Warhammer 40k : Starting as a Primarch

"Save us, my Lord!"

The desperate cry of a Thousand Sons Sorcerer echoed across the battlefield. The fallen Astartes, their loyalty forever pledged to Tzeentch, instinctively unleashed a storm of firepower. Rockets, bolter shells, and searing psychic blasts poured towards their target like a deadly torrent.

Dukel, the Second Primarch, stood unshaken amidst the chaos. He allowed a faint smile to cross his lips as he addressed his attackers with mock amusement.

"All right, all right, my dear Thousand Sons," he said softly, his voice dripping with menace.

The air around him ignited as the Primarch's wrath took form. Crimson flames surged skyward, wild and voracious, their hunger ready to consume the traitors in a storm of annihilation.

"No, Dukel! You cannot do this!" Magnus roared.

As Dukel prepared to unleash his power, the ground beneath him pulsed with an eruption of psychic energy. Arcane runes shimmered into existence, forming a circle that encased him in a glowing prison. Thunder and warp-storms roared around the battlefield, their fury directed at him.

"Magnus," Dukel muttered, his gaze sharp as he spotted his brother hovering above. "Ready for another round, are we? Does it break your heart to see your sons slaughtered before your eyes?"

Amid the maelstrom of psychic and physical attacks, Dukel's form remained untouched. His imperviousness was a testament to his mastery of the Materium and Immaterium alike. To him, these mortal assaults were no more than an annoyance.

Magnus's single eye burned with anger as his rage flared. The Daemon Primarch bellowed with frustration, but his fury did not last long.

Magnus knew the truth. This battle was unwinnable. Dukel's might was unparalleled, and each strike against him seemed to sap Magnus of his very essence. His body bore fifteen grievous wounds, inflicted by Dukel's blade—wounds that cut deeper than flesh. Each strike carried an alien, primordial force that gnawed at his soul.

"Seven more," Magnus thought grimly. "Or perhaps eight, and my very essence will unravel." He knew that such a fate would spell utter annihilation—a death so complete that even the Chaos Gods would be powerless to restore him.

Swallowing his pride, Magnus let his psychic bindings dim. His voice, heavy with reluctant submission, rang out.

"Brother, you have ruined my plans to appease the Lord of Change. Very well, you win. Take me back to Terra. There's no need for more bloodshed, is there?"

Dukel sighed, the edges of his lips curling into a faint smirk. He had hoped Magnus would fight to the end, but now, faced with his brother's broken spirit, he found himself hesitating. Memories of their shared past, of the bonds between the Primarchs, surfaced unbidden.

"Fine. It's about time this nonsense ended," Dukel said. "I've no intention of mocking you, brother. But if you wished to amuse your master, you need only share your plans. I'm sure he'd find them quite humorous."

Just then, a bolt round struck Dukel's head, detonating with a deafening crack. Smoke and flames danced around his expressionless face as his irritation mounted. Crimson fire flared again, threatening to consume all.

"No! Dukel, you promised me!" Magnus cried out.

Dukel's burning gaze softened—just slightly. "Don't worry, brother. I'm a man of my word."

Magnus exhaled, relief spreading across his features. But then Dukel added with a chilling smile, "Perhaps I don't need to dirty my hands myself."

As if on cue, a thunderous roar erupted. The rune-shields protecting the Thousand Sons' fleet shattered, and Imperial landing craft descended onto Tizca's Great Pyramid. Loyalist Space Marines stormed the battlefield, their righteous fury clashing with the defiant resistance of the traitors.

The Thousand Sons, desperate to defend their Gene-Father, fought with unmatched ferocity. Yet the forces of the Imperium, bolstered by their numbers and psychic resilience, soon turned the tide. Blood and fire mingled as screams filled the air. The sons of Magnus fell one after another.

Efilar, a living saint infused with Dukel's essence, was a beacon of destruction. Her fiery wings spread wide, unleashing soul-storms that incinerated the Thousand Sons with each beat. Her mere presence turned the tide decisively in favor of the loyalists.

Magnus's face contorted with rage. "This was not our agreement!" he snarled.

Dukel shrugged, his voice calm. "What's the difference? I've kept my promise. I didn't intervene personally."

Magnus bit back a retort, his despair palpable as the massacre unfolded. Every scream of his dying sons was a dagger to his soul, yet Dukel remained unperturbed. He watched the carnage with detached amusement, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction whenever Efilar unleashed her devastating power.

But then, an unexpected phenomenon occurred. At the pinnacle of the Great Pyramid, the massive crystal eye of Tizca began to weep. A single crystalline tear fell, its trajectory guided by some unseen force, landing at Dukel's feet.

Both Primarchs stared as the tear revealed itself to be a perfectly formed crystal sphere. Dukel's eyes narrowed as recognition dawned. It was an artifact from the fabled Crystal City.

Before he could react, the sphere shattered, releasing a dense mist of warp energy. Azure runes, hidden until now, flared to life, forming an immense arcane array around them.

Magnus's eye widened in disbelief. "No... this cannot be. Such a grand magic circle—when was it constructed?"

The Daemon Primarch's glowing eye analyzed the runes desperately, his thoughts racing. "How? How could I have missed this?"

Dukel, unhesitating, attempted to destroy the circle with a burst of power. But Magnus's laughter rang out, hollow and bitter.

"Don't waste your strength, Dukel. This is the work of the Lord of Change himself. How amusing that I, too, have been a pawn in his plans."

Magnus's laughter grew louder, tinged with resignation. "Yes, everything has been in the plan of the Lord of Destiny all along."

...

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