This was a massacre.
At the edge of the void, perhaps the fires of war were already encroaching. Yet in the grotesque, twisted heart of the dark city, the Trueborn nobles of the Aeldari should have been gleefully performing their daily ritual of harvesting the necessary quota of tormented souls.
Commorragh was, after all, such an absurd place.
The Trueborn scions clad in Ghostplate Armour stood armored in hardened resin—comparable to the Imperium's finest Terminator armor—layered further with miniature flicker-fields. With such dual protection, they would use enslaved humans, apes, and other lesser life forms as living whetstones to hone their elegant, cruel blades.
The young noble heirs of the Dark Eldar—some stern-faced, others mocking—indulged in their learned arts of refined cruelty, competing to see whose cuts were more graceful, whose victims screamed louder.
When the slaves were finally butchered, the victors among them would raise their voices high, boasting of their destined rise to become new Archons of the Kabal, or of forming grander slave-hunting parties that would scour the galaxy for the strongest prey.
Between these arrogant proclamations, their gazes would drift to the noblewomen seated upon the high balconies of the dueling arenas—ladies of the Aeldari nobility who leaned upon the railing, watching with faint smiles and laughter.
In the midst of their songs and laughter, younger Trueborn children watched their elder siblings with wide, fascinated eyes. Amid playful rivalry, they too would, under the guidance of their servants, sip upon the tortured souls of the dying slaves to nourish their budding strength.
This, among the many vicious customs of Commorragh, was one of its few unspoken rules:
Within a noble family, among children, murder was forbidden.
After all, the purity of Trueborn bloodlines must be preserved—must it not?
At least, for now. Unless your methods were subtle enough.
Of course, this courtesy applied only to the Trueborn nobles.
Halfborn commoners? No one cared for them.
High above the viewing stands, the elder Archons of the Kabals reclined upon their thrones—furnished grotesquely with flayed skin and the bones of slain rivals. Sipping the intoxicating essence of suffering souls, they looked down with cold disdain, making haughty remarks about their children's petty games.
Even in Commorragh, where family ties were faint and fleeting, to bear Trueborn descendants—rather than cloned Halfborn replacements—was a rare treasure indeed. (Aeldari reproduction, after all, was notoriously inefficient; it could take several Terran years of constant "effort," sometimes even a decade.)
Farther away, through the arched bridges and towering buttresses linking the colossal black spires, countless chosen slaves were being trained and conditioned by the Haemonculi advisors of the Kabals.
When pain and despair fully saturated their souls—that was when they were ready for consumption.
Clatter! Chains with hooked barbs rattled quietly, their echoes mixing with the deafening roars that followed. Beneath the eternal shadow of the Black Sun, countless suns suddenly blazed within Commorragh.
Outraged shouts erupted among the arrogant Trueborns, their sneers sharp with contempt for the "arrogant apes" who dared to rebel. Yet before another word could be uttered, a dying human slave suddenly slipped free from his chains.
Thud, thud, thud—
Heavy magnetic boots struck the obsidian floor in perfect rhythm, sending blue sparks scattering within the dark interior of the towering spire.
The Haemonculus advisor—its flesh a mass of five or six twisted limbs, bristling with surgical blades, venom injectors, scissor-hands, and nerve-flaying whips—froze mid-motion.
Ssst—
Thin crimson lines surfaced upon its shriveled neck. The elongated head slid sideways, rolling to the floor, while the creature's reinforced heart pumped chemical-laced blood ten meters high before the headless body fell.
The roar of chainswords. The crackle of disruption fields. The hum of charging plasma coils.
From beneath the dangling chains, the shadows rippled.
Stealth mode ended—in an instant, slow jogging turned to full sprint. The midnight warriors surged forward, silent and precise, wading through the corpses.
Beneath their composite orichalcum helms were faces twisted in hungry grins.
The dome trembled above.
Night had fallen upon Commorragh.
And it came with death.
Wooo—
The air, thick with incense, began to wail as the sound of ruptured space filled the grand tower. What had moments ago been tranquil—at least pleasantly so for the upper cabal lords—was now a scene of carnage.
The Sslyth mercenaries and the Haemonculi's flesh-puppets stationed at the edges were reduced to charred heaps of bloody refuse by plasma fire.
Shhk—shhk—shhk!
Cabal guards and Nightmare units snatched up their splinter rifles and curved power blades, shouting in unison as they launched a desperate counterattack against the onrushing tide of gene-forged warriors.
The midnight tide advanced, unfazed by the stinging hail of toxin crystals. Lightning claws hissed; reaper scythes carved wide, fatal arcs. The lithe and delicate Eldar bodies were torn apart, severed into pieces by the sheer brutality of each blow.
One after another, cabal warriors were hurled into walls. Some had their skulls crushed by thunder hammers, others had their throats and arteries slit with the surgical precision of power halberds.
At the center of the dueling arena, the victorious young Trueborn noble drew his ornate power sword to strike back—only for a roaring chain glaive to sweep through the air and impale him mid-lunge.
"Lowly ape—"
Another noble, who moments ago had been gleefully feasting upon the anguish of souls, now shouted in fury and fear, "Do you know who I am—"
Schhk!
