"Ah, I have it." I hope you die screaming in the agony you inflict, you piece of dark eldar filth! "Now, let's see…" As Ahmakeph had long feared, his pain relays were abruptly forced online.

Agony jolted his whole body as he realized, afresh, that his hands and feet were not there. Ahmakeph had known that of course, and had gotten used to it, but suddenly the amputated ends were screaming. His empty eye sockets burned, as they remembered the oculars that should have been present. Dozens of other points in his body registered their own cries. It was already almost overwhelming and the drukhari hadn't even –

Then he did. Ahmakeph had not spoken a word to the creatures, but he could not stop the activation of his voice module in a shrill, buzzing shriek. The dark eldar hummed as Ahmakeph registered that the thin lines of perfectly machined wire, the things that transmitted commands from his mind to his body, were being drawn out from his limbs.

"Did you ever wonder why I left you your arms and legs, mostly? It makes you a tiny bit more dangerous," he chuckled as Ahmakeph tried to find the concentration to make even a rudimentary insult glyph. He couldn't find it, the pain was too much. "I believe this pain should be similar to being flayed alive." The connoisseur of agony would know. Racked with rage nearly as intense as the pain, Ahmakeph finally spat out the glyph of the vilest insult he knew, calling the eldar living shit.

But that was a waste of his precious mind. Ahmakeph had been planning for this moment and tried desperately to focus through the pain. He still had some control over his bodily functions. It didn't amount to much and wasn't very helpful but depending on how the dark eldar had activated his pain functions, perhaps he could close them again. Although he would have to be very, very careful not to stop the sound he was making when he did. It was almost too much for his overstressed mind, as his torturer went to work on his leg, but Ahmakeph managed it. He continued to scream even as he felt blessed relief –

"Ah, ah, naughty naughty." Ahmakeph created the most angry series of glyphs he had in his life, an almost incoherent jumble of insults. "Did you think I wouldn't know you were going to do something like that?" You wretched sodomite!

(Ahmakeph didn't know what sodomite meant anymore, except that it was scatological. If he'd known the real meaning, he would have been disgusted yet pleased)

(It was also accurate)

The pain returned as it felt like something was shoved into his relays, forcing his pain receptors into a permanent open position. And there was a soft hum of satisfaction from his torturer.

"I could have done that from the beginning, of course. But hope is such a beautiful thing when you crush it beneath your foot, isn't it?" There are no glyphs vile enough for you. May Imotekh flay the flesh from your bones! "You know, I'm rather fond of you from all the time we've spent together. So I'll give you another sliver of hope." A hand patted his head in a mockery of kindness. "I think eventually, your neural pathways will begin to short out. The mind can only take so much, eh? Also, I have so many different ways to inflict pain on you – this is only the beginning, hehe – but every one will ruin your body a little more." A heavy sigh, almost inaudible beneath the horrible sound he was making. "I really can't be repairing you over and over. And it will get boring. I estimate you'll only last, mm, around thirty years." Wonderful. "Of course, I could be lying. But you'll just have to hope, eh? Now let me get everyone else. I'm sure they've HEARD my success, but they should still marvel at it. I've made metal scream." The damned creature sounded proud of himself. As he struggled to maintain sanity in an insane universe, and had to endure the laughter and cooing, Ahmakeph made a vow to himself.

If rescue somehow came, his vengeance on these creatures would be terrible to behold.

The first person Manric went to see was his father.

His father, Kellac Duleth, was at the Royal manor. The manor was a beautiful estate, with wide grounds, and it took up a slice of very prime land in the center of the city. Builders would have given their souls to have even a tiny bit of the grounds, but it would never be sold. Manric was confident in that, because it did not belong to his family, or any family at all. It was owned by Hope itself, and given to the King for as long as he needed it. And when a new King came, it changed hands.

His father was in one of the private rooms, the study, and Manric let himself in. He was sitting in a very comfortable chair, the fireplace lit and his body covered in fluffy red blanket as he read a book. Manric rubbed his forehead… the room was stiflingly hot to him, but his father needed the heat to warm his bones.

"I didn't call for you," his father snapped without looking up from his book. Manric allowed himself a soft chuckle and the King looked up, startled. "Oh, Manric. What do you want?" Not the most welcoming but about all he could expect. His father had never been a warm person and it had gotten much, much worse over the years.

"Father, I have had a momentous day," Manric replied, feeling almost giddy with excitement. He needed to tamp that down, he was not a little boy. "There are aliens beneath our feet."

"What? Have you lost your mind, boy? Make some sense," the King said irritably and Manric smiled, the smallest quirk of the corner of his mouth.

"I am making sense. This is what happened…" Manric deliberately calmed himself, then gave the most concise report he could manage. As he spoke his father looked at him like he'd grown a second head, then seemed to become angry? It was a bit hard to tell, his father had been the one to teach him to remain expressionless at all times and practiced the same discipline himself. Manric took care to emphasis the adamantium, and how it would be the price of their loyalty. Surely his father could –

"Never!" The King burst out and Manric stared, taken aback. Then suddenly he was grabbing the buzzer by his bed. He pounded the button and a moment later, a liveried servant appeared. "Summon the council! Tell them to get here now, I will brook no delays!"

"Father?" Manric asked, moderately shocked. They should be consulting, making strategy BEFORE meeting with the council. Also, it was exceedingly rude to summon the Noble house heads and representatives so abruptly. They all had lives and duties, after all! Manric had planned to ask for a quick session, but not THIS quick!

