A Light Not Extinguished

Interlude: Children of the Sun

Through the tides of history, the Anathema labored to keep the forces of ruination at bay. Great was his works, and mighty was his blade. But even so, he was only a man, and he was not invincible. His foes were many, and staunchly opposed to the fundamental force that drove him. And so the King in Gold crafted servants to carry out his will, and push back the forces of darkness.

In the beginning, far before the wonders of engineering and science that mankind would eventually grasp, the Anathema sired a great many sons and daughters. To them he would teach them the ways of the blade, or of sorcery, or of the sciences; all so that they could help him in the Long War. However, his progeny were but a shadow of their creator; long-lived as they were, none possessed true perpetuity, nor the golden fire that burned within his breast, nor the full extent of his dominion over the Sea of Souls. In the end, they were human, and with that came all the foibles of being human. Some chafed under his yoke, for although the Anathema was mighty, so was his ego. Those who were weak-willed fell for the lies of the Enemy, and the rest were simply lost to the sands of time. Eventually, the Anathema gave up, for his heart could not bear it any longer.

By that time, man had finally advanced to the stars, and were looking beyond the borders of Sol. And so the Anathema looked to new horizons, building hollow puppets to serve his ambition. Robots, gene-enhanced warriors, even clones- they were dull things stripped of individuality, but they still had their use.

And then at last, as the last echoes of the Green War faded, the Anathema saw no need for servants anymore. The Federation had finally come to pass, and with it the beginning of the utopia that he had long envisioned. But darkness was gathering on the horizon; the Aeldari and their corruption would give birth to an unspeakable evil, and new preparations had to be made. So he summoned one of his confidantes to him, the genewright from Sumeria, and together they began to forge not servants, but terrible weapons that would make the stars tremble.

Machines were not his strong suit; although the King in Gold was strong of mind, his gift lay in the crafts of the flesh and the spirit. But if he could not conceive of a blueprint, then he would take it.

And so he donned his panoply of war, armored himself in impenetrable plates of unbelief, and descended down to the depths of hell where the Forge of Souls resided. The blind daemon craftsmen of the Forge stood as one to face the sun that had risen in that realm of rust and steel, and in a thousand thousand voices howled.

There was no bargaining. There was no negotiation. A Soul Grinder that had defended the Forge since time immemorial fell, brass guts blown out by a spear of sunfire. And then furious, wicked steel clashed against the unyielding light of the dawn.

The Forge of Souls was a power of its own in the Warp, subservient to no god. That alone indicated a certain modicum of power. The Anathema alone could not subjugate it, much less annihilate it in its entirety, for it was but the cocoon for another dread power, one of dark machinery and industry. But he did not need to defeat it.

Plunging a hand of star-streaked marble into one of the largest forge-complexes, he tore out a beating cog of whitened copper, while parrying strikes from a whirring chainblade forged from a billion souls lost in the Maelstrom. That was what he had come for- the crystallized ideal of knowledge that was not, but could be. Wings of fire and radiance carried him away, even as the Forge howled in pain and rage, promising that a day of reckoning would come.

And so the Builder was.

The Temple of the Forefathers had been a place of worship, once. Thousands of passages wrought from glass spun into existence by sweet song alone wrapped around the bluish star in a helix pattern. The bizarre megastructure had been a monument to Asuryan- at least, until the Great Sundering that had driven divinity and the Aeldari apart. Now it slowly decayed, its relics plundered and shattered, the holy sites defaced and burnt. What remained was a trade hub of a sort, petty warlords and the like bartering slaves and heirlooms in the decrepit ruins of glory.