"Wait for me, you wretches! May the Thirsting Lady drain you all dry!"
The newly appointed Archon Fok glared furiously at the distant forces of a rival Kabal, who had already sped off and abandoned him.
For days now, every time he sought cooperation with another Kabal, Imperial Primarch-led assaults struck them.
Each raid had become sharper, more practiced, and larger in scale.
It was only thanks to his wealth of experience that Fok had barely survived, forced to weep bitterly while looting the weapons, concubine Lhameans, and soul-wealth of the dead Archons.
Word of these "fortunate escapes" soon spread.
Now, no Kabal would work with him. All believed he had been marked by the Imperial Primarch, and anyone near him was doomed to share his fate.
At first, even Fok suspected he was being tracked.
He spent lavishly, using every detection measure he had, even expending a priceless relic, only to confirm he carried no curse, no arcane tag, no technological beacon.
It truly was nothing but "coincidence."
Coincidences that brought him rapid expansion in power and wealth—while leaving his life in constant peril.
At any moment, that terrifying Primarch might take his head.
"I only want to return to Commorragh…"
Fok closed his eyes in anguish and drowned himself in expensive soul-liquor. Even the provocations of over a dozen Lhamean courtesans—spoils left by slain rivals—couldn't stir him.
What he longed for was the safety of his tower in Commorragh, shielded beneath the city's ancient forcefields.
But he dared not return.
To retreat without fulfilling the Supreme Overlord's command would mean a fate worse than death.
So he pressed on, desperate to find opportunities against the Redemtion Satellite Zone, praying for some shred of success.
But without forbidden weapons, his forces could not breach its powerful void-shields and gun-batteries.
He smashed his bottle and staggered to the balcony, his mind consumed with dread.
He had failed the Supreme Overlord's grand plan, lost priceless forbidden weapons, and now no Kabals would ally with him.
"Soon I'll be like the exiles, skulking in some rotting Webway ruin…"
And even then, he might be dragged out and subjected to the cruelest punishments.
Then, watching his forces march ahead, an idea sparked.
"Yes… I command several Kabals' worth of arms now. Why not do as the Primarch does—seize other Kabals' forbidden weapons?"
With such plunder, he could toss them toward the Redemtion Zone, completing his orders by proxy.
He quickly tracked down a raiding force and ordered his armies to encircle them.
But when he arrived, that Kabal had already been gutted by the Primarch's White Scar hunters.
"Damn it, too late again!"
Grinding his teeth, Fok seized what remained of their forces anyway.
His ever-growing host, swollen by conquests, made such takeovers easy.
But this time—things went wrong.
"Traitor! Tell the Supreme Overlord—Fok is a traitor to Commorragh!"
The shattered husk of the fallen Archon suddenly rose again.
The half-dead foe clung to life through a withered relic-organ, glaring with hate.
He saw Fok's actions not just as conquest—but treachery, a Salvation Zone spy planted in Commorragh.
"Kill him!"
Fok's elite Incubi were swift. They surged forward, their klaives hacking the Archon's body into pieces.
But his spirit, his very soul, slipped free into the Webway.
"It's over…"
Fok's scalp went numb.
The dying Archon had already sent warning to Commorragh, his soul fleeing beyond reach.
The Supreme Overlord would soon know everything.
Despair flooded him. He was finished in Commorragh. He knew how traitors were punished.
For the first time, Fok stood utterly lost.
"This is why you've come seeking sanctuary?"
Eden sat upon his throne of black obsidian, idly rolling an ancient relic sphere in one hand, radiating a noble aura.
He frowned at the trembling Archon before him.
"I cannot grant your request."
"Lord Asurmen's Heir, I offer all my wealth, everything—please, protect me!"
Fok's panic erupted. He was now branded a traitor to Commorragh, doomed to be hunted. Only the scion of Asurmen could shield him.
So he had purged all dissenters, brought his warriors, and come here in open rebellion.
"Fok, Fok… You insult me."
Eden shook his head.
He tossed the relic to Titus and rose from his throne, stepping down toward the groveling Archon.
"I have no need of your paltry riches. You burst into my court, begging for protection, and yet—still refuse to call me Master?"
"Great Asurmen's Heir… my Lord, my Master—I am yours to command."
At last, Fok knelt, bowing low.
He submitted to a harsher covenant, binding himself and his Kabal as Eden's property.
It was his last chance.
All he could do now was pray that the Asurmen's Heir triumphed—or at least endured.
Eden nodded in satisfaction.
"Archon Fok, you have my protection. You need not fear Vect any longer.
For soon—I shall cast him from his throne."
He gestured, and his aides led Fok away.
The Archon would need time, instruction, and tests to prove he wasn't Vect's spy.
"Seems Vect terrifies them so much, they flee into my arms…"
Eden chuckled to himself.
Not long ago, Archon Fok of a Black Heart sub-Kabal had brought his entire warhost to the Salvation Zone, seeking him out.
By any measure, it was a large force.
At first, Eden had thought it bizarre.
After hearing the truth, he could only laugh.
But he accepted Fok's allegiance.
It was proof—others would follow.
He, as Asurmen's Heir, could offer them shelter.
Vect's tyranny had its uses: efficient, cheap, absolute.
But its flaw was clear.
Loyalty born only of terror collapses when a rival emerges.
Now, he was that rival.
As long as Eden held the Salvation Zone, showing the galaxy he could match the Supreme Overlord, more and more Archons would flock to him.
Who would choose Vect, with his endless taxes and starvation, over the Heir of Asurmen—who demanded no tithes, and rewarded his vassals with purest soul-essence?
It was no contest.
"Now everything rests on whether the Salvation Zone can weather this storm of raids…"
Eden scanned the latest reports.
