"That… is the fifth Cronesword of Morai-Heg!"
Eden kept a straight face, but inside he was thrumming with excitement.
If he could get his hands on that Cronesword, he could hold both the Aeldari and the Prince of Pleasure by the throat at the same time.
He maintained a natural gait, step by step drawing nearer to the throne dais—nearer to that ancient Aeldari relic.
Then, abruptly, Eden stopped.
The phantom of the Prince of Pleasure upon the throne shifted, as if his earlier words had only stirred it further—stoked its craving. The hall itself seemed to dampen with a sultry humidity.
From that shimmering shadow, alabaster legs stepped forth, followed by a figure veiled in gossamer—a womanly form at the very edge of perfection, half-mortal and half-daemon.
Every motion she made pulled on the wants of the soul.
A single glance was enough to quicken breath and set the heart racing.
Every line, every inch of skin… it was the most exquisite image of a partner Eden could imagine.
In truth, it was a mask Slaanesh wore only for him—though one could also say the Chaos Gods have no fixed shape; what mortals see is merely the reflection of their own desires.
Tss—
Eden drew in a sharp breath.
Before he could react, that bewitching body fell into his arms.
All his senses flared—like cradling something soft and fragrant, the very pinnacle of the cosmos' delights.
Now he understood how even iron-willed elite warriors and Primarchs could falter before the Prince of Pleasure's corruption.
Even he was close to his limit!
With the Dark Prince descending in person, there was no way he was walking off with that Cronesword today.
Trying to snatch the artifact with a mere soul-projection before that being? A fool's errand.
Still—he had learned where the ancient relic lay. Once the Hope-Sun's life-essence grew stronger, he could stake his flesh and blood, dive into the tiger's den, and brazen it out.
Endure the corruption, rip the prize free—and leave the Prince of Pleasure robbed of both virtue and treasure.
"Beloved, do you accept our pact?"
There was no lofty, godly pride in Slaanesh now. Supple and boneless, the Dark Prince curled into Eden's chest, speaking in a tone and language crafted for him alone.
The power of excess gathered—palpable and close.
If Eden accepted the gift, vast puissance would be his, shared with the Dark Prince—a terrifying union of strength.
Thud—
Beneath the throne.
The Fallen Phoenix saw and his knees gave out; he collapsed where he stood.
The pain in his chest left him voiceless; he screwed his eyes shut in anguish.
Slaanesh's darlings sweat blood for a single glance, a moment's favor—yet Eden was being offered a share of power.
Not as a thrall, but almost as a consort.
It was everything the Fallen Phoenix had ever dreamed of—laid in Eden's lap as if it were nothing.
How could he not burn with envy—how could he not choke on jealousy?!
"Keep dreaming."
Eden held the Dark Prince close and, with the gentlest murmur against that perfect ear, refused.
"No!!"
The Fallen Phoenix howled. The refusal broke him harder than a "yes" ever could.
The two on the dais paid the wreck sprawled at its foot no mind.
From any angle, Eden could not possibly accept now.
It was a losing trade.
Yes, if he agreed he'd gain Slaanesh's gifts and, nominally, stand as an equal—two as one, advancing and retreating together.
His very life-essence would surge toward the plane of a nascent god.
But sharing goes both ways—and Slaanesh would take more.
After all, he was the Hope-Sun, Lord of the Imperium, warboss of the greenskins, savior of the Drukhari, and the Swarm's Bladewing. Those banners—some open, some in shadow—were still growing; the power they lent him could not yet match a Chaos God's true form.
They were, however, premium stocks. To hand them over would be a catastrophic loss.
Once the Dark Prince bonded to him deeply, those powers—and the peoples beneath them—would be tainted and twisted, swelling Slaanesh's might.
Becoming the strongest of the Dark Gods? Not impossible.
The price: his subjects and armies, rotting into things neither man nor beast.
"What a shame."
Slaanesh didn't flare in anger. Perhaps the Dark Prince was simply used to being denied.
Through the years, that man had sampled pleasures without paying—and refused—so often that the denial only sharpened the Dark Prince's hunger.
A light kiss brushed for Eden's cheek.
"Whatever happens, remember—this pact never expires. The Palace of Pleasure always welcomes your return.
I do as well…"
Eden lifted a hand and stopped those lips.
"Understood. Maybe one day I'll accept. But not today."
He did not reject the terms outright.
The wars of the warp are eternal, and alliances are forged and broken across the ages.
In life and in power, only interest endures. Even the Imperium—so proud in its hatred of the xenos—can and will ally with the alien when it must.
If the Hope-Sun's arc held, he would one day fight in that high war. Having an ally in hand wouldn't hurt.
More than that: it was a hidden card for humanity's coming storms.
If, one day, the Emperor ascended and became a Dark King devouring mankind, Eden might have to stand with the Prince of Pleasure to oppose Him.
Of course—he prayed that day would never come.
Every "gift" from a Dark God hides venom.
Partnership with them is perilous beyond words.
"Perhaps a simpler deal, then…"
Slaanesh returned to the matter of the Commorragh Webway, which was urgent.
