Hidden in the shadows, the assassin felt the Primarch's gaze brush past. Under direct orders from the Lion, Lando was to protect the Supreme Warmaster of the Imperium of Man.
But Lando had his doubts.
Even disregarding the Warmaster's terrifying past, his mere presence radiated such immense power that it was impossible to believe he required protection at all.
Lando could not fathom what kind of entity could ever harm this figure—this demigod made flesh. All adversaries, no matter their origin or strength, felt like insects before him.
Though Lando was technically deployed as a liaison, what truly unnerved him was that—no matter how deeply the assassins cloaked themselves—the Warmaster always seemed to know where they were.
It was as if the Primarch's eyes were augmetic sensors, able to perceive even the finest warp-shadows. No creature escaped his gaze.
The stealth disciplines that the Officio Assassinorum held as sacrosanct became little more than child's play before the Warmaster.
Under that gaze, Lando felt exposed. It gnawed at him.
Still, the Primarch said nothing, merely turned away and strode toward the strategium bridge.
Lando followed, melting back into the gloom as best he could. Protecting the Warmaster was not just a duty—it was the Lion's will.
Elsewhere in the ship, other agents from the various temples of the Assassinorum shifted into position. Each was a ghost from a different doctrine—Callidus, Vindicare, Eversor, Culexus.
They moved with impossible subtlety. Even vox-scanners and auspex arrays rarely marked their passing.
And yet, even among these masters of silence and death, Lando felt the inadequacy of his concealment.
He knew the cost of complacency. An assassin who believes himself untouchable is already courting death.
All had been chosen from infancy, reshaped and rewoven at the cellular level before their bones had even hardened.
They had learned to kill before they could speak.
Their targets were legion: rogue psykers, heretek cultists, feral ork warlords, Tyranid synapse beasts, the twisted Eldar. No xenos or traitor escaped the blade of the Assassinorum.
Lando belonged to the Temple Culexus, the darkest shadow among them, and a bane to all warp-born. Psykers withered in his presence. Daemons recoiled. And yet, even now, he was unsure of himself.
The Lion's trust was not given lightly. For him to assign Lando to the Warmaster's side meant that he was considered the best.
But not all shared that trust. The Slayers, and the Sisters of the Soul, rejected the notion that the Officio Assassinorum was needed.
Such resistance only drove Lando to hone himself further.
On the other side of the war council, the Curtain Walker of Synnlaith was preparing to act.
With her arrival, the campaign to rescue Efilar took on new momentum.
But before she could fully commit, Synnlaith needed to meet the one being she held sacred above all others.
Aisha—the goddess of life. To the Aeldari, her legend was more than belief; it was hope made manifest. Many among the surviving Craftworlds believed it was her lingering presence that had spared them from total extinction after the birth of She Who Thirsts.
As long as Aisha endured in any corner of the galaxy, the Aeldari race could not be truly lost.
Whether myth or truth, that belief persisted.
Synnlaith advanced through organic corridors that pulsed with psychic energy, each step drawing her deeper into a space untouched by the decay of the wider galaxy.
Life saturated the walls and floor. This place lived. Compared to the corruption and entropy elsewhere in the stars, this oasis of divine presence made her feel light. Free.
Her steps quickened, joy spilling into her stride. She nearly skipped toward the chamber of the goddess.
Then, as she passed through the sanctum's great threshold, her breath caught in her throat.
Reclining upon the throne of living crystal was Aisha.
She was radiant.
No words could do her justice. Even Synnlaith, herself considered alluring among her kind, felt like a wild weed before a moonlit bloom.
The goddess towered, nearly twice Synnlaith's height. She appeared unaware of the Curtain Walker's entrance—eyes cast downward, lost in thought.
"Mother Goddess," Synnlaith whispered, bowing deeply. "Your child, Synnlaith, greets you."
Gone was her usual grace and confidence. Before Aisha, she was a child again.
"You have come," Aisha murmured, as if the moment was foretold.
A slender vine twisted out from the floor, forming a chair behind Synnlaith.
