Dusk and then Dawn

The ritual to free Altansar had begun with hope, but as the hours dragged on, that hope began to flicker like a candle in a storm. More and more Greater Daemons tore their way through the fabric of reality, their otherworldly forms manifesting amidst the elegant spires and wraithbone structures of the Craftworld. Progress in freeing Altansar from the Eye's grasp slowed to a crawl, each inch gained paid for in blood and souls.

Khaine's presence burned bright, his divine will animating the dead of Altansar. Warriors wreathed in flame and wrath poured forth from the Infinity Circuit, their spectral forms clashing with the daemonic hordes in a battle that spanned both the material and immaterial planes. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning warp-stuff and the metallic tang of spilled blood.

In the midst of this carnage, Franklin found himself locked in combat with Be'lakor, the Dark Master, First of the Daemon Princes. Their duel had raged for what felt like an eternity, each death of Be'lakor only serving to fuel his rebirth, stronger and more terrible than before. The Primarch's muscles burned with fatigue, he was pushed to his limits as he parried blow after murderous blow.

Be'lakor's laughter, a sound like grinding bones and tearing flesh, echoed across the battlefield. "Your doom approaches, little demigod," the Daemon Prince taunted, his shadowy form swelling with malevolent glee. "The Eye hungers for Altansar, and it shall not be denied its prize!"

Franklin's lips curled into a snarl(If there was even a lips in that Avian Skull burning with Divine fire), his brown eyes blazing with defiance. "Fuck around and find out, you oversized batwin—" His quip was cut short as Be'lakor's massive form crashed into him, nearly driving the Primarch from the ritual circle. Franklin's hearts hammered in his chest; he knew that if he stepped outside that mystical boundary, Khaine's power would falter, and all would be lost.

With a grunt of effort that would have shattered mountains, Franklin twisted, using Be'lakor's momentum against him. In a fluid motion born of centuries of combat, the Primarch sidestepped and brought the Deathsword down in a devastating arc, severing one of Be'lakor's legs at the knee.

The Daemon Prince howled in pain and rage, but Franklin was already moving. His steel wings, reminiscent of the great eagles of ancient Terra, snapped open, driving Be'lakor to the ground with hurricane force. In the same motion, Franklin plunged the Deathsword deep into Be'lakor's torso, pinning the writhing Daemon to the Craftworld's surface.

"Not so easy, is it?" Franklin chuckled, his voice carrying over the din of battle. "That blade's got the weight of a god behind it. Good luck lifting it."

But Franklin had no time to savor his victory. Even as Be'lakor struggled against his divine bindings, a new threat emerged. A Bloodthirster, greatest of Khorne's daemons, had broken through the Aeldari lines. It charged towards Franklin, its massive frame shaking the ground with each thunderous step. The beast's axe, large enough to cleave a Titan in two, swung in a deadly arc towards the Primarch's head.

Franklin's body reacted on instinct, honed by centuries of warfare. He weaved under the blow, feeling the wind of its passage ruffle his hair. Then, Franklin unleashed a devastating uppercut. His fist, backed by Godlike muscle and indomitable will, connected with the Bloodthirster's jaw. The crack of breaking bone echoed across the battlefield.

But Franklin wasn't done. He seized the daemon's horns, using them as leverage to slam the monstrous creature into the ground. Again and again, he lifted and smashed, each impact cratering the Craftworld's surface. The Bloodthirster's form began to lose cohesion, its essence unable to maintain stability in the face of such punishment.

As the daemon's form wavered, Franklin's will exerted itself. Drawing on the power flowing through the ritual circle, he reshaped the Bloodthirster's essence. Its massive form compressed and elongated, transforming into a massive, daemon-forged axe. Franklin hefted the weapon, feeling its weight and the angry whispers of the bound daemon within.

"Battle... maim... kill..." the axe hissed in his mind, a litany of Khornate violence.

Franklin's response was curt and absolute. "Shut up," he commanded, exerting his will over the daemon weapon. The whispers subsided, cowed by the Primarch's indomitable psyche.

