"Do you require assistance, Farseer Eldrad? You look somewhat disheveled."
Deep within the Webway.
The voice of Yvraine, the Emissary of Ynnead and "Daughter of Shadows," echoed in this secret corner of the Webway, her tone carrying unreserved surprise.
She looked at the stumbling old Farseer before her, who was clearly struggling to keep his footing. His robes were full of holes, their edges bearing the scorched marks of shuriken fire, and his face—seasoned by ten thousand years of wind and frost—was etched with exhaustion.
Among the Craftworld Aeldari, Eldrad's name was practically a living legend. Regardless of whether that reputation was good or bad, no one could deny his renown.
Yet at this moment, this legend appeared before her in such a state. The contrast was indeed striking.
Even though she was the leader of the Reborn who had completed her initial trials in Commorragh, Yvraine remained relatively inexperienced. By Aeldari standards, she was still considered quite young. This youthfulness prevented her from fully concealing her surprise; her bright eyes scanned Eldrad several times, as if confirming whether the person in front of her was truly the man himself.
By her side stood Visarch, completely silent. The Dark Aeldari assassin from Commorragh held his blade, his frame standing like a frozen shadow, resembling the most fiercely loyal guard. His mask concealed all expression, but his eyes remained fixed on Eldrad.
Eldrad looked at the two of them and finally let out a long, deep sigh of relief. A slight smile touched his lips.
Thank goodness, and thank the gods—or rather, the protection of the long-dead Aeldari pantheon. He had finally made it here.
Escaping the pursuit of the Harlequins had not been as easy as one might imagine. When he had opened a portable Webway gate under the cover of an illusion to slip inside earlier, he had indeed displayed a degree of effortless composure. However, that composure lasted only a very short time.
The Harlequins' understanding of the Webway was perhaps even greater than that of a Craftworld Farseer. They caught up to him almost immediately.
What followed was a long, grueling flight, repeating an endless cycle of ambushes, counter-ambushes, assassinations, and counter-assassinations. In the non-stop slaughter, the old Farseer was forced to employ every trick in his arsenal, unleashing psychic arts he had spent ten thousand years mastering just to barely eke out a slim chance of survival against those Solitaires.
Consequently, Eldrad had been unable to worry about anything else or even think carefully about his next move; he could only flee blindly.
Still, victory was his in the end. The final outcome was that he had escaped with his life and successfully met up with his allies.
'Then again...'
Eldrad suddenly frowned.
An elusive premonition—a hunch honed by ten thousand years on the psychic Path of the Seer—rippled gently in the depths of his consciousness.
"I have a question," Eldrad raised his head and spoke slowly. "How did you find me?"
"Through the visions and guidance granted to me by Ynnead, of course," Yvraine answered without hesitation.
Her eyes shone brightly, filled with a captivating intensity, as if a flame was burning deep within her soul, infusing her voice with a melodic, aria-like fervor.
"I am the Chosen of the God of Death. He guided me here, and as expected, a crucial outcome has been achieved. This is a moment of destiny."
She spoke these words in the melodic tone unique to the Aeldari, her expression brimming with joy. Then, Yvraine naturally shifted her gaze to the large chest behind Eldrad.
Though Eldrad was covered in injuries and his robes were tattered, the beautifully decorated chest remained completely intact. The wraithbone trim gleamed softly in the dim light of the Webway, as if silently proclaiming the weight of its contents.
Inside lay the object that represented the ultimate destiny of the entire Aeldari race: a Cronesword.
'Yes, that's right.'
Eldrad breathed another sigh of relief.
As an unconventional old Farseer who broke the rules among the Aeldari, he held little regard for the tenets others cherished as sacred—he had even once gathered and ignited the souls in a Craftworld's infinity circuit in an attempt to harm Slaanesh. When it came to summoning the God of Death, he felt not the slightest psychological burden.
If Ynnead could be awakened, She Who Thirsts would no longer be an eternal curse hanging over every Aeldari's head. This goal alone was enough for him to willingly gamble everything on this plan.
Thus, the old Farseer found the Harlequins' actions completely incomprehensible.
'What was the Laughing God in such a hurry for? He makes no sense at all.'
Suppressing these thoughts, Eldrad spoke immediately: "We still have one critical matter. We have gathered four Croneswords, and according to my intelligence, the final Cronesword is on Craftworld Iyanden."
"We need to rally briefly and depart at once. Otherwise, I suspect the Harlequins will move to interfere."
"Why would they do that?" Yvraine asked, curious.
"I do not know," Eldrad answered honestly.
He truly could not comprehend what the Laughing God was thinking. He acknowledged the Laughing God's behind-the-scenes efforts over the past ten thousand years—the actions to protect the Aeldari, the clues subtly provided, the efforts to stop Chaos from completely consuming the remnants of their race. But recognizing that work did not mean accepting what was currently being done to him. He absolutely would not tolerate his own principles being trampled upon.
Eldrad shook his head, brushing the chaotic thoughts from his mind, and refocused on the core issue.
"Regardless, let us put all that aside for now. Our primary task is to go to Craftworld Iyanden and retrieve that artifact. I have received word that the 'Spear of Twilight' is indeed the final Cronesword."
"We are already aware of this," Yvraine nodded, showing no sign of surprise.
Eldrad froze. "You already know? How is that possible?"
The old Farseer was thoroughly perplexed. Even he, a master of psychic foresight, hadn't known this through his own visions—he had only extracted this intelligence after painstaking effort from an old friend among the Harlequins. How could they possibly know?
