The Ritual
The ritual chamber thrummed with potential energy, wraithbone walls pulsing with a soft, ethereal light. At its center, Franklin Valorian stood, his massive frame dwarfing even the tall Aeldari around him. The Deathsword - stood planted before him, its crystalline blade seeming to drink in the chamber's light.
"There's something I don't understand, Autarch Ilrathan," Franklin's voice carried the weight of thoughtful consideration. His brown eyes studied the intricate patterns beneath his feet, geometric perfection laid out in psycho-reactive materials. "Your people mastered the fundamental forces of reality millennia before humanity learned to harness the atom. How is it that simple gravitational forces have kept Altansar trapped for so long?"
Autarch Ilrathan stood to Franklin's right, his armor bearing the weathered patina of countless battles within the Eye. His helmet was removed, revealing features etched with the strain of maintaining hope against impossible odds. "We asked ourselves the same question countless times, Lord Valorian. Every attempt to break free only seemed to strengthen the pull. Our most powerful engines, artifacts of unimaginable power from before the Fall - nothing could overcome it."
"And you never wondered why?" Franklin's question carried no mockery, only genuine curiosity.
"We-" Ilrathan began, but a deeper voice cut through the chamber.
"We knew." Maugan Ra stepped forward from the shadows, he turned toward Franklin. "We knew because every attempt to escape brought visions. Whispers. The gravity well is merely the physical manifestation of metaphysical chains. The Powers that Be have marked Altansar, claimed it as their prize. They will not relinquish it easily."
Franklin nodded slowly, a grim smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Now that makes more sense. I was wondering why a race advanced enough to create pocket dimensions would be stymied by mere gravitational forces. The Ruinous Powers have bound your home with chains of fate and corruption."
"Just so," Maugan Ra confirmed. "Which is why this ritual must succeed. The combined faith of our people, channeled through you the Hand of Khaine... it may be enough to break chains even gods have forged."
Franklin's hand came to rest on the Deathsword's hilt. The blade hummed in response, sending ripples of crimson energy through the ritual circles. "Khaine's power, amplified by your people's belief, flowing through a human conduit. The Chaos Gods won't see it coming - they never expect different species to work together. Their own nature blinds them to the possibility."
Ilrathan's eyes narrowed. "You seem almost... amused, Lord Valorian. We stand on the precipice of either salvation or complete destruction."
Franklin's laugh echoed through the chamber, startling several Aspect Warriors at its edges. "Oh, I absolutely am amused. Think about it - we're about to punch the Chaos Gods in the metaphysical nose using the power of friendship and cooperation. If that's not funny, I don't know what is."
"Finally acknowledging the necessity of divine intervention?" Khaine's voice resonated in Franklin's mind, carrying both ancient power and barely concealed anticipation.
Franklin's mental response carried his trademark grin. "Hey, even I know when it's time to tag in the heavyweight champion. Ready to step back into the divine boxing ring, old timer?"
"Old timer?" Khaine's tone carried equal parts indignation and amusement. "I was shattering reality with my fists when your species was still arguing about which caves had the best wall paintings."
Around them, the ritual circle began to pulse with energy. The combined faith and psychic might of Craftworld Altansar started flowing towards them like rivers of light. Franklin felt the power building, but kept his casual demeanor.
"Well, consider this your comeback tour then. Though I've got to warn you - your old sparring partners have gotten pretty full of themselves while you've been away."
Khaine's presence shifted within the sword, and Franklin could feel the god's anticipation building. "They always were an arrogant lot. Though I notice you're treating this rather lightly, considering what we're about to attempt."
"Would you prefer I start monologuing about destiny and sacrifice?" Franklin chuckled internally. "Besides, you're about to throw hands with the Chaos Gods Themselves. That's basically Thursday for you, right?"
The power flow intensified. Through their shared connection, Franklin could feel Khaine's awareness expanding, touching the infinity circuit where countless Aeldari souls added their prayers to the growing surge of faith.
"The dead rise to aid us," Khaine observed solemnly. "They remember the old ways, the true strength of faith and battle united."
"Speaking of unity," Franklin's mental tone grew slightly more serious, "we're going to have to work together on this one. I know you're not used to having a mortal co-pilot, but think of me as your hype man. I'll direct the power flow, you focus on the divine smackdown."
"Your irreverence masks wisdom, Primarch," Khaine replied, a hint of warmth creeping into the god's voice. "Though I question your choice of terminology. 'Divine smackdown' hardly captures the gravitas of what we attempt."
"Would you prefer 'celestial throwdown'? 'Metaphysical beatdown'? I've got more if you need them."
The god's response carried what might have been a sigh, but Franklin sensed the underlying amusement. "Focus, Primarch. The power builds, and our opponents approach. Are you prepared to channel divinity itself?"
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Captain Henry Cavill stood at the edge of the ritual chamber, his heightened senses absorbing the intensity of the moment. The air thrummed with raw psychic energy, tingling across his skin beneath the armor. At the center of the swirling maelstrom, his gene-father, Franklin Valorian, stood unflinching, his Deathsword planted in the ground like a bulwark against the impossible forces at play.
