In the depths of the Eye, where no starlight shone through the turbulent streams of wild Warp-energy and reality was at its weakest, the Pride of the Emperor flashed into existence. The ship had once been a Gloriana-class battleship, the most powerful vessel of the entire Third Legion and flagship to Fulgrim himself. It still served that latter purpose, but nothing else of its former glory remained. In the days of the Heresy, when the Emperor's Children had broken their oaths of loyalty to the Golden Throne and embraced the corruption of the Youngest God, the Pride of the Emperor had gone through much the same transformation as the Legionaries themselves. Its hull had been remade, painted in garish colors and hues that offended every human aesthetic, decorated with obscene statues and depraved vistas. Its machine-spirit had been tortured by the unhallowed modifications of mad geniuses, transformed into a twisted, malevolent thing that revealed in the suffering it inflicted to its foes and crew alike. Then the Warp had gotten involved.

Now, the Pride of the Emperor was a grotesque monstrosity, a living leviathan that only bore enough resemblance to its former aspect that those who looked upon it could recognize what it had once been and weep for the majesty that it had lost. Cathedrals of living flesh rose from the ship's hull, lairs to packs of mad creatures whose forebears had, at some distant point in their ancestry, been human. Vox-speakers throughout the ship screamed endless disharmonies that shattered the minds of those who couldn't escape them. On the decks where Emperor's Children had fought the Ultramarines and their successor Chapters during the final confrontation between Fulgrim and Guilliman, the ghosts of both sides were still locked in an eternal battle.

Daemons of the Youngest God stalked the decks, feeding off the sensations and emotions of the mortal chattel, stealing the lives of those psychically gifted in order to experience new heights of pleasure and pain – entire existences ruined, for at best a few days of something new. Entire civilizations dwelled in the ship's darkholds, completely enthralled to the insanity-inducing influence of the ship, building self-destructive cults for the amusement of their lords before collapsing in frenetic orgies of violence and degradation. Champions of the Dark Prince rose and fell, their legends whispered for generations among their tribes but unknown to any beyond them.

The Emperor's Children themselves were distant overlords to these wretched creatures, dwelling in the upper decks and only descending below when they sought prey to hunt, capture and torture for sport. Few sons of Fulgrim remained on their Primarch's flagship – the battle that had seen Guilliman slain had cost them dearly, and the new world Slaanesh had prepared for them was unkind to its would-be masters. When the Pride of the Emperor had sailed from the daemonworld, barely a hundred Legionaries had populated its halls, less than a fraction of the thousands the Gloriana-class was designed to accommodate. However, each of them was a champion of the Dark Prince, his flesh reshaped into forms more pleasing to the Youngest God and worthy of leading an entire warband cast in his image. By choice and fate, they had remained close to their Daemon Primarch as the Third Legion fell to pieces in the aftermath of the Siege of Terra, following their lord out of loyalty – or opportunism. One eye of the Dark Prince was ever turned toward the Phoenician, and those who stayed near Fulgrim could hope to catch the attention of their patron. Furthermore, simply being near the sire of the Third Legion was an experience like none other – his mere presence stimulated the senses in a way nothing else could, and granted flashes of inspiration that led warriors that had once been paragons of honor and dignity to ever deeper depths of excess.

Around the Third Legion's twisted flagship, a fleet of the Lost and the Damned slowly formed. Vessels that had come from all branches of the Imperium but had all ended up damned to the same whispering god gathered, drawn to the power of Fulgrim like moths to an open flame, willing to burn to ash for a chance to bask in its radiance. Warbands of Slaanesh had come from all over the Eye of Terror, heeding the call of the Dark Prince's favourite son. The Emperor's Children formed the bulk of the Astartes element of the gathered force, but they weren't alone : there were Night Lords ships, and others of the Alpha Legion, Word Bearers, Iron Warriors – even a few of the traitor Dark Angels. And with them had come hundreds of other ships – former vessels of the Imperial Army, of the Dark Mechanicum, of the debased civilizations that existed within the Great Eye.

