Chapter Ten

They stood in ranks of fifty-by-forty, separated in nine distinct formations. They were clad in the most advanced power armour ever designed that sported dozens of refinements, new features, and hefting deadly new weapons. They were Primaris Space Marines, faster, stronger and more resilient than the first model of Astartes. They were Fulgrim's concept made manifest by the ingenuity of Cawl. They would perhaps end up being his greatest contribution to the Imperium or his worst heresy. It remained to be seen how they would be viewed by the wider Imperium.

The Imperial Regent walked through them, admiring. His entourage followed several steps behind. Only Cawl, Magnus and Nael walked beside him.

"Hidden here all this time…" Nael said, shock evident despite his voice being monotone. "How?" he directed towards Cawl.

The ten thousand year old archmagos paused but after a slight gesture from Fulgrim, he spoke.

"We are located exactly two kilometres beneath the surface," Cawl intoned. "The bulk elevators that carried us here, in fact all of the equipment you see before you, is powered by geothermal energy taken from the planet's core. Aside from the countless tonnes of rock that would interfere with scans, there is also a host of systems, principally designed by myself, that have cloaked the facility from any passive or active seeker probe. Once you add in the high levels of radiation and electromagnetic distortion that reigns supreme in the Subarin Wastes, then the Project's secrecy raised from secure to nigh-undetectable."

Nael's mechadendrites flicked but the Fabricator Locum said nothing.

"They are impressive," Shield-Captain Agamemnon stated, standing closer to inspect a Primaris legionnaire in the livery of the Death Guard. The Primaris, though tall and imposing, was still an index finger length shorter than the Custodian. "And you said the Aspirants were taken ten thousand years ago, in the centuries after the Heresy?"

"That is correct."

"And they were taken from each Legion's homeworld?"

"Correct."

"Tell me then," Agamemnon said, "Where is the Alpha Legion homeworld? The Ten Thousand would very much appreciate the information."

"I cannot tell you."

"Due to oaths sworn or threat of extermination?"

"Neither, they wiped my memory-core of the planet and its location. All I remember is a sense of rain, thunderclouds, and deep oceans."

"Have you ever tried to rediscover it?"

"No, for it would be pointless. I had acquired the two thousand Aspirants, my objective complete, what reason other than frivolous fancy would I want to relearn its location?"

Agamemnon grunted but remained quiet.

"What is their gene-seed stability?" Fulgrim asked, turning back around to view the others. All stopped where they were.

"0.001% genetic deviancy per generation."

Fulgrim raised an eyebrow at that. Not even the Word Bearers or Emperor's Children had gene-seed so pure. Truly, the Sangprimus Portum was potent in its ability to create.

"Any difficulties experienced while perfecting the Primaris gene-seed?"

"Many, but all were overcome eventually. The gene-seed of the Fifteenth Legion took the longest to stabilise, but even that was corrected."

Fulgrim could tell the information relieved Magnus, though the Blind Seer did not so much as physically acknowledge the difference, but Fulgrim could read his brother far better than any mortal. He knew that the burdensome weight of knowledge that had plagued Magnus since his discovery by their father would recede in time. It had been a private fact, known to the XV, the High Lords and few others, but the truth of the Thousand Sons' gene-seed was that it was inherently instable and highly mutable. Freshly crafted progenoid glands, harvested from the flesh of the Crimson King, would initially fare well on their own with soul-binding further stabilising the gene-seed to unprecedented levels. However this purity would slowly decay to the point that several generations of Astartes later, it would be so mutated and unstable that it would be prone to kill an Aspirant if implanted, therefore forcing the XV to incinerate the corrupted gene-seed. The only reason the Thousand Sons continued to exist was Magnus still drawing breath. That threat of fragile existence had weighed heavily on the Fifteenth Primarch and his sons, but with Primaris gene-seed coming from a more potent and stronger source, it had a chance to stand the test of time.

