"YES-YES! The Horned Rat, for the Great Horned Rat! For the Under-Father!" Kritislik shrieked, clutching the Great Horned Rat's sacred tome in one claw. His voice, twisted and shrill, chanted the blasphemous litanies of the unholy tome, the dark energies within driving the daemonic hosts of the Verminherder into a state of absolute frenzy.
A rain of warpstone-laced shells fell like a torrential storm upon the ramparts of the Palace of Slaanesh. During their previous incursion, the skaven had clawed their way to the perimeter of the Fifth Circle before being forced into a bitter retreat.
But this time, the Horned Rat's ambition would be realized. The objective would be met!
Within the palace, the daemons of Slaanesh were falling into a state of unprecedented panic. It was not merely the scale of the assault; countless times in the past had the lackeys of the other Dark Gods carved a path to the feet of the Dark Prince.
This time was different. The birth of Ynnead, the Aeldari God of the Dead, had dealt Slaanesh a grievous, soul-shattering blow. At this very moment, the Prince of Pleasure lay in a state of near-comatose shock, while a colossal, formless shadow loomed over the palace like an executioner's shroud.
The Slaaneshi daemons could no longer feel the intoxicating psychic resonance of their Prince. That silence alone was enough to drive them into a terrified, witless madness.
"HA HA HA HA! The sissy is finally dying! I shall tear it limb from limb! I shall claim the greatest skull of all!!"
Khorne's roar thundered through the Immaterium. Led by legendary Bloodthirsters like Skarbrand, Ka'Bandha, and U'zuhl the Skulltaker, eight hundred and eighty-eight legions of Khorne poured forth from the cracks in the Blood God's domain.
A crimson tide of Bloodletters surged into the northwestern flank of the Palace of Slaanesh, engaging the disoriented Slaaneshi hosts in a brutal, grinding melee. Their Hellblades swung with the practiced lethality of ten thousand years of slaughter, fueled by a terrifying bloodlust. They fought to secure the ultimate glory for the Throne of Skulls: the death-blow against the Great Enemy.
From the northeast came the Tzeentchian hosts, spearheaded by Kairos Fateweaver; from the southwest, the rot-gardens of Nurgle disgorged their filth, led by Rotigus Rainmaker.
The Emperor's Legion of the Damned, those sigil-marked specters of vengeance, were no less relentless. Yet, among all the opportunistic powers descending upon the carcass of Slaanesh, Be'lakor was the most desperate.
He had lurked in the shadows of the Warp for eons, waiting for this exact moment. Ever since the Great Horned Rat had usurped a position of Formless Distortion, Be'lakor's inner dread had grown daily.
There were only eight points on the Chaos Star. Once a seat was taken, reclaiming it was a near-impossible feat. The First-Damned had spent an eternity cultivating informants among the various daemonic factions, and he had finally caught wind of the Great Horned Rat's pact with the other gods to launch a decisive strike against the weakened Prince.
"Slaanesh is mine... the seat of Rapturous Sensation... is mine! Be'lakor's!" he snarled. His Disciples of Be'lakor, though few in number, were cunning beyond measure. They bypassed the main meat-grinder of the Slaaneshi defenses entirely, appearing instead at a secluded, forgotten postern.
"Great Be'lakor, we welcome you, future Fifth God~"
A daemon with sleek, mauve-pink skin, visibly saturated by the corruption of Slaanesh, opened a small, hidden gate and knelt reverently before the Dark Master.
The flattery sent a surge of triumph through Be'lakor. The Dark Master chuckled darkly. "You have a silver tongue, Maurec. Now, you may welcome your true master."
Maurec had once been a daemon of Chaos Undivided before swearing fealty to Be'lakor and infiltrating the Slaaneshi court. Be'lakor lived for such schemes. In truth, he had planted spies across the domains of the Four, and even within the Horned Rat's Realm of Ruin. Had the Anathema possessed a true realm in the Warp, Be'lakor would have undoubtedly found a way to drive a thorn into his side as well.
