Feathers of ravens, wandering in the shadows.
The Expeditionary Corps had secured victory, granting the Imperium a brief respite. Mortals praised the Emperor and the Primarchs.
Yet, in the terrifying, unnatural depths of the Warp, a Primarch stood alone, locked in a deadly struggle against the unholy coalition of the Four Gods.
Within the obsidian walls of a blasphemous fortress, shadows streaked past, trailing raven feathers in their wake. Alarm klaxons howled through the iron corridors.
Corvus Corax advanced, his form concealed in darkness. Gunfire erupted around him but soon fell silent. Any abomination foolish enough to stand in his way was consumed by a murder of ravens.
His demigod form granted him boundless endurance. Ahead, two fallen Astartes clad in corrupted power armor barred his path, bolters raised.
The Raven Lord did not even glance at them. His shadow passed between them.
A moment later, their armored bodies collapsed, lifeless.
Corax pressed on—he had to escape this accursed world.
For the most adept infiltrator among the Primarchs to have his presence exposed here was no accident.
Lorgar, the Arch-Heretic, had employed forbidden sorcery, conspiring with the Ruinous Powers to craft a vile abomination.
Through their profane arts, the Daemons had discerned Corax's location and sealed the world, seeking to annihilate yet another of the Emperor's sons.
Grenade launchers thundered, and traitorous bolters flared, momentarily illuminating the darkness. Within the flickering firelight, hordes of ravenous horrors rushed at the Shadowed Primarch.
Their flesh was fused with metal, their souls tormented within blasphemous constructs of agony. Screaming Daemons, stitched together into grotesque amalgamations, proclaimed their impurity with every anguished wail.
A vile desecration of life.
Corax surged forward, his lightning claws rending the abominations asunder. The corridor filled with the stench of ruptured flesh and the remnants of warp-spawned puppets.
But he did not pause. He knew greater horrors lurked ahead.
From the bowels of the fortress, a monstrous form emerged, its vast tentacles lashing out.
The fallen warriors caught in its path were crushed, their power armor unable to withstand the sheer force. Blood and viscera seeped through shattered ceramite.
Corax evaded, his silhouette vanishing into the darkness as he slipped past the tendrils. He broke free of the fortress's confines, taking to the skies.
"I must deliver this message."
That thought alone occupied his mind.
His own survival was irrelevant. He had cast aside power and glory, becoming a silent predator in the shadows, striking down traitors with ruthless efficiency.
But now, with the enemy's resurgence, it was time for duty—to fulfill his Emperor's will, even at the cost of his life.
He had almost escaped.
And then, the Warp itself convulsed.
A massive rift ignited, bathing the world in eldritch radiance. From four cardinal points, four unspeakable entities emerged.
Before their true forms manifested, the Warp itself screamed:
The sky burned with Khorne's crimson wrath. The earth rotted into Nurgle's plague-ridden filth. Mountains crystallized under Tzeentch's influence. The air became thick with Slaanesh's sickly-sweet musk.
A Bloodthirster. A Great Unclean One. A Lord of Change. A Keeper of Secrets.
The Dark Gods had reached a rare accord.
And Corvus Corax was their prey.
"Corax, you are alone. No reinforcements. No hope."
The Lord of Change wove words with sorcerous malice, seeking to unmake the Raven Lord's resolve.
Corax exhaled softly. "I'm used to this kind of fight."
Then he was gone.
The Great Daemon of Tzeentch recoiled, its avian visage twisting into a scowl. It flared its massive wings, sensing something amiss.
It was right to be wary.
The shadows beneath its feet had grown unnaturally dark.
Like molten pitch, the void seeped upward, enveloping its talons. The daemon shrieked as the black abyss swallowed its limbs, creeping toward its waist.
Desperate, the Lord of Change unleashed a barrage of arcane blasts. Each bolt of raw sorcery vanished into the black mire without a trace.
Flapping furiously, it tried to ascend—but the darkness followed, relentless.
Its talons cracked under the pressure. One limb twisted at an impossible angle.
In its desperation, the daemon called upon a spell so potent that the air itself trembled. The force alone fractured the ground before the spell was even cast.
And yet, before it could release the energy—
Whoosh.
