Yvraine, Emissary of Death

Because the very existence of the human Primarch named Roboute Guilliman had far exceeded the expectations of her—and of most Eldar seers.

(This human... is too powerful.)

In the Eldar's common view, humans were merely crude, short-lived "barbaric apes," driven by instinct and emotion.

Human Primarchs, at best, were simply stronger and smarter "gorillas."

But the power, bearing, and utterly inconceivable abilities Guilliman had displayed could no longer be described with such contemptuous words.

He could hardly even be defined within the category of "human."

What Yvraine sensed from him was closer to an ancient and pure sort of "divinity."

A primal force walking within the material universe!

Yvraine had been born among the Craftworld Eldar.

Most Craftworld inhabitants possessed an almost bone-deep arrogance.

They regarded themselves as the rightful inheritors of Eldar civilization.

They believed they ought to dwell upon the most beautiful and harmonious maiden worlds in the Milky Way, looking down upon all other "lesser" races.

But Yvraine was different from her kin.

Perhaps that was precisely why she had earned the favor of Ynnead, the Eldar god of death.

She possessed the Eldar's pride, certainly, but she had never believed that she or her people were especially exceptional.

Even toward the Dark Eldar, scorned by most Craftworld Eldar and living in the shadows of Commorragh, Yvraine held a rare degree of understanding.

She knew the Dark Eldar had not been born fallen. The reason they had taken the path of prolonging their lives and souls through tormenting others—

Was the helpless necessity of survival, a desperate struggle beneath the eternal threat of Slaanesh's hunger.

The Craftworld Eldar could avoid being devoured directly thanks to the protective Soul Circuits aboard their worldships and the shelter of the Shards of Khaine.

But the Dark Eldar were vast in number and scattered across countless worlds. They could not possibly protect every one of them.

(They merely chose different ways to survive.)

That was what she thought, with a trace of compassion rather than contempt.

As a recognized warmonger and rebel among the Craftworld Eldar—

She had even infiltrated Commorragh, the Dark Eldar capital, alone and become a fighter in its brutal arenas.

There, she had fought Lelith, the Eldar arena queen who had lived for over ten thousand years, and the two had become close friends despite the divide between their factions.

It was these rich and unconventional experiences that had shaped her broad perspective.

Although the Eldar's great sages had warned her that she could engage in limited cooperation with the Imperium of Man but must never become too deeply involved, for "humans are, after all, uncivilized barbaric apes."

Yet at this moment, Yvraine felt that the great sages' judgment might need revising.

(Humans may be barbaric apes... but among these apes, there emerged a... "god"?)

She believed she would forever remember Guilliman's magnificent appearance when he awakened:

Rising from the throne where he had slept for ten thousand years, confronting a Thunderhawk Gunship with his flesh and blood, and tearing that steel behemoth apart with his bare hands as though it were a toy...

This was not power that a mortal—or even a demigod—could attain. This was a miracle that only a true god could perform!

In Guilliman, Yvraine saw a kind of hope she had never seen before.

A partner so powerful and radiant, yet unexpectedly open-minded, even possessing a hint of wild and unrestrained spirit.

If she could cooperate with him more deeply, this human Primarch would be an immense help in her effort to lead the Eldar toward revival!

Moreover, Yvraine knew that she and this human Primarch absolutely had the possibility of cooperation.

There was none of the disgust or fear Imperial people commonly showed toward a "xenos witch" in the way he looked at her.

Instead, there was an equal appraisal and a peculiar respect.

His gentlemanly bearing even surpassed that of most Eldar male warriors, whom she found somewhat "effeminate."

After all, the physiological differences between Eldar men and women were not particularly great.

As a result, Eldar women rarely experienced that... overwhelming masculine presence, brimming with primal aggression.

If Eldar men were refined works of art that lacked masculine vigor—

Then Guilliman was simply a walking barbarian war god, overflowing with explosive male hormones!

This utterly different temperament could not help but stir in Yvraine an intense, unprecedented interest in him.

(Come to think of it... I have never had a partner.)

The thought quietly surfaced.

The main reason was naturally her own great strength and exacting standards.

Among the men of her own people and even other Eldar branches, few possessed strength worthy of her regard.

But as for Guilliman... she could not even summon the slightest thought of challenging him.

That would be nothing but self-humiliation. He could probably flatten her with a single slap, the kind that even Ynnead himself could not stop.

Therefore, she decided to stay.

She wanted to see just how this Primarch, who had shattered every convention, would act next, and what changes he would bring to this dark Imperium of Man.

In any case, she still had a month and a half before her planned departure.

She had ample time to understand this enigmatic human more deeply.

This... "god" who had made ripples rise for the first time upon the still lake of her heart.

Just then, a steady, forceful knock sounded at the door—knock, knock, knock—as if it were striking the room's very foundations.

Even through the heavy door and across the distance, Yvraine could clearly sense that vast force outside, blazing as fiercely as a star.

The corner of her lips curved upward, and her voice rang as clear and pleasant as a lark at dawn.

"Come in."

A large hand pushed open the door, and Guilliman's towering figure came into view.

Rarely, he was not wearing his imposing Fate Armor today. Instead, he had changed into a loose set of casual clothes in the style of Macragge.

Even so, his towering frame of over three meters carried an immense oppressive presence within the lavishly decorated room, like a walking mountain.

"Good morning, Miss Yvraine."

Guilliman's voice was gentle, carrying a trace of morning hoarseness. "Have you gotten used to living on Macragge?"

"I am doing very well, esteemed human Primarch."

As she answered, Yvraine calmly stepped down from the bed.

She had been wearing only close-fitting underclothes, but without the slightest concern, she casually picked up a light silk nightgown and slipped it on, her movements natural and smooth.

For a warrior who had once fought opponents to a standstill in the arenas of Commorragh while wearing little more than a few scraps of cloth—

Such minor exposure was far from enough to make her feel ashamed.

She even sat gracefully on the edge of the bed before Guilliman and began putting on a finely crafted stocking.