Some had been summoned by dream visions, or by prophecies spoken by trusted seers and shamans. Others, like the host of Emperor's Children who had called Harmony their home, had been visited by emissaries of the Phoenician. The Pride of the Emperor had sailed off alone, but now it was surrounded by hundreds of vessels of all size, the lesser ships kept away from the Pride by other Astartes crafts, like sworn guards protecting their king – or crows flying around a corpse. All ships of the fleet bore the touch of the Youngest God, some in subtle and barely perceptible ways, while others were daemonships, their crew now part of the vessel they had called home. These leviathans sailed under no captain, though a few had kept the mutated husks of the men and women who had once commanded them trapped in a twisted parody of life, and still spoke through their lips over vox-channels. They had been summoned to join the fleet by Fulgrim's own call and the Neverborn heralds who had carried his command to the daemons who served the Dark Prince.

There was no order to the fleet, but there was an undeniable beauty to the dance of the ships in the tainted void. No admiral had ordered their formations, but all captains and shipmasters felt the touch of Fulgrim's will upon their souls, and they played their part in the Phoenician's design, instinctively directing their ship where it needed to be, knowing when the Pride of the Emperor was about to start up what passed for its Warp engines again and go on the next step of their journey. Not all among the fleet knew what their ultimate destination was – the Legionaries knew, of course, as did those who had once belonged to the Great Crusade, but many of the Eye-born forces simply followed the serpent-like god that had summoned them, desperate to earn his favour at any cost.

Nor had all ships survived throughout the journey so far. Though more ships joined the fleet on each step of its path to Sortiarus, many were also lost during each translation. Navigators had difficulties following the Pride of the Emperor, even as it crashed through the storms ahead of them and left the Warp marginally calmer in its wake. Some of the lost vessels simply failed to keep up, or were swept aside by aetheric currents. But others were destroyed, their Geller fields breached by the tide of daemons that followed the fleet everywhere. Their decks were swept clean of life as the Neverborn devoured their crew, feasting on the horror of their last moments. But the ships of the Third Legion were all spared such fates, which the Emperor's Children rightly took as a sign of their Dark God's favour. Slaanesh's eternal hunger for the souls of his followers was great, but the Dark Prince's desire to bring down the Thousand Sons and end Tzeentch's supremacy in the Great Game was stronger. Already the balance of power between the Four had shifted considerably toward the God of Lies. Champions of Tzeentch across the Eye found their blessings strengthened, while cults of the Changer of Ways blossomed across the galaxy beyond.

Within the Eye of Terror, the Illuminated Empire was growing, daemon worlds being conquered by the armies of the Fifteenth Legion. Word of Mortarion's defeat had spread through the infernal realm, and warbands were flocking to the banner of the Crimson King. While Magnus was gone and Ahriman busy rebuilding the Planet of the Sorcerers, other Exalted Sorcerers had left their homeworld to lead conquering hosts. Fortress after fortress had fallen to these circles of magicians and their mortal armies, some surrendering outright and pledging fealty, others gutted by sorcery before the handful of survivors hosted a white flag and begged for mercy. Some Exalted Sorcerers had bound armies of daemons into their service, while others used their enhanced powers as a scalpel, assassinating the commanders of their enemies without ever stepping foot on their worlds. But regardless of the means employed, the Thousand Sons gained far more victories than they suffered defeats – though they had still suffered a few of those, the Eye of Terror not being a place where anyone could truly ever be supreme. Still, the simple truth remained : this had to end.

And so the Dark Prince had done something he had never done before : he had called his followers to gather into one vast army, a host mighty enough to bring the Illuminated Empire to its knees. Never before had the fractious, selfish servants of the Youngest God gathered in such numbers – even when the forces of Chaos had laid siege to Holy Terra, there hadn't been as many souls marked by She-Who-Thirsts among the besiegers' ranks. Rituals were taking place in sanctified chambers, summoning Daemonettes and Keepers of Secrets to join the host. These Neverborn remained silent, eyes fixed in the direction of their destination, radiating their desire for destruction.

