Not one amongst them senses the blade at their throat. Archaon and his daemon sorcerers expend their energies upon the corruption of ancient pathways long sealed to the followers of Chaos. The alliance between the gods of Order has been fractured by treachery and mutual distrust. Hysh is mauled, its loathsome light dimmed by the corpse-fires of the Great Necromancer. Once more, the realms echo to the sweet symphony of war and suffering. And so he dwelt in shadow – watching, waiting, weaving webs of intrigue that stretched across the realms, so that when the opportunity arose he could grasp it in his talons and draw blood. With the favour of the Dark Gods behind him, Archaon could not be dethroned. Consumed by bitter jealousy, Be’lakor longed to drive his blade deep into his rival’s throat, to flay the skin from Archaon’s bones and condemn his pathetic soul to oblivion.
It was he who wielded the headsman’s axe, and thus laid claim to the grandest destiny of all. Yet when the legions of the Dark Gods flooded into reality, this honour was granted to another, and Be’lakor was condemned to feast upon the scraps.
He witnessed the wretch-king Sigmar build a golden empire, a gaudy monument to his insufferable hubris, and ached to cast it into ruin. From the shadows, the First Prince watched over the death of one world and the birth of eight others.
Long has Be’lakor waited for this moment.
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