Within the Impossible Fortress in the Empyrean, Tzeentch's hands moved, swirling with multicolored light.
"Blackstone Fortresses... Grail..."
His voice was pleased. A face on His right chest repeated in a low tone: "Blackstone Fortresses... Grail..."
Multicolored light flickered in Tzeentch's eyes. An illusory vision materialized before Him.
He raised His right hand, upon which faces continuously sprouted.
He reached for a small black dot.
The black dot rapidly grew, transforming into a black, Gothic-style warship.
"Ape field... Jokaero... Old Ones..."
A great maw on Tzeentch's waist spoke, its voice deep and resonant: "Ape field... Jokaero... Old Ones..."
He raised His hand, light shimmering between His fingers.
His hand slowly extended, grasping another fleet, weaving shimmering threads.
"New plan... change..."
As the maw on His waist burst, a face on His left leg whispered with pleasure: "New plan... change..."
....
950.M30.
Cadia, on the edge of the Eye of Terror.
A world yet to be discovered by the Imperium.
The young woman Ingethel slept deeply, her face bearing a devout expression.
She knelt, praising the names of the Four.
Suddenly, a voice sounded.
"Chosen One, Ingethel."
"My Lord." She prostrated herself, bowing reverently.
"Lorgar's pace is too slow. He has lost the artifact destined to be his."
"Ah!" Ingethel gasped. "My Lord, is there any chance for him to recover it, to reclaim his artifact?"
"He is the beloved son of the Four, a devoted worshiper of the Gods. He shall receive a gift!"
"He will not always be on the losing side. He will find strength in his faith!"
Ingethel listened to the divine words. "I will guide him. Enlighten him."
...
At the same moment Ingethel awoke from her dream, in the third layer of the Kingdom of Disorder,
Nareth gazed at the jet-black eyeball floating before him. Threads of black rules coiled around it.
"A Uniqueness of theDarkness Pathway." His tone held no disappointment. He had known it wasn't a sefiroth substance when the Eye of Night was absorbed into the Kingdom of Disorder.
"A pity I cannot yet utilize Darkness. Otherwise, even in the real world, I could ensure I am not spied upon."
"I could also conceal my traces, misdirecting observation and divination."
The authorities of "Darkness" flashed through Nareth's mind.
'Main authorities: Darkness, Concealment.'
'Partial authorities: Fear, Spirit/Soul, Misfortune, and the calamities that arise from it.'
"I'm only Sequence 5, yet I've already acquired five Uniquenesses."
"I am truly fortunate."
"Even if, for now, I can only wield the 'Red Priest' and the 'Twillight Giant'."
He looked towards the distant black claw. "The Hand of Darkness and the Eye of Night are also powerful artifacts, capable of controlling the Blackstone Fortresses across countless light-years."
Nareth then gazed at the slowly rotating black glass. "But the Hollow Crystal, I dare not activate just yet."
"Next, I can go and claim Blackstone IV in the Cyclops Cluster."
He stared at the dim, black triangular prism and sighed.
"Who knows how long I'll have to wait."
As Nareth lamented, on the rain-drenched equatorial region of the planet Teranagra, hot, humid rain pounded down on two hundred neophytes of the Fifth Legion.
Haren Svensalen stood on the concrète plaza. His power armor bore a cream and gold-red paint scheme.
Not the black he had longed for.
It was white, the opposite.
Haren's memory returned to Terra, to an unforgettable day at the Iman Do training center.
The sliding door opened. He walked into the dimly lit room.
"Sir!"
"Haren Svensalen?" The man at the desk had dusky skin. Bionic implants spiraled from his right face down to his jaw.
His right eye was natural flesh; his left was a glowing red laser bionic.
"Yes, sir." Haren stood straight.
"Your training here is complete. You've passed the first stage, neophyte selection and physical conditioning."
"I am ready to swear my oath," Haren answered loudly.
"Good. You will proceed to Luna for further training: skills training, gene therapy, psychological conditioning."
"You will receive organ implants."
Haren's gaze was expectant. The man with the dusky skin looked down at his desk.
