Eldar Warlock

The scales of victory seemed to be tipping unmistakably toward Chris and his surviving warriors.

The Word Bearers' precise, ferocious suppressive fire pinned the remaining Aeldari Guardians behind cover, and the shriek of their Shuriken Catapult Guns had grown noticeably sparser.

The Imperial Army soldiers used the breathing room their comrades had bought with their lives to reform their defensive line. Their las-beams were scattered, but they fired at the enemy with a thirst for vengeance.

Best's shot that killed the enemy Ranger had been like a stone thrown into stagnant water, sending out ripples of survival and resistance.

Hope, like a candle guttering in the wind, burned weakly but truly.

Then, suddenly...

There was no warning.

No footsteps, no surge of energy, not even the slightest disturbance in the air.

It was as though he had been standing there all along and had merely stepped silently from behind a curtain of shadows.

A slender, elegant figure radiating pure malice appeared like a phantom out of thin air, in the shadows behind Chris's squad.

That should have been a relatively safe area, where the wounded and communications equipment were stationed.

His armour was nothing like the relatively standardized equipment of the Aeldari Guardians. It was a strange suit, older and more ornate, imbued with a blasphemous beauty. Red patterns writhed like living things across its blue surface, heavy protection covered its joints, and its Helmet resembled some ferocious predator.

He held a long, slender, curved blade.

The first to sense death's arrival was Best, who was kneeling on one knee to replace his Bolter's magazine.

Perhaps it was the superhuman danger sense of an Adeptus Astartes warrior, or perhaps the icy, bone-deep killing intent that suddenly filled the air. He whipped his head around...

What met his eyes was the