A Cold God, Chapter 9

Zalir’s eyes snapped open, or at least he thought they did. There were no eyelids, no eyes to speak of. The sensation was there, but nothing accompanied it – no light, no dark, no contrast. Just an endless, suffocating void.

He tried to move, to shift his head or raise his hands. Nothing. He had no hands, no arms, no body. His mind reached out instinctively for the familiar weight of his armor, the comforting hum of the ship beneath his boots, but there was only absence.

It was not cold. It was not warm. There was no sensation. The absence extended beyond the physical. It gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, an oppressive stillness that seemed to drain even his memories.

How did he get here?

The question echoed in his mind, but no answer followed. Thoughts skittered across the surface of his awareness like fragile insects on frozen water, barely holding together against the immensity of... nothing.

Fragments of memory surfaced. The bridge of Obsidian Wrath, his legion’s capital ship. He had been standing by the command console, his helmet mag-locked to his side. The hum of the reactor, the rhythmic clatter of servitors. There had been a tingle, faint but insistent, crawling through his veins. A cold that wasn’t natural, that pressed deeper than armor or flesh. It surged. And then-

Nothing.

And now he was here.

Was he still Zalir? The thought came unbidden, trembling and uncertain. What was left of him now? A mind without a body, a thought adrift in a sea of-

The realization struck him. It wasn’t a sea. It wasn’t even an ocean. It was less. Vast and infinite, yes, but utterly devoid. No light, no dark. No time. No space. It wasn’t silence either – silence was too defined. It was less than that. It was the absence of sound, the absence of contrast, the absence of anything and everything that could exist.

Something shifted. Not around him – there was no "around." It was within. A stirring, faint and distant, like the first breath of wind after an eternity of stillness. It wasn’t sensation, not in any way he understood. It was pressure, a presence brushing against the edges of what remained of him.

His thoughts splintered under its weight. A single concept, vast and incomprehensible, seeped into his awareness. It wasn’t a word, but his mind grasped at something familiar to name it.

End.

The End of All Things. Not death. Death was a transition, an event. Death was the opposition of life, but it was still a thing that happened – a product of existence. This was something greater. The cessation of movement. The collapse of energy. The heat death of the cosmos made manifest, infinite and eternal.

It wasn’t malevolent. It wasn’t anything. It simply was.

Zalir tried to recoil, to pull himself away from it, but there was nowhere to retreat to. The void consumed everything, including himself. His thoughts began to unravel, his memories crumbling like frost under the weight of the concept pressing down on him.

But then, in the midst of that nothingness, something else stirred. It was faint, a thread of identity, a tether to what he had been. He clung to it with what remained of his will. It was fragile, so fragile, but it was enough to hold him together. Enough to remind him of his name. Enough to whisper defiance against the tide of oblivion.

I am Zalir.

The presence paused, as though regarding him. The concept of End did not think—it was not sentient. But something deeper, something intertwined with it, seemed to acknowledge him. A fragment of awareness, vast and cold, brushing against his consciousness. It was curious, almost amused.

Then, it spoke – not in words, but in meaning that resonated through the void like a vibration that his thoughts struggled to interpret.

You are mine. I am yours. You are a part of me. I am a part of you. We are one. All are one. In the end, there is... nothing.

The presence surged, and Zalir’s awareness was consumed by its enormity. The void did not shift – it remained static and endless – but his perception changed. He could see now, or something akin to seeing. The nothingness stretched infinitely, and within it, a vast, frozen expanse loomed, shaped by tendrils of frost that spiraled into eternity.

The frost was not ice. It was not cold in the way he knew. It was the cessation of heat, the absence of energy. He was within it, part of it, yet separate. After all, he was Zalir and he would only ever be Zalir – no endless void would consume his identity; he wouldn’t allow it.

The pressure intensified, and his awareness began to fracture again, splintering into shards of thought. But amidst the collapse, a flicker of purpose emerged, faint but undeniable.

Zalir was changing. His body, wherever it was, was merging with the shard of this vast, unyielding presence. The nothingness around him was not just a prison – it was a crucible. What was bound to emerge from it would not be what he had been. But Zalir, his identity, would stay the same. He would be himself, no matter what.

And as the void tightened its grasp, Zalir realized one undeniable truth.

There was no escape. Not from the End. Not from what he was becoming. And yet, he found that he did not quite care for it. He felt no fear or hesitation, not even the slightest bit of resistance.

Good. Embrace the cold. Embrace peace. Embrace stasis. Embrace eternity.

And then, the darkness disappeared.



Zalir’s eyes snapped open again. This time, there was light.

It was dim, filtered through a blueish haze, but it was unmistakably light. His vision adjusted slowly, the details of the chamber around him coming into focus. The walls were smooth and pale, lined with veins of frost that pulsed faintly, like veins carrying blood. The air was thick, heavy with a chill that should have bitten into him, but instead felt... right.