With his new weapon in hand, Franklin turned to face the horde of lesser daemons that had broken through the Aeldari lines. They surged towards him, a tide of claws, fangs, axes, sword and corrupted flesh. Franklin met them head-on, the daemon-forged axe cleaving through their ranks like a scythe through wheat.

Each swing bisected multiple daemons, their forms dissolving back into the Warp. Franklin moved with power, every motion economic yet devastatingly powerful. He was a whirlwind of destruction, holding the line single-handedly while the ritual continued beneath him.

Above this scene of carnage, Khaine himself battled against the avatars of Khorne and Slaanesh. The Aeldari God of War, empowered by the faith and sacrifice of Altansar, met the Chaos Gods' manifestations blow for blow. Divine energies clashed, reality itself buckling under the weight of their conflict.

Franklin, even as he fought his own battle, remained acutely aware of his role as the conduit for Khaine's power. He could feel the god's strength flowing through him, knew that his continued presence in the ritual circle was all that stood between victory and annihilation.

His muscles burned with exertion, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. He was dimly aware that he was sweating blood, pushed beyond its limits by the strain of channeling Khaine's power while simultaneously fighting off the daemonic horde.

Just when it seemed the tide might be turning, reality shuddered once more. A new presence made itself known, its very existence an affront to causality and reason. Ix'thar'ganix, the Slayer of Destinies, materialized in a kaleidoscopic burst of impossible colors.

The avian daemon's multifaceted eyes gleamed with malevolent intelligence as it surveyed the battlefield. With a gesture, it summoned fellow Lords of Change, their combined sorcerous might weaving a counter-ritual to Franklin's efforts.

The Primarch felt the shift immediately. Where before he had been slowly but surely guiding Altansar from the Eye's grasp, now it felt as though he were trying to push back an ocean. Ix'thar'ganix's magic pulled at the Craftworld, threatening to drag it deeper into the hellish realm from which it sought to escape.

Khaine roared his defiance, the god's avatar locked in combat with manifestations of Slaanesh and Khorne. The psychic backlash of their battle sent shockwaves across the Craftworld, shattering towers and igniting fires that burned in impossible colors.

Franklin gritted his teeth, his entire body trembling as he forced more of Khaine's raw power through his battered frame. His hands, clenching the ritual circle's edge, were fractured beneath the weight of the energy he was channeling, each threatening to snap under the relentless strain. The wings of steel that once spread gloriously from his back, were now tattered, their once-shining sword like feathers torn away, scattered like fragments of a shattered dream. His armor, once a resplendent shield, was a ruined shell—blackened, jagged, and bent under the relentless onslaught.

The scorching heat of psychic energy funneled from the dying Craftworld into his very soul was unbearable. At first, the power surged through him like a blessing, but as Khaine fed more from the battle, draining the last vestiges of the Aeldari's strength to fight the Avatars of rival gods, it became an agonizing inferno. His veins felt like molten iron, his nerves burning with each pulse of Khaine's wrath. The injuries dealt to him by Be'lakor and the endless onslaught of daemonic champions had left his once godlike form ravaged, and the pain was unlike anything he had endured before. Every breath was a fight for survival, every heartbeat a struggle to keep from collapsing.

He could feel it—death's grip—clutching at the edges of his soul. The repeated blows of Be'lakor, the endless duels with daemons and challengers, had left him shattered in body and spirit. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the ground of a Craftworld now teetering on the brink of destruction. He was trapped in the heart of this storm, bearing the weight of the world and the hatred of gods. The pain was no longer something he could merely endure; it was something he now fought against, threatening to overwhelm him.

Even in his Warp God form, towering and divine, he could feel the cracks forming beneath the façade of godhood. His power was immense, but it was fleeting, like a star burning too brightly before its inevitable collapse. Franklin Valorian, the Hand of Khaine, Proud Son of Liberty, felt mortal—more mortal than he had ever felt in his long life. For the first time, the specter of his own death loomed close, whispering that no matter how powerful he was, even he could fall.

