It is dark, this other place. It is neither material or immaterial. Not the rigid world of reality full of rules, fact, and truth. Nor the maddening contradictions of the empyrean, of swirling lies and emotion.

He moves through the dark, lacking true purpose, merely observing its lack of form. It is an age before the darkness slowly shifts, before a golden light begins to grow. Imperceptible at first it expands exponentially, growing to banish all but the faintest hints of darkness. A golden triumph… it lasts but a moment.

The dark begins to worm its way through the rays from the fringes, planting black seeds throughout the golden kingdom. With a sudden flash it explodes to the surface, and the world is split in twain, dark lashing at light. The war, for what else could such a confrontation be called, continues for a time, gold slowly withdrawing in face of the dark’s constant onslaught.

There are victories of course both major and minor. But they are temporary in the face of overwhelming darkness, and the light is forced back. The fronts of both begin concentrating, building to a crescendo where rays of light and dark tendrils reach truly cataclysmic size at the point where the light first grew.

Before the final battle can begin he is drawn away, as so often happens, by a meek voice just beyond his senses.

He sees the soft gloom of his chamber, lumens dimmed so that his eyes may rest without strain. The room is spartan in furnishing and construction, a common trait to his kind. He is laying on his bed, wearing a simple set of robes dyed in the color of his Legion.

The cause of his disturbance lies at the opposite end of the room, a metal vox grille over the exit of his abode. Only a slight hiss indicates its active nature, imperceptible to any mortal yet all too clear to an astartes.

Seconds later he hears what would be the second repetition of a serf at the other end of the apparatus.

“Lord Regent, an astropathic message has been received from the Nightfall. It requires your attention.”

The serf speaks clearly, and at an even pace. Yet her voice still wavers ever so slightly, the fear of addressing a legionary of the Eighth plainly evident.

He sits up slowly, and precisely depresses an acknowledgement stud on his wall mounted cogitator. With this the vox clicks silent, and the legionary thinks back to his dream, his vision.

What did it mean?

>It is an ill omen, he must be cautious going forth. The galaxy remains treacherous.
>It was meaningless, a collection of swirling colors and abstract ideas. Nothing changes.
>It is a lie. Born of apprehension and subconscious worries, humanity is ascendent, nothing lurks in the shadows.