(A/N: Im changing a bit of the lore in SW to fit my purpose.
In the lore, the Son and the Daughter both gain their power from the Father (immortality and stuff like that) but the Son tries to kill the Father, which doesn't really make much sense to me…
Anyway, for my purposes, if the Father dies, the Son and the Daughter will not lose any power. They will actually gain power.
=== Kharath ===
The sky above Mortis swirled with an unnatural, roiling darkness, and in the distance, thunder cracked. But in the far reaches of the realm, away from the Father's radiant citadel, shadows stretched long and undisturbed—this was the dominion of the Son.
With wings of leather and darkness, the Son descended, his monstrous form trailing ribbons of black smoke. In his talons, he clutched the broken body of Kharath, cradled not with compassion but with a curiosity that burned brighter than the suns above.
They landed with a thunderous impact in the cragged wastes of the Son's domain—jagged cliffs and howling winds wrapped around them like a crown of despair. The ground cracked beneath Kharath's armored form as he was dropped upon obsidian stone. His armor was scorched and cracked, warped from the Father's fury, his body broken in ways few mortals—or immortals—could survive. And yet, he stirred.
Dark fluids leaked from his armor as he slowly rose to his knees, coughing harshly through blood-stained teeth as he removed his helmet, revealing a face scarred and pale, yet burning with unyielding hatred.
The Son stood tall, his monstrous form twisting and coiling in shadow, then condensed. His wings folded inward, and in a flicker of reality, his bestial form gave way to a tall, pale man with no hair and coal-dark eyes that shimmered with deceit and power.
"You are not of this realm," the Son said, circling Kharath like a predator sizing up a wounded rival. "Your scent is foreign… your essence reeks of foren stars. Other laws."
Kharath managed to rise to one foot, then the other, standing tall despite his wounds. His voice, cracked and rough, growled out between breaths, "I have walked through realms that would make even you kneel."
The Son's eyes widened in amusement. "Is that so? I saw how you groveled beneath my father's boot. You speak of power, yet you were bested."
Kharath's lip curled into a bloodied smirk. "Power does not care about victory or defeat. It only cares that it is wielded."
The Son's laughter echoed across the cliffs, a deep and serpentine sound. "Spoken like a true creature of chaos. Your kind is rare… even here. You wield energies that burn at the very fabric of this place. The Warp, you call it?" His voice was laced with fascination.
Kharath said nothing. He simply stood, eyeing the godly being before him. In his mind, plans were already forming. His failure against the Father stung, but it also revealed much. The balance here was delicate. One crack, one nudge, and the entire realm could tip into madness.
The Son walked to the edge of a nearby precipice and gazed over his domain. "My sister would have smote you. My father would have erased you. But me… I see you for what you truly are. You are a bringer of discord, a corruptor of order. In you, I see the freedom I have long desired."
Kharath's voice was low, steady. "Then help me. And I will show you the secrets of the Warp… the truth that exists beyond your faded myths."
The Son turned back, his expression unreadable. "Perhaps. But first… you must survive." He raised his hand, and tendrils of living shadow gripped Kharath's chest, lifting him into the air. "Let us see what you are truly made of, outsider."
The Warp-imbued marine growled as the power of a god infiltrated his mind, and glimpsed at the secrets that lay beyond.
The Chaos Sorcerer closed his eyes, and the air around him thickened. The wind stopped. The shadows froze.
The Son stepped back instinctively, his unnatural pupils narrowing at what he beheld.
Swirling madness, seas of emotion so vast they threatened to devour meaning itself. Shapes formed and collapsed, entities vast and terrible—sentient storms, living ideas, titanic beings whose thoughts shattered stars. And deeper still, presiding above them all, was a gaze. Not a creature. Not truly.
A presence.
A mind of endless schemes and ever-shifting plans.
Tzeentch.
The Son's heart, if it beat, stuttered.
His vision darkened for a breath, as if the Warp had turned its gaze to him. He saw its tendrils, slithering across time and fate, saw futures crushed in an eyeblink and reborn the next. He saw himself, a puppet in a game that had no board, no rules, only will.