Fulgrim walked to his own Primaris sons. In front of the two thousand stood the captains at parade rest like their lower ranking brothers, ready for inspection. After several minutes of eying them, looking for any fault and seeing none, the Warmaster finally spoke to his new sons.

"You do me proud, my sons," he said simply. A wave of relief and satisfaction swept through the Primaris Emperor's Children. Fulgrim turned to address all within the chamber, his voice carrying with ease. "You all do me proud, sons and nephews alike. Let there be no misunderstanding: the Imperium faces its darkest hour, direr than even the Great Heresy. You have been painstakingly chosen, trained and prepared to face the many threats clamouring at our borders. Though you lack actual combat experience, your training records showcase ingenuity, tenacity, and ruthless efficiency; all desirable traits that will be pushed to their limits in the years to come. Though the hour is late and darkness threatens to consume us, I know you will emerge victorious and through you so will the Imperium!"

Eighteen thousand transhuman Primaris Astartes beat upon their ceramite breastplate, their throats roaring with conviction and readiness. Fulgrim looked at Belisarius Cawl while the roaring ran its necessary course.

"It is time we march on Olympus Mons."

Cawl bowed and gestured for the Imperial Regent to follow.

Olympus Mons was one of the most heavily fortified locations in the entire Imperium, surpassed only by the Fortress of the Astronomican where the Emperor resided upon His Golden Throne. Perhaps a few others, such as the fortress-monastery of the Fourth Legion on Olympia, or Cadia before its fall to the forces of Sigismund the Destroyer, could have been considered in the same league as Olympus Mons but few others could be named.

To successfully assault Olympus Mons was something only accomplished once before during the Heresy's final months when the Iron Hands had attacked in force, ravaging the forge and stealing countless treasures that originated from the Dark Age of Technology and even some from before that legendary age, or so some whispered. After Dorn's death and his Heresy defeated, Olympus Mons had been rebuilt under the aegis of its new Fabricator-General, Zagreus Kane, successor to the martyred Kelbor-Hal. Even the scions of Perturabo would grudgingly admit that the rebuilding and subsequent mass fortification of Olympus Mons could not have been done better even by themselves.

Hundreds of square kilometres had been permanently transformed from hab-blocks or red Martian desert to interconnected trench lines and hardened bunkers, artificial ridges adorned in artillery and anti-air weaponry, and much more. A full four million Skitarii garrisoned the fortifications surrounding Olympus Mons and the garrison within the forge itself was half that formidable size.

Six million Skitarii, two dozen Titan god-engines, thousands of tanks and aircraft of all types, and tens of millions of combat-servitors would ensure that a siege would take months, possibly years before Imperial forces defeated the rebels, and in doing so would have wrecked the forge beyond repair whilst taking severe losses not easily replaced. That was something that could not be allowed, and nor did the Imperium have the luxury to waste so much time and resources on such a siege. More and more astropathic messages alongside terrified courier voidships reported an ever worsening situation. Fulgrim had to end the rebellion on Mars and end it soon and as bloodless as possible.

Thankfully there was no need to lay a proper siege. Yes, the many subsidiary hive cities around the forge had been captured and loyalist trenches had begun to be dug, but it was all for show, all to distract the rebels. While Raskian felt safe within the Fabricator-General's Spire, surrounded by his minions, the rogue Mechanicus leader had no idea of the danger lurking beneath his forge.

Beneath the Olympus Mons Forge were the Vaults of Moravec, a depository of the forbidden and exceedingly dangerous, locked away for good reason by the Emperor upon signing the Treaty of Olympus that bound Mars to the nascent Imperium. It had rarely been opened since then. Only three individuals in the entire Imperium had the authority to open the Vaults. That of the Emperor, beloved by all; the Fabricator-General himself who would need the entire support of the Martian Parliament and the approval of the High Lords to do so, and the Warmaster of the Imperium, who must also receive Parliament's and the Senate's approval.

