[UNKNOWN LOCATION]
Atrius was ejected from the portal with startling smoothness. It was the cleanest transition he had ever experienced—nothing like the raw, wrenching translations of the Warp or the brutal tear of his usual dimensional crossings.
This alone seized his attention. His red eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the strange gods who wielded such power with suspicion sharpened by years of surviving the unknowable. Yet now was not the time to linger.
Horses thundered past him as he slowed his stride. Ahead, the Amazons surged forward in perfect formation, their charge unbroken by his arrival.
Atrius came to a halt for a brief moment, observing the advance. He turned his gaze to the heavens.
The sky was dark. A deep, unnatural black draped the morning—an anomaly, for by his internal chronometers, dawn had already broken.
HSSSSHHHHHHH…
The sound of metallic breathing hissed softly from his helm's filters.
He inhaled deeply through his Armour's vents.
Ash.
The machine-spirit of his helm flickered runic warnings into his lens—a sudden spike in temperature, hotter than any natural morning should allow.
Around him, the Amazons pressed on relentlessly.
He glanced back at the portal. It remained open—its surface shimmering with golden light. Still no trace of Warp taint. His caution eased slightly.
Probability of incursion: negligible.
He faced forward once more. Beyond the horizon, he could feel it. The slaughter.
With a single, powerful thrust of his legs, Atrius launched himself forward, sprinting with inhuman speed while carefully avoiding the Amazon ranks.
THUNG-THUNG-THUNG-THUNG!
Lifting his gaze, he saw it—a strange, viscous darkness falling from the sky like a tide of black liquid. It was too dense to classify by any known natural phenomenon.
He did not falter.
Whatever foe awaited, he would crush. His objectives were crystalline:
Identify the enemy.
Locate their vessel.
Decapitate resistance.
Seize a star-faring craft and return to the void.
Within minutes, he had reached the vanguard, outpacing the swiftest Amazons.
At the head of the formation, Queen Hippolyta caught sight of the giant figure moving among her ranks. Her eyes widened briefly, surprise flashing across her battle-hardened face. Before she could call out, Atrius surged ahead again, accelerating to impossible speeds.
Even the steeds blessed by Hermes could not keep pace.
In moments, he was gone—a diminishing silhouette racing toward the storm.
Hippolyta's grim expression softened, if only slightly. An ally walked the battlefield.
Her warriors breached the scorched plains. Ahead, far in the distance, faint golden flares blossomed in the haze. She recognized them immediately.
Portals, the work of Hermes himself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
War.
That was all Atrius could see for miles as he approached.
The sky churned with movement—endless black hordes diving like hunting falcons, crashing down upon mortal armies that met them head-on in the burning fields below.
He could not tell how long the battle had raged.
It mattered little.
At his speed, the front lines loomed nearer with every step.
Flashes of golden light caught his eye. He recognized them: the non-Warp portals.
He turned his head briefly. Through them, legions poured forth like floodwaters.
The sight was staggering.
Phalanxes of bronze-armoured hoplites marched beneath fluttering banners, their shields locking in gleaming walls. Chariots wreathed in what appeared to be fire tore across the plains, pulled by winged creatures Atrius had no knowledge of stags, leonine serpents, and steeds.
unrelenting waves thrown against the tide of darkness. They charged with such fervor it momentarily baffled Atrius.
He lifted his gaze skyward. The closer he drew, the clearer the winged creatures became—grotesque silhouettes against the roiling heavens, their forms half familiar.
Suddenly,
Something stirred in him, the unexplainable feeling of familiarity
something flashed into his mind.
SKREEEEEEEEEEE—KLAK!
Atrius halted instantly, the sound of his Armour's locks grinding as his boots dug furrows into the scorched earth.
"NNNNGH—!" he grunted, clutching his helm. Pain pulsed like a migraine behind his eyes.
"What… what is going on?" he rasped.
He shook his head violently, disoriented.
He looked skyward again—and the battlefield dissolved. In its place loomed the warp. hordes of daemons, charged toward him in the tens of thousands, shrieking profane war cries.
Instinct took over. He raised his armored forearm to shield himself, eyes shut, bracing for impact.
Nothing came.
Moments passed.
He opened his eyes. The vision was gone. Only the winged creatures circling at a distance remained. Yet he knew what he had seen. The tang of the Warp still lingered, a psychic aftertaste that made his skin crawl beneath the armor.
It had been real.
He stood there, gazing at the sky with solemn clarity. No longer confused.
"Imparator memoria extergimus," he whispered. The words rolled from his tongue like a sigh.
Now he understood.
The gaps in his memory after the Webway were not accidents—they were deletions. Deliberate. The Emperor had stripped away memories before; countless times. Atrius could no longer remember how many.
But he never resented it. To serve was his joy—even if it meant sacrificing fragments of himself forever.
Yet now, for some unknown reason, a mere familiar sight had cracked the seal. He had remembered something that was meant to be erased.
Memory wipes by the Master of Mankind were absolute. Irreversible. Unless… he willed otherwise.
Or, for Atrius, something far worse.
His gaze fell to the ashen ground.
"Have you forsaken me…?"
SKRAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!
A parademon screech split the air above.
Atrius looked up.
Lightning had descended upon the horde. A storm of heavenly fury erupted overhead—a sea of lightning, devouring the winged host in a blinding surge.
The creatures fell like electrified carrion, tumbling through clouds as the heavens cracked open.
Thunder rolled like the roar of titans.
HRAAAAAAAAHHHHHH—OOOHHRRRRRAAAHHHHHH!
From afar, Atrius heard it: the war chant of men.
A primal, thunderous chorus rose to the skies as soldiers raised their weapons toward the storm, as though welcoming something, that had yet to descend among them.