"Accepted."
Selene’s answer finally allowed the Silent King, Szarekh, to exhale in relief.
Still kneeling in a posture of submission, Szarekh suddenly noticed that his vision—filtered through his living-tal optics—had grown faintly blurred. Instinctively, he wiped at his face, only to find no tears, no trembling lips, no sign of emotional expression.
A soulless, fleshless body of steel had no tears to shed.
He understood. It was rely his core’s sensory subroutine—the fusion of mory, thought, consciousness, and personality data—simulating an emotion he no longer physically possessed.
So... I truly do yearn for redemption. I truly crave the return of flesh and soul.
Szarekh questioned himself in silence.
Was he pleased?
Yes.
The fact that Selene had agreed to restore the souls and bodies of the higher Necrons who retained mory and thought—and the flesh of the entire race—filled Szarekh with profound joy he had not felt in millions of years.
But was he also wary?
Yes.
Selene had openly proposed reconstructing a replica of the Overlord Control Protocol—the very system Szarekh himself had once destroyed—to aid him in guiding the vast, soulless masses that would soon inhabit living bodies once again.
It was a veiled declaration: I possess your Overlord Protocol.
Szarekh didn’t believe for a mont that Selene—who could consort with the Emperor, that ancient sorcerer of Terra—was so naive saint. Moreover, could anyone who knew of the Necrons’ betrayal of the C’tan truly leave themselves unguarded?
He was certain: should the Necrons ever dare rebel, Selene would strip their souls once more, turning them into a new legion of mindless tal thralls.
Refuse her? That was never an option.
By the ti he had agreed to receive Trazyn—the chosen emissary—Szarekh had already made his decision. The rest, all the circles and formalities, had rely been to negotiate for better terms, to sell for a higher price.
In the end, after gauging Selene’s tone and witnessing her divine power—bearing both the traits of Chaos and the C’tan—Szarekh chose to go all in.
If eventual subjugation was inevitable, what aning was there in clinging to self-deception and half-asures? What use was partial restoration of souls among the elite when the rest of his people remained hollow?
Would retaining scraps of autonomy or dignity change anything? Would Selene tolerate defiance under her banner? Could the Necrons truly act as "emperors behind closed doors"? No. Such farce would never stand.
Better, then, to surrender all autonomy and all pride—to gamble everything for the chance to restore the souls and bodies of his entire race. The threat of the Great Devourer, once looming, no longer mattered.
And perhaps, deep within him, there was a personal motive.
After the War in Heaven, his "Great Sleep" directive, his self-exile, and the destruction of the Overlord Control Protocol—were they not his attempts at atonent for the cri of extinguishing his own people?
He, Szarekh, the last Silent King of the Necrontyr, who had led his species to ruin—should he not also be the one to bring them rebirth?
Otherwise... he would never be at peace.
Moreover, there was an unexpected insight.
Through that so-called Angel of Baal—who had revealed much about the inner workings of Selene’s Sacred Empire—Szarekh had gleaned key truths. The "Empress of All Races," she who ruled across the stars, governed worlds beyond count. Could she truly manage them all directly?
No. She, too, must delegate autonomy.
"For Selene," Szarekh murmured, rising gracefully from his kneeling posture. With a movent no machine should have been capable of, he turned sideways and retrieved his Star God Phase Scepter, offering it to Selene with both hands.
"As you will."
Neither joy nor sorrow crossed Selene’s face as she nodded slowly, receiving the scepter—a symbol of the Silent King’s supre authority—into the golden ripples of her Imperial Treasury.
As for Szarekh’s private calculations, she paid them no mind.
She was content.
A glimpse of the small reveals the vast.
Even during the ancient War in Heaven, when pressed by the Old Ones, Szarekh had gambled everything—signing a pact with the C’tan Deceiver, wagering the soul of his species upon the power of biotransference. His risk-taking nature was nothing new.
And that, in Selene’s eyes, made him—and his kind—all the more useful.
If the Necrons dared to bet everything, she would gladly accept the wager.
It was, after all, only a matter of extra effort—and the Necrons were well worth the investnt. Winning their loyalty was sothing Selene considered a worthy cause.
