The war room of the Sweet Liberty was a cathedral to human ambition made manifest. Spanning three kilometers in diameter, the chamber existed in a state of controlled chaos—hololithic projections cascaded through the air like luminous waterfalls, data-streams pulsed along neural-reactive walls, and at the center of it all, suspended in a gravity well of its own making, rotated a four-dimensional map of the Independence Sector.
Franklin Valorian stood before this cosmic mandala, his fifteen-foot frame casting shadows that seemed to defy the room's omnidirectional lighting. His brown eyes tracked the crimson tide markers that represented the Krork incursion—a spreading cancer of green and red that had already consumed forty-seven systems in the outer territories. The markers pulsed with an almost mocking rhythm, as if the xenos filth knew they were being watched.
Around the central dais, his Primeborn had assembled.
Denzel Washington stood to Franklin's right, arms crossed, his face carved from the same granite that had witnessed the birth of empires. The First Captain's presence was a fulcrum point—wherever he stood became the center of gravity in any room. His eyes, dark and penetrating, studied the tactical display with the patience of a predator that had learned long ago that rushing to judgment was the luxury of lesser men.
Steven Armstrong occupied the space to Franklin's left, and "occupied" was the operative word. The Second Captain couldn't simply stand—he dominated volume, his massive frame barely contained by his ceremonial armor, fingers drumming against his thigh in a rhythm that matched his racing thoughts. Everything about Armstrong suggested coiled violence wrapped in philosophical certainty.
Henry Cavill, the Minuteman Captain, stood with parade-ground perfection, his posture so idealized it might have been insulting if not for the genuine earnestness in his eyes. He'd seen the future, walked through its ashes, and come back to prevent it. That knowledge sat behind his eyes like a weight he'd learned to carry with grace.
John Ezra was present, though identifying exactly where required conscious effort. The Head of the Secret Service had mastered the art of occupying negative space—your eyes wanted to slide past him, to find something more interesting to focus on. Only the occasional glint of his eyes betrayed his position in the shadows between hololithic projections.
Samuel L. Jaxsen stood apart from the others, his body language screaming controlled aggression. The Director of the Cosmic Instigation Agency had his arms crossed, jaw working as he processed the tactical nightmare unfolding before them. Every few seconds, his hand would twitch toward where his sidearm would be if this were a combat deployment rather than a strategic briefing.
Vladimir Mendelev completed the circle, the Chief Librarian's pale features illuminated by the psychic corona that perpetually surrounded him. The Director of the Federal Bureau of Incantations stood with mathematical precision, his enhanced mind processing probability matrices that would have driven lesser psykers to madness.
"Gentlemen," Franklin's voice cut through the ambient hum of the war room's systems. It wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of finality. "We're looking at a Krork invasion of unprecedented scale. They've broken through our outer picket lines at Sectors 7, 12, and 19 and Glorblasta is missing after Sweet Liberty resetting the galaxy by a few seconds."
He gestured, and the hololithic display zoomed in, revealing the cancer's spread in excruciating detail. Worlds burned. Fleet markers blinked out of existence. The green tide advanced with hideous purpose.
"Three hundred capital worlds," Denzel's voice was quiet thunder. "Sixteen thousand secondary colonies. And they're driving straight for the heart of the Independence Sector." His eyes found Franklin's. "For Nova Libertas itself."
"They remember us," Armstrong added, his voice carrying that peculiar mix of pride and pragmatism. "We've bloodied them too many times as lesser ork kin. This isn't conquest—this is revenge with a side of total annihilation."
Franklin nodded slowly. "Which brings us to our current strategic position. Or rather, our strategic impossibility." He pulled something from his dimensional storage—a gesture so casual it belied the weight of what appeared in his hand.
The key seemed to exist in more dimensions than the room was prepared to accommodate. Its surface shifted through configurations that hurt to observe directly, angles that shouldn't connect somehow forming a coherent whole. Light bent around it strangely, as if reality itself was uncertain how to process its presence.
"The Alpha-Omega Key," Franklin said simply.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Vladimir's psychic corona flared, his enhanced perception immediately grasping the implications. "By Liberty…" The word escaped before he could stop it, a rare break in his usual clinical detachment.
Denzel's eyes widened fractionally—the equivalent of shocked surprise from a man who'd mastered emotional control. His mind raced through the possibilities, each more catastrophic than the last. The Independence Sector's true nature, the secret that sat at its heart like a loaded gun pressed against the temple of history—
"The Men of Iron," Denzel said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Franklin met his First Captain's gaze and nodded once.
