Boom! Boom! Boom!
The Thorn-class frigate launched over a dozen scythe-shaped missiles, completely destroying the human smuggler transport ship's last pitiful fragnts of shielding and its main gun battery.
Seven assault skiffs carrying boarding parties activated their mimic engines, masking their electromagnetic signatures and blending into the night sky.
They closed in rapidly on the transport ship, using dark matter beams to lt one breach after another into its armor plating.
Before long, the boarding party's Reaver jetbikes tore their way inside, blasting through facilities along the way and cutting down all resistance. The latest_epɪ_sodes are on_the novel_fіre
The transport ship's ager defensive grid couldn't hold. Ard servitors fell one after another.
Sightless Ur-Ghul scavenger-beasts sniffed their way toward the bridge with uncanny precision.
The cabal warriors moved like dancers in the dark, striking with elegant curved blades, daggers, or whatever weapons they favored, always aid at an enemy's vital points.
Their advance was swift, clearing a safe path for the Archon.
Hiss~
A serpentine bodyguard slithered forward alongside a Nightmare Warrior, its movents tense and wary, searching for any sign of danger.
"My little darling, this ship is even more valuable than I expected…"
Archon Randrel's voice purred over the comms as he flirted with his favored consort.
Clad from head to toe in sleek, black, predatory armor, the Archon drifted into the ship's corridors with the aid of anti-gravity gear.
He despised setting foot in the domain of slaves — it was beneath his nobility.
Randrel looked down at the mingled oil and blood of fallen servitors and sneered.
Humans — a debased species.
Their blood was worthless, fit only to be made into slave-flesh furniture for his pleasure. In truth, he preferred them flayed, their skins used to upholster his furnishings.
"Finish this quickly, you wretches — we need to be on our way."
Randrel urged his warriors on.
He longed to return to his raiding ship's private chambers to savor the agony and wails of the souls bound into his furniture.
Yet the deeper the raiding force pushed in, the more uneasy the Archon beca.
Apart from the servitors they'd dispatched at the start…
There was no sign of the "tender-skinned livestock," no valuable cargo, no crew, and no security detail.
"Master… the prey… still alive… they just left…"
The serpent-bodyguard's fanged maw spoke in halting, mangled Aeldari, its tone warning of danger.
More reports ca in, all pointing to one conclusion — the ship was a decoy.
"This is a trap!"
Randrel's instincts scread, and he imdiately ordered a retreat:
"All forces withdraw! Return to our ship!"
But it was already too late.
Across the transport's vox network, an ancient, noble Aeldari voice sounded, speaking in High Tongue:
"My apologies, so naless Archon… I am the Sav—cough, I am the noble scion of House Asurn — Raphael Asurn…"
It was Eden's voice, disguised. He claid descent from a lost Aeldari line tracing back to the War in Heaven — the House of Asurn.
The na Raphael in the Aeldari tongue ant "Godlike Redeer."
"I regret to inform you — this is indeed a trap. We will be taking your vessel and everything aboard. As compensation… I shall graciously leave you with a small gift…"
The sudden turn of events stunned the raiding party.
A creeping, uncontrollable fear began to spread.
"Damn it!"
Randrel imdiately tried to reach his paramour, the Lhaan mistress Remien.
He roared:
"Ilyss, bring all defensive systems online! We've been caught in another Archon's plot — they're after the ship!"
In his mind, only another Archon would dare engineer such a betrayal.
But the voice on the other end of the comm was identical to the one from the broadcast:
"Who's calling? Ilyss?
Oh, this little darling? She's right here in my arms. Ilyss, my dear, soone's asking for you…"
The comm unit sounded like it had been pressed into the Lhaan's bosom.
But Ilyss's reply ca only as muffled sounds — sowhere between pained moans and breathless whimpers — as if she were being toyed with, unable to answer.
"You… you wretch!"
Randrel's rage boiled over. He crushed the comm in his grip, breath heaving.
Never in his life had he suffered such humiliation — reduced to the role of a fool in so petty theater.
"Raiding party! With — we'll tear that bastard limb from limb!"
He clenched his venom-blade, swearing to subject this so-called "Raphael" to the most exquisite tornts in the galaxy — to carve him into a limbless husk, hand him to the Haemonculi, and have him made into a living toilet to endure the filth of slaves for eternity.
Woooo—
Before Randrel's forces could reach the entrance, the ship's klaxons scread.
It was Eden's "gift" — the self-destruct sequence.
Worse yet, the ship's compartnts had been packed with powerful explosives.
