A veritable sea of smoke had risen to blot out the sky, the air rife with the stench of decay and death. Corpses sat skinned and impaled on rows of sharpened stakes, forming long columns that would catch the eye from quite a distance away.

  Verince had, at one point, been a prosperous trading post on Vergoll’s southern border, managing trade between the central imperium and the northern reaches of Estang and Konrad. The military had also invested a great deal of resources and manpower to ensure it provided a stern aegis to the south.

  The invading army swarmed about the ruins of the city like a horde of angry ants, a diverse and monstrous regimen who had had all traces of decency scorched away.

  Figures rife with rot, disease rising off of them in a continuous haze. The living dead, walking skeletons or golems born from reconstituted flesh, moving silently and persistently. Howling madfellows, draped in the red armour of War, baying and thirsting for more blood to spill. And, prowling the edges of the ruined town in search of stragglers, strode the looming white knights of Conquest.

  In the heart of the town, the Avatars had congregated to admire their handiwork.

  War, a towering woman adorned in spiked black armour draped with red and gold silks, clicked her tongue and sniffed the air. “It’s a work of art, isn’t it?” she asked, raising her arms to the impalement column. “The murder march to Vergoll has been worth the wait.”

  Death stood silent. He always did. His hood and cloak were draped over an ornate suit of armour, each plate carved in such a way that they looked like lattices of interlocking bones. The hood itself was an ebony void, with no hint of a face or skull within. But if one peered into the void long enough, they would see cold and indifferent stars looking back at them.

  Rot lumbered and tottered on swollen legs, sores weeping black pus though the gaps of his misshapen armour. His own helm had been carved with a faceplate that resembled a placid, blank face. More pus continually seeped from the eyes and lips. “I wanted to infect more of them. To feel the gnawing of their flesh with my blight.”

  “More will come, dear brother,” said War, grinning. She had removed her visored helm, exposing two eyes that blazed like coals in a furnace. She was, in many conventional respects, a deeply beautiful woman. Yet anyone who looked upon her, whether she was in the middle of a battlefield or lounging about in a quiet meadow, would instantly feel their fight or flight reflex being triggered. Such was the aura of terror and sheer inhumanity she radiated. Everything about her simply felt wrong on a fundamental level.

  Her eyes drifted to the last of their group. Resplendent in a suit of ornate white armour, which miraculously did not have a single speck of blood or ash upon it despite the slaughter, his helmet was smooth and angled. It did not sport a face, as Rot did, instead having two carved eyeholes. The sculpted lines that framed the faceplate seemed to almost point toward them, to the pale blue voids of his eyes.

  “Ideally, you will work faster next time.” His voice was vast and ancient, a voice that spoke of falling empires and slain monarchs, intoning the end of the world with every syllable.

  “No fun, brother. You are no fun at all.”

  “No, War, I am not. And that is why I am the one who leads you.” As had been the case with every world Chaos sought to colonise. It was a simple necessity. War was chaotic and wild, seeking to spread her violence in all directions without strategy or foresight. War for the sake of war. Death was silent and persistent. An inevitability that spread across the world like a cancer. But he moved too slowly without brother Conquest to guide him. And Rot, simply put, was gluttonous. Like War he was too savage to be left to his own devices, needing a firm hand to point him in ideal directions to sate his hunger.

  Stolen story; please report.

  But Conquest was driven and focused, aware of his mission and purpose with sterling clarity. If he was to conquer, and he always did, then he set about doing so with precise and ruthless planning. This always involved corralling his siblings like a pack of hounds.

  Conquest strode with purpose, the emperor of whatever soil his feet rested upon, and watched as a pair of his Wardens dragged another man from the shadows. They wore armour in his colour, radiant white, black cloaks draped over their right shoulders.

  The man between them was sagging and bloodied, his torn surcoat sporting the dragon and rose symbol of Vergoll. Yet he looked up at Conquest with defiance, half his face swollen with bruises that turned his skin from black to purple.

  “You put up a noble defence. As to be expected of Warden,” said Conquest.

  The stranger said nothing.

  Conquest stared at him. Not just at the flesh that gave him form, but at the mind and spirit beneath. His memories unfolded before him like a tapestry. “Daryll Gorman. You were a... marine for the ‘United States’ once upon a time.”

  “A warrior at heart,” purred War.

  “The fuck does that mean to you,” Daryll huffed.

  “A past life defined by violence, culminating in a violent end. Only for you to find yourself here, fighting another unwinnable war for the past three years. A shame of an existence.”

  Daryll glowered up at him with an impressive amount of defiance. “Fuck you,” he spat. “I don’t regret my past life. And I don’t regret killing scores of the bastards you sent my way.”

  “And what did it get you, in the end? There is no victory for you or your ilk. Against me, there never is.” Conquest spoke with absolute certainty, a preacher at a divine pulpit. “But I could give you something the Arbiter and his paymasters never could, if you serve me. The daughter of your old life.”

  There was a sigh on the wind, which coalesced into a vice as it reached Daryll’s ears. Daddy, I miss you.

  Daryll froze. Then, suddenly, he thrashed in his bonds with newfound fury. “Fuck you, you piece of shit! Don’t you dare invoke her! I’ll kill you! So help me Christ, I’ll fucking kill you!”

  “Fascinating,” said Rot.

  Death looked on, silent and impassive.

  “The heart of a warrior beats in his chest. I shall make a killer out of him.” War grinned and reached for him, only to halt as Conquest slapped her hand away.

  His cold gaze swept toward the two Wardens holding Daryll prisoner. “Break him. But only insofar as he will become loyal. I do not need any jibbering madmen in my ranks.”

  The two Wardens in white could not meet his gaze.

  They started to drag Daryll away, who kicked at the dirt in wild defiance. “You’ll never win!” he shouted. “I’ve killed plenty of your pet bastards! And there’s guys far stronger than me in Vergoll! Your army’s gonna ground to a halt and get mowed down! And then they’ll come for you!”

  “I think not.” Conquest strode past his two men and made for a partially collapsed, ash-caked building. He gripped a fallen wall with one hand, hefting it as if it were made of cheap plywood, heedless of the fragmented bricks that tumbled onto his shoulders. “Do you believe this is the first world Chaos has sought to colonise? That you are the first people to be sent to halt us? No. This game has been played across myriad worlds and realms, so many spheres being drawn into her gaze. The end result is always the same.” Malice flashed in his eyes. “We conquer.”

  The four Avatars stood back as the injured Warden was dragged over the threshold, into the burnt-out wreckage. And they paid little mind to the screams that soon followed, as the Fallen Wardens worked him over. Those sounds were nothing new to them. But War’s smile did broaden just a tad further.

  “So... we’re pressing on? Moving deeper inland?” Rot asked. Something gurgled deep within their armour.

  “You will be the vanguard, Rot. Your presence is already established and growing in that region. We, in the meantime, shall move to secure the borders until all of Vergoll is encircled.” Conquest turned slowly staring toward the burning corpses. “You’ll get your wish, War. Another grand slaughter.”