The Eye of Terror.
In this void where the material universe and the Warp were not distinct but entirely fused together, a gargantuan warship hung suspended in silence. Anyone with a modicum of knowledge would recognize its identity: the Vengeful Spirit.
This Gloriana-class battleship was once the flagship of Horus Lupercal; now it carried the successor to his cause and the name that made the galaxy tremble—the Black Legion.
Deep within the corridors of this great vessel, a figure dressed in Black Legion colors, though in a pattern closer to the ancient Egyptian style of the Thousand Sons, walked with a measured pace. Iskandar Khayon, the psychic master from the Thousand Sons and Abaddon's most loyal advisor, was known for his calm and intellect, yet he currently appeared deeply troubled.
Khayon walked quickly through the long gallery and arrived before a set of doors. Several Astartes in Black Legion Terminator plate rose at his approach, their gazes locking onto him. These were the Bringers of Despair, Abaddon's personal guard.
"Is the Warmaster still locked in his chambers, refusing to come out?" Khayon asked.
"Yes," a deep voice came from beneath the lead Terminator's helmet.
Khayon shook his head helplessly. Ever since the psykers on the ship received the astropathic communication that had suddenly spread across the galaxy, everything had spiraled out of control. Abaddon the Despoiler, the Warmaster of Chaos, had become like this.
Guilliman's return was entirely absent from the Black Legion's crusade plans. As Abaddon's most trusted advisor, Khayon knew the full scope of the strategy.
The Fall of Cadia.
The ancient xenos structures on Cadia could suppress Warp energy and stitch up the great wound in the galaxy. Once destroyed, a massive Warp rift would tear across the Milky Way, ushering in an era of unprecedented prosperity for the forces of Chaos. Against a decaying Empire, the victory of the Black Legion would be nearly certain.
Yet, at this critical juncture, the Avenging Son, the Primarch of the XIII Legion, and Lord Regent of the Imperium—Roboute Guilliman—had returned. Unlike the traitor Astartes who had never experienced the Great Crusade or seen the Emperor and Primarchs walking the stars, Khayon understood the combat prowess of a Primarch perfectly.
Should they still attack Cadia? What about the plan?
Khayon remembered Abaddon's initial fury upon hearing the news; he had personally killed everyone who dared report it to him. But later, he fell silent—simply because even more absurd news followed, news so bizarre that even the well-traveled Khayon found it inconceivable.
The Warp whispered around Khayon, bringing fragments of information from across the galaxy. Guilliman being crowned Lord Regent on Terra was within their expectations. But what did it mean for the Four Gods to invade Terra, only for the dead Ferrus Manus to return from the grave? What did it mean for Nurgle's Garden to be set ablaze? And what was this about... the Omnissiah manifesting on Mars?
Khayon's lip twitched slightly. He had seen too many Warp deceptions within the Thousand Sons and witnessed countless Imperial defeats under Abaddon. But he never thought the information from the Imperium would one day be so ridiculous that he would wonder if Tzeentch himself had taken over the scriptwriting.
Khayon remembered that when the last piece of news arrived, Abaddon sat in silence for a long time before quietly standing up, walking into his room, and closing the door.
There had been nothing since. He had been shut inside for seven full days.
Khayon understood. When a Warmaster's carefully laid ten-thousand-year plan is shattered by a series of miracles that fundamentally shouldn't happen, what else could one do besides stew in a brief flash of anger?
The age of Primarchs is over—this had been the Black Legion's creed for millennia. But now? What was left to fight for? What about Cadia? Should they still tear the rift?
Khayon finally sighed, shook his head, and turned to leave. Even he was unwilling to provoke the self-sequestered Warmaster at such a time.
As he turned, he saw several figures approaching him together. Khayon's brow furrowed.
Lord Purgator, Tyrant of Sarora, Devram Korda. Representing the Slaaneshi faction within the Black Legion, he had betrayed Fulgrim and the Emperor's Children to kneel before Abaddon.
Lord of Deceit, Ygethmor the Deceiver. Representing Tzeentch, his status among the Warmaster's sorcerers was second only to Khayon himself, and a discomforting smile always hung on his lips.
Lord of Corruption, Skyrak Slaughter-Born. Representing Nurgle. Since the news of "Nurgle's Garden Burning" arrived, he had appeared somewhat listless; his presence here was unexpected.
And finally, Lord of Ravagers, Urkanthos. Representing Khorne, he commanded the Hounds of Abaddon—the most elite assault force—and served as the fleet commander.
What was going on? The four of them gathered together, appearing in this corridor simultaneously? Khayon's pupils contracted.
"Gentlemen, it has been a long time," his voice was calm as usual. "Are you also here to visit the Warmaster?"
Ygethmor's smile widened. Devram Korda's fingers idly toyed with his sword hilt. Skyrak kept his head down as if listening to a distant sound. Urkanthos's eyes were like burning lava.
Khayon's psychic power reached out into the Warp, catching a faint... understanding in the air. His heart sank. These four, each serving one of the Four Gods, appearing here at once meant only one thing: they had something to say.
And those words were clearly not meant for Khayon.
Khayon's gaze passed them, landing on the closed door just down the hall. That was... the Warmaster's room. He suddenly realized he had been wrong. Abaddon wasn't hiding because of frustration.
He was waiting.
He was waiting for the "allies" behind the curtain, each with their own agendas, to finally lose their patience and come to him. Regardless of everything, Abaddon the Despoiler remained the leader of the largest force among the Chaos Astartes. Even the Four Gods had to acknowledge that fact.
Khayon's lips curled upward. "In that case," he stepped aside, making a gesture of invitation, "please, proceed."
The four Chaos Lords glanced at each other, then stepped forward in unison toward the door. Behind them, Khayon stood silently, the worry in his eyes gradually replaced by another emotion: curiosity.
He wanted to know how the Chaos Gods intended to move their pieces now that the galactic chessboard had been completely upended and the shadow of the Primarchs once again loomed over the stars.