The dark-gold hover-limo slid into the grand hotel—
—an edifice that married the Aeldari's delicate aesthetics to Baroque splendor.
Lights blazed within. A magnificent gala was about to begin.
High above, crystal chandeliers hung like constellations, showering the hall in warm, softened light; along the walls, honor banners draped in solemn ranks.
Bathed in crystal sheen, the Savior's standards looked holier still—
—and in them guests' faces shone with excitement and expectation.
Everyone wore finery.
Gentlemen in perfectly cut tails, medals flashing or jeweled pins on their lapels.
Ladies in lace gowns that brushed the floor, hems whispering as they moved.
They had imitated the ornaments of Old Terra's nobility; it was like some ancient tableau come to life. Almost no machinery was visible in the hall.
Refreshing—novel.
Uniformed servers, immaculate, wove through the crowd with silver trays,
topping off the wine.
They had waited so long for this gala that they'd dreamed of scenes like it in their sleep.
For this was the banquet of His Majesty the Savior—the New Sun of the Imperium—held expressly to fete the realm's rising nouveaux nobles.
That august presence would grace the hall shortly.
A period band in one corner played a gentle air; piano's softness, violin's lilt, cello's depth, and flute's bright clarity braided into an elegant atmosphere.
Soon a special piano piece began, drawing many heads.
"By the Savior…
Such a unique, graceful style. I've never heard music like this anywhere in the Imperium. It's beautiful…"
The lady in the black gown was half-lost in it. She realized the style differed vastly from current Imperial music—
which was mostly sacred: solemn, mournful, or rousing, steeped in the Ecclesiarchy's tones.
This piece was calmer, perfumed with wistfulness and tender intimacy, soothing the heart
and inviting thought.
"My lady, it's a piano 'nocturne' by a composer of Old Terra—name: Chopin.
Tens of millennia old now.
His Majesty salvaged this lost cultural treasure—rarities beyond price."
Shahim drifted over with a glass of red.
The head of the Govindi Family—the Imperial Blood Free-Trader—had grown still more seasoned with the years.
His slightly timeworn, striking features drew a ring of ladies in a heartbeat.
"Ah—Lord Shahim."
They pricked up their ears at his explanation, faces bright with surprise that the piece was so ancient and august.
By Imperial tradition, the older and rarer, the holier and nobler—
—and the lost legacy of Old Terra from tens of millennia past? Nigh unique.
They were eager to memorize every word.
Shahim had been on the road for years across the Imperium's breadth and had only just returned to Dawn City.
He now oversaw not only the Free-Trader bureau but also parts of Commerce and the Webway route program—
—one of the gala's organizers.
He knew much, and he knew the newest culture seeded by the Savior.
Savoring the nocturne, he spoke of its song-like lyricism and poetic charm,
and mentioned that phonograph-grade sounders and vinyl disks of the series would be sold in Dawn City's emporia—
—with regional licenses granted to Free-Traders, which set many guests abuzz.
"Uncle Eden always knows how to speak to people's hearts—and their faith."
As traders hurried up to talk business, Shahim smiled.
Spreading "retro" culture was one of His Majesty's aims.
It had to be. Long war and suffering had made Imperial arts rigid and lifeless, bound at the hip to orthodoxy—
—a dead pool.
If the Imperium was to slough off decadence and ossified feudalism, fresh thought and culture had to strike it like a bell.
Inevitable: as economies revived, regions were rebuilt, and living standards rose, people shed some of their old despair.
They needed something new to seek. Religion alone would not suffice.
Clamp minds, and commerce cannot truly advance.
So His Majesty launched a movement he called the "Renaissance," using Old Terra's arts to unbind the mind.
It touched many fields—music, painting, architecture, letters, and more.
As for the Changer of Ways' temptations—paradoxically, research showed that harsh repression made souls easier to inflame.
So long as the movement did not go to wild extremes, there was little to fear.
Perhaps the Imperium's slide into rot, conservatism, and feudal reflexes had been one of the Changer's tricks all along.
Besides, with Sacred Towers rising across the regions, Chaos incursions would fall sharply.
After a few polite words with the traders, Shahim turned the topic to Imperial scenery and cuisine.
A night like this wasn't for deep commercial haggling.
Soon he and the guests were sampling wines from every corner of the realm.
Enormous cabinets displayed the vintages:
from garden-world vineyards, golden wines with a breath of sun and breeze in each sip; from ice-world stills, bracing spirits that made the head swim and the blood race; from agri-world orchards, ruby fruit wines—sweet but not cloying, fragrant and full.
Each bottle had been chosen with care—and might soon flow along trade lanes to every region.
"Praise the Savior~"
Yor bowed slightly to the Imperial Blood Free-Trader, then began to taste.
A wanderer-merchant from the Hawke System who had lately made his name, Yor savored each mouthful.
Besides sheer pleasure, he was picking possible lines to fold into his trade portfolio.
Small profits, perhaps—but habit is habit.
More importantly, he gave unqualified support to any wish or inclination of His Majesty.
That was Yor's secret.
Back during the Battle for Baal, Yor had been no more than a small Free-Trader, wealth amounting to two scabrous tubs.
Then the Savior's Commerce Ministry called traders to Baal to discuss a Tyranid development project.
It sounded absurd.
Though His Majesty promised to shield the convoy, Baal was a war zone. Going there was the tallest of orders—nine deaths for one life.
Many traders let fear have its way and refused the call.
Yor did not.
He knew the Savior—knew the Primarch-Hope—was merciful and generous, and would not waste a man's faithful effort.
Ignoring his clan's protests, he wagered most of his meager capital, crammed both battered ships with aid supplies, and toddled off to Baal.
He donated the matériel the war needed—and waited, sick at heart.
