A Pocket in the Well of Eternity

A pitch-black sun rose above Ahriman's neck. There had long been no flesh and blood within that armor, only a screaming void, a black star, and a wisp of dust.

Threads condensed from ash spread outward from Ahriman, reaching every Thousand Sons sorcerer, every Scarab, every Redacted Warrior, weaving into a vast psychic network.

Ash, ash, ash.

The same emotions surged from the heart of every Thousand Son. Even the Redacted Warriors bound within their armor let out similar wails.

The mutations that had devoured their bodies, the trial at the Council of Nicaea, the piercing discrimination, the rampaging wolves, the Burning of Prospero, the twisted flames of the Planet of Sorcerers, the howls of the Red Grimoire, the failure of the Second Redaction.

Ash, dust, destruction.

They were the sorcerers of Prospero, men cursed by fate. Fate had sketched out the bleakest ending for them: to become ash and dust amid bloodshed.

"No."

Ahriman's voice traveled through the Redacted network into the ears of every Thousand Son.

"Enduring one's fate may be noble, but I would rather resist it."

Wails became roars, sorrow became hatred. Ash that could no longer burn ignited once more, and dust burst into scattered sparks.

The psychic power of the entire Thousand Sons, from past to future, from the fringes of the galaxy to the depths of the Warp, across all ages and all directions, gathered around Ahriman and burned.

The black star took hatred as its kindling and fate's most extreme change as its fuel, burning out ashes of destruction—so bright, so dazzling, so terrifying.

Centered on Ahriman, a ring of black fire began to spread. Wherever the flames swept through, crystals shattered, daemons disintegrated, storms vanished, and psychic power collapsed, leaving only scorched earth.

Soul Butcher Etaus'rau'kares let out a crazed shriek.