"Fu**!"
The Archon spat a final curse before fire swallowed him and his warriors.
The transport ship was torn apart in a massive explosion, obliterating all within.
Hhh—
Half of Randrel's body spun away amidst the debris.
He gasped for breath as his soul-chanisms worked to repair him, realizing he was drifting toward the raiding vessel.
A flicker of hope stirred — if he could make it back aboard, there might yet be a chance.
But then he saw it — the mont that crushed him.
Through the raiding ship's observation port stood the one who had orchestrated his ruin.
That figure had Ilyss in his arms and inclined his head ever so slightly, as if in farewell.
The engines of the raiding vessel flared bright — and it leapt to full speed.
Randrel was left to tumble into the endless void.
"No—!"
The realization hit — the nearest world was hundreds of light years away. Rage gave way to despair.
This torturer of countless lives would drift in the dark until the hungry Lady consud his soul completely.
…
The Thorn-class frigate sped away.
Inside the ship—
"More terrifying than Mandrakes themselves…"
Blood soaked the chamber — but the slaughterer was not a Drukhari pirate. It was a lone, terrifying human warrior.
The forr torntors had beco helpless prey.
The hall was littered with mangled remains.
A Nightmare Warrior bellowed, swinging a massive blade in a desperate bid to behead his foe.
The Nightmare Warriors were among Commorragh's most elite — brutal killers honed through cruel training, fad throughout the galaxy.
In Drukhari society, advancent ca only by killing one's superior, so Archons rarely trusted their security to mbers of their own cabal.
The neutral, contract-bound, and deadly Nightmare Warriors were prized in the Dark City's rcenary markets — the ideal bodyguards.
Randrel had spent a fortune hiring two of them. One had died on the transport ship; the other had remained aboard the raiding vessel to guard the spoils.
But the "enemy Archon" had used teleport-boarders to seize the bridge.
He ordered all to surrender.
The Nightmare Warriors refused to break their contract — and led a contingent in resistance.
They quickly realized they faced a monstrous killing machine.
One Nightmare's blade shattered — a heavy blow followed, sending him reeling.
Then a pair of massive hands seized his head and twisted it clean off.
Dark red blood poured down the human's scarred face, making him look even more fearso.
One of Commorragh's elite warriors had been slain without even landing a blow — the sight shattered the resolve of the other cabal fighters.
"That's enough, Titus."
Eden's voice rang out, halting the warrior before he killed them all.
He looked at the man who could tear apart a Daemon with his bare hands — and smiled in satisfaction.
His investnt had paid off in full.
Now, Titus's entire set of legendary wargear had been refitted in the style of the Drukhari, making him look even more ferocious.
At present, he appeared in the role of bodyguard to Eden's Drukhari clone.
Such an arrangent was nothing unusual.
Commorragh was a trade hub ruled by the Drukhari, whose comrcial reach spanned the galaxy. Almost every sentient species traded with them.
Many humans and xenos alike served as their rcenaries and pirates.
Archons would employ all manner of powerful beings as bodyguards.
If wealthy enough, so might even hire desperate Space Marine Chapters to eliminate rivals.
Given this environnt, Eden could more boldly fold his warriors into the Redemption Kabal, letting them operate openly as rcenaries.
Titus, Terror Legionnaires, Orks — all could be integrated this way.
Right now, his most pressing concern was his own status.
He had to beco a genuine Archon of a real Kabal, with his own territory and a retinue of Drukhari retainers.
Only then could he steadily draw in more people, gather wealth, and hire even more Drukhari muscle to serve him.
"You should consider yourselves fortunate…"
Eden strolled from the shadows with deliberate grace, coming to stand before the assembled warriors. Every movent radiated poise.
His gaze swept across the Kabalite warriors, and in an archaic Aeldari accent he'd learned from Isha herself, he said:
"You wretches have been freed from that useless Randrel and now stand before a true Archon — heir to the House of Asurn.
The great Raphael Asurn — the future supre ruler.
Were I not short of capable hands, you would not even earn a glance from , no matter how long you groveled on your knees."
"Asurn… House Asurn?"
Ilyss's eyes widened, her hand instinctively covering her mouth.
As a Lhaan courtesan of the Cult of Lileath, she had studied the sagas of the ancient Aeldari Empire and knew the legends of that ancient line.
House Asurn could trace its na back to the empire's golden age, its family na linked to the Aeldari Goddess of Life, Isha. For generations they had served as her high priests.
But after the catastrophe that birthed the Dark Prince, the House vanished.