The Vaults were considered inaccessible, but in that Raskian was wrong. Starting in the decades after the Heresy, as the Primaris Project was still in its initial infant stages, Cawl had begun to create a tunnel from his hidden sanctum to that of the Vaults of Moravec. It was done for twofold reasons. One: in case of an enemy overrunning the forge, Cawl could destroy the Vaults before the locked contents it held were taken away. Fulgrim was not a fool, he knew Cawl would have 'liberated' many artefacts, but better the archmagos have them rather than some traitor or xenos. Still, Fulgrim would need to ensure Cawl's ambition and thirst for knowledge did not exceed reason. And two: in case the Fabricator-General became a traitor to the Throne, then it provided an access point for the loyalists. None but Fulgrim, Cawl, and the long dead Kane knew of the tunnel. It had taken millennia to create, such was Cawl's obsession with security and his vast patience, as well as his focus being on the Project and the various weapons and vehicles the Primaris Marines would need. But completed it had been, the confirmation given to Fulgrim in one of the several exchanges of information the Warmaster had with the archmagos before physically arriving to Mars.

The strike force, once envisioned to be hundreds or a few thousand, now had over eighteen thousand Astartes, fifty Custodes, the Fabricator Locum, his attendants and bodyguards, Archmagos Cawl, and the two primarchs with their protective cohorts. It was a force that could have conquered half a Segmentum.

They reached the tunnel's entrance and proceeded through, it wide enough to allow five Space Marines to walk abreast. The journey from the Subarin Wastes to the centre of Olympus Mons took many hours, but as the night ruled supreme over the surface, the strike force had reached the hidden door that led to the Vaults of Moravec.

Fulgrim opened a vox-channel to all accompanying him.

"Do not pry too deeply into what lies within. The knowledge and sight alone will drive some mad. Keep your eyes forward and stay focused." He ended the link and motioned for Cawl to open the door. The archmagos did so and the door slid open, revealing an open chamber, the contents of which had long since been gone.

"What resided here?" he voxed privately to Cawl.

The Martian was silent for some time, as if unsure on how to respond.

"It had no name, Lord Regent, but it was an artefact of immense power and potential. It predated Mankind as a species by millions of years. It was stolen by the traitors of the Tenth Legion during their assault on Mars."

Fulgrim was silent as he walked through the chamber. He knew his brother had been corrupted by some heretical viewpoint of technology, and though it was clear he was not tainted by Chaos he was nevertheless a traitor. Whatever had been in this chamber could have been the reason the Iron Hands did not assist the Arch-Betrayer and his forces on Terra during the Siege. Fulgrim idly wondered what it could have been.

Mentally shaking off the dangerous thought, he proceeded to the entryway of the chamber. Where glass once would have resided, there was nothing but stale air. A small plaque read 'Martian Artefact' but that was the extent of the description. Fulgrim moved passed the threshold and stood in an avenue-like hallway, glow-globes held aloft by stone statues carved in the image of famous tech-priests. Some of the glow-globes had malfunctioned, either flickering hesitantly or remaining dark and unlit, broken. It had likely been centuries since anyone had been down here.

Flanking either side of the corridor were chambers similar to the one they were emerging from, all large but what was held within greatly varied in size. All had glass panel doors and small plaques but the primarch followed his own advice and ignored them. For another hour they proceeded through without incident. Such was the risk of heretical tech-corruption, that there were no servitors, servo-skulls or even pict-capturers. There was supposedly no physical threat that could emerge from the Vaults as it only had one entry and exit. And in that, the rebels were wrong.

A mere hundred metres from the vast, intricately sealed doors, a buzz emitted from behind Fulgrim. Curious as there had been no sound but the marching of boots onto metal, he turned.

One of Vuellic Nael's adjutants was staring at the plaque and the item beyond the glass panel.

"Impossible," he said. "The original draft of The Theoretical Papers of Magos Geros. We were told they were destroyed millennia ago. Such knowledge within them," the tech-priest reached out, "Such waste for them to be here-"

Fulgrim shot the tech-priest with his gold-plated bolt pistol, killing the Martian instantly. The Warmaster looked at Nael and the two shared a nod, an understanding forged between them.