The abyss dissolved.
ravens scattered in every direction, dispersing into nothingness before the spell could land.
The Great Unclean One and the Bloodthirster laughed at their flailing ally, mocking its failure.
But the Keeper of Secrets did not share in their amusement.
Because the moment the ravens had vanished, an abyss had swallowed it whole.
Crunch.
The sound of breaking bone echoed.
When the darkness receded, the Keeper of Secrets lay broken—its spine torn free, its organs spilling onto the desecrated ground.
The true target had never been the Lord of Change.
Corax had feinted.
Even in a fight against the Four Great Daemons, the Raven Lord struck first—and struck true.
But it had come at a cost.
When he emerged from the shadows, his black armor was ravaged—slashed, seared, and cracked. Blood leaked from fresh wounds.
Yet the price had been worth it.
To kill one and cripple another in mere moments, while suffering only minor wounds, was a feat beyond mortal comprehension.
Corax stood, his breathing steady. His steel wings shimmered in the dim light. His gaunt, pale features were framed by long strands of black hair, his midnight eyes unyielding.
But there was no time to rest.
The Daemons were no longer careless.
The Bloodthirster roared, charging with such force that the ground quaked.
The Great Unclean One unleashed its foul plagues, a putrid miasma spreading like death itself.
The Lord of Change, though injured, still whispered, its voice slithering into Corax's mind.
"The Imperium is doomed. The Corpse-Emperor rots upon his throne. Why cling to a failing dream? Your brothers saw the truth. Join us."
The ravens surrounding Corax cackled in unison.
"Never again."
Unnoticed by the Daemons, something pulsed within the shattered corpse of the Keeper of Secrets.
A burning eye.
Meanwhile, aboard the Holy Church of Soul Fire, a forge-priest knelt before the towering statue of the Emperor.
Nakluf, a brother of the Mechanicum, recited the sacred catechisms.
A robed minister stood before him.
"Nakluf, what is your purpose?"
"To serve the Emperor's will."
"What is the Emperor's will?"
"To fight and die for the Imperium."
"And what is death?"
"Our duty."
The exchange was repeated, firm and unwavering.
Dukel, a Primarch in exile, observed from the shadows.
He was not here to pray. He was here to judge Nakluf's faith.
To drive the Ork God from the Imperial Network.
To save his brother Vulkan.
Dukel intended to draw Nakruf into the Heart Network, establishing a stable link to Vulkan.
Previously, he had no intention of integrating any of the Primarchs into the Heart Network. His primary concern was the presence of secondary gods diluting its purity. But the situation had become dire.
Vulkan, given his nature, was unlikely to disrupt the Heart Network. More importantly, this was the only viable strategy to reclaim the Imperial Network and expel the Ork God infesting it.
Through the psychic resonance of the Mind Network, Dukel could cultivate Vulkan's presence within the Imperial Network, allowing him to grow strong enough to challenge the Ork God.
Without the Heart Network to balance the raw, volatile emotions of the Ork worshippers, Vulkan's essence would inevitably be tainted. Left unchecked, he would eventually become something akin to the very enemy they sought to vanquish.
Dukel observed Nakruf closely, measuring his faith against the criteria for entry into the Heart Network.
Unfortunately, while Nakruf's devotion was unwavering, something was missing.
Though now mortal, remnants of his demi-god essence persisted, preventing Dukel from forcibly pulling him into the Heart Network.
—Then I will wait.
As he contemplated this, a raven feather—one he had carried with him—suddenly floated into the air, hovering before him.
Seeing this, a faint smile played at the corner of Dukel's lips.
Since their essence exchange in the Warp, he and Corvus Corax had been in frequent contact.
From time to time, Corax would send him visions of the Four Gods' machinations or deliver critical information.
For Dukel, it was an amusing experience—reminding him of an old game from his past life: Traveling Frog.
The game's wandering frog would occasionally send back messages or trinkets from its journeys.
Of course, the comparison was imperfect. Corax, the Lord of the Dark Ravens, was not about to mail Warp-forged curios back to Dukel.
And unlike Traveling Frog, this version—this Traveling Raven—was far more brutal.
I wonder what it will be this time.
Dukel gazed at the feather, awaiting a vision or message.
Nothing came.
