Chapter Text
In the hallowed, unyielding silence of the Imperial Palace on Terra, where even whispers seemed blasphemous, a figure stood before the Golden Throne, bathed in the Emperor’s unfathomable radiance. This was not the figure of a typical Primarch, though any human who dared to look upon him might feel the familiar, daunting presence of the Emperor himself. Arachnios, son of the Emperor, known to few as the “God Slayer,” was crafted in his father’s image but bore distinctions that made him a living icon of power, purpose, and something unspoken—something his fellow Primarchs did not share.
Arachnios was built to be the Emperor’s hand in a way that went beyond mere flesh or gene-forged might. His father had poured into him the essence of strength and purpose, infused with the cold, cunning elegance of a creature that thrived in the shadows of the galaxy: the spider. In his crimson eyes, brilliant and glistening like blood polished to a mirror sheen, was the simmering intensity of a being both familiar and wholly foreign to mankind. Dark brown hair, sleek and untouched by the ravages of time, cascaded from his head, a marked contrast to his father’s pale, white mane. His countenance held the sculpted perfection of the Emperor, yet his aura was tinged with a darkness that hinted at hidden depths, a quality that brought both reverence and wariness from those who dared to serve him.
The Emperor had known that war would never end in the Imperium. His sons were built as soldiers and leaders, but Arachnios was designed as a blade—one tempered for more than the conquests of planets. He was the executioner, the inquisitor, the purifier, bearing a unique title that reflected his feared role in the galaxy. His presence alone was enough to disquiet those not accustomed to facing the Emperor’s favored son.
Yet, he was more than a weapon; he was a thinker, trained in the wisdom of ages. Raised personally by the Emperor himself, Arachnios had not endured the scattering like his brothers, who were thrust into distant worlds to grow alone. No, the Emperor had chosen to cultivate him directly on Terra. Theirs was a bond that transcended duty and command, a dynamic forged in guidance and discipline. From his earliest memories, Arachnios remembered his father’s words, echoing in his mind with the gravity of a commandment, “With great power comes great duty, and with that comes great responsibility.” He had heard this mantra not as a gentle reminder, but as a warning and a guiding principle. Power was never a privilege, his father impressed upon him, but a duty to wield carefully, for the fate of humanity rested in such hands.
In the cold light of the chamber, his thoughts drifted to his chapter, the Deathweavers—a legion fashioned to reflect the same patience, precision, and lethal efficiency of their Primarch. Their mark was one of silent terror; they did not come upon their foes in roaring onslaughts like the Blood Angels or Dark Angels. The Deathweavers descended upon their enemies with silent precision, a methodical orchestration of terror and death, ensnaring heretics and xenos alike in webs of calculated demise.
The Emperor had gifted Arachnios with powers that were beyond his brothers. Some whispered that he was the favored son, destined to stand second only to his father. His psyker abilities were a marvel even among the most talented Librarians, for Arachnios wielded a range unmatched by any known Primarch. He had studied the arts of the warp, the subtle and deadly paths of sorcery, yet he never lost himself to the temptations that had consumed many others. No daemon, no whisper from the immaterium, could touch him; his will was tempered and honed to a razored edge by the Emperor himself, an iron wall fortified with purpose and purity.
At his command, the spider spirits lurked within the shadows, ethereal guardians bound to him alone. These massive beings of nightmare, woven from the Emperor’s psychic mastery and the cosmic mysteries of the arachnid genome, awaited his call, silently ready to descend on his enemies. They were his kin, in a way, drawn from the same twisted design that the Emperor had imparted to him. And in their many eyes, he saw reflections of himself—patient, precise, and ever-watchful.
In Arachnios’s youth, the Emperor had watched his development with an intensity that few others could understand. Every movement, every show of strength, was scrutinized to measure his progress. He was not merely trained; he was honed, his mind sharpened with secrets and wisdom whispered only between them in the darkness of the Imperial Palace’s sanctum. Each lesson reinforced his unyielding dedication, and each battle taught him the grim calculus of war. Where his brothers had grown into their roles among humanity, Arachnios was set apart, entrusted with the Empire’s most secretive burdens, raised to stand alone if necessary.
Under the Emperor's careful gaze, Arachnios grew into something more than a Primarch. He was forged into a weapon, honed and tempered with a vision sharper than any of his brothers’. Where others fought for glory, he fought with a purpose he had scarcely come to understand. Each lesson instilled in him an ironclad discipline and clarity of thought that bordered on prophecy. His mind, tempered with logic and strategy, was one of the Imperium's most guarded secrets. The Emperor's whispered guidance in those darkened halls was a bond unique to them, an unspoken testament that Arachnios was not merely his son but the manifestation of a vision to safeguard humanity.