What the Necrons did not yet understand was how deeply Selene coveted their scientific infrastructure. Their technological system—at the pinnacle of the A–13 Central Direct Dominion (Warhamr)—their stable physics-based military engineering, their mastery of ancient tomb technology, and their artisan-engineer guilds—all of it made her eyes gleam with hungry admiration.
Szarekh’s fear that Selene might one day reduce his kind to soulless machines was unfounded. She wouldn’t dream of wasting such potential. That would be sheer extravagance—unthinkable to her.
Why else would she have gone through so much trouble?
To Selene, scientists and innovators—those who lived by intuition, sudden insight, and creative spark—were professions deserving of leniency. Even those marked with a ntal Seal were rarely bound as tightly as bureaucrats; the leash was left intentionally loose.
After all, creativity and inspiration were intangible, shaped by countless subtle factors.
To lead through virtue, to inspire voluntary devotion—that was best. Selene’s role was to safeguard their boundaries, guiding and restraining them only when necessary.
And now? The Silent King Szarekh had declared his people’s eternal devotion—offering service across ten thousand, a hundred thousand, even a million years—in gratitude for her rcy.
Perhaps it was ti for another great armant reform within the Imperial military.
A faint gleam of excitent flickered in Selene’s crimson eyes. "I shall honor my promise."
She raised her hand and swept her gaze across the assembled Necron Phaerons, Overlords, and Lords.
"Whether or not you succeed, Szarekh, rember this: restrain your kin. I will not tolerate anything that might disrupt the pure and proper harmony of our sovereign-vassal bond. Even the smallest deviation could lead to irreparable consequences."
It was a polite warning—but Szarekh understood the subtext perfectly. This was a reminder of their history—the betrayal of the Star Gods, and the stain of deceit that still shadowed his race.
"The C’tan Deceiver’s treachery and malice cannot be compared to your benevolence and grace, Your Majesty," Szarekh said at once.
"Heh... I suppose I can accept that." Selene smiled faintly—then leaned closer, her expression shifting into one of almost predatory delight. "Just rember—it had better stay that way."
"Report to the Departnt of State for registration," she commanded. "Obtain your certification as a legal xenos species. All Necrons will be granted full Imperial citizenship. Under my rule, you shall be protected—and move unimpeded throughout the Empire’s territories."
"After that, we will discuss your future, Szarekh. If your loyalty endures to the very end... you will receive the reward you deserve."
Before he could respond, Szarekh’s visual sensors dimd for an instant—and when they cleared, he found himself standing outside an imnse, majestic hall.
Overwhelming waves of Honkai energy filled a space vast enough to hold an Emperor-class battleship, blinding him until the light receded. When his vision returned, he realized that he, his Necron attendants, and the Emperor’s party had all arrived in an imnse open-air plaza teeming with people.
Colossal structures and statues pierced the heavens; the air resounded with countless voices...
"Internal Affairs Officer, this is Colony III—Serial 610023... Species na? Hm, ’Yautja,’ the Iron-Blooded Warriors. Exemplary martial discipline. They’ve passed the Black Templar Commanders’ assessnt. Please process their registration with the Ministry of Internal Affairs."
"Sir, this is Colony VIII—Serial 53418, containing a newly pardoned aquatic xenos species. Species na: unclassified. These beings evolved entirely within oceanic environnts and rely on liquid energy sources for both sustenance and society. Highly research-worthy."
"Officer, these are representatives of the Owen-Alia family’s free-trader fleet. They’ve encountered a peaceful alien species already cleared by both the military and the Inquisition. The individual beside is nad Christopher Johnson..."
...
Having updated his linguistic processor with the Imperial Standard dialect, Szarekh swiftly filtered and analyzed the surrounding chatter.
Ahead of him, a human officer in a gray auxiliary military uniform led a group of towering, dreadlocked beings—those called the Iron-Blooded Warriors, the Yautja.