Quickly the Imperial column reached the Vaults' doors. The craftwork las-etched into the adamantium wall-plate detailed scenes of horror and devastation, anarchy and hopelessness, either by powerful weapons or by figures Fulgrim recognised as the Men of Iron. It was purposeful, reminding all who visited that the chamber represented the worst technology could do.

Cawl opened these doors as well. It took a full minute for them to open all the way but once they finished, Fulgrim stepped out.

"Spread out, secure this room and adjacent chambers."

Several squads of Primaris Marines did so, with heavy bolter emplacements set up in case of a counter-attack. Fulgrim looked up at the ceiling, knowing he was deep in the Spire's subterranean catacombs, and refined his strategies and fall-back plans.

"Sire," began Bracchus, "Orders?"

Fulgrim unsheathed Fireblade, pressing its activation rune and its reddish-orange energy field crackled to life. "We do as we were made to do, Julian. We conquer with blade and bolter."

While the Fabricator-General's Spire was a fortress within a fortress, it was not designed to withstand an attack by near twenty thousand Astartes and two primarchs, thus progress was quickly made, entire companies of Skitarii defeated with ease. Nael as Fabricator Locum had visited Olympus Mons dozens of times and knew of many, though not all, security measures. His insight allowed kill-zones to be circumvented and purposefully false pathways to be avoided, accelerating their progress.

Klaxons rang within seconds of the strike force revealing itself. Almost an hour passed, squads and companies securing chokepoints and intersections as they ascended the forge's many levels. The rebels, though taken by surprise, were quick to respond but the forces they brought to bear did nothing but to slow the Imperials down. The lion's share of the rebels were in the outer forge and hab-districts, leaving only several garrison regiments and a handful of elite units. But even these, ranging from veteran Skitarii forces to a handful of the Legio Cybernetica, were unable to stop them.

The Temple of All Knowledge, what could have been a warzone that would have proved a significant obstacle, was instead serene, the tech-priests and guards there having thrown down their weapons and fallen to their knees in subjugation. With the Imperials quickly securing huge swathes of the forge, there was no point in delaying the inevitable and risk damaging the holy sanctums of the Priesthood.

Past the temple resided the Spire proper. Here the guards continued to resist, it was in their hypno-indoctrination and they couldn't surrender even if the opportunity presented itself, which it did not. These too fell before the loyalists, Raskian's Protector Skitarii only delaying the inevitable.

Fireblade bisected two of the imposing Protectors, their corpses falling to the floor. The other four, held aloft by Magnus' power were crushed by aetheric energy. They fell to the ground, solid thuds echoing in the suddenly quiet antechamber. Two Phoenix Guards flanked the door and heaved it open, revealing the rebel leader who lay within.

Oud Oudia Raskian was massive, his body having to be lifted out either by cranes or modified airships. It is what made his travel to Terra and back a arduously long process. Despite all his excessive augmentations, the head was still vaguely human in form if not appearance.

Fulgrim walked to the Fabricator-General, his Guard, brother, and Nael following.

Raskian watched him approach, steam escaping from several vents situated around his mass. As the Imperials neared, Raskian began to speak, using his augmetic voice for the first time in weeks.

"Lord Fulgrim, perhaps we can forge a deal-"

Fulgrim, Warmaster of the Imperium and Imperial Regent, Living Voice of the Emperor, raised his bolt pistol and fired three shots in quick succession at Raskian's metal-encased skull. The mass reactive shells exploded a micro-second after impact. Though his body was almost entirely machine, Raskian's brain was still meat and synapses. The rebel Fabricator-General died, his body going quiet and still.

The Warmaster looked at Nael and Magnus.

"Raskian could never be trusted. Where we need unity, he wanted division, where we need common cause, he wanted self-interest. Imperium and Mechanicus, Terra and Mars, we are stronger together but divided we will fall."

Nael bowed and Magnus nodded in agreement, smiling.

