Darksiders: War in the 40th Millennium

The spire's chamber thrummed with tension, its warped iron walls shuddering under the hive's distant tremors. War stood before the rift, Chaoseater gripped tight, its blade reflecting the slit's crimson glow. The Warp's pulse quickened—a heartbeat of malice stirring beneath the dais's rubble. Death prowled beside him, Harvester's twin scythes gleaming, his skeletal frame a silhouette of cold purpose. The rift's whisper—"Horsemen… the game begins…"—lingered in War's ears, a taunt entwined with the Council's fractured call to restore balance. Strife's laughter echoed in his mind, wild and close, a storm breaking loose above.

Brother-Captain Aelius checked his bolt pistol, his lone Marine stacking the last of their ammo crates into a makeshift barricade. His armor hung heavy—scarred, dented—but his vox remained steady. "Reinforcements are coming," he said, his lenses flickering as he scanned the vox-feed. "Ultramarines from the mid-hive, Guard from the upper tiers. Something's stirred the hive—riots, firefights. Your brother's work, War?"

War nodded, his voice a low growl. "Strife. He's chaos in flesh—where he goes, war follows."

Death's mask tilted, his rasping laugh dry. "He'll draw blood and eyes. Good. Keeps them off us—until they're here."

Inquisitor Veyra Thalor stood near the rift, her bolt pistol reloaded, her power sword humming faintly at her hip. Her coat was patched, her arm bandaged from the daemon's claw, but her posture screamed defiance. "Another Horseman," she spat, her mask amplifying her venom. "More Warp-spawned ruin. You bring this storm, War—I'll end it with you."

Aelius turned, his vox sharp. "Inquisitor, focus! The rift's waking—Chaos is the foe, not them. They've held it back—give me proof they're traitors before you strike."

Veyra's eyes burned, but she holstered her pistol with a hiss. "Proof comes in blood, Captain. When it spills, you'll see." She paced to the barricade, her gaze flicking between the rift and the Horsemen, a predator biding time.

The spire shook, dust sifting from the ceiling as the hive's roars grew louder—gunfire, screams, the guttural bellows of orks or worse. War felt Strife's presence—a spark of anarchy igniting the hive's tinder. The rift flared, its slit widening, and a low hum rose, the air trembling with Warp energy. Death spun Harvester once, his voice cutting through. "It's not waiting. Something's coming—now."

Before Aelius could respond, the chamber's shadows erupted. Word Bearers stormed from a hidden passage—crimson ceramite scarred with runes, their bolters blazing warp-tainted rounds. Cultists followed, shrieking, their crude weapons flashing in the gloom. Above, the rift pulsed, birthing daemons—lithe, birdlike, their feathers shifting colors, their claws dripping with malice. A counterattack, swift and brutal, Chaos reclaiming its foothold.

War roared, charging as Chaoseater cleaved a Word Bearer's helm, blood spraying. Death danced beside him, Harvester reaping cultists in twirling arcs—heads rolled, bodies crumpled. Aelius fired his pistol, a round bursting a daemon's skull, while his Marine loosed disciplined bursts, cutting through cultists. Veyra's sword flared, slashing a daemon's wing, her vox a litany of hate—"Die, filth!"—as she fought with ruthless precision.

The chamber became a maelstrom—bolter fire clashed with warpfire, steel met claw, blood painted the iron. War faced a Word Bearer champion, its chainfist roaring—he parried, the impact jarring his arms, then drove Chaoseater through its chestplate. The traitor laughed, warp-taint bleeding from the wound, and swung again—War ducked, severing its arm, then its head. A daemon lunged, its claws raking his side—he roared, tapping his Chaos form, its power surging—his eyes blazed, his blade swung, and the creature burst into ash.

Death moved like a specter, his scythes a whirlwind—two daemons fell, their essence scattering, while a cultist's torso split in a spray of gore. "They're endless," he rasped, deflecting a bolter round. "The rift's feeding them."

Aelius took a hit, a warp-tainted slug denting his pauldron—he grunted, firing back, his Marine covering him with a burst that pulped a Word Bearer's helm. Veyra fought a daemon, her sword slashing its flank—it shrieked, retaliating with a claw that gashed her leg. She staggered, firing her pistol point-blank, its head exploding in a shower of warp-taint.

