Warhammer: Dawn of Annihilation

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Guilliman's voice was unwavering—steady as stone, yet laden with an undeniable, irresistible majesty. Every syllable carried the weight of his authority, a force of will that none could defy.

And then, the demon roared.

A sound not of mere defiance, but of something deeper—primal fear. The air trembled with its unholy scream, a wail that pierced not flesh but soul, clawing at the minds of all who heard it. It was not lethal, but it was maddening.

Crowe heard it too.

No, more than that—he felt it.

A presence so vile, so steeped in the malice of the Warp, that it should have been incapable of fear. And yet, Antwyr screamed.

A name. Over and over.

"The Cursed... the Cursed... the Cursed!"

The demon's voice cracked with terror, shrieking the title as though it alone could ward off its impending doom. The realization struck Crowe like a hammer blow. He had never seen this before—never in all the years since the Grey Knights, with agonizing sacrifice, had sealed Antwyr beneath the Black Sword.

Ever since that fateful battle, Antwyr had been unrepentant, relentless, whispering blasphemies into the minds of his jailers. He had mocked them, tempted them, eroded their resolve with cruel promises of forbidden power. He had been arrogant, cunning, unbroken.

Until now.

Crowe turned his gaze to the Primarch. There was something akin to awe creeping into his expression, something that had not been there before.

The Emperor's son stood as an unmovable colossus, his mere presence shattering the confidence of a creature that had never known fear.

"What do you want to know, child of the Cursed?"

The voice slithered from the Black Sword, quivering, hesitant.

For the first time in countless years, Antwyr understood. He knew whose hands held the weapon now.

A legend—long spoken of, long forgotten.

A Primarch.

An entity who carried the essence of the Immaterium's own nature within him, yet stood apart from it, wielding its doom in his grasp.

Antwyr had been trapped in the Black Sword for an age. He had lost touch with the material realm, his knowledge of the shifting tides of reality stifled by his imprisonment.

He had not seen Crowe.

He had not read the mortal's thoughts.

He had not realized who had come.

Had he known, he never would have dared.

"What do you know, demon? I need everything." Guilliman's voice was measured, cold.

Antwyr hesitated, as though grasping for some nonexistent leverage. Then, desperate, he tried.

"And what will you give me?" the demon rasped.

"Your life." Guilliman did not move, but he lowered the Emperor's Sword toward the blade.

Antwyr shrieked.

A sound of agony. Of absolute, unrestrained terror.

"You win! You win! Child of the Cursed, I will tell you everything!"

Crowe could scarcely believe it. A Greater Daemon of the Warp—begging.

Guilliman's expression did not change. There was no triumph, no satisfaction.

"Good."

He turned to Crowe, his voice as ironclad as ever.

"You have a new task, Crowe. Record everything the daemon tells you. We must understand the Warp."

Crowe felt a knot form in his chest.

Understand the Warp?

To do so was to risk everything. Even to gaze upon its truth could be enough to shatter a man's mind. He wanted to protest, to remind the Primarch of the cost. But Guilliman did not give him the chance.

"Celestine said you have important news for me. What is it?"

For a moment, Crowe hesitated. He had spent years at war. He had fought beside the greatest warriors of the Imperium, seen them break and fall. And yet, he had never felt so powerless as he did now, standing before the Emperor's son, realizing that his words would not sway him.

Resigned, he bowed his head.

"We have found Magnus."

Guilliman's expression did not shift, but the air grew heavier.

"After the Battle of Fenris, he used the dead to fuel a terrible ritual. He pulled an entire planet from the Eye of Terror into realspace—Prospero. His former home. He seeks to restore it, to build his empire of psychic dominion."

The words tasted like ash.

"The Grey Knights and Dark Angels tried to stop the ritual. We formed a coalition, struck with all our might. We bled him, but it was not enough. He still stands, and we failed to cast him out. We need your strength, my lord."

Guilliman exhaled, the weight of ten millennia behind his breath.

"Magnus' psychic power is second only to my father's." His voice was measured, contemplative. "With the Great Rift, the Warp is at his command like never before. This... does not surprise me. He has always been a terrible threat. But now is not the time to confront him."

Crowe clenched his jaw. "If we allow him to build his psychic empire, humanity will be doomed. He will push the evolution of human psykers to its breaking point—turn us into nothing more than playthings for the gods."

He stepped forward, desperation creeping into his tone. "We must strike now, before he—"

"Magnus is not the only traitor." Guilliman's words cut through his plea like a blade. "Mortarion and Fulgrim plot their own wars. The Imperium is fractured, and I will not be reckless. Prospero lies within the Imperium Nihilus. Even now, we have no safe way to traverse the Great Rift. Do you truly believe leading an Imperial crusade into that darkness is the answer?"

Crowe opened his mouth, but Guilliman pressed on.

"We are not ready. We are too few. If we charge blindly at Magnus, we will waste our strength and achieve nothing."

Crowe burned with frustration. "But—"

"Enough." Guilliman's voice was final. "If you are so determined to see Magnus fall, then stay. Help me repair the Imperium. Help me gather our strength. When the time comes, we will strike. But not before."

The silence stretched between them.

And then, Crowe lowered his head in submission.

"I will stay and serve, my lord."

Guilliman nodded. "Good. Patience, Crowe. The Emperor was impatient. In his desperation to end humanity's suffering, he doomed himself to the Golden Throne."

For a moment, his gaze was distant. "He rushed to claim the galaxy, leaving the wounds of war to fester. He stretched his sons to the breaking point. And in the end, he lost everything."

Guilliman's eyes hardened.

"We will not make that mistake again."

The battle for Konor was swift.

Under the steel watch of the Emperor's Scythes and the Grey Knights, the industrial world remained intact. The forces of Chaos had been expelled, the forges untouched.

The Black Templar Grand Marshal Amalrich, Castellan Crowe, and other imperial heroes led their fleets into the void, blazing through the darkness with purpose.

With Macragge as their anchor, they divided into strike forces and swept across Ultramar like a cleansing storm, driving out the chaotic forces that had taken root. In their wake, tranquility was restored to the long-suffering starfield.

The first step against Chaos—securing a stable rear—was complete.

Now came the second step:

To support the Charadon star sector and crush the war-hungry orc warlords along with the relentless, deathless dynasties of the Necrons.

The stakes were high, and Guilliman knew this well. With cold resolve, he dispatched a secret order to Cawl: send forth the upgraded Primaris Space Marines and the latest experimental weapons.

The battle for Charadon would not be fought with desperation. It would be fought with calculated force, with the might of the Emperor's will made manifest.

The galaxy's shadows stirred. The Imperium moved to meet them.