Darksiders: War in the 40th Millennium

The spire's chamber was a mausoleum of ruin, its air thick with the stench of blood and warp-taint. War stood before the rift, Chaoseater slick with the sorcerer's gore, its edge reflecting the vortex's crimson and purple swirl. The dais pulsed beneath his boots, its runes dim but alive, the Warp's heartbeat a relentless drum in his skull. Brother-Captain Aelius leaned against a shattered pillar, his armor cracked, his lone surviving Marine tending to a fallen brother's body. Inquisitor Veyra Thalor paced near the rift, her power sword drawn, her mask a wall hiding her fury. The greater daemon's death had weakened the ritual, but the rift endured—a wound in reality, its edges writhing like a living thing.

"It's not closed," Veyra hissed, her voice sharp as a lasbolt. "The sorcerer's blood wasn't enough. This gate still breathes—Chaos will pour through." She turned to War, her eyes blazing behind her mask. "You're its herald, Horseman. Your presence feeds it."

War met her glare, unflinching. "I broke your daemon," he rumbled. "I'll break this too. Point your blade elsewhere."

Aelius stepped forward, his vox strained but firm. "Inquisitor, he's our strength, not our foe. The rift's the threat—focus there." His sword rested in his grip, a silent plea for reason amidst the tension.

Veyra's lip curled beneath her mask. "Strength or snare, Captain? His kin call through the Warp—heretics all. I'll not trust a blade that reeks of Chaos." She raised her sword, not striking but poised, her intent clear.

War tightened his grip on Chaoseater, ready to end her if she pushed. "Try me," he growled, "and you'll join the dead." The rift pulsed behind him, its light flaring, and he felt it—the presence of his siblings, Death, Strife, Fury, woven into its fabric. The Council's whisper—restore balance—rang clearer now, a call to unite them against this galaxy's madness.

Before Veyra could act, the rift shuddered, its maw widening. A gale erupted, howling through the spire, scattering debris and snuffing the braziers' warpfire. Aelius braced against it, his Marine raising his bolter, while Veyra's coat snapped like a banner. The vortex churned, its colors fracturing into a storm of light—then a figure emerged, stepping from the rift as if born from its depths.

He was skeletal, clad in black armor adorned with bones, a tattered cloak billowing behind him. A mask of pale ivory hid his face, its eye slits glowing faintly, and in his hands gleamed twin scythes—Harvester, their edges a promise of reaping. Death, the second Horseman, stood before them, his presence a cold weight that silenced the chamber. His head tilted, surveying the scene, his rasping voice cutting through the wind. "War… you've kept me waiting."

War lowered Chaoseater, relief warring with caution. "Brother," he said, his voice steady. "The rift dragged you too."

Death stepped closer, his scythes resting at his sides. "It calls us all," he rasped. "Balance bleeds—our purpose twists in this place." His gaze flicked to Aelius and Veyra, then back to War. "You've found a war worthy of us."

Veyra's sword snapped up, her voice a snarl. "Another abomination! Chaos spits forth its spawn—proof of your taint, Horseman!" She fired her bolt pistol, the round streaking toward Death. He moved—faster than thought—Harvester spinning to deflect the shot into the wall, where it exploded in a shower of sparks.

"Mind your aim, mortal," Death said, his tone dry as dust. "I'm no pet of your gods."

Aelius raised his hand, his vox sharp. "Stand down, Inquisitor! He's War's kin—not our enemy yet." His Marine trained his bolter on Death, wary but obedient.

Veyra's mask hid her fury, but her stance screamed it. "Kin or not, they're Warp-born! Heresy stands before us—act, Captain, or I will!"

War stepped between them, Chaoseater raised. "He's mine," he growled. "Touch him, and you die." Death's presence was a lifeline, a piece of his world in this chaos, but Veyra's paranoia threatened to sever it.