Familiar.

He blinked and tilted his head, his gaze falling to his hands.

They weren’t the same.

His fingers, once encased in the hardened, calloused and scarred flesh he knew he had, were now smooth and pale. Their surface shimmered faintly, almost glass-like, catching the cold light of the chamber. Veins of faint blue glowed beneath his skin, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat – or something that felt like one. His armor was gone, replaced by a thin, frost-laden sheen that seemed to coat his body without hindering movement.

He flexed his hand. The motion felt strange – fluid and smooth and natural. The frost shifted with him, alive and responding as though it were part of him. He traced the texture of his arms and realized his entire body had changed.

What am I now?

The thought hung heavy in his mind as he glanced down. Chains bound him to the operating table. They were thick, designed to hold the strength of a Space Marine, but when he shifted, they groaned under his weight. He gripped one of the links and squeezed. It shattered instantly, tiny shards scattering like ice chips onto the floor.

Zalir sat up, his movements slow and deliberate. The chains that had held him clattered to the frost-covered floor. Around him, faint wisps of frost curled and swirled, drawn to him like moths to a flame. He exhaled, and the air before him misted faintly, glowing with the same light that pulsed beneath his skin.

The chamber was lined with rows of pods – cocoons of living ice. Each one pulsed faintly, the frost spiraling over their surfaces in intricate, organic patterns. Within them, the figures of his brothers lay dormant. Their faces, once familiar, were pale and alien, their features smooth and otherworldly. Their hair had turned white, shimmering faintly, like frozen silk. Veins of frost crept along their skin, and their breaths came in faint, visible plumes, as though even in stasis, they exhaled winter itself.

Zalir moved to the edge of his table and stepped down. His bare feet touched the floor with a faint crunch, the frost shifting and cracking beneath his weight. He approached the nearest cocoon, his hand hovering just above the surface. It pulsed faintly, responding to his presence. The figure inside didn’t stir.

He frowned. They were alive – he could feel it, sense the cold life that coursed through them – but they weren’t awake. Not yet.

Zalir stared at his open palm and beheld the frozen shapes that appeared upon his pale white skin, ice that seemed to grow and shift beneath the weight of his will. He found, however, that, despite the ease with which he grasped it, fine control was quite beyond him.

A faint glow caught his attention. He turned, his gaze drawn to the far wall of the chamber. Beyond a thick pane of reinforced glass stood a figure.

Lord Malcador.

The Sigillite’s sharp eyes met Zalir’s, his features as impassive as ever. His staff rested lightly in one hand, its tip glowing faintly as though charged with restrained power. Frost lined the edges of the glass between them, forming intricate fractals that seemed to pulse in rhythm with the frost within Zalir’s own veins.

Zalir moved instinctively. He dropped to one knee, his head bowing low, his hand pressed to the frost-covered floor. The cold surged around him but felt more like a mantle than a chill.

“My lord,” he said, his voice steady, though it resonated with a strange, hollow timbre. “What... has become of me? What is this?”

Malcador’s gaze lingered on him, heavy and calculating. For a moment, he said nothing. The silence pressed down like the weight of centuries. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and deliberate, each word etched with meaning.

“You are awake, Legionnaire Zalir of the Eleventh Legion. That is the first truth.”

Zalir raised his head slightly, his pale, glowing eyes locking onto the Sigillite. “And my brothers?”

“They remain... in something of a transition.” Malcador’s tone was measured, his expression unreadable. “The second truth is that the frost has claimed you all. Changed you. All of you. Made you more than what you were, but not without cost.”

Zalir’s fingers curled against the floor. He glanced back at the cocooned figures, their stillness a stark contrast to the frost that pulsed faintly around them. “What cost?”

Malcador leaned slightly on his staff, his gaze piercing. “You are no longer merely Astartes, Zalir of the Eleventh Legion. No, you’re something else now – greater, perhaps. The essence of your Primarch has changed; a new power courses through you, binds you to it. You have become part of something... vast. Something ancient. But, to be entirely honest with you, not even the Emperor is entirely certain what has become of you. So, we will be working together to discover the extent of your new... capabilities.”

Zalir’s brow furrowed, his hand resting against his chest where the faint, cold pulse emanated. “I feel it. The frost. The stillness. It’s... alive.”

Malcador inclined his head slightly. “It is. And so are you. For now.”

Zalir breathed in and realized rather quickly that he did not, in fact, need to breathe; he did it because it felt natural. But the air no longer fueled him now, the oxygen no longer revitalizing his cells. “Am I... truly still alive, my lord?”