"Sit with me, child."
"I never imagined I'd find you here," Synnlaith said, sitting carefully. "I came on the guidance of Cegorach, to forge an alliance with the Warmaster of the Imperium. The galaxy grows darker with each passing cycle, and we—"
Aisha listened.
She did not interrupt.
She simply watched with deep, sorrowful eyes that spoke of millennia of suffering.
Synnlaith could feel it. The goddess saw through her—through all the trials, pain, and victories. She had suffered too. As had all of the Aeldari.
A single tear slid down Aisha's cheek.
It crystallized midair, becoming a flawless, shimmering gem.
"Mother Goddess, you're crying..." Synnlaith whispered, cradling the gem in her palm.
"Please endure a little longer," she said with fragile hope. "We will find a way to free you. I swear it."
But the goddess merely shook her head.
"Do not worry for me. The stars are vast, but I have no place more fitting than this."
Synnlaith blinked, stunned.
"How... how can that be?"
She had believed the Warmaster of the Imperium to be just another tyrant—a more subtle successor to Nurgle's throne.
But perhaps she was wrong.
Perhaps things were far more complicated than she dared imagine.
"I'm afraid the goddess of the Eldar will never return."
"Mother Goddess, they are merely humans," Synnlaith said anxiously.
"Yes, just humans," the goddess replied, interrupting her. Her voice was calm, but there was a depth to it that silenced the Veil Walker. "The children of the Eldar have always carried their pride like a crown. But tell me, do you truly understand mankind?"
She didn't wait for an answer.
"Humans lack foresight. They repeat their failures, wallow in avarice, and wield the warp with the grace of a hammer. They are reckless, complacent, fragile. Even in the absence of war, they find ways to destroy themselves. Compared to the Eldar, they are crude and short-lived. So, should we dismiss them entirely?"
Synnlaith hesitated, then nodded slightly. She, like most of her kind, saw mankind as little more than primitive brutes—monkeys pretending at civilization. Even when humans managed to form words and empires, they remained beneath the Eldar, who once danced among the stars when humans still huddled in caves.
"Yes," the goddess continued, "these flaws are obvious. But despite them—or perhaps because of them—mankind persists. Grows. Evolves. If you've ever witnessed the sheer, burning will of a human pressed against oblivion, you would be awestruck. Their resilience is not an accident. I believe the Creator shackled them with weakness so that the brilliance of their spirit would shine brighter."
"When one of them devotes themselves, truly commits, the force of their will is a weapon mightier than any blade or spell."
Aisha looked at the Veil Walker with eyes filled with both sorrow and admiration.
"To you, their faults are natural, even expected. But if you've seen the fire in their eyes when they challenge fate itself, then beware. For buried deep within the human soul is a force beyond the warp—a strength that might one day unmake even Chaos."
Synnlaith nodded slowly, unsure whether she agreed or merely understood the weight of the goddess's words.
She still could not release her deep-seated disdain for humans. But when she remembered the fury and grace of the Warmaster—Dukel—she hesitated. That fierce heat, that terrifying presence... it was something she had only seen in a few humans before, never so intense, never so absolute.
She had not yet grasped the meaning behind Aisha's words, but something had shifted. One truth became undeniable in her heart: the Goddess of Life would not be returning to the Eldar.
Not now. Perhaps not ever.
"Thank you, Mother Goddess," Synnlaith said, bowing her head with genuine reverence.
She remained in Aisha's palace for hours. The goddess, ever patient, shared wisdom accumulated over millennia—knowledge that would take centuries to comprehend. Even if she retained only fragments, Synnlaith knew she would carry them for the rest of her life.
In truth, she longed to stay. To dwell in this sacred place, to bask in the presence of divinity. But she had a mission. And missions, like fate, allow no deviation.
As she left the temple and walked the halls of the Soulfire, her thoughts churned. Once, she believed the barbaric Warmaster had taken the goddess from them. But now, it was clear. Aisha had chosen him.
