The disappearance of the Arkifane was more than a mere ripple in the fabric of the cosmos - it was a rupture that should have shattered fate itself. Almost. Yet, fate, being fluid and stubborn, had ways of mending itself. Threads could break, timelines could split, but new strands would always form in the endless weave of possibility. Some events, however, were meant to be immutable, fixed points on the loom of destiny. These were moments that no force could alter: the births and deaths of pivotal figures, the rise and fall of empires, the ascension of beings who would leave an indelible mark on reality. The Arkifane's birth, like a black star upon the fabric of the universe, was one such point.
The Arkifane was supposed to be born. No matter how many battles were won or lost, no matter who tried to thwart the dark prophecy, it was destined to rise. Vashtorr, the Forge God of the Immaterium, was meant to ascend, to rule the Forge of Souls as the master of daemonic invention, the dark artisan behind every soul-bound machine, and the father of the Soul Grinders. In countless timelines, Vashtorr's rise would unleash unimaginable horrors upon the galaxy, a harbinger of devastation that no one, not even the Emperor, could stop. But no longer.
Vashtorr did not exist. The very concept of the Arkifane had been eradicated, wiped from the threads of fate itself. The dark cults that worshipped its future form, once vast and powerful, were scattered to the wind like dust. Without their god, their purpose crumbled into oblivion. They were nothing more than broken whispers, lost to time. The impossible had happened.
And it was all because of a being that should not have existed.
It wore the guise of a human, yet no mortal could possess such overwhelming power. This entity had descended upon the world where Vashtorr was fated to be born, striking down the daemonic forces meant to nurture the Arkifane's emergence. Its strength was beyond reckoning, its presence warping reality itself. Entire fleets of the dreaded Rangdan were crushed beneath its hand, their ships torn apart like paper in a storm. In the original timeline, those same Rangdan would have swept across the planet, sparking the cataclysm that would birth Vashtorr. But this being had intervened, rewriting history with every step it took.
The loom of fate trembled as Vashtorr's thread unraveled. Dozens of fixed points collapsed, hundreds of future branches crumbled, and new paths - unforeseen, untouched - began to bloom. Where once Vashtorr's rise was inevitable, now the future stood uncertain, chaotic, and wild. The ascension of the Dark King, a calamity foretold in ancient visions, was pushed further and further from reality. What had been certain was now unmade.
Eldrad Ulthran, Farseer of Ulthwé, had peered into the threads of fate more times than he could count. He had seen countless outcomes, the rise and fall of great powers, the wars that would sweep across the stars. But now, everything was fractured. The future, once a web he could navigate with precision, had become a tangled mess. Possibilities splintered like shards of glass. And at the center of this chaos was the thing that should not exist—a being that broke the very laws of fate itself.
Eldrad rose from his meditation, his head aching from the strain of searching the shattered timelines. The entity that masqueraded as a human, the being that called itself a parent to the Primarch of all things, was the cause of it all. But what was it?
It was not one of the Yngir, though its nature was closer to those ancient star gods than anything else Eldrad had encountered. Its power surpassed even the oldest of the Necron legends, dwarfing the energy of entire star systems. But the Yngir were bound by their pride, their cold disdain for the mortal races. They would not hide in the flesh of humanity or meddle in the fates of the Imperium and the Warp alike. This creature was different, something new. Something Eldrad could not yet understand.
And now, because of it, every prophecy ever uttered was void. Every vision shattered. Nothing was certain anymore. The future had never been so dangerous, so unknown.
Eldrad sighed, the weight of what had been undone pressing down on him. The galaxy had always teetered on the edge of catastrophe, but now, the balance was gone. The threads of fate dangled loose, ready to be rewoven by any hand that dared reach for them. In that chaos, there was both peril and opportunity. The death of Vashtorr meant that destiny was no longer bound to the dark tide it had once flowed toward. But in the void left behind, something far worse could rise.
And that was what terrified Eldrad the most, because he'd be an utter fool to believe that he was the only one to have seen this. And where there was opportunity, there would be carrion. And now, with the collapse of all the prophesies, the scavengers would be numerous, indeed.
Argall's eyes narrowed.
So, that was definitely not Angron. How... odd. But it was also plain to see, for anyone who really bothered to look, how alike they were in facial features. Jadan noticed first, but said nothing. She, like everyone else, knew that they were up against Argall's blood siblings. It was just... odd, seeing someone who looked so much like himself. And yet, despite that, Argall felt no connection, nothing. He and Syreen looked nothing alike, but she was the only true sibling he'd ever acknowledge. At most, the Primarch on the screen was a relative and nothing more.
Argall crossed his arms over his chest and waited. He would've preferred, outright, if the Supreme Council just followed his commands, the same way Jadan would've preferred, but that would go against the very reason he even established the Supreme Council to begin with, the very reason he designed a democratic government that was ruled by the people, of the people, and for the people, not an autocracy by himself, even if retaking the reins of power would be as simple as speaking into a microphone and declaring himself dictator, once again.
