Before the white-coated filly stood a giant, and she was afraid.

It stood over eleven feet tall, with a body like some strange minotaur. The giant was upright, the whole of its massive body resting on two legs as thick as tree-trunks. Its body was clad in armour as dark as the space between the stars. Golden ornamentation was wreathed across its massive metal body, shaped into arcane symbols the filly could not understand. Its right arm was over-sized, swelling from the elbow until it ended in a set of five golden talons with a strange box mounted on the outside. Its left arm was better proportioned, and in its armoured hand the giant carried a mace which in length stretched from the thing’s hooves to its shoulders. On its back rested the pelt of a massive white wolf. A trio of glaring amber eyes formed a line from its chest down to its hips. Strange, flat-faced heads hung in a circle on its belt. Skulls were mounted on the spikes above the giant’s shoulders.

But what scared the little filly most was the giant’s face. It was flat, like the heads which hung about its waist. Its thin lips were twisted in a hateful grimace. Its eyes glowed a violent red. Wires protruded from the back of its skull, linking the giant into its armour.

The giant took a single, thundering step forward. The filly squeaked in terror and curled up, too frightened to flee. Her heart pounded in her chest, a fear so familiar yet so unlike anything she had ever felt tearing through her.

Then, against all hopes, it happened, just as it always did. That voice, that deep, warm, commanding, comforting voice boomed through the dark halls of the evil giant.

“Horus! I name you Traitor! Face me and answer for your crimes!”

The white-coated filly turned, her violet eyes lighting up as she beheld a second giant.

This giant had a similar body to the first, and was almost as tall. There, however, the similarities ended. In golden armour was this giant clad. A crimson eye rested in the centre of his chest, its gaze denying the baleful glare of the evil giant. A scarlet robe hung from the second giant’s armour. Soft locks of golden hair hung from his head. In his right hand he held a mighty sword made from metal the colour of fresh blood. From his back protruded two massive wings, as white as snow, save for every ninth feather, which was a bright red. He was in all ways inspiring; his very presence demanded that all of stout and noble heart bow before him in reverence and awe.

Yet to the young filly, the most inspiring feature of this second giant was his face. It was kind and strong, the very epitome of a true father. He bore both love and war in his deep blue eyes; love for all who fell under his aegis, and war for all who intended harm for his family.

Thus the filly beheld them, the two giants, the Monster and the Angel.

“Come, Sanguinius, my brother,” the Monster said as he flexed his talons. “Can you not see the truth? This is a false Imperium, built by a false Emperor. We were just tools to him, not Sons. We were to be used and then cast away, abandoned and forgotten while he declared himself a god! Join me, Brother, and together we will tear him down, and in his place we will build a true Imperium, under the True Emperor!”

For a brief moment, the Angel’s countenance seemed sad, forlorn, as though he knew the inevitable end of it all. But it was for a moment; the filly could barely perceive the micro-expressions of his face before they were overtaken by a single, overwhelming emotion.

“Never!” the Angel roared, his wings flaring and his blood-red sword leveled at the Monster. “I will never betray Father! You lie, Traitor, and you besmirch his name with your false words. What madness could have taken you, that you would commit such atrocities against he who called you Son?”

Those were the last words spoken that held any true meaning. Battle-cries and maledictions were still to come, but they mattered not. The Monster offered his temptation, and the Angel remained incorruptible. Thus they fell to the only recourse left to them.

They fought.

It was a duel the likes of which had never been seen, and which would only once be surpassed. In a war among those who might be described as gods, this was the penultimate duel. The Monster, the foremost of his kind, mighty in war and cunning in verbal artifice, against the Angel, the noblest of his Brothers, true in loyalty and fearsome in war. Somehow, the white-coated filly knew that never again would their kind be seen among the stars.

Thus these giants, these war-gods, made battle with one another. Words failed to capture what the filly saw. The combatants moved like lightning, blows and parries too fast for mortal eyes to perceive. Power rippled through the halls of that accursed place as they clashed; a blood-red sword struck against a black-and-gold mace, the metal spitting fire as they slid down each other. A black-armoured boot slammed into the ground, denting the floor and sending the filly tumbling onto her side as the world around her shook with the force of the blow. White wings beat against the hot, stale air, thrusting their bearer toward the ceiling.

The filly could do nothing but watch in awe as light and dark clashed, with the fate of all things hanging in the balance. The Monster would be the end of all things, the harbinger of an age of shadow and terror. In the Angel lay hope, and the promise of a brighter tomorrow. Back and forth they struggled, until it came, as it always did, to the end.

Dread filled the white-coated filly’s heart as she saw the Angel dive away from the mace. She knew what came next, what always came next. Yet still she screamed in horror as those golden claws reached out and grabbed the Angel’s wing. A jerk and a pull, and the Angel was falling, torn from the skies by the Monster. He struck the ground like a meteor, a brief cry of pain and a moment’s daze the price paid for the blow. It was only a moment that he lay there, defenceless and exposed, but it was a moment too much.

The mace rose in the air, and time froze for all but the poor little filly. Her body frozen in place, all she could do was watch as the mace slowly climbed higher and higher, as it inched its way towards the apex of its arc. All she could do was hope against hope that somehow Fate would recede, that somehow the ending would change, that the Angel would rise or roll or somehow move, and avoid the doom that was to come.

As the mace fell, gaining speed and force with every second, the filly knew her desperate prayers had gone unanswered.

She screamed as black-and-gold metal crushed the Angel, shattering his golden armour. Blood sprayed forth from the fatal wound, falling through the air like rain. The blood fell, and the filly fell with it, her screams lost amid the roars of ten thousand warrior-sons now orphaned. She fell, deeper and deeper into the darkness, racing towards the baleful eight-pointed stars which gazed up at like a voracious beast…
____________

Celestia woke with a scream.

The ancient, ageless alicorn sat upright in her bed, panting, her terrified heart still pounding in her chest. With a discipline borne of millennia of practice she steadied her breathing.

“Sister!” Celestia’s door burst open as her younger sister, Luna, flew into the room, her teal-blue eyes wide with fright and concern. “What is it? Why do you so scream?”

Celestia leaned back in her bed, the presence and archaic diction of her sister helping to calm her nerves. “It was that dream.”

“Again?” Luna asked as she walked towards Celestia. “I thought you said it troubled you no more.”

“It didn’t, at least not for some time,” Celestia said. Her horn glowed as she reached out with her magic to quickly brew a cup of tea. “I haven’t had that dream in over four hundred years.”

“It is strange, then, that it would now return,” Luna said as she took a seat next to her sister. “What could it mean?”

“I do not know,” Celestia admitted. She turned her gaze to the moon, which still hung bright and high in the sky. A shiver ran down the immortal’s spine as she spoke. “But I fear it can mean nothing good.”