In time, the Emperor revealed to Arachnios his unique role within the Imperium. He would be the spider in the shadows, weaving webs of influence and securing hidden networks of power that would go unseen yet could control the fate of worlds. Arachnios’s profound understanding of these hidden machinations made him both indispensable and isolated. Unlike his brothers, who openly commanded legions and crusaded across the stars, he moved in secrecy, unburdened by the need for recognition. The Emperor had given him the knowledge of the Imperium’s most arcane mysteries, secrets that transcended politics and warfare and delved into the warp itself.
As he matured, his role became more complex, shrouded in secrecy and laced with danger beyond even the battlefield. The Emperor placed his trust in only a select few, and for Arachnios, his personal Custodes honor guard stood as a testament to that rarefied confidence. These elite warriors, known as the Venatori, were handpicked from the finest of the Emperor's own protectors, bound to Arachnios by loyalty that went beyond oaths. They shadowed him across the Imperium, wherever his missions required, silent and unbreakable in their devotion. Where other Primarchs strode into battle with ostentatious retinues, Arachnios led with his Deathweavers—a chapter of warriors so finely attuned to the warp that their resolve rivaled even that of the Grey Knights.
The Deathweavers, trained in the dark arts of mental resistance, were a force apart. Their minds, fortified by rigorous discipline and guided meditation, had a rare resilience to the temptations and chaos of the warp. Every soldier was more than a fighter; they were wardens of purity, armed with the Emperor's blessing to confront horrors no other mortal could face. The Emperor entrusted these deadly warriors to Arachnios alone, knowing that only his youngest son’s incorruptible will could temper their strength. With the Venatori by his side and the Deathweavers at his command, Arachnios wove through the galaxy like a spider in its web, moving unseen, influencing events that could shape the fate of humanity.
It was during these shadowed campaigns that he proved himself not just in combat but as a master tactician. His battle barge, The Weaver’s Maw, loomed in the void, a fortress of restrained elegance. It bore subtle accents of gold upon its blood-red and black hull, a reflection of its master’s quiet power. The Weaver’s Maw was vast, an imposing leviathan that moved with unerring purpose, housing the Deathweavers and the Venatori within its holds, ready to be unleashed upon whatever threat required their presence. Arachnios’s command of this vessel and its occupants was absolute; his presence alone stilled any doubts or hesitations.
In the chaos of the Horus Heresy, Arachnios had proven himself a fierce adversary, a specter of death among the living. While his brothers waged their battles with the fervor and fury their legions were known for, Arachnios led his Deathweavers with a silent ferocity that turned every battlefield into a massacre. Even Horus himself, cunning and ruthless as he was, had underestimated the Emperor’s youngest and most enigmatic son. The Emperor, still fully in control of his empire and body, knew the strength of his Primarchs, but in Arachnios, he had invested a trust deeper than any mere bond. When Horus’s rebellion became apparent, it was not just a war between sons but a battle to decide the fate of humanity. And Arachnios, with his unerring loyalty and incorruptible will, was the Emperor's final gambit.
On the scorched surface of Iax, a once-bountiful agri-world now twisted into a wasteland, Arachnios and his Deathweavers descended with unyielding force. His battle barge, The Weaver's Maw, loomed over the devastated world, a shadow of dread and authority. Unlike the ostentatious ships of his brothers, The Weaver’s Maw was a marvel of restraint and terrifying beauty. Black as the void, with subtle, elegant lines of gold and blood-red cutting through its surface, the ship was a dark omen that spoke to the refined lethality of its master. Arachnios had no need for excessive ornamentation; his legacy was carved in blood and ash, and his ship reflected that silent, deadly purpose.
Upon his command, the Deathweavers deployed, clad in blackened armor accented in red, each marine embodying the shadowy precision and lethal efficacy of their Primarch. They moved as one, a web spun across the battlefield, ensnaring the traitors in layers of traps and ambushes. They were relentless, cutting down heretics with mechanical efficiency, leaving no room for mercy. As Arachnios strode onto the field, his blood-red eyes scanned the surroundings with a clarity that bordered on prescience. His senses, heightened to impossible levels, detected every movement, every pulse of life or death around him. His instincts were honed beyond even those of his Primarch brothers, his mind calculating outcomes with an unerring accuracy that made him both feared and revered.