The rift flared again, its pulse quickening, and a laugh echoed—deep, guttural, not the sorcerer's but something older. Shadows writhed within the vortex, and a voice boomed, layered with malice. "The Horsemen gather… Tzeentch's weave tightens…" Warpfire erupted, tendrils lashing outward—War dodged, one scorching his arm, while Death spun Harvester, severing another. Aelius took a hit, his pauldron melting, and grunted in pain. Veyra's sword deflected a tendril, her vox barking, "The ritual lives! Seal it—now!"

Death glanced at War, his mask unreadable. "This rift's no mere gate," he rasped. "It's a tether—us to them, them to us. Chaos feeds on it." He swung Harvester at the dais, its edge biting into the runes—sparks flew, but the vortex held, its laughter growing.

War joined him, Chaoseater crashing against the dais's edge. The impact shook the spire, cracks spiderwebbing through the stone, but the rift pulsed stronger, its maw birthing shapes—clawed hands, glowing eyes, a tide of lesser daemons clawing free. "Together," War roared, and Death nodded, their blades striking as one—Chaoseater's fire met Harvester's cold steel, a symphony of destruction.

The daemons spilled forth—birdlike, shifting, their feathers a storm of colors. War cleaved through one, its essence bursting into ash, while Death danced, his scythes reaping two at a stroke. Aelius fired his bolt pistol, rounds pulping a daemon's skull, his Marine joining with disciplined bursts. Veyra fought with ruthless precision, her sword slashing a daemon's wing, her vox a litany of hate—"Purge the unclean!"

The rift's voice laughed louder, tendrils lashing—War took a hit, his chestplate cracking, pain searing through him. He tapped his Chaos form, its power surging—his eyes blazed, his strength doubled—and he drove Chaoseater into a daemon's core, its scream echoing as it dissolved. Death moved beside him, a shadow of death, his scythes a blur—together, they held the tide, their bond unspoken but ironclad.

Aelius staggered, a tendril gashing his leg, and War saved him, deflecting a claw aimed at his helm. "Stay back," he growled, shoving the captain aside. Veyra's sword faltered, a daemon's talon raking her arm—she snarled, firing her pistol point-blank, its head bursting in a spray of warp-taint.

The dais cracked fully, its runes flickering, and the rift wavered—but it fought back, a surge of warpfire blasting outward. War shielded Death, the heat scorching his armor, while Aelius and his Marine ducked behind a pillar. Veyra stood her ground, her coat ablaze, and hurled a krak grenade into the vortex—it exploded, light flaring, and the rift shrank, its laughter fading to a snarl.

Silence fell, broken by the hiss of cooling metal. The dais was rubble, the rift a narrow slit, its pulse weak but alive. War's Chaos form receded, his breath ragged, his body a map of pain. Death lowered Harvester, his mask tilted toward the rift. "It's wounded," he rasped. "Not dead."

Aelius limped forward, his vox strained. "You held it. Both of you." His gaze flicked to Death, wary but grateful.

Veyra extinguished her coat, her arm bleeding, her voice ice. "Held, not sealed. And now two of you—Warp-spawned, both. I'll not abide it." She raised her sword, trembling but resolute.

War faced her, Chaoseater ready. "You'll abide what I allow," he growled. "Death's here for me—not your Emperor, not your Chaos."

Death's laugh was a dry rasp. "She's spirited, brother. Pity she's blind." He stepped beside War, his scythes poised. "The rift's ours to mend—or break. Your war's a speck in its shadow."

Aelius intervened, his voice sharp. "Inquisitor, they're our edge. The rift's quelled because of them—give me time to prove it."

Veyra's eyes burned, but she lowered her sword. "Time, Captain—until it turns. Then I'll burn them both." She turned to the rift, its slit glowing faintly. "We fortify here. The hive's not safe while this lives."

War stared at Death, his brother's presence a weight lifted and a burden gained. "Strife and Fury—they're next," he said, low.

Death nodded, his mask gleaming. "The rift binds us. Chaos wants us—balance demands we answer." He glanced at the Imperials, then back to War. "This galaxy's a grave. We'll dig it deeper."

The spire stood silent, its shadows thick with promise. The rift waited, a whisper of what was to come. War gripped Chaoseater, Death at his side—a reunion forged in blood, a harbinger of war unbound.