"The nightmare creature has spotted me!"
Valek's face twisted with terror as he barked orders to his cabal warriors.
Zzzt-zzzt-zzzt!
Shards of toxic crystal and beams of dark matter lashed out, a cascade of color ripping across the rooftop and obliterating the structure in a single storm of fire.
Through the haze of poison-smoke and dust, they saw it again—the twisted shadow.
The Mandrake Shadow-Weaver folded its limbs and body into impossible angles and slipped from sight.
"Block it! Don't let that thing in…"
Valek's throat rasped hoarsely.
He knew the shadow-creature had not left. It was closing in, its hateful buzzing growing sharper, louder.
The entire palace fortress rumbled as defense fields came to life.
Nightmare guardians and cabal warriors swept their gaze over every corner, weapons poised, waiting.
No one dared blink. In this silence, even the pounding of their own hearts seemed deafening. Terror crept in, unseen but suffocating.
Minutes passed. No attack came. Yet none dared relax.
"It's toying with us—breaking down our minds, our very souls."
Valek upended a goblet of blood-red liquor, then jabbed himself with a stim-needle to stay awake.
The cabal warriors followed his lead. Their limbs trembled with exhaustion.
This was the horror of shadow-creatures. And Mandrake Shadow-Weavers were apex predators.
They had patience without end. They could stalk prey for eternity.
"I can hold on. Black Heart reinforcements will be here soon," Valek muttered, convincing himself.
He stood alone in the central hall. Crystal chandeliers and braziers blazed, saturating every angle with light. No shadow could exist here.
And without shadow, the Mandrake had no anchor.
They weren't immortal—merely cursedly difficult to kill.
Dark Eldar assassins, even Succubi, had hunted and slain them before.
But Valek's skin was corpse-pale, sweat soaking his robes. His eyelids grew heavier.
So tired… so tired.
The vile buzzing gnawed at his will. The stim faded, drowned by inexorable sleep.
Every thought screamed: bed, darkness, silence.
His body betrayed him.
The chamber darkened. Night pressed close.
"My palace—how can there be no light?!"
Valek jolted awake, heart hammering. He had closed his eyes—slept, even—without realizing it.
If he had collapsed, his body's shadow would have been enough. Enough for the Mandrake to strike.
Only the blazing lamps kept him safe.
Hhhh—
He stretched stiff limbs, exhaling relief.
Then—
"AHHH!"
The scream ripped up from the lower levels. Gunfire erupted in panic.
Below, cabal warriors fired wildly, eyes wide at their fallen comrades.
The enemy was here. Not one Mandrake, but many.
Victims first screamed—then shadows split open, birthing black shapes with limbs like blades and torture-implements glistening wet.
Mandrakes clawed out of their victims' shadows, stabbing hearts, severing heads.
They seeped through cracks, crawling through impossible gaps.
Pop!
Lamps burst. Gunfire lit the horror in strobe.
Lines collapsed. Warriors hacked and shot blindly, barely scratching the predators.
Mandrakes skittered across walls, ceilings, floors—there one heartbeat, gone the next.
Not killing—playing.
"Die, monster!"
A Nightmare guard roared and fired a heavy weapon upward.
BOOM!
The floor shook violently.
Valek staggered as a hole cracked open in the marble beneath.
Through vox-link he screamed:
"You useless fools! No heavy weapons inside! You'll bring the ceiling down!"
Zzzzzrrt.
He froze.
One of the crystal fixtures sparked, spitting arcs of power. The strike had ruined the circuit.
Light failed.
A shadow spread across the floor.
Valek stumbled back as the blackness writhed and breathed.
Mist curled.
A silhouette rose from the stain—runed body glowing with baleful script, crimson bat-wings unfurling.
The Mandrake Shadow-Weaver.
A high Mandrake could drink light itself, crushing even auspex and sensor arrays into blindness.
It wove darkness into threads, binding the room in shadow-cloth.
"Guards!"
Valek turned to the door—too late. His Nightmare guards had already been dragged screaming into the dark.
He was alone.
Quick hands drew his Splinterweb pistol.
