The Ravenwing scouting elements of the Dark Angels, who had initially entered the Somnium Stars utilizing low-power sweeps to remain undetected, cast aside all pretense of stealth. As the main fleet arrived, they ignited their sensors to full capacity, scanning the potential theater of war with clinical precision.
In the strategic command sanctum of The Rock, a circle of Librarians led by Grand Master Ezekiel delved into the shifting tides of the Empyrean. In this era of the Great Rift, such divinations were fraught with peril, yet they sought a glimpse of the fate that awaited them.
They beheld a vision: a toxic world suspended within a mirror, ensnared by a web of infinite flames that coalesced into a predatory eye, lunging toward them. There was no doubt, this was Vashtorr the Arkifane and his heretical host. Yet, looming behind that fiery ocular gaze was a colossal, hazy silhouette. Its features were indistinct, save for two undeniable traits: great, stag-like horns that resembled a skeletal forest, and a long, whip-like tail that trailed like a twin-tailed comet.
The surviving Librarians emerged from their trance shaken. They could not fathom what the gargantuan specter represented, but they felt a power of absolute malevolence radiating from it.
Nevertheless, the Sons of the Lion knew no fear. Their vengeance would not be stayed by omens. Vashtorr held secrets that could compromise the honor of the First Legion, and for that, they would stop at nothing to cast the daemon back into the Warp.
The Rock's long-range augurs soon locked onto an anomalous celestial body radiating intense Warp energy. It was Wyrmwood. With a silent, predatory grace, the fleet of the Unforgiven accelerated toward the blighted world.
Intercepting them was an Arks of Omen fleet led by the Ebon Blade, flanked by a swarm of daemon-fused warships and Dark Mechanicum cruisers. Yet, even this blasphemous armada was no match for a Dark Angels fleet reunited at Legion-strength.
Lances and macro-batteries exchanged thunderous volleys, weaving a web of light and death between the two closing lines. Clouds of jagged debris and frozen atmosphere soon filled the void. As the distance closed, the exchange turned into a brutal dance of boarding actions. Boarding torpedoes and assault rams slammed into hulls as warriors engaged in the ancient ritual of ship-to-ship combat.
If ground warfare in the 41st Millennium was World War I fought with the weapons of the future, then void warfare was the Age of Sail reborn in the cold dark. It was a contest of broadsides and boarding parties, the Spanish Armada versus the Royal Navy on a galactic scale.
From his desolate throne in the Warp, Lucius watched the Astartes Legion-fleet clash with the host of the Chaos Demi-god. It reminded him of old documentaries of the Great War, and he couldn't help but strike his skeletal brow with a resounding clack.
"Brilliant," Lucius muttered. "Two lunatics having a bayonet duel with nuclear warheads."
Amusement aside, Lucius did not remain idle. He closed his fist, and the authority of a nascent Chaos God rippled through the veil to his chosen race.
"Yes-yes! The Great Horned Rat's command... the order is given-issued!"
The Unforgiven broke through the blockade. Utilizing superior numbers and the fluid "divide and conquer" tactics of the Ravenwing and Deathwing, the Dark Angels shredded the heretic fleet. Under the combined weight of orbital bombardment from The Rock and the relentless boarding actions of the Sons of the Lion, the enemy armada was reduced to drifting husks.
"Retreat, retreat-flee, YES-YES!"
The Skaven reserve fleet, executing the maneuver known as "Tactical Withdrawal with the Speed of a Gale," turned tail and vanished. While a few fast Dark Angel destroyers gave chase and put several rat-ships to the sword, the main body of the Unforgiven did not pursue... save for those few Imperial vessels that chased too deep and were never seen again.
With void supremacy secured, the Dark Angels' drop pods began to rain down upon Wyrmwood. The planet's surface was a nightmare of shifting iron and screaming, sentient cities. But the true horror lay in the psychic assault: the Dark Angels' minds were flooded with the very truths the Chapter had spent ten millennia trying to bury. It was the ultimate insult.
"Prepare-ready yourselves! The manling-things arrive, and we-we must be ready-prepared!"
Deep within the command deck of the World Blight, Ikit Claw peered through a tear in realspace, watching the carnage on Wyrmwood and the frantic activity of Vashtorr. Unchallenged within his sanctum, the Arkifane had finally synthesized the Dissonance Engine, the Old One's shield-breaker.
This was the prize the Great Horned Rat demanded.
A dozen of the most powerful Grey Seers gathered around a profane altar. At its center lay a black, blood-slicked Warp-blade. They began to mutter a complex, chattering incantation.
"Messenger of the Horned Rat, Lord of Shadows! Answer-heed the call of your wretched servants—AIEEEE!!"
Following a blast of sickly green lightning, a formless shadow pooled upon the altar. It began to swell and take shape, coalescing into a Verminlord standing five meters tall. It was a lithe, predatory nightmare with twisted horns and a tail that coiled like a whip around a weeping Warp-dagger.
As this Verminlord, draped in a tattered black cowl, scanned the room with eyes as red as fresh gore, every Skaven present, including Ikit Claw, felt their legs turn to jelly. It felt as though an invisible blade was already pressed against their throats.
With good reason: this was a member of the legendary Council of Thirteen. He was the first of the Skaven to be ascended to daemonhood, a figure of such terror that his name had haunted the rat-kin since their earliest days. He was the master of Clan Eshin—Sneek, the Nightlord.
Lucius had unleashed him specifically to give Vashtorr a "surprise."
"Do not fail-disappoint Our Lord," Sneek hissed, his voice a rasping promise of death that seemed to bypass the ears and strike the soul.
Without waiting for a response, and ignoring the several Skaven who had involuntarily soiled themselves, Sneek dissolved into a cloud of black miasma and vanished.
In the World-That-Was, Sneek's right claw, Deathmaster Snikch, was known as the "Eraser"—the ultimate assassin used to remove anyone too powerful to face in open war. Sneek, his master, was even more enigmatic and lethal.
Empowered by his daemonic ascension, Sneek ghosted through the shifting iron of Wyrmwood. Neither the Dark Angels nor the daemons of Vashtorr could perceive his passage. He reached the Arkifane's private sanctum just as the Chaos Demi-god let out a triumphant roar, even as he prepared to defend his work against the approaching Astartes.
Hidden in the rafters of the mechanical vault, Sneek coiled his powerful, daemonic body. Three Weeping Blades—two in his claws, one in his tail—glowed with a faint, toxic green light as he prepared to strike from the dark.
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