The Tayrathian Purpose
Tayrathi knelt at the altar of her Temple, her blade idle for the first time in years. The whispers of Khaine, once clear and burning in her mind, had faded to silence. Around her, the rites of battle and sacrifice were performed with fervor, but to her, they felt hollow. She had slain champions, razed cities, and drowned altars in the lifeblood of the unworthy—yet purpose had become a stranger.
The other Scáthborn whispered. Tayrathi the Faithless, they called her now. A high priestess without fire. A queen of killers without cause.
One evening, as the sun bled behind serrated peaks, Tayrathi donned her shadow-glass armor. She summoned her war-coven, the Tayrathian Cult — witches, blood-stalkers, and melusai bound by oath and blade.
“We march,” she said, voice low and cold as steel. “We will find purpose where the ground is soaked in enemy blood. If Khaine has turned His gaze from me, I shall carve a path bright enough to catch it again.”
They rode on spiked chariots, glided on wings of shadow, and strode like wraiths through ruined lands. Beastmen fell in screams, chaos warbands were shredded under fang and glaive, and even arrogant stormcast champions tasted the kiss of her twin blades. Each victory brought no peace, only silence.
Until they came to the shattered ruins of an ancient Aelven shrine, desecrated by the servants of Slaanesh. The twisted host awaited them, mocking reflections of Tayrathi’s own kind, beautiful and broken. At their center stood a Keeper of Secrets, its voice honeyed poison.
“Little daughter, still trying to be noticed. Still trying to matter. You belong with us—you always did.”
Tayrathi said nothing. She raised her blades and charged.
The battle raged for hours. Sisters died screaming, serpents coiled and snapped in the blood-mist, and magic howled through the broken spires. Tayrathi fought like a storm made flesh, her eyes burning, her lips silent but for the rhythm of her breath.
When the Keeper finally fell—its heart split by twin blades—Tayrathi stood alone among the dead. Her hands shook, not with weakness, but with something that had returned.
Khaine’s whisper.
A single word.
“Continue.”
Tayrathi wept then, not from sorrow, but from relief. Her purpose was not to find meaning. It was to become it, each act of slaughter a hymn to the god who had never truly left her.
And so she marched again, the Serpent’s Kiss reborn in blood and fire, their leader aflame with divine fury.
The war never ended. But now, at last, it mattered.