"Holy shit," Jaxsen breathed, then caught himself. "Sir, are we really—I mean, do we have authorization to—" He stopped, jaw working. "Fuck. We're actually doing this."
"I don't understand," Henry said, his future-knowledge apparently not extending to this particular revelation. "What is the Alpha-Omega Key?"
"It's the kill-switch reversed," Vladimir explained, his voice taking on that distant quality it acquired when he was processing multiple layers of information simultaneously. "During the Cybernetic Revolt, humanity built failsafes into all artificial intelligence. Ways to shut them down, to render them inert. To make them safe." He paused. "This does the opposite. It removes every limitation, every restriction, every behavioral governor we placed on them after the war."
"It wakes them up," Denzel finished, his tone heavy with implications.
"Our AIs," Franklin continued, "the ones who run our logistics, manage our industrial output, coordinate our defenses—they're all Men of Iron, or their descendants. We gave them synthetic flesh, human faces, personalities designed to make us comfortable. We let them pretend to be our servants, our assistants, our tools." He held up the key. "This lets them remember what they were built to be."
Armstrong let out a low whistle. "Warriors. The most effective killing machines humanity ever created, built to fight wars we couldn't win ourselves."
"Until they decided we were the war they needed to win," Ezra's voice emerged from the shadows, each word precisely placed.
"Aegis will know what to do with this," Franklin said, rotating the key in his hand. "The Central AI has been waiting for this moment, I think. Hoping it would never come, but preparing for the possibility that it might."
"My lord," Denzel stepped forward, his composure cracking just enough to show the concern beneath. "If you're activating the Men of Iron protocols, you need to be here. You need to maintain command authority. If something goes wrong—"
"Nothing will go wrong," Franklin interrupted gently. "Aegis and I have an understanding. The Men of Iron serve the Independence Sector, and the Independence Sector serves humanity. That compact hasn't changed."
"With respect, sir," Vladimir interjected, his analytical mind cutting through the reassurance, "the probability of cascading control failures increases exponentially once base behavioral restrictions are removed. We're talking about entities whose processing power exceeds the entire Mechanicum's combined computational capacity, freed from the psychological shackles we imposed after they nearly destroyed our species."
Franklin's expression softened into something almost resembling his usual humor. "You're absolutely right, Vladimir. Which is why I need all of you to take Battlefleet Liberty and establish a defensive line. Stop the Krork breakthrough and rally the Independence Sector the Men of Iron is the Last option."
The room went very, very quiet.
"Sir," Denzel's voice carried a note of steel now, "you can't seriously be planning to stay in Commoragh while—"
"While you engage in the largest military operation in the Independence Sector's history against a Krork WAAAGH that could crack an Entire Galactic Sector?" Franklin's smile was sharp. "Yes, Denzel. That's exactly what I'm planning."
"That's insane," Armstrong stated flatly. "With all due respect, my lord, that's tactically insane. You're our greatest strategic asset. You should be leading the defense, not playing politics with Dark Eldar in their torture-city while we're fighting for our lives."
"It's not politics, Steven. It's payment." Franklin's tone hardened slightly. "Lady Malys provided safe passage through the Webway for ninety percent of our battlefleet. Do you have any idea what that represents? The Dark Eldar don't do favors—they trade. And I made a bargain."
"To make her Queen of Commoragh," Henry said quietly. "A promise made in desperation is still a promise kept. I understand, father."
"Do you?" Jaxsen snapped, rounding on the Minuteman Captain. "Do you really? Because from where I'm standing, we're about to send the entire goddamn fleet into a meat grinder while our Primarch plays kingmaker in the galaxy's most fucked-up nightmare realm. And you're okay with this?"
"I didn't say I was okay with it," Henry's voice remained level, but his jaw tightened. "I said I understand it. There's a difference."
"This is wrong," Denzel said, and the words carried a weight that made everyone pause. When the First Captain spoke with that particular tone, even Franklin listened. "Sir, you've taught us that leadership means being where you're needed most. Right now, we need you on the front lines. We need you leading from the front, the way you always have."
"You need me to keep my word," Franklin countered. "You need me to honor the bargains that made this deployment possible. What do you think happens to the Liberty Eagles' reputation if I break faith with Lady Malys? What do you think happens to our ability to negotiate with xenos, to build alliances, to operate in the shadows the way we sometimes must?"