"At the time I half expected to die with Baal. But I believed the Savior would win…"
Thinking back, Yor took a long pull of spirits.
He glanced at two traders beside him. "We weren't betrayed. In the end we got the victory we'd prayed for, did we not?"
"We did—His Majesty's grace is upon us."
"Who would've thought the Tyranid development project was real? Those disgusting bugs, turned into human food."
The two traders sighed.
They had wagered right, won safety, audience, and authorizations.
A killing—of the profitable kind.
Off those first contracts—and ties with the Astra Militarum—Yor had become a notable magnate.
He sold canned bug-meat and many chitin by-products.
He now held more contracts with Commerce, owned several Tyranid-ranch worlds and sprawling hive-city plants,
and fielded a transport fleet.
He was riding high.
His only regret was this: the galactic trade center promised by His Majesty had gone quiet.
He had been granted a shopfront there.
He had nearly forgotten—until Commerce's invitation arrived, summoning him to Dawn City to discuss new ventures.
He came at once, thrilled.
Only on reaching the city the officials called "Dawn" did he grasp its scope and immensity.
He realized at once: Dawn City would be the future of Imperial commerce—the prize every house and Free-Trader must chase.
Any player shut out of Webway commerce would face extinction.
Fortunately, he was in.
A stir rippled through the crowd.
Yor looked up—
—and flushed red with excitement.
A tall figure in evening dress—regal, luminous, the brightest star in a night sky—
drew every gaze.
"Y-Your Majesty the Savior…"
Yor forced the words past his throat, fighting to maintain gala decorum.
"Uncle Eden, you haven't come keep me company in so long!"
Milia hurried up, elegantly taking the Savior's arm; the swing of her white skirt was a flower opening.
The Govindi twins' little sister was still all youthful sparkle—and statuesque besides.
She tipped her face up to Eden's chiselled profile, eyes shining, heart dancing—
and hugged him tighter.
"I'm here now, aren't I?"
Eden ruffled her soft gold hair and smiled.
With Milia on his arm, he moved into the hall, nodding to the guests as if this were any ordinary soirée.
The guests did not swoon as the nobles had; they kept their manners, their measure.
Eden knew: compared to the staged frenzy of high nobility, these people's loyalty to him was the truer metal.
And nights like this showed his closeness to them—
—a step nearer.
He greeted his way along. Many faces were first meetings.
That was enough. For him to be here at all was a statement. For them to see the Emperor in the flesh—
was a credential of the highest order.
"Master Yor—I remember you. We met at Baal."
Eden's eye caught on a familiar face; he paused to speak a few words.
This little trader had once piloted two rust-buckets in with a shipment of support matériel—memorable; afterward he'd peddled every flavor of bug-meat under the suns.
He had a fine reputation with the Guard.
Eden had tried several tins himself—tasty.
They did bug-meat right—distinctive, no worse than other Imperial meats.
"Y-yes, I was honored with an audience then."
Yor mastered himself, lifted his glass to toast his Savior—
swallowed, steadied, and seized the moment. "Your Majesty, the latest Hawke-System tins have been dispatched to your residence. If you have time to taste them,
we would be grateful for your judgment."
He knew how to use an opening—and how to sell.
Any word from the Savior would be rocket fuel for his trade.
"I'll taste them myself."
Eden nodded his assent.
He rather admired the can-seller. To raise an industry from tinned bug-meat—no small feat.
More importantly, the man had eye—and guts.
A thought struck Eden; he offered, "If you can manage it, buy property in Dawn City. Now is the time."
In his experience, once consensus crystallized around core-district real estate, values climbed and climbed—until the consensus broke.
Things that appreciate draw people like a magnet.
The Imperium was on the rise; this was likely the cheapest Dawn City would ever be. Miss the train now and you bled for it.
He let the hint fall and moved on, trading greetings.
After a time he danced one piece with Milia, then took his leave.
An Emperor's time is precious; his schedule was packed.
Yor watched the Savior's back and immediately began discussing Dawn City assets with the circle around him.
They agreed to grit their teeth and buy—
—even if it meant mere use-rights, with heavy annual taxes.
—
Savior's Sanctum.
Eden sifted the reports on his desk:
projected revenues for Dawn City; metrics on Webway construction; a great bolus of resources and wealth paid in.
Grand Inquisitor operations had uprooted rebel noble houses across the Imperium, confiscating their hoarded treasure of millennia—
—worth a good ten thousand years of Ultramar's Five Hundred Worlds in taxes.
And then there were the construction levies and fines on the high nobility—tens of times the confiscations.
Enough to bankroll Phase II in Dawn City.
Residential property sales, too—especially in the housing districts—had become a major, steady income stream.
Those funds were earmarked to build up the Misty Sector—above all the Dark Angels' territories and worlds skirting the Eye of Terror.
The Redemption Fleet—and Guilliman and the Khan—were already convening councils of war.
Soon the legions of the Imperium would scour those regions clean.
Unlike the rough recapture of the Unbowed Crusade, this time it would be a carpet-sweep—an irresistible hammerblow.
Let humanity's enemies feel the Awe of the Imperium—and the Savior's wrath.
He would ride with this expedition himself, alongside three Primarchs—
—the strongest host the Imperium had fielded in millennia.
No matter whether a world had fallen to open war or deep corruption—if there was the faintest bud of it, the hosts would scour from core to crust.
No sneak-thief, no gutter-cult would be spared.
They would make the New Imperium's prestige ring from one end of the Misty Sector to the other—win centuries of peace—make every foe of Man quail at the name!
Afterward, the Ministry of Works would move in to rebuild—and raise Sacred Towers.
The people would be fed, and lifted.
Eden's brow furrowed over a line of figures.
"Hss—why so low? Ill-omened start. I'm about to march—and this is what I get to chew on…"
(End of Chapter)
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