The rift widened further, its hum rising to a scream—tendrils lashed outward, one catching the Marine, twisting him into a shrieking mass of flesh before he died. Aelius roared, "Hold the line!"—but the tide pressed, daemons and Word Bearers pouring forth. War and Death stood back-to-back, their blades a fortress—Chaoseater's fire met Harvester's cold steel, cutting a swathe through the chaos.

Then a vision struck War, sharp and searing. The spire blurred, replaced by a hive spire under a fractured sky. Fury stood atop a pile of corpses—her whip cracked, her blades a blur, her crimson hair wild as she carved through mutants and cultists. "War…" her snarl cut through the wind. "The storm's ours—ride it!" The rift pulsed behind her, its light flaring, and the vision snapped—War gasped, the chamber crashing back, a daemon's claw inches from his throat.

Death saved him, Harvester severing the claw—its owner shrieked, collapsing into ash. "Fury?" he rasped, his mask steady.

War nodded, steadying himself. "She's here—close. The rift's hers now too." All four Horsemen, bound by its will—Death's cold, Strife's chaos, Fury's rage, his own fire. The Council's echo—restore—burned, a purpose he felt in his bones.

Aelius limped to them, his pistol smoking. "Your sister?" he voxed, ducking a tendril. "She's with us?"

"Soon," War growled, cleaving a cultist mid-charge. "She'll find us—or we'll find her."

Veyra's voice pierced the fray, her sword dripping as she felled a daemon. "More of you! The Warp's brood multiplies—I'll burn you all!" She fought with fury, but her words were a blade at their backs.

The rift flared brightest yet, its slit tearing wider—a massive claw emerged, then a head—birdlike, eyeless, its beak lined with teeth, its feathers a storm of shifting hues. A Lord of Change, Tzeentch's greater daemon, its presence warping the chamber into fractals of madness. Its laugh was a chorus of torment, its voice a layered hymn. "Horsemen… your fates entwine with mine… the Changer's game unfolds!"

War roared, charging—Chaoseater clashed with its claw, the impact shaking the spire. Death joined, his scythes slashing its flank—warpfire bled, but the daemon laughed, its staff blazing with power. A bolt of energy struck War, searing his chestplate—he staggered, his Chaos form flaring brighter, and swung again, denting its armor. Aelius fired, rounds bursting against its hide, while Veyra hurled a krak grenade—it exploded, staggering the beast, but it retaliated, a tendril hurling her against the wall.

The daemon's staff swung, warpfire lashing—War and Death dodged, their blades striking as one—Chaoseater bit its leg, Harvester its arm. It shrieked, reality twisting, and the rift pulsed, daemons spilling anew. Aelius saved War, his sword parrying a claw aimed at his back, while Death reaped a cultist mid-leap. Veyra rose, bloodied, her sword slashing a daemon's throat—her vox snarled, "Die, abomination!"

The Lord of Change laughed, its staff flaring—a wave of warpfire blasted outward, hurling War and Death back. Aelius shielded his Marine's body, the heat scorching his armor, while Veyra ducked, her coat ablaze again. The daemon loomed, its claws poised—then the spire shook, a new sound cutting through—a crack of pistols, wild and relentless.

From a side passage burst Strife, his white armor streaked with blood, Mercy and Redemption blazing in his hands. His laughter rang, sharp and gleeful, as he gunned down daemons—heads burst, bodies crumpled. "Miss me, brothers?" he shouted, diving into the fray, his shots a storm of chaos.

War grinned despite the pain, Death's mask tilting in approval. "Strife," War rumbled, rising with Chaoseater. "Right on time."

The daemon turned, its laugh faltering—three Horsemen now, their strength a tide. Strife leapt, firing point-blank into its beak—it recoiled, warpfire flaring, and War charged, Chaoseater slashing its leg. Death struck, Harvester severing a claw—the daemon shrieked, its form flickering, but the rift pulsed, feeding it power.

Aelius joined, his pistol barking, while Veyra fought through pain, her sword slashing its flank. "End it!" she barked, her voice raw. The chamber trembled, the hive's roars closing—reinforcements or ruin, none could tell.

War felt Fury's snarl, a whisper in the rift's pulse—she was near, the storm complete. With Strife's chaos, Death's cold, and his fire, they'd break this—or be broken. The daemon loomed, its laugh a challenge, and War roared, ready to meet it.