"Sending Deville to handle this really was the right call. That hound is even more capable than I'd thought."
Eden studied the battle reports a moment longer, then allowed himself a thin, satisfied smile.
With his mad dog having seized the initiative and tearing out throats across the theater, he could move to his next step.
Once the Empire's high nobles understood what had become of the rebels, they would—surely—choose wisely.
He flicked off the hololithic display, in fine spirits.
Lifting a glass, he tasted the latest tribute from a certain garden world—a red wine said to be crafted by the purest young merfolk maidens.
It had a singular character.
Not bad. There is, indeed, a breath of maiden-sweetness and the sea about it.
Eden did have a weakness for regional specialties—especially the rare ones with a particular charm.
"Tarko, how long have those high nobles been… enjoying the hotel?" he asked, glancing at the secretary-general waiting at his side.
Not long ago, he'd had every high noble arriving through the webway bussed straight to a luxury complex jointly built by the Ministry of the Interior, the Scholastica Psykana, and the Inquisition:
the West Ice Vault Grand Hotel.
There they would receive very special hospitality—
Twenty-four-seven "protective custody" under armed security and total surveillance; bell service on demand; cudgel-massage therapy; facial treatments; dynamic thought audits; psyker-guided mental "recuperation"; deep-water immersion sessions…
And, of course, nutritionally balanced meals.
If you weren't a high noble, you didn't qualify for so exalted a package.
"Half a month," Tarko replied with a respectful bow. "More high nobles are still arriving to check in. It seems the Grand Inquisitor's 'advice' has had its effect.
"No one wishes to depart. They are all waiting for Your Majesty's arrival."
"It seems they are paragons of Imperial loyalty," Eden said, well pleased, topping off his wine.
"Then let them wait a while longer. Let them enjoy themselves. No one in the Empire is more lenient toward the nobility than I am.
"I trust they'll repay the favor."
There was no need to rush.
The flame was not yet hot enough; it needed time to simmer.
"Your Majesty is merciful," Tarko said, bowing again. "I'll notify the hotel to extend their stay, and assign additional Inquisitorial cadres to the premises."
Having settled the reports and the West Ice Vault arrangements, Eden rose and returned to the Sanctum's private chambers.
He intended to sample the Lacas Sector's tribute next.
—
Half a month earlier.
Dawn City, outer approaches.
Shuttles dropped from the atmosphere one after another, angling toward the colossal structure rising kilometers into the sky.
Aboard one such shuttle…
Several high nobles sat together in quiet, tight conversation.
They were principals of the Lacas Pan-Sector League—the Empire's eminent bloodlines.
"Didn't expect we'd be joining the feast this soon—and negotiating with the Empire's New Sun," said Drew Ovelia, drawing deeply on a Krieg Death Cigar. The potent compounds twined pain with pleasure until he floated.
An expensive Dawn City import—its Drukhari-esque bite had conquered him quickly.
The heir of House Korda frowned.
He disliked narcotics—especially anything that dulled the mind. His house held that such vices were unworthy of an elite administrator.
He thumbed on the sub-dermal filters in his face, scrubbing the air of every offending trace.
Many high nobles took similar augmetics, the better to screen out toxins—including those favored by assassins.
It sharply improved survival odds.
Catching his breath, he said, "It appears the Savior means to compromise—otherwise he'd have delayed talks.
"At least until he finished crushing the Ascolon Sector. Everyone's watching that front.
"But it's understandable: the Tyranid swarms are stirring again; the Necrons' Silent King has announced an expansion; dead zones are spreading, and several Imperial fleets have already been annihilated; and there's even an unknown Traitor Astartes warband in the field.
"He hasn't time to dally with us."
Korda's heir fixed Drew with a look. "My advice stands. The Lacas Pan-Sector League should begin pressure immediately and extract more concessions.
"We must seize the moment."
The other League delegates turned to Drew, waiting on the candidate-heir of House Ovelia to decide.
"You press too hard. We wait," Drew said, shaking his head once more. Korda's blood was ever-restless—ever chasing profit by risking the blade's edge.
Drew disliked that kind of hunger. Not that it hadn't worked—Korda had soared quickly and reaped unnatural margins.
Even so, something in Drew's gut was uneasy—
And that unease came from the Empire's New Sun. He could not name its source.
So the Ovelia heir chose patience.
He was ancient-Terran stock, elite-schooled; a high noble must read the board.
And at times, instinct mattered most.
The Ovelia archives bulged with histories. Drew loved to mine their dust for lessons—
One above all: when temptation comes, keep a clear head.
The webway's profits could drive men mad.
But in the hinge-hours of history, one wrong choice—or one step against the tide—could bury a house.
Caution first.
Having refused Korda, Drew fell silent.
The others said no more. They knew the limits of their own remits—and when to keep their counsel.
