The Whispering Void.

The bridge of the 'Vengeful Shadow' hummed with barely contained energy as the warship sliced through the blackness of space. Lord Samael, Chaos Space Marine of the Black Legion, stood at the centre of the command deck, his towering form clad in dark, baroque armour. His helm, forged in the image of a snarling daemon, rested on a nearby pedestal, revealing a scarred face twisted with a cruel smile. His eyes, burning with the fires of the warp, were fixed on the holographic display before him—the world of Novaria Prime.
The anomaly that had silenced the planet was more than just a curiosity; it was a beacon, calling out across the void with a resonance that stirred the ancient hunger within Samael's soul. He could feel it, deep within the core of his being—a promise of power, of secrets long forgotten, and perhaps, a path to ascendancy that even the most ambitious of the Black Legion could only dream of.
"Magnify the energy signature," Samael commanded, his voice a rumbling growl that echoed through the bridge.
The tech-priest overseeing the ship’s augur arrays obeyed with trembling hands. The servos of his mechadendrites whirred and clicked, and the holographic display sharpened, revealing the pulsating waves of the anomaly in greater detail. The energy pattern was chaotic, like the swirling eddies of the warp, yet there was a structure to it—a design that spoke of intelligence, of something crafted with purpose.
Samael's smile widened. "This... is no accident," he murmured, half to himself. "The fools of the Imperium have no idea what they have uncovered."
His mind raced with possibilities. For decades, he had sought a way to elevate himself within the ranks of the Black Legion. The favour of Abaddon the Despoiler was fickle, and only those who seized power through strength and cunning could hope to rise. The anomaly was an opportunity—perhaps a relic of the Dark Age of Technology, a weapon left behind by the Old Ones, or even an artifact of the Gods themselves. Whatever it was, it was powerful enough to disturb the warp and draw the attention of entities far beyond the ken of mortal men.
"My lord," rasped Vakhtor, his chosen champion, a hulking warrior whose armour was festooned with trophies of slain enemies. "The anomaly... it could be a trap. The servants of the Corpse-Emperor may be lying in wait."
Samael cast a sidelong glance at his lieutenant. Vakhtor was a veteran of countless wars, loyal and brutal, but his caution sometimes bordered on cowardice. "Perhaps," Samael said slowly, savouring the word. "But the risk is worth the reward. The Imperium would never dare to harness something of this magnitude. They would seek only to destroy it, fearing what they cannot control. No, this is something greater, something meant for those with the will to claim it."
He turned to face the assembled warriors of his warband, their corrupted armour gleaming in the dim light of the bridge. They were killers, every one of them, forged in the crucible of ten thousand years of war. But Samael saw them not as brothers or comrades, but as tools—useful for now, but expendable when the time came.
"We make for Novaria Prime," Samael declared, his voice filled with the ironclad certainty of a tyrant who had long since abandoned doubt. "There, we will uncover the source of this anomaly and claim its power for the Black Legion. And should any loyalists or rival warbands stand in our way, we will crush them."
A murmur of approval rippled through the gathered warriors. Samael felt a thrill of satisfaction. They sensed the opportunity before them, the chance to spill blood, to indulge in their base desires, and to rise in the eyes of the Dark Gods.
The *Vengeful Shadow* accelerated, its warp drives flaring as it tore a hole in reality and plunged into the shifting, malevolent tides of the Immaterium. The journey to Novaria Prime was short, a mere ripple in the ocean of time, but Samael’s mind was already far ahead, contemplating the glory that awaited him. He could see it so clearly—himself, standing atop a mountain of corpses, his fist raised high, grasping the artifact of the anomaly. With it, he would bend the warp to his will, lay waste to entire star systems, and become a name feared across the galaxy. Not just another warlord in the service of Abaddon, but an equal, perhaps even a successor. The Despoiler had ruled for millennia, but all things ended, even the reign of a Warmaster.
As the warship tore back into real space, the cursed world of Novaria Prime loomed large on the viewscreen, shrouded in storms and the eerie glow of the anomaly. The energy signature was stronger now, almost deafening in its psychic resonance. Samael could feel it clawing at his mind, whispering promises of dominion and power. It was intoxicating, but he steeled himself against the lure. He would claim the power, but he would not be consumed by it.
"Prepare the assault craft," Samael ordered. "We land at once. The city of Aetheris will be our prize, and woe to any who dare stand against us."
The warband moved with practiced efficiency, boarding the drop pods and Thunderhawks that would carry them to the surface. As the craft launched, tearing through the planet’s turbulent atmosphere, Samael stood at the helm of his own Thunderhawk, his eyes alight with anticipation. The ground below came into view—Aetheris, the abandoned hive city, its spires rising like the bones of a long-dead god. The city was dark, but the anomaly pulsed at its heart, casting everything in a sickly, otherworldly glow.
Samael’s drop pod slammed into the ground with the force of a meteor, and the doors burst open. He stepped out into the deserted streets, his warband spreading out around him. The city was silent, devoid of life, yet the air thrummed with latent power. He could feel it; closer now, just within reach.
"Spread out," Samael commanded. "Find the source of the energy. Kill anything that moves."
His warriors obeyed, fanning out into the shadowed ruins, their weapons ready. Samael moved with purpose; his mind focused on the pulse that beckoned him deeper into the heart of the city. The streets were a maze, but he navigated them with ease, drawn ever closer to his prize.
As he approached the centre of Aetheris, the energy grew stronger, the whispers in his mind more insistent. They spoke of power beyond imagining, of immortality, of dominion over the stars. But they also spoke of sacrifice, of the blood that must be shed to unlock the anomaly’s full potential.
Samael welcomed the challenge. He was a lord of the Black Legion, a chosen of Chaos. He would spill oceans of blood if that was what it took to claim this power. And when he did, the galaxy would tremble.
At last, he reached the epicentre of the anomaly—a vast, open plaza, with a structure at its centre, a monolithic altar of black stone. The energy radiated from it, distorting the air and warping the fabric of reality itself. The altar was ancient, covered in runes that defied comprehension, and at its heart, a pulsing void—a rift in space and time.
Samael approached the altar, his heart pounding with the thrill of imminent conquest. He could feel the power washing over him, filling him with strength, with the promise of ascendancy. He raised his hands, ready to claim his prize, to harness the anomaly and bend it to his will.
But as his gauntlets touched the altar, the void within it flared, and the whispers became a roar, drowning out all thought. The power surged into him, overwhelming, consuming, and Samael realized, too late, that he had underestimated the force he sought to control.
Pain wracked his body, and the last thing he heard before his consciousness was torn apart was the mocking laughter of the Dark Gods, revelling in his hubris.