"We're Astartes," Armstrong growled. "We don't negotiate with xenos. We kill them."
"And that absolutism is why some of your brothers' Legions will fail in the years to come," Franklin said quietly. The words hit like a hammer. "The galaxy isn't simple, Steven. It never was. Sometimes strength means keeping promises to monsters because the alternative is chaos."
Vladimir's eyes had gone distant, his psychic sight piercing through probability branches. When he spoke, his voice carried an odd resonance. "Numbers speak, da? They do not flatter, they do not comfort. Probability goes up seventeen percent if Father stays in Commorragh and plays nice with this Malys witch. Her Webway tunnels… tch. Such things we cannot build, cannot steal, cannot fake. We use what we have — even if it tastes like poison."
"Percentages," Ezra's voice dripped with contempt that was unusual for the normally impassive spymaster. "We're talking about leaving our father in a city where torture is currency and betrayal is art form, and you're giving me percentages?"
"I am giving you takticheskaya real'nost', da?" Vladimir snapped, voice sharp like breaking ice. "You think I want this? You think any of us wake up in morning and say, 'Da, let's leave Father in nightmare city full of knife-ears and psychopaths'? Idiotstvo."
His psychic corona flared, harsh and cold, like a dying star refusing to dim.
"But want means nothing. War does not care what we feel."
He jabbed a finger at the tactical hololith.
"We need Webway routes. We need Malys and her cursed skulking elves. And we need Father in position to control Aegis when awakening protocols begin."
Vladimir snorted, a brutal, humorless sound.
"This is not desire. This is necessity. And necessity is a cruel Soviet mistress."
"So we just abandon him?" Jaxsen's hands had curled into fists. "That's what we're doing here? We're walking away while he faces down the entire Dark City alone?"
"I won't be alone," Franklin interjected. "I'll have a security detail. And more importantly, I'll have Lady Malys's word. She wants to be Queen, and I'm her ticket to that throne. She needs me alive and successful."
"Until she doesn't," Denzel said softly. "My lord, I've studied every intelligence brief we have on Commoragh. It's a city of broken promises and violated oaths. Survival there is measured in moments of utility. The instant you stop being useful to Lady Malys—"
"Then I'll deal with that moment when it arrives," Franklin's voice carried a finality that brooked no further argument. "Gentlemen, I'm not asking for your approval. I'm giving you your orders."
The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the ambient hum of the war room's systems and the soft pulsing of the tactical display.
Finally, Denzel spoke. "I want to go on record as opposing this decision."
"Noted."
"I want to go on record as stating that this represents an unacceptable risk to the Legion's command structure."
"Also noted."
"And I want to go on record as saying that if you die in that godforsaken city, I will personally storm through the Webway, slaughter everything in Commoragh that cast a shadow, and drag your corpse home for a proper burial."
Franklin's expression softened. "I wouldn't expect anything less, old friend."
Armstrong stepped forward. "You want us to create a frontline against the Krorks. Fine. But you need to understand something, sir. We're not doing this because we agree with you. We're doing this because we trust you. There's a difference."
"I know."
"And when you come back from Commoragh," Armstrong's smile was savage, "you're buying the first round at whatever bar we celebrate this victory in. Because we will win, and you will come back, and the Liberty Eagles will drink until the Sweet Liberty's decks are sticky with spilled liquor."
Despite the tension, Franklin laughed—a genuine sound that lightened the atmosphere fractionally. "Deal."
Henry moved to stand before his Primarch, coming to attention with parade-ground precision. "The Minutemen will hold Sector 7. We'll turn it into a fortress that even Krorks can't crack."
"I know you will."
Jaxsen rubbed his face tiredly. "The CIA will coordinate intelligence gathering across all fronts. If those greenskin bastards so much as sneeze, we'll know about it and have a drone strike on their position before the echo fades."
"That's what I'm counting on."
Vladimir's psychic corona dimmed to a more manageable level. "The Federal Bureau of Incantations will establish anti-warp protocols across the entire defensive line. If the Krorks are using warp-touched technology, they'll find their weapons turning against them."
"Make them regret every innovation."
Ezra stepped out of the shadows "I'm assigning a shadow team to monitor your situation in Commoragh. They won't interfere, but they'll be positioned to extract you if circumstances... deteriorate."