In this moment, more than any other, Franklin knew how close to death he truly stood. The flickering embers of his life danced in the storm of Chaos around him, threatening to be snuffed out in the next breath. The pain was overwhelming, but the thought of faltering—of letting the Craftworld fall, of allowing its people to be swallowed by darkness—drove him to endure. If he failed, Altansar would burn, and with it, everything he had fought for would crumble into ash. There was no retreat, no surrender, only the will to stand defiant in the face of annihilation, though every fiber of his being screamed in agony.

He could not fall. If he did, there would be nothing left to save.

And then, as if the situation weren't dire enough, the fabric of reality tore asunder once more. An explosion of pure, undiluted rage heralded the arrival of An'ggrath the Unbound, Guardian of the Throne of Skulls and most favored of Khorne's Bloodthirsters.

The daemonic behemoth's arrival was like a hammer blow to the Aeldari lines. Where before they had held against the tide of lesser daemons, now they crumbled like sand before a tsunami. An'ggrath carved a path of utter destruction towards Franklin, each step bringing it closer to the heart of the ritual.

Franklin's mind raced, assessing the situation. His Deathsword, remained lodged in Be'lakor's writhing form. The daemon weapon he now wielded, while potent, was a poor substitute against a foe of An'ggrath's caliber.

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Everything slowed to a crawl. The chaos of battle, the screams of the dying, the roars of daemons – all of it faded into a dull, distant rumble. I found myself staring at the holographic displays in my mechsuit, the angry red warnings glaring back at me like accusatory eyes.

No ammunition. 87% structural integrity lost. Weapons platforms destroyed. Dimensional pocket empty.

And then, I laughed. Not the confident chuckle of a man with a plan, but the slightly unhinged cackle of someone who's just realized the cosmic joke they're part of. For the first time in my long, war-filled life, I, was out of ammo.

Be'lakor's mocking voice cut through my laughter, he was still impaled upon the floor "Has the little demigod finally lost his mind?"

I shrugged, still chuckling. "Nah, just appreciating the irony. You wouldn't understand, you humorless fuck."

"How you holding up, big guy?" I asked mentally, trying to keep my tone light despite the dire circumstances.

Khaine's response was immediate, his voice a mixture of divine power and genuine concern. "How are you, Primarch?"

I could feel Khaine's amusement, dark and violent, mixing with concern. The god was holding his own, but I... I was on the verge of death. My body, enhanced...a warp god though it was, simply wasn't designed to channel this much divine power for so long. Every heartbeat felt like it might be my last, each breath a struggle against lungs that wanted to fill with blood rather than air.

"Oh, you know," I quipped back, "just another Tuesday in paradise."

In the distance, I could hear it coming. An'ggrath the Unbound, Guardian of the Throne of Skulls and so many more titles that I forgot, fucking hell who the fuck needs so many titles anyway, it was barreling towards me like the galaxy's angriest freight train. Its bellows of "SKULL FOR KHORNE!" shook the very air, each syllable a promise of violence.

As the massive daemon drew nearer, my mind drifted back home. To Nova Libertas, to the shining worlds of the Independence Sector. I saw the faces of my sons, the Liberty Eagles, proud and strong. I remembered the laughter shared over drinks with Leman, the quiet moments of reflection with the Emperor.

And then I thought of my inner circle. Denzel, my right hand and best friend, always ready. Steven Armstrong, my left hand, probably punching a mountain somewhere and yelling about nanomachines and Freedom. John Ezra, head of my Honor Guard, perpetually exasperated by my antics but loyal to the core. And Vladimir, my Chief Librarian, whose psychic might had gotten us out of more scrapes than I could count.

Together, we were unstoppable. The Liberator and his team, a force that could reshape the galaxy. With them at my side and a Legion at my back, there wasn't a threat in the universe I couldn't face down with a grin and a one-liner.

But now? Now I was alone. A Primarch without his Legion, a general without an army. I realized with grim amusement: I was well and truly fucked. Oh, the irony.

It was Just me, a broken mechsuit, no ammunition and a daemon axe that wouldn't shut the hell up.

