Darksiders: War in the 40th Millennium

The spire trembled, its iron walls groaning as the Lord of Change towered over the chamber. Its birdlike form shimmered with shifting feathers, its eyeless sockets glowing with Tzeentch's malice, its staff blazing with warpfire. War stood bloodied but unbowed, Chaoseater a blazing extension of his fury, his Chaos form pulsing through cracked armor. Death flanked him, Harvester's scythes dripping with daemon ichor, his skeletal frame coiled like a predator. Strife danced through the chaos, Mercy and Redemption barking in his hands, his laughter a wild counterpoint to the rift's hum. The slit pulsed behind the daemon, a crimson wound in reality, its edges writhing as lesser daemons clawed free.

Brother-Captain Aelius fought at the barricade, his bolt pistol smoking, his power sword slashing a cultist's throat. His armor hung in tatters, his lone Marine fallen, but his vox roared defiance—"For the Emperor!" Inquisitor Veyra Thalor battled nearby, her coat charred, her power sword carving through a daemon's wing—her leg bled, her mask cracked, but her zeal burned hotter than the warpfire singeing her flesh.

The daemon's laugh was a cacophony of torment, its voice a layered hymn. "Horsemen… your unity feeds the Changer's weave… your doom is written!" It swung its staff, warpfire lashing outward—War dodged, the heat scorching his cloak, while Death spun Harvester, deflecting a tendril. Strife leapt, firing mid-air, his rounds bursting against the daemon's hide—it recoiled, shrieking, but the rift flared, its power surging through the beast.

War roared, charging—Chaoseater clashed with a claw, the impact rattling his bones. Death struck its flank, a scythe biting deep—warpfire bled, the daemon's form flickering. Strife landed, pistols blazing into its beak—it staggered, but retaliated, a tendril hurling him against a wall. He laughed, rising, blood streaking his white armor. "Tough bastard—my kind of fight!"

Aelius saved War, his sword parrying a cultist's chain-axe aimed at his back—War nodded, returning the favor by cleaving a daemon mid-leap. Veyra fought alone, her pistol empty, her sword a whirlwind—she felled a Word Bearer, its crozius sparking as it fell, but a tendril grazed her, hurling her to the dais's edge. She rose, snarling, "End this, Horsemen—or I will!"

The rift pulsed louder, its slit tearing wider—then a crack split the air, sharp and electric. From the vortex burst Fury, her crimson hair a banner of rage, her whip—Scorn—cracking like thunder. Her blades flashed in her hands, her armor gleaming with jagged edges, her eyes blazing with feral wrath. She landed atop a daemon, her whip coiling its throat—its head snapped free in a spray of ash, and she roared, "War! You started without me!"

War grinned, a rare spark of relief amid the chaos. "Fury—right on time."

Death's mask tilted, his rasp approving. "The family's whole. Let's reap."

Strife whooped, firing into a cultist's chest. "About damn time, sister! This party's just heating up!"

Fury leapt into the fray, her whip lashing a Word Bearer's legs—she yanked, toppling it, then drove her blades through its helm. The Lord of Change shrieked, its staff flaring—warpfire blasted outward, forcing the Horsemen to scatter. War took a hit, his chestplate cracking further, pain searing—he roared, his Chaos form blazing brighter, and swung Chaoseater into its leg. Death struck its arm, Strife peppered its beak with rounds, and Fury's whip coiled its staff—she pulled, staggering it, her blades slashing its flank.

The daemon's laugh faltered, its form wavering—four Horsemen, their power a storm of fire, steel, chaos, and rage. War bellowed, "Together!"—and they struck as one: Chaoseater cleaved its chest, Harvester severed a claw, Mercy and Redemption blasted its head, Scorn snapped its staff in two. Light exploded, the daemon's essence fracturing—its scream was a chorus of despair, its body collapsing into a swirling mass of warp-taint that the rift sucked back.