The retort was a set of unyielding lightning claws punching through his helm. Blood sprayed violently from the edge of the metallic scythe, and with a single heave, the head and spine were ripped out together.
Crackling blue energy arced across the claws, scorching the severed head to black ash. The blood mist drifted upward, thick and metallic.
Screams followed as the Trueborn's organs and entrails scattered, tumbling into the heaps of slave corpses below—indistinguishable now from the wretches they had butchered.
Selene's Midnight Warriors cared nothing for rank or bloodline.
The children who had been feasting on souls had not even time to scream before they, along with their slaves, cradles, and soul-draining devices, were flung across the hall by the surging Astartes. They shattered against the marble, reduced to pulp.
It happened too fast. In the blink of an eye, it was over.
Upon the high platform symbolizing rank and power, the cabal's senior archons scrambled to shove aside their courtesans and don their custom-fitted armor and weapons.
"Mon-keigh Astartes... or have the [Night Lords] turned traitor?"
The lead archon growled the words through clenched teeth, activating the palace's internal defenses. Spires of pulse cannons and splinter batteries emerged from the walls of the grand hall.
But just as confusion rose—why had the Night Lords paused their assault?—a distorted voice echoed from above in oddly accented Aeldari:
"To be recognized by filth such as you—how delightful. But call us traitors again, alien scum, and my brothers and I will be very displeased."
The cabal commanders' helmets chimed with sensor warnings. They looked up—only to see the dark ceiling ripple as dozens of armored figures emerged from shadow, clinging to the heights like gargoyles atop a cathedral.
When—?!
Hundreds of them—by the archon's reckoning, nearly half the size of a full Astartes Chapter. Among them stood hulking figures in Terminator armor. How had they infiltrated the tower undetected?
Were all his guards useless?!
A chill spread through the hall as dozens of crimson visors turned downward. The air grew frigid; a ghostly frost seemed to settle upon the corpses and cold steel alike.
"Attack."
The order came from the lead officer—his skull-faced helm adorned with crimson bat-wing crests.
BOOM—
A storm of explosions tore through the hall. Heavy bolters, plasma cannons, proton lances, and las-fusion beams screamed in unison.
The upper platform erupted into a wall of flame. Blinding light filled the grand chamber as molten debris and vaporized metal consumed everything. The cabal's high priests and their guards were obliterated—blackened heads hurled skyward, eyes still wide as their flesh burned away.
"What a waste, First Captain."
From amidst the molten wreckage, a sergeant who had advanced from the front lines approached the massive figure who had just crashed down from the ceiling, leaving a crater in the shattered floor.
"This is the last bastion of the Kabal of the Poisoned Tongue. Hah... these xenos certainly know how to indulge themselves—soul harvesting, spirit-feasting, and they even prefer the souls steeped in suffering and despair. Refined taste."
"What a strange sight. In the outer districts of Commorragh, their fleets and armies are working together to resist our infiltration forces. Yet here, in the inner sanctum of their Kabals, they're still drowning in pleasure. Even if this dimensional city spans light-years, it's absurd."
"The hedonism of the Aeldari. Didn't you read the data from the cogitator servitors at the command hub? They've lived like this for tens of millions of years—wait, something's wrong—"
"Die, you filthy Mon-keigh bastard!"
A lithe, serpentine figure lunged from the shadows of a corpse pile, swift as lightning. A venom-coated dagger, radiating a strange scent, darted straight for the neck joint of the Night Lords' captain who had been reviewing reports mid-vox transmission.
Crack—
Black smoke hissed where the venom struck, eating through the power field. Superhuman reflexes saved him—he angled his left pauldron into the blow. Metal shrieked as ornate aquila emblems and fragments of composite orichalcum plating scattered to the floor.
"A Succubus Dominatrix... one of Commorragh's strongest warriors?"
He turned his head slightly. Reflected in the crimson glow of his visor was the temptress's flawless, alluring face—a beauty capable of halting mortal hearts mid-beat. But he was a warrior of holy Selene's Astartes.
Vrrrm!
The lightning claws on his vambrace roared to life, sweeping outward in a deadly arc.
"Slow brute!"
The Dominatrix slipped aside, sliding low with impossible grace, her foot tapping lightly off the marble floor as she spun. Her venomous grin widened. She raised her ancestral dagger—an artifact forged in the Aeldari Empire's prime—aiming to open the throat of the Mon-keigh officer who had slain her offspring.
But her body froze mid-motion.
An invisible force gripped her—an immense, crushing pressure. A massive spectral hand, formed from condensed energy, had taken hold. With the Night Lord captain's movement, the Void Hand closed. Bone cracked like twigs.
"Nice blade."
As he recharged his shattered energy shield with a tactical cell, the captain stepped forward, prying the curved, Aeldari-forged daggers from her twitching hands.
Then his right gauntlet—glowing faintly violet-red with Honkai energy—tightened.
Crunch!
To her dying breath, the Dominatrix's eyes were wide with disbelief.
How could this Mon-keigh wield such energy? Why hadn't her psychic inhibitors worked?