"I said quiet!" I snarled at the axe as its whispers rose once again, promises of slaughter and glory trying to worm their way into my mind. The weapon fell silent, but I knew it was only temporary. It would be back, just like every other daemon in this Emperor-forsaken hellscape.

And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? I could kill An'ggrath. Hell, I could probably kill him, Be'lakor, and that scheming bird Ix'thar'ganix all at once. But what then? How many more would take their place? The forces of Chaos were endless, and for the first time in my life, I was beginning to feel... finite.

Khaine was locked in a stalemate, a cosmic tug-of-war with no end in sight. I had slain countless daemons already, my armor slick with ichor and warp-stuff. But they just kept coming. Wave after unending wave of horror and madness, each one pushing me closer to the brink.

For the first time in my long life, I found myself asking a question I'd never considered before: Where is the end in sight?

I've always been the one with the plan, the ace up my sleeve, the unexpected solution that turns certain defeat into impossible victory. But standing here, at the heart of a dying Craftworld, watching reality itself tear apart around me... I've got nothing. No clever quips, no brilliant strategies. Just the burning determination not to let these pointy-eared bastards down and the growing realization that determination might not be enough this time.

An'ggrath's massive form finally broke through the last line of Aeldari defenders, its axe cleaving through wraithbone and flesh alike. As it charged towards me, I could see my reflection in its burning eyes – a battered, bleeding demigod running on nothing but spite and stubbornness.

I raised the daemon axe, its whispers rising to a fevered pitch in my mind. My muscles screamed in protest, every movement sending fresh waves of agony through my overtaxed body. But I grinned, because what else could I do?

I spotted Maugan Ra in the distance, the Exarch fighting with all his legendary skill to reach me. But for every daemon he cut down, two more took its place. He could barely save himself, let alone help me.

Autarch Ilrathan took to the skies, no doubt planning to intercept An'ggrath. But the air was thick with flying horrors, daemonic wings blotting out what passes for a sky in this warp-twisted realm. They were all left to watch, to fight their own battles as the tide of enemies threatened to overwhelm us all.

I watched Henry still fighting with his Aeldari Allies fighting to survive, and he came from the future.He was trying to reach me, cutting a swath through the daemonic horde. But even he, for all his Primaris might, couldn't overcome the sheer numbers arrayed against us.

It was futile. All of it.

This is it, I thought. The moment where Franklin Valorian, the Liberator, Primarch of the Liberty Eagles and all-around handsome bastard, finally bites off more than he can chew. And you know what? If this is how it ends, at least it'll be one hell of a story.

As An'ggrath's roar shook the very foundations of Altansar, One last moment of introspection. I thought of my father, the Emperor, and wondered if he'd be proud or just roll his eyes at the mess I'd gotten myself into. I thought of my brothers, scattered across the galaxy, fighting their own battles found and to be found. And I thought of the trillions of souls across the Imperium, blissfully unaware that their fate might hinge on what happens in the next few moments.

The weight of it all – the expectations, the responsibility, the sheer cosmic absurdity of my existence – settled on my shoulders like a familiar cloak. Heavy, but not unbearable. Because that's what it means to be a Primarch, isn't it? To stand against the impossible, to spit in the eye of fate, to be the bulwark against which the horrors of the universe break.

So yeah, I'm tired. I'm hurt. I'm probably screwed six ways to Sunday. But I'm still standing. And as long as I'm standing, there's hope. For Altansar, for the Imperium, for every soul that's counting on me whether they know it or not.

An'ggrath's axe descended, a comet of rage and bloodlust aimed straight at my head. Time slowed to a crawl once more. In that eternal moment before impact, I felt a smile spread across my face. Not the cocky grin of a man certain of victory, but the defiant smirk of someone who knows they're in way over their head and decides to go for broke anyway.

"Alright, you overgrown side of beef," I muttered, tensing for the fight of my life, "let's dance."

And as the axes met in a clash that could shatter worlds, I realized something important. Win or lose, live or die, this right here? This is what I was made for. This is who I am.

I do not go gently into that good night.

