Warhammer 40k : Space Marine Kayvaan

Across the trench, Deputy Commander Marlborough stared wide-eyed at the stunning figure that had materialized before him. The soldiers, already shaken by the earlier appearance of the now-vanished Chaos Gate, stood slack-jawed, their morale crushed. Without the Commissar present to execute deserters and enforce discipline, the ranks had devolved into fearful disarray. Marlborough himself struggled to process what he was seeing: a woman of unearthly beauty, dressed as though she were attending a grand ball, standing amid the dust and ruin of a battlefield.

It was absurd. The juxtaposition was so jarring it felt like seeing a penguin strut across the African savannah. For a moment, even the grizzled deputy commander could do nothing but gape. 

But Marlborough's instincts as a soldier kicked in. Shaking himself free of his stupor, he barked an order. "What are you all standing there for? Shoot! Shoot her now! She's a daemon!" He didn't know for sure if she was, but it didn't matter. On a battlefield, beauty could be just as deadly as a bolter. If she wasn't human, she was a threat. And if she was? Better a tragic mistake than the loss of his entire unit.

A soldier fired first, the green beam of a lasrifle lancing out and striking the witch squarely on her dress. The black silk shimmered momentarily as the fabric absorbed the energy, leaving only a faint trail of smoke.

The witch let out a soft, melodious moan. "Ah…" The sound was quiet but unmistakably alluring. It carried through the trench like a whispered promise, wrapping itself around the ears and minds of every man present. The moan sent shivers down spines, and some soldiers felt a sudden weakness in their knees. Others found themselves trembling uncontrollably, their thoughts clouded by an inexplicable desire.

"Please," the witch said, her voice smooth and honeyed. "Don't attack me. I only wish to pass. The war has hurt us all—our bodies, our hearts, our souls. Don't we all deserve rest? To put down our weapons and go home?"

Her words struck like a psychic hammer. The soldiers' eyes glazed over, their resolve crumbling as her voice resonated in their minds. Rifles clattered to the ground as men dropped their weapons, overcome by waves of longing and despair.

"Mom! I miss you!" one soldier sobbed, collapsing to his knees.

"My wife… is she still alive? My boy… I haven't seen him in three years…" another murmured, clutching his helmet.

"We just want to go home…" whispered a third, his tears soaking into the dust.

Even Marlborough, who prided himself on his discipline, found himself faltering. His grip on his lasrifle slackened as he grappled with a sudden, overwhelming fatigue. His mind was a battlefield of conflicting thoughts: duty to the Emperor versus a desperate, bone-deep weariness.

The Red-haired Witch observed the humans' descent into despair with cold amusement. Their collapse, both mental and emotional, was predictable. She sneered, her crimson lips curling into a contemptuous smile as she stepped forward. Her heels clicked against the stone as she passed through the trench, unchallenged. The soldiers who moments ago had been prepared to fight now knelt, sobbing or staring blankly ahead, consumed by her psychic influence.

"Pitiful," she muttered under her breath, her voice laced with disdain. "This is what the Emperor's servants have become."

The trench, once a bastion of resistance, was now a graveyard of broken spirits. The witch strode leisurely through the fallen line, her silk dress swaying as she moved. Her every step exuded dominance and power, a stark reminder that in the face of Chaos, even the most steadfast defenses could crumble.

"Rest? Rest your mother!" Marlborough roared, his voice cutting through the haze of despair. With defiance burning in his eyes, the deputy commander pulled his pistol from its holster and fired at the red-haired witch.

The witch didn't flinch. With a lazy wave of her hand, an invisible force sent Marlborough hurtling backwards. His shots missed entirely, the bullets dissolving into harmless sparks as they neared her. Marlborough hit the ground hard, groaning, but the witch paid him no further attention.

Her attention shifted to a trembling soldier. She raised her hand, pointing at him as she began to chant in the vile, guttural tongue of daemons. The words, soaked in corruption, hung heavy in the air, sending a shiver down the spines of all who heard them.

The chosen soldier froze as though paralyzed. The witch strode up to him, a faint smile playing on her lips. She reached out, cupping his head, and leaned in. Her lips brushed against his in a light kiss that seemed to linger far too long. Pulling back, she sneered. "Have fun," she said simply.

The soldier's body convulsed violently, twisting and warping in grotesque ways. Crimson flames ignited from his flesh, and his anguished screams filled the air as his transformation took hold. Within moments, he was no longer a man but a monstrous, half-daemonic abomination, his body engulfed in the fires of Chaos.

The newly formed daemon roared, its burning form lunging at the nearest soldiers. Chaos erupted within the trench as the monster tore through its former comrades. Weapons fired, men shouted, and panic spread like wildfire. The defensive line descended into chaos.

The red-haired witch didn't spare a second glance at the havoc she had unleashed. Her focus was singular. The anxiety gnawing at her mind pushed her forward. She had no time to indulge in the carnage. The mission—her mission—had to succeed.

She stepped into the entrance of the ancient underground city, her steps measured but unyielding. Gathering her psychic power, she initiated another spatial jump. The fabric of reality twisted and bent, and with a single stride, she reappeared at her destination.

She now stood in a sealed chamber. Beneath her feet was a psychic array, its intricate runes glowing faintly, guiding her to her target. Her servants had prepared everything in advance, carving the array to ensure her arrival was precise.

At the center of the room hovered a sphere, pulsating with an otherworldly blue light. Surrounding it were swirling runes of power, their movements faintly hypnotic. The sphere radiated immense psychic energy, its presence both awe-inspiring and oppressive. This was it—the artifact Slaanesh desired, the core the daemons sought to claim.

The witch let out a soft sigh of relief. The tension in her shoulders eased as she realized the object remained untouched. "A false alarm," she muttered, a smirk tugging at her lips.

Before she could take another step, a figure materialized before her. A woman clad in a crimson trench coat and wide-brimmed hat emerged from the void, her presence sudden and unsettling. The figure, Seraphea, knelt before the witch, her expression one of desperation.

"Please," Seraphea cried, her voice trembling. "I beg you, have mercy! Don't take the core. Without it, we cannot survive!"

The witch tilted her head, her fiery hair cascading over one shoulder. Her crimson eyes narrowed in irritation. "Get out of my way," she spat. "You're nothing more than a wandering soul. How dare you try to interfere?"

With a flick of her wrist, the witch's psychic power lashed out, swatting Seraphea away like smoke. The ghostly figure tumbled backward but quickly reformed, her hands clasped as she pleaded again. "No, please! You don't understand! There are 3.4 million souls bound to this core. It sustains them all! Without it, they'll be destroyed. The entire city will perish!"

The witch froze momentarily, her lips curling into an amused grin. "Three million souls?" she mused aloud, her tone mocking. "How delightful. I thought this mission was going to be boring, but this… this is interesting."