"The stars revolve, and the nations wage war.
No time even to sleep in bed—only plunder and seizure.
The world turns, and the nations strike.
No time to rest under blankets—only conquest and slaughter.
No moment for thought, only action.
No place to flee, only the battlefield.
No love, no friendship—only war and struggle.
Hawks of Chogoris,
Spread your wings and soar.
This is the honor Eternal Heaven has granted us—to ride with the wind of the steppes whipping at our faces.
From holy Terra to the farthest edge of the galaxy, this is the hunting ground Eternal Heaven has given us.
Wherever we speak, we go—crush the stone beneath our hooves!
Wherever we aim, we strike—shatter the rocks before us!
Split the mountains, drain the seas dry!
Hawks of Chogoris,
Strike your enemies with courage.
Bring fear and trembling to every world—"
Deep within the Webway, along a forgotten void path beyond even the control of Commorragh's Archons—so desolate that not even the lesser Drukhari ventured there—a song of the nomads echoed. Its melody, plucked upon a simple stringed instrument, was both solemn and stirring.
Undeniably, it was a war song—vastly different from the Gothic tongues of the Imperium, brimming with boldness and kinship in battle. If any of the White Scar brotherhood were present, they would surely hum along.
It was an ancient relic from the Great Crusade era, a song of the Legion's grand expeditions—handed down through the gene-sons of the War Hawks of Chogoris, said to be adapted from the folk war songs of their Primarch's homeworld.
"Stop."
The song was not yet done, but clearly, its only listener had run out of patience.
A towering, rugged figure rose from a creaking stool barely fit to bear his weight. Coarse braids of tawny hair swung in the air as he lifted his head.
Upon his thick, rune-etched cerulean-grey gorget sat a face as if carved from wind-beaten stone—broad, stern, and glacially cold. His sharp eyes gleamed like frozen sapphires, their gaze nearly unbearable.
"Jaghatai, I've no patience for this poetic nonsense of yours!"
"You got the All-Father's message, didn't you? That madman's call? The Imperium's a pile of shit now. Those little whelps are running wild. The All-Father gave us only two names—Commorragh and Terra! So what do you make of it?"
His rough, feral voice drowned out the fading song. The chill of winter and the heat of fury burned within his eyes, the tension around him like a storm on the edge of eruption.
"You're just going to sit there and strum that weak little toy of yours?"
"Of course not, my brother."
In contrast to the impatience and fire of his Fenrisian kin, the Lord of the Blue Sky remained calm. Jaghatai Khan lifted his lean, hawk-like face—his aquiline nose and high-boned features marked by piercing, narrow eyes like those of a predator in flight.
Anyone who saw him would have to admit—he was the very image of a warrior-chieftain, a horse-lord of unyielding strength.
"Russ, you really are no good listener. Trying to calm you with music is like playing to a pack of wolves."
Jaghatai set down his lyre—its simple metal frame bound with taut strings—and shook his head. The black ponytail tied with a bronze ring at his crown swayed behind him—refined in form, yet untamed in spirit. He smiled faintly at the Wolf King of Fenris.
"Hmph! If you want a listener, go find Magnus, that arrogant fool! And I'm a wolf, not a—"
Such a blunt, tone-deaf reply.
Jaghatai understood the meaning behind it.
During the last days of the Great Crusade, Russ had led his Wolves to burn Prospero to ash, following a twisted order. Later, exhausted and bloodied, his legion was ambushed by the Alpha Legion. At the time, the White Scars were nearby—but unable to tell who was truly the traitor, they chose not to intervene.
And in those days, the White Scars had been close to the Thousand Sons. Jaghatai and Magnus had shared many deep discussions of philosophy and culture.
Russ's barb was not without venom.
"Patience, Russ. Your haste serves no purpose."
Knowing his brother's impulsive nature well, Jaghatai paid the comment little heed.
He thought of Russ as little more than an overgrown space husky—loud, well-meaning, but utterly lacking in restraint.
Putting away his harp, amid the scent of smoked meat and charred spices, Jaghatai leaned forward—his frame no less imposing than Russ's—as he casually turned the roasting meat over the fire.
"Father has made His decision. We follow orders, nothing more."
"Commorragh—it's time we visit. Meet our 'brothers' and their legions we've never seen."
Jaghatai muttered with quiet meaning as he picked up a spirit-elf-styled flask from a crate serving as a grill stand, pouring a cup of fermented mare's milk for Russ.
"Hmph, how decisive of you."
Without hesitation, Russ snatched up the bowl-sized vessel—large enough to serve as a mortal's torso—and downed it in one gulp. Wiping his mouth, he scowled, trying to contain the fury beneath his skin as he growled, "We're talking about a Chaos God!"