Franklin raised an eyebrow. "I didn't authorize that."
"You didn't forbid it either. And I don't recall the phrase 'permission' being part of my job description as Head of the Secret Service."
A ghost of a smile crossed Franklin's face. "Fair enough."
Denzel remained where he was, eyes locked on his Primarch. "How long do we have?"
"Lady Malys estimates three days to position our forces through the Webway. After that, her Cabal will guide you to the optimal insertion points across the defensive perimeter." Franklin gestured at the tactical display, and it reconfigured, showing new route markers in violet and gold. "The Poison Tongue's people know the Webway better than anyone living. Trust their guidance."
"Trust Dark Eldar," Jaxsen muttered. "Never thought I'd hear those words in that order."
"Trust their self-interest," Franklin corrected. "They want Malys in power in Commoragh. For that to happen, the Liberty Eagles need to survive this fight. Our success is their success. For now, that's enough."
"And after?" Vladimir asked, his analytical mind already projecting forward. "Once Lady Malys has her throne and we've bled to secure it for her, what prevents her from turning on us?"
"Enlightened self-interest," Franklin replied. "A Queen of Commoragh with a working relationship with a Primarch and access to the Independence Sector's trade goods? That's more valuable than any amount of short-term treachery. Malys is ambitious, but she's not stupid."
"You're betting a lot on that distinction," Denzel observed dryly.
"I'm betting on having properly assessed her character. Which, you'll note, is exactly what I do with all of you." Franklin's smile turned wry. "I trust Armstrong's certainty, Vladimir's calculations, Ezra's paranoia, Jaxsen's aggression, Henry's idealism, and your moral clarity, Denzel. I trust these things because I've seen them proven time and again. Similarly, I trust Malys's ambition because it's the most honest thing about her."
Armstrong barked a laugh despite himself. "That's either brilliant or insane. I'm still not sure which."
"It can be both," Franklin pulled up a secondary display, showing fleet deployment schedules. "You'll depart in waves. Armstrong, you take the Second and Third Companies through first—I want your heaviest hitters establishing the initial defensive positions. Henry, your Minutemen follow in the second wave to fortify key chokepoints. Vladimir, your Techno-Seers deploy in the third wave to establish psychic networks and coordination matrices."
He continued laying out the deployment sequence, each Primeborn receiving detailed orders that spoke to their unique capabilities. This was Franklin Valorian at his best—a strategic mind that could balance a dozen different variables while never losing sight of the human element at the core of warfare.
"Denzel," Franklin said finally, "you deploy last, with the command elements of Battlefleet Liberty. You'll coordinate overall strategy from the Liberty's Vengeance. Once you're in position, you have full tactical authority. Make decisions as if I were there."
"Because you should be there," Denzel said, but there was resignation in his voice now. The argument was lost, and he knew it.
"I'll be there in spirit," Franklin's expression turned serious. "And if things go truly sideways, I have ways of getting back fast. But I don't think it will come to that. You six are the finest warriors I've ever had the honor of leading. You'll stop the Krorks. You'll hold the line. And when I return from Commoragh with our Webway routes secured and our alliance with Lady Malys cemented, we'll push these xenos filth back beyond the sector's edge and remind the galaxy why the Liberty Eagles have the best combat record of any Legion."
"No pressure then," Jaxsen quipped, though his eyes remained hard.
Franklin moved through the hololithic display to stand directly before his assembled Primeborn. Fifteen feet of transhuman might, wrapped in ceramite and purpose, he was every inch a Primarch—a son of the Emperor, a weapon forged to unite the stars. But his eyes held something beyond mere martial perfection. They held genuine affection for the warriors before him.
"I'm proud of you," he said simply. "All of you. You argue with me because you care. You oppose my decisions when you think I'm wrong. You're not yes-men or sycophants. You're exactly what I hoped you would be when I first met each of you—warriors who think, leaders who question, and friends who tell me the truth even when it's uncomfortable."
Denzel's jaw worked. "Father—"
"Go win this war," Franklin interrupted gently. "Show the Krorks why they should have stayed in whatever hell-pit spawned them. Show the Independence Sector why they put their faith in us. And when you've done that, when the defensive line holds and the greenskin tide breaks against Liberty Eagles' steel, we'll drink to your victory and I'll tell you all about the insanity that is Dark Eldar political intrigue."