This isn't in the records, Henry thought, his mind racing. I'm witnessing the birth of the Hand of Khaine.
The weight of realization hit him hard. In his era, the 41st Millennium, Franklin Valorian was revered by many names: The Liberator, the Great Eagle,President and to the Aeldari, the Hand of Khaine. But that title had always been shrouded in mystery—now, standing in this ritual chamber, Henry was seeing the moment that would define his father's legend.
As the ritual's power surged toward its climax, Henry tore his gaze from the scene. Awe could wait. Right now, his focus was on what came next. They had to be ready for the inevitable counterattack. Moving swiftly through the wraithbone halls of the craftworld, he could feel the ancient architecture vibrate, almost alive, caught between anticipation and dread.
Reaching the frontlines, Henry saw the Aspect Warriors standing in formation, their gleaming armor reflecting the ethereal light of the chamber. Each warrior embodied the distinct power of Khaine's myriad aspects. Without hesitation, Henry joined their ranks, towering even over the tall Aeldari with his Primaris physique.
"Khaine's might guide us in this battle," Henry said in flawless Aeldari, his voice calm but commanding, the tones perfect down to the finest detail.
The Aspect Warriors turned, surprise flickering behind their expressionless helms. A human speaking their ancient tongue with such precision was rare. But their reaction quickly shifted to one of respect, even curiosity.
"And may he strike true through you, child of the Hand," an Exarch responded, their tone carrying a mix of reverence and intrigue.
Henry allowed himself a small, confident smile. In his time, these interactions were normal. The Independence Sector and the Aeldari had forged a close alliance, born of mutual respect and shared purpose. Speaking their language was just part of it—understanding them, truly knowing their ways, had always been a priority for Henry.
"You speak our tongue well," a Howling Banshee observed, tilting her helm toward him. "Few mon-keigh bother to learn more than commands even during your days of the Federation."
Henry nodded, slipping into the measured cadence of their philosophical discussions. "In my experience, understanding is the foundation of strength. And respect is what keeps strength true."
The warriors nodded, their stances shifting ever so slightly. He wasn't just a human ally anymore. He was something more—a warrior who knew and honored their ways.
As they prepared their defenses, Henry's thoughts drifted to the future he'd come from. The alliance between the Independence Sector and the Aeldari was a linchpin of that future, a fragile yet powerful bond that had changed the fate of the galaxy. And it all started here, with his father's attempt to free a craftworld from the Eye of Terror itself.
A Striking Scorpion leaned toward Henry, his voice low, carrying the weight of suspicion mixed with respect. "You've fought many battles, but your eyes... they see something more in that chamber, don't they?"
Henry met the warrior's gaze through his helmet's lenses. "Every moment can be a miracle if you're wise enough to recognize it," he said, quoting one of their ancient proverbs. "And yes—what's happening in there will change everything."
The Scorpion studied him for a moment before nodding, acknowledging the truth in his words. "You speak like a prophet, child of the Hand. Do you see what our seers see?"
Henry hesitated for the briefest moment. The truth would be too much—too dangerous for the timeline. He chose his words with care. "Let's just say I've got a strong sense that today matters. The kind of sense you'd bet your life on."
Before the Scorpion could respond, the craftworld's structure began to hum with rising intensity. The veil between reality and the Warp was thinning, and Chaos was already clawing its way through the Webway Gate.
"They come," a Dire Avenger announced, her shuriken catapult already raised. "The warp screams."
Henry's hand instinctively went to his Disintegration Rifle, the weight of it a familiar comfort. Among the elegant weapons of the Aeldari, his gun looked quite Human. But the Aspect Warriors knew enough to see his stance—the balance, the readiness, the confidence of a warrior who had faced death countless times.
"Whatever comes through," Henry said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade, "we hold the line. Not just for Altansar, but for the future of our people."
The Aspect Warriors straightened. The Phrase wasn't just the call of a leader—it was a statement of fact. A man who knew the stakes, who fought not just with skill but with unbreakable will.
The air grew heavy with the stench of the warp as the first daemons tore through the veil. Their howls filled the chamber, a symphony of horror. But Henry didn't falter. He raised his weapon, every fiber of his being focused, honed for the fight to come.
Father, he thought as the daemons charged. Your actions here will shape the future. And I'll be damned if I let anything stand in the way.
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A cataclysmic explosion of psychic might erupted, centered upon Franklin Valorian. The very fabric of reality seemed to buckle returned to his Warp God Form, he stood as a manifestation of war itself: an avian skull wreathed in flames, metallic wings trailing fire, and bloody talons that promised devastation.
"Let's fucking go," Franklin's voice boomed, a mixture of excitement and divine wrath.
At his words, a pillar of flame erupted behind him, coalescing into the unmistakable form of Khaine, the Aeldari god of war and murder. The deity stepped forward, each movement causing ripples of reality to spread across the battlefield. The very presence of a fully manifested Aeldari god began to unravel Chaos's hold on the craftworld.
But the Ruinous Powers would not yield without a fight.