A stream of runes scrolled across the desktop.
"Your squad had thirty-three members. You ranked seventeenth."
"It was a good squad. Nothing to be ashamed of."
Haren's eyes dimmed at the ranking. Shadows of Order instructors usually selected from the top five.
But at the man's praise, a flicker of hope rose in his eyes. "Thank you, sir."
"Now, here's the issue. The Shadows of Order did select you, as an alternate."
The cold, blunt words made Haren's eyes gleam.
"But they exceeded their recruitment quota. Some Legions are significantly understrength."
"So, they couldn't take you after all."
"If you had placed tenth or higher, things would be different. You could have gone to your desired Legion. But as it is..."
Haren's mind flashed with the marble-sculpted visage of Lord Nareth, the shimmering battle standard the Emperor had given him.
He had carved the shadowy emblem onto his iron bedframe, etched it into his heart.
His hands clenched. He had striven every day, but still failed.
"Reassignment is common. Nothing to be ashamed of."
'Reassignment!'
The word struck his chest like a blow.
Haren knew the agency's strict procedures brooked no dissent. But the words still escaped him.
"I do not accept reassignment!"
A red light played over him. "Svensalen, is our job to cater to your wishes?"
"No, sir." Haren lowered his head.
"Do we work here to cater to the wishes of neophytes?"
"No, sir." Haren lowered his head further.
"The others accepted reassignment. Do you think they did so willingly?"
"I imagine not, sir." Haren's gaze grew dark.
Just seven places short.
"You will depart for Luna in two weeks."
Haren looked up. "Sir, could I-"
"You have been assigned to the 5th Legion."
'The 5th Legion. The White Scars. The mysterious barbarians.'
'Not the worst outcome: the Wolves of Fenris. Nor the World Eaters.'
Svensalen was the seventeenth reassigned. He was the third from last among the nineteen in the first round.
The White Scars achievements were not third from last, just as the Space Wolves and World Eaters were not at the bottom either.
The insular White Scars; their liaison officers, like their Legion, never came to Iman Do.
Lorgar sat alone in the last row during war councils, but the Word Bearers' liaison officers could select from the top ten.
The Shadows of Order, surpassed only by the Luna Wolves, often received extra picks.
"I know nothing about them," Haren admitted.
"You have plenty of time to get to know them."
Haren buried Lord Nareth's image deep in his heart and threw himself into learning Khorchin.
The completely unfamiliar syllables of Chogorian, the strange language of the steppes, taxed even his enhanced mind.
The difficulty lay not in the vast vocabulary or complex grammar, but in the unique sounds and subtle tonal shifts.
Even harder for Haren to accept was the Legion's introverted, isolationist nature.
But over fourteen years, he had gradually come to appreciate their exceptional resilience, their tenacious will, and especially their abundant vitality.
As Haren pondered, Noyan Khan of the White Scars approached him.
His short, wiry frame was typical of the Chogorians.
"Haren?"
"Yes, my lord." Haren gathered his thoughts, answering quickly.
"Where on Terra are you from?"
"The Nordic Peninsula." Haren raised his left cheek, revealing a scar he had etched weeks prior.
Noyan Khan nodded, satisfied. He took a curved power sword from his Honour Guard and raised it above Haren's head.
"You were once Haren of the Nordic Peninsula. Now, you have joined the tribe of Jaghatai. Your former life no longer exists."
"By what name will you mark yourself?"
Haren pored over numerous dictionaries and histories of Chogoris. He finally selected a name from the legend of the Tascar tribe, a squire to an ancient khan who, after a hundred years in the wilderness, returned to his tribe showing no signs of age.
"Toghon."
Noyan Khan handed him the curved power sword. "You are now a member of the tribe."
"Toghon, you are a member of the Brotherhood now. Only death will take you from us."
"May your death be far off. May your deeds in life be filled with glory."
Toghon accepted the curved power sword. He was more adept with straight blades; adjusting would take time.
"For the Great Khan."
Toghon bowed deeply, striving to banish the lingering memory from his heart.
The towering, black-armored, golden-winged giant.
....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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