For the chance to taste an empire's death, the children of Slaanesh were willing to put aside their competing prides and hungers … for a time, at least. Eventually, they would turn against one another again, no matter the command of their god – for they were reflection of Slaanesh's own paradoxical nature, and the servants of Ruin could never truly cooperate. Always they would struggle for supremacy, to drink the sweet wine of imposing one's will and whim upon another.

Aboard the Pride of the Emperor, in a chamber that had once been the gathering halls of the Third Legion's elite, Eidolon the Soul-Severed, he who had died and lived again, knelt before the one being in the universe he was willing to call master. The former Lord-Commander had recovered from the wounds he had sustained on Harmony, but the scars were still fresh, and every movement sent sharp pain through his body as the skin tore open and blood dripped through them – to Eidolon's delight. He could have had the wounds covered with bandages or sealing material, but what would have been the fun in that ? As it was, every spike of agony was a reminder of the one who had inflicted the wounds upon him, and a renewal of his vows of vengeance. But even these blessed sensations were nothing compared to being in the presence of his master.

'You have brought the forces of Harmony to us,' said the creature that towered above Eidolon's kneeling form in a voice more beautiful than any other sound, and more hideous than the shrieks of the damned of a thousand different species. 'Well done, my child.'

Fulgrim, the Phoenician, Primarch of the Emperor's Children and the Chosen of Slaanesh, had changed greatly since the day he had first been touched by the Dark Prince, on the distant and long-destroyed world of Laeran. He had completely left his mortal origins behind and embraced the true potential that had always been his to claim, and become an immortal prince of the Empyrean, a being that could no more destroyed than the very idea of decadence itself. No other Daemon Primarch, save perhaps that rage-consumed avatar of destruction Angron, had walked as far down the path of his patron god – and he was the only one to have done so willingly. Angron had been manipulated by Lorgar into walking the final step into immortality, and had been forced onto the Eightfold Path from the very beginning. Mortarion had been forced into accepting the Plague God's blessings to save his Legion from Nurgle's wrath. And Magnus … well. Everyone knew about Magnus.

'Yet, you have also failed. Where is Fabius, Eidolon ? Where is my Chief Apothecary ?'

Like all creatures of the Warp, Fulgrim looked different to all who looked upon him, though there were always a handful of common features. The perceptions and hidden desires of any observer shaped how he or she saw the Phoenician, but always he was a white, four-armed snake-like being of ineffable grace. This time, in Eidolon's eyes, his Primarch's face was identical to the one he had worn back when his soul had been contained within a vessel of gene-forged flesh, except for network of tattoos of bone-white ink that moved endlessly on his skin in suggestive patterns. Fulgrim did not carry any weapon, but Eidolon wasn't foolish enough to believe his master could not kill him in moments if he so desired. Such … powerlessness was a rare experience for the Soul-Severed, and he savored it even as he loathed every second of it.

'He betrayed us, lord. He attacked me, refused to submit to your commands, and fled. He took his ship and those of his followers who were willing to join him in his treachery, and ...'

'Fled ?' The laughter of Fulgrim echoed across the chamber, causing sculptures on the walls to weep in agony. 'He did not flee. He tore your flesh apart, left you on the ground, and departed his domain with his prizes to join our enemies. He did not flee, Eidolon. He beat you.'

Eidolon bristled at that, but he did not deny it. Not only was it the truth, opposing his Primarch would be a supremely foolish thing to do. Then what Fulgrim had said fully registered.

'He joined our enemies ?' Eidolon gasped, unable to believe it. 'Bile went to Sortiarus ? The Thousand Sons will kill him as soon as he arrives ! What is he thinking ?'

