Darksiders: War in the 40th Millennium

The hive's depths were a descent into nightmare, its tunnels a festering scar of rusted steel and pulsing corruption. War led the way, Chaoseater a steady anchor in his grip, its blade glinting in the flicker of warped lumen-strips. Death followed, Harvester's scythes slung across his back, his skeletal frame a shadow of cold purpose. Strife strode beside him, Mercy and Redemption holstered, his white armor a canvas of blood and grime, his grin a flicker of defiance. Fury brought up the rear, her whip coiled at her hip, her blades gleaming, her crimson hair a wild flame in the gloom. The Warp's pulse thrummed—a deep, seductive rhythm, twisting through the walls, calling them to its heart.

Brother-Captain Aelius marched with them, his armor a ruin—cracked ceramite, blood-streaked—but his bolt pistol steady, his vox a low hum of resolve. Commander Theron led his five remaining Ultramarines, their blue ceramite scarred but unbroken, their bolters primed in tight formation. His power fist crackled, his storm bolter ready, his vox a steady anchor amidst the chaos. Inquisitor Veyra Thalor trailed behind, her coat tattered, her mask half-shattered, revealing a scarred jaw twisted with rage. Her power sword hummed, her eyes a storm of mistrust fixed on the Horsemen.

The throne's ruin lingered in War's mind—the Council's shadow, twisted by Chaos, its molten voice a fractured plea—"Chaos… consumes…" The vision of their stone faces, cracked and bleeding, purple tendrils clawing their chamber, was a wound that bled into this abyss. The rift, the throne—mere threads in a tapestry of corruption that had torn their masters and bound the Horsemen here. Restore balance—the command was a fire, its meaning a blade they'd forge in the hive's depths.

The tunnel plunged lower, its walls narrowing, slick with slime and etched with runes—six-pointed stars this time, shimmering with an oily sheen, a scent of perfume and decay wafting through. The air thickened, heavy with a cloying sweetness that turned War's stomach—the Warp's pulse shifted, less a drumbeat, more a moan of pleasure and pain. Strife sniffed, his grin faltering. "Smells like a brothel gone bad—something's off here."

Fury's whip twitched, her voice sharp. "It's a trap—reeks of excess. Eyes open."

Death's mask tilted, his rasp cold. "Slaanesh—its taint's distinct. We're not in Tzeentch's game anymore."

War nodded, his senses screaming—the Warp's call was a siren's song, seductive and deadly, tied to the Council's fall. "Stay close," he rumbled. "This isn't our fight—it's theirs."

The tunnel opened into a cavernous abyss—a sump transformed into a grotesque cathedral of flesh and steel. The floor was a mosaic of cracked stone and writhing bodies—humans, mutants, their forms fused in ecstasy and agony, their moans a chorus of despair. Pillars of twisted metal rose, draped with silken flesh, their surfaces pulsating with veins of purple light. Braziers burned with pink flame, casting the chamber in a sickly glow. At its heart loomed a dais—curved, organic, its surface a mirror of rippling liquid, crowned by a figure of unearthly beauty and horror.

The Keeper of Secrets stood tall—lithe, its skin a shimmering violet, its four arms wielding claws and a whip of thorns. Its face was a mask of perfection—eyes glowing with lust, lips curled in a smile that promised oblivion. Horns curved from its brow, its presence a wave of desire and dread. It laughed—a sound like silk tearing—and its voice slithered through the air. "Horsemen… sweet morsels… your pain is my delight…"

Aelius froze, his vox tense. "Emperor preserve us…"

Theron's lenses narrowed, his vox steady. "Slaanesh's spawn—a greater daemon. Form ranks!"

Veyra's sword flared, her voice a snarl. "Their fault! They've led us to this—Chaos's pets!"

War ignored her, Chaoseater rising—his Chaos form simmered, his gaze on the daemon. "It's not the Council's," he growled. "But it's ours now."

Death's scythes slid free, his rasp sharp. "Pleasure's a blade—let's turn it."

Strife drew his pistols, his grin returning. "Hot damn—let's dance with this freak!"

Fury's whip uncoiled, her snarl fierce. "It bleeds—I'll make it scream."

The Keeper laughed, its whip cracking—the chamber erupted. Cultists surged from the shadows—lithe, clad in silks and spikes, their blades dripping with poison. Mutants writhed free from the floor, their flesh a mass of claws and mouths, their shrieks piercing. Lesser daemons flickered into being—Daemonettes, their claws gleaming, their laughter a chorus of torment. The Keeper's whip lashed, thorned tendrils seeking flesh.

