…How strange.
Miriael narrowed her inhuman, slit-pupiled eyes, sizing up the enemy before her.
The person standing in front of her looked, for all intents and purposes, like an ordinary mortal—nothing special at all.
And that, precisely, was the strangest part.
A Slaanesh Daemon Prince's aura of fascination should have bent the will of every onlooker, effortlessly seducing and corrupting even the most steadfast human champion, turning them into a devoted thrall.
Yet this mortal remained unaffected.
The anomaly piqued Miriael's curiosity, but she quickly settled on an explanation.
Either he was one in a billion whose will was strong enough to ignore such Warp influence,
or the corpse on the Throne was watching him, shielding him from her allure.
Either possibility thrilled her; she itched to offer him up to the lord of pleasure.
"Hehe… such an ill-mannered guest. You greet my arrival not with welco, but with vulgarity."
Miriael laughed softly. "Still, I forgive your rudeness. Care to join in the Immaterium's Palace of Pleasures and taste ultimate bliss?"
Fresh from having both arms vaporised by plasma, she extended the invitation in inimitable Slaaneshi style.
Yet the mont the words left her lips, she saw Adam's face twist in utter disgust.
Ugh—
He clutched his stomach, features contorted, and dry-heaved.
"Bitch. You're uglier than sin; I actually regret having eyes."
"Such an uncultured follower of the False Emperor."
Miriael shook her head.
Provocation ant little to a daemon of Slaanesh.
Losing interest in Adam, she looked past him to far more enticing prey.
Behind him, the rest of the squad had risen and now stepped forward, forming an assault wedge on full alert.
"Ah, could this be…?"
Her gaze fell on Lucia, wings unfurling, and surprise surged through her.
A Living Saint of the False Emperor…?
Well, that at least supplied a plausible—if still inadequate—reason for the missing souls and daemons.
"That bastard Malven dared lie to !"
Miriael cursed under her breath.
For a fallen Slaanesh Sister, hunting the Battle Sisters she once served with, corrupting them and bending them to the lord of pleasure, was one of the few enduring joys of an immortal life.
But corrupting a Living Saint? Even addled, she wasn't deluded enough to dream that big.
Then again… might it be a different sort of pleasure?
The thought brightened her mood.
Since her fall she had tasted every debauchery, her senses dulled by centuries of excess, her threshold pushed beyond mortal imagination.
Now the prospect of genuine death—an unknown thrill—made her quiver with anticipation.
Lucia's knuckles whitened round her weapon; flas along her blade blazed white-hot.
Since becoming a Living Saint, many emotions had faded, yet now hatred and killing intent roiled inside her.
The Battle-Sister-like garb, the serpentine tongue, that faintly familiar face—Church records told her exactly what the creature had once been.
"Shaful traitor, you have defiled the honour of the Order of the Martyr Saintess, forsaken the Emperor's light and beco the claw of a false god."
Each word rang with righteous fury; her white wings trembled. "Today you shall be cleansed!"
Miriael rely lolled her head, vertical pupils glinting with mockery while pink energy writhed where her arms had been, slowly rebuilding them.
"Tsk, the sa dull sermon. Honour? Light? Just lies the False Emperor weaves to chain you pitiful wretches."
She leaned forward, voice honeyed: "You really believe the corpse on the Throne offers anything but endless sacrifice and hollow dreams? Co to ; embrace the lord of pleasure and—"
Wait.
A warning jolted through her.
Danger…?
Without thinking, she obeyed instinct and flung herself aside.
An instant later several dozen searing plasma bolts blazed across a wide arc, converging on the spot she had just vacated.
Adam's cold grin answered her.
No way… seriously?
Did the idiot really expect sworn enemies to stand around chatting before a death-match?
While talking, Adam had multitasked: telepathically telling his half-crazed teammates to hold off and plan first,
while using his Reality Warping Ability to secretly reassemble the shattered executioner main cannon and fire a point-blank ambush.
This ti he'd learnt his lesson: as the plasma left the barrel his power split it into a storm of smaller bolts, the kill-zone exploding outward like a steel rain.
"Agh!"
A shriek tore from Miriael as a bolt struck her square in the chest, slamming her twisted daemonic fra backward.
She staggered, wounded, one bolt having found its mark.
Pity, Adam thought.
This Idealism universe had one big drawback: every nad powerhouse seed born with razor-sharp instinct, making sneak attacks almost useless.
No wonder assassin units across species topped the charts for embarrassing failures.
From the Imperium's Officio Assassinorum to Tyranid Lictors and Necron Deathmarks, they crushed grunts all right, yet in top-tier fights they were next to useless.
Still, the result was acceptable.
"Plan B—kill!"
Adam shouted.
At his word Lucia and Leonardo vanished like mirages, trailing brilliant golden light as they streaked straight for Miriael.
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