So claid they were destroyed when the gods fell; others whispered they had hidden themselves deep within so forgotten relic site.
Ilyss studied the man who had only recently made her gasp in pain, her eyes brightening.
He did look the part of a scion of a noble, ancient line — taller than most Drukhari, with paler skin than their typical dusky-brown.
His robes were of an ancient Aeldari Imperial cut, their fabric a rare and long-lost craft.
Only on rare occasions would adventurers in Commorragh find such scraps in ruins — nobles would pay dearly to sew these fragnts into their own attire as a mark of decadent luxury.
"That's… the purest soul-energy…"
Ilyss sniffed the air, catching the scent radiating from the Asurn heir.
A craving seized her — sharper and more urgent than she'd ever felt — and with it, shock.
She had only ever slled such pure soul-energy once before, when passing a Haemonculus master's atelier.
This was richer, more intoxicating, by far.
It was the sort of thing any noble would greedily inhale — and here he was, letting it waft freely in the air. Utter, unimaginable decadence.
In truth, it was only Eden's specially distilled "soul perfu," extracted from soul-healing elixirs.
Drawn from the pure essence of the Goddess of Life Isha herself — a perfect weapon against Drukhari instincts.
Without the warp-extraction device, it would have been impossible to bring such energy into realspace at all.
The perfu's true purpose was image.
Eden wanted everywhere he walked to be drenched in the aroma of priceless, life-saving soul-energy — so the Drukhari would gnash their teeth in envy, feel the sting of inferiority, even lick the floors he passed over.
That was true nobility.
And in fact, this identity wasn't entirely a fabrication — if anything, it was downplaying the truth.
House Asurn were rely favored servants of a god.
Eden was soone who had bedded a god. From a certain angle, he utterly eclipsed them.
Of course, after the Dark Prince's birth and the long millennia since, Isha's worship among the Aeldari had all but vanished.
It would take ti to restore it.
Nowadays, Commorragh's so-called nobility were mostly degenerate upstarts.
Even the Supre Overlord Asdrubael Vect had begun life as a slave — how could he compare to the heir of such an ancient line?
Soon, Eden would show the low-born of Commorragh what a true noble looked like.
Ilyss's voice was husky, and she sank to her knees without thinking:
"My… my lord of House Asurn… I, Lhaan Ilyss of the Cult of Lileath, offer myself to your service."
The Kabalite warriors also recognized the man's lofty station and knelt on one knee, bowing their heads in Aeldari fashion.
Even the hound-like Ur-Ghul scavenger received a cuff from a nearby warrior, whimpering as it flattened itself to the floor.
The warriors inhaled deeply as they bowed, trying to draw in as much of the soul-energy in the air as they could — but dared not overstep and risk offense.
They knew the tempers of nobles could be deadlier than any Archon's, and none wished to end up as so grotesque ornant to be tornted for eternity.
In Commorragh, though warriors might kill their superiors to take their place, none dared provoke soone whose power and standing far outstripped their own.
Just as all bent the knee to Supre Overlord Vect — for defiance ant a fate worse than death.
Eden's expression didn't change. He rely cast a disdainful glance at the corpse-littered, filthy floor.
"Clean this up. The spoils are yours."
He pointed lightly, then turned toward the Archon's private chambers.
Titus glared at the warriors, then casually dumped a crate of soul-healing elixirs onto the bloody floor like so much garbage before following his lord.
Ilyss gazed at the vials, their contents faintly clouded — the unmistakable gleam of soul-energy within.
Such elixirs would take her months of resources to afford even one.
In truth, these were low-grade.
Eden had taken a wise advisor's counsel and reworked the formulas, producing a wide range of potencies.
The cheapest versions were massively diluted, holding only trace amounts of life-essence — just enough for a faint healing effect, the rest being harmless industrial filler.
Higher grades held fuller potency — and increasing doses of addictive stimulants.
From low-dilution to high-concentration, there were ten grades across several series.
The ones he'd just tossed were only tier-three — low-grade product.
Ilyss hesitated. The Archon hadn't said they were for her.
She quickened her pace to follow him.
The other warriors didn't dare snatch them up until the floor was clean.
They scrubbed at the gore and blood like madn, desperate to earn the right to the spoils — so looked ready to lick the deckplates if that would hasten the work.
No one in Commorragh survived long by offending soone like this.
All knew one truth:
Serve the noble heir of House Asurn well, and he would grant you more — purer — soul-energy.
All you had to do was give him everything… and win his favor.
(End of Chapter)
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