"Fabricator Locum Nael," Fulgrim said, "you now have stewardship over Olympus Mons. Order the remainder of the rebels to stand down."

Three weeks later Fulgrim stood upon Terra once again, this time on the mass disembarkation field of the Eternity Wall Spaceport. He had been back for almost two weeks and had worked tirelessly since his return to ready the Imperium for the next phase. Much had changed since Raskian's death and Mars' subsequent return to the Imperial fold. Vuellic Nael and been unanimously elected by the Martian Parliament to become the new Fabricator-General. Cawl was unhappy he did not receive the position, but Fulgrim couldn't risk alienating Nael and the loyal Mechanicus, nor did he want Cawl, who was already a controversial and powerful figure within the Priesthood, to become even more powerful and influential than he already was.

The Codex Imperialis had been implemented on the Throneworld, its most significant change being the enlargement of the High Lords from twelve members to thirty, incorporating many powerful offices and positions that had either long been ignored or had long jockeyed for and only intermittently securing a seat. Several new offices had been created, such as Imperial Premier who oversaw the day-to-day functioning of the High Lords' council. Though not officially a member of the High Thirty, it was nonetheless a significant position and entrusted to veteran Administratum bureaucrat Lev Tieron. The Custodians, after millennia without a seat, had been given permanent membership, as had the Space Marine Representatives. Another position created had been that of Iron Castellan, gifting the Iron Warrior commander in charge of the Astronomican's outer defences a voice in the Imperium's highest office of governance. Warsmith Horgeth was understandably hesitant. The last individual to accept such a position of power and trust had been Rogal Dorn as the Emperor's Praetorian, but the primarch assured Horgeth, pointing out that the bearer of Iron Castellan would be temporary and be replaced by another Warsmith of the IV in a century's time, elected by the High Lords and approved by himself as Imperial Regent. And the near two thousand Astartes Horgoth had under his command would be lowered significantly to five hundred legionnaires.

But the political arena was not the only thing that had changed. The single greatest strategic redeployment of the Imperium's vast armies was now underway. Orders had been despatched in rapid succession, not least the distribution of the massive Army forces protecting Sol. Over thirteen thousand warships had resided when Fulgrim arrived six weeks ago. Now only a third of that would remain within the next three months. A vast majority were being sent to reinforce beleaguered battle-lines across the galaxy. But two thousand Army ships would have a different objective. They would not be sent to reinforce or to garrison, but rather to be a part of the Emperor's retribution. Divided into five armadas, supplemented extensively with Mechanicus and Astartes forces, this would be the vanguard of the Imperium's new offensive that would drive back the enemy wherever they resided and reclaim what had been lost.

It would be a monumental task that would take decades, if not a century at the very least to come to some form of fruition. It would be an endeavour that rivalled the Great Crusade in terms of manpower and ambition.

But before a crusade could be waged, it must first be declared.

"My lord," came Corswain's voice, interrupting the primarch's thoughts. Fulgrim glanced at the former Dark Angel, his armour now pearl-white. On his left shoulder pad resided the power maul sigil of the Warmaster's office and upon the right was the Palatine Aquila. Corswain had proven his loyalty in the face of great betrayals and was thus the perfect candidate to act as the Warmaster's Seneschal. "It is time."

"Indeed it is." Fulgrim moved to the raised platform which would allow him an excellent view of the amassed army before him. As he walked, the primarch passed Magnus, dozens of Astartes officers, Army generals and admirals, the three ranking leaders of the Silent Sisterhood, Captain-General Valoris, Fabricator-General Nael, Ecclesiarch Roland Buchar, Premier of the Imperial Senate Lev Tieron, alongside many other members of that purged council, and finally Amelia Jakoby clad in silver-trimmed onyx power armour adorned with the crossed thunderbolt motif of the Imperial Creed. She laid her palm over her heart, muttering a prayer as he passed.

