Boom-boom-boom—
A Firestorm heavy anti-air platform spat nine flame-tipped missiles skyward, stringing blossoms of fire across the belly of the bioship overhead.
"The weapon platform's gone rogue!"
The Ynnari trooper riding the big gun realized something was wrong and smashed the control console, forcing the battery to a halt.
Too late.
The strike from the Reborn drew the Tyranid bioships and the drifting swarm into a snarl of agitation. They turned as one, hissing, all eyes sliding toward the Aeldari below.
Under the swarm's collective stare, Yvraine and her warriors tightened with fear.
Death pressed close.
An accident like this could spark a war in a heartbeat—
And yet, bafflingly, the Tyranids settled almost at once. The frenzy bled away; order reasserted itself. There was no sign of retaliation.
Yvraine stayed her hand at the last instant—she did not unleash the crone-sword shard. The battle that would decide their fate did not ignite.
But dread curdled in her gut.
It meant the swarm's will had fixed on a clearer target.
...
Commorragh.
She chose to hold for now. Let the Tyranids pass, then shadow them.
"Our kin in Commorragh need the Ynnari."
Alone, her host could not stand against a biofleet. But alongside their Drukhari cousins and the ancient bulwarks of the Dark City? They might yet cast the swarm back.
Especially since this Tyranid fleet clearly bore some grudge against the daemons—perhaps that would even help the defense.
Before long, the black, living nebula rolled deeper into the Webway and vanished. On the ground, the Ynnari exhaled as one.
Yvraine was about to order the pursuit when the farseer beside her flinched and spoke, voice shaking.
"My lady…a communique from the High Council of the Kabal of the Black Heart…"
The farseer shut his eyes against the pain in the skein.
"Supreme Overlord Vect is dead. And Commorragh—under She Who Thirsts, with two other Dark Gods striking as well—has fallen beyond hope of recovery. They have withdrawn. The Dark City is abandoned."
"What?!"
Shock and helplessness rippled through Yvraine and her captains.
They had failed to turn the tide.
The farseer went on, outlining the present state:
"The Kabal of the Black Heart and the Drukhari at large now swear fealty to a scion of the ancient Aeldari nobility—Raphael Asurmen—and have relocated en masse to his demesne. They ask that you bring the Ynnari to that satellite territory to assemble against what comes. The Harlequins of the Laughing God are there as well; they propose council—to found a new refuge, to chart the Aeldari's road, and most of all…to speak of vengeance upon She Who Thirsts."
Yvraine let the blow land, then loosed a long breath.
Perhaps with the Chaos invasion and the coming of the swarm, the fall of the Dark City had been sealed from the start.
There was one mercy: their cousins had escaped first. The Drukhari's numbers and strength, for the most part, were preserved.
Their souls were not swallowed by the Thirsting One.
Better than her darkest fears.
"Very well. We go to this new overlord's realm. The children of the Aeldari must sit and speak."
Her order rang out.
The Ynnari gathered, wheeled about, and raced for an alternate Webway exit.
The satellite territory had collapsed every gate that linked to Commorragh; the Ynnari could not reach it through the Dark City's paths. They would have to leave this vast artery, return to realspace, and pick up another gate beyond.
…
"Phew. At last—Yvraine's gone."
Watching through a Lictor's hidden eyes, Eden tracked the Reborn's movements and finally let himself relax.
That had been far too close.
Whether it was nerves on the Aeldari line or the meddling of Chaos, one of their Firestorm platforms had suddenly opened up. If he hadn't clamped the swarms with the Hive Mind's neural net, his chitinous legions would almost certainly have pounced.
And war would have followed.
But Yvraine was now en route to the Redemption Satellite Zone. Good.
Nothing left to distract from the purge of Slaaneshi stragglers infesting the Dark City's arteries.
This time, the Dark Prince was going to lose everything—down to the last sugar cube in the tea.
Hum—
A gauzy breath of perfumed mist drifted in.
"Hm?"
Familiar scents coiled in that haze—tease, hunger…and a faint thread of pleading.
The Prince of Pleasure was calling.
Eden blinked. "The hell? Didn't I block you? How'd you get through?"
He'd cut the Dark Prince off at the soul level precisely to avoid direct contact—no invitations to the Pleasure Palace, no intimate whispers in the ear.
