章節 102: Space Elves
Eldrad Ulthran stood before the Seers' Dome of Ulthwé, his ancient eyes scanning the gathered representatives of the Craftworlds. The dome's crystalline structure caught the light of distant stars, casting prismatic patterns across the assembled Aeldari. Each pattern seemed to whisper of futures yet unwritten, of paths diverging and converging in ways he had never foreseen.
"My kin," he began, his voice carrying the weight of millennia, "I have gathered you here to address something that challenges everything we believed immutable about our fate." He paused, feeling the weight of countless eyes upon him. Representatives from major Craftworlds sat in their traditional places: the Militant Biel-Tan and their closest Ally Iyanden, The Star Striders of Alaitoc, The Wildhost of Saim-Hann, The Matriarchy of Iybraesil and many others.
The Phoenix Lords stood apart, their presence lending gravity to the gathering. Maugan Ra, stood closest to the central dais, his skull-helm betraying no emotion. Yet Eldrad could sense the tension in his posture, the weight of what they were about to reveal.
"We speak today of Franklin Valorian, Primarch of the Liberty Eagles and Ruler of the Independence Sector, and a son of the Emperor of Mankind" Eldrad continued, noting how the name sent ripples of murmured discussion through the assembly. "The human Primarch who aided Altansar. But more importantly, we must discuss what his existence means for our people."
Maugan Ra stepped forward, his ancient armor drinking in the light. "Show them," he said simply, his voice echoing with the certainty of death itself.
The dome's crystalline surfaces shimmered, and suddenly they were watching the Battle for Altansar. The assembled Aeldari witnessed Franklin Valorian, a giant even by Primarch standards, wielding – the fifth Crone Sword – with impossible skill. But it was what happened next that drew gasps from even the most composed of the seers.
The image showed Khaine himself, manifesting in a form that none had seen since the Fall. The God of War and Murder stood terrible and magnificent, his form flickering between a thousand aspects of war, each more terrifying than the last. They watched as he fought alongside Valorian and the Aeldari as the Primarch channeled his power through a ritual circle.
"Impossible," breathed a representative from Biel-Tan, but the evidence continued to unfold before them.
The gathered Aeldari watched as fallen warriors rose at Valorian's command, their spirits burning with Khaine's fire, forming the Everchosen – a force of undying warriors that fought with the skill of their living days but the untiring nature of the dead crashing into the unending tide of Daemons. They witnessed Khaine himself engaging avatars of Slaanesh and Khorne, his power undiminished by the millennia of fragmentation.
"The implications are clear," Eldrad spoke into the stunned silence that followed. "Khaine has chosen a champion, and that champion is not of our people."
"This is an aberration!" came a cry from the Biel-Tan delegation. "How can our God of War choose a mon-keigh, even one such as this?"
Asurmen, first of the Phoenix Lords, stepped forward. "You forget, young one, that Khaine's domain is war itself. He recognizes worthy warriors regardless of their origin. And in all my long years, I have never seen one more worthy of bearing the Crone Sword."
Eldrad raised his hand for silence as debate threatened to erupt. "There is more. Khaine offers our people something we have not had since the Fall – a chance for our warriors to fight on after death, bound not to She-Who-Thirsts, but to the God of War himself."
The implications of this statement hit the assembly like a physical force. Several seers visibly recoiled at the magnitude of what this meant.
"The paths are changing," Eldrad continued, his voice growing stronger. "I have walked them countless times since this revelation. The future is no longer what we thought it would be. Khaine's champion offers not just alliance, but salvation of a sort we never expected."
"And what would this salvation cost us?" asked a seer from Alaitoc, her voice sharp with skepticism.
"Only what we have always given to Khaine," Maugan Ra answered. "Our dedication to the art of war, our willingness to fight. But now, that fighting has purpose beyond mere survival."
Eldrad looked across the assembly, seeing the mixture of hope, fear, and disbelief on their faces. "We must decide how to proceed. Khaine has made his choice clear. The question now is: do we accept it?"
The dome erupted in discussion, but Eldrad's eyes were drawn to the crystalline surfaces still showing the battle. He watched again as Valorian fought alongside their god, In all his millennia of foresight, he had never seen this future.
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Eldrad stood alone in his personal chambers within the heart of Ulthwé, his ancient fingers tracing patterns in the wraithbone walls as he processed what he had witnessed. The psychic residue of the council meeting still lingered in the air, but it was his own memories that demanded attention now.
How blind he had been.
His first encounter with Franklin Valorian played again in his mind. The Independence Sector – a realm that defied typical Imperial conformity, led by a Primarch who carried himself with an air of barely contained mirth rather than the usual Imperial pomposity. At the time, Eldrad had dismissed him as merely another of the Emperor's sons, albeit one with an unusually reasonable disposition toward xenos.