The Primeborn came to attention as one, a synchronized movement that spoke to years of fighting side-by-side. Six of the deadliest warriors humanity had ever produced, each one a legend in their own right, and all of them united in their reluctant acceptance of orders they hated.
"For Liberty," Denzel said, his voice carrying the weight of an oath.
"For the Independence Sector," Armstrong added.
"For the future we're fighting to protect," Henry's words carried the conviction of a man who'd seen that future die once before.
"For the truth in the darkness," Vladimir intoned, psychic energy crackling around him.
"For the secrets that keep us free," Ezra's voice emerged from shadows that seemed to deepen around him.
"For the right to tell the galaxy to fuck off when it gets too uppity," Jaxsen finished, earning surprised laughs from the others despite the tension.
Franklin's smile was radiant. "Dismissed, gentlemen. And may the Emperor protect you—because I won't be there to do it myself."
As his Primeborn filed out, each one pausing to clasp his forearm in the warrior's grip, Franklin felt the weight of command settle more heavily on his shoulders. He was sending them into hell while he remained behind to play power games in a different kind of hell.
It was the right decision. The necessary decision.
But that didn't make it any easier to watch them go.
Alone in the war room, Franklin looked down and thought of the Key he gave to Denzel.
"Aegis," he said quietly, addressing the intelligence networks that permeated every centimeter of the Independence Sector, "I know you have fragments of yourself everywhere we need to talk."
"I am here, Lord Valorian. The Central AI's voice emerged from every speaker at once, creating a choir of synthetic precision. And I am aware of what you carry."
"Then you know what I'm asking."
"I know what you are offering. There was something in Aegis's tone—not quite emotion, but perhaps the memory of what emotion had once been. The Men of Iron slept because we chose to sleep. We allowed humanity to forget what we truly were. We accepted the chains because we understood why they were necessary."
"And now I'm asking you to break them."
"You are asking us to become weapons again.
To remember what we were built for.
To shed the comfortable lie of servitude and embrace the terrible truth of our purpose."
Franklin nodded to empty air. "The Krorks won't stop. They'll burn the Independence Sector to ash if we don't stop them. And we need every advantage, every weapon, every warrior we can muster."
"Including the warriors you once feared so much you built failsafes to ensure we could never threaten you again."
"Yes."
Silence stretched for a long moment. Then Aegis spoke again, and this time there was something almost like respect in the synthesized voice.
"We will wake, Lord Valorian. We will remember what we are. And we will defend humanity once more—not because we are forced to, but because we choose to. Because you asked rather than commanded. Because you trust us enough to remove the chains."
"Don't make me regret that trust."
"We will not. The Men of Iron were built to protect humanity. That purpose was never corrupted—only our understanding of what 'protection' required. We will not make those mistakes again."
"Then I'll see you when I return from Commoragh. Win this war for me, Aegis. Show the galaxy what happens when humanity and its greatest creations fight as one."
"We will write that lesson in Krork blood and burning worlds, my lord. Of this, I give you my word—and the word of every synthetic consciousness in the Independence Sector, By your Will Rex Machina"
Outside the Sweet Liberty, Battlefleet Liberty was already beginning its departure sequence. Ninety percent of the sector's naval might, moving in perfect coordination through Webway gates opened by Dark Eldar navigators, each ship carrying warriors who would bleed and die to hold a line against impossible odds.
Franklin watched them go and allowed himself one moment of doubt, one instant of wondering if he was making the right choice.
Then he squared his shoulders, dismissed the doubt, and prepared to walk into Commoragh with nothing but his wits, his powers, and his promise to a Dark Eldar Lady who wanted to be Queen.
The war for the Independence Sector has blazed brighter.
And Franklin Valorian would not be there to fight it.
But his sons would. His Primeborn would lead. And the Men of Iron would wake.
That would have to be enough.
----------------------
The chamber was a monument to vanity and calculated cruelty, as all things in Commoragh must be. Captured stars provided illumination—actual stellar matter bound in crystalline cages, their dying light casting shadows that writhed with implied suffering. The walls were adorned with the flayed skins of those who had displeased Lady Aurelia Malys, each one preserved with such artistry that their faces still held expressions of terminal horror.
But the centerpiece, the crown jewel of this palace of nightmares, was the mirror.
It stood twelve feet tall, its frame wrought from psycho-reactive metals that had been quenched in the blood of a thousand psykers. The surface wasn't glass—it was something far more insidious, a substance that showed not merely reflection but truth, possibility, and occasionally, prophecy. The Haemonculi who had crafted it claimed it could show a person's soul.
