This was not that Commorragh.
The "Isles of the Moon," the "Isles of Spice," the four pearls of the western Indian Ocean—such poetic names had nothing whatsoever to do with this impossible, multidimensional port-city of the Webway.
In fact, it was quite the opposite.
Deep within the Webway, Commorragh inspired terror in uncountable beings. A nightmare realm, a city of blackened hell.
Some, however, called it paradise.
For here, there were no laws, no codes, no conventions of society.
In this city, one need only abide by a few secret accords agreed upon by the high and mighty Archons behind closed doors. Do that, and you could move freely through this 'dreamlike' metropolis, trading and acquiring anything your imagination could conjure.
Of course, that freedom came with a price—an exceptionally high one.
In every sense of the word—capital.
Oh, and one more thing: if you planned to 'enjoy' this ancient city—perhaps the best-preserved remnant of the Aeldari civilization—you'd best spend a little more to learn where exactly your ship was docking, which orbital district of Commorragh it belonged to, and which Dark Eldar kabal oversaw that particular sector, along with their 'special little customs.'
After all, the moral integrity of the Drukhari was... well-known.
Backstabbing, betrayal, assassination, and poisoning were as common here as prayer to the rotting corpse upon the Golden Throne was among the humans of the Imperium—or as the Orks' daily WAAAGH!
If you landed in the wrong port, under the authority of a rival kabal, and presented the wrong credentials—well, that would likely mark the end of your journey to Commorragh... and of your life.
According to incomplete estimates, at least half of all travelers arriving in Commorragh's orbiting convoys did so as cargo or slaves.
When a people name their basic social unit a kabal—a conspiracy—you can imagine what passes for their moral code. A kabal was, at its core, a star-spanning criminal syndicate.
Their range of power, however, varied immensely.
Some were nothing more than a handful of gun-toting Drukhari thugs declaring themselves a new 'kabal.' Others, vast, ancient dynasties of terror, could launch full-scale assaults upon Craftworld Aeldari, plunder entire sectors of the Imperium, or annihilate multiple Space Marine Chapters recorded in the Codex Astartes.
From time to time, the kabals' slave-fleets would depart Commorragh to 'restock their inventory.'
These maniacs—sadists, psychopaths, murderers, and paranoiacs—were utterly unpredictable.
For them, boredom, business shortages, domestic inconvenience—or simply curiosity toward something happening elsewhere in the galaxy—were all reasons enough to strike.
The Drukhari mockingly referred to these periodic outings as 'slave raids.'
Departing from Commorragh, they would use their incomprehensible Webway technology to connect to countless portals across the material universe, unleashing interstellar slaving expeditions. Across the galaxy they spread their twisted genius, committing atrocities so elaborate they could almost be called works of art.
Their captives could be humans, Tau, Squats, Orks, or any number of other intelligent species within the galaxy. Even Chaos cultists, Chaos Space Marines, or their own Aeldari kin—Craftworlders, Exodites—were not spared.
Their fates were almost always grim: to be tortured to death as ingredients in the Drukhari's grotesque soul elixirs.
"...The Aeldari."
Countless memories of agony and shattered souls surged into the mind of the crimson, gold-armored giant—screaming, wailing.
Scenes built from horror, madness, and cruelty flooded his consciousness. He could only sigh in grief and pity as he gazed upon the group of Drukhari raiders before him—void of will, their eyes empty and lifeless.
They wore black, layered armor like the night itself, adorned with cruel spikes and segmented plating. Some wore nothing but revealing leather harnesses—bare, pallid skin gleaming corpse-white under the flickering light.
Structurally, they resembled humans: a torso, two arms, two legs, a head upon their shoulders—but taller, leaner, more graceful. On average, they stood two meters in height, their limbs long and slender.
Their almond-shaped eyes and pointed ears would have been considered handsome by human standards—possessing a sort of exotic allure, not unlike the elven races within the Sacred Selene Empire.
Yet their heavy makeup, tattooed flesh, and shamelessly debauched appearance rendered them utterly fallen. They looked less like soldiers and more like rabble—a mob of bandits devoid of discipline or dignity. Fitting, truly, for Commorragh.
Some kabals within the Dark Eldar hierarchy might indeed possess elite forces, but these were not among them.
