Deep within the Webway—profound, winding, and riddled with ancient Eldar craftsmanship and dangerous folds in space-time—a small elite human fleet moved silently forward, breaking the ageless silence of this place.
Yvraine led the way. This prophet of the Reaper Host, burdened with the survival of her race, carefully guided these temporary "allies."
Behind her were Horus and Sanguinius.
They had not brought a massive Imperium fleet, only a small number of rigorously selected but absolutely elite Space Marine companies, suited to the Webway's unusual environment and capable of carrying out precise strike missions.
The Webway's walls emitted a faint glow, illuminating Horus's vigilant profile.
His eagle-sharp gaze continually swept over the ever-changing surroundings, assessing every potential threat.
Yet more often than not, his emotionless eyes settled on Yvraine.
That gaze did not regard her as a comrade facing danger alongside him. It was more like he was examining a problem that urgently needed to be dealt with—or rather... the representative of a race destined to decline.
Yvraine could clearly feel that cold, almost tangible gaze at her back. It left her feeling as though needles pricked her spine, her nerves taut at all times.
She had no doubt that once Commorragh's crisis was resolved, or once the Imperium of Man deemed the Eldar no longer useful, Horus—who seemed far more aggressive and pragmatic—would turn his guns upon the Eldar without hesitation.
She even suspected that Horus might be hoping Chaos would use this opportunity to cripple the Eldar, allowing him to "clean up" the region more easily afterward.
Yet Yvraine had no other choice.
Seeking human aid was a desperate gamble. She was gambling that humanity's shared fear of the Abyss's descent could temporarily overwhelm ten thousand years of accumulated hatred and distrust; that Regent Guilliman's promise carried weight; and