Yvraine glanced at Visarch. He remained silent like a soundless shadow, so she turned back and explained in a matter-of-fact tone: "When our Ynnari cult was traveling to preach the gospel of the God of Death to our kin on other Craftworlds, we visited Iyanden."
"As fate would have it, Iyanden had just been invaded by a traitorous Space Marine Chapter devoted to Chaos."
"Although they repelled the enemy attack, the artifact vanished in the chaos. Thus, our Ynnari took on their request, hunted down those Chaos Space Marines, and reclaimed the weapon."
She paused, as if recalling an insignificant detail. "Then, guided by the power of Ynnead, I recognized the true identity of the 'Spear of Twilight' at a single glance and unlocked its true power."
"Things having reached this point, the Croneswords are paramount to our cult and the future of all Aeldari. Naturally, it was impossible to return it to its original owner."
"Therefore, we currently have four Croneswords in our hands."
"Is that so..."
Eldrad fell silent for a moment as his mind processed the information.
The 'Spear of Twilight' had already been reclaimed. That meant...
All five Croneswords were now in the hands of the Aeldari.
In other words, they could begin summoning the God of Death right now.
The awakening of Ynnead was at hand!
"Yes," Yvraine nodded.
She could feel the gifted power of the God of Death surging within her, leaping and pulsing as if celebrating in joy.
Ynnead, the Aeldari God of Death, was about to awaken.
Ten thousand years of waiting, the sacrifice of countless Aeldari, and the innumerable souls consumed by Slaanesh—all of it would be repaid the moment He awakened.
Yet, standing opposite her, the weather-beaten face of Eldrad showed little joy. His expression was one of complete bewilderment.
'This isn't right.'
'Could things really be going this smoothly?'
The Aeldari Farseer from Iyanden—an old veteran who had weathered countless plots and betrayals—stood silently in place. His mind worked at feverish speed, laying out every clue in the depths of his consciousness: entering the Webway, reclaiming the Cronesword, escaping the Harlequins... Along the way, apart from the unusual behavior of the Laughing God, nothing else seemed suspicious.
Yet it was precisely this 'lack' of suspicion that made him even more uneasy.
Eldrad knitted his brows in suspicion.
Unable to find any flaw in his own actions, a far more alarming possibility crossed his mind.
'No, that's impossible.'
He was one of the most powerful Farseers among the Aeldari; in terms of psychic mastery, few across the Craftworlds could match him. Who could breach his psychic defenses and directly manipulate his spirit and will?
Recalling the fellow Aeldari Farseer he had personally witnessed in the lower levels of a Terra hive city—the one played like a fiddle by a Greater Daemon of Tzeentch—Eldrad's vigilance escalated drastically.
'Think carefully.'
In the entire galaxy, who possessed the ability to tamper with a psychic veteran like him without his knowledge?
It couldn't possibly be the Architect of Fate himself stepping in to place a curse on him, could it?
'...Hahaha, how could that be!'
Eldrad forced a dry laugh, pushing the thought away. Yet his fingers tightened their grip on his staff.
This victory, served on a silver platter, had thoroughly aroused his suspicion.
"Is something wrong?" Yvraine asked, noticing his strange demeanor.
Eldrad remained quiet for a moment. Then, he slowly spoke.
His tone reverted to the drawn-out, obscure cadence typical of Aeldari Farseers, slowly uttering a series of riddle-like statements:
"—The chessboard and the plan are both bound to shift—the moment a hunter feels most confident is often the root of his defeat—the threads of fate are never woven in straight lines—if the path appears too straight, it only means your eyes have been covered—"
Yvraine stared at him blankly, her young face filled with confusion. She clearly hadn't understood a single word.
Looking at the bewildered expression on her face, Eldrad uncharacteristically set aside the riddles and opted for a more candid approach.
His voice was raspy and tired: "You are still young; you do not understand this truth. But as your elder, I must tell you: a victory that comes too easily is a double-edged sword. It can spur you forward, but it can also lead you right into a trap laid by others."
As his words fell, Visarch, standing behind Yvraine, quietly shifted his gaze away from Eldrad. His expression remained hidden behind his mask, but the movement spoke for itself: 'What is this old man rambling about?'
'The facts are right before us, yet you choose to be paranoid now? We've finally gathered all the Croneswords, and the awakening of the God of Death is right at hand, yet you hesitate? Don't tell me you're afraid?'
"No," Eldrad shook his head. "I feel there may be something wrong here."
Yvraine offered him a puzzled look, but rather than pushing further, she spoke calmly.
"However, our race may not have much time left."
"The Eye of Terror has closed. The wound in the galaxy—torn open by the birth-cry of the Dark Prince—has now healed."
"As if affected by this, a series of cataclysmic changes have erupted across the cosmos, events unseen in ten thousand years."
"Our ancient enemies have begun awakening from their tombs in vast numbers, and the shadow from beyond the galaxy draws ever closer—"
"Even the latecomers—the Imperium of Man, who were still trapped on their homeworld when the Aeldari walked the stars—have begun their revival under the leadership of that Warp entity."
"These are shifts unseen in ten thousand years. We must be prepared. If we do not act, the Aeldari of today will be unable to stand alongside those races; we will face swift and total destruction."
At this point, a pained expression crossed the Emissary's face.
It was an outcome no Aeldari could accept: to fall into the embrace of She Who Thirsts after death, to be devoured and tormented forever, never to escape.
"We might all meet again in the chambers of She Who Thirsts."
At the thought, Yvraine couldn't help but shudder.
Eldrad listened in silence. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice lowered.
"I understand."
"Let me think a little longer."