They were simply the unlucky fools who had crossed paths with the invading fleets of the Sacred Selene Empire's Midnight Lords Legion and the Thousand Sons Legion during their punitive expedition into the Aeldari Webway.
According to the results of the soul-probe, these raiders were nothing remarkable—an average kabal, neither weak nor powerful. A band of lunatic hyenas, drunk on stimulants and narcotics, who had wandered to the edge of the Webway, seeking 'fun' while the apes of the Imperium and the dogs of Chaos tore at each other in realspace.
"Oh... what a shameful, pitiful, and detestable breed of degenerate xenos."
Honkai Energy tendrils rippled at the crimson giant's fingertips, slipping deftly through the aliens' seven orifices—ears, eyes, nose, and mouth. Magnus' eyes flared with searing violet-red lightning.
"My brother, I see now why Her Majesty entrusted you with the task of purging the Drukhari infesting the depths of the Webway."
Even from the memories of such small fry, the sheer variety of torture techniques astonished Magnus. To them, cruelty was not a tool or method—it was a way of life.
Every day, these pale weeds found time to torture and kill a few slaves for entertainment, provided they had the means.
Magnus suddenly found himself feeling that the inquisitors, interrogators, and executioners of the Selene Empire's judiciary, the Inquisition, and the assassin corps were positively benevolent by comparison. Even the quartermasters of the Imperial Foundries seemed kindhearted next to these sadistic lunatics.
From what he saw within their memories, their arrogance was boundless—ingrained deep within their very souls. They viewed all other intelligent life in the galaxy as primitive apes, existing solely as prey for their amusement.
Though their ancient glory had long since perished in self-indulgence and decadence, their pride remained unbroken—indeed, it had only grown more intense and extreme.
Suppressing an indescribable disgust, Magnus extended his psychic reach deeper into the threads of the raiders' souls and minds—
"Two names: the Archon of Commorragh, head of the most powerful political and military cabal—the Kabal of the Black Heart—Asdrubael Vect. And the Archon of the Kabal of the Poisoned Tongue, one of Commorragh's most influential rulers—Lady Aurelia Malys."
Having obtained the information he sought, Magnus raised his clawed hand—his Horned Raiment armor gleaming—and clenched it in the air above the kneeling Drukhari warrior.
Crack!
Already brain-dead and bleeding from every orifice after the violent soul-search, the xenos' body burst apart in an instant.
With exquisite precision of Honkai Energy Manipulation, Magnus directed the fragments of the alien's flesh and blood into the nearby disposal valve—without spilling a single drop upon the deck. The recycling conduits would carry the warped remains into the ship's secondary plasma intake chamber, where the roaring plasma fires would purify all.
"Confirmed? Only two?"
Standing before the vast, arched viewport, Konrad Curze did not turn. His cold, obsidian eyes reflected the sprawling nightmare of black thorns—the city of Commorragh.
The origins of this place stretched back to the height of the Aeldari Empire. It had never been merely a single city. Even the largest metropolises of the material universe were but ant-hills compared to this towering high-dimensional construct.
No one truly knew how many beings dwelled within Commorragh. It was less a single city than a vast amalgamation of satellite districts and arcologies, linked by countless portals and passages throughout the Webway.
Commorragh was not a single city, but a vast collection of loosely connected stations—tumorous nodes clinging to the arteries of the Webway. Though separated by thousands of light-years in realspace, the short routes between them within the Webway made these distant outposts seem neighbors.
Now, through the rift in the Warp torn open by Selene, Konrad Curze had led his Legion into the domain of the Dark Eldar upon receiving her command.
Before Curze stretched a satellite-sized fortress—one of Commorragh's innumerable orbital bastions.
In orbit, massive U-shaped docks were filled not only with hundreds of armed merchant vessels but, more prominently, with Dark Eldar raiders shaped like enormous serrated daggers thrust toward the void.
All of them now lay burning. Charred wreckage of black steel mingled with sizzling flesh and oozing fluids. The screams of energy weapons igniting the towering, thorn-like skyscrapers of this xenos world turned the skyline into an inferno.
Gunships and destroyers swarmed through the flaming city. In the streets below, the sounds of chainswords and lightning claws tearing through steel and alien flesh reverberated in the smoke-filled air.
