The Space Hulk was a tomb. A cathedral of crumpled hulls, torn decks, and dying memories, adrift in the ageless maelstrom of the Warp. Deep within its bowels, a fragile pocket of reality persisted. A bubble, generated by an arcane piece of technology – a Gellar field generator of unknown design, found by chance centuries before. It had protected the last descendants of a lost Imperial colony, granting them a reprieve in this hell.
But the time had come. The machine, deprived of all maintenance and a worthy power source, was failing. Its lights flickered, dying. The field wavered, and with it, the walls of their refuge seemed to turn translucent, hinting at the horrors writhing in the Immaterium beyond.
In the center of the largest converted hold, a woman stood. Leanor. Her hair, perhaps once blond, was dulled by soot and deprivation. Her face was beautiful, but hardened by a lifetime of struggle, etched with fine scars and marked by an iron resolve. In her hands, she held a sword made of piping and scavenged metal, its blade blunt and stained with black ichor.
Around her, a score of survivors—men, women, and children—huddled together. Their eyes were wide with primal fear as the shadows around them lengthened, as insane whispers began to scratch at the edges of their minds.
"They're coming," a man whispered, his voice broken.
Leanor raised her head, her gaze sweeping the circle of frightened faces. "Then we will fight," she said, her voice clear and strong, a defiance in the oppressive silence. "We have held on for so long. We will not go out with a whisper. We will shout our existence, one last time!"
She raised her makeshift weapon. "For those we have lost! For every day stolen from this hell!"
A roar, made of despair and courage, answered her. It was their final song.
Suddenly, the generator died with a final crackle. The reality bubble vanished instantly.
Hell unleashed itself.
The air grew thick, reeking of sulfur and rot. Forms began to materialize, nightmare shapes made of rage and perverse desire. The first daemons, minor entities of Khorne and Slaanesh, rushed the group with piercing shrieks.
Leanor threw herself forward, her rudimentary sword cutting into a gelatinous mass that screamed. It was futile, she knew. But it was better than surrender.
Just as a creature with purple skin and razor-sharp claws was about to slash her throat, a light tore through the Warp.
It was not the chaotic, shifting light of the dimension. It was a cold, silvery, pure light. It pierced the Space Hulk's hull as if it weren't there, illuminating the hold with a divine radiance.
At the center of this light descended a figure. A Valkyrie.
She was beautiful and terrible. Her armor, of immaculate white and gold, fitted a form both graceful and warlike, reminiscent of the Doom Slayer's but with a celestial nobility. A winged helmet hid her face, and in her hands, she held a lance of light. Her wings were not of feathers, but of pure energy.
She landed with supernatural lightness between Leanor and the daemons. With a simple gesture of her lance, she traced a circle of silvery fire on the ground. The daemons that touched it screamed and disintegrated into psychic ashes.
Silence fell, broken only by the whimpers of the repulsed entities.
The Valkyrie turned to Leanor, who stood stunned, still holding her weapon raised. The warrior's helmet dissolved, revealing a face of serene, impassive beauty, with silver eyes.
"Leanor," said the Valkyrie, and her voice was a melody amidst the chaos. "Your struggle has been seen. Your will has been measured. It has been found... worthy."
Leanor was speechless, her eyes wide.
"The time for survival is over," the Valkyrie continued. "The hour of destiny has come. You have held fast against the ocean of madness. Now, come. A place awaits you among the heroes. Come, become an Einherjar."
She extended her hand.
Around them, the other survivors watched, half-terrified, half-awestruck.
Leanor slowly lowered her weapon. She looked at her calloused hands, then at the faces of those she had protected. She understood. This was their salvation. Hers.
"And them?" she asked, her voice hoarse.
"They will be safe. The light will protect them until they are led to a world of peace."
Without further hesitation, Leanor took the Valkyrie's hand.
At the touch, a silvery light enveloped her. Her fatigue, her wounds, the stigmata of her long struggle—all seemed to dissipate. Her tattered clothes were replaced by a gray and white combat suit. She stood taller, stronger.
The Valkyrie raised her lance, and a portal of light opened behind them, revealing the gleaming spires of the Seraphim's city, bathed in the blue and gold sun.
"Behold," murmured the Valkyrie. "Your new home. Your new battlefield."
With one last look at the survivors she was saving, Leanor, the first Einherjar, stepped through the portal with the celestial warrior. The daemon hunter was born. And in the city of Urdak, a new legend began.