Erda's consciousness slowly coalesced in the boundless darkness.
She felt herself falling, passing through veil after veil of reality and illusion, like someone drowning and sinking into the deep sea. The light around her grew dimmer, the water colder, the pressure greater.
Her soul floated in the Warp.
She felt the wounds to her very essence. Lorgar's sword had not merely severed her flesh; it had grievously wounded her essence, leaving her Perpetual core covered in fine cracks like glass struck by a hammer.
But she was still alive. That was the only good news.
Although she could not resurrect on the spot, she could wait.
She had all the time she needed.
She had survived worse circumstances before. She had climbed back into the world of the living from deeper abysses.
This time would be no exception.
Erda's soul slowly adjusted its position in the currents of the Warp, preparing to find a safe corner where she could lie dormant and await her chance to resurrect.
Yet before she could rejoice, before she could breathe a sigh of relief at escaping death, a terrifying power approached.
That power did not belong to the Four Gods.
It was not Khorne's fury, Tzeentch's deceit, Nurgle's decay, or Slaanesh's excess.
Nor did that power belong to the Emperor. At least in terms of terrifying Warp power, it could not compare with those dreadful beings.
Yet it was precisely that quality of being "not quite so terrifying" that filled Erda with an unprecedented chill.
Because she did not recognize this power. She had lived too long and witnessed too much. She knew almost every being of any significance in the Warp.
But this one was utterly unfamiliar.
Erda tried to break free, to flee, to call out to anyone who might hear her