Horus's ship shifted its orbit as he and his companions descended deeper into the Immaterium, toward the coordinates of the Spirit of Vengeance.
But as they pushed through the warp, he grew increasingly unsettled. Threads of golden light, razor-sharp and radiant, trailed them through the tides of unreality.
His companions avoided looking at the light. Even Horus, for all his pride, could not deny a deep unease. He feared the golden glow—though he would never admit it aloud.
He withdrew to his quarters in silence. The fear gnawed at him, but what unsettled him more was his own yearning for the light.
It was an emotion he could not source—alien, intrusive. On several occasions, he had nearly abandoned everything to follow it. Each time, his comrades had stopped him just in time.
Dependency was weakness. Horus could not allow that within himself. Not now. Not with Dukel still out there.
He knew his brother. If Horus wavered—if he faltered for even a moment—Dukel would strike without hesitation. And then, none would remain to stand between the galaxy and utter ruin.
In the quiet of his chamber, Horus sought solitude, hoping to restore his resolve.
But then came the pain.
A psychic lance pierced his mind—fierce and familiar. A presence, immense and relentless, forced its way into his thoughts. It wasn't a conversation—it was an assault. A demand to be heard.
Even as a Primarch, Horus stood no chance. His consciousness crumbled beneath the pressure.
He fell into a realm of chaos—burnt ash and swirling, molten oceans of gold.
There was no matter, no time. Only sensation. He floated, unanchored, in an endless sea of shimmering light, trying to hold on to the fragments of his self—his body, his mind, his identity.
Then the light shifted.
From the formless ocean rose a vast mountain—no, a colossus of thrones. Each throne carved of golden fire, stacked into a surreal, three-dimensional citadel that defied physics.
And on every throne sat a figure.
They blazed with holy light, their shapes veiled by radiance. Some resembled men. Others were beasts, hybrids, nightmares. Some had dozens of limbs; others were towering beyond measure—larger than stars.
Then Horus saw something impossible.
A giant knelt before one of the thrones, clad in ornate power armor, one knee to the ground in reverence.
It was himself—Horus, the Warmaster. Not as he was now, but as he had once been. The Horus of Cthonia. The loyal son. The pride of the Imperium.
The younger Horus smiled as he knelt before the Emperor.
And then, from the thrones above, came the chorus—millions of voices in perfect harmony, thundering with divine majesty:
"Horus of Cthonia, will you pledge your loyalty to Me, your Father, the Lord of Mankind? Will you carry My light to every inch of land and every fathomless sea opened by the Imperium? Will you be My hand in the darkness, My wisdom in ignorance, My justice in times of despair?""
"Father, I swear upon my life. I will remain faithful—until death."
The vow echoed across eternity. The same oath he had once sworn with pride—now a memory that scorched his soul.
The tears came unbidden. Horus could not suppress them. He had betrayed that promise. Everything he had become was a perversion of that moment.
He no longer shielded his eyes from the golden light.
He looked upon it.
"Who are you?" Horus asked. His voice was raw. "Why do you haunt me with the past?"
"I will do whatever it takes to reach you," the figure on the highest throne replied. "Because you are Horus."
There was weariness in His voice—weariness, and hope.
Horus hesitated. He opened his mouth, a question forming on his lips.
But then came the darkness.
A vast shadow rolled in, wrapping around him like coiled smoke. He heard the growl of beasts. The stench of wolf breath.
Four pairs of eyes—red, green, purple, and blue—glimmered in the gloom.
"Be careful, Horus. My friend. Do not be deceived by Him."
The voice rang like a chime—a perfect sound, familiar and soothing. It was his fourth companion. The one who always whispered sense when madness called.
The warning pierced his thoughts.
Horus stood frozen, torn. He thought he knew the identity of the one on the throne—but clarity slipped through his grasp like mist.
He didn't know who to trust.
Logic told him to trust his allies. Emotion whispered otherwise.
