Wind roared. Metal screeched.
Kochav kept his gaze on the ship, his remaining hand raised, force-shields active.
Bergelmir shielded him as they fell. Branches and leaves blurred past like streaks of fire—almost endless.
He felt them—faint presences. His allies were still alive.
His force shield flared faintly in the Warp, stretched impossibly thin across distance. But as long as he could still see the wreckage—they would remain safe.
"Stay awake," he told himself, words echoing hollow in his skull.
"If I let go, they will die."
Pain throbbed in his neck. Blood loss dragged at him. His lower left arm —gone, bleeding.
CRACK!
Bergelmir struck a branch. Twisting in mid-air.
THOOM.
He smashed through a thick trunk. Leaves spiraled like ash.
"Stay awake —hold—"
Another impact. And another. Bergelmir grunted with each one, shielding Kochav's limp body.
Then —the last hit.
A muddy pond.
The Grey Knight scattered the water, shock traveling through his armored frame. Though he was unscathed.
Kochav felt half his body submerged, in a pool of blood and muddy water.
Bergelmir's armored gauntlet loosened.
Vision flickered orange-white, the force-shields slowly burning away.
He could no longer see the Valkyrie, but remained determined to save his allies—even if it was pointless.
"I'm not going to let go" he muttered, coughing up blood.
Bergelmir worked fast —sealing the worst of his neck wound with Staunch Bleeding, voice a constant growl.
"Stay awake, Rogue. You drop that shield —they die."
Kochav gasped. A ragged breath. He tried his best to keep the shields up. But the cold was rising. Fingers numb. Thoughts breaking apart.
"Stay with me."
"You will not fall now." Bergelmir muttered.
Bergelmir tried to dull the pain with his psychic power but—Kochav shook his head. He didn't want dull senses to mess with his concentration.
Still held his hand up, though it was lowering.
Then he heard it
BOOM!
The Valkyrie crashed and exploded. His allies' fates —unknown.
He let go of his hand from exhaustion, darkness claimed him. The cold seeped into his bones. Water, blood.
A stench of hot sand. He opened his eyes, saw a younger version of himself in a mirror.
—
Artine, seven years before Exterminatus.
A morning after Kochav's encountered with the Paradeigma Artificer.
Cilicia's home.
"Honey, are you done?" A warm, gentle voice—familiar.
Startled—"Yes, Mommy. I'm done," the boy answered.
He stepped out of the bathroom, following the happy hum of his mother.
"What are you making, Mommy?" he asked excitedly, plopping into his chair.
"Your favorite —Rockcrab curry. Bob caught a big Rockcrab today. It was trying to steal minerals in the cave." Cilicia replied, placing a hot pot of curry in front of him.
A rich, deep reddish-brown broth filled the bowl, its surface shimmering with a thin layer of spiced oil. Flecks of black roots clung to the edges, releasing an earthy aroma that mingled with the heat of dried peppers and the faint sweetness of cave-onions.
Nestled in the broth were large chunks of Rockcrab meat, still attached to fractured pieces of claw and leg shell. The exposed flesh was pale white with faint copper veins —proof of the minerals the creature consumed.
The shell gleamed dark gray-blue, tiny flecks of sparkling ore embedded throughout. Sometimes, you could bite down on something valuable.
Kochav drooled uncontrollably.
Cilicia smiled.
"Eat now, Velardo. Then do the one thing you are here to do." His mother spoke.
Confused, the boy blinked. "Who is Velardo, Mommy? I am Ko."
Cilicia's smile darkened.
"Silly. You are Velardo Von Xarcarion. And you are here to make everyone disappear." Her eyes gleamed disturbingly.
"What do you mean, Mommy?, I don't understand. What do you want me to do?" The toddler's voice trembled.
"Yes, I am your mother. And Mommy needs you to open a gate. Trust Mommy, okay? This will make everyone happy."
A black gate shimmered into existence behind her. An enormous eye, violet and unblinking, crowned its arch —its gaze following Kochav's every movement.
"But... if they go away...how will they smile?" he asked—innocent.
Easily swayed.
"When they are gone, they will be together behind this door. Then no one will be separated, right?" Cilicia whispered persuasively.
A three-year-old couldn't tell the difference. Couldn't see the truth.
The thing urging him onward was not his mother —but a daemon, eager to tear open reality.
The boy obeyed. His tiny hand reached toward the gate's handle. Laughter—horrible, inhuman—grew louder with each step.
—
Then: A voice—commanding—rang inside his head. It sounded just like his own.
"Stop it, Ko! That is not Mommy!"
He gasped—snapping back.
The curry—his favorite—had transformed into a writhing mass of snakes, exposed and hissing.
Terror rose in him. He looked up—desperate for reassurance.