His sworn brother, the Primarch Jaghatai Khan, had already led over a dozen lightning raids, crippling multiple Kabals.
Meanwhile, Eden's Terror Legion, the Ork warbands, and others fought tooth and nail through the Webway, holding against the Black Heart and their mercenary xenos.
The Drukhari were ever fond of hiring alien killers.
"But it's my turn to strike…"
Eden pondered, then turned to his Lhamean secretary.
"Have all our soul reserves arrived?"
"Half of the planned shipment has reached us, my lord," Ilyss replied softly. "The other half is still en route through a nearby Webway passage. However…"
She paused. "The convoy has been obstructed by a warp-storm anomaly. A band of daemons has set its eyes on the shipment. But our forces are already moving to secure it."
"Then send the half we have into Aelindrach."
Eden walked out onto the balcony, staring at a distant passage that seemed to swallow all light itself.
This was Aelindrach—the Realm of Terror.
At the dawn of the Aeldari Empire's Fall, when the Dark spread between the stars, Aelindrach was the first world consumed, transformed into a true half-shadow dimension.
Now it was one of the great shadows looming over Commorragh itself, home to uncountable horrors.
Any who entered might be torn apart alive unless sustained by a steady supply of souls.
Thus the denizens of Commorragh shunned it—and it remained one of the few domains beyond even Asdrubael Vect's control.
"That is truly a fearsome place," Ilyss murmured, shivering as she gazed into the black maw.
Many Drukhari whispered of its predators—shadow-dwellers capable of swallowing lives whole. None loved them.
But Eden did.
More precisely, he loved the hosts of vast shadow-creatures that dwelt within.
Especially the most sinister among them—the Mandrakes.
He smiled with anticipation. "Soon, I will command a shadow army that will make all others tremble."
He immediately dispatched word to nearby White Scar warriors, ordering them to clear threats along the convoy route so that the soul-tithe could reach him swiftly.
...
Within a Webway Tributary
Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh!
Silver-white streaks flashed across the tunnels, and the beastmen fell in heaps.
Warp-spawned monstrosities—horns, hooves, muzzles twisted into mockeries of humanity.
Born of Chaos itself, they served as shock troops for corrupted armies. Even here in the Webway, they prowled.
"Hahaha! For the Savior and the Khan!"
Jubal and his White Scar brethren tore through the herds, every charge scything dozens down.
These were the happiest days the White Scar sons had known in millennia—their gene-father had returned, they had new purpose, endless meat and drink, and mighty new steeds with which to thunder into their foes.
All was the gift of the Savior.
When the last beastman fell, Jubal called for rest, refueling, and reloading. Soon they were tearing off again, hunting threats along the convoy's course.
"By the Throne—riding here in the Webway is even sweeter than on any planetary plain!"
Jubal's beard streamed in the rushing wind, exulting in pure speed.
Many tunnels were broad and unobstructed—perfect tracks for acceleration.
Beep-beep-beep!
The auspex of his Falcon grav-bike pinged. The green grid-screen highlighted several signatures—imperial machine-signals, yellow-marked.
Jubal frowned. "Imperial vehicles? But not White Scar codes…"
Their warband had its own distinct frequencies.
"Let's take a look!"
At his command, the Scar riders veered, engines howling.
Soon the source came into view.
Whummm—
Ten warriors in golden plate, astride their jetbikes, streaking through the Webway. Auramite gleamed, radiating authority.
The Adeptus Custodes.
A squad of ten, on a secret mission.
Their quarry: a Rogue Trader suspected of trafficking in heretical relics. An Inquisitorial agent had uncovered evidence of cloning experiments involving the Emperor Himself. Some holy relics stolen from vaults contained fragments of the Master of Mankind's—and the Primarchs'—genetic essence.
The Custodians had pursued the trail into the Webway, hoping to find the heretic's Dark Eldar contacts and root out the laboratories.
But the smugglers, merging with xenos convoys, had slipped away in the labyrinthine passages.
"Custodians… here?"
Jubal's eyes narrowed—not at the warriors, but at their machines.
The Dawneagle jetbikes.
The eternal wound of the White Scars.
He remembered all too well the humiliation of being left behind, the Custodians' laughter echoing as their steeds outpaced his sons'.
The White Scars prided themselves on speed—but against the Dawneagles, their pride was dust. A shameful memory, mocked even by other Chapters.
They could accept being weaker in raw strength. But not slower. Never slower.
And now—things were different.
They had the Savior's gift: the Falcon grav-bikes.
Jubal drew a breath, exchanged a glance with his second, then flicked a signal across the vox to alert the Custodians before pulling up alongside them.
"Custodian, you too are on a mission?" he said with studied casualness.
The squad-leader's reply was clipped, formal:
"White Scar, you have no authority to question the Custodes. If you possess any data of the Webway, transmit it immediately."
He knew they had fought here before, seeking their lost Primarch.
"No problem. Uploading everything we have."
Without hesitation, Jubal sent their maps and logs. The Custodians' work was sacred; aiding them was duty.
"Forgive us," he added with respect. "We will not hinder you further. Besides… we cannot afford to be this slow."
He bit down hard on that word—"slow."
It was the signal.
The White Scars almost burst laughing—but held it in.
Instead, they twisted their throttles wide.
VROOOOOM!
The Falcons roared ahead, acceleration brutal, ion exhaust flaring into a storm of turbulence.
Dust, plasma haze, and roaring slipstream blasted into the golden warriors' faces.
And then the laughter—bright, thunderous, and just a shade mocking—echoed back.
Jubal whooped in his heart.
"By the Emperor—eat our dust, Custodians!"
The Auramite riders realized the slight. Their blood boiled.
Challenge accepted.
(End of Chapter)
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