"Headquarters of the Kabal of the Poisoned Tongue—cleared." The captain's voice was calm as he spoke into the vox. "Yes, Grand Captain, how's the Kabal of the Black Heart? The assault went smoothly, you say? You've broken through Vect's royal guard, beheaded his body double... still searching for the 'Panacea' STC? Understood."
He turned the ancient Aeldari dagger between his fingers, nodding before closing the channel. His gaze shifted to the nearby detachment of the Thousand Sons—red-helmed warriors manipulating Honkai energy to free tens of thousands of human slaves from the pens.
"Any luck with the soul-probes?"
"Some," replied the Thousand Sons captain, crushing the necks of the Drukhari feigning death in the corpse heaps. "But not much."
Each kill was followed by dissolution—their bodies and souls alike corroded and annihilated by waves of Honkai energy. Only after the last one fell did he bring up the tactical terminal on his gauntlet.
"Malys departed immediately after receiving Vect's invitation to a meeting. Her current location is..."
"Report: the Primarch's orders—permission to withdraw has been granted."
"Hm?"
...
Magnus studied the woman before him.
Almond-shaped eyes, pointed ears, a snow-white jaw tapering to a delicate tip. Her lips were painted thick with color, her eyes rimmed in smoky black and gold—stark against her ghostly pale skin.
Cold beauty and deadly allure intertwined—an irresistible weapon to mortal men.
However...
"Uh... madam, this is the STC data chip for the 'Panacea,' yes?"
Magnus's eye twitched slightly as he plucked the small device—embedded in the lining of a lacy brassiere—from his fingers.
This Aeldari woman truly was something else. She hadn't hidden the priceless relic within the Haemonculi coven, nor in her former lover's Black Heart stronghold, nor even in any of her own Kabal's fortresses.
She had carried it with her—stitched into her own undergarments!
It was pure chance that they had found her. Logic dictated that a paranoid creature like her would remain hidden within her core fortress deep in central Commorragh.
Instead, she had fled to the outer districts, abandoning her vast holdings entirely to slip into the Webway. A perfect decoy.
Ruthless.
But her strength was also her weakness.
The volatile emotional waves of the Aeldari were impossible to conceal. Magnus had sensed them all—the fury, terror, hatred, indifference, and even perverse pleasure of the countless Aeldari engaged in battle.
Yet among them, one signal stood apart—a surge of pride, self-satisfaction, and smug triumph so distinct it shone like a beacon.
Magnus, master of the Warp and unmatched among the Primarchs in his command of Honkai-infused psychic power, traced the anomaly. He shattered several Webway passages leading from Commorragh in that direction.
And thus, tragically, Lady Aurelia Malys—schemer of schemers—found herself deep beneath Commorragh's outer districts, face-to-face with the Thousand Sons Honor Guard Magnus had dispatched.
There was nothing more to tell.
Her escort was annihilated within seconds. Malys herself was captured alive and brought before Magnus.
"Confirmed?"
"Confirmed. Her soul doesn't lie. Also—be cautious of the Haemonculi covens. Malys traded portions of the 'Panacea' STC data to earn their support."
Thud—thud—
"Understood."
Fresh from his engagement with Commorragh's dark fleet—and a duel against the incarnation of the Aeldari war god Khaine—Konrad Curze stood with arms crossed, the scent of ozone, blood, and burnt flesh still clinging to him. He turned toward the hololithic display.
The Kabal of the Black Heart's grand armada, marked by its distinctive sigil, had even deployed relic warships dating back to the fall of the ancient Aeldari Empire.
"In that case, pull out the infiltration teams."
"No need to worry about the xenos lashing out in desperation. Begin full assault. Purge the filth. Collect anything of scientific value—the Mechanicus will be most pleased. And ensure nothing interferes with Her Majesty's design."
Curze inclined his head slightly toward Magnus. "From here, it's your lead... the Webway route to Terra. The Empress' collaborator—you'll need to contact him."
"Offer the 'Panacea' STC, and every damned Aeldari soul of Commorragh, to Her Majesty. The ritual is yours to conduct. I believe the Empress has waited long enough."
With that, he turned to leave the bridge without another glance.
Magnus nodded gravely, then, knowing Curze's temperament, asked in quiet amusement, "How long will it take?"
"The Grand Haemonculus. The so-called King of the Dark City, Vect. I want to see how many clones they've left—and how many can escape the Night Lords' grasp. Their methods will enrich my own arsenal."
A rare grin flickered across Curze's face, his obsidian eyes glinting with a hint of familiarity. "If Esdeath were here, it might've turned into a competition."
Magnus smirked. "Pity. Not my taste, no comment. Still, perhaps you should invite General Esdeath—Her Majesty's confinement must be driving her mad by now."
"Ha... hahaha..."
Curze stopped, turning back with a thin smile. He clapped Magnus on the shoulder. "We are what we are. Don't be deceived by the reflection of darkness. Her Majesty's existence is our blessing."
"Of course."
Nothing more needed to be said.
...
Elsewhere, within the Webway rift at the edge of Commorragh, the sounds of horses and wolves rose together.
"Russ, look at this—Night Lords... and the Thousand Sons?"
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