Since then, the Dark Prince had been reduced to nibbling at his dreams.
And now…a direct line.
"Desperate, are we?"
He couldn't blame them.
In Commorragh's Webway, Khorne and Tzeentch had both paid in blood—but Slaanesh had lost the most.
For years, the Dark Prince had crept through the Webway like a thief, feeding on Drukhari torments and the souls they distilled. But the Drukhari had fled to the Redemption Satellite Zone, under the aegis of Isha, the Life-Mother. The Palace's touch could no longer seep in.
A savage loss.
Worse: Eden himself had palmed a sliver of Slaaneshi purview and quietly skimmed off humanity's pleasures for his own designs.
Stack those losses, and of course the Dark Prince was frantic. This might be the last good chance to claw something back.
"Fine. Let's see what you want."
Twice he refused the summons—making them wait—then, unhurried, accepted.
A fraction of his soul stepped free, followed the warp-path, and descended toward the Palace of Slaanesh.
…
The Immaterium.
Slaanesh's domain.
On a green sweep of meadow, a dark-haired, dark-eyed man with a pale, handsome face murmured, "Didn't expect it to feel this familiar."
Eden's gaze roamed. He had not entered the Palace proper, but walked the outer rings—Avidity, Gluttony—revisiting old ground on his way in.
Here…was where the dream began.
A caress of wind.
On the soft grass and by forest and stream were bodies of every kind and sex and shape, each impossibly alluring—each sculpted from his private desires.
A century and more ago, when he first reached the third ring—Debauchery—he had been a nobody. Weak. A breath from falling headlong.
Now, he was the Hope Primarch, Savior, Lord of the Imperium—the would-be ruler of the galaxy—and the one prize the Dark Prince could not win.
His soul and life-essence were powerful enough to walk here unbound. Even should the Dark Prince strike, this avatar could tear free—or at worst, he'd shed a sliver of soul.
He strolled the lawns.
Fingers drifted across flawless skin after flawless skin. Warmth. Texture. Breath.
To most mortals, it would be indistinguishable from truth. He knew better. It was a show. A trick.
He didn't linger. Onward.
The Dominion Ring.
He stood upon a palace dais, drowning in cheers, with an armada blotting the sky—waiting for the word to conquer.
Many travelers drowned here in bottomless power.
For Eden, it barely stirred him. He already had such things—more, even. One of the few true kings of the galaxy.
The Vainglory Ring.
A forest paradise whispered his triumphs down flower-laced paths—governor to the throne on Terra—pageants of pride played in soft light.
He let the memories wash over him and walked on. Thorns and maze could not slow him. The forest of corpses claimed by vanity fell away behind.
Then—the last circle. Sloth.
His face tightened.
"…Ah. My soft spot. Let's see if I can take the hit."
He knew himself: not a grindstone worker. He liked to coast when he could.
Everyone tired; everyone rested. Even the Master on the Golden Throne. That was all Sloth needed—a door ajar.
That was why Sloth was last. Why it was the most dangerous.
An endless beach unfurled to the horizon. Calm surf in a hush like cradle-song stroked the walls of the mind.
Sunlight soothed. The tide lapped, gentle and warm. It pecked at consciousness, inviting it to let go.
For a moment. For an hour. For ever.
Who could resist lying in the sand—just for a minute—to rest?
Who could resist the sweet fade into sleep?
The beach had buried countless travelers smiling in their dreams, sealing them in eternal languor.
"So comfortable…"
His eyelids sank. He stretched out on the sand.
The purpose of his visit slipped away.
The war had been pressure without end; he had not slept well in an age. Time, then, to rest.
His breaths fell into rhythm. The Hope Primarch surrendered to Sloth—and slept.
How long? Hours? Days? A century?
The Savior woke to a voice.
"Who woke me?"
He arched his back in a satisfied stretch; flesh and soul both felt clean, clear, good.
He could have slept longer.
But the Dark Prince had run out of patience.
A moment ago, they had glided into his dream with a face full of thunder and shaken him awake.
Had he come to the Sloth Ring for a vacation? Did they spend this much power to host a spa day?
If it would corrupt him, splended. But at his current pitch, Sloth alone wouldn't take him—and this was only a fragment of his soul. Even a kill here would win little.
A waste of time.
