Beneath the Himalazian Mountains, in vaults hidden from both gods and men, the Emperor labored. The gene-forges pulsed like beating hearts, vast chambers of crystal and steel glowing with the light of creation. Here He shaped His greatest work: twenty sons, each destined to be more than mortal, each to lead a Legion in the wars to come.
Rows of incubation chambers glimmered in the dim light. Within, giants stirred in their embryonic sleep—muscles weaving, bones hardening, minds quickening even before breath filled their lungs. The Emperor stood before one, hand pressed against the glass, golden eyes unreadable.
"You," He murmured softly, almost to Himself, "will be endurance. The world will break itself upon you, and still you will stand."
"A bold promise," came a dry voice from behind.
The Emperor turned slightly, lips curling in something just shy of a smile. Malcador the Sigillite approached, robes whispering across the steel floor. Age lined his face, but his eyes gleamed with familiar sharpness.
"You think me overconfident, old friend?" the Emperor asked.
"I think you incapable of modesty," Malcador replied with a chuckle. He joined the Emperor at the chamber, peering in at the slumbering child. "They look so…fragile now. Hard to believe these infants will one day command armies spanning the stars."
The Emperor's smile faded. "They must. Humanity cannot survive otherwise."
Malcador folded his hands behind his back. "You speak of them as weapons. Yet you speak to them as sons."
The Emperor glanced at him, the faintest trace of warmth in His expression. "They are both. And perhaps more besides. But do not mistake me, Malcador—they are not gods. They must never be worshiped as such."
Malcador smirked. "You underestimate the poetry in mortal hearts. Men will always seek something greater to kneel to. If not you, then these children. And if not them, then the things in the Warp."
The Emperor's reply was cut short as the lights dimmed. A pressure rolled through the chamber, thick and suffocating. The gene-vats rattled. The stasis fields screamed. Malcador's eyes widened as the air itself seemed to warp.
"The Warp," he whispered.
The Emperor's face hardened, all traces of warmth vanishing. Golden radiance burst from Him, runes across the walls igniting in defiance. But already the incubators shuddered as unseen claws reached from the Immaterium. One by one, the children were wrenched away, their forms swallowed in flashes of unnatural light.
Malcador staggered forward, reaching instinctively. "No! They're being stolen!"
The Emperor spread His arms wide, His will colliding with the storm like a wall of fire. The very vault trembled with the force of His defiance, but the Warp's laughter echoed through the chamber as the Primarchs were torn from His grasp, scattered into the abyss.
And then—silence.
The vault was broken, half the chambers cracked and empty. The Emperor stood still, chest heaving with restrained fury. Malcador stepped to His side, laying a hand on His arm.
"They live," Malcador said quietly. "I can feel it. They are out there."
The Emperor's eyes blazed, not with despair but with cold resolve. "Yes. Scattered. Alone. Each upon a world that will shape them. Some will rise to greatness. Others…" His voice darkened. "Others may fall."
He turned back to the shattered gene-forges, His jaw set. "But I will find them, Malcador. No matter the cost. They are mine."
And far from Terra, in the poisoned skies of Vorgar, a newborn demigod plummeted like a meteor, descending into a world even Chaos feared to touch.