The Yautja—known as the Iron-Blooded Warriors—were bipedal humanoids distinguished by their braided hair and mandible-like jaws. Their skin resembled that of Terra’s reptiles, varying slightly in hue and texture—so dark, so pale, so smooth, others speckled or rough. Their outer layers could appear either slick and cold or dry and scaled.
Nearby, a clerk in a gray bureaucratic uniform guided a group of beings over two ters tall—thin-limbed humanoids with oversized, smooth heads and hollow torsos, their bodies a fusion of flesh and machinery—explaining their case to another official.
Szarekh’s attention wandered further. He spotted a burly, shrewd-looking middle-aged trader accompanied by a peculiar, upright crustacean-like alien, both waiting patiently in line.
Crowds surged. Bureaucrats, soldiers, and envoys moved through the grand plaza, corridors, and monuntal gateways.
"Dominion over the Six Directions, reverence from all races—truly, she commands the heavens with pride..." Szarekh murmured, then glanced toward the Emperor beside him, whose sharp gaze openly scrutinized everything around them.
"The realm of Her Majesty is indeed more open, vigorous, and grand than your sorcery-drenched empire ever was, old relic," Szarekh said dryly, stepping closer and extending his hand in the Imperial fashion.
The Emperor, frowning as he surveyed the endless variety of xenos species crowding the administrative square, turned at last and—after a mont’s hesitation—took Szarekh’s hand.
Vmmm—!
At that mont, just as onlookers began to notice this unusual party, a subtle surge of scorching energy rippled through the plaza.
"You must be the acting Governor of the A–13 Dominion," said a deep voice.
A towering figure approached, clad in full golden power armor so intricate and radiant it could belong to none but one of Selene’s Imperial Custodes.
"Yes."
The Emperor’s eyes softened slightly as he looked up at the massive Custodian—over three ters tall, his crimson-plud helm gleaming. The Emperor could feel it: the explosive energy coiled within this being’s fra rivaled—or even surpassed—Alpha-class psykers. Yet this was no psyker. This was pure, physical might.
So she’s done it, the Emperor thought. Selene has rged psychic potential with martial perfection. Perhaps my own rejection of psychic integration was... premature.
The Custodian, anwhile, studied him in astonishnt. This man—broad-shouldered, imposing, radiating imnse presence—was the one the Empress herself had instructed him to guide? No wonder he warranted such special treatnt.
"Governor. Your guard detachnt has been integrated into my command," the Custodian said formally, lowering his halberd in salute. "I have been ordered to escort you on your tour of the Imperial Capital. Here is your temporary identification—valid until the grand convocation three days hence."
With a gesture, the Custodian activated a grav-field, sliding forward a large tallic case. Inside were the Emperor’s and his Primarch sons’ temporary identity credentials—and their corresponding credit cards.
"My thanks," the Emperor said with a nod.
He could hardly conceal his anticipation. To see with his own eyes the wonders Selene had spoken of—the splendor of her Imperial Capital. Her arrangents suited him perfectly.
Three days of observation—better that than another round of bureaucratic debate with Selene and her officials. He preferred to see how her society truly functioned.
...
[Schönbrunn Palace — Inner Sanctum, Imperial Bedchamber]
Knock, knock, knock—
"Enter."
Selene was in the middle of opening a can of dark Imperial rations—ant-cattle stew—liberated from Terra’s storage depots.
"Your Majesty," Sebas began as he approached, closing the datafile in his hands. "The Necron race... Though deceived by the Star Gods, it was still their own plea that brought about their transformation. In truth, the C’tan saved them from the Old Ones’ extinction. Their betrayal of their benefactors—"
Selene interrupted him with a soft hum, eyes fixed on her royal chef, Susanoo, who was preparing the next course before her. "The Necrons are untrustworthy," she said at last. "But their current and future value is worth my trust."
Whoosh—
She had changed into a black ceremonial gown trimd with silver and gold thread, resting her chin on her palm with an expression of hungry amusent as she watched the master chef work.
There were few pleasures she cherished more than these: conquest, collection, spectacle... and cuisine.
"Inform Dr. Stylish and Dr. Mobius," she said, her lips curving with anticipation. "They have a new project."
—
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