As the Psyker spell released, Sibylla's sight pierced the heavy plasteel doors and beheld the scene inside the Bridge.
She ignored the meaningless blasphemous artworks scattered across the walls, her attention drawn straight to a ritual altar at the Bridge's center.
The stone altar was built of concentric rings—six in all—each ring bearing six stone pillars.
All thirty-six pillars held a human shackled with thick iron chains.
Tall or short, fat or thin, of every age and face, they hung their heads in unconsciousness, their bodies carved with blood-red profane sigils.
What made Sibylla's breath catch was the faint halo around each captive: every one of them was a Psyker.
"Damn it—stop the rite!"
The vast experience of a veteran hereticus inquisitor told her instantly.
No second thought was needed: if a Chaos rite demanded souls this potent, its devastation would be catastrophic—immediate extermination required.
With no time to call her squad, Sibylla struck, invisible telekinetic force coalescing and smashing toward the altar.
Nothing happened.
"Blocked?!"
Sibylla's pupils shrank.
The Chaos Lord standing above, smiling faintly, suddenly turned and met her gaze.
"Too late!"
Sibylla's heart sank.
As expected, every Psyker chained to the pillars shrieked in agony, torrents of psychic energy bleeding out as their souls were torn free.
Following the ritual, thirty-six souls converged at the altar's center, condensing into a single point as wild white psychic lightning lashed.
To Sibylla's sensitive Psyker senses, she almost heard the groan of reality itself, the veil between realspace and the Warp creaking like splintering glass.
"No!"
As the rite succeeded, psychic power erupted, the Warp churning into a violent tide whose influence spread to engulf vast areas.
What's going on?
Even Adam, who bore no Warp-shadow, felt the air shift.
Something hyper-active now drifted in the atmosphere; the temperature plummeted, thin frost blooming across the floor.
"Ugh!"
A pained groan behind him—Adam spun to see the other three on their knees, faces twisted, fighting something inside their minds.
Adam raised his hands; Reality Warper power unfurled, blanketing their minds to ease their pain and shore their resistance.
"Shiiiiiiiii…"
Soon he frowned, reaching a verdict.
His Reality Warping could dull their agony, yet the Warp's influence raged on; the minor Warp-storm was still intensifying.
The moment he withdrew the power they would resume wrestling the tempest—useless until the storm itself abated.
With a brief return of clarity, Sibylla forced her head up, eyes bloodshot, and mouthed to Adam:
'Don't… care…'
Got it.
Through the link between Reality Warper and convert, Adam read her intent in an instant.
Indeed, there was something more urgent to do.
Decision made, he turned, gaze locking on the plasteel door. A thought, and his Reality Warping erased a huge breach in the metal.
Beside him a Executioner main-tank shrugged off its optical cloak, treads grinding as it surged forward, its massive barrel thrusting through the hole.
The machine spirit danced with glee, a blinding plasma glow gathering.
"Cannons level the seas!"
…
That should do it.
Almost simultaneously the Chaos Lord thought the very same.
After the psychic detonation, the altar lay shattered, stones and human flesh mingled into rubble.
Upon that ruin stood a monster of grotesque limbs.
Inhumanly tall, body warped, she bore four arms and crab-like claws, four different blades in hand—no longer anything human.
It was the Slaanesh Daemon Prince, Miriael Sabathiel.
First among the fallen Battle Sisters, darling of Slaanesh, lavished with the lord of pleasure's generous gifts.
Thus she is the ultimate predator of the galaxy, nothing able to stop her from offering souls to her lord of pleasure.
Under her terrifying aura of allure, even the staunchest warrior, once meeting her gaze, has his soul corroded into a drooling husk.
The Chaos Lord's ritual was no masterwork—merely a crude blast tearing a hole through the veil between reality and the Warp.
Now entities of the Slaanesh realm could answer the call, stepping through the breach into realspace.
The flaw: within days the healing veil would starve them, casting them back into the Warp.
Yet to the Chaos Lord, it was more than enough.
Not even a Living Saint of the corpse emperor could defeat her!
Just as he thought it—
A black muzzle punched through the breach; the next instant, a thick lance of incandescent blue plasma lanced out.
The Daemon Prince, newly arrived in realspace, never saw the ambush; instinct hurled her aside—an instant too slow.
Shhk—!
Blinding blue fire swallowed half her body, vaporising both arms.
"Aaaaah!"
Miriael had not expected such a strike.
The searing plasma wrung a shriek that melted into a languid moan, as if savouring the lingering pain.
The Executioner fired again and again, plasma shells chasing her in rapid succession.
With elegant leaps the Daemon Prince danced, moving faster than the machine spirit could track, dodging every shot.
At last, bored, she flicked a blade.
The sword became a streak of light, air crushed against its edge, unable to escape.
Boom!
The blade struck the barrel, blowing it into flying shards; the shockwave tore the heavy plasteel door apart, sending it crashing down in pieces.
Outside light poured in, and Adam—standing within it—met Miriael's gaze.