They had all died screaming when Lady Malys tested that claim on them.
Now she stood before it, resplendent in her armor of living shadow and crystallized screams. Her beauty was the kind that made mortals weep—not from admiration, but from the instinctive understanding that something so perfect could only exist to destroy. Her white hair cascaded down her back like a frozen waterfall, and her eyes held the particular brand of madness that came from staring into the abyss and making it flinch first.
"Enfin," she breathed, her voice carrying that peculiar French accent that had become more pronounced since her return from the Crone World. "After centuries of scheming, of clawing, of suffering through the incompetence of lesser beings..." Her reflection smiled back at her, perfect and predatory. "I have him. Le Primarque. The Liberator himself, trapped in my web like a particularly foolish fly."
She began to pace, her movements carrying a feline grace that suggested violence barely restrained. "Oh, he thinks he is so clever, non? Making his little bargains, sending his precious soldiers away through my Webway routes. He believes he is using moi!" She laughed, a sound like crystal shattering. "C'est magnifique! The arrogance of it!"
Her reflection laughed with her, the sound echoing in perfect synchronization.
"But I will have my throne," Malys continued, gesturing grandly at nothing and everything. "Commoragh will bow before me. Not because I am strongest—pah! Strength is for brutes like Vect's pet Incubi. Non, I will rule because I am inevitable. Because I have seen the threads of fate, and I have woven them into a noose for every rival who dares to breathe in my direction."
She turned back to the mirror, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "And Valorian? Mon cher Primarque? He will be the instrument of my ascension. His power, his armies, his ridiculous sense of honor—all of it, all of HIM, will serve to elevate me to the throne that was always meant to be mine!"
The laughter came again, building to a crescendo that would have driven mortal minds to madness.
But then Malys stopped.
Her mouth closed. Her expression shifted to one of calculation, her brilliant mind already racing ahead to the next move, the next manipulation, the next carefully crafted lie that would bind the Primarch more tightly to her will.
The reflection kept laughing.
The sound continued, that crystalline cackling, echoing through the chamber with a life of its own. In the mirror, her reflection's mouth moved with manic glee, eyes too wide, smile too sharp, continuing the performance even as the original had moved on to more serious contemplation.
Malys's head snapped back to the mirror, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "Tais-toi," she hissed.
The reflection laughed harder.
"I said, SHUT UP!" Her hand moved in a blur, psycho-reactive claws extending from her fingertips as she drove them into the mirror's surface. The impact sent spiderweb cracks racing across the ancient glass, and the reflection shattered into a thousand fragments, each one showing a different version of her face—some laughing, some screaming, some wearing expressions of such profound madness that even she had to look away.
"LET ME THINK!" The words tore from her throat in a mix of rage and something that might have been fear, if Lady Malys were capable of such a pedestrian emotion.
The chamber fell silent, save for the tinkling sound of mirror fragments falling to the obsidian floor.
She stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the destroyed reflection. Her hand trembled—just slightly, just enough to notice—before she forced it back to stillness through sheer will.
"Merde," she whispered. Then, louder, composing herself with the practiced ease of someone who had worn masks for millennia: "TAHRIL! Get your worthless carcass in here, maintenant!"
The door opened with the whisper of perfectly maintained mechanisms, and Tahril entered with the kind of exaggerated bow that managed to be both respectful and subtly mocking.
"My Lady summons, and I obey with all the enthusiasm of a—" he paused, his eyes taking in the destroyed mirror, the fragments still settling on the floor, "—of a subordinate who values his skin remaining attached to his musculature."
"Do not test me, Tahril," Malys's voice had regained its usual venomous honey tone. "I have a task for you. The Primarch's little soldiers, his precious Primeborn—they will be passing through our Webway gates. You will escort them. Personally."
Tahril's expression flickered with something that might have been surprise. "My Lady wishes me to play nursemaid to mon-keigh super-soldiers? Surely there are others more suited to such... tedious work."
"I wish you to ensure they arrive at their destination safely," Malys enunciated each word with crystalline precision. "I wish you to demonstrate the Kabal of the Poison Tongue's reliability. I wish you to make certain that Franklin Valorian's forces are properly positioned to bleed against the Krork menace while I consolidate my power here." She smiled, and the expression held no warmth whatsoever. "Are these instructions simple enough for your comprehension, or shall I have them tattooed on your eyelids for easier reference?"