He withdrew his presence in an instant, dropping the Marine to the ground.
Kharath staggered, drained. "That… is but a glimpse."
The Son remained silent for a long moment. He turned away, his gaze fixed on the broken skyline of his realm. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "That was not power. That was.. Unfathomable horror. And I saw it staring back at me."
Kharath gave a slow, wicked grin. "Now you understand."
The Son's expression hardened. "If such forces truly seek entry into this realm, I should kill you. I should finish what my father started!"
Raising his hand, crackling energy surged at his fingertips—raw, untamed power coiling like a storm ready to strike.
"You will be given a place at his side!" Kharath interjected, his voice booming across the obsidian plain.
The Son hesitated, his hand still blazing with power. In that breath of stillness, Kharath's body went rigid. From the seams of his baroque armor, tendrils of Warp energy burst forth—sinuous, writhing tentacles that lashed and coiled in the air around him. A massive, lidless eye tore open in the center of his chest, gleaming with impossible colors.
The Son took a cautious step back, unsettled.
The eye locked onto him, and then spoke. The voice that followed was not of the mortal realm. It was a contradiction: a whisper that screamed, ancient yet newborn, echoing from every direction and none at all.
"Help my servant… and I will grant you power and sanctuary from the storm to come. Watch as your universe is conquered—and when the ashes settle, rule it as you see fit."
The Son recoiled. Real fear flickered across his face, a rare and foreign sensation.
"You…"
"I am inevitable. The Warp devours all. Your universe is already cracking at the seams. The only choice you possess is the reward you claim in its aftermath. Help us… and you shall inherit what remains. Stand against us… and your soul will know a fate far worse than death."
The power around the Son's hand dimmed as he slowly lowered it, the conflict on his face clear. He had never bowed, never yielded—but in this moment, he saw something he had never truly believed in: inevitability. Entropy not as destruction, but as design.
Silence reigned for a long moment, until he finally spoke—his voice laced with quiet dread.
"…Then listen well, Sorcerer. If you are to kill my father, you will need the Dagger of Mortis. It is an ancient artifact, created by the Father himself to end gods. He guards it within his sanctum."
Kharath's armor began to retract the writhing tentacles as the eye slowly sealed shut once more.
"So he can be killed."
The Son turned away. "Yes. But if you go after it alone, he will destroy you."
"Then you will help me," Kharath said.
The Son didn't respond immediately. He looked up at the swirling skies of Mortis, his voice low. "I will… not for you. Not even for your master. But for the chance to shape what comes after."
He turned his gaze back to Kharath, his eyes glowing like dying stars.
"But if you fail… I will end you myself."
=== Palpatine ===
Coruscant gleamed like a jeweled crown beneath the night sky, its countless lights stretching toward the horizon in every direction. The never-ending flow of air traffic streaked through the clouds like luminous veins, pulsing with the lifeblood of a civilization at its peak—and at its precipice.
Supreme Chancellor Palpatine stood motionless, hands clasped behind his back, as he gazed out the vast transparisteel window of his office atop the Senate building. His reflection stared back at him—a silhouette cast in cold golden light, the face of a statesman carved into stoic calm. But behind the mask, his mind churned with dark calculation.
Laid out across his desk behind him were numerous datapads and holoprojectors, still active. Holograms flickered with the distorted voices of generals and admirals, their battlefield reports grim and urgent.
"…engaged alongside Republic elements on Geonosis… heavy resistance from Astartes contingents… no conventional weaponry seems effective…"
"…entire battalions wiped out in minutes. These 'Space Marines' do not retreat, do not tire. Our men are terrified."
"…one of them tore through Separatist armor like it was paper. Even the Jedi hesitate to confront them directly…"
Palpatine allowed a slow breath to escape his lips, though it was more amusement than weariness. So the Astartes were making their presence known. Excellent. Let the galaxy see what true warriors look like. Let the Jedi tremble before something greater than themselves.
