…
Moments later, Abaddon led his subordinates into the heart of the Blackstone Fortress. Having marked this place with a beacon beforehand, they materialized just outside the command chamber. Though he recognized this fortress as the one he'd bestowed upon Huron, the surroundings were unnervingly alien to him.
The corridors were strung with cables, pulsing with the occasional throb of exposed veins. Strange devices adorned the walls, each embedding a skull that seemed grafted into the machinery like wetware.
The fortress had clearly suffered a prior assault; spider-like automata were actively repairing damaged sections. These machines, each fused with a ghastly skull, mirrored the sinister architecture around them.
An eerie silence permeated the entire fortress. No signs of life, no sounds of combat, only a chilling calm. Were it not for his previous familiarity with this place, Abaddon might have assumed that Huron had conducted some dreadful ritual here.
Abaddon, having witnessed far graver horrors within the Eye of Terror, felt only a subtle unease, not dread.
"Prepare your weapons," a subordinate cautioned. At once, all of Abaddon's Black Legion warriors raised their arms, alert to the strange surroundings.
At the entrance to the control chamber, Abaddon halted, and his men stepped forward to unlock the door. The mechanism had changed; now, a skull embedded in the doorframe scanned Abaddon, and the doors creaked open.
The sight within the command chamber left him momentarily stunned.
The once-empty control room was now choked with cables, each line snaking through innumerable skull-bearing devices. Amid the mass of wires, the Dark Mechanicus Priest, responsible for the Blackstone's operations, loomed from a towering ten-meter structure, his body melded into the machine.
"This… how can this be?" Abaddon murmured in disbelief.
There was no sign of hostile forces aboard, but the original crew had been entirely transformed, corrupted into unnatural, sinister constructs. Such technology was beyond Imperial or Talon manipulation, and Huron possessed no such skills.
"These are gifts for you… a more obedient Blackstone Fortress," a voice slithered from the shadows of the control chamber.
Abaddon and his warriors raised their weapons, all trained on the darkness as a monstrous figure emerged. Images flooded Abaddon's mind: a blackened planet wreathed in iron factories, pistons echoing against a symphony of screams, a demon fused with machines—a daemon engine snarling in fury.
One name surfaced from the visions: Vashtorr.
An inventor, a craftsman.
A daemon demigod.
Abaddon glimpsed how Vashtorr had slaughtered the original crew of the Blackstone, crafting them into its living conduits, allowing for more controlled maneuvering of the fortress. Vashtorr himself might not understand the fortress's full capabilities, but his twisted enhancements ensured that there would be no more stuttering retreats.
"What is it you seek?" Abaddon asked, knowing such gifts would not come without a hidden cost. Vashtorr surely sought something, much like Typhus and Huron, but what he sought might be ethereal—an abstraction.
"A gift for our meeting. Nothing more. I have merely made this fortress easier for you to command. Hardly a bargain." Vashtorr's slow, malevolent smile betrayed no other intent.
Abaddon did not buy into the gesture of goodwill. Vashtorr undoubtedly had aims that were intangible, abstract—akin to the gods' hunger for combat, bloodshed, and machination.
"If you're willing to pay a small price," Vashtorr murmured, "I could also restore *Vengeful Spirit*, and quite swiftly."
Abaddon's interest piqued. If anything commanded his respect, it was the *Vengeful Spirit*. Quick repairs for his beloved flagship were sorely tempting, but he resisted. Dealing with a god warranted extreme caution; the cost could easily outweigh the gain.
"I have no desire to see the *Vengeful Spirit* tainted," he retorted coldly.
Vashtorr nodded, withdrawing into the shadows, vanishing from sight.
Turning to the Dark Mechanicus Priest, now embedded as part of the machinery, Abaddon issued his command: "From now on, this fortress shall be known as *Eternal Will*. Take it to the rear of the fleet."
With eerie precision, the Priest obeyed, guiding the Blackstone Fortress into formation. Watching his orders carried out seamlessly, Abaddon felt a grim satisfaction. The fortress's habit of sporadic failure was now finally under control.
The war could proceed.
…
On the bridge of the *Vengeful Spirit*, the communication officer noticed a link reestablished with the Blackstone Fortress. Oddly, responses were promptly returned, albeit with a distinctly mechanical tone.
As Abaddon reentered the bridge, Typhus and the temporary leader of the Red Corsairs were waiting for him.
"Only one Blackstone returned?" Typhus asked.
"Perhaps the other was annihilated," Abaddon replied, striding toward his throne.
The Red Corsairs' leader spoke up. "Is this the fortress you gave us?"
"No, it's *Eternal Will*," Abaddon replied evenly, before offering consolation. "I shall compensate you with something far superior to a Blackstone Fortress."
The Red Corsairs' leader hesitated, as Typhus interjected with a suggestion. "You still have that super-dreadnought—the *Planet-Killer*. Why not give that to the Red Corsairs?"
"Now that the Blackstone has returned, we can carry out our previous plan." Abaddon brushed off the comment, his gaze fixated on the stars beyond the viewport. "Advance to the Anlei System. Once we've laid waste to every celestial body there, we will depart and repeat the process until the rift swells to planetary size."
The leaders of the Red Corsairs and Typhus turned and left the bridge. Despite the difficulties of their alliance, neither was ready to abandon it just yet.
As Typhus departed, Abaddon settled back on his throne, watching the fleet arrayed before him. The Black Legion's ships had received his orders, and the cruisers began advancing.
The Plague Fleet and Red Corsairs' vessels soon followed suit.
"Prepare yourselves," Abaddon whispered. "This war is far from over."