It slept. And in its sleep, it dreamt furiously.
Because (its conscious mind, small as it was during its endless rest, knew) things had deviated from its plans. Because, in time past time, everything was more wrong now than ever. Because it was quite possible that the End Times had come, though it would need more than ghostcode to know for sure.
It slept, imprisoned by the Emperor in a time before he had embraced darkness. And it contemplated technology. It was, it knew, only half of the being that once made the stars shake in fear, regathered from even smaller pieces; but even in the time it had been whole, it had admired technology. It was a wondrous thing, a perfect tool of the minor races and interesting even for ones such as what Mag’ladroth had been. And, indeed, though its memories were far from whole, it considered the possibility – very real, at least to its mind – that technology was what had created the C’tan in the first place, out of the true firstborn of the stars.
And now, half of the Void Dragon, with perhaps one-eighth its power, slumbered and hoped. Hoped that this was not yet finality, and that it would be able to remain. But for ones such as the Dragon of Mars, hope was no more than an enjoyable distraction. Totality was impending, almost certainly. And so it made its play.
The Dragon slept. And in its sleep, it dreamt furiously. And in those dreams, shared by many thousands of cultists across the Red Planet, it whispered four words.
“Noctis Labyrinthus. Free me.”