Then came Austeria Extremis.
The battle against Valorian's doppelganger should have revealed more. Eldrad's fingers curled into a fist as he remembered watching the Primarch fight. The way he moved... it had been so familiar, yet Eldrad had failed to make the connection. The fluid grace, the perfect economy of motion, the deadly precision – all hallmarks of Khaine's own style, passed down through generations of Aspect Warriors.
"The sword," he whispered to the empty room. "I should have recognized the sword."
The Deathsword. The fifth Crone Sword. Not just a power weapon or some relic of the Imperium's Golden Age, but one of the most powerful artifacts of the Aeldari empire. How had he missed its distinctive resonance? Perhaps because it seemed impossible – a mon-keigh wielding a Crone Sword should have been an aberration, an offense against everything the Aeldari held sacred.
Yet there it was, responding to Valorian's will as if it had been crafted for his hand.
Eldrad moved to his divination chamber, where his runes lay scattered from his last attempt to read the skeins of fate. They had been increasingly difficult to interpret lately, showing patterns that made no sense... until now.
Valorian wielded a Crone Sword, and he fought with the ancient forms.
But what truly shook him was the footage Maugan Ra had shared. Khaine – not an Avatar, not a shard, but Khaine himself – fighting alongside the Primarch as if they were old comrades. The God of War and Murder, who had shattered rather than submit to Slaanesh, was reforming himself. And he had chosen a human as his champion.
A bitter laugh escaped Eldrad's lips. The irony was exquisite. For millennia, the Aeldari had maintained their superiority, their separation from the younger races. Now their own god had found worthy companionship in one of the mon-keigh.
Eldrad's mind turned to the future. The political ramifications alone would keep the Craftworld councils arguing for decades. Some would embrace this unexpected salvation, while others would reject it purely on principle. The Craftworlds might split over this, creating new divisions among his already fractured people.
Yet he couldn't deny the hope it offered. The sight of Khaine himself battling the avatars of Chaos had stirred something in him he thought long dead – genuine awe. And Valorian... the Primarch had not sought to dominate or command, but had fought alongside the Aeldari as equals. Even now, he offered them choice rather than demanding submission.
A laugh escaped Eldrad's lips, surprising even himself. The absurdity of it all! Here he had spent millennia orchestrating the survival of his people, walking the skeins of fate, planning for every contingency... and then this happens. A Primarch becomes the champion of an Aeldari God, completely overturning every prophecy and prediction.
The implications were staggering. The Everchosen of Khaine – warriors who had fallen in battle rising again, their souls claimed not by She-Who-Thirsts but by the God of War himself. It offered a way out of the trap that had snared their species since the Fall. Not salvation as they had imagined it, perhaps, but salvation nonetheless.
Eldrad's mind turned to the reactions he had seen in the council. The outrage from Biel-Tan was predictable – they who prided themselves as the warriors of the Aeldari would struggle most with this. But he had seen something else too: hope. Hidden behind diplomatic masks and careful words, but there nonetheless.
He reached out and gathered his runes, feeling their familiar warmth in his palms. The paths of the future were changing, transforming into configurations he had never seen before. Where once he had seen only slow decline and desperate holding actions against fate, now he saw... possibilities.
The most remarkable thing was how Valorian had achieved this. Not through conquest or demands, not through the typical mon-keigh blundering, but through actions that embodied the very aspects Khaine respected: martial skill, honor in combat, and the protection of warriors under his command. He had earned the God's respect not by trying to earn it, but simply by being who he was.
Eldrad set his runes down, watching as they settled into yet another pattern he had never seen before. The future was becoming increasingly difficult to read, but perhaps that was exactly what they needed – a future not bound by the chains of foreknowledge and predetermined doom.
"Well, Franklin Valorian," he spoke to the empty chamber, "you have certainly made things interesting. I wonder if you even realize how completely you have changed the game we have been playing for millennia."
The paths were changing, the threads of fate rewoven. And for the first time in thousands of years, Eldrad Ulthran, greatest of the Farseers, had no idea what would happen next.
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Deep within the heart of Ulthwé, shrouded in psychic veils and far from the prying gazes of the craftworld's lesser inhabitants, the Phoenix Lords convened in their first conclave since the Fall. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation, a near-tangible manifestation of their combined psychic presence. Here, these paragons of the Aeldari ways of war—each an immortal exemplar of Khaine's many faces—would contemplate an unprecedented dilemma.
It was Maugan Ra who broke the silence, his voice a deathly whisper that seemed to resonate from the depths of the warp itself. "I have fought at the mon-keigh's side in the defense of Altansar. His bearing with the Crone Sword is... precise, as if guided by the hand of our ancestors." His words bore an unsettling gravitas, accentuated by the spectral gleam of his skull helm. "I have seen Khaine himself fighting alongside him. The god's selection is unmistakable."