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Time seemed to slow as An'ggrath's massive form filled Franklin's vision. The Bloodthirster's wings, span wider than a Thunderhawk gunship, blocked out what passed for sky in this warped realm. An'ggrath's axe, a nightmarish amalgamation of brass and blood-slick steel, descended in a brutal arc aimed at Franklin's head.

With reflexes honed over centuries of warfare, Franklin brought up his own daemon weapon to meet the blow. The clash of the two axes sent a shockwave rippling across the battlefield, shattering nearby crystals and sending lesser daemons tumbling through the air.

Cracks spider-webbed across the surface of Franklin's axe, the weapon keening in protest at the strain. The Primarch gritted his teeth, his muscles straining against the immense strength of the Bloodthirster. For a moment, they were locked in a contest of pure might, neither giving an inch.

An'ggrath's maw split in a horrific grin, sulfurous breath washing over Franklin's face. "Your skull for Khorne, little demigod," the daemon growled, its voice like the grinding of tectonic plates.

Franklin managed a smirk despite the strain. "Sorry, big guy. I'm rather attached to it."

With a burst of strength that would have shattered mountains, Franklin shoved back, breaking the deadlock. An'ggrath stumbled back a half-step, surprise flickering in its burning eyes. It was all the opening Franklin needed.

The Primarch ducked low, avoiding a wild swing from An'ggrath's axe that would have bisected a lesser being. He retaliated with a sweeping strike at the daemon's legs, but An'ggrath was faster than its massive bulk suggested. The Bloodthirster leapt, avoiding the blow and bringing its whip into play

The warp-forged lash cracked through the air, its barbed tip aimed at Franklin's eyes. The Primarch weaved, the whip missing him by mere millimeters. He could feel the heat of its passage across his face, smell the acrid stench of warp energy it left in its wake.

An'ggrath landed with earth-shaking force, immediately pressing its attack. Its axe and whip worked in terrifying cohesion that forced Franklin onto the defensive. The Primarch's stolen axe was a blur as he parried and dodged, each impact sending shockwaves up his arms.

Franklin's mind raced, analyzing patterns, looking for weaknesses. An'ggrath was strong, that is without a doubt, But strength wasn't everything. The Bloodthirster's attacks, while devastatingly powerful, followed a pattern. A pattern Franklin was beginning to decipher.

Axe, whip, axe. High, low, mid. An'ggrath's assault was relentless, but predictable. Franklin smiled grimly. Predictable, he could work with.

Franklin brought his axe around in a vicious strike aimed at An'ggrath's exposed flank.

The Bloodthirster was faster than his massive bulk suggested. He twisted, catching the blow on his vambrace. Sparks flew as daemonic metal met daemonic metal, and for a moment, the two warriors were locked in a Duel.

An'ggrath's face, a nightmarish visage of horn and fang, loomed over Franklin. "You cannot win, little demigod," the daemon snarled. "Khorne's thirst will not be denied!"

Franklin headbutted the Bloodthirster, his enhanced skull colliding with An'ggrath's snout with a sickening crunch. "Dry month for the Blood God, then," he quipped.

An'ggrath struck again, his axe coming in low this time, aiming to bisect the Primarch at the waist. Franklin weaved, his wings snapping open to carry him over the blade. He landed behind An'ggrath, spinning to deliver a blow to the daemon's unprotected back.

But An'ggrath had anticipated the move. His whip lashed out, wrapping around Franklin's ankle. With a roar of triumph, the Bloodthirster yanked The Primarch towards his ground.

There was no time to dodge. Franklin raised his own axe in desperate defense, but he knew it wouldn't be enough. An'ggrath's weapon came down with the force of a falling mountain.

The impact drove Franklin to his knees. His arms, already strained beyond endurance, gave way. An'ggrath's axe bit deep into his chest, carving through tyranimite plate and warp god flesh with equal ease.

Pain exploded through Franklin's body, a white-hot nova of agony that threatened to overwhelm even his iron will. He could feel his twin hearts stuttering, trying to compensate for the massive trauma.

But even at death's door, Franklin Valorian was not done. As An'ggrath's axe began its descent, the Primarch surged upward with the last reserves of his strength. His own axe, now little more than a fractured hunk of metal, swept up in a final, desperate strike.

