Imurah awoke to the muffled hum of arcane machinery and the viscous embrace of preservative gel. His vision swam, distorted by the refracted light filtering through the containment vat. Confusion flickered for only a moment before cold, seething anger took hold. The memory of his defeat struck him like a lash. That cursed Ultramarine! That wretched Lieutenant! He thrashed against the containment tube, his clawed fingers finding purchase on the cables and conduits that fed his reborn form. With a guttural snarl, he tore them free, the alchemical gel spilling in a frothing cascade as the glass shell shattered.
He collapsed to the chamber floor, his bare, sinewy form gleaming with the remnants of the gel. The acrid scent of sorcerous chemicals and warp-tainted incense filled his nostrils. Imurah spat out the bitter residue, his rage bubbling to the surface. “Curse that Ultramarine,” he hissed, his voice a venomous snarl. “Curse him and his wretched resistance.”
Rising unsteadily to his feet, he surveyed the room. The chamber was dimly lit, bathed in the cold blue glow of runes etched into the walls. Servitor-automatons skittered in the shadows, their soulless eyes flickering. Tzeentch’s ever-shifting sigils spiraled across the dome above, a reminder of both his patron’s power and the delicate threads of fate that bound him. This was not the first time he had tasted death and rebirth, and the indignity of it gnawed at his pride. A sorcerer of his magnitude did not die easily, and yet he had been bested—humiliated.
A rustle at the chamber’s edge drew his attention. A skulking Tzaangor, its avian features glinting with a sickly sheen, crept forward, cradling his robes in its taloned hands. Imurah regarded the creature with a mixture of disdain and necessity. Being laid bare was not his concern; such vanity was beneath him. But to be seen like this—freshly reborn, stripped of his regalia—would invite mockery from his peers. That was a luxury he could not afford. Word would already begin to spread of his defeat, carried on the whispers of daemons and the treacherous lips of lesser sorcerers. He would not compound the shame by appearing weak.
“Bring them here,” he commanded, his voice cold and imperious. The Tzaangor obeyed, bowing its twisted head as it offered the robes. Imurah donned them with deliberate care, the rich fabrics and rune-stitched sigils a stark contrast to the raw, mottled flesh of his newly cloned form. The moment the robes settled on his shoulders, he felt a measure of his dignity restored.
He turned to the cloning vat that had birthed him. Another body floated within, its features eerily similar to his own—a contingency he had crafted long ago. The incantations binding his soul to these vessels were complex, labyrinthine in their intricacy. He approached the vat, murmuring the litanies of binding under his breath, the air crackling with warp energy as he renewed the arcane links. The clone’s pallid flesh began to ripple subtly, the warp-touched essence of his soul leaving its mark even on this dormant vessel. A good sign. It meant Tzeentch’s favour had not deserted him entirely.
“You are ever the fickle one,” he muttered to the sigil of Tzeentch above, his tone laced with bitter amusement. “But I remain your instrument, as always.”
The rituals complete, Imurah turned to his armour vault. The ornate chamber yawned open, revealing rows of weapons and artifacts, each humming with latent power. Yet, many of his finest relics were absent. Some had been lost in the heat of battle, others scattered across the stars in the wake of his defeat. Reclaiming them would be a task for another time. For now, he selected a set of older wargear, its runes faintly glowing as if awakening from slumber. The armour fit snugly, its plates clicking into place with a satisfying finality. It was not his most potent suit, but it would suffice to deter any opportunistic rivals who might think to strike him down in his weakened state.
Fully armed, Imurah strode to his meditation chamber, the air growing heavy with the scent of burning warp-fused incense. The chamber was a sanctum of shifting geometries, its walls adorned with ever-changing patterns that defied mortal comprehension. Here, he would begin the arduous task of rebuilding his warhost. His lesser sorcerers and cabal leaders would need to be summoned, their loyalty—or lack thereof—evaluated. The world of Demerium, the stage of his recent humiliation, could wait. There were other threads of fate to weave, other schemes to set in motion.
Seating himself on the jagged throne at the chamber’s center, Imurah allowed his mind to drift into the warp. The currents of the immaterium surged around him, chaotic and vibrant. He extended his will, casting it out like a net to draw in his scattered forces. His plans would not end here. Titus—that meddlesome Ultramarine—had merely delayed the inevitable.
A sinister smile curled his lips as visions of vengeance danced before his eyes. The game was far from over, and Imurah was nothing if not patient. Tzeentch’s grand tapestry had many threads yet to be pulled, and Imurah would see to it that they all led to his ultimate triumph.
“You may have won this battle, Ultramarine,” he whispered into the ether. “But the war is eternal.”
Comments