Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

Upon ascending to daemonhood, Fulgrim's every movement became unnervingly graceful, surpassing even the most exquisite Slaaneshi Dancer in elegance. His actions blended malice with artistry, turning combat into a macabre ballet.

Trailing behind him, the Keeper of Secrets joined the fray, its monstrous form both repugnant and alluring. Meanwhile, the Fateweaver hovered at the periphery, observing the battle through myriad avian eyes, searching for weaknesses to exploit with its treacherous psychic sorcery.

Brothers now clashed on the battlefield, their bond long since corroded by betrayal and the malign influences of Chaos. Fulgrim, once the pride of the Imperium and a symbol of perfection, had fallen utterly to depravity, consorting with daemons and reveling in excess.

For Dukel, the sight only deepened his revulsion toward the Ruinous Powers.

"Dukel, tell me," Fulgrim hissed, his voice dripping with venomous charm. "How does it feel to see the Imperium you once served? Mortals wallow in ignorance, their decadence and stagnation enduring for ten thousand years. Does such an empire still deserve your loyalty?"

Fulgrim's dual swords danced with deadly precision, their edges gleaming with the same virulent poison that had laid Guilliman low during the Heresy. Dukel kept his chainsword in constant motion, parrying each strike with care. Even he could not be certain whether his Primarch resilience would endure against such venom.

"Compared to the Imperium," Dukel retorted with a grim smile, "there's something far more pressing I've been meaning to ask you."

Fulgrim tilted his head, curious. "And what would that be?"

"I've heard rumors about... unspeakable acts committed against your own progeny. Care to clarify?"

Fulgrim's smile froze. His amber eyes flared with fury. "Lies! Blasphemous lies!"

Dukel's laughter echoed mockingly, cutting through Fulgrim's denial like a blade. The daemonic Primarch's composure shattered; his attacks grew erratic, his coordination with the Keeper of Secrets faltering.

Seizing the moment, Dukel turned his attention to the vile daemon. The Keeper of Secrets was a grotesque amalgamation of flesh, its form cloaked in an intoxicating aura that obscured its true horror. Tentacles writhed, dripping with foul ichor, as it exuded a hallucinogenic musk potent enough to beguile the weak-willed.

"Tell me, Keeper," Dukel quipped, his tone biting. "Is it true that your 'master' was thrashed by Khorne?"

The daemon recoiled, its otherworldly features twisting in anger. This was no mere jest. Tzeentch's machinations had once lured Slaanesh into a catastrophic confrontation with Khorne, and the Keeper of Secrets, privy to this humiliation, could not contain its outrage.

"Primarch, your insolence shall be your undoing!"

The daemon's voice resonated with a chilling harmony, yet it only fueled Dukel's amusement. His grin widened as he responded, "Ah, the truth hurts, doesn't it?"

With its composure shattered, the Keeper of Secrets lashed out in a blind rage. Fulgrim, too, succumbed to his wrath, his strikes becoming increasingly frenzied. Dukel capitalized on their vulnerabilities. With a thunderous blow, he sent Fulgrim sprawling, then drove his roaring chainsword into the daemon's flesh, carving a gaping wound that oozed with corrupted ichor.

Above the battlefield, the sky suddenly burned with crimson light. A Khorne fleet had arrived in orbit, prepared to enact an exterminatus upon the world. Yet, before their wrath could be unleashed, a new fleet emerged from the void like a blade slicing through the shadows.

This fleet was a masterpiece of elegance—sleek, deadly, and hauntingly beautiful. The silent arrival of the Asuryani Eldar Death Army, led by the enigmatic Evelyn, brought a deadly precision to the chaos above. Their ships danced through the void, dismantling the Khorne fleet with an artistry that seemed almost serene in its brutality.

On the surface, the battle raged on. Dukel turned his gaze skyward, watching as the Eldar ships cleared a path. Yet his attention was quickly drawn back to the battlefield as a roaring sound filled the air.

From the heavens, a fiery streak descended—a figure with blazing wings unfurled, hurtling toward the ground like a comet. In moments, Efilar, the flame-winged warrior, landed directly in Dukel's arms, scattering daemons with the force of her arrival.

"Your Highness Dukel!" she cried, her voice trembling with relief. Though her mortal frame stood barely taller than an Astartes, the Primarch dwarfed her like a father embracing a child.

"Efilar," Dukel said softly, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Now's not the time for sentimentality."

"But, my lord, what horrors have you endured?" she asked, her gaze lingering on the bloodied state of his cloak.

Before Dukel could respond, his expression suddenly hardened. His voice erupted in a thunderous roar. "Guilliman! What are you doing!?"

In the distance, Roboute Guilliman, clad in his resplendent Ultramarine armor, charged forward, the Emperor's fire blazing upon his sword. His voice rang out as he bellowed a challenge.

"Fulgrim! Traitor! There is no escape for you!"

With astonishing speed, Guilliman closed the distance, his blade poised to deliver judgment.

...

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