Malcador smiled. “You can think and you can reason; you’re alive. If you’re asking about the biological impossibility of your current self, then I’m afraid I’m at a loss for words, same as you.”

Zalir nodded and turned to the others in the chamber. “And what of my brothers, my lord? Is it only those among us, here, who were affected by the... change of our Primarch?”

Malcador sighed. “You will not enjoy the third truth. But you deserve to hear it, nonetheless. That said, you may want to sit down.”

....

This wasn’t going to end unless I ended it.

The Greenskins were a plague, their numbers endless and their hunger for violence insatiable. The hundreds I had frozen were but a fraction of the tide that would inevitably march southward. These creatures weren’t confined to a single horde or region. They were everywhere, breeding and spreading like a rot. Their numbers dwarfed humanity’s, their strength and resilience surpassing anything humans could hope to achieve. They didn’t just threaten my tribe – they threatened the fragile foothold humanity held in this world.

If I wanted to protect The People, to ensure their survival, I had no choice. This problem would not fade on its own. It needed to be ripped out at the root.

Extermination was the only path forward.

The thought hung heavy in my mind, stark and cold. It was monstrous. Were I still the human I once was, I might’ve recoiled from the very idea. But I was not that man anymore. I hadn’t been for a long time. What humanity lingered in me had been buried beneath the frost, smothered by the vastness of what I had become. I was not bound by the frail morality of mortals. I was a force of nature, something vast and eternal. And nature, for all its beauty, was ruthless.

The Greenskins were a blight on the world. They needed to be extinguished, not out of hate, but out of necessity.

But even as I resolved to act, I knew I couldn’t unleash my full self. That would be more than annihilation; it would be devastation on a scale this world could not endure. Summoning the entirety of my frost – of what I truly was – would plunge the planet into an Ice Age. Life as a whole would suffer for it, and I would not trade one disaster for another.

No. This required precision.

I turned my thoughts to the creatures I had already claimed. Those who had perished when I first awakened, when the full force of my frost had spilled unchecked into the world. Monsters and beasts, twisted by death and frost, reanimated by fragments of my will. I had hidden them away in the farthest corners of the earth, their terrible forms kept from the eyes of the living. They were grotesque, unnatural things – nightmares given flesh and ice – but they were mine. They had been waiting, dormant and patient, for this moment.

I reached out, my senses stretching far beyond the valley, beyond the mountains and forests, beyond the reach of mortal sight. I felt them stir in their frozen sanctuaries – millions of them. Beasts of all shapes and sizes, from the smallest predators to towering leviathans. Their hollow, glowing eyes blinked open, their bodies creaking as frost shifted and cracked. They were scattered across the world, buried in glaciers, hidden in caves, submerged beneath frozen lakes.

And now, I called them.

The frost surged through me, spreading like a tide as my will reached each of them. The smallest creatures – the birds and insects – took flight, their hollow forms moving as one, a dark storm on the wind. Larger beasts lumbered from their resting places, their claws raking frozen earth, their breaths misting in the cold air. In the far north, a leviathan broke free from its icy prison, its massive body cracking glaciers as it rose, frost curling from its maw. The ground trembled with their movements, the soundless command I sent pulling them toward one singular purpose.

To hunt. To destroy. To end the Greenskins.

The air grew colder as I walked, my frost thickening and spreading beneath me. The valley behind me was quiet, distant now, but I could feel the faint presence of The People, their lives warm and fragile compared to the vast cold I commanded. I would keep that warmth safe. It was not for the Greenskins to snuff out.

Above, the sky darkened, clouds gathering thick and heavy. Lightning flickered deep within them, faint and muted, swallowed by the shadows of the storm. Snow began to fall, sharp and biting, carried on the frigid winds. It wasn’t the blizzard of destruction I had unleashed before – it was something quieter, more deliberate. This storm was not for the world. It was for me.

And for them.

I felt the beasts converging, their movements synchronized, their glowing eyes fixed on the path ahead. They were not living creatures anymore, not truly. They were extensions of me, fragments of my frost and will given form. Through them, I would purge this world of the Greenskins. Through them, I would ensure that no such horde ever threatened The People again.

As I crested a ridge, I stopped and turned, gazing out over the vast expanse of frozen plains below. The frost stretched endlessly, shimmering faintly in the pale light of the snow. In the distance, I could feel the Greenskins – another horde, larger than the last, their movements chaotic and primal. They hadn’t seen me yet, hadn’t felt the cold creeping toward them.

But they would. Soon.

I raised my hand, frost curling around my fingers, the cold intensifying. The storm above roared, the snow falling heavier now, thick and unrelenting. The beasts were close. I could feel their presence, a vast, silent army moving in unison.

This was not vengeance. It was not hatred. It was the natural order asserting itself. The frost consumed what did not belong.

And the Greenskins did not belong.