A whisper in Eden's ear—soft in tone, sharp with threat: "You want that city, but you cannot take it.
As long as my daemons hold it, you cannot have it."
A languid pose; slim white fingers traced idle circles over Eden's chest—as if they might, at any moment, dig in.
"But there is a way. You win me the souls of the Drukhari, and I'll hand Commorragh to you intact.
We both profit."
Eden caught the Dark Prince's hand, stopping the game.
He smiled, almost jokingly. "And if I refuse?"
The reply was sugar-sweet and venomous:
"Then Commorragh will be corrupted forever—my Carnival of Nightmares, a screaming temple of flesh and sin—until it is razed to dust.
This may be your last chance."
It truly might.
If the Slaaneshi tides seeded through Commorragh kept gnawing, the Dark City would be stripped to a worthless husk.
That was one of the reasons Eden had come in person—to stall Slaanesh and buy time.
Otherwise, the other Dark Gods—especially the Big Blue Bird—would shower the Dark Prince with bribes and arguments to abandon any bargain…and lay Commorragh to waste.
Better to see the Emperor's dream strangled in its crib than let it live.
What Eden didn't know was that Khorne and the Changer of Ways were already bargaining with Slaanesh; his appearance had only paused the talks.
The offer on the table was rich.
Under normal circumstances Eden would have taken it—after all, the coin was xenos souls, not human ones.
He would save vast resources and countless Imperial lives.
Trading that for the Dark City? Even the Emperor would sign.
But now the Drukhari were already Eden's property—and he had a Tyranid army perfectly suited to purge the lurking daemons.
"Sorry. This deal's not happening."
Once he confirmed the Redemption Hive Fleet had arrived in Commorragh's Webway, Eden refused without mercy.
And honestly, the day's real win was the exact location of that last Cronesword.
He pecked the Dark Prince, then, before any reaction could form, unraveled his soul-projection and bailed.
He left only a psychic after-whisper:
"Next time, for sure!"
The refusal blindsided Slaanesh, and wrath boiled up.
An angry tide surged through the throne hall, sweeping the red-hot, shattered Fallen Phoenix from the dais and pitching him to the floor below.
He lay there, limp—ruined by the blow.
"Eden… you'll regret this…"
The body Slaanesh wore dissolved.
The Dark Prince accepted the Blue and the Blood God's terms and ordered the embedded daemonic tides to unleash havoc on the Dark City.
And then the message arrived—
The Hope-Sun had brought the Swarm.
…
Commorragh, the Webway
Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh—
"Hurry—once the psy-beacons are lit, all reconnaissance teams pull out of the web nodes immediately!"
The air grew tense and airless; even breathing felt tight.
The Stormseers' temples throbbed.
White Scars strike teams dropped special psy-beacons across districts of Commorragh, then piled into white "Falcon" transports and burned for the exits.
They were bait—dangerous bait that called Tyranid bioforms down upon a target.
By Eden's order, all Imperial personnel were to evacuate the Dark City and stay clear until further notice.
"By the Emperor, this weapon's too damned dangerous."
One old White Scar muttered, eyes on the deepening shadow boiling over the city—the living thunderhead of bio-ships heaving through the sky.
Everyone knew the tide that blotted out the stars; it could drown sectors.
"Used right, these damned bugs are good for the Imperium too," another veteran replied.
The Imperium had tried to weaponize Tyranids before; one hot-blooded Inquisitor even steered a hive swarm into an Ork empire to let the two monsters tear each other apart.
Eden was playing a similar card now—drawing a hive to scour daemonic filth.
In truth, the beacons were a smokescreen—to keep the galaxy from seeing too much of the Redemption Hive-Ship's link to Eden.
Some things you do—you just don't admit.
Eden would never publicly acknowledge any direct tie to the Redemption Hive Fleet.
The White Scars were about to trade another quip when their comms fritzed; under the static they could hear chittering.
Even at this range, the Shadow in the Warp had begun to smother almost every psychic act and warp-touched transmission—making navigation or astropathic contact impossible. Even normal vox would sputter and die.
The bio-ships opened fire; a sleet of mycetic pods rained into the Dark City.
"Throne—are we even getting out of here?"
Everywhere the pods thudded down; from their hissing yellow fog, the swarm poured out—
A chitin tide.
They throttled the urge to fire, white-knuckling the throttles lest they provoke a riposte.
Mercifully, the beasts flowed toward the psy-beacons and left the White Scars' corridors of withdrawal untouched.
Polite bugs? It felt wrong to even think it.
"Everyone's clear? Good. Let the swarm eat the problem…"
...
Deep in the Redemption Hive-Ship—
Eden ended his audience with Slaanesh and loosed his armies.
They followed the beacon-trail, processing every scrap of Chaos taint—from daemons to befouled matter—down to the last drop.
Even the foul bloodstains the Drukhari left behind.
In short, the Swarm would be Commorragh's janitor—one pass to solve everything.
Especially the "Old Eight's" broods—those could devour any Chaotic substrate they found, licking the Dark City clean from pillar to pit.
Shiny floors, too.
That's the proper use of Tyranids: cleanup crew, waste management, industrial digestion. Cheap to feed, no payroll.