"When the All-Father hid His true purpose from everyone for that incomprehensible plan of His, I held my tongue. But now He's chosen to ally with a Chaos God? After all the ruin Horus caused, He wants to do it again?"
"Tell me, Jaghatai—how can you, of all people, accept this? Back then you questioned His every order, and now you're so eager to follow this insanity without hesitation?"
Russ drew in a heavy breath. His fists cracked audibly as his teeth bared like a wolf's, his fury shaking his whole frame.
"Chaos cannot be trusted!"
Jaghatai didn't answer immediately. Instead, he gestured calmly for Russ to wait, slicing a thick piece of roasted meat from the rib of some unknown void beast. Chewing slowly, he finally said lightly:
"Russ, are you questioning the orders of our Father?"
"..."
For an instant, Russ froze. The savage fire in his eyes flickered, replaced by a moment of silent sorrow. He stared into the bottom of his empty bowl, where his own unkempt reflection stared back.
After the burning of Prospero and the forced rebellion against the Thousand Sons, Russ had realized his mistake—his blind obedience had been wrong. Though Horus and the forces of Chaos had deceived him, his own hand had played no small part.
"Look at the Imperium now. Look at the galaxy. The dream our Father built has shattered completely. When Horus raised his rebellion, I made my choice—however broken the Imperium may be, it's still better than Chaos."
Jaghatai didn't hesitate to speak his mind before his brother.
He had chosen to stand with the Imperium not for loyalty or filial piety—but because everything else in the galaxy was worse.
"Doubt shouldn't paralyze your actions, Russ. Tell me, do you think yourself wiser than our Father?"
Jaghatai's question was direct.
"Put differently—do you have a better solution? The Imperium is a rotting corpse, slowly decaying into death. Only the harshest medicine can keep it breathing..."
Russ suddenly laughed, his voice echoing like thunder. "You're right... it's a world of competing cesspools. There's no 'worst'—only worse still. Maybe Father just chose the lesser piece of filth to deal with."
Grabbing Jaghatai's flask, he tilted it back and drank deeply.
"Hahaha... maybe Father's new partner—the newborn Chaos God, whatever it is—might just be a gentler tyrant, one who wants to enslave rather than annihilate. Maybe it doesn't seek the end of all creation, only control over it."
"Maybe... maybe so, hahaha..."
He tossed the empty flask to the ground, baring his fangs in a broad grin. His laughter was loud, wild, and tinged with grief. It rolled across the open plains, shaking Jaghatai's simple white circular tent and drowning the crackle of the fire.
Russ looked around—the pure, tranquil world Jaghatai had found hidden between the folds of the Webway. Vast green meadows stretched beneath towering white mountains, crossed by clear blue rivers. It was peaceful beyond words. Even the twisted patterns of the Webway outside seemed strangely beautiful.
"You really know how to live, Jaghatai!"
His laughter—like a hammer against the ear—echoed through the encampment. Around them, the Wolf Guard of Fenris, stationed as sentries with the herds on the open plains, turned their heads toward the sound.
Crack—
With one final roar of laughter, Russ dropped heavily back onto his stool, shattering it beneath his weight. Unbothered, he tore off a roasted limb from the nearby Webway creature and bit into it greedily.
Meat and drink in great gulps—Russ lived as he fought. Thinking wasn't his task; if Father had made the decision, what right did he have to question it?
"Rest and recover—to prepare for the next battle," Jaghatai said quietly.
Setting down his half-empty wineskin of fermented mare's milk, he finally rose. Yet now his face grew solemn, as though the roles had reversed. He gazed toward the faint horizon—toward the exit of this hidden Webway passage.
The night was vast and clear, the heavens unclouded. Only the faint violet-red glow of stellar light shimmered in the deep labyrinth of the Webway—a current of pure Warp energy.
"Russ, it's time. They—our brothers we've never met—have already reached Commorragh. I only hope you won't pick a fight with them..."
...
Shrrrk!
The sound of flesh being torn, of blood spurting.
The grinding roar of a chainsword, the crash of bolter shells into bodies, the wet rip of power weapons slicing through flesh—the agony of power armor splitting along with the men inside. From above, from below, all around, the slaughter echoed.
"Aaaaaaaah—!"
The scream of the dying.
"Aurelia Malys, Archon of the Kabal of the Poisoned Tongue. Tell me—where is she?"
The chattering roar of a chainsaw mingled with the grim dirge of midnight execution.
"I don't know, I swear I don't—ahhh—ghrk!"