SCREE—SCREE—
The shuttle settled onto a landing plate. The ramp yawned open; the clamor outside rolled in.
They disembarked.
On foot, they took the two-kilometer promenade toward a severe, industrial-chic hotel structure.
The walkway was already packed—masses of high nobles from across the Empire.
Drew and his party had scarcely cleared the ramp when pressure fell on their lungs and a hush stole their breath.
Because lining both sides of the path were Titan god-engines, towering and hung with streamers and banners—as if welcoming honored guests from afar.
Even as decor, such giants weighed on every passerby.
"So this is the Empire's New Sun's strength," Drew murmured, drawing a long breath. He'd heard the rumors—yet the sight still shook him.
Across Imperial space, no one save the Savior could muster so many Titan Legios at once.
A demonstration, plainly enough.
But intimidation would not quench the nobles' hunger for the webway.
After the first shock, more than a few lips curled.
In their view, such pageantry was the Savior's last resort—a substitute for more effective measures he dared not take.
They walked on. Vigilant Emperor's Angels patrolled in force—Space Marines providing the cordon.
Soon they reached a vast Hall of Honors before the hotel.
Banners heavy with battle-honors lined the walls; holos and reliefs froze the Savior's wars in deathless scenes.
At center, a statue hundreds of meters tall depicted the Emperor crowning the Savior.
Elsewhere were statues and projections spanning the Savior's eras—
Governor of Urth executing traitors in public; bleeding the hosts of Chaos on Macragge; shattering Be'lakor in the Charadon theater;
standing before Tyranid tides at Erebus and Baal; crossing blades with a Bloodthirster of singular title…
"Perhaps the New Sun's will is more resolute—and cruel—than we imagine," Drew said quietly before a statue in which the Savior, as daemon-eater, tore a fiend in half, drenched in vile ichor.
He lingered before several recordings of the Savior executing traitors—
And his unease deepened to outright doubt.
Others in the League halted as well, studying their core member.
Korda's heir scowled.
"Lord Drew, what's this? Don't tell me you're cowed by props?
"This is exactly when we mustn't let theatrics sap our resolve."
Drew ignored him—staring instead at the hotel's gemstone-studded gates. For a heartbeat he saw a colossal maw.
His instincts whispered of the oncoming peril.
This hall, he realized, was the Savior's final warning.
The histories were clear: before the New Sun broke traitors, he offered a last chance.
Miss it—and only the thunder remained.
But… can the New Sun truly hold the board?
Sweat beaded on Drew's brow.
At last he chose—and opened a private channel to the League:
"Friends, change of plan. The League will not pressure the New Sun. We pivot—immediately—to goodwill.
"I have reason to believe he has both control of the field and the will to pay any price. Moreover, he has already moved.
"If we don't seize this chance, we'll be struck—and struck hard."
"Impossible!"
"The Venthyr League will never accept a decision like this!"
"Think it over—we should brief our families first."
The whiplash turn stunned them. To them it looked like capitulation—hands outstretched for chains.
It exceeded the authority of delegates.
"We have no time. Decide now," Drew said—and felt a lightness inside.
It was a huge risk—even grounds for punishment or losing his succession. But it was, to his mind, the best of bad ends.
An heir worthy of the name knows when to bend—to shield the blood.
"The Empire stands at a hinge of history. A storm is coming—and its eye is the New Sun.
"If we do not accept it—if we do not accept his light—we'll burn."
He knew, however, he had no right to compel allies—perhaps not even his own house.
"I can speak only for House Ovelia. If you trust me, offer him goodwill."
Division within the League was a price he would pay. This was life and death. Let each save themselves.
He ignored the protests and pinged the Ovelia fleet—ordering them to present one of the Lacas Sector's rarest tributes:
A carefully bred cohort of catfolk—civilized beast-kin.
Peerless attendants—and, when permitted, exquisite bedmates—who could bewitch any lord of the Empire.
They had been shipped to Dawn City to gift or sell to nobles for favors and bargains.
Now he would send all of them to the New Sun.
And pair the gift with a pledge: House Ovelia would unconditionally submit to the New Sun's will and accept the reforms and commercial codes.
Orders sent, Drew drew a breath and walked toward the hotel.
The hours ahead would decide his fate. If he was wrong, his end would be ugly.
But he trusted his read.
"Damn him—he means to split the League," Korda's heir hissed.
Like many others, he rejected surrender.
Yet some delegates fell in behind Drew and made the same choice.
…
Passing the threshold, Drew emerged into a hall of staggering luxury.
Seating bays spread in every direction; this single space could take a hundred thousand. Attendants wove between tables, serving the highborn.
Bands of Emperor's Angels patrolled the perimeter, keeping immaculate order.
"…Did I just pass through a webway fold?" Drew muttered, belatedly realizing the distances he'd crossed.