Far better than sending in Engineering—machines and materiel chewed up by attrition, wages and benefits to pay, hazard claims and deaths to compensate.
A fortune burned, every time.
From now on, any world or region fouled by Chaos or xenos corruption? Send in the Swarm first—let them chew out the core of the threat.
Then bring in the engineers.
"The Swarm's war-mode is just unfair…"
Eeden sighed, pleased.
Wearing Bladewing's flesh and mind, he spread the Hive Mind's pall across Commorragh, veiling it from all eyes and ears.
At the same time he micromanaged every brood, like an RTS omniscience over a living network—distributing forces through the web alleys and nodes.
Daemons were sealed and smothered.
Great bio-refineries reared up where needed; capillary towers thrust into the sky and plugged into the waiting bio-ships.
It happened fast. Chitin rolled over district after district; the Swarm crawled into every artery of the Webway city.
Soon, the sky rang with Tyranid screeches and daemon roars.
Webway, deeper down.
Heavy footfalls—then faster—running.
"Prince of Pleasure, how did these damned bugs get inside the Webway?"
A Slaaneshi Greater Daemon pounded along with its cohort—but behind them, the tunnels were black with churning Tyranids.
A flood.
He couldn't make sense of it.
Moments ago he'd received Slaanesh's command: use any means necessary to smash the Webway hub.
But before he could strike, the Swarm descended—numbers several times his own.
You couldn't fight that.
And these weren't main-line troops; they were daemons seeded for ambush and sabotage.
Not built for a pitched battle.
His forces broke. All they could do was run—hide—wait for the bugs to leave and resume the work.
The Tyranids would wreck the Dark City anyway; why die here?
A light bloomed ahead.
The Greater Daemon's hearts leapt. An exit to the hub.
From there he could use the web-gates, lose the pursuit.
He burst through, legion at his back—and froze.
The hub was swaddled in chitin.
Walls of meat and shell bristled with bio-cannons and whipping tendrils. Towering above, several bio-titans—each many times his height—glared down.
"It's… over."
Acid and plasma washed over him before despair had time to ripen.
The Redemption Hive Fleet fought with cold precision and murderous speed, sweeping Commorragh clean faster than any swarm before it.
It was inevitable.
This hive had studied Eden's General Staff down to the bone—grown special nodal synapse organisms to collate intelligence and command with crushing efficiency.
They had even innovated: techno-organic hybrids plugged into psychic networks, their wetware swollen to monstrous processing power.
"Looks like it's time to pop the champagne."
Report after report poured into Eden's mind. Two-thirds of the city was already clean. The rest had no strength to resist.
And the Dark Gods could no longer breach the Emperor's interdiction to send fresh daemons into the Webway.
That was the Black Throne's true value—keeping the Webway safe from incursion.
At this rate—
The purge would end in six weeks; in two months the Swarm would finish digestion and pull out.
Then Imperial personnel and engineering corps could move in.
In other words—the Imperium could essentially announce it had taken the prize it had coveted for millennia: a Webway metropolis—freedom from the tyranny of warp lanes.
The Emperor—sitting, figuratively, on two thrones at once—was grinning ear to ear.
With the situation locked, Eden slipped out of Bladewing and handed control to his special nodal commanders.
He visited the Emperor to suggest thickening the veil—just in case the Dark Gods did something desperate.
Then a stream of dossiers—foremost among them, the Victory Celebrations.
Humanity needed to celebrate a win this grand. The formal coronation would be held in the Webway to leverage its routes and gather more of the Imperium's great and good.
One by one, powerbrokers would arrive to witness—and to look upon the Emperor on His Black Throne.
They had to know He walked the material realm once more.
"Right—better ping old G, too. Wouldn't want him to miss the champagne."
Eden thought of Guilliman and opened a channel.
For a moment this momentous—and symbolic—event would bring the former Lord Regent, legendary Primarch, front and center. A clean handover—and new commissions to give.
…
Meanwhile
Murk Sector, near the Eye of Terror.
In his sanctum, the Primarch of Ultramar sweated through his robes.
"How could the Emperor's Sword be missing?"
Guilliman sat rigid, brow knotted, hairline somehow receding further.
He was a storm of nerves and sighs.
It was the symbol of Imperial legitimacy—his father's own blade—destined to rest in the hand of the Imperium's true ruler. (Lexicanum)
And yet, during a routine holy oil anointing, it had vanished from the armory—top to bottom searches finding nothing.
A failure of that magnitude—how could he ever face his father again?
As he brooded, his equerry, Felix, brought word of a new mess.
Some anonymous poster on the spirit-net was defaming the Primarch.
Normally, Guilliman could stomach criticism.
People need to speak.
But if Felix had brought it, the impact had to be serious.
Against his better judgment, Guilliman clicked—and found a sprawling screed, tens of thousands of words, roasting the Codex Astartes and himself alive.
Every line was a needle, every paragraph a boot on his face—right to the lungs.
"Bastard!"
He was already on edge; now he went red-hot.
He punched open the reply box—ready to lay into this nobody.
(End of Chapter)
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