He didn't want that. His people had to be allowed to flourish in their own terms. And he'll just have to be there to catch them and save them whenever they stumbled.
"Greetings," One of the councilors spoke. Argall recognized him as Thanil, one of the newer Councilors who represented the progressives among the Hyperborean Collective, the younger generation of Hyperboreans who were very involved in politics and administration, which – all things considered – honestly brought Argall no small amount of pride. And it was especially heartwarming, considering Thanil had been a part of Jadan's people, which also made it very odd that the boy would be the one to spearhead the diplomatic approach with the Imperium. "I am Thanil and my fellow councils represent the Supreme Council of the Hyperborean Collective. And we represent the will of the Hyperborean Peoples. We wish to engage you, our fellow human beings, in peace talks so that we may set aside our petty differences and work together towards bridging and building a better future."
"Greetings to you, Thanil and your fellows of the Hyperborean Collective; I am Sanguinius, Primarch of the Blood Angels and son of the Emperor of the Imperium of Mankind." The primarch who looked so much like him spoke with a tone of voice so smooth and so cool it was almost like a song. The Supreme Council was almost immediately captured by a few words, before they collectively pulled themselves out of the mental stupors that'd overtaken them. Interesting. More than anything, it reminded Argall of himself, of how he spoke, of how easily he was able to capture crowds and hold the attention of anyone who even listened to him briefly. Its effect, Argall mused, likely was not as profound through a screen and without an actual physical presence, but it was clear nonetheless. That said, decades of exposure to Argall's own voice and words must've granted them something of a resistance, given how they were eventually able to shrug off the effect.
It wasn't just charisma, then, he realized, but something else altogether.
But what?
Sanguinius's eyes very briefly turned to Argall, so quick no one else could've noticed, before turning towards the Supreme Council. Thanil smiled, positively beaming. And, Argall understood where is mirth was coming from. After all, that the Imperium was, in fact, capable of diplomacy was good news for everyone... except maybe the veterans of the war Angron waged against the former Volimar Republic. Argall wouldn't be entirely surprised if the old guard from Jadan's side clamored for war.
"We are pleased to know, then, Sir Sanguinius, that the Imperium is, in fact, willing to parlay to avoid unnecessary bloodshed," Thanil said, much to the approval of his fellow councilors. The young man glanced over his shoulder and turned to Argall. "Those of old Hyperborea know that to shed the blood of your fellow man was the greatest of all sins."
Argall met the boy's eyes and nodded once, smiling. Sanguinius smiled as well. "I agree."
"And so, to prevent said bloodshed, we would like to negotiate for peace," Thanil smiled. And here was the part where things became questionable. Good thing all their ships were primed to make short-range FTL jumps at any given moment. Because Argall was pretty sure the Imperium had another, much larger fleet ready to appear behind them – a trap within a trap. He'd suspected as much when they first appeared in the system. If they didn't have such a trap, ready to be sprung, then their actions, thus far, will not have made any sense and that couldn't possibly be the case as the blonde-haired 'Primarch' before him did not appear to be mentally addled. So, there just had to be a trap. "To better facilitate this diplomatic intercourse. The Hyperborean Collective and, by extension, the Supreme Council is willing and able to treat with the Imperium in person, provided, of course, that we shift the placement of our fleets and ships to be less aggressive – at your convenience, of course."
Sanguinius smiled. "Of course. The Imperium has no wish for bloodshed when diplomacy is on the table, especially when treating with fellow humans. We shall comply with the request of the Hyperborean Supreme Council. But, I would like to know- that man, over there, at the back of the council- what purpose does he serve in your government?"
All eyes turned to him, the entirety of the Supreme Council rearing their heads to look right at him. It was Councilor Valorum, one of the oldest members of the Council, who spoke first. "High Chancellor Argall established this government. In the old days, it was he who led our people out of the darkness and into an age we'd never dreamed of. It was by his hand that the scattered cities were united, by his hand that the first of our wonders were built. And it is by his will that this council now rules the Hyperborean Collective. High Chancellor Argall enjoys the privileged position of Grand Regent, who rules in times of great strife."
Sanguinius's eyes fell for a moment, before he nodded and shrugged. There was some recognition there, Argall noted, or something that was, perhaps, closer to a realization. "And so, it would be best, then, that your Grand Regent accompany the diplomatic exchange, since he is the guardian and protector of your people."
Argall stepped forward. "Worry not, Sanguinius of the Imperium, I would not let the delegates of the Hyperborean Collective be without a protector."
Sanguinius smiled. "Very well, then; in compliance with your earlier demand, we shall be withdrawing, regrouping, and rearranging our ships and fleet. I look forward to meeting and treating with your delegates, Supreme Council of the Hyperborean Collector – and to you as well, brother."
AN: Chapter 49 is out on (Pat)reon!