Cilicia—No.....Not Cilicia.
A feathered daemon loomed where his mother had stood—tall, almost regal—its form a blasphemy of grace and nightmare.
It stood birdlike yet utterly unnatural, its slender body cloaked in a mantle of iridescent blue and purple feathers, each one shimmering with impossible geometries.
No two feathers were alike. Their fractal patterns seemed to shift and coil when not directly observed, as though the daemon wore a living cloak of equations and madness.
From its back unfurled four great wings —vast, warped plumes of warpfire-streaked feathers. Each beat twisted the air with a faint keening sound that was not heard by ears alone.
Its head was that of a serpent—elongated, sinuous. Its scales gleaming with cold menace. A sharp tongue flicked outward, tasting the currents of fate.
Around its brow, glyphs shimmered—symbols of unknowable meaning, forming the image of a crown. It wore rulership itself like a mask.
Its eyes—twin orbs of fractured crystal—refracted reality through impossible angles.
Its arms were jointless, unnervingly smooth, ending in long talon-like fingers. Threads of warp-light danced between them.
Beneath its shifting robe of feathers, its legs were clad in jagged reptilian scales—each rune-etched and cruel. Its toes ended in razor tips.
—
Its name: The Paradeigma Artificer.
—
The haze persisted—he was still trapped within it.
Now exposed, its disguise discarded, the daemon let out a shriek that split the air.
"First seed planted," it hissed—its voice layered, echoing, multiplying in impossible harmonies.
Then, with a final flare of warpfire—it vanished into the Warp.
—
CRACK.
A sound of glass breaking on his right. He looked over in terror, tears flowing from his eyes.
A false reality was being destroyed. Then a voice—a prayer.
Muffled—"By the sacred light of the God-Emperor..."
It grew louder with each passage—"Whose flame shall never wane..."
More pieces broken, revealed the chanter. Father Grigori.
"I call upon the sanctified wrath to sever the chains of the Warp,
to rend the veil of falsehood, and cast down the shadows of the Lie!"
Finally the illusion was gone. Kochav was back to reality, still shocked. He looked around the room. Cilicia was passed out on the floor.
Sister Thessia was injured, stood at the door's edge. Behind her was Father Grigori, the Head-Priest. Along with a dozen Battle Sisters.
The boy hurried to his window, looked for his Ogryn friend.
—There was nothing but blood in the barn. A huge piece of cloth covered something.
Now... reality hit the fragile mind.
This was his first Peril of the Warp. He was never in control.
His family—Bob the Ogryn was dead. His mother, Cilicia—unconscious.
He frantically cried as Thessia rushed to comfort him—the boy fell silent. She injected a syringe into his neck. A sleep-inducing drug.
A few hours later.
Ulysses entered the dim church, the heavy doors groaning shut behind him. The air was thick with incense and the faint tang of blood.
Cilicia, Thessia, and young Kochav lay within the sanctuary.
The boy rested under Sister-Medicae's watch, his small form pale, an intravenous drip running to his arm.
Cilicia lay nearby, still unconscious.
Thessia sat on her bed, her armor scorched and cracked next to it.
Ulysses approached quietly. He knelt before Thessia.
"Tell me what happened, Sister." His voice was steady, but the concern behind it was clear.
Thessia swallowed hard, her voice hoarse.
"I… I was speaking with Cilicia when we heard a scream. A child's scream."
She closed her eyes, willing herself to remain composed.
—A recollection.
They were startled by the scream, rushed upstairs but it was warped. Filled with daemons —horrors of Tzeentch. Pink and blue —shifting, laughing.
Thessia, who was a combatant, instinctively pushed Cilicia out of harm's way. Instructed her to get to the Ogryn.
She cut the first daemon in half with her chainsword, while holding the others at bay with her prayer and Rosarius.
She looked for the young boy, but he was nowhere to be found
—desperate.
She then recited an exorcism rite. A beacon of faith, it kept the lesser daemons away from her. But it didn't work on one.
—A greater daemon of Tzeentch.
It banished her from the warp-tainted area. She was suddenly outside the house. Trying to get back in to save the family, the thick mist was enough to keep one Sister out.
Unable to do anything by herself, she rushed to the church to get help.
—
While inside...Bob was with Cilicia.
"Silly, get behind Bob!" the Ogryn ordered.
She did as ordered, her hands trembling. This was her first time facing death.
"I don't know where Ko is!" she shouted from behind the Ogryn, voice breaking.
"Stay with Bob. Find Ko—together!"
With a mighty swing, Bob shattered the warped window frame. Daemons spilled toward him—clawing, cackling.
He smashed them with brutal sweeps of his club, crushing limbs beneath his heavy boots. But they kept coming. Bob grunted, wounds blooming across his body.