The weapon spat a spreading net of monofilament. Nothing could dodge its snare; once drawn tight, even Terminator armor shredded.
He had butchered foes aplenty with it—even a Chaos Space Marine.
The web engulfed the Mandrake.
"Got you!"
Relief flashed across his face.
Then despair.
The filaments drew taut—only to collapse into nothing. The Mandrake had melted into shadow, vanishing through the floor.
His best weapon was useless.
He snatched up a heat-lance pistol. The shot could vaporize Mandrake flesh.
But before he could fire, black talons surged from his own shadow, and with a single swipe—
Snap.
The pistol lay in two broken halves.
Panic surged. Valek slammed his personal force field, blasting the creature back in a crackling burst.
Then he ran.
Through hidden corridors, sealing adamant doors behind him. Down, deeper, into his most fortified sanctum.
The final vault sealed. He collapsed against it, panting.
Not even armored companies could breach this chamber.
But his heart dropped cold.
"No… mistake… this was a mistake…"
Mandrakes couldn't be walled out. He had trapped himself in a coffin.
Zzzzt.
Runes crawled across the walls. Shadows bled.
The Mandrake Shadow-Weaver stood before him, dripping with darkness, executioner's tools in hand.
Valek pressed against the wall, voice breaking.
"I'll pay more! I'll sacrifice more! Spare me!"
But Mandrakes never bargained.
They only obeyed.
It advanced, step by step, drowning him in death's reek.
"No—!"
Valek felt a sudden chill in his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable end.
But death never came.
Something was wrong. Slowly, he dared to look.
The Mandrake Shadow-Weaver still stood before him—yet made no move to strike.
Instead, in his hands lay a heavy chest. Inside the crystal canisters shimmered… condensed souls.
…?
Valek froze, confused.
The nightmare creature had just given him a chest? Stuffed with soul-essence, as if forcing a gift into his hands?
The air itself was thick with the perfume of spirit-energy.
This was no ordinary cache—these souls were pure, refined, worth decades of his cabal's raiding.
After paying the dreaded tithe—the Elevenfold Tax to the Supreme Overlord—he had never seen so much left over in one place.
Could it be? Was this entire siege… only to deliver this gift?
His mind reeled.
Then, the Mandrake rasped—voice like a blade dragged over stone. It struggled to form syllables:
"Ah… Man…"
Valek forced his terror aside, straining to catch the sound.
"—Asur… men?"
The Shadow-Weaver nodded. Its lips curled into something hideous, almost like a smile.
It pointed to the chest.
"…Gift."
The vox-channel crackled alive. Reports came in:
The Mandrakes had vanished. No mass slaughter, no massacre. The only casualties were those cut down in the confusion by their own panicked comrades.
So that was it. The Mandrakes' only mission these last days was to break his defenses and… hand him this chest?
That could only mean one thing. Their true master was not Commorragh's Overlord—but the Heir of Asurmen.
The Shadow-Weaver dissolved into the floor, gone to find its next target.
Valek collapsed where he stood.
The box gleamed before him, overflowing with pure souls. Greed sparked in his eyes—this treasure was beyond imagining.
But then dread returned.
The Supreme Overlord had commanded all Drukhari to destroy the Heir of Asurmen. And yet here he was, clutching a gift from that very enemy. Was this treason?
If the Overlord discovered this… Valek's death would be exquisite.
But then again—he was in a sealed vault. No one had seen.
And more importantly—this was untaxed income. Pure, untraceable profit.
How could anyone resist such wealth?
He sighed, torn between fear and temptation.
"That Heir of Asurmen… so lavish. With one gesture he gives more than the Overlord grants in a century…"
His thoughts turned bitter.
The Supreme Overlord demanded endless service and crushing taxes. No reward. Only chains.
If that tyrant ever fell… perhaps throwing in with the Heir wouldn't be such a poor choice.
But until then—who would dare?
He stared at the chest, trembling between greed and terror.
In a remote webway passage of Commorragh…
"Perfect. Sending the Shadow Corps as couriers was genius."
