Chapter 24: Spoils and Sacrifices
The battle ended as swiftly as it began.
With frightening precision and overwhelming strength, the Lizardmen swept through the remaining Tau forces and crushed the last resisting Dark Eldar. When the dust settled, they had claimed total victory. The cost was minimal on their side. The enemy? Routed, captured, or left in bloody ruin.
The spoils were substantial. Hundreds of Tau had been taken alive, along with several dozen Dark Eldar warriors. What made the haul even more valuable was that some of the Dark Eldar weren't clones or vat-grown monsters—they were natural-born kabalites, real individuals with actual names, memories, and combat experience.
But to the Lizardmen, that was all secondary.
The true prize was victory itself. And when the children of the Old Ones win, they celebrate.
Back at the jungle-temple, where the stone halls echoed with ceremonial chants and incense swirled in thick waves, the prisoners were tossed into a storage chamber and promptly ignored. They were bound in thick, sinuous vines that pulsed faintly—almost as if breathing.
The Tau, grim and silent, accepted their fates with the stoicism expected of the Ethereal-led. But the Dark Eldar?
They protested.
"You insult the sacred warriors of Khaine," one sneered, writhing against his bonds. "You think a rope can hold us?"
He tensed and pulled, his lean frame contorting. But the vine did not budge. It only responded—tightening slightly, almost affectionately, as if amused.
Another kabalite tried to brute-force his way out, dislocating both wrists in the process. Still, the vines held firm. Worse, they contracted, reacting to struggle like a predator closing its jaws.
"Don't bother," muttered another prisoner, his voice heavy with unease. "This thing is alive."
It was then that Isis entered.
She glided into the chamber like a queen through her court, staff in one hand, the hem of her robe dragging lightly along the ancient stone floor. Her presence brought a sudden silence to the room.
"If you plan to escape," she said with a soft smile, "you'll need to be prepared to cut off your own hands and feet. Only then might you have a chance."
Even the most hardened kabalites hesitated.
They weren't strangers to pain. They had endured surgeries without anesthetic, fought in arenas dripping with blood, and tortured others—and themselves—for art, pleasure, and ritual. But amputating themselves while still prisoners? Without any guarantee of escape?
No. Not even they were that desperate.
Besides, the odds outside were no better. Even if someone did get free, they'd have to make it past a garrison of cold-blooded Lizardmen bred for war—some of whom could literally vanish into thin air.
"Good," Isis said, her voice pleased. "That means you're not completely stupid."
As if to drive the point home, a group of chameleon stalkers shimmered into view at the edge of the room. The effect was chilling. One moment the corner was empty; the next, six Lizardmen in full wargear stood silently, watching.
The prisoners jumped.
Then, just as suddenly, the stalkers disappeared.
"Very good," Isis continued. "If you continue to behave, I can guarantee your temporary safety. Especially you, Dark Eldar. I have a task for you."
The Dark Eldar prisoners tensed. That tone. That interest. It wasn't good.
Isis's eyes narrowed.
"First question—do we have any females among you?"
Somewhere deep in the Immaterium, Slaanesh perked up.
The kabalites glanced at one another in wary silence. Their helmets were still on. No one wanted to be the first to volunteer. Eventually, a few hands slowly rose.
With a flick of her fingers, Isis sent their helmets flying through the air and clattering to the ground. She walked past them slowly, inspecting each face like a collector examining potential additions to a display case.
Her brow furrowed.
"Hmph. The quality is… lacking."
The insult landed like a slap.
Dark Eldar pride themselves on many things—grace, lethality, beauty. To be called subpar by a Lizardwoman with scales? That was too much.
One of the female kabalites snapped.
"If you think we're beneath your standards, why don't you go capture Lelys Hespera yourself?"
The room stilled. Everyone—even the Tau—knew that name.
Queen of the Arena. Matriarch of the Wych Cults. The undisputed champion of Commorragh's gladiatorial pits. Lethal, seductive, and utterly unstoppable.
A whispered legend.
A goddess in flesh.
The tales of her were as wild as they were true. A certain regent's consort once challenged her in the arena—and died for the mistake. Only after divine resurrection by the Death God himself did that would-be warlord rise again.
Even he couldn't beat Lelys one-on-one.
And her beauty? So potent it shattered the mental discipline of a captured Space Marine captain. Caused his super-enhanced heart to flutter. (Yes, seriously. This is canon-adjacent. Ask any 40K lore channel.)
She once promised: "Defeat me in battle, and I will grant you a personal reward."
No one knows what the reward is. Probably something deeply inappropriate and probably also fatal. Classic Dark Eldar.
"Then I'll count on you to help me find her," Isis said, pointing to the woman who'd spoken.
"Me?!" the kabalite's voice rose.
Her companions didn't say a word. They stepped back, quickly and without hesitation.
In Commorragh, betrayal was a way of life.
The prisoner—her name was Isa—sighed.
"I should've kept my mouth shut," she muttered.
Isis waved her wand. The vines loosened, slithering to the ground. Up close, they looked more like plant matter than cord—living, thorned, and faintly luminous.
"Come," Isis said. "And don't think about running. Unless you want a hole in your skull the size of a bolter round."
Isa didn't argue. She followed, barefoot and defeated, through the temple's corridors.
"What's your name?" Isis asked without looking back.
"…Isa."
Isis smiled. "Fitting."
Isa said nothing. Her hands flexed slowly. She could do it. A surge of speed, a leap, a twist—snap the witch's neck or slit her throat.
But she didn't move.
She couldn't.
All her anger, all her ambition—buried beneath instinctual terror. The kind only apex predators can inspire.
She remembered the first time she saw the beast.
And how it made her feel.
They reached the end of the corridor. Light spilled in from the outside world. Isa stepped forward—and stopped.
There, standing like a living mountain at the base of the temple, was the creature. The thing that had broken her army. Her spirit.
Godzilla.
She spoke the name in a whisper, barely audible.
"Godzilla…"
She wasn't sure if it was awe, or fear, or something deeper.
But in that moment, she knew one thing for certain.
She would never sleep peacefully again.
**********
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