A moment later he noticed the comms were one-way: outside traffic flowed in; nothing flowed out.
There were no exits.
Oddly, that eased him.
"It's begun."
Without question, the Empire's New Sun—His Majesty the Savior—had started processing the nobility.
At least he had moved first. Perhaps his end would not be the worst.
Those arriving after them soon felt the same wrongness—fear for some, anger for others.
But they didn't riot. They sat.
The true verdict lay outside, where the Savior contested the nobles' power-bases across their demesnes.
Drew and those who agreed with him found seats and accepted the delicacies set before them.
Before long he spotted the uneasy Korda faction.
They kept to themselves—two camps, clear as a line on a map.
And now the nobles understood: they were prisoners.
A few tried to protest—or to resist—and received no answer.
"Our holdings span half the Empire's frontiers. If we stand together, the Savior can do nothing!"
"Exactly. Now, more than ever, we must not flinch!"
Thus began an even broader round of caucusing—alliances knitting and re-knitting, seeking mass enough to intimidate.
Some even mocked the Savior—claiming this "detention" only made their cooperation easier.
But others held their tongues. They had already chosen.
Drew merely watched as Korda's people canvassed the floor.
He, like many, kept one eye on the feeds from outside. That was the true arbiter.
If the Savior failed at war, he would not dare touch them.
Then the bulletins rolled in.
Among them:
The Savior had proclaimed a purge of noble treason in the Ascolon Sector, vowing to spare no traitor.
He had convened small merchant houses and families in another hotel to negotiate webway commercial regimes.
Uncomfortable—but expected. In their place, they would have done the same.
But when the Grand Inquisitor's results arrived, it was like a vortex torpedo detonating beneath the hall.
"Impossible!"
High nobles stared, disbelieving—then afraid—as if they had just glimpsed a shape that should not be.
After a brief flurry, a tomb-silence fell.
Many shook.
The Savior's mad dog was more merciless than rumor.
According to the reports, the Grand Inquisitor had erased the Wolter Dynasty with terrifying speed—without allowing unrest to even start.
Every Wolter bloodline—extirpated.
Then he ripped up every patron behind them—several ancient houses with close ties to Holy Terra.
They, too, went to the block. Hundreds of millions executed—root and branch.
Even scions serving as senior officials on Holy Terra were assassinated and put to death—senators among them.
He followed blood-charts across the galaxy, hunting every thread of kinship—and killed every single one.
Word had it he unleashed master seers to ensure nothing was missed—dragging out even after-branches a thousand years removed and ending them one by one.
Worse: he even dug up long-dead kinsmen who had turned to Chaos centuries prior—
and fed them sanctified bone-ash shells in public. They died screaming, protesting their innocence.
To reach them, the Savior's hosts blasted several Chaos lords' dominions to rubble. It was… savage.
One such turncoat howled, moments before his doom, that he had been disowned long ago; that for centuries he had not lifted a hand against the Imperium—
and still he died.
The Grand Inquisitor's net enclosed not only men, but pets, and even unhatched eggs, which were shaken to slurry.
Those ancient houses named rebel were scoured clean—no stray blood left behind.
And he did it all fast—so fast there was no time for anyone to react.
As those reports hit the hall, the Emperor's Angels moved.
They pulled hundreds of nobles straight from the crowd and executed them on the spot—for blood ties to the proscribed houses.
However faint the link, precious blood ran across the tiles.
Terror spread like fire through a grain-field. The nobles saw it clearly now: the Savior held the board; their advantage was gone.
No house would hazard the risk of being pulled up by the roots. Even if some still wished to resist, their blood-allies would stop them—
For fear of sharing their doom.
The blood-alliances were broken.
Before anyone could marshal a new thought, the hall's vox-casters carried the Savior's voice:
Everyone in the hotel would be investigated. Only once ruled loyal would they be released. Any resistance would be met with death.
Psykers and Emperor's Angels put down troublemakers at once. Nobles disappeared into the little black rooms one after another.
"I want to see His Majesty!" bellowed one noble as they dragged him away—snot and tears running. "I can negotiate! I can be loyal!
"Your Majesty the Savior—my glorious sun!"
The Angels did not so much as twitch. They shoved him through a door.
In the hall, nobles sat in their fear. Now and then a scream bled through the walls.
Inside, the subjects suffered the full measure—psychic and physical torments—
then were healed, and returned… to await judgment.
Some never returned.
Drew noticed the Korda cohort were escorted in—and never reappeared.
He, too, waited in the unknown—and could not stop the fear from seeping in.
"Drew Ovelia, Lacas Sector—candidate heir of House Ovelia. You will come with us."
Two Emperor's Angels—armor stinking faintly of fresh blood—loomed over him moments later, violence coiled about them like a scent.
The next second, they might well put him down.
(End of Chapter)
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