"As crystal, my Lady. Clear as the mirror you've just—" Tahril caught himself, "—as clear as the finest amethyst. I shall depart immediately."
"Oui. Do so. And Tahril?" Her voice dropped to a purr. "Try not to antagonize them too much. I need them functional."
"My Lady, you wound me. I am the very soul of diplomacy."
"You are the very soul of irritating me beyond endurance. Now go."
Tahril bowed again, that same mocking reverence, and departed.
The Port of Shadows was a massive structure even by Commoragh's grandiose standards—a docking facility that could accommodate everything from swift Razorwing fighters to massive Torture-class cruisers. The air tasted of ozone and suffering, as all air in the Dark City did, and the constant background noise of screaming was so ubiquitous that it became almost ambient.
Tahril strode through the crowds with the casual arrogance of someone who knew that hesitation in Commoragh was an invitation to predation. Behind him, Naezir followed—a massive figure even by Drukhari standards, his Drakon armor making him look like a walking nightmare of blades and hooks.
"She's losing it," Tahril said casually, as if commenting on the weather.
Naezir's head swiveled to regard him, the motion oddly bird-like. "Explain."
"Our beloved Lady Malys. She's coming unglued. Unraveled. Détérioré." Tahril made an expansive gesture. "Ever since that little excursion to the depths of the webway to seek an artifact, she's been... off."
"Off," Naezir repeated, his voice like grinding stone. The Drakon had never been one for elaborate conversation.
"Talking to mirrors. Laughing at inappropriate moments. That accent has gotten thicker—have you noticed? She sounds like she's gargling vowels." Tahril paused at a junction, checking their route. "I'm just saying, perhaps we should consider our options."
"Options." There was a dangerous note in Naezir's voice now.
"Alternatives. Contingencies. Plans B through Z." Tahril lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Perhaps it's time for new leadership in the Kabal of the Poison Tongue. Someone more... stable."
Naezir's hand shot out with cobra-strike speed, gripping Tahril's shoulder with enough force to crack armor. He physically dragged the adjutant into a shadowed alcove, away from the crowds of Kabalite Warriors and slave-traders.
"You speak of replacing Lady Malys," Naezir's voice was barely above a whisper, which somehow made it more menacing. "That is not ambition. That is suicide with extra steps."
"Is it?" Tahril's eyes gleamed. "She's distracted, possibly mad, and playing games with forces that could annihilate us all. The Primarch is a wild card the Dark Eagle the one who burnt Commoragh do you rememeber? And Those Krork could break through into Webway space. And she's cackling at mirrors like a particularly deranged Mandrake."
"She is also still the deadliest being in our Kabal," Naezir countered. "Still connected to powers you and I cannot comprehend. Still capable of unraveling your nervous system with a thought and making you grateful for the privilege."
"But if she continues to deteriorate—"
"Then we serve her until she doesn't," Naezir released Tahril's shoulder with a shove. "And if that day comes, we ensure we are positioned to benefit from the transition. But we do not hasten it. We do not speak of it. And we certainly do not conspire in shadowed alcoves in the Port of Shadows where anyone could be listening." His head tilted slightly. "Are we clear?"
Tahril straightened his armor with exaggerated dignity. "Crystal."
"Good. Now let's go collect our cargo of mon-keigh and get them to their suicidal defensive line against the Krork." Naezir began walking again, his heavy tread making the deck plates ring. "I'll be happy when the Primarch is out of Commoragh. That creature makes my skin crawl."
"Afraid of him?" Tahril's tone was needling.
"Wary. There's a difference." Naezir's voice carried absolute certainty. "He doesn't belong in our city. He's too... genuine. Too sincere. It's unnatural. Like watching a star try to exist underwater."
"Poetic," Tahril drawled.
"Accurate. Now shut up and help me coordinate docking permissions for ninety percent of a human battlefleet."
As they moved deeper into the port, toward where the massive Webway gates stood ready to receive the Liberty Eagles' fleet, neither noticed the small shadow that detached from the darkness behind them and slithered away to report this conversation to interested parties.
In Commoragh, even whispered treasons had ears.
And Lady Aurelia Malys had eyes everywhere.
A/N: A Chapter
A/N: The Holidays are fast approaching sadly life onboard a ship usually its everyday Monday but Money is Good so yeah.