Between Farseer Eldorath Starbane and Autarch Sylael and Prince Yriel and Illic Nightspear as siblings.
The crystalline fringes of Alathriel glimmered like frosted gems against the cold expanse of space. Aeldari architecture, ancient and elegant, spiraled skyward, a silent testament to a civilization that once glistened brighter than the most luminous star. Yet, the world now stood on the precipice of darkness, its beauty marred by the creeping corruption of Chaos that left nothing but ruin and despair in its wake.
In the sanctum of prophecy, Farseer Eldorath Starbane gazed into the ghostly streams of the skein, the currents of time and space that wound like ethereal ribbons around his consciousness. The farseer's eyes, pupil-less and shining with an otherworldly light, reflected scenes of apocalyptic carnage. He witnessed the death cries of stars and the silent screams of countless souls swallowed by the void.
With every vision came a shiver of prescience. They were cries of a future yet unborn, a chorus of despair calling from tomorrow's shadow. And amidst the swirling maelstrom of potentialities, Eldorath beheld an omen darker than the depths of the webway—a black sun rising upon Alathriel, signaling the end of all that the Aeldari held dear.
"Brother!" a voice echoed through the chambers, ethereal and tinged with urgency. It was Illic Nightspear, the ranger who walked paths unseen and unreadable by others. He alone was unfazed by the apparitions that draped around Eldorath, his countenance stoic as the stone sculptures that guarded the halls. "The time is nigh. Your vision, it compels action."
Eldorath nodded, his focus unwavering. "It is as I feared, Illic. The fabric of fate tears apart at the seams, and through the rend emerges a tide of Chaos that threatens to devour us whole. I have seen it—the doom of Alathriel, and it begins with a breach we can no longer ignore. We must act, lest we succumb to the darkness."
Illic inclined his head, understanding the gravity of the farseer's words. "And your sister? What of Autarch Sylael? She must be warned, brought into the fold if we are to stand against this onslaught."
Eldorath's gaze hardened, a flicker of pain igniting in the depths of his eyes. "She must," he admitted, "though the rift between us runs as deep as the chasms of Khaine's own heart. She has not forgiven the past... Nor have I forgotten what led us here—divided, when our people needed us united."
Yet within him, a spark of hope glimmered—a hope that Sylael, proud and fierce, would see beyond their shared history and heed the call for the sake of their kin. For despite their estrangement, the blood of the ancient ones flowed through both their veins, a tie that bound them to a destiny they could never wholly escape, and perhaps in this dire hour, that bond would be the salvation of their people.
"Then we must bridge the chasm, brother," Illic stated with resolute conviction. "For Alathriel, for the Aeldari... And for the future that I have seen in your eyes—a future only possible with her by your side."
Eldorath donned his helm, the wraithbone singing with the echo of prophecies fulfilled and yet to be unraveled. With a final glance at the skein, he stepped away from the harbinger's watch, the future pressing upon him like a blade against the throat of the present.
The farseer and the ranger departed the sanctum, their silhouettes fading into the labyrinthine passageways of the craftworld, their steps a silent vow—a vow to avert the black sun's rise, to confront the chaos within and without, to unite sibling with sibling in defense of a world teetering on the brink of oblivion.