He turned from the window, walking in slow, measured steps toward the desk. His cloak whispered over the polished floor like a shadow trailing behind him. The Chancellor picked up one of the datapads, eyes skimming the contents—images of hulking armored titans standing amidst fire and ruin, bodies of Separatist droids and Republic clones alike strewn in their wake. One image showed a dreadnought towering over a burning Geonosian hive structure, its arm-mounted weapons belching flame.
"Brother Aegis… Harbinger of His Fury," he murmured, reading the designation aloud. He committed it to memory.
So much raw power. So much divine fury. The Imperium of Man may have stumbled into this galaxy by accident… but Palpatine knew an opportunity when he saw it. He knew the value of strength—how to bend it, twist it, corrupt it. The Force was his tool. The Dark Side, his servant. These "Astartes" would be no different. They would serve his purpose.
Yet there was a problem.
Palpatine's fingers curled around the datapad with quiet irritation. These Imperials did not answer to him. Their loyalties lay elsewhere—shrouded in blind faith and unshakable obedience to their so-called Emperor.
And unpredictable forces were dangerous.
Still, the Grand Plan remained unchanged.
Across the room, another holoprojector buzzed to life—this one showing a strategic overlay of the Mid Rim campaigns. Blue indicators for Republic forces. Red for the Separatists. And now… a third color: green, with the sigil of the Imperium.
Palpatine narrowed his eyes at the green indication. The Astartes weren't just a blunt weapon. They were reshaping the war. Disrupting years of calculated control.
He pressed a button, and the display flickering before him changed—a secure channel, shielded by arcane Sith encryptions and holomancy only Kharath himself could unravel. This was no ordinary file; this was the true engine behind the war.
Lines of data scrolled in red across the screen. Names, locations, codenames, biometric profiles—each belonging to the key leaders of the Separatist Alliance. Wat Tambor. Nute Gunray. San Hill. Poggle the Lesser. All tagged, catalogued, and marked for death.
Palpatine leaned forward slightly, his fingertips steepled before him. His eyes gleamed beneath his hood, reflecting the words on the screen.
"They were useful once," he murmured. "Pawns, nothing more. But pawns are sacrificed when the game changes."
He turned to gaze out the expansive window of his office again, the endless cityscape of Coruscant glittering in the fading light. Life hummed along, oblivious. But war was coming.
The Imperium.
The Astartes.
He had seen the reports—entire legions of clones shattered against a single squad of these Angels of Death. Separatist armies wiped out in hours by walking tanks, tore apart droid battalions with a thought, and laughed in the face of his most advanced Separatist weapons.
He could not defeat the Imperium—not yet.
But he could use them.
Palpatine began dictating orders to the AI embedded within the console.
"Relay Order Omega to the Chancellor's Shadow Network. Call all Separatist leadership to Mustafar."
His voice deepened, becoming more gravel and venom.
"With the Separatists gone, the Republic will turn on the next threat. And the Imperium… they will smell the opportunity."
He turned from the console and began pacing slowly, hands folded within his robe.
"If I can broker even a temporary alliance with the Imperium, allow our forces to cooperate against a common enemy… I can weave the final trap. When their usefulness is spent, the Republic's military might and the hidden strength of the Sith will turn on them, and I will ascend after they take the bait.
Palpatine stopped, looking up into the massive statue of a robed Jedi behind his desk—a monument to the order he had fooled for decades.
"The Jedi still think they hold the balance. Let them continue their delusion. Soon, they will burn—caught in the crossfire between empires."
Then, in the back of his mind, a presence stirred. Like oily smoke slipping through his thoughts. Kharath. His master. Watching. Listening.
Palpatine lowered his head slightly in deference.
"My plans proceed, my lord. Soon… all the galaxy will be ours to shape."
The shadows flickered, and then dimmed, leaving him alone as his master left him, not bothering to answer.
Palpatine smiled faintly.
Let him grow arrogant. It will cost him in the end.
===
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