From the tear in reality emerged a being of otherworldly beauty and horror – an Avatar of Slaanesh, possessing the form of a Keeper of Secrets. Its voice was a symphony of pleasure and pain as it addressed Khaine:
"You have returned, oh broken one. Prepare to be consumed, to join your kin!"
Khaine's response was swift and terrible. His sword, a blade of crystallized violence, flashed forward, carving a furrow across the Avatar's face. Divine ichor mixed with warp-stuff as the two godly beings clashed, their battle shaking the very foundations of the craftworld.
Around the ritual circle, Maugan Ra and Autarch Ilrathan stood vigil, accompanied by the most elite Aspect Warriors. They formed a living bulwark around Franklin, whose avian form remained rooted in place, channeling the immense energies required to maintain Khaine's manifestation.
"Hold the line!" Maugan Ra's voice cut through the din of battle. "The Hand of Khaine must not be disturbed!"
The battlefield sprawled across nearly a quarter of the craftworld, a hellscape of warring gods and their minions. Daemons of all four Chaos Gods materialized, though Khornate and Slaaneshi entities dominated the field.
Bloodletters charged in endless waves, their brass blades clashing against the singing swords of Howling Banshees. Keepers of Secrets danced through the carnage, their every movement a lethal seduction countered by the precise shots of Dark Reapers.
Amidst this chaos, Captain Henry Cavill followed a contingent of Aspect Warriors, his Rifle roaring in concert with shuriken catapults. "For the future!" he cried, his voice carrying the weight of foreknowledge, inspiring those around him to fight with redoubled vigor.
In the sky above, Screamers of Tzeentch dueled with Swooping Hawks, streaks of psychic fire crisscrossing with lasers in a deadly aerial combat. Fire Dragons unleashed their fusion guns, turning entire swathes of daemonic flesh into superheated vapor.
At the heart of the battle, Khaine and the Avatar of Slaanesh continued their godly duel. Each blow exchanged carried the weight of galaxies, their conflict a microcosm of the eternal war between Order and Chaos. Khaine's every strike was precise, calculated, the perfection of martial skill. The Avatar countered with impossible speed, its form shifting and writhing to avoid fatal blows.
"You are diminished, Khaine," the Avatar taunted, its voice a mixture of a thousand whispered desires. "A shadow of your former glory!"
Khaine's response was a roar that shook the heavens, his form blazing brighter. "I am reborn, abomination! Forged anew in the faith of my children and the will of humanity's champion!"
Their clash sent shockwaves across the battlefield, toppling wraithbone spires and sending daemons and Aeldari alike flying. Yet through it all, Franklin remained unmoved.
Near the ritual circle, a group of Nurglite Plaguebearers lumbered forward, their festering forms a stark contrast to the clean lines of the craftworld. Autarch Ilrathan led the defense, his star glaive carving through rotted flesh with fluid grace.
"For Altansar! For Khaine!" the Autarch cried, rallying Dire Avengers to his side. Their shuriken storms cut down the daemons in droves, yet still they came.
Observing Slaanesh's Avatar locked in combat with Khaine, Franklin couldn't help but exclaim, "Oh shit!" His voice, now a mixture of mortal concern and divine resonance, carried across the psychic link he shared with the Aeldari god.
Khaine's mental reply was tinged with both amusement and focus. It is merely an Avatar. The true Slaanesh cannot manifest fully in the Materium. I can take her.
In a fight, right? Franklin added, his irreverent humor persisting even in his ascended state.
The mental equivalent of a divine facepalm rippled through their connection. Yes, Franklin. In a fight to the death.
As the gods clashed, their battle reshaped the very fabric of reality around them. Khaine's sword strikes left trails of fire that burned daemons to ash, while the Avatar of Slaanesh's attacks distorted space itself, turning portions of the craftworld into nightmarish landscapes of pleasure and pain.
On the outskirts of the ritual site, Khornate daemons occasionally broke through the defensive lines, materializing in bursts of blood and rage. But the Aspect Warriors guarding the area proved their worth time and again. Howling Banshees danced through the daemonic ranks, their blades singing a song of death. Striking Scorpions emerged from shadows that shouldn't exist, their chainswords tearing through warp-flesh. Fire Dragons unleashed streams of superheated plasma, reducing greater daemons to cinders.
Franklin channeled unimaginable energies through his transformed body. Rivers of faith and psychic might flowed into him from every corner of the craftworld, from both the living and the dead within the infinity circuit. He directed this power with the skill worthy of the Champion of Khaine, amplifying Khaine's strength while simultaneously weakening the bonds of the Eye of Terror.
The craftworld shuddered, caught between the pull of the Eye and the liberation offered by this divine intervention. In this crucible of cosmic forces, the destiny of Altansar – and the future Henry Cavill fought to protect – hung in the balance.
As another wave of daemons crashed against the Aeldari defenses, as Khaine landed a mighty blow against the Avatar of Slaanesh, as Franklin's power reached new heights, one thing became clear to all who witnessed this epic confrontation: this was more than a battle. It was the forging of a new legend, one that would echo through the millennia and change the face of the galaxy forever.