"What I have endured is beyond your comprehension. But believe this—we share a common purpose. The power of the Second Son has spiraled out of control. The Lord of Mankind sealed him away for ten thousand years, not to heal him, but to imprison his madness. And now, his descent threatens the entire galaxy."
"If he is allowed to continue unchecked, the fragile balance will shatter. Entire species will be left without sanctuary. He must be stopped."
The Herald's voice was unwavering.
"I am not ignorant of humanity. Once, long ago, we allied with another of your brothers. Together, we prevented your rebellion from reaching its zenith. We ask you now to trust us. You see for yourself—we have no stake in this galaxy's petty claims. Our alliance is for survival alone."
Horus did not believe them.
These xenos harbored contempt for all life. It would be foolish to assume any noble intent. In Horus' eyes, they were no better than the Dark Gods.
The Necrons desired dominion—of that, Horus had no doubt. They had long since surrendered their souls. They would never relinquish their ancient grudges.
But for now... he needed their power.
Even the power of the Warp was not off the table.
This time, he would proceed with caution—just as the Emperor once did. The Primarchs' very existence was proof of the Emperor's pact with Chaos.
If the father walked that path, the son need not flinch from it.
Whether Necron or daemon, these ancient entities would serve as blade and bulwark against Dukel.
Still, something the Herald said tugged at his curiosity.
"You said you once aided one of my brothers. Who was it?"
The Herald answered,
"Sanguinius. Ten thousand years ago, it was our intervention that allowed him to return to Terra so swiftly. Now, as we aided him, we shall aid you—against Dukel."
Horus was momentarily stunned.
So that was how Sanguinius, trapped in the Warp Storm, had returned so quickly—his intervention had shattered Horus' carefully laid plans.
He glanced toward the Herald, voice sharp.
"Why does your king remain silent? Must he speak only through you?"
"I am his mouthpiece," came the reply.
"His thoughts echo through my matrix. Every word I speak is his will. We will forge a covenant with you, and hold to it—until our mutual objectives are met. A new enemy has risen. For both our peoples, the logical course is clear."
"If the Second Son is not stopped, his destruction will surpass anything ever witnessed. Never before in this galaxy has a commander waged war solely to annihilate all existence. But with his rebirth from the mists of the Yomi, that is exactly what he intends."
Horus fell silent.
The Imperium had cast him aside, denounced him, dismissed his warnings. And yet here stood the Necrons—xenos he loathed—who saw the same threat.
Who understood him.
It was a strange, dissonant feeling.
Finally, he asked,
"You claim to care nothing for this galaxy—then why fight for it?"
"Because the stars still need their savior. Believe it or not, Horus, we may care more than you do. There is much at stake. Perhaps, one day, even the great divides can be bridged."
Without another word, Horus accepted.
An alliance was struck.
The Necrons would grant him resources—enough to muster a force capable of storming the Eye of Terror and confronting Dukel head-on.
The campaign would begin at the Eye, and from there, spread—against the Imperium itself.
Once the pact was sealed, Horus departed with Lorgar.
The Silent King watched as they stepped through the portal, its energies collapsing behind them. He remained motionless, no attendants daring to disturb his contemplation.
Until a shrill, calculating voice shattered the silence.
"No disrespect meant—but weren't we a bit too eager this time? We held the upper hand. We could have made them beg. A deal would have bound them more tightly."
A Necron ascended the throne's stairs, scepter in hand. His voice was high-pitched, laced with cunning—a rarity among his kind.
"Enough, Trazyn," the Grand Justice snapped.
The one approaching was none other than Trazyn the Infinite, whose Museum of Conquests had recently been raided by Dukel—and who had briefly crossed blades with the mortal god.
"You fail to grasp the gravity of this moment. Every delay—every hesitation—creates fatal gaps in the weave of events. Put away your collector's mind. We know of your interest in Horus' unique condition, but now is not the time for your schemes."
"We will not allow your obsession with curiosities to jeopardize our race's survival."
Trazyn chuckled darkly.
"Survival? What future do we truly have?"
Then he turned toward the throne.
"Well, my King? Is it time for you to speak—the first and greatest of the Silent Kings?"
"This is where our hope lies."
It was still the Herald who spoke, his mechanical voice echoing the unspoken will of the Silent King.
"In the war we waged against the Warp, there is no doubt—despite the appearance of victory, we were not the true victors. We lost the most important part of ourselves. The fall of the Old Ones remains a mystery, but it was the Warp that catalyzed their end. Now, the Imperium of Man rules the galaxy, and they are venturing ever deeper into the Immaterium, seeking to unmake that psychic realm entirely. This... is our opportunity. We must find a way to infiltrate that domain once more, to reclaim what was once ours—our birthright within the Sea of Souls."
"The alliance is temporary," the Herald continued. "We will prosecute this war without hesitation, without demand for recompense. Against a shared enemy, unity is not a choice—it is necessity. But do not be mistaken, Trazyn—we are not truly allied with Horus."
"Do you believe we would ally ourselves with the spawn of the Emperor, that sorcerous tyrant who once dared call himself a god? Horus is a means to an end. Our true interest lies with the ancient power whispering behind him in the Warp—that hidden architect whose influence mirrors the power that felled the Old Ones."
Then, the Silent King rose from his throne.
Taller and more imposing than any other Necron, his presence bore down on the chamber like the slow crushing weight of time itself. Even Trazyn the Infinite, Lord of the Sautekh Dynasty and master of untold relics, lowered his head under the pressure of the ancient monarch's will.
The Herald resumed, transmitting the Silent King's decree.
"The storm is gathering. The fabric of the galaxy frays at the seams. It is time—you must awaken the Phaerons, stir the tomb worlds, rouse the Silent Courts. The Necron dynasties must mobilize. This moment will not come again in a million millennia."
"We shall reclaim our dominion. Upon the ruins of lesser empires—upon the dust of humanity and the ash of Chaos—we shall raise our banners once more. The stars will be ours, wholly and eternally. No exceptions. No compromise."
Even Trazyn, eternal archivist and schemer, was struck silent for a moment by the weight of those words.
Then, performing the ancient salute of the Necrontyr aristocracy, he lifted his scepter and bowed slightly.
"All shall be as you decree, Great and Final King of Silence."
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
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