This revelation had to be delivered to the Laughing God—Xilego. It could reshape the future of the Eldar.
Guided by a silent servitor, Synnlaith made her way toward the hangar. As she passed the ship's bridge, she glimpsed the Warmaster—Dukel—holding a towering battle-standard and speaking to his warriors.
The standard was massive, easily ten meters high. Only a Primarch could wield it. Its pole was forged of translucent crystal, and along its surface danced blue flame—warp-tainted, but controlled.
Synnlaith did not know the origin of the flame, but it radiated power so ancient and terrible that she instinctively recoiled. Her gaze traveled up the banner until it reached the sigil—a golden, twin-headed aquila, its wings spread wide, shining with divine authority.
The eagle seemed alive.
And for a heartbeat, its eyes met hers.
Her breath caught.
She staggered.
This wasn't just any sigil. That presence—that gaze—she had felt it before. The Great Fateweaver. Carlos.
A chill ran through her soul. Every Eldar knew that name. Even the God of War, Khaine, had been deceived by him. To meet his eyes, even through a symbol, was like staring into an abyss that stared back.
Her thoughts snapped back to Aisha's words.
Beware the power hidden within the human spirit.
She smiled faintly, as though understanding finally began to dawn.
Before leaving the Soulfire, Synnlaith paused at the threshold of her craft. She looked back one last time toward the Warmaster and whispered a quiet prayer in her heart.
"May the Mother Goddess close her eyes for you three times—that your soul burn eternal, your path remain unbroken, and your destiny never falter."
With that, the Eldar ship rose into the Sea of Souls and vanished.
Meanwhile, in the roiling dark near the Eye of Terror…
Fabius Bile, twisted genius of the Dark Mechanicum, welcomed a new visitor.
A chapter of traitors—one that had once served the Imperium.
The Brass Dragons had borne the Aquila for five thousand years. But in the shadow of the Eternal Night, they turned their backs on the Emperor and joined the Black Legion, renaming themselves the Shrieking Warband.
But now, reports flooded in of the Imperium's relentless vengeance. One after another, the renegade warbands were being hunted down, destroyed, and erased.
Their Chapter Master, worn and weary, came to Fabius not for power—but for salvation.
For the brutal truth could no longer be denied:
The Emperor's wrath was awake once more. And His Warmaster—Dukel—was unstoppable.
Even with equal strength, they were not truly worthy to be called enemies of the Imperium.
Only when the number of traitor warbands outnumbered the Imperial forces several times over did they stand a chance in battle.
This grim reality left the Chapter Master of the Brass Dragons in a state of bitter frustration.
Once, he had bled in the Emperor's name, fighting Chaos in every shadow. Now, he served the Ruinous Powers—and found himself hunted and battered by the Imperium he had once called brother.
He had changed sides, but the pain had not changed. The beatings simply came from a different direction.
In desperation, he sought the only kind of refuge left to him: one that crawled in the dark underbelly of the Eye of Terror. His destination—Fabius Bile.
The Chapter Master knew full well the wretched reputation of the so-called Primogenitor. That grotesque name, whispered in fear even among the Traitor Legions, now offered something he had not known in a long time: the illusion of safety.
He could only hope Fabius's infamy wasn't hollow—that beneath the monstrous legend lay enough strength to shield him from Imperial retribution.
The captain of the Screaming Warband—once proud Astartes of the Brass Dragons—also hoped to gain something more tangible: genetic and biological augmentation. If Fabius's twisted genius could improve his warriors, even marginally, perhaps he could stop fearing the death knell in every transmission, the sudden silence on every Vox.
Surprisingly, the alliance came easier than expected.
Fabius accepted the warband without hesitation. The Chapter Master allowed himself a rare flicker of relief.
But what he did not know was that Horus's recent campaign had stripped Fabius of most of his protection. The Primogenitor, no stranger to pragmatism, was in need of guardians—and the Screaming Warband offered him exactly that.
And so, each side found in the other a bitter convenience.
A pact forged not from trust, but from necessity.
...
TN:
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