"Staring at the same scenery over and over eventually gets tedious," Alma muttered, snapping a branch off a nearby tree. The interior of the branch didn't have a conventional plant structure; it looked more like animal flesh.
"Are these plants alive?"
"Alma, what are you saying? Are plants not usually alive?"
"No, I mean... we previously judged that this planet had no large animals. We might have been wrong. The animals on this planet are these plants."
"What are you talking about?"
Alma was about to explain her theory further when a piercing scream from one of her kin erupted through her comms.
"Requesting backup! Requesting backup! We have hostiles!"
In that instant, they understood. The enemy had arrived. Paradoxically, this brought a sense of relief; they had been worried about some unseen, unsettling danger, and now that it had finally manifested, they felt more grounded.
Alma led her squad of Aeldari warriors in a rapid dash toward the source of the signal. Following the coordinates, they found their comrades. Several bodies already lay on the ground, their War Masks shattered. Their Spirit Stones had darkened as they absorbed and protected the departing souls.
Standing against them was an entity that looked remarkably like a "human."
"A Mon-keigh?"
"No, Alma. No Mon-keigh could be this powerful."
The Warlock, a master of psychic arts, was currently being held aloft by the throat by this human-looking creature. All his usual martial prowess had vanished; blood streamed down his face. This was a sight every Aeldari warrior should have been accustomed to—they faced death, defied death, practiced for death, and ultimately returned to it.
Yet, a sense of inexplicable wrongness filled Alma with a deep, gnawing unease. The psychic orbs in the Warlock's hands were slowly disappearing, as if being eaten, stripped of all offensive energy.
"How many people did you send? I can't believe more of you are still showing up."
The girl spoke in the Aeldari tongue, but with a thick, heavy accent. To Alma, it sounded like the dialect of their Exodite kin from the feral worlds.
"Cover me!"
The Aeldari warriors opened fire, but their long-range rounds were effortlessly swatted aside by Yuno's psychic barrier. Alma had anticipated this. She drew her blade, vaulted over the corpses of her kind, and lunged at Yuno with exquisite swordsmanship.
"Stop playing around."
Yuno didn't even move. She merely flicked a finger. Alma's body was instantly twisted and broken, her internal organs spilling out. Agony flooded Alma's brain in a split second. She realized she still had some modicum of control over her body, but it was limited to her upper half.
Yuno seemed satisfied with her work. She reached out with her telekinesis, plucked a piece of organ meat, and placed it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
"Aeldari still tastes the same as always. Especially you Craftworld types—it's like farm-raised livestock. The meat is fresh, yet firm."
"You are..."
Alma's comrades formed a protective circle around her, but she knew they stood no chance against this creature. "Run! Someone has to get the word back!"
"Alma, we've already informed the Craftworld! Don't give up! It's just half a body, it's nothing!"
Yuno cradled her face in her hands, watching them with a twisted, eerie smile.
"Do you know? Eating is a very solemn act. Respecting the food is the virtue of the eater, and respecting the eater is the virtue of the food. How do these two virtues manifest? The food must resist with all its might, presenting the full extent of its life force. And the eater should consume every part of that food with a heart full of happiness."
She licked her lips. "Come, become one with me."
Suddenly, a Webway Gate manifested between the Aeldari warriors and Yuno. It was large enough for massive war machines to pass through.
"Hmm?"
"Alma, you have done well. Take the Spirit Stones of the fallen back to the Craftworld and leave."
Looking at the warrior who stepped forth—one who could never again remove his mask—Alma called out his title. "Exarch!"
"And me as well, Alma." Another Aeldari appeared, clad in psychic rune-armor.
A Farseer.
Yuno recognized them both and scoffed. "A madman lost on the Path of Khaine, and a fortune-teller who is constantly sabotaged by his own prophecies. You think this is enough to stop me?"
"Of course not."
Farseers were among the most powerful psykers in the galaxy, critical figures who protected the Infinity Circuit and led their Craftworlds. Yet, this Farseer—who in Alma's memory had never shown a trace of fear—said something she never expected to hear.
"We have prepared ourselves for sacrifice, solely to buy the Craftworld a chance to escape."
"Oh? And what did you see?"
"The Craftworld cast into darkness, drowned by an endless tide of enemies. The key lies with this planet. And as I draw closer to you, that sensation only grows stronger. I believe you are indeed the monster of the prophecy."
"Boring."
Yuno watched as Alma and the others finished gathering the Spirit Stones. Over fifty Wraithguards marched out from the Webway Gate. Alma watched these constructs, driven by the souls of the dead, emerge into the light. They were once the greatest warriors and masters of combat in the Craftworld, now its eternal guardians. Even a massive Wraithlord strode onto the battlefield.
"Go back, Alma. The Seer Council knows we cannot return."
Yuno watched their futile resistance with genuine interest, making no move to stop Alma's group from leaving. As Alma stepped into the Webway Gate, she felt a soul that was achingly familiar. She looked toward one of the Wraithguards. It turned its gaze toward her. In those few seconds, she recognized it.
"Mother?"
Alma was pulled into the Webway Gate. "No! No, Mother! Your soul will...!"
Alma knew exactly what the Exarch and the Farseer were planning. They were going to sacrifice themselves to stall the monster and buy time for the Craftworld to survive. Their Spirit Stones would not be recovered. They would eventually fall into the clutches of She Who Thirsts, suffering eternal torment.
"Mother!"
In that moment, Alma's emotions shattered the constraints of her War Mask. She was supposed to forget all of this, but now she had seen it, and she would remember it. Even if she removed the mask, she would never forget this scene.
"Grieve later, Alma. I know this is painful, but we must consider the survival of the entire Craftworld."
"Indeed. Just as I must consider the wishes of my beloved."
Before they knew it, a human-looking man was standing right beside them.
"So, this is the interior of the Webway? It's a bit different from what I imagined."