The victim—a Drukhari Incubus—lay on the floor, both arms and legs severed halfway. His long, slender body twitched in agony, his dark skin flushed with a rare, healthy crimson hue for his kind. Judging by his contorted expression, he would have preferred deathly pallor.
"Wrong answer."
The interrogator—clad in midnight-blue, finely wrought power armor—stood silent. His helm bore the crimson bat-wing crest, and the double-headed aquila on his chestplate gleamed coldly. The Night Lords sergeant hefted a massive chain glaive, its teeth purring as it drifted toward the Drukhari's right knee.
A sharp whirr—then the chainsword bit deep. The alien screamed again, higher, shriller. His neck showed puncture marks—needle wounds bleeding slowly.
They were the work of the Imperium's Science Division—specially commissioned tools of torment for the Night Lords.
A cocktail of compounds: consciousness stabilizers, pain amplifiers, truth serums, and neural excitants—all ensuring that every nerve remained alive, every fiber aflame.
"Right thigh, left thigh, right arm, left arm, spine, liver, kidneys... plenty of places left to play. Which one next?"
"Kill me! Just kill me—aaaah!"
The chain glaive screamed again, tearing through flesh and armor alike. Half the listed organs were shredded before the Night Lord paused, observing the barely-living Drukhari.
"Seems you really don't know..."
He swung once more—decapitating the creature with a clean strike, the head bouncing across the blood-slick floor. With a contemptuous kick, he sent it rolling into the darkness.
"The Kabals... their society truly is a curiosity. Deceit and betrayal are the rungs of their ladder to power."
"That alien witch, Malys, is like an eel—she trusts no one. Her palace count is in the dozens, her bedchambers in the thousands. Her movements? Known only to her bodyguards, perhaps a few in her Kabal's high command."
"Move on to the next sector. Tell the brothers of the Thousand Sons—no mercy. Make it loud."
In the cityscape of Commorragh, the towers stretched upward like black, twisted plants clawing for sunlight. Fortress-spires of shadowed thorns rose for miles—tens of miles—toward a sky that never saw dawn.
Raise your eyes, and every tower was connected by bridges and archways of impossible grace—an abyss of pain forged into beauty. But today, that abyss was aflame.
Without warning, none of the Archons of the Kabals knew how many gene-forged warriors of Mankind had infiltrated their dark city.
From the very first moment, the battle was brutal beyond measure. The Night Lords and the Thousand Sons struck as one—swift as wind, devouring as fire.
You need not look up to see it; the skies themselves rained death. Only this storm fell upward—bolter rounds and plasma fire hurled endlessly toward the vaulted heavens.
The shriek of energy weapons drew blazing trails across the sky, streaks of multicolored fire marking the heavens. Brilliant droplets rained down in torrents—each one a spark of unleashed devastation, the Honkai Energy detonations wrought by the warriors of the Thousand Sons.
"Mon-keigh!"
"Death is not your end! I will show you what true terror means!"
The Night Lords bellowed their fury as the elite Kabals rallied, their venom cannons shrieking with toxic thunder. A spire collapsed; the ground quaked beneath the blast. The roar of destruction drowned all sound.
Atop the towers, countless Drukhari warships—sleek Venom and Razorwing craft—ignited their engines, screaming into battle.
It was chaos incarnate.
Within the quaking darkness of Commorragh, the black city seemed to twist upon itself—like a hive collapsing inward under its own violence. Clatter—crash—
"Wretched Mon-keigh! Where are they coming from!?"
Blood spattered the air in crimson arcs. Amid the carnage, aided by the warped monstrosities of the Haemonculi, a slender Drukhari woman—clad in black silk robes lined with barbed chain-armor—darted swiftly through the narrow alleys of the undercity.
Her path was strewn with corpses and the dying. Some still clung to their shapes; most had been reduced to grotesque amalgamations of flesh and machine. This was the lowest tier of Commorragh—a place she would never have deigned to set foot in before. But now, she fled through it, her pride swallowed by necessity.
"Vect... that useless fool. So much for the so-called Lord of the Dark City!"
What humiliation.
To be driven to this by Mon-keigh!
And yet... perhaps it wasn't all bad.
A cold, elegant smile curved across her lips. The Drukhari woman, whose beauty was both deadly and divine, spread open her ornate folding fan—its blades gleaming with venomous light. Through the shattered remains of a black spire, she gazed upward toward the war-torn sky, where violet and crimson lances of power crossed like woven spears.
The heavens burned purple-red—a tapestry of ruin and grace.
"Chaos Apostle," she murmured, voice low and silken, "if you want it... come and take it."
"This is our accord. I won't destroy it. But before that—do clear away the obstacles that stand in my ascent."
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