Warhammer: Dawn of Annihilation

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The turbulent subspace echoes the insatiable desires and ever-changing emotions of all beings.

Hungry, inanimate entities clamber up the cliffs, solidified by the fantasies of real life, watching as the fleet sails past before them.

The flesh and souls of humans make them scream in hunger and thirst.

Their voices reverberate through the warp, merging with the raging aether storm.

With the emergence of the Great Rift, humanity has become increasingly dependent on the Geller field.

Without this mysterious technology, human beings would never be able to traverse the subspace safely.

The ravenous, mindless entities devour all unshielded human vessels, dragging them into the abyssal depths of the warp.

No one knows the fate of those ships lost in the void.

When they reemerge into real space, they are often unrecognizable, twisted beyond comprehension, and their passengers grotesquely mutated into unspeakable horrors.

Deep within the Glory of Macragge, Cherubael screamed with excitement as he sensed the presence of the warp.

As long as he could enter, he would be free.

He had already come to understand Eisenhorn's abilities and the accursed tome that bound him.

If he could escape into the warp, he would flee beyond the reach of his captor's sorcery.

Yet, the warp lay so tantalizingly close—separated only by the unyielding Geller field.

For him, however, it was an insurmountable chasm.

His rune-engraved body, the priests' fervent prayers at the Emperor's shrine, and the will of Guilliman himself all worked to restrain him.

Eisenhorn stood ever watchful, facing the daemon prince, ensuring he had no chance to escape.

"Let me go, Eisenhorn," Cherubel whispered, his voice like silk laced with poison. "I will grant you what you desire most. Don't you wish to bring back your fallen friends? Bei , Midia, Amos... I can resurrect them, if only you remove my chains."

"Master, it's me, Bei . Have you forgotten? I was your most beloved disciple."

"Why won't you save us, Eisenhorn?"

Cherubel's voice morphed seamlessly into those of the dead, a masterful imitation meant to tear at Eisenhorn's resolve.

He sought to ensnare him in grief, to crack the armor of his will with sorrow.

A single moment of weakness—a single doubt—would be enough.

Weakness invites corruption.

And the sorrowful are always the easiest prey.

Daemons are patient hunters. Once they find a crack, they pry it open until their victim is lost to the abyss.

Eisenhorn exhaled, his voice like iron.

"You are a fool, Cherubel. Those names you invoke only remind me of how vile you warp-spawn truly are. Your promises are always twisted. The only thing you offer mankind is suffering disguised as a gift. I will never forget my duty. Do not waste your breath searching for weakness in me. You will find none."

"You will, Eisenhorn," Cherubel sneered. "No one resists temptation forever. It was a mistake for the cursed father and son to leave you here as my jailer. I know your weakness. You will crumble, slowly but surely. And when you do, I will be free."

"Then wait another ten thousand years, fool," Eisenhorn said coldly. "By then, you will be nothing but a forgotten name, a pathetic relic lost to time."

Cherubel chuckled darkly.

"Oh, but I don't need ten thousand years. I will be free... soon."

Eisenhorn fell silent, resuming his vigil, as immovable as a statue.

Atop the Glory of Macragge, within the highest deck, was Guilliman's office.

As the Emperor's sole surviving son and the last of the Primarchs, Guilliman bore an immense burden.

Before war broke out, he had to finalize key administrative matters and relay them through the astropaths to Macragge, where his new council would execute his decrees.

His call to arms had spread across the stars, summoning warriors from every corner of the Imperium.

The Roaring Griffins, the Storm Falcons, the Paragon Warriors—countless warbands had answered his summons for the Indomitus Crusade.

With them came vast fleets and legions of warriors.

Under the guidance of the Mechanicus, these warriors were undergoing enhancements.

Soon, a new breed of Space Marines would emerge, armed with four additional organs and engineered to surpass their predecessors.

They bore the Heart of Guilliman, a masterpiece of dark-matter bio-integration, along with three newly developed implants—products of Archmagos Belisarius Cawl's ten-thousand-year research.

These warriors would be unstoppable.

They would crush all who dared to threaten the Imperium.

Meanwhile, entire forge worlds had been repurposed for war.

With Guilliman's authority, Cawl had accelerated ship production, replacing the archaic reliance on STC templates with a modular assembly system.

This innovation, though controversial, cut warship production time tenfold, sometimes twentyfold.

Though these ships might not match the quality of traditional STC-built vessels, their sheer numbers would overwhelm any disadvantage.

Naturally, Cawl's methods incited outrage among the Mechanicum's priesthood.

The fabricators-general decried this as heresy, demanding Guilliman punish Cawl for defying the Machine God's sacred order.

Guilliman placated them with empty assurances.

In truth, he had no intention of stopping Cawl. Instead, he increased his authority, granting him access to even greater resources to further accelerate production.

Yet the military expansion was only one aspect of his grand vision.

His reforms sent shockwaves through the Imperium.

Planets beyond his family's direct rule had begun implementing his directives, founding new academies and training institutions to supply his growing war machine.

Entire generations of young minds were funneled into specialized academies, prepared to become the gears of Guilliman's vast, unstoppable engine of war.

Even the Imperium's merchant guilds were not spared.

The William and Nancy Trade Houses, having sworn allegiance to Guilliman, attracted like-minded traders who embraced reform.

They squeezed out those who resisted, systematically undermining and crippling their competitors, leaving stubborn aristocrats and rogue merchants withering under economic siege.

This was war—silent, bloodless, yet no less brutal.

Reports of assassinations flooded Guilliman's desk.

His loyal merchants were being slaughtered.

The old noble families, desperate and enraged, had abandoned diplomacy in favor of knives in the dark.

Guilliman studied the reports, extracting key details, mapping the battlefield in his mind.

He knew what they wanted.

They sought to test his resolve.

They wanted to know how far the Primarch would go to see his reforms through.

He would show them—on the battlefields of the Natal Sector.

The astropaths would spread his message across the entire Imperium, even to Terra itself.

There would be no compromise.

Obey the reforms and live.

Resist and die.

There was no third option.

Footsteps echoed outside the chamber.

A series of elegant knocks—each perfectly measured, rhythmic.

"Enter," Guilliman said.

The door opened, revealing a woman in a simple emerald-green dress, data slate in hand, followed by a floating servo-skull humming at her side.

"My lord," she bowed. "The Sulymanya family extends their most reverent greetings."

"No need for formalities, Yasilli. I need your assistance."

"It would be my honor, and that of my house.