So the Prince of Pleasure roused him and beckoned him onward to talk.
"This place is nice…"
He rose, reluctant, and took one last look at the beach.
Then he walked toward the palace.
It coiled across the cliff-top like a living thing, architecture made flesh, decadence condensed to a singularity.
Everything imaginable waited within.
He didn't pause. He passed along a corridor of shifting mirrors and came to the throne.
A body made of the universe's most seductive ideas reclined there, eyes like netted starlight raking him with promise.
Eden climbed to the platform below the couch and spoke—open, almost lazy:
"Dark Prince, with all this ceremony to bring me here…what is it you want?"
"Savior…"
Fulgrim—the Phoenician—showed a flicker of pique. Somewhere behind his eyes writhed a snarl of envy. "We invite you in good faith. You might show our master some respect."
If not for the ruin they'd suffered, their master would never have stooped to invite a human Primarch.
He did not deserve it!
Corrupted or not, the Phoenician and the other damned Primarchs bowed as servants—offering endless worship. To treat this upstart as an equal guest?
Almost blasphemy.
Eeden ignored him, and with a look—the kind grown-ups give a child told to hush—made him flush.
Hotter.
Then Eden kept climbing.
Fulgrim's jaw tightened. He said nothing—don't ruin the negotiation.
But when he saw the Savior step onto the first stair toward the throne, his restraint nearly broke.
Even the figure on the couch—Slaanesh's avatar—quivered.
They hadn't expected him to be so bold.
"Savior—what are you doing?!"
The Phoenician finally barked, pointing up the stairs. "That is the Throne of Pleasure. You will not profane it!"
If the man dared approach that close…what would he try next?
He didn't dare imagine it.
Eden took a few more steps, then pivoted on the stair and looked down at the Phoenician.
"What? You going to make me move?"
This fawning lackey disgusted him. Perhaps only the Emperor himself, in one of those legendary beatdowns, could smack the Primarch straight again.
Fulgrim's fists knotted; his whole body trembled. One warning glance from the Prince of Pleasure held him in place.
All he could do was watch Eden climb.
Truth be told, letting the fallen Primarch witness the bargain was probably just another of the Master's games.
Eden ascended—toward the couch where every temptation in existence had settled like dew.
It was not often one could safely come this close to Slaanesh.
He eyed the ornamental urns and weapons along the stair and the dais—and felt the tug.
Relics, every one of them. Some, shards of the Dark Prince's own flesh. Any of them would be a peerless blade.
But that wasn't why he'd come within arm's reach.
He was hunting something far more important—the fifth Crone-sword.
The gods of the Aeldari had forged them—the dread relics of Morai-Heg. legend said they could call the death-god's power to slay Slaanesh. Kha-vir, the Sword of Sorrows, could turn a victim to ash—Yvraine's blade. Asu-var, the Sword of Silent Screams, drank life itself—now carried by the Visarch. Vilith-zhar, the Sword of Souls, mightiest of all, a shape-shifting engine of burning souls—claimed by the Yncarne. The Spear of Twilight—borne by Yriel—completed the known set.
And the fifth?
Name unknown. Power unknown.
Rumor placed it in the Palace of Pleasure—perhaps within arm's reach of the throne.
Eden wanted it badly.
With that blade, he could threaten the Prince directly—or parley with the Aeldari from strength.
"You hunger for the Webway through Commorragh," the Dark Prince purred at last, voice like velvet and knives. "But now is not your moment to seize it. Shall we trade?"
They spoke in the tongue he'd find most…agreeable.
"I will withdraw every daemon legion from the Webway. In return, you will bring me the souls of the Drukhari…"
Their avatar brightened, pink radiance pulsing with excitement.
"Perhaps…we could go deeper still. Will you rule this realm of pleasure with me?"
This was the Dark Prince's final, richest offer: not mere corruption—but a share in dominion and power.
A station above any daemon prince. A gift beyond imagining.
Eden did not answer—yet.
But his gaze softened as it rested on that hypnotic silhouette.
"Dark Prince…with terms like those, and not even a 'dear' for me?"
He stepped up onto the dais, almost eager, drawn toward the couch.
Like the hook had set.
More importantly—he had seen it. Near the throne lay a relic with all the feel of a Crone-sword…
(End of Chapter)
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