The chamber shook, the rift pulsing wildly—its slit shrank, then flared, tendrils lashing anew. Aelius fired at a daemon, his rounds bursting its skull, while Veyra rose, her sword slashing a cultist's throat. "The rift!" she barked, her vox raw. "It's still alive—close it!"

War turned to Death, his voice rough. "The dais—it's the anchor. Break it."

Death nodded, his scythes spinning—Fury joined, her whip cracking the stone, Strife firing into its cracks. War raised Chaoseater, his Chaos form at its peak—his blade crashed down, splitting the dais in a shower of sparks. The rift screamed, its slit twisting—a voice boomed, deep and ancient, not Tzeentch's but broader: "Horsemen… you cannot flee… the game endures…"

The dais shattered fully, its runes snuffing out—the rift collapsed, a final surge of warpfire blasting outward. War shielded Fury, the heat searing his back; Death braced Strife, his cloak singed; Aelius and Veyra ducked, the flame scorching their barricade. Silence fell, heavy and absolute—the rift was gone, a scorched scar in the air its only remnant.

War's Chaos form receded, his breath ragged, his body a map of wounds. Death lowered Harvester, his mask steady. Strife holstered his pistols, grinning through bloodied teeth. "Hell of a show, huh?" Fury coiled her whip, her snarl softening to a smirk. "Missed you idiots."

Aelius rose, his armor smoking, his vox faint. "It's done… you did it." His gaze swept the Horsemen, awe and wariness mingling.

Veyra staggered up, her mask half-shattered, revealing a scarred face twisted with rage. "Done?" she spat, her sword trembling. "Four abominations—Warp-spawned, all! You've closed one gate to open another—I'll see you burn for this!"

War faced her, Chaoseater ready. "Your rift's dead," he growled. "Your threats tire me—act or stand aside."

Death stepped forward, his rasp cold. "She's a flea on a corpse, brother. Let her bite—I'll reap her quick."

Strife laughed, drawing Mercy. "Oh, I like her spunk—let's dance, lady!"

Fury's whip cracked, her voice sharp. "Enough talk—her blood's mine if she swings."

Aelius limped between them, his sword raised. "Stop! Inquisitor, they saved us—the hive stands because of them. Stand down, or I'll make you."

Veyra's eyes blazed, but the hive's roars filtered through—reinforcements, Imperial boots echoing closer. She lowered her sword, her voice venomous. "For now, Captain. But their day comes—the Emperor's justice waits." She retreated to the barricade, her gaze a promise of retribution.

War turned to his siblings, their presence a weight lifted and a storm unleashed. "The rift's gone," he said, low. "But the voice—it's not over."

Death nodded, his mask gleaming. "The Warp's vast—bigger than Tzeentch. Something else pulled us here. Balance bleeds across worlds."

Strife grinned, spinning Redemption. "Good—more heads to crack. This place is a blast!"

Fury's eyes narrowed, her whip coiling. "It's a cage—I feel it. The rift wasn't random. We're pawns—or hunters."

War felt the Council's echo—restore—sharper now, a call beyond this hive. "We're together," he rumbled. "Whatever's next, we face it as one."

Aelius approached, his vox steady despite his wounds. "You're a force—stronger than I've seen. If you're with us, the Imperium could use you. If not…" He trailed off, his trust fragile but real.

Veyra's voice cut through. "They're against us, Captain—mark it. Chaos owns them."

War ignored her, his gaze on his siblings. "We're no one's pets," he said. "This galaxy's chaos—we'll carve our path through it."

Death's rasp agreed. "Let it burn or bow—we'll decide."

The spire stood silent, its shadows thick with the hive's echoes—Imperial forces nearing, Chaos lurking beyond. The Horsemen gathered, their bond a fortress—War's fire, Death's cold, Strife's chaos, Fury's rage. The rift's scar pulsed faintly, a whisper of the game's next move. Whatever awaited—Chaos Gods, Imperium, or the Council's will—they'd meet it unbroken, their blades a vow against the dark.