Again that mind-searing laughter, full of mocking joy and contempt. If Eidolon had not already been kneeling, he might have lost his balance, so powerful was the effect of his Primarch's hilarity. It burned at his mind, filling him with pleasure and terror, torment and relief, visions of glory and images of his own body, battered and broken, held up by chains forged from the iron of his blood.

'You underestimate the depths of Ahriman's pragmatism, my little revenant. To protect his Legion, the Arch-Sorcerer will do anything, including allying with Fabius. Already the Warp sings of their alliance, of the great and terrible things it portends.'

'I will kill him,' growled Eidolon. 'That traitor will pay for his betrayal, my lord. I will ...'

'You will do nothing,' interrupted the being known to countless cults across the galaxy as the White Naga. 'Nothing but that which I command. Do not fret, I did not believe you would be able to bring him to begin with. Fabius has long since turned away from the Profligate One, but he still serves our god, in his way … even if he will have to be brought back to the fold, in time.'

'How can he serve Slaanesh if he sides with the enemies of the Youngest God ?' asked Eidolon. 'If he has allied with the Fifteenth Legion, they will become even stronger than they already are.'

'The designs of the Youngest God are not for you to contemplate,' replied the Daemon Primarch, an Eidolon tensed at his master's displeasure – but already Fulgrim's attention was on something else, his eyes peering at one of the walls, looking at something far beyond it. 'You brought Lucius along with you, and that is enough to atone for your failure where Fabius is concerned. Now … leave. We will have another ally joining us soon, and you will bring him to me when he arrives.'

With a final bow, Eidolon left the chamber, leaving his gene-sire alone with the Neverborn that crowded the shadows. On his way to the massive, golden double door, he could hear them snickering in the darkness, mocking him for his failure and the summary dismissal it had cost him. When the doors closed behind him, the effect of his Primarch's aura vanished, and he almost stumbled, suddenly fighting against the urge to turn and go back into the room, into the presence of his lord and master. Many mortals, upon looking at Fulgrim, were unable to ever leave his presence, and would starve to death rather than be taken away from him. Even Astartes had difficulties abandoning the narcotic effect the Daemon Primarch's proximity had on them. But Eidolon was used to the presence of his Primarch, and he barely faltered before recomposing himself.

'Lord Eidolon,' came a voice over the vox. 'A ship has just breached the edge of the storms, and it isn't one of ours. Its identification codes read as the Destiny's Hand.'

'Ah,' breathed the Soul-Severed. 'Of course. Tell Erebus our Primarch wants to talk with him.'

AN : Here is the first part where Fulgrim is presented - though he will play a great part in the events to come. You know, for a long time I wondered why Games Workshop has so much less material on Slaanesh than the other Dark Gods recently - like in the Age of Sigmar, where the Dark Prince was replaced by the Horned Rat. But then I read again what I just wrote, and I realized that I can understand the decision of the marketing committee whose job it is to bring the Warhammer universe to as broad an audience as possible. Because anything that touches to She-Who-Thirsts quickly gets very, very disturbing (and I held back quite a bit in this chapter).

Of course, I would still prefer if they made special units and codexes for the Dark Prince's armies the way they did for Khorne and will be doing for Nurgle, but I understand why they don't want their stores to be filled with ... well, you can imagine what. Fortunately, I am not bound by the same constraints, so expect a lot of Slaaneshi units to be introduced in the war between Fulgrim's host and the Illuminated Empire ! Also, thanks to the spacebattles readers of this story, who began to use that name for the Thousand Sons kingdom - I just decided to run with it.

Argel Tal on Sicarius, Bile on the Planet of the Sorcerers, Magnus on Medrengard, and Fulgrim attacking Sortiarus ... So many things to take care of, but I am confident I will be able to tie them all together. In the meantime, though, our next chapter should be about Erebus meeting Fulgrim, and should be written from the Dark Apostle's perspective. I know all of you love to hate Erebus, so look forward to it !

Zahariel out.