Upon the Bucephalus, at the heart of the golden fleet sailing the immensity of the void, the Emperor sat upon His throne. Here, in this chamber of psychometal and energy flows, He was not merely a man, but a presence. A sun of souls, a forge of wills, a beacon in the Warp's tempest. His aura, a blazing blade of pure golden light, forged from humanity's faith and genetics, bathed the chamber, pushing back the immaterium by His very existence.
Suddenly, He flinched.
The divine fingers, which sculpted a galaxy's destiny, tightened on the Empyræum's armrests. His eyes, which saw through time and space, fixed upon a point beyond the ship's hull, towards the Segmentum Ultima.
A presence. A power.
It was not the formless roar of the Dark Gods. It was not the weakened pulse of an Aeldari avatar, nor the mechanical coldness of the Necron. It was something… parallel. Different, yet of comparable magnitude.
A silver aura. Not the cold, dead silver of metal, but the living silver of the moon, of alloy, of unity forged from diversity. Where His own light was a decree, a perfect and absolute order, this was a consensus, a harmony woven from a thousand different voices. It did not burn the Warp, it… negotiated with it. It did not repel Chaos, it circumvented it, isolated it, rendered it obsolete through a stronger union.
A visceral, primordial rivalry surged in the Emperor's heart. Not a brother's hatred, but the tension of two sovereigns ruling over adjacent realms. He, the Imperator Humanitas, who sat upon the destiny of a single race, which He had elevated, purified, and destined to dominate all others. His light was exclusive, imperial, human.
And this other… this "Sovereign of the Alliance." He sat upon the gathering. Upon the unnatural union of Xenos and humans, Aeldari and Kroot, T'au and lifeforms even the Emperor had not catalogued. Its power came not from purity, but from synthesis. Not from domination, but from collaboration.
It was an insult to His vision. A living refutation of the destiny He had charted for humanity. The galaxy was not large enough for two beacons. One must guide. The other must be extinguished.
A deep rumble, more psychic than sonic, emanated from the throne. The Geller fields of the Bucephalus crackled under the effect of His contained wrath.
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In the Warp, beyond notions of place and time, the eternal storm roared louder.
The Four were not united. They could not be. But in this moment, a singular emotion passed through them all, like a purple lightning bolt cleaving the rival realms of Nurgle, Tzeentch, Khorne, and Slaanesh.
Wrath.
A fury so profound it made the Palaces of Excess tremble, split the Lands of Plague, tangled the Labyrinths of Change, and boiled the Rivers of Blood.
Their toy, their puppet, their eternal damned champion – Be'lakor – had dared. He had, through his deceit and endless ambition, given birth to a being who, though born of corruption, carried in its heart the cursed flame of the Anathema.
A new Anathema. Not the old golden enemy whose light burned, but another, alien one, whose unity and alliance were a different, yet equally lethal, poison to them.
+THE SHADOW HAS BIRTHED A LIGHT THAT DENIES US!+ boomed the voice of the Changer, filled with a million betrayals.
+HE HAS TAINTED OUR GIFT WITH AN ABOMINATION THAT WILL NOT FEED OUR HUNGER!+roared Khorne's insatiable hunger.
+A STERILITY WITHIN THE FECUNDITY OF DESPAIR!+moaned Nurgle, wounded in His very principle.
+A PERFECT ACCORD… THAT EXCLUDES THE SUPREME DISCORD!+hissed Slaanesh, outraged by this impure harmony.
Their attention, usually fragmented by their internecine war, turned as one crushing motion towards Be'lakor's Citadel of Shadows. The First of the Damned, who had believed he could maneuver in the interstices of their conflict, had just drawn the furious gaze of all four of his creators.
The punishment would be beyond any damnation known. They would remind him, in a symphony of infinite agony, that one does not play with the Gods without becoming their eternal plaything.