He could not decide which voice was his own.
The figure on the throne spoke with urgency, each word weighed down by the pressure of a looming future.
"Horus, first among the Primarchs, you once stood beside Me. You shall do so again. Together, we will usher in a new era for Mankind—an age without the yoke of darkness, an era where human failing shall no longer bind our destiny."
"Can you do what you once swore to do?"
"Can you rise, Horus?"
The golden radiance engulfed Horus Lupercal, swallowing every shadow. There was no path back to the void—no retreat into denial.
"You can do this, Horus."
"Your sins are not solely your own—they were twisted by the deceits of Chaos."
"You still have a chance."
"I will wait for you."
When Horus awoke, he found his companions staring at him strangely. There was something wrong in their eyes—something unclean. It unsettled him.
For the first time, Horus felt unease around his allies.
These were the ones he had searched so long for. The ones who were meant to help him fulfill his great purpose.
And now, they felt like strangers.
A fissure had formed. Small, silent—but growing.
Time passed.
Soon, the outline of a once-mighty warship came into view: the Vengeful Spirit.
His former flagship.
And aboard her stood the one who had claimed his legacy—Abaddon the Despoiler, now Chaos Warmaster and bearer of the Talon.
Warp-currents churned around the fleet. A vast congregation of corrupted vessels trailed behind Abaddon's flagship, surrounding the Spirit of Vengeance like a ring of rusted satellites orbiting a dying star.
Yet, for all their numbers, their formation was a mess—undisciplined, loose, riddled with holes. No proper defense grid. No tactical cohesion.
Horus wasn't surprised. The warp-spawned were always like this. Quantity without unity. A mob of shrieking heretics and monsters.
He glanced toward Abaddon's vessel and felt… disappointment.
He could have ordered his ship to fire. A sudden barrage from his batteries would have torn into the Vengeful Spirit before the others could react.
But he didn't.
He hadn't come to destroy his legacy.
He had come to reclaim it.
With precise maneuvers and without resistance, Horus and his companions boarded the Spirit of Vengeance.
Their arrival caused a stir.
"F-Father Horus?! How can this be?!"
Even Abaddon, transfigured by the warp and exalted by dark rituals, recoiled as if he had seen a ghost.
Horus looked upon his once-loyal son.
He stared—not in recognition, but analysis. Abaddon's bloated body reeked of corruption. His cheeks were swollen, his features distorted. The stench of Chaos clung to him like disease.
"Abaddon," Horus said coldly. "You disgust me."
"You failed me once before," Abaddon retorted, his voice tight.
A psychic pressure emanated from Horus—pure, overwhelming. It pressed down upon Abaddon's soul, urging him to kneel.
But Abaddon resisted.
He had once worshipped the figure before him. Now he saw only a relic.
And he would not kneel.
"You've become a slave to Chaos," Horus said.
"I use Chaos," Abaddon snapped. "That is the difference between us. I am not the fool you were ten thousand years ago."
The insult struck deep.
Horus's fury erupted.
Once, he had been broken—his body shattered, his soul cast into the warp. He had drifted for millennia, unconscious, forgotten.
But he had returned. Not to dwell in regret, but to forge a new path—one that might yet save the galaxy.
And this… thing… had dared to speak to him with disdain?
Without hesitation, Horus struck.
Abaddon, still weakened by his recent battle with Doom the Doomlord, stood no chance. Even uninjured, he could never have matched the wrath of a Primarch.
Horus's blow sent him flying.
In midair, he seized Abaddon again and slammed him into the steel bulkhead.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Abaddon crashed against the walls of the Spirit of Vengeance again and again, a shattered puppet beneath his father's rage.
To make matters worse, his connection to the Four Gods had faltered. Their gifts—once sources of boundless strength—were now sluggish, unresponsive.
Whatever had wounded him before had damaged more than flesh.
And now, he was powerless.
