MAGISTER - PROLOGUE
He shall call forth the Death of Light, when dark portents wax nigh. Ten thousand sufferings he shall inflict, upon the world he grasps. Tearing from the Eye of Blood, he shall release his Legions. And a galaxy shall mourn. – Eldar prophecy-stone found on Cadia, date of inscription estimated 65,000,000 years ago.
The scene inside the Inner Sanctum of High Magister Mordeghai was one of perfect calm, the High Magister floating in perfect serenity at the exact centre of the high chamber, its roof showing a beautiful map of the infinite vastness of interstellar space, countless wheeling stars and galaxies revolving around the cruciform figure of the Magister, a statement of egotism that was insulting to anybody with an inkling of what it implied.
Lord Tzenaar of the Thousand Sons was in turn tired of the ignorance that his master showed to outside affairs. The world (or the daemon-world) of Kitharat, where they were, did not revolve around the Magister, it revolved around the countless sorcerer-lords that served him, and in turn served the dreaded Ahriman.
He kneeled in obeisance, before the High Magister, knowing that Mordeghai would strike him down if he so much as whispered before him.
'YES,' Mordeghai stated. 'YOU MAY SPEAK.'
'Yes, Lord,' Tzenaar uttered. 'There is something upon the world of Akkad VI, something that we seek. It is called...the Death of Light.'
'Then...' Mordeghai declared. 'You are to take the Eye of Change, my flagship, to Babylon V.
***
Tzenaar removed his helmet in his quarters aboard the Eye of Change, perfect calm on the outside, filled with rage and spite within. Prospero, home-world of the Thousand Sons, had been razed by the Space Wolves ten thousand years (in mortal time) ago, but it felt like mere centuries. What he had in his quarters was the meagre number of books he had managed to preserve, tiny when compared with the High Magister's Grand Librarium. The tomes spoke of sorcery and psychic energies, of the many ways to harness Warp energies and control them. There was a time when he believed that what he had done was for the good of mankind.
That time had ended with the false Emperor's, the corpse-god's betrayal. He could remember the day when Prospero burnt. He had sworn a vow that day never to rest till Fenris, home-world of the Space Wolves, was naught but ash and dust. He could remember when the Imperium had been young and exuberant, but now, with its bloated and corrupt nature, destroying it felt almost like an act of kindness. He alone had been selected by the High Magister, as his successor in the case of death, Daemonhood, or the accursed state of Spawndom. But that did not matter. Soon he would be on Babylon V, and then he could work out his frustrations on something.
He had such interesting plans.