Darksiders: War in the 40th Millennium

The spire's chamber was a scarred relic, its air heavy with the tang of blood and warp residue. War stood near the rift's remnants, Chaoseater planted in the cracked dais, its blade a silent sentinel. The vortex had shrunk to a slit—a jagged scar of crimson and purple, pulsing faintly—but its presence lingered, a predator's breath in the gloom. Death prowled nearby, his skeletal frame a shadow against the warped iron walls, Harvester's twin blades resting in his grip. His mask tilted, studying the rift, his silence a weight War knew well—Death spoke little, but his thoughts cut deep.

Brother-Captain Aelius directed his lone Marine to stack ammo crates near a shattered pillar, fortifying their hold on the spire. His armor was a map of scars—cracked pauldron, gashed leg—but his resolve held, his vox issuing curt orders. Inquisitor Veyra Thalor stood apart, her coat patched where warpfire had burned it, her power sword sheathed but her bolt pistol in hand. Her mask hid her expression, but her eyes burned with a fury that hadn't cooled since Death's arrival. The air between them crackled—trust frayed, suspicion a live wire.

"We hold here," Aelius said, his vox steady despite his limp. "The rift's quiet, but not dead. Reinforcements from the hive's upper tiers are en route—Ultramarines, Guard, whatever the Governor can spare. We secure this point until they arrive."

Veyra's voice was ice. "Secure it with what, Captain? Two warriors—one wounded—and these… things?" She gestured at War and Death, her pistol twitching upward. "Chaos spawn, both of them. The rift lives because of them—I'll not stake the hive's fate on heretics."

War turned, his crimson cloak snapping with the motion. "Call me that again," he rumbled, Chaoseater's hilt gripped tight, "and your Emperor won't save you."

Death's laugh rasped like dry leaves. "She's bold, brother. Foolish, but bold." He stepped beside War, Harvester gleaming in the dim light. "Your rift's a mess of your own making, mortal. We're here to clean it—or bury it."

Aelius raised a hand, his vox sharp. "Enough! Inquisitor, they've bled with us—killed for us. The daemon's ash, the sorcerer's head—that's their work. Give me reason, not dogma."

Veyra's mask tilted, her gaze piercing Aelius, then War. "Reason? The Warp speaks through them—visions, voices, kin spilling from its maw. You saw it, Captain: the rift widened when he arrived." She pointed at Death, her pistol steadying. "They're its keys—its heralds. I'll end this threat before it grows."

War stepped forward, Chaoseater rising. "Try it," he growled. "I've faced worse than you and walked away."

Death spun Harvester lazily, his tone dry. "She'd make a fine corpse, War. Quick work—then we'd have peace."

The tension snapped. Veyra fired, her bolt round streaking toward Death—he deflected it with a scythe, the shot bursting against the wall in a spray of sparks. War roared, lunging at her, but Aelius intercepted, his power sword clashing with Chaoseater in a shower of light. "Stand down!" he bellowed, his strength faltering against War's fury. The Marine trained his bolter on Death, who froze, his mask unreadable.

Veyra drew her sword, its blade humming, and faced War. "You prove me right, Horseman! Chaos in your blood—strike me, and the Imperium burns you both!"

War shoved Aelius back, his blade poised. "Your Imperium means nothing to me," he snarled. "You've seen my strength—test it, and you're dust."

Death stepped closer, his scythes low but ready. "She's a spark in a storm, brother. Let her burn out—or I'll reap her now."

Aelius planted himself between them, his vox a thunderclap. "Cease this! The rift's the enemy—not each other! Inquisitor, lower your weapon. War, Death—stand back. We're allies until proven otherwise."

Veyra's pistol wavered, then dropped, her sword following with a hiss of reluctance. "Allies," she spat, "until they turn. Mark my words, Captain—they'll doom us." She retreated to the rift, her gaze never leaving the Horsemen.