Horus pounded him relentlessly. Gauntleted fists shattered ceramite and bone. Blood and pus flowed freely. His helmet cracked, revealing the twisted, bloated face beneath.
Were it not for Nurgle's blessing, Abaddon might have perished then and there.
Desperate, he called for his warriors—the Black Legion.
"Aid me, now! Do not let him kill me!"
But his warriors did not move.
"Will you betray me?!"
"We would never," one of them replied. "But what reason could we have to fight him—our gene-father?"
Abaddon howled, "He is a puppet! A puppet of the Throne!"
"And you?" the warrior asked, his voice calm. "What are you?"
Abaddon seethed with hatred. But there was no time to answer.
Horus advanced again.
Abaddon tried to block a blow, but Horus's kick sent him sprawling. His corrupted armor screeched against the metal floor.
Step by step, Horus approached. The deck groaned under his weight.
He stood over Abaddon's broken form. There was a moment—brief, cold—where he considered killing him.
But something stopped him.
Pity? Regret?
Horus would never admit it.
Instead, he grabbed Abaddon once more, smashed him with two more strikes, then hurled him across the hangar like trash.
"Get out of my sight," Horus growled. "I have no son like you."
Horus could not bring himself to kill Abaddon.
Despite everything—the betrayal, the failure, the rot of Chaos upon his son—he hesitated. Something in his heart held him back. And so, he turned away, letting the fallen Warmaster live.
ROAR!
A thunderous, feral cry tore through the corridor.
Horus' second companion—a grotesque figure clad in crimson armor—burst through a bulkhead, a living battering ram of rage. He charged into the chamber, howling like a maddened beast. Where he passed, blood followed. Friend or foe, it made no difference.
He had lost all sense of purpose. He had descended into bloodlust.
A moment later, the wall crumbled further, and from the breach emerged a thin figure in blue robes. His frame was fragile, almost sickly—but the psychic pressure radiating from him was overwhelming.
A Magos. Or something beyond even that.
"Just as I foresaw," the robed figure said, voice calm and accented with something ancient. "You couldn't do it, Horus."
Horus turned, his face darkening.
He no longer remembered this one's true name. So he addressed them all in broad strokes.
"This isn't your concern, friend."
But deep down, Horus felt the creeping dread that everything unfolding here had been planned… by him.
The robed figure smiled faintly, as if savoring the precision of unfolding events.
"This is fate," he said, "like a mechanism of exquisite design. While I admit a fondness for unpredictability… certain outcomes must be guaranteed. Abaddon must die here, Horus. That is his role. You will inherit the Black Legion. The path ahead demands it. And I will savor the symmetry."
"You speak of fate?" Horus growled. "Who decided his fate?!"
"Why, I did," the robed one replied, without hesitation. "It is written. Immutable."
Power rippled from him then—cosmic, undeniable. For a brief instant, even Horus felt dwarfed by its sheer weight. This was no mere mortal. For that moment, he was fate itself, the will of the galaxy given form.
A howl snapped Horus' attention back.
The red-armored brute had finished slaughtering the Black Legionnaires. Only Abaddon remained, crawling amid blood and wreckage.
Not because he had bested the monster—but because the beast simply hadn't gotten to him yet.
Now, with all others dead, the crimson warrior raised his axe high, eager to taste the blood of the Dark Warmaster.
"Wait!"
Horus shouted—but before the words could fully leave his lips, pain erupted through him.
Chains.
Spectral, glowing with sorcerous runes, burst from his limbs and spine, lashing him in place. They weren't external. They were inside him—born of his own turmoil, his own hesitation—and they anchored him with agony.
Every twitch sent lightning through his body.
A psyker's trap.
A cursed spell.
A betrayal.
Horus clenched his teeth, fury rising as his body betrayed him. But the chains held fast, and he could only watch, helpless, as fate advanced one more step toward its cruel conclusion.
...
TN:
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