After Dukel's brief exchange with the Raven Lord in the Sea of Souls, the enigmatic entity departed hastily, leaving behind a single raven feather.
This black feather contained a sliver of the Raven Lord's essence. While it conferred no direct enhancement upon the Primarch, it served as a conduit for communication between the two.
Dukel's mind's eye could pierce through the shifting mists of the Sea of Souls, granting him an almost limitless field of vision. He clearly discerned the path Lorgar had taken, yet even his abilities could not penetrate the veil surrounding Abaddon's warhost, safeguarded by countless daemonic entities.
Now, however, the Raven Lord acted as his eyes. Through the feather, he relayed the intricate details of the Chaos legions' activities.
Dukel had never imagined that after thwarting the Dark Gods' schemes, the most grateful party would not be the Imperium, but the Warmaster of Chaos himself—Abaddon.
In the visions shared by the Raven Lord, the ever-shifting tides of the warp roiled with madness. Within the churning storms, monstrous forms howled as they took shape. This was the Immaterium, where reality was malleable, and all laws were but hollow lies.
In this eternal nightmare, an unparalleled force was gathering.
Across various daemon worlds, vast forges burned ceaselessly. Corrupted Tech-Priests of the Dark Mechanicum shuffled between the labyrinthine pipelines of their infernal manufactoria, dragging rusted steel limbs as they maintained the dreadful machinery of war.
In the factory's heart, rivers of molten metal flowed amidst cyclopean furnaces. Here, daemonic blacksmiths with grotesquely overdeveloped musculature toiled relentlessly, hammering unholy steel into instruments of slaughter. Their creations were war machines designed solely for carnage, adorned with monomolecular blades, whirring chainaxes, and barbed tendrils tipped with spears.
Each abomination they forged was destined to become a nightmare upon the battlefields of realspace.
Elsewhere, sorcerers of Chaos chanted blasphemous rites, inscribing runes of corruption upon their constructs. Captured mortals were dragged to profane altars, their agonized screams serving as offerings to the Ruinous Powers. Lesser daemons, drawn by the suffering, emerged from the Immaterium—only to be ensnared. Rather than feasting upon souls as they had hoped, they were bound into the hulking forms of daemon engines.
Sorcerers and Warpsmiths etched ancient contracts into the very essence of these entities, shackling them in torment. Enslaved, deceived, and condemned to an eternity of bloodshed, their rage made them ideal weapons of war.
Whenever these daemon machines manifested in the material realm, they heralded slaughter beyond reckoning.
Across countless such forges, ceaseless toil supplied the Dark Crusade with weapons vast and terrible.
Despite Dukel's intervention in the Dark Gods' designs, Chaos was once again amassing its armies—on a scale never before witnessed. Daemon commanders exerted an iron grip over their unruly kin, forging them into a disciplined force. Such control was unprecedented.
As preparations neared completion, Abaddon surveyed the grandest and most formidable warhost the galaxy had ever seen, a pride bordering on omnipotence swelling within him.
Across the void, beyond numberless stars, nothing would stand in the path of this legion.
When unleashed, it would scour the universe in a cataclysm of war.
For this, the Warmaster owed thanks to the Primarch.
Had the Primarchs not returned to frustrate the Dark Gods' machinations, Abaddon might never have had the opportunity to command such a force within his own lifetime.
Among the thronging daemons, unrelenting howls of fury resounded. None among them accepted subjugation willingly, yet in the realm of Chaos, their desires mattered little.
The mightiest of daemons mercilessly crushed dissenters, imposing order upon the seething ranks. Only the domain of Nurgle remained eerily tranquil, its inhabitants crooning guttural hymns of devotion to their Corpulent Father.
Ancient warships, long-hidden in the warp's depths, were dredged forth by sorcerous means. Their hulls bristled with daemonic growths, adorned with the twisted icons of the Dark Gods and countless skulls.
Yet, even amid this display of power, Abaddon was taken aback when an unexpected guest arrived—Lorgar, the Urizen.
A Daemon Primarch's presence demanded attention. Though battered and bloodied, Lorgar's arrival warranted a warm reception.
Abaddon's surprise deepened when yet another visitor made his presence known.
From the endless abyss, a storm of ravens descended, battering against the warhost's daemonic wards. Recognizing the figure within an instant, Abaddon narrowed his eyes.
The Lord of the Dark Ravens had come.
A flicker of emotion passed through the Warmaster. Under the unholy glow of the warp, he straightened, his armor gleaming ominously.
"Corax, great Lord of Shadows," Abaddon sneered. "Why do you beat your wings in vain? No matter how fiercely you struggle, you will never soar as high as you once did."
"The era of the Primarchs is over. You are but a relic, forgotten by time."
From the gloom, Corvus Corax emerged.
His form was draped in shadows, his hair black as the void, his pallid skin ghostly in contrast. Gaunt yet unyielding, he regarded the Warmaster with a gaze devoid of fear.
"Never."
His voice, cold and sparse, cut through the ether before he vanished once more into the darkness.
Thus ended the visions imparted through the raven feather.
"Brother, Chaos gathers its strength. Tread carefully."
Clarks' final warning echoed in Dukel's thoughts.
Dukel's fingers curled around the feather, his expression unreadable.
"The era of the Primarchs is over?" he mused, recalling the towering form of the Warmaster, braids swaying with arrogant certainty.
"Is that so?"
He committed his brother's warning to memory.
Yet, worry lingered. Clarks roamed the Immaterium alone—isolated, vulnerable. Who could say what horrors he might encounter?
The end of the Primarchs' age… A grim thought indeed.
In the days that followed, the pace of the expedition fleet accelerated.
Guilliman's forces were vast beyond measure. Even with Dukel's psychic network forging a Mind Matrix to aid in warp navigation, the fleet's sheer size made swift travel arduous.
Previously, Dukel had been content with a steady advance—so long as they reached Baal on time. But now, urgency gripped him. Restlessness gnawed at the Lord of the Expeditionary Corps.
Thus, the fleet pressed on, surging ahead of the Regent's Legion, spearheading the vanguard.
World after world fell before them—purged of heretics, cleansed of xenos.
As they neared Baal, the Tyranid menace thickened. Chaos and Genestealer cults alike stirred within the Imperium's borders, sowing discord and ruin.
Every world along their path required salvation.
Xenos and heretics alike were intolerable blights. Which to purge first was a question that had occupied Dukel's mind.
That question remained unanswered—until they reached the next system.
Upon entering orbit over the hive world of Sika, Dukel had expected only to resupply and recruit laborers.
Instead, the Mindfire's sensors detected war.
In the void above Sika, a Khorne warfleet—its ships clad in brass and caked in dried gore—clashed ferociously with a Tyranid Hive Fleet.
For a fleeting moment, Dukel simply watched, taken aback by the sheer brutality of the battle unfolding before him.
…
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