He gave the order: "Bob buy time. Silly, find Ko —now!"
Cilicia nodded—tears streaming on her face, she ran inside the house.
"Ko! Where are you?!" She shouted.
She searched through the first few rooms, nothing but shadows, laughter and whispers. Then she found him, in the dining room. Kneeling in the center of a glowing circle. His eyes rolled white, mouth open in silent prayer. Blue lightning warred against orange around him
—two unseen forces battling through his fragile mind.
"Ko! Can you hear me?!" She shouted, but no respond.
Without hesitation, Cilicia rushed forward. She grabbed his shoulders—her flesh burning against the Warp energy. But she did not let go.
"Give me back my son!"
she sobbed, pulling him away from the circle. Pain seared her arms, but a mother's love knows no limit.
—
Outside.
Bob fought on, covered in blue and red. Daemon blood, and his own. His armor hung in tatters. One eye was blind, his breath ragged.
The daemons retreated, hid behind a larger figure.
The birdlike daemon with a serpent's head. Four vast wings beat the air with a mournful wail.
It slowly advanced on Bob. He tried to hit it aimlessly. The daemon tilted its head—seeing Bob's past, his future—twisting it for amusement.
It struck, fast as thought —gripping Bob's neck. Wings unfurled—it took him skyward.
Bob struggled —an Ogryn never gives up. With one hand he gripped the daemon's throat. An inevitable future for a daemon who could see one.
—How ironic.
With his other hand, he pulled the pin of an incendiary grenade. Squeezed it in his hand, brought it close to the daemon's eyes.
—Then
BOOM.
The grenade exploded in his hand, exposing bone, the daemon shrieked—its crystalline eyes burned, vision clouded. It let go of Bob.
He fell—smiling through the pain.
His last thought : "Family. Protect."
The arrogant daemon lost some of its sight. Its eyes grew cloudy—cataracts.
It could only see the near future or past. Unable to see what Cilicia was doing, it hurried back into the house, crashing through the roof.
Searching for the missing child and mother, it found them quickly. Cilicia saw it too—instinctively rushed at the daemon to protect her child. It swiftly pushed her away, knocking her out.
The daemon reached Kochav and disguised itself as Cilicia.
—
"If I was stronger," Thessia said. Someone held her hand, comforting her—Cilicia, finally awake.
"You did your part, Sister. We wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you." Cilicia reassured her.
"And Bob...He protected me until the end, just like he was supposed to. I promise you—he showed no regrets." Cilicia spoke, giving a faint smile.
"You two should get back to rest. I will handle things from here." Ulysses got up, leaving the two women alone.
Back outside—
Philos the Enginseer stood at the church entrance, flanked by two servitors. His red robes were singed, thin trails of smoke drifting from the vents of his mechadendrites.
"Report." Ulysses ordered curtly.
Philos inclined his head with a slight whir of servos.
"Warp-disruption localized to the domicile—primary flux signatures have diminished to acceptable thresholds.
Auspex scans detect no remaining hostile entities within a one-hundred-meter radius. However... residual empyric contamination is extensive.
Full sanctification and recalibration of the noospheric integrity will require no less than seventy-two standard hours."
"Make it plain, Enginseer." Ulysses said.
Philos let out a mechanical sigh, a faint hiss of steam escaping from his mask.
"In simple terms—the area is highly contaminated. Warp-residue levels are extreme.
There is a strong possibility the breach could reopen. Daemons may still manifest through it—think of it as a fledgling warp-gate." He finished, voice flat.
"What kind of daemons will show up?" Renoir asked from behind him, bolt pistol in hand.
"Tzeentchians," the Enginseer replied. "The most arcane adapted."
—
Tzeentchians
Creatures of change, madness, and deceit—the denizens of the Realm of the Sorcerer were unlike the bestial fiends of Khorne or the bloated monstrosities of Nurgle, nor the perversealluring forms of Slaanesh.
Their shapes defied reason—limbs twisting and melting like wax, eyes blinking in impossible places, mouths forming where none had been a moment before.
Their skin shimmered with hues of blue and purple, while their voices rang in tones that clawed at the mind, layered with hidden meanings and subtle commands.
Where Tzeentch's servants walked, reality bent. Fire became liquid, stone breathed, and the very laws of nature convulsed. And always—always—they sought to corrupt. To tempt. To deceive.
A glance from their many-faceted eyes might show a man a vision of his deepest desire—or of his most crushing fear. They whispered promises that could topple empires or unmake the strongest minds.
Their warpfire burned more than flesh, it consumed identity, will, and even the soul. And worst of all—they adapted. No two encounters were the same. What destroyed one horror might empower the next.
Their very essence was change—ever-shifting, ever-evolving.
They were what haunted Artine for the next three days.