Warhammer: Dawn of Annihilation

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Betrayal, isn't that your devil's forte?" Guilliman's voice was cold, edged with disdain.

Cherubael writhed, his body twisting unnaturally. The air around him shimmered with malevolent energy, but it was nothing compared to the raw power radiating from the Primarch.

"You seek to deceive and control me?" Guilliman continued, his tone unwavering. "You, child of Anathema?"

Cherubael shrieked, his voice a mix of rage and agony, but Guilliman showed no mercy. His fist struck with inhuman force, sending the daemon host crashing into the wall. The impact rattled the chamber, and Cherubael howled as he crumpled to the ground.

Then, with a single fluid motion, Guilliman severed one of Cherubael's arms. The corrupted flesh sizzled as if branded by divine fire, the power of the Emperor burning through his very essence. The wound did not merely bleed—it smoldered, tormenting him with an agony that transcended the physical.

Guilliman loomed over him, ready to carve yet more pain into his wretched existence.

Cherubael broke. His shrieks turned to pleading. "Master—" he gasped, voice raw with terror.

Guilliman's piercing gaze remained locked onto him as the daemon uttered the true name of a being who might hold knowledge of the Warp's current state. He spat out an incantation—a means to bind the entity in exchange for his own miserable survival.

A heavy silence followed. Guilliman considered the pathetic creature before him.

"So you can be reasonable," he mused, withdrawing the Emperor's Sword.

He turned to Eisenhorn, his expression unreadable. "Can you summon this daemon, Inquisitor?"

Eisenhorn nodded grimly. "With its full true name and the proper ritual? Yes, it is possible."

A veteran of daemon hunting, Eisenhorn was no stranger to the dark arts required to battle the Warp. With methodical precision, he prepared the summoning—a process that carried great risk, but greater reward.

The ritual began.

The air turned deathly cold. The stench of sulfur thickened, clawing at the lungs. Shadows danced wildly in the dim chamber as reality buckled under the weight of the summoning.

Then, with a sickening rip in the fabric of existence, the daemon emerged.

It was a monstrous entity—its face a grotesque mask of fury, twin horns curving wickedly atop its head. Black feathers matted with filth clung to its form, and its hooves cracked the stone beneath it.

The daemon inhaled to speak—perhaps to curse, perhaps to bargain. It never got the chance.

Eisenhorn struck first. With a swift, calculated motion, he sealed the entity within a host.

"Mortal!" the daemon roared in fury. "You dare—"

It didn't finish.

Guilliman's massive hand clamped onto its skull and slammed it into the ground with bone-shattering force. The daemon howled, the very walls trembling in response.

A ripple of Warp energy surged outward, a desperate attempt to annihilate all present.

Guilliman would not allow it.

The power of the Primarch—of the Emperor's chosen—was absolute. It crushed the daemon's resistance, leaving it a writhing, broken thing.

The Emperor's Sword descended, its edge carving divine scripture into the daemon's flesh. Each word burned into its being, an unbearable agony that made the entity convulse in the bindings of its prison.

"Submit."

The daemon had no choice. It wailed, black tears streaking its distorted face.

"Ask, Son of the Damned… I will answer five questions. I will tell you all that I know."

Guilliman's expression remained impassive. "Where are my traitorous brothers?"

The daemon's voice was ragged as it obeyed. "Lorgar, Perturabo, and Fulgrim remain in the Eye of Terror… Mortarion festers in the Plague Lord's realm… Angron revels in war and bloodshed in the Fields of Eternity."

Guilliman's gaze hardened. "And Magnus?"

A flicker of something unreadable passed through the daemon's ruined features.

"He has left the Eye of Terror… His location is unknown. It is whispered that he hunts his brother."

Guilliman stiffened. "Me?"

"Yes…" the daemon rasped. "You, the cursed parent and child… the only one still active…" It convulsed violently, driven mad by pain.

Guilliman fell silent, absorbing the information.

Magnus was moving against him.

It was unexpected. Mortarion, he had anticipated. But Magnus? The most cunning of his fallen kin?

Could history be repeating itself? Was Magnus preparing to drag him into the Warp's abyss as had happened once before?

He turned his attention back to Cherubael.

"How do I control him?" he demanded.

The daemon smirked weakly, despite its suffering. "Carve the scriptures of the cursed into his heart… he will bow at your feet and serve you."

"No!" The bound daemon shrieked in protest.

Guilliman remained unmoved. "Is this true?"

The answer came from the silent guidance within his mind.

[It is. Your father's prayer will destroy him. Only your will can preserve his existence. If he does not wish to be cast into oblivion, he will serve.]

Satisfied, Guilliman turned to Eisenhorn for confirmation. Once assured, he acted.

With calculated brutality, he ripped open the daemon's chest and, with unerring precision, engraved the sacred words into its still-beating heart.

"I require more information," Guilliman said flatly. "Do not disappoint me, daemon… or you will cease to exist."

The entity convulsed but did not resist.

Guilliman turned to Eisenhorn. "Seal him. Send him to the Glory of Macragge. He holds valuable intelligence. You will guard him. If he proves uncooperative, execute him."

Eisenhorn nodded. Guilliman's orders were law.

Two weeks passed on Talasa before Guilliman departed.

As his flagship soared toward the Connor galaxy, he reflected on the growing storm ahead.

His reform of the Imperium had already drawn ire. The Inquisition, long corrupted by power, now stood under his scrutiny. Eisenhorn, an outlier among them, was proof that purity could still exist within the ranks—but Guilliman had seen too much decay to trust blindly.

The Inquisition would be restructured. Its unchecked authority would be curbed, and those who abused their power would answer for their crimes.

But such changes would not happen overnight. The corruption of millennia could not be undone in an instant.

Standing on the deck of the Glory of Macragge, Guilliman pondered the battles ahead.

Magnus. Mortarion. The eternal threat of Chaos.

And now, yet another obstacle.

Phikris approached with a grim expression. "My lord, urgent news. The Grouse family of the Natal galaxy has issued a declaration. They reject your reforms, claiming that only the Holy Emperor's system is valid."

Guilliman exhaled slowly.

Another war. Another battle against ignorance and stagnation.

He turned, gazing out into the void.

The future was uncertain. But one thing remained clear.

The Imperium would change… or it would fall.