Fulgrim ascended the steps and looked out over the martial might of the Imperium. Seven million Imperial Army troopers stood arrayed in ordered ranks, with their Armada counterpart having an officer from each warship that would carry them. Three score god-engines representing elements of seven separate Titan Legions dominated further back, situated in their shadows was over two hundred Knights, and beneath them stood two million Skitarii. But that was not all. Two massive transhuman forces stood in the forefront.

To the right stood two thousand of the Emperor's Children, fifteen hundred Iron Warriors, four hundred Night Lords, one thousand World Eaters, three hundred Death Guard, ten thousand legionnaires of the Thousand Sons, nine hundred Black Templars, eight hundred Word Bearers, and two hundred Astartes of the Alpha Legion, with four thousand of the Emperor's Custodians and seven hundred of the Silent Sisterhood rightfully standing by them.

To the left were eighteen thousand Primaris Astartes, situated in their Legion formations. The Primaris has impressed Fulgrim during the Battle of Olympus Mons. They had killed tens of thousands of rebel soldiers and advanced combat-servitors, taking only a few score casualties and giving them desperately needed experience that would serve them well in the wars to come.

Overhead flew flight after flight of fighters, interceptors, bombers and dropships. A dozen battle-barges and battleships had entered low-orbit, the blue-white of their thrusters easily visible. Their presence parted the polluted sky of Terra, albeit temporarily, and from here hundreds of ships could be seen, either clearly or as moving stars. The Cicatrix Maledictum was also visible, a scar on reality. Some mortals looked up at it with unease but Fulgrim knew their fears must be confronted and conquered, only then would they be able to do what was necessary for the survival of the species.

"My people," he began, his voice carried by speaker-equipped servo-skulls and hololithic projectors that showed his likeness to those kilometres away. His voice was being carried to not only those assembled here, but across Terra and the vox-waves would soon reach Luna, Mars and eventually all others in the Sol System.

"We are on the precipice, staring into the hungered maw of the Archenemy and those others that gnaw at our mighty empire. Our enemies believe the Imperium to have become weak, frail, with its foundations rotted through with complacency and corruption. In that, they were right. The Imperium had become those things," Fulgrim raised his fist and smacked into his open palm, "but no longer. Terra, the Cradle of Mankind, the birthworld to humanity, has been cleansed of the malign, the corrupt, and the rebel. The Throneworld is once again firm and strong but Terra is not the Imperium. Tens of thousands of worlds are either lost or being assaulted with hundreds more falling every day. I say this not to dishearten you but in fact to steel your resolve. I will not lie, I will not make light of the obstacles that face us. Mankind is being pushed to extinction."

The Warmaster paused and raised his arms as if holding the heavens like the titan of old Grekan mythology.

"But we will not fail. My comrades, my brothers and sisters of battle, we will not fail! The Emperor has resurged in strength and once again He communes with us. Terrible storms have ruled the Immaterium for months, making travel deadlier than it had been since the Age of Apostasy, but the storms have begun to calm, showcasing the Emperor's power. We cannot fail! We must not fail!"

He could see the energy stirring in the army, confidence and assuredness filling them. Fulgrim lowered his hands and unsheathed Fireblade.

"I declare this day the beginning of the Indomitus Crusade, whose objectives will be the restoration of the Imperium and to defeat the many threats that assail us! Our retribution begins today!" He raised the power sword and pointed it at the Great Rift, activating it. "For the Emperor! For the Indomitus Crusade!"

Millions enthusiastically repeated the battlecries, their throats going raw with the effort. The war-horns of the Titans blared, the legionnaires saluted with clenched fist upon chestplate, the ends of Guardian-Spears and the pommel knobs of staffs carrying flags added to the cacophony of retribution.

He had been summoned. Such a simple phrase but one laden with chance and potential, one that could spell ascendance in his master's favoured followers or could be his death warrant. The warrior-sorcerer felt many emotions flow through him: intrigue, excitement, caution, dread, and even fear. Only the foolish did not fear the Changer of Ways.