"As you command, First Chosen, Dark Master Be'lakor. Slaanesh has been struck down... oh, I truly do not understand how this happened," the daemon muttered, its voice a mix of confusion and fear. Even as an infiltrator, a mere gatekeeper was not privy to the state of the Dark Prince's person.
"Hahaha~ It is the favor of Fate! Move! There is no time to waste!"
…
As Ynnead stirred into being, a silent, deathly jubilation erupted within Commorragh. Simultaneously, the Slaaneshi warbands that had been triumphantly advancing suddenly broke, fleeing in a panicked rout.
Shalaxi Helbane was near-hysterical. "No! Protect, we must return to protect the Master! Fulgrim, at once!"
With that, the Keeper of Secrets led its host in a frantic retreat from Commorragh and the Webway. Fulgrim, the Phoenician, also felt the dying, desperate call of his patron.
However, the fallen Primarch merely arched a slender eyebrow. He ran his tongue over the blood-slicked edge of the Blade of the Laer and purred, "Oh~ so I'm finally free, then~"
Did Slaanesh matter to Fulgrim? Perhaps. But the Phoenician did not care. He had spent ten millennia in a state of hedonistic stagnation, his ambition long since withered. Nothing could stop his pursuit of pleasure. He was content to indulge in the carnal depths of a Daemon World, but he would not lift a finger for Slaanesh, unless the person besieging the palace happened to be Roboute Guilliman.
"Gene-father, what are our orders? Do we return?" a Chaos Lord of the Emperor's Children asked.
Fulgrim cast a contemptuous glance at his son. "Return? Why? What joy is there in that? Rescuing a master from a divine siege just to wait for a counter-attack? How dreadfully droll. Perhaps now is the time for my, Fulgrim's, true indulgence to begin. Starting right here~~"
"Yes~!"
Hearing their father's decree, the Emperor's Children erupted into cheers of degenerate delight.
…
Inside the Palace of Slaanesh, the remaining daemons displayed a rare, desperate loyalty to their creator, but they were hopelessly outmatched by the combined might of the rival gods.
N'Kari and the newly arrived Shalaxi Helbane moved to evacuate the wounded Slaanesh. They could see that their master was merely broken by Ynnead; given time, the Prince would regenerate.
"This debt will be repaid in blood!" N'Kari roared, baring its fangs as it reached for the form of Slaanesh.
Suddenly, the magnificent, iridescent stained glass of the throne room shattered. A massive silhouette crashed through, its giant daemonic wings beating as it looked down upon them with cold arrogance.
"Ha ha ha! Come, greet your new sovereign! I am Be'lakor, the Dark Master!"
Wrapped in a shroud of living shadow, Be'lakor reached the throne first. As his eyes fell upon the dying, polychromatic shimmer of the Dark Prince, a joy tens of thousands of years in the making surged through him.
"Be'lakor, you jester! You dare stand before my Master!" Shalaxi Helbane roared, leveling its spear at the intruder.
"Is that how you treat the future Sixth—no, the Fifth God?" Be'lakor laughed triumphantly. "Kneel and swear your fealty, Shalaxi, and I may let you keep your scraps of power! The power of Rapturous Sensation is mine!"
"N'Kari, take the Master and go! I will deal with this pathetic clown!" Shalaxi snarled, lunging forward. "My Master may be weakened, but it is not for filth like you to insult. Come, let me see if your strength matches your arrogance!"
"You've missed your final chance, Shalaxi!" Be'lakor plunged toward the Keeper of Secrets, while his army of Disciples fell upon the last of the Slaaneshi guard.
Most of the defenses across the Six Circles had already collapsed, yet outside the palace, a strange, eerie silence took hold.
The other gods were calculating. It was no longer just about Slaanesh; it was about the division of the realm. To seize too much power too quickly would turn one into a target for all the others, much as Tzeentch had been in the ages past.
And so, Lucius stood alongside the avatars of Khorne, Tzeentch, Nurgle, and the golden youth who was the Dark King. They watched one another like predators, waiting to see who would be the first fool to make a move.
——————
If you want to read ahead of everyone, go to my pat-reon: pat-re-on.c-om/magnor (remove the hyphen to access normally)