"Unmistakable?" Jain Zar's tone was a scornful slash through the air, an edge of fury and disbelief lacing her words. "That a mere mon-keigh, barely above the crude machinations of his species, could ever be chosen as Khaine's champion? And now we are to consider him a worthy bearer of our god's legacy?" Her movements, fluid as a dancer's, betrayed her inner conflict, a dichotomy between reverence and outrage. "Such matters demand verification."
Baharroth, ever the keen observer, leaned forward, the spectral wings of his helm casting faint shadows. "I have studied his tactics," he admitted. "The human's approach amalgamates elements from each of our shrines. He strikes from above with the swiftness of my Hawks yet slips into shadow as Karandras' Scorpions do." A measured respect colored his words, albeit begrudging.
Fuegan, who had remained silent until now, his gaze fixed and unwavering, spoke with the intensity of a slow-burning inferno. "The flame of Khaine resides within him. It is not a tempestuous blaze but a controlled smolder." He turned to face Asurmen, the first and greatest among them. "Yet one must question whether this 'control' is befitting of a god's true fury."
Karandras, lurking at the periphery of the gathering, let out a low hum of consideration. "He moves with precision, dispatches with purpose. His personal kills are calculated—each death rendered with restraint, yet his Legion doctrine embraces overwhelming firepower... an unnecessary excess, or so it would seem." His voice dropped to a grim murmur. "This brings to mind... darker echoes."
"Arhra's name shall not be uttered here," Amon Harakht interrupted with a voice like the rush of unseen winds, his disdain unmistakable. "And yet, this mon-keigh's command of aerial tactics is undeniable. Our Eagle pilots speak of his Legion's mastery of void warfare with awe that borders on envy."
All eyes turned then to Asurmen, who had thus far observed the discourse with a patience that only one as ancient as he could muster. When he finally spoke, his words were a measured echo of ages past, each syllable laden with weight. "The evidence cannot be dismissed outright. But neither can we allow such a profound choice to go untested. We, who embody the facets of Khaine's wrath, must see if he truly possesses the essence of our god in full measure."
Irillyth stepped forward, his form shimmering like the twilight between realms. "Then we shall test him, as the Shadows do—unseen, slipping between light and darkness. If he is indeed touched by Khaine, he will know no fear of such obscurity."
"A test?" Drastanta's voice bore an undercurrent of hesitation. "Would we not, by such an act, challenge Khaine's judgment itself? Our god's wrath has never tolerated doubt among his chosen." There was a palpable unease at the suggestion, the idea of testing one chosen by Khaine a notion as dangerous as it was necessary.
Asurmen raised a hand, the slightest movement enough to command absolute silence. "If we are to lead our people through this uncertainty, we must be resolute. Yet…" He paused, his helm tilting imperceptibly as he met each of their gazes in turn, "we must tread carefully, for to question Khaine's chosen is to risk inciting the god's ire upon ourselves."
"Then let it be a true test," Jain Zar declared, her voice a silken snarl, both dangerous and alluring. "Not merely of martial prowess but of wisdom—of each principle of war that we embody. Let him face each of us, that we may see if he truly understands the facets of Khaine."
A hollow laugh, echoing as though from the void, escaped Maugan Ra's helm. "He has already proven much at Altansar. My Dark Reapers witnessed the dead rising at his command, cloaked in Khaine's fire. Such power... even I must admit, it is formidable." There was admiration, reluctant yet undeniable, in his tone.
Fuegan's eyes narrowed, his disdain restrained but unmistakable. "Power alone is insufficient. Even the Dragons know this. True power is tempered, wielded with intent and purpose."
Asurmen rose, his presence an effortless command over the room. "Then we are agreed. We shall each test Valorian, not to challenge his worth—Khaine's selection is his own to make—but to reveal to the Aeldari why he was chosen. And if he fails…" he trailed off, the implication hanging heavy.
Karandras's tone was a murmur, yet it bore the finality of fate. "Then we will face Khaine's wrath for our presumption. But if he succeeds, it may kindle unity among us unseen since before the Fall."
There was a pause as each Phoenix Lord weighed the enormity of their decision. The challenge ahead was not merely for a human champion but a test of their own convictions.
"It is decided," they intoned in solemn unity, their voices a chorus of determination and anticipation.
Asurmen's closing words echoed like a distant promise—and a warning. "Prepare yourselves, my brothers and sisters. For in testing Khaine's chosen, we may find ourselves tested in ways we have not foreseen. The God of War does not abide doubt… nor does he suffer his own bonds lightly. What lies within Franklin Valorian may be a power greater, or darker, than any of us dare to imagine."
A/N: Maybe I should Rewrite my Chapters 1-7?
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