He arrived to the Crystal Labyrinth, that ever changing maze where countless millions had entered and were never seen again, though their screams of lost hope forever echoed. Despite being a loyal servant of his god for over ten thousand years, the warrior-sorcerer held no illusions that he could navigate the Labyrinth without guidance. Alone out of the Great Four, Tzeentch did not protect his personal realm with hordes of daemons. Rather, the Master of Fortune allowed any and all to enter his maze, knowing none could truly circumvent it with any degree of success and definitely not without his help. It was a symbol of power and it was intimidating to even him, one who had visited his great lord twice before.

An orb of eldritch purple-blue energy appeared to lead him through the maze. He dared not turn to look, knowing the pathway he walked changed as soon as his ceramite boots tread on it, and he would not risk losing his guide for that meant loss of power and eventually even death. It took years, it took months, it took days or it took mere minutes to navigate the Crystal Labyrinth. Time was fluid in the Eye, even more so in the Realm of Tzeentch.

The warrior-sorcerer approached the Impossible Fortress. Spires, battlements, and gates appeared and disappeared within seconds of formation. The orb led him to a wall that morphed into a gate at hi sapproach that yawned open and he entered without hesitation. The sounds hissing and thudding behind him assured him that the gate was now gone, never to reappear as it had, changed and repurposed to better please Tzeentch.

He walked for some time until arriving to a chamber that had nine hallways converging on it. It was impossible to see what resided down those hallways past a few metres, their corridors thick with mist and darkness. Out of two hallways emerged two other individuals. One was dressed in the ostentatious robes of the Ecclesiarchy but with all sigils of the Emperor and His false Church removed, replaced with those of Tzeentch's. The man was unassuming in appearance, quite plain, but the warrior-sorcerer could see the vast powers simmering beneath the mortal's frail frame. The other was a daemon of nearly unfathomable power, a hallowed Lord of Change.

All three approached the doors to the Hidden Library, flanked by the Towers of Helixis. The doors opened and bade them entry. He and the other two did so, and immediately were awed by the sight before them. Countless millions of books were aligned on bookshelves that extended into the distance, with hundreds of thousands floating in the air, their pages turned by invisible hands. Maddened whispers filled the Hidden Library, syncing with the turning of aetheric pages. The warrior-sorcerer could feel his mind going numb, his god's protection to prevent insanity that was so common to those who neared his presence.

And there in the centre of the Library was the writhing mass of Tzeentch. The Architect of Fate had no true form, or if he did none had ever seen it. It was impossible to explain what he saw, for there were no appropriate words in any of the languages the warrior-sorcerer knew that could describe the Changers of Ways. He knew the others were seeing something wildly different but each approached and knelt before their lord, heads bowed.

+At last, you have arrived,+ boomed the voice who had planned the extinction of thousands of species.

"My lord," all three said. It was humbling to the warrior-sorcerer to know a Feathered Lord was no higher than him, at least not here at this time. All were equal in their insignificance when compared to the Master of Fortune.

"What is your bidding, my master?" the Lord of Change asked, avian head still downturned.

+The Anathema's Third Son has returned and has broken the soul-cage around his creator. The plan of containment has failed,+ the voice thundered, each word sending a wave of powerful nausea slamming against their psyches. +But where one plan fails, another spawns. It was an unexpected development yet,+ three tomes lowered from high above and hovered in front of each of them, +just as I predicted.+

Each follower touched their respective tome and their god's voice spoke to them again, instructing them privately. The warrior-sorcerer listened to his master's words and smiled. Once Tzeentch was finished, they rose and began to depart.

Soon, the warrior-sorcerer thought, the Imperium would once again learn to fear him, the Sorcerer Lord of the Outcast Nine Warband, Soukhounou of the Raven Guard.

Author's Note: The first arc for the timeline is now finished! The second arc will take place during the Crusade itself. This will be put on hold until I finish the next chapter of the Fulgrimian Heresy, then I will return to this. Let me know what you thought of the chapter either in a review or by PM-ing me. Enjoy!