Instead, the raven feather darkened, its texture growing damp, then wet, then scarlet.
A drop of blood, thick with Warp-taint, slid from the quill's tip and splashed against the stone floor of the church.
Tick. Tock.
A vile, blasphemous scent filled the air.
Dukel's expression hardened.
"This is a blood sacrifice."
Corax had used a blood-rite psychic signal to summon him. Which meant—
The Raven Lord was in danger.
Warp specialties, is it?
A bizarre thought flickered through Dukel's mind, but he pushed it aside.
His focus shifted to the nature of the sacrifice. As with any summoning rite, the quality of the offering determined the strength one could manifest.
Let's see what's been offered.
Dukel's mind followed the sacrifice's resonance, delving into the immaterium. His vision blurred—then sharpened—revealing the sacrificial entity:
A warped, wretched husk of a heretic.
A servant of excess.
"Slaanesh? Seriously?"
—Deep within the Warp, a battle neared its climax.
The Lord of the Dark Ravens wove through the shadows, his body marked by countless wounds—blade-cuts, axe-gashes, pestilence burns. Yet he did not falter.
His silence matched the darkness.
At his feet, the broken forms of a Bloodthirster and a Keeper of Secrets lay still, their fates uncertain.
Only two adversaries remained—the Great Unclean One and the Lord of Change—both grievously wounded, yet still standing.
The demons had the advantage, but hesitation clung to them. Despite their numbers, they refused to commit to an all-out attack.
Instead, they whispered.
"Surrender, Corax."
"The age of the Primarchs has passed. Your empire crumbles. Your fall is inevitable."
Corax did not answer.
He waited.
Watched.
Searched for an opening.
Then—
A laugh.
Low. Sarcastic.
Both demons stiffened.
From the corpse of the Keeper of Secrets, flames erupted. Flesh blackened, shriveled. Cracks split open, spewing fire.
The demon's once-opulent form shrank, growing gaunt and mummified. Limbs contorted, bones groaned.
A single great eye flared open upon its forehead, its iris formed of countless burning rings.
Over a million smaller eyes blazed within the wheels of fire.
Corax narrowed his gaze.
"Dukel?"
The inferno answered.
"It's me."
Dukel's voice came from within the flames, his presence radiating through the corpse of the slain daemon.
I don't have much time.
The inferno spread, consuming the dark realm. Lava surged, the sky ignited, the land itself burned.
Warp-spawned filth wailed as their world collapsed.
Dukel rose, his mummified vessel wreathed in fire, the great eye in his forehead searing through the immaterium.
The Lord of Change's spells disintegrated under the burning gaze.
A shadow moved. A raven darted through the inferno—only for its life to be stolen mid-flight.
The Great Unclean One, its bloated form trembling, turned to flee.
It was too slow.
Before it could activate its teleportation sigils, Dukel descended like a blazing meteor, the wheels of fire encircling him.
He struck.
Flames consumed the Great Unclean One. Flesh sloughed away, melting into pools of putrid grease. Bone shattered.
In moments, nothing remained but burning ruin.
With the daemon's death, the flames surged higher, restoring the mummified form of Dukel's possessed vessel.
The Warp trembled.
But the battle was not yet over.
Corax's gaze turned toward a distant fortress.
He sensed something—something wrong.
"What is that?"
Dukel followed his sightline. The sensation was unmistakable.
"A war machine."
Corax's tone darkened.
"Abaddon's legions are gathering strength. I suspect this is only the beginning."
He turned to Dukel.
"What now?"
Though much of his memory had been stolen, Corax recalled one thing—Dukel had always been the strategist among the Primarchs.
If anyone could devise a plan in the heat of battle, it was him.
Dukel grinned.
"I have the perfect battle plan."
Corax's eyes narrowed.
"Let's hear it."
Dukel straightened, his voice filled with unwavering confidence.
"First, I charge in from the front."
"Then, you follow me and charge in from the front."
"That's how we win this battle."
Silence.
Corax stared.
It was not a battle plan.
And yet—
For some reason—
He smiled.
It was absurd.
But he had seen worse.
At least Dukel wasn't ordering the Raven Guard into a head-on assault like Horus once had.
And so, the Lord of the Dark Ravens grinned and nodded.
"I like this plan, brother."