War roared, charging—Chaoseater cleaved a cultist's torso, blood spraying. Death danced, Harvester reaping—Daemonettes fell, their forms dissolving. Strife fired, Mercy and Redemption a storm—mutants burst, his laughter wild. Fury's whip cracked, coiling a Daemonette's arm—she yanked, her blades slashing its throat.

Theron's Ultramarines fired, bolters barking—cultists crumpled, mutants staggered. Aelius fought beside War, his sword slashing a cultist's chest—his vox roared, "Hold them!" Veyra struck alone, her sword cleaving a Daemonette's head—her vox snarled, "Die, filth!"—but a mutant's claw gashed her leg, slowing her.

The Keeper's whip lashed—War dodged, thorns grazing his armor, while Death severed a tendril with Harvester. Strife took a hit, his arm bleeding—he laughed, firing back, rounds sparking off its hide. Fury's whip snapped its claw, staggering it—her blades slashed its thigh, purple ichor spraying, but it retaliated, a claw hurling her against a pillar.

Then Veyra snapped—her sword flared, her vox a scream. "Enough! They're the cause—Chaos's tools!" She turned, her blade slashing at War—he parried, Chaoseater clashing with her sword, sparks flying. "Traitor!" he roared, shoving her back.

Aelius lunged, his vox sharp. "Inquisitor, stand down!"—but a Daemonette's claw gashed his side, dropping him. Theron roared, "Thalor, cease!"—his fist crushed a cultist, his storm bolter pulping another, but Veyra pressed, her sword swinging—War dodged, his Chaos form flaring, and struck her arm, disarming her.

Death faced the Keeper, his scythes slashing—its whip coiled his arm, thorns biting—he severed it, striking its chest. Strife fired into its face, Fury rose, her blades piercing its back—the daemon shrieked, its beauty cracking, ichor bleeding. War turned from Veyra, charging—Chaoseater cleaved its leg, Death's scythes gashed its core, Strife's rounds blinded it, Fury's whip snapped its neck—it staggered, its laugh faltering.

Theron's squad lost two, their ceramite rent by claws—Aelius rose, bleeding, his pistol barking. Veyra grabbed her sword, her vox raw—"Heretics!"—and swung at Strife—he dodged, Mercy firing, grazing her shoulder—she fell, cursing.

The Keeper shrieked, "Slaanesh… savors…"—its staff flared, warpfire blasting—War shielded Death, the heat searing his chest; Strife dove, dragging Fury clear; Theron braced, one Marine melting in the flame. War roared, his Chaos form blazing—Chaoseater crashed into its chest, Death's scythes severed its arms, Strife's pistols pulped its head, Fury's blades pierced its heart—it dissolved, a puddle of shimmering ash, its dais cracking.

Silence fell, the chamber a slaughterhouse—blood pooled, bodies writhed. War's Chaos form faded—Death steadied him, Strife grinned, Fury snarled. Theron regrouped his three Marines, Aelius panted, Veyra rose, clutching her shoulder, her sword trembling.

A voice slithered—deep, seductive, from the Warp. "Horsemen… delicious… the abyss claims…" No vision, just a whisper—Slaanesh's echo, mocking their victory. War met his siblings' gazes—Death's mask cold, Strife's grin sharp, Fury's eyes fierce.

"It's not them," War rumbled. "The Council's deeper—Chaos plays wide."

Death's rasp cut through. "Slaanesh, Tzeentch—puppets of a bigger hand. We hunt the master."

Strife holstered his pistols, his voice low. "Let's keep this party rolling—next bastard's mine."

Fury's whip coiled, her snarl sharp. "We're free—Chaos wants us, it'll bleed."

Theron approached, his vox steady. "You broke it—again. But her…" He nodded at Veyra. "She's a wound."

War faced Veyra, Chaoseater ready. "You swung first—your call now."

Veyra's eyes burned, her voice raw. "You're doom—I'll see you burn." She turned, limping away—Theron's Marines blocked her, his vox final. "Stay, Inquisitor—or leave alone."

Aelius steadied himself, his vox faint. "She's lost—we're with you, Horsemen."

War nodded, his siblings at his side—War's fire, Death's cold, Strife's chaos, Fury's rage—ready for the abyss, Chaos's heart a prize they'd claim in blood.