Eden smiled, scanning the incoming intelligence.
The Mandrakes were unstoppable messengers. No fortress could bar them, no defense hold them back. His "gifts" arrived precisely in the hands of his chosen targets.
They were, he mused, the perfect delivery service—operating twenty-four hours a day, never tiring.
"Emperor preserve us…"
Ilyss, his Lhamean secretary, could scarcely believe what she was witnessing.
These Mandrakes were among the most feared assassins of the galaxy—yet her master used them… to deliver presents?
She glanced at one now: a black shadow-thing crouched behind Eden, dutifully massaging his shoulders and chilling bottles of spiritwine.
In that moment, even their monstrous faces seemed almost… pleasant.
Thus began Eden's plan: the Shadow Corps had become his Enforced Recharge Division.
No assassinations. No massacres.
Such bloodletting could never conquer Commorragh. Dark Eldar lords were as strong as Mandrakes; mass assassinations would only provoke ruinous losses.
And worse—such cruelty would make Eden no different from the Overlord. Commorragh's citizens would only hate him, siding with the tyrant against him.
So instead, Eden turned their power to something more insidious.
Mandrakes now delivered lavish soul-gifts to archons and nobles. Alongside each gift, a heartfelt letter promising more to come.
It was bribery—but forced, unavoidable bribery.
Either the lords admitted they had taken Eden's gift, or they concealed it. In either case, trust between them would rot.
No one would ever know how many "traitors" sat among them—who had already been bought by the Heir of Asurmen.
And none dared confess it to the Supreme Overlord. To admit receiving Eden's gift was to invite death.
Meanwhile, the hunger for souls gnawed endlessly.
The Elevenfold Tax bled Commorragh dry, just as surely as Imperial tithes bled mankind.
Eden was not playing the part of the Overlord who hoarded everything. He was the Robin Hood who redistributed wealth and won hearts.
His next step would be to strip the mask from the Overlord, to expose his weakness and cruelty before all of Commorragh.
Fear would give way to defiance.
The city would rise.
And then, the Heir of Asurmen would march openly through its streets, cheered as savior, striking the final blow.
...
High-spires, Tower District.
After the nightmare creatures withdrew, people crept back onto the streets.
They whispered of shadows and horror, of how close death had come.
But then—
"They're back!"
Panic. Screams. The Mandrakes returned.
Shapes clawed out of shadows once more. The crowd shrieked—until the creatures… slapped posters onto walls, and stuffed leaflets into trembling hands.
Then vanished again.
Back and forth they went, posters spreading like wildfire across every boulevard.
This was no slaughter. This was propaganda.
The Shadow Corps had become Eden's Propaganda Division.
Some delivered gifts. Some posted broadsheets. Others crawled sewers and ruins, assisting Custodians in their hunt for the Emperor's clone-body and the Black Throne.
For the Propaganda Division, their task was simple but vital: cover Commorragh in Eden's message. Posters, handbills, signs—even, if possible, plastered on the Overlord's own palace gates.
Normal agitators would be flayed in hours. But Mandrakes could not be stopped. They appeared, posted, and vanished again before anyone could react.
No one was better suited for the work.
On one street corner, a child wailed at the sight of a nightmare shape. The crowd froze, fearing the creature would dismember him.
Instead—
Pop!
The Mandrake shoved a vial into the boy's mouth. A soul elixir—Dreamfang Series, extra-strength.
The boy nearly fainted as power flooded his withered body. His pallor faded, his frame revived, life surging anew.
And into his hand, the Mandrake pressed a leaflet.
"The Heir of Asurmen's gift…"
Then it vanished.
The crowd stared.
A nightmare monster that healed instead of killed?
For the starving poor, a drop of soul-essence meant more than life itself. Under the tax, most children withered before adulthood.
Here, they tasted plenty—for the first time.
Fear gave way to awe… and hunger.
Soon, people reached willingly for the leaflets, trading their terror for the promise of a soul-dose.
But when they read the bold words scrawled across the flyers—some shivered anew.
The shadow war of Commorragh had only just begun.
(End of Chapter)
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