An'ggrath, committed to his attack, couldn't alter his course in time. Franklin's blow caught him just under the chin, the remnants of the daemonic weapon biting deep into the Bloodthirster's throat.

For a moment, the two stood frozen in a grotesque tableau – An'ggrath's axe buried in Franklin's chest, Franklin's ruined weapon lodged in An'ggrath's neck. Then, with a sound like a thousand screaming souls suddenly silenced, An'ggrath's head separated from his shoulders.

The Bloodthirster's massive body toppled backward, dissolving into warp energy even as it fell. His axe, still embedded in Franklin's chest, began to lose cohesion without its master's will to sustain it.

Franklin staggered, nearly falling out of the ritual circle. With trembling hands, he grasped the dissolving axe and wrenched it free, biting back a scream of pain. Blood poured from the massive wound, steaming as it hit the ground.

Franklin sank to his knees, struggling to remain conscious. The ritual circle pulsed beneath him, Khaine's power flowing through him in waves of searing heat. He could feel the god's concern, a wordless query about his condition.

"I'm fine," Franklin muttered, though he was anything but. "Just a flesh wound. Keep... keep fighting"

The ritual circle pulsed beneath him, Khaine's power flowing through his battered body in waves of searing heat. The once-mighty Liberator, now reduced to a barely functioning conduit for a god's power, couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of his situation.

"Ah, shit," he muttered, his voice a ragged whisper. "How am I going to get my ass out of this one?"

The wound in his chest, a parting gift from the now-banished An'ggrath, continued to bleed profusely. It was a strange sight, Franklin mused in his delirium, to see a demigod bleed out like a mere mortal. The irony wasn't lost on him.

Through blurred vision, Franklin became aware of a new presence approaching. Sinuous and terrible, a Keeper of Secrets sashayed across the battlefield, its every movement a mockery of grace and beauty. Lesser daemons and Aeldari alike scattered before it, sensing the power of one of Slaanesh's greatest servants.

The Keeper of Secrets stopped just short of the ritual circle, its multifaceted eyes gleaming with malicious glee as it beheld the wounded Primarch.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," it purred, its voice a symphony of pleasure and pain that sent shivers down Franklin's spine. "The great Eagle, brought low at last. But it doesn't have to end here, you know."

Franklin raised his head, meeting the daemon's gaze with defiance burning in his blood-shot eyes. "That so?" he managed to croak.

The Keeper of Secrets smiled, a sight more terrifying than any snarl. "Surrender to Slaanesh, Franklin Valorian. Embrace the Dark Prince's gifts, and all this pain will be but a distant memory. The Craftworld will be saved, preserved for eternity in the gardens of pleasure. You could be a prince among daemons, your every desire fulfilled."

For a moment, silence reigned on the battlefield. Then, to the shock of all present, Franklin began to laugh. It started as a low chuckle, building into a full-throated roar of mirth that shook his entire frame and sent fresh rivulets of blood flowing from his wound.

The Keeper of Secrets recoiled, its beautiful face twisting in fury. If there was one thing Slaanesh and its servants couldn't stand, it was being laughed at.

"You dare mock the generosity of the Dark Prince?" it hissed, all pretense of seduction gone. "Then die, fool, and let your soul be Slaanesh's plaything for eternity!"

The Keeper of Secrets stepped forward, its claws elongating into wicked blades as it prepared to deliver the killing blow. Franklin tensed, knowing he had no strength left to defend himself. This, it seemed, was truly the end.

But as he prepared for death, Franklin's gaze was drawn to a figure standing at the periphery of the battle. An unassuming man, unremarkable in appearance, who had been present throughout the entire conflict but always just at the edge of Franklin's perception. Now, with death looming and his mind freed from the immediate concerns of combat, Franklin had time to truly see the man for the first time.

And in that moment of recognition, everything changed.

"So," Franklin murmured, a smile tugging at his bloodied lips, "you were here all along, Father."

In the perpetual twilight of Altansar, trapped for Centuries in the hellish half-light of the Eye of Terror, the sun rose at last.