It was in the heat of this battle that fate twisted its path. A deafening explosion erupted near the forward line, sending shockwaves through the ground and causing the very earth to tremble beneath them. Instinctively, Arachnios’s senses flared, a blinding pulse in his mind as he saw, in a fraction of a second, the ground opening up beneath them. He shouted commands, his voice like a thunderclap cutting through the din of battle, but even he could not prevent what came next. With a violent shudder, the ground beneath them gave way, crumbling like shattered glass and revealing a vast chasm that seemed to descend into the planet’s depths.
He fell, along with several of his marines, into a darkness that swallowed even the cries of battle above. They tumbled through the void, the light from above shrinking until it was nothing more than a distant memory. When they landed, the fall cushioned by their armor, Arachnios rose to his feet and took stock of his surroundings. The subterranean cave that spread out before them was vast, filled with structures that defied logic and reason. The walls were lined with an unknown metal, luminescent and humming with an energy that sent shivers through his highly attuned senses. Whatever this place was, it was ancient, older than any xeno civilization he had ever encountered.
He approached the nearest structure, its surface smooth and polished, reflecting his own blood-red gaze back at him. Symbols and markings etched into the walls seemed to move, twisting and shifting as he tried to focus on them. It was alien in a way that unsettled even Arachnios, a place that felt more alive than any battlefield, as though it was watching him, judging him. He could feel the weight of centuries pressing down on him, a silent witness to ages past.
Then, without warning, a low hum began to resonate through the cavern, growing louder until it reverberated through his very bones. His senses flared, his sixth sense expanding outward in a wave, warning him of an impending danger. He could sense something shifting in the structure before him, something stirring awake. Before he could react, the ancient mechanism activated, releasing a blinding flash of light that swallowed the entire cavern. Arachnios, despite his incredible reflexes and perception, felt himself pulled into a vortex of energy, his vision fading into a searing white that blotted out everything around him.
The sensation was unlike anything he had ever experienced. His body, usually solid and indomitable, felt as though it was being stretched, torn, and reshaped all at once. The world spun and twisted, a cacophony of sounds and sights that defied comprehension. He could feel himself being dragged through the warp, the chaotic immaterium seething around him. For any other, the experience would have been unbearable, a descent into madness. But Arachnios’s mind, fortified by his father’s training and his own indomitable will, held steady. He anchored himself and said to himself “Only in death does duty end.”
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the light faded, and he found himself standing on solid ground once more. The silence was overwhelming, pressing against him like a weight. His senses recalibrated, expanding outward in a web that captured every detail of his surroundings. He was not on Iax anymore; this place was… different, a world that seemed to exist outside of time and space. The sky was a swirling mass of colors, unnatural and alien, while the ground beneath him was cracked and barren, as though life itself had abandoned it long ago.
Ahead of him, the air seemed to ripple, forming into shapes that were both familiar and strange. Shadows moved, coalescing into figures that bore the unmistakable mark of xenos. They were not of any species he knew, and yet they exuded a power that resonated with the warp. Arachnios prepared himself, his mind reaching out to summon the spider spirits, his loyal ethereal guardians. They answered his call, materializing from the shadows around him, their massive forms looming over the landscape as they prepared to defend their master.
But even as he stood ready, Arachnios felt a presence, something ancient and powerful, watching him from beyond the veil of reality. He realized then that this was no simple trap, no ordinary warp anomaly. This was something far older, a remnant of a time when the galaxy was young and untamed. Whatever force had created this portal, it had done so with purpose, and now it had drawn him here, a god-slayer in a place where gods themselves feared to tread.
He raised his weapon, his senses extending to encompass every possible threat. He could see seconds into the future, his mind calculating the movements of the xenos entities before they even occurred. They lunged, their forms shifting and warping as they attacked, but Arachnios moved like lightning, his body a blur of lethal precision. With each strike, he tore through their defenses, his blade cleaving through their ethereal flesh as he pressed forward. His spider spirits descended, weaving webs of energy that ensnared his foes, binding them to a fate from which there was no escape.
In the midst of the battle, as he cut down the last of his attackers, Arachnios felt a strange pull within himself, a connection to the warp that seemed to resonate deeper than ever before. He realized then that this place, this ancient realm, was attuning itself to him, recognizing his unique nature. His father’s words echoed in his mind, a reminder that his power was not simply his own, but a responsibility to wield wisely.
As he looked out over the desolate landscape, the portal shimmered once more, as though offering him a way back to his reality. But even as he prepared to return, a final whisper brushed against his mind, a voice both ancient and alien, leaving him with a single, cryptic message: “The web has many strands, Arachnios. And you are but one.”
With that, he stepped through the portal, his resolve unwavering. He knew that whatever trials awaited him, he would face them with the same unyielding purpose that his father had instilled in him. For he was Arachnios, the God Slayer, and his destiny was woven into the very fabric of the universe.