Warhammer 40k : Space Marine Kayvaan

The Blackstone Fortress was a weapon of unimaginable power, capable of devastating entire sectors of space. However, to operate such a construct required specific artifacts scattered across the galaxy—each as rare as it was vital. One of these artifacts lay hidden on the barren world the red-haired daemon now stood upon.

Her mission was simple: retrieve the artifact and deliver it for Abaddon's grand plan. She stood at the gateway, her fiery gaze sweeping over the legion behind her. The wind howled through the broken buildings of the otherworldly cityscape beyond, and the blood-red sun cast a sinister glow over the scene. The daemon army awaited her command, ready to march forth and bring ruin to any who opposed their will.

Above the planet, the skies began to churn as a vortex of Chaos formed. A massive, jagged archway of blackened stone, crowned with sharp horns, emerged from the swirling maelstrom. The gateway was enormous, towering high enough to pierce the clouds. It was a portal for the forces of the Warp, a doorway through which legions of daemons could spill into reality.

The red-haired daemon's lips curled into a faint smile as she stepped forward. Her orders were clear, and though she found the task beneath her, she knew her role in the grander scheme was significant. With a flick of her wrist, she signaled her army to prepare.

Soon, she thought, this quiet planet would become a stage for chaos, blood, and fire. The mission was, by all accounts, trivial. Any lesser daemon or even a well-trained hellhound could have retrieved the artifact hidden within the ruins. Reports from the possessed and collaborators suggested the ruins lacked any real defenses. But this was no ordinary task. The artifact was a gift from Slaanesh to Abaddon, meant to power the Blackstone Fortress in the Warmaster's renewed Black Crusade. Failure was unthinkable. The thought alone sent shivers down the red-haired witch's spine.

To ensure nothing went wrong, Slaanesh had dispatched her with a full legion of daemonic forces. Standing before the Chaos Gate, the gateway between realities, the witch dismissed her unease. She smiled confidently, the first to step through the gate, the vast army of daemons following behind her. Once she crossed into the material world, her confidence solidified. No one could defy the will of a god, not even the so-called Emperor of Mankind.

Deep beneath the surface, in the heart of the true altar, Rosina's laughter echoed madly as she taunted the embattled Eldar Rangers. Her voice was sharp and filled with derision. "You are all doomed! Eternal pain awaits you in the grip of Chaos. Stop this futile resistance and accept your fate! Better to die by my hand than fall to the mercy of daemons!"

Her laughter turned to hysteria, but it abruptly stopped. A sharp, shattering sound echoed through the tent, like glass breaking or ice fracturing. Rosina froze, her glee replaced by shock. She turned to see the altar, its surface cracking and splitting. Her wide eyes stared as fractures spread like a spiderweb across the corrupted structure.

"No!" Rosina screamed, reaching out into the void with her psychic power. The illusion shrouding the room dissolved, the frosted distortion vanishing like a mist blown away by the wind. The true nature of the scene was laid bare. Above the altar stood a black-haired man, silent and resolute. His fist crashed down onto the altar, the three claws affixed to his hand driving deep into the structure.

Bang! 

Another deafening impact shook the room. More cracks spread across the altar, radiating from the points of impact. With a final, resounding explosion, the altar crumbled into ruins, its psychic energy dissipating into nothingness.

The man straightened, brushing dust from his gloves, and smiled wryly at the stunned Eldar Rangers. "Looks like I got here just in time. You can handle the rest." He waved casually before turning to leave. "My job's done."

Far above the ruins, the red-haired witch stood on the threshold of the material world, her confidence unshaken as her army roared behind her. Raising her arms triumphantly, she signaled the legion to march. But the moment her forces began to move, the air itself shuddered. The massive portal that linked the warp to this world, twisted unnaturally. Before the witch could react, the arch collapsed into the swirling psychic vortex. The gateway and the vortex vanished as if they had never existed, leaving behind a clear blue sky.

The red-haired witch's expression twisted in disbelief. Her breath caught in her throat, her mind racing through possibilities. The vibrant sky, the gentle clouds, the serene streams—it was all wrong. Where there should have been devastation, there was peace. Her initial reaction was paranoia. 'A trap,' she thought. 'Jealous daemons plotting against me. They've finally made their move'. She braced herself, expecting an ambush. But no projectiles came, no hidden blades emerged. The world remained still, calm, and maddeningly pure.

The witch's unease turned to seething anger. "What a damned mission," she hissed. "What a damned world." Something had clearly gone wrong, but she couldn't pinpoint what. The artifact was here. She had followed her orders. But now, standing amidst this idyllic landscape, she felt more out of place than ever.

With a wave of her hand, the witch transformed. Her black armor melted away, replaced by a sleek, form-fitting black silk dress. Her horns receded into her head, and the other daemonic features of her body faded. Within moments, she appeared as a radiant, red-haired woman, her beauty intoxicating and her presence enigmatic. To the untrained eye, she was no daemon but a seductive noblewoman of mysterious origins.

Among the many powers possessed by daemons, the ability to change form was often the most subtle yet effective. For lesser daemons, appearance was malleable, a tool to charm, deceive, or terrify. A succubus could manifest in the exact image desired by its victim, becoming the embodiment of temptation or trust. But for a daemon of the Red-haired Witch's stature—a commander who led legions—such concealments were beneath her. She reveled in her identity. Her form, clad in a sleek black silk dress, announced her presence with disdainful pride.

The Red-haired Witch pulled out a small mirror, admiring her flawless face and fiery locks. With a flick of her wrist, she combed her hair, then waved her arms to gather the psychic energies that saturated the air. The space in front of her shimmered, bending and tearing as she opened a small rift. Stepping through without hesitation, she crossed the void in a single stride and emerged at the entrance to the dungeon.

The scene before her was a trench bristling with defenses. Lines of soldiers armed with laser rifles stared her down, flanked by Vulcan gun towers that stood ready to unleash torrents of death. 

For a brief, surreal moment, both sides froze in mutual shock. The witch's fiery gaze swept over the trench. 'Humans? Here?' Her mind raced with fury. How had the Imperium discovered this place? It was inconceivable. Not even the rotting Emperor of Mankind could divine the thoughts of the Dark Gods, let alone anticipate their plans.