War lowered Chaoseater, his anger simmering. Aelius's trust had held—barely—but Veyra's paranoia was a blade at his throat. He glanced at Death, who shrugged, his mask a pale slash in the gloom. "Mortals," Death rasped. "Fragile things—faith makes them brittle."

Aelius limped to War, his vox low. "She's wrong about you—I've seen it. But the rift… it's tied to you both. What's it mean?"

War stared at the slit, its pulse a whisper of his siblings' voices. "It's ours," he said, his voice rough. "The Horsemen—drawn here, bound by it. Balance bleeds, and we're the cure—or the fire."

Death nodded, his scythes resting against the floor. "This galaxy's a tangle of chaos—old, deep. The rift's a thread, pulling us in. Strife and Fury—they're close. I feel it."

Before War could reply, the rift flared—a flicker of light, sharp and sudden. A vision seized him, vivid and unrelenting. The spire blurred, replaced by a hive street engulfed in flame. Strife stood amidst the chaos, his twin pistols—Mercy and Redemption—blazing, his laughter wild as he gunned down cultists and Guardsmen alike. His white armor gleamed, streaked with blood, his visor cracked but his grin unmistakable. "War…" his voice rang, sharp and gleeful. "This place is a riot—join the fun!" The scene shifted—ork corpses, burning tanks, a crimson rift pulsing overhead—then snapped, leaving War reeling, the spire's reality crashing back.

Death steadied him, his grip cold. "Strife?"

War nodded, his breath ragged. "He's here—tearing through the hive. The rift's waking him too."

Aelius overheard, his vox tense. "Another of you? Where?"

"Above," War said, his gaze lifting. "He's chaos incarnate—wherever he lands, blood follows."

Veyra spun, her voice a whip. "Proof! Another Warp-spawned fiend—your kin bring ruin, Horseman!" She raised her pistol again, but Aelius grabbed her arm, forcing it down.

"Stop!" he barked. "If he's fighting Chaos, he's with us—give me evidence before you judge."

The rift pulsed again, stronger, its slit widening a fraction. A low hum emanated, the air trembling, and War felt it—the Warp's hunger, stirring anew. Death's mask tilted, his rasping voice sharp. "It's not done. Something's coming—bigger than before."

Aelius released Veyra, his sword ready. "Fortify now—argue later. If your brother's here, War, he'll find us—or we'll find him."

Veyra holstered her pistol, her tone venomous. "He'll find a pyre if I have my way. You're all on borrowed time." She moved to the crates, barking orders to the Marine, her mistrust a palpable weight.

War turned to Death, his voice low. "Strife's loose—Fury's next. The rift's pulling us together."

Death's scythes gleamed as he spun them once, a ritual of readiness. "Good. This war's too big for two. Let them come—Chaos wants a fight, it'll get one."

The spire trembled, dust sifting from the ceiling as the rift's hum grew. Aelius approached, his vox steady despite the strain. "If your kin are like you—strong, unyielding—I'll take them over a dozen squads. But Veyra… she's a fuse. Keep her in check, or she'll light us all."

War nodded, his gaze on the rift. "She's your problem, Captain. I'll handle mine." Strife's laughter echoed in his mind—wild, reckless, a storm breaking loose. He felt Death's presence beside him, a cold anchor in the chaos, and the rift's pulse—a call to his siblings, a challenge to their purpose.

The Marine finished stacking crates, his bolter trained on the slit. Veyra stood near it, her sword drawn again, her silence a promise of violence deferred. The spire's shadows deepened, the hive's distant roars filtering through—Strife's work, perhaps, or something worse. War gripped Chaoseater, Death at his side, their bond a fortress against the storm brewing within and without.

The rift flickered, its light swelling, and a whisper slithered through—a voice not Tzeentch's, but deeper, older. "Horsemen… the game begins…" War's eyes narrowed, the Council's echo—restore—merging with the threat. Whatever came next, he'd meet it with steel and fire, his brother at his back, the hive a battlefield for their reckoning.