The Maelstrom.
A region where the boundaries between the Warp and reality blur—a chaotic nexus of daemonic worlds and supernatural phenomena.
Within the Blackstone Fortress known as *New Eternal Will*, Huron Blackheart and his Red Corsairs busied themselves, clearing the fortress of its cluttered machinery and tangled cabling. The newly vacated sections were being repurposed into storerooms, taverns, and arenas for entertainment.
This fortress, once Huron's, then seized by Abaddon, had been reclaimed by the Blackheart. Now, it served as a temporary stronghold for the Red Corsairs. Rumors swirled among the warband—a whisper that Huron intended to rename *New Eternal Will* as *New Badab*.
"So, the Lord of the Black Legion has paid dearly for his recklessness. What is his condition now?"
Huron strode through the corridors of the fortress. Every mortal laboring in the passage paused to bow in reverence, their eyes inevitably drifting to the entity at Huron's side—a towering, blue-feathered figure with two heads and a staff in its clawed grip.
It was none other than the Daemon Prince of Tzeentch, Kairos Fateweaver.
"The Warmaster is well, busy plotting his next grand crusade," one of Kairos's heads declared.
"Abaddon has vanished, his *Vengeful Spirit* shattered, his fate unknown. He is likely dead," the other head contradicted, weaving its customary web of conflicting truths.
Huron smirked, discerning the likely reality from Kairos's riddles. Abaddon was missing, his *Vengeful Spirit*'s remains recovered by the Red Corsairs yielded no trace of the Warmaster. Even when Huron's warband had intercepted the Black Legion's retreat from Cadia, forcing them to relinquish the Blackstone Fortress as payment, Abaddon had been nowhere in sight.
"Abaddon is not the type to die easily," Huron remarked, recalling what he knew of the Cadian conflict. "Still, after being skewered eighteen times by a Living Saint and that mechanical freak, I doubt we'll see him for another eight centuries."
Kairos nodded with one head and shook the other, perpetuating his endless duality.
"Now, tell me your purpose," Huron commanded, continuing through the labyrinthine corridors.
Kairos's cryptic response arrived in dual voices. Huron ignored the lies, focusing only on the slivers of truth.
"The corpse upon the Golden Throne… His thirteenth son may pass near the Maelstrom. If fortune favors, he will linger at its southern edge. This is an opportunity."
"I seek the aid of the Red Corsairs. In return, I will offer a generous reward."
Huron's thoughts drifted to his origins as a mere Astartes recruit of the Astral Claws. He recalled his first day, listening to a venerable Dreadnought recount the chapter's lineage, its ties to the Ultramarines, and its gene-sire, Guilliman.
Huron had wondered then if some fragment of Guilliman's brilliance had been passed down to him through his gene-seed. He had once dreamed of paying homage to Guilliman's tomb on Macragge, perhaps even seeking his gene-sire's approval.
But that was before the Badab War. Before the Astral Claws' history became dust, and their ambitions burned. Now, Huron cared little for such notions. If killing Guilliman promised power, he would not hesitate.
"The Dark Gods surely have other means of impeding Guilliman's journey to Terra," Huron mused aloud. "Couldn't they use plagues or war to delay him?"
"The material realm grows increasingly resistant to the Gods' influence," Kairos replied. "Factors unforeseen have shifted the balance. While the Changer of Ways thrives, the other Gods' reach wanes. Plague and war cannot stall the Primarch."
Huron said nothing, his sharp mind processing the implications. He led Kairos to an arena, where cheers and shouts echoed through the air.
Inside, a battle raged. An Astartes stripped of his armor faced a fully equipped Red Corsair. The crowd roared for blood.
Kairos glimpsed the bare Astartes's past—a warrior who had strayed into a daemon world within the Maelstrom. There, he had survived against monstrous, Warp-mutated beasts with the aid of local humans, only to rebel and slay three Red Corsairs who came to tax his newfound sanctuary.
Now, he sought to atone through combat, offering the Corsairs a spectacle of blood and skill.
The unarmored warrior's psychic prowess blazed like a storm. As his opponent charged, he unleashed a burst of Warp lightning, reducing the Corsair to ash before the crowd's disbelieving eyes.
"Bring on your endless duels, cowards!" he roared, his defiance cutting through the stunned silence. "Drain my power with your lives, and perhaps then you'll claim my head!"
The spectators surged with rage, weapons drawn to avenge their fallen comrade, but Huron's voice silenced them.
"Enough! Do not disgrace yourselves further. Stand down!"
His command brooked no defiance. The Red Corsairs withdrew, cowed by their master's authority.