The wind howled fiercely across what seemed to be a vast desert. The sun scorched the earth with unforgiving intensity. Parched lands stretched as far as the eye could see—cracked like shattered glass, dry as the wind that whispered death in its wake.
Amidst the silence, dunes, and desolation, a small oasis emerged like a miracle of nature. At its heart, a pond glistened under the sun, shaded by a solitary coconut tree—out of place, yet defiantly rooted among sparse vegetation.
Near the pond, a small figure lay still on the green foliage. Whether asleep or unconscious, it was unclear. High above, vultures circled, scanning the ground for carrion. Sensing a potential feast, they descended ever lower with each pass.
Suddenly—gasp—the figure jolted upright, eyes wide with alarm. He scanned his surroundings in panic, breath shallow and quick, as though waking from a nightmare. The sudden motion startled the circling vultures, sending them flapping skyward in alarm.
The figure was a boy, no older than five, yet his expression bore the vigilance of a battle-hardened veteran. His skin was streaked with dirt and dried blood. Scars marred his arms and legs. His garments—torn, stained, and filthy—clung to his frail frame like remnants of a battlefield. His face bore the same evidence of hardship; his eyes were swollen, barely open, and red from tears.
He rose unsteadily, staggering toward the pond. Upon reaching its edge, he drank greedily from the murky water, caring little for the taste or the stinging pain in his wounded palms. After quenching his thirst, he stared at his hands.
A dark frown twisted his young, bloodied face. Leaning over the water, he caught his reflection. His eyes widened, then clenched shut in pain. Wrath overtook his features. He gritted his teeth as fresh tears spilled from his swollen eyes.
THE WEBWAY
Twelve minutes after Atrius departed
A giant in resplendent golden armor sprinted forward through the dim, shifting realm of the Webway. Flanking him on both sides were tall, silent figures—warrior women clad in veiled helms and armor forged to suit their leaner forms.
It was Atrius and his entourage of Silent Sisters.
They raced toward a newly formed rift—created in secret by the Emperor's most trusted psykers. The old breach had been sealed for strategic reasons. This new one would allow for a swift retreat. What had begun as an extermination mission had now shifted—its focus narrowed to a single objective: the successful extraction of Atrius, the "Last Son."
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Boots struck the ancient floor of the Webway with rhythmic intensity. The Sisters said nothing, but their posture was tense, their pace relentless.
Atrius, however, was not at ease. Confusion swirled in his mind. Not only had the mission turned, but strange visions plagued him—disturbing, alien memories not his own. Visions of mortals… of battlefields he had never walked… screams, pain, death. The scent of burning flesh. The taste of despair.
He had lived a long life in the service of the Emperor. He had never known mortals except in passing—spoken of in theory, in history, in hushed tones among his fellow Custodians. He had certainly never fought alongside them.
Yet the visions persisted. And now, as he sprinted toward Terra, they grew stronger—more vivid, more real.
It was as though his own memories were being rewritten.
For the first time in centuries, he felt uncertain. As a Custodian, he had always leashed his psychic potential—choosing discipline over power. Even among the Emperor's elite, he was different. An Alpha-plus psyker and an Omega-null—unprecedented in the Imperium. A paradox. A living abomination.
Just like his creator.
Yet even such power offered no protection from the visions now tormenting him.
Why? he asked silently, amidst his confusion.
"Hmmm?" His trance broke as he halted mid-stride, his gaze turned toward a specific point in the distance.
The Sisters immediately fell into formation, surrounding him in a protective ring. Their senses, honed through decades of training, had also caught the anomaly.
Reality twisted ahead of them, rippling unnaturally. A rift was forming—and even before it fully opened, they felt it: the oppressive stench of the Warp.
They took a step back, weapons raised, breaths held.
The rift tore open in less than a second.
From it emerged a single figure—a Daemon.
But this was no lesser entity. Towering over six meters, it radiated dread. Its flesh melded into armor—whether skin, bone, or some unholy fusion of both, it was impossible to say. Claws like swords. Teeth like broken glass. Dozens of shifting eyes adorned its monstrous form—an eldritch horror of impossible anatomy.
The Sisters gripped their weapons tightly.
One of them turned toward Atrius, her armored hand gesturing in silent, precise language: "proceed to Terra. We will hold this creature." She pointed down a narrow path—toward the hidden rift.
Atrius studied her for a long moment… and shook his head.
"Denied," he said grimly. "I will not abandon you to die by this filth. We end this quickly."
BZZZTTT.
With a low hum of raw energy, he reached to his side and summoned a spear from the void.
The lead Sister gave him one last glance, then struck her fist to her chest plate—a signal. Her sisters mirrored the motion. Then she signed again—mystic, symbolic, but understood among them.
The battle was joined.
Atrius stepped forward, his aura crackling with restrained might.
The Daemon had not moved. Unlike most of its kind, it did not charge or scream. It simply watched. Studied. Its small, glistening eyes held a chilling intelligence—far beyond the usual madness of the Warp.
It was waiting.
And wisely so—for before it stood more than a dozen Anathema incarnate…
And an abomination born of the Emperor himself.