Because the very existence of this human Primarch, Roboute Guilliman, had already far exceeded her expectations, and indeed those of most Aeldari Farseers.
*(This human… is too powerful.)*
In the general view of the Aeldari, humans were nothing more than crude, short-lived “mon-keigh” driven by instinct and emotion.
And a human Primarch was, at best, just a stronger, smarter “ape.”
But the strength, bearing, and incredible abilities Guilliman now displayed could no longer be described with such contemptuous terms.
He could barely even be defined within the category of “human” anymore.
What Yvraine sensed in him was closer to an ancient, pure “divinity.”
A primal force walking the material universe!
Yvraine had originated from the Craftworld Aeldari.
Most Craftworlders possessed an almost bone-deep arrogance.
They viewed themselves as the rightful heirs of Aeldari civilization.
Believing they should dwell in the most beautiful, harmonious Maiden Worlds of the galaxy, looking down on other “lesser” races.
But Yvraine was different from her kin.
Perhaps this was precisely why she had found favor with the Aeldari God of Death, Ynnead.
While she certainly possessed the pride of her race, she never believed herself or her people to be so uniquely superior.
For the Drukhari—the Dark Aeldari who lived in the shadows of Commorragh, despised by most Craftworlders—Yvraine held a rare understanding.
She understood that the Drukhari were not born depraved; their path of relying on the torment of others to sustain their lives and souls was born of necessity.
It was a desperate struggle to survive under the eternal threat of Slaanesh’s endless hunger.
The Craftworld Aeldari avoided direct consumption thanks to the protective infinity circuits of their craftworlds and the aegis of the shards of Khaine.
But the Drukhari were vast in number, scattered across many realms, and could not benefit from such defenses.
*It is merely a different way of surviving,* she thought, her heart touched with pity rather than disdain.
Known as a warmonger and a rebel among the Craftworlders, she had even ventured alone into the Drukhari capital of Commorragh, becoming a gladiator in its brutal arenas.
There, she had fought Lelith Hesperax, the gladiatorial queen who had lived for thousands of years.
They had bonded through combat, ultimately becoming close friends despite the deep divide between their factions.
It was these rich and unorthodox experiences that had broadened her horizons.
Though the Aeldari Farseers had warned her that she could engage in limited cooperation with the Imperium of Man, she must never go too deep, for “humans, in the end, are but uncivilized mon-keigh.” Enjoying the story? Read on at novelping(.)com.
Yet at this moment, Yvraine felt that the Farseers’ judgment might need an update.
*Humans may indeed be mon-keigh…
but from among these beasts, a “god” has actually walked forth?*
She knew she would forever remember the magnificent sight of Guilliman’s awakening:
Rising from his throne of ten thousand years, taking on a Thunderhawk gunship with his bare flesh, ripping that iron colossus apart like a mere toy…
This was not a power a mortal or even a demigod could ever hope to reach.
This was a miracle that only a true god could perform!
In Guilliman, Yvraine saw an unprecedented glimmer of hope.
A partner so powerful, so radiant, yet unexpectedly open-minded—and even possessing a wild, untamed streak.
If she could forge a deeper alliance with him, this human Primarch would be a monumental asset in her quest to lead the Aeldari toward rebirth!
Furthermore, Yvraine knew that a collaboration between her and this human Primarch was absolutely viable.
His gaze did not hold the hatred and fear of “xenos witches” so common among Imperial citizens.
Instead, it held a level-headed appraisal and a strange kind of respect.
His gentlemanly demeanor even surpassed that of most Aeldari male warriors, whom she found somewhat effeminate.
In truth, the physical differences between male and female Aeldari were not particularly pronounced.
As a result, Aeldari females rarely felt that…
overwhelming, primal, aggressive masculine aura.
If Aeldari males were delicate works of art lacking in raw masculinity, then Guilliman was a walking, primal god of war, practically radiating explosive masculine hormones!
This stark contrast couldn’t help but ignite a deep, unprecedented interest in Yvraine.
*Come to think of it…
I have never had a partner.*
The thought quietly drifted to the surface. Get faster updates on g.com.
The primary reason, of course, was her own formidable strength and exceptionally high standards.
Few males of her craftworld, or any other Aeldari faction, could ever stand on equal footing with her in terms of power.
But as for Guilliman…
she could not even muster the slightest desire to challenge him.
That would simply be begging for humiliation.
The man could likely swat her flat with a single slap, and not even the Death God Ynnead himself could stop him.
Therefore, she decided to stay.
She wanted to see exactly how this norm-shattering Primarch would act next, and what kind of variables he would introduce to this dark Imperium of Man.
In any case, there was still a month and a half left before her scheduled departure.
She had plenty of time to delve deeper into this enigmatic human.
This “god” who had, for the very first time, stirred a ripple in the otherwise tranquil depths of her heart.
Just then, a heavy *knock, knock, knock* sounded at her door—deep and powerful, as if vibrating the very foundations of the room.
Even through the thick doors, Yvraine could clearly feel that vast, star-hot presence waiting outside.
A slight smile curved her lips, and her voice rang out as clear and melodious as a morning lark:
“Come in.”
The door was pushed open by a massive hand, revealing Guilliman’s towering frame.
Today, he was uncharacteristically without his imposing Armor of Fate, having changed instead into loose, Macragge-style civilian robes.
Even so, his majestic three-meter-tall physique still carried an immense presence within the ornately decorated room, like a walking mountain.
“Good morning, Lady Yvraine,” Guilliman said, his voice deep and warm, carrying a hint of morning rasp.
“Have you found your stay on Macragge comfortable?”
“I am faring very well, esteemed Primarch of humanity,” Yvraine replied, stepping down gracefully from her bed.
She had only been wearing her close-fitting undergarments, but with complete unconcern, she picked up a sheer silk nightgown and slipped it on, her movements fluid and natural.
To a warrior who had once fought tooth and nail in the gladiatorial arenas of Commorragh clad in barely a few scraps of cloth, this level of exposure was hardly enough to evoke any sense of modesty.
She even sat down elegantly on the edge of the bed right in front of Guilliman, leisurely sliding on a pair of finely crafted stockings.