"See for yourself. This Lady Malys of the Kabal of the Poisoned Tongue was once consort to Asdrubael Vect, King of Commorragh—at least, once."
Standing beside the Lord of Midnight, the crimson face of Magnus the Red reflected the searing glare of plasma fire. Nodding, he lifted his ornate, horned helm and conjured a shard of crystalline data in his palm.
"She is our most likely target."
"At that time, the xeno lord Vect sought to weaken the smaller kabals. He devised a wicked contest—offering great rewards and territorial claims across Commorragh's docks and districts to whichever cabal could successfully poison the entire Imperium of Man... and bring proof."
"Heh... I almost admire this 'Vect,'" Curze rasped with a low, humorless laugh. His black eyes, alight only when executing Selene's will, fixed upon Magnus as he accepted the memory crystal.
"The Drukhari—they've revealed much. Their existence exposes my Legion's weaknesses. Let their bones forge the name of Midnight."
"My brother," Magnus cautioned, "do not go too far. Her Majesty values restraint. Be cruel—but not heretical."
"I know my limits."
Shrugging, Magnus lowered his hand and continued, "The winner of that vile contest was Lady Malys herself. It's well known among the Drukhari. The memories of the kabal leaders we destroyed—and even these minor raiders—all align."
"Because of it, her Kabal of the Poisoned Tongue rose to dominance. Many here imitate her methods—hoping to carve their own trophies from Imperial flesh."
"Sage," Magnus said, turning toward the Tech-Priest who had volunteered to accompany them, "trace Malys' activity logs and cross-reference the time frame with recent STC records."
At his gesture, another crystalline shard materialized between his fingers. "Compare this data with the Mechanicus archives. Check for any match."
"As you command."
The red-robed Magos lowered his rare hololithic dataslate and took the crystal. Behind him, a floating servo-skull withdrew from its sanctified cage and presented a leather-bound tome—the embossed sigil of a crimson skull upon its cover.
Crushing the crystal, the Magos allowed the violet-red data fluid to flow through his mechadendrites. After a moment's computation, he rapidly inscribed sacred code-cant across the tome's metal-bound pages.
"I've found it—the Panacea War."
His mechanical voice quivered through the vox-amplifier, barely restraining fury. Red light flared within his telescopic ocular lenses, and his metal jaws clamped audibly as he spoke.
"It was a disgrace—an Imperial disgrace, a Mechanicus disgrace, a blasphemy against the Omnissiah's miracles! On the Forge World Verdigris IX, we discovered a complete STC fragment from the Dark Age of Technology—'Panacea.'"
"It was to be the Omnissiah's miracle made manifest—a triumph of genetic medicine, capable of curing and immunizing against all disease, freeing billions of mankind from poison and plague forever!"
His voice trembled with restrained rage. "But the Ork invasion fleet destroyed that hope. By sheer coincidence, just as we unearthed it, the greenskin meks descended upon Verdigris IX, stealing the relic."
"Though the Holy Orders eventually annihilated the Orks, the Panacea STC vanished. We scoured the world, but found nothing. Only later did we learn the truth—the Drukhari had stolen it! The Orks were merely their decoys to distract the Mechanicus!"
"Malys—it was her! Everything fits! That wretched xeno took the Panacea STC! Lord Primarch, you—"
"Enough. Confirmation is sufficient." Curze's cold voice cut through the Magos' fury. "The Kabal of the Poisoned Tongue—according to these raiders' memories, their stronghold lies within Commorragh's central district. Their slave ports and fortress-orbitals are along our attack vector."
He pressed a gloved finger onto the holographic starmap.
"Order the fleet to prepare Exterminatus-class armaments for these marked sectors."
No emotion stirred upon his face.
"Command: the Eleventh Grand Battalion, Triarch Three-One, is granted the honor of launching the first assault. Leave some survivors."
"Use their own methods. On their bodies, in their souls—let them remember Midnight."
"Tell them... their world shall burn in death, despair, and crimson war."
"Tell them their decay, their pride, their false hope—all shall be ash."
"Tell them—the Empress' Apostle of Finality has arrived."
"Tell them—Midnight has come."
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