In the Governor's Former Secret Chamber
The air, saturated with intoxicating perfumes and the metallic smell of dried blood, vibrated with rival powers. Be'lakor's clone, a form of shadow and malice, slowly circled Mother, now fully revealed as an emissary of Slaanesh. Their attention was fixed on one and the same target: Julius Braveheart.
"A fascinating enigma, is he not?" began Be'lakor, his voice a cavernous purr. "His conquests are but babblings on the galactic scale, and yet... He already controls several worlds. He does not pillage them, he integrates them."
Mother brushed the rim of a goblet of black wine with a delicate finger. "And those alliances... Aliens. Abhumans. The Imperium abhors them, exterminates or enslaves them. He offers them a place. He negotiates. It's an adorable weakness. A naivety to exploit."
Be'lakor let out a scoff that made the candle flames tremble. "A weakness? Look deeper, seductress. It is a strength of a perverse nature. His people do not merely fear him, they love him. They revere him. He provides care, builds cities, terraforms worlds... He poses as a shepherd, not a butcher. That forges a loyalty far more tenacious than fear."
"Precisely!" exclaimed Mother, her violet eyes sparkling. "That thirst for order, for perfection, for progress... it is a thirst, like any other. It can be channeled, twisted. Imagine what a being like him could accomplish under the aegis of the Prince of Pleasure! The perfections he would seek, the ecstasies of absolute creation, the exquisite pain of failure... I want to offer him to my Master. In return, He will raise me to a Daemon Prince. I sense that this soul, so bright, so disciplined, would please Him infinitely."
Be'lakor stopped abruptly, his shadow stretching menacingly against the wall. "Your master is but an idle debauchee! He wants a toy, a tortured artist. I see a strategist. A builder. A king. The Imperium rots from within, mired in its own stupidity. This Julius... he embodies a new kind of threat. A hope. And there is nothing more delicious to corrupt than hope."
He moved closer, his presence suffocating. "He will not bend the knee for promises of fleeting delights. But for a kingdom? For an empire of darkness stretching across the ashes of the Imperium? For true, eternal power, shared with the First-Damned... There, he might listen. I will offer him what the failed Emperor never could: a humanity united under a banner of absolute power. Mine."
Mother burst into crystalline laughter, but her eyes were cold. "You speak like a spurned warlord, Be'lakor. You think he will crave power for power's sake? Look at him! His power, he already uses it to heal and build. His thirst is deeper, more... personal. It is a thirst for meaning, for fulfillment. Slaanesh can quench it like no other. I will show him the infinite pleasures of perfect creation, of pure emotion, of absolute sensation. He will become the most magnificent of champions, and I, his benefactress, will be raised by his side."
"You deceive yourself," growled Be'lakor, a glint of annoyance in his ember-like eyes. "You wish to use him as a stepping stone. I will offer him a throne. Which do you think a man who builds empires will choose? Your eternal bacchanal, or a scepter forged from the heart of dead stars?"
"We shall see, Fallen Shadow," Mother whispered, a venomous smile on her lips. "The wager is made. But remember: you do not seduce a king with another kingdom. You seduce him by touching his soul. And his soul... I already sense its curiosity."
Their dialogue, woven from contempt and covetousness, ended in a heavy silence. Two powers of Chaos, two diametrically opposed corruptions, were converging on the same man. One wanted to make him a dark vassal, the other a masterpiece of perverted pleasure. The battle for Julius Braveheart's soul had begun, and it was being fought first in the minds of these daemons.