Chapter 922 - 921: Nareth, Perhaps He Can Help His Race Avoid Destruction

Within the largest dome of the Craftworld Ulthwé, a pale light flickered, semi-transparently enclosing a grove of crystal trees.

Most Aeldari would spend their entire lives without ever reaching this shimmering forest.

Without guidance, they would lose their way on the winding paths; even those who had walked them countless times would not know the way here.

The song of the dead echoed within the dome, filled with the ghosts of ages past.

This was a place of death. Each crystal tree was the imprint of a departed Farseer upon reality.

Of course, the imprint existed on the supernatural level as well.

Eldrad Ulthran sat alone in the heart of the forest, his right hand holding a long staff, his left resting on a crystal tree's trunk.

His soul detached from his body, drawing upon the power of the departed Farseers to glimpse the threads of fate.

He let his consciousness drift freely through the tides, the echoes of his ancient race washing past him.

The vibrant energy of the new race, like flickering stars, caught his attention. He knew they called themselves humans.

Slau Dha and his kin would dismiss them as Mon-keigh.

They were a short-lived and barbaric race.

They had emerged from their cradle-world, conquering their own solar system.

Now, through a grand crusade, they were gathering up fragments of civilization lost during their earlier age while mercilessly destroying every species that stood in their path, even lost branches of their own kind.

Ulthran saw in their pure belligerence the seeds of humanity's destruction, buried deep in their hearts.

He had already glimpsed the extinction of their race and the ultimate victory of Chaos.

He knew their path would not change because of a foretold end, but the Mon-keigh would never accept their fate. They would always try to change the inevitable.

He cared little whether the young race survived or perished.

But the similarities in the omens reminded him of the birth of She Who Thirsts and the catastrophe that had destroyed their empire.

Even stronger visions showed that once this chaotic fall fully took shape, it would bring enormous disaster to both reality and the Warp.

Ulthran saw bloodshed and despair, but he also saw a flickering ember.

Among countless possible futures, there existed one uncertain light. It was surrounded layer upon layer by vast, shapeless, twisted monsters.

They lashed out with malicious claws, trying to extinguish the flame.

Ulthran could not pierce them to clearly see the threads of fate.

He called upon to the departed Farseers, and with their guidance, he came to the crystal dome, using their power to capture a glimmer of hope.

His spirit-body, following the threads of fate, once again reached the edge of the shapeless light.

Most Farseers could not so precisely grasp the threads to find the same portent twice.

But Ulthran had walked the Path of the Seer to its end. He had guided his race through the Fall.

The claws of the Great Enemy spun, opening maws of hatred, revealing shimmering fangs.

Ulthran steadied his state of mind, allowing not a flicker of fear to arise.

Fear would feed the sadistic power of She Who Thirsts.

A burst of light flared from him, like a meteor shower, flying in all directions.

A howl.

The twisted servants of the Dark God shrieked and fled, their hungry eyes fixed on the source of the light, the delicious soul of an Aeldari.

Seizing the opportunity, Ulthran poured his will into the distorted light.

He saw the past: a tall, powerful giant, with a great, amber eye at the center of his chest.

Horus Lupercal, the Warmaster of the Mon-keigh race.

On a world of decay, he swung a golden sword, cleaving through the advancing dead.

The sickly green light of the Plague Lord filled the dead's rotting eye sockets, animating their limbs.

The doom of the Mon-keigh race hung over him like a shroud.

Ulthran's thoughts stalled. The crusading hero of the Mon-keigh, the savior of lost worlds, the destroyer of countless races, the Warmaster who commanded their military forces, had rebelled.

The threads of fate shimmered, the churning waves trying to send him back to his body.

His soul glowed, as if clad in a brilliant crystal armor.

He flew towards the golden light, touching the threads of fate:

A great throne room, a shimmering, god-like figure surrounded by the cries of agony.

He felt a familiar current, but as he tried to focus, the image twisted. A surge of chaotic power from the threads tried to force him back.

Ulthran concentrated the power of the Farseers, lunging for the ethereal threads of the future.

Countless images flooded his mind: A giant in purple-gold armor, a magnificent, silver-bladed weapon at his waist.

The purple gem on its hilt was crudely worked, but possessed a strange, terrible beauty.

Ulthran's mind reeled, nearly shattering his perfect state of mind.

The Primarch of the Emperor's Children, Fulgrim, had acquired a blade possessed by one of Slaanesh's most powerful servants, a Keeper of Secrets.

He stood beside Horus, a semi-living binding whip coiled around his waist.

'Fulgrim must be warned not to follow Horus, and to discard that blade.'

As Ulthran thought, the threads reached out with hungry claws.

His spirit-body twisted, evading the rapacious grasp of Slaanesh.

He gave the impulse to return to his body, flying blindly through the threads of fate.

The Dark King, the Vengeful Spirit, the duel between father and son, Ollanius Persson, a faint, shadowy trace, John Grammaticus, the Men of Iron, Ulthran's soul returned to his body.

He trembled.

Bang!

A crystal statue shattered!

Dull fragments, like flowing sand, cascaded to the floor. Sorrow filled Ulthran's almond-shaped eyes.

A Farseer had burned his entire soul to see him through the journey.

After sitting in silence for a dozen seconds, his roiling emotions settled. He contemplated how to guide the Mon-keigh race through the coming cataclysm.

A plan began to form in his mind.

First, he must warn the proud Fulgrim. He began to extend his consciousness, but a shadow of black flickered in his mind.

He stopped. Every phantom carried its own meaning.

The black shadow.

Ulthran's mind raced, trying to connect the shadow to a concept, a logic, a supernatural association.

Then, a flash of insight crossed his mind.

'Nareth.'

He was the most powerful of the Primarchs. He had led his sons to victory over the Khrave, the Rangdan, and the Mitus.

His Legion was called the Shadows of Order. His ships and his armor were black.

"Nareth. Perhaps he can help his race avoid destruction."

Ulthran turned his thoughts, extending his consciousness towards the Shadow's Sovereignty.

The next instant, his smooth features contorted, his angular face trembling violently.

....

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