The deepest trauma in the galaxy, a festering wound where the Warp and reality intersect: the depths of the Eye of Terror.
A Crone World.
Unlike Maiden Worlds, Crone Worlds were the original homeworlds established by the Aeldari during their initial rise to power tens of thousands of years ago. Now, however, they have all been swallowed by the Eye of Terror, making the term essentially synonymous with "Daemon World."
Pitch black and utterly silent.
It was a barren sphere of rock, its surface etched with ravines and canyons that resembled the deep wrinkles of ancient skin. The power of Chaos had not granted it any twisted form of life; instead, it had drained the planet's final spark of vitality, freezing it into a state of eternal desolation.
Deep within a massive canyon on the planet's surface lay the hidden, unremarkable entrance to a cave.
Inside the furthest reaches of this cavern, a witch sat in silence.
She was draped in a heavy black cloak, its edges frayed to reveal a dark red lining underneath. Her hood was pulled low, showing only the lower half of a pale face and cracked lips. Beneath the hood, where eyes should have been, there were only two deep pits, the healed skin puckering inward in a gruesome fashion.
Suddenly, she lifted her head.
"Greetings, Despoiler."
The witch's voice was dry and raspy, like a hoarse wind blowing across a wasteland at night; every syllable sounded as if it were being squeezed out of a broken bellows.
"I wonder what winds of fate have blown you to my doorstep?"
At the cave entrance, footsteps rang out.
The rhythmic clanging of heavy power-armored boots striking rock carried an immense sense of pressure, shaking dust from the cavern walls with every stride.
Finally, the figure emerged.
The first thing to catch the dim light was the daemon sword held in his left hand. The blade was a terrifying blood-red, and the space around it warped slightly, as if reality itself were recoiling from its existence.
Mounted upon his right arm was the legendary Talon of Horus. Clad in massive black power armor, his pauldrons were adorned with brass-colored eight-pointed stars of Chaos that glinted with an ominous luster. Behind him trailed a rack of meticulously prepared trophy skulls.
Most striking of all was his hairstyle—the high, vertical top-knot.
The Warmaster of Chaos, the Chosen of the Four Gods, the Despoiler: Ezekyle Abaddon.
"Moriana Millhausen, I require your prophecy," Abaddon stated coldly.
The seer before him was a figure of great renown, having served Chaos for nearly ten millennia. Legend named her as one of the four original founders of the Inquisition, a pioneer of the Horusians, and once a chosen hand of Malcador the Sigillite, Regent of the Imperium.
Now, however, she had long been exiled from the Imperium, turning her service to Abaddon. Her prophetic abilities were formidable; as a key advisor during the Black Crusades, she had rendered invaluable service—it was at her suggestion that Abaddon had secured the Blackstone Fortresses during the Gothic War.
"Witch, give me answers regarding the future. The lapdogs of the Corpse-Emperor have undergone certain changes recently," Abaddon rumbled. "I must know what impact these changes will have on that decaying empire."
Even within the Eye of Terror, the Chaos Warmaster was far from ignorant of the empire he intended to destroy. Whether it was the Adeptus Custodes—silent for ten thousand years—breaking their edicts to march from the Imperial Palace, or the psychic scream that tore through the galaxy upon the death of a Hive Mind in the Warp, these were rare, monumental events—the "depth charges" of galactic news.
Hearing her master's demand, Moriana remained silent for a long time, her skeletal fingers tapping lightly on her knees. Eventually, the witch clenched her hands, and a brilliant violet fire erupted in the center of the cave, bathing everything in an eerie light.
Minutes passed.
In the stone chamber, only the roar of the flames and Moriana's occasional, unintelligible murmurs could be heard.
Unfortunately, too many possibilities existed simultaneously. Every thread of fate was shivering, splitting, and recombining. If even Eldrad Ulthran, the legendary Aeldari Farseer, struggled to discern the traces of the future, Moriana fared no better.
Finally, realizing she could not see clearly, the witch spoke:
"Despoiler, your Thirteenth Black Crusade is destined for success. That rotting empire will surely meet its ordained end. These current changes are merely the flickering of fireflies over rotting grass; they will not alter the ultimate tide."
Abaddon narrowed his eyes dangerously. Such vague rhetoric—he suspected the hag was merely humoring him.
However, after a moment's thought, he relaxed his claw, deciding against punishing the witch for now.
"Then," he pivoted his questioning, "I need to know the specific attitudes of the Great Powers beyond the Veil regarding this."
This question was easier to answer. Relieved, the witch turned back to the altar. She cast a handful of bone dust into the fire. The flames leaped high, shifting from violet into a swirling kaleidoscope of colors as the four primary hues fought for dominance.
"The Lord of Change is greatly pleased," Moriana interpreted the shifting colors. "Change itself is His sustenance. Yet, even He seems not to know the specific outcome... a rare occurrence. The Prince of Pleasure is indifferent, so long as the climax yields the ultimate sensory experience. The God of Decay is equally unconcerned; the cycle of life and death will continue regardless."
She paused as a surge of bloody crimson flooded the flames.
"The Lord of Skulls is ecstatic," she continued. "The war is about to escalate. The scale will surpass any conflict since the Great Heresy. He is already attempting to mobilize His daemonic legions to claim even more precious trophies for His throne."
The fire finally stabilized into an uneasy balance of four colors.
"All the Chaos Gods continue to support your Great Work, Despoiler," Moriana concluded. "Because every one of your crusades is a victory, regardless of Imperial propaganda. You weaken their defenses, bleed their resources, and prove their fragility."
Abaddon gave a noncommittal grunt.
He knew how to take such words. The Four supported him not out of respect, but because he was a useful tool—the protagonist of a grand, never-ending drama. Similarly, the Warmaster utilized the Four not out of faith, but because their power was a necessary instrument to achieve his goal: the destruction of the Imperium of Man.
As for "every crusade is a victory"... that went without saying.
No matter how the decaying Imperium spun it, he had achieved his objectives in the previous twelve crusades. He had destroyed key pylons near Cadia and assimilated numerous Chaos warbands into the Black Legion. When the final end arrived and the Great Rift tore the Imperium in two, he would easily conquer the worlds lost to the light of the Astronomican and end the reign of the Corpse-Emperor.
At that point, as the master of the entire empire, the Chaos Warmaster would have enough leverage to bargain with the Four Gods.
However, to reach that grand objective, Abaddon still needed to grow his power and inflict further losses on the Imperium. He turned and began to walk slowly toward the cave exit, his mind racing as he weighed possibilities and adjusted long-standing plans.
At the entrance, he stopped suddenly. A name came to mind.
"Pandorax—"
Ezekyle Abaddon whispered the name under his breath, as if testing its weight.
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Hmm I thought it was Ezekiel