Eldrad Ulthran awoke abruptly, his trance shattered by a vision carried on the psychids from the Eastern Frihe faint threads of the immaterium whispered an omen—a distant cry that tugged at his sciousness.

  For most, it would have gone unnoticed. But Eldrad was no ordinary seer. As the High Farseer of Ulthwé, leader of the Seer cil, and one of the greatest prophets the Eldar race had ever known, such burdens were his aloo bear. The gaxy was a cruel and ung pce, where suffering was the norm and peace was fleeting, a fading ember in a storm.

  Still, it had been a shame to lose that dream. Strictly speaking, it had not been a dream at all. Eldar did not dream. Their minds were too discipliheir souls guarded against the turmoil of the . For a farseer, to dream was to falter—a pse that could bring ruin. Such failures were rare, yet always carried meaning.

  In deep meditation, Eldrad had glimpsed a memory buried within the infinity circuit—a fragment of the Eldar’s lost golden age.

  In that era, the gods still walked among them, and the Eldar ruled the stars unchallenged. Worlds bloomed uheir care, and the gaxy itself seemed to bow to their will. With but a thought, they could shape barren rocks into lush paradises, breathe color into lifeless skies, or dim distant stars as though they were nterns. The sun worshipped by humanity was little more than a grain of sand to the Eldar of that time. Eldrad could almost feel it—the hum of boundless life energy, the taste of honeyed wihe chorus of ughter ringing from pearl towers. It was beauty inate.

  Then, the vision darkehe ughter twisted into anguished screams. The sweeturo blood, p from shattered amphorae. In his mind’s eye, a two-headed eagle, stained crimson, unfurled its wings and stretched its cws toward the Eastern Fringe.

  The sword of Khaine—an i of the Eldar’s war god—shattered beh a blood-red moon. The tears of the eagle ran like rivers of blood. And then, the sigil appeared: a sinister purple mark that burned in the shadows. The symbol of Sanesh—She Who Thirsts. A full purple moon, bracketed by two crest shapes, glowed with malevolence.

  The meaning was clear. A cataclysm was ing to the Eastern Frihe two-headed eagle was the Imperium of Man, and the shattered sword foretold doom for the Aitoc Craftworld, often known as the of the Eagle Eyes. Blood would staiars, and Sanesh would strike in the chaos.

  For a moment, Eldrad’s thoughts turo intervention. But he stilled himself. The path of prophecy demanded patience. Ag before the time was ripe could prove disastrous. The powers of Chaos were ing, lurking in the void beyond sight, and a premature move could doom everything.

  Taking a deep breath, Eldrad calmed his mind, letting the echoes of the vision fade. Such was the burden of the farseer’s path—to walk the knife’s edge of destiny, forever seeing camity yet uo atil the moment was right. The omens were clear, but the finer details remained cloaked in shadow. For now, all he could do was wait.

  Meanwhile more pressing matters loomed closer to the Imperium’s core. pared to the veiled spiracies festering in the Eastern Frihe chaos erupting in the Eye of Terror was far more dire. Abaddon’s forces were assembling a vast fleet of warships, and the uling movements of the Bck Legion hi a growing war. An evil god, perhaps even the Despoiler himself, seemed to be preparing another incursion.

  Five Terran days ter, a vast fleet prising thirteen ships departed from Lion's Gate Spacepliding steadily into the cold void. Among them were the Ebony Shadows and Bck Wings, both part of Kayvaan’s flotil, as well as the Bck Rose under Kayvaan’s direand. The rest included three chartist freighters leased to the Sisters of Battle and six mighty voidships painted in blinding white, their hulls embzoned with fleur-de-lis—marks of the Adepta Sororitas.

  “Power up the Ebony Shadows and have it follow. Disengage ms and make sail,” Kayvaan ordered from the bridge of the Bck Rose. The two ships released their anps, thrusters engaging as they joihe rger voy.

  The Sisters of Battle were legends in their ht. Fanatical warriors of the Emperor, their name alone was enough to ehat no vessel dared challehe voy, even within the crowded shipping nes of Sol. Though their fervent presence brought an air of oppression, it also promised an untroubled passage.

  The fleet moved steadily away from Lion’s Gate, accelerating toward the outer rim of the sor system. Once past Pluto, they would begin the phase of the journey—a delicate and arduous process taking aire Terran week.

  Once clear of Sol, the fleet would verge at a kno transit point—a weakened boundary in the fabric of reality. There, uhe guidance of navigators, the ships would eheir drives, tearing through the Immaterium to emerge thousands of light-years away. This treacherous journey would take oo two weeks before the voy stabilized in realspace, where it might pause briefly at an outpost to resupply before tinuing.

  This method of void travel, known as a guided jump, was standard for le expeditions. It demanded coordination and immeienavigating the was fraught with peril—an error could send a ship drifting forever or worse, into the jaws of daemons. To reach the distaern Frihe fleet would repeat this process three or four times.

  Despite the voyage’s dauntih, the greatest dey came not from the itself, but from the slow process of accelerating out of one system and decelerating into another. Jumping within a star system was tantamount to suicide—stars, ps, and ravitational anomalies rendered such calcutions near impossible. The best-case oute of such folly was to vanish without a trace; the worst was to be torn apart by the r tides of the before even breag its boundaries.

  Shortly after departure, the Bck Rose and Ebony Shadows linked via aernal dog tube, the structure resembling a lifeliween them. A temporary corridor ected the two ships, though Kayvaan rarely left his beloved Bck Rose. On exploration vessel, it had been refed into a noble void-yacht, replete with ors, heated washrooms, and a grand library filled with aomes. Life aboard was as refined as any pary estate, and Kayvaan had no iion of relinquishing sufort.

  Most of his days were spent with Williameus , the ever-dutiful steward. Together, they reviewed the holdings of the Kayvaan family, the sprawling systems now under his rule. Williameus offered a wealth of insight, while Kayvaan adapted quickly to the staggering responsibilities of an Imperial governor. The weight of it all was daunting, yet exhirating.

  To Kayvaan’s surprise, being a pary governor offered remarkable freedom. The Imperium demanded only ohing: tithes. Beyond that, the affairs of a governor were rarely scrutinized. A ruler could pluheir subjects into despair, grind them into servitude, or raise them to prosperity. So long as the Imperial Tithe aid, none would interfere.

  It was an intoxig power, ohat left Kayvaan both awed and wary. Taking a slow sip of green tea, he exhaled deeply. “No wonder so many envy the aristocracy. Who wouldn’t want this kind of power? And now, here I am.”