"Silence!" Manric suppressed his instinctive flinch with an iron will as memories of being yelled at with that exact tone ran through his mind. He dropped his hand to his belt but the bolter wasn't there. He would never have used it anyway, not on his own father, but it would have been comforting to touch it. We agreed you would not treat me like this anymore. But there was no point in protesting.

Manric had a sinking feeling that he knew where things were going as the Council of Nobles was assembled. They arrived with their entourages, mostly blank faced bodyguards but also including one wife and one courtesan. Those two looked at each other with naked dislike, something that would have amused Manric in other circumstances.

"What in blazes is going on? You called me out of the opera!" That was Baron Walash, a small, weedy man with white hair and age spots on his hands. Manric had trouble imagining the querulous old man on the battlefield, but knew for a fact he'd served for twenty years before losing a leg and being retired with honors. Although service always continued, it just changed, and he was now the Council representative for his House.

"Indeed, I was busy." Bet you were, sir. That was Viscount Yentark, a cold and brutal man. Manric had no problem imagining him in the battlefield, because he'd seen it many's the time. They had served together when Yentark was a veteran and Manric was just a young noble recruit, trying to survive his first battles. Manric did not like him and never had, but respected him. He particularly respected how Yentark had found his retirement… he had been incredibly badly injured, almost to the point of death, defending a small town of serfs. Loving medical care had pieced him together but it had taken months and his body would never be quite the same. Yentark was also the one who'd brought the courtesan, a very beautiful woman with unusually pale skin and auburn hair. Her hair was artistically disarrayed, her clothing not on quite right. Manric was sure they were both showing off their conquests, but he also didn't doubt they'd been interrupted at a bad time.

"What is happening?" That was Duke Reinhart. He was a very tall man with very dark skin and thin, sharp features. His eyes were an incredibly rare sky blue, but that was not a good thing. He was the only one of the Council to completely avoid military service, for the fact he had been born with a very rare form of degenerative blindness. He wasn't blind yet but the glasses he wore were so heavy, they were like leaded glass. It was only a matter of time and the colony did not really have the technology yet for such delicate implants. Perhaps that can change.

"My son has lost his mind!" The King proclaimed and everyone exchanged glances, including the two Barons who'd not yet spoken. Manric stepped forward and spoke with authority.

"Please, shall we take this to the Council chambers?" Manric paused to give the courtesan, then the wife, a firm look. "Would the ladies like to wait in the library? Or perhaps the solarium?" It was not a request.

"As long as there is tea and biscuits," the courtesan said with a small smile, a curl of bright red lips. Manric would have been lying if he said he didn't find her attractive, but he kept his mind on important matters.

"That can be arranged," he said gravely before glancing at one of the servants, who took the cue with ease. The wife hesitated, then sniffed.

"Very well," she said with ill grace and joined the courtesan as the servant showed them out. That left them free to enter the Council chambers.

It was quite a simple room, really. Ancient stone walls surrounded them and a vast, pleasing rug softened the floor. Set squarely in the center of that rug was the table, a circular wooden table surrounded by fine, plush office chairs. In the centre of the table was a bit of technology that was technically beyond Hope's capability, it was a powerful communications hub. It had been taken from the starship that no longer needed it, reworked and lovingly maintained so it could be used now. And truthfully, it was not so far beyond Hope's capabilities as it seemed… if only the constant attacks could be stopped.

"My son has consorted with aliens!" The King burst out almost before everyone had taken their seats. "He wants us to be slaves to them!"

"Serfs," Manric corrected as everyone stared at them. "Father, may I – "

"No!" And what proceeded was grossly unfair. Manric had to listen and endure as the King completely mangled his story, and particularly emphasized the horrid appearance of the xenos. Fortunately, the Council had a very tough time swallowing THAT.

"We are to judge aliens by their appearances? Has it escaped your notice that the drukhari are beautiful as angels?" Yentark rumbled and Manric glanced over the table. They all seemed to agree with Yentark except Duke Reinhart, who was looking at him instead with a cold kind of anger. Manric felt that sinking sensation again. I know where this is going. He didn't want to face it, didn't want to do it, but it was… it was time. Swallowing, Manric decided to end this farce of a meeting.

"They have adamantium," Manric stated simply and all of them looked at him sharply. They knew what that meant. "Great ingots of it, enough for thousands of Knight armor. The price is our freedom. It is a fair trade."

"I forbid it!" The King burst out… no. Not the King. Father, I'm so sorry.

"I invoke the Rite of Ascension," Manric said formally. There was not a single flicker of surprise from anyone at the table. I have left this too long. Then he turned to his father, who was going ashen from shock. He was the only one who hadn't expected it… but it was so hard to know when your own mind was failing. "Kellac Duleth, I commend you for your service, but you are no longer fit to rule. It is time to rest."

"YOU UNGRATEFUL BRAT!" The shriek was earsplitting but Manric just ignored it, using the communications hub to summon guardsmen and medical attendants. They arrived swiftly – not a surprise, there were medical attendants on the grounds to tend to his father – and led the old man away. The screams of rage turned to querulous mutters and the occasional yell when he was out of the room and Manric breathed a sigh of relief as he turned back to the Council. Duke Reinhart was looking at him with a tight smile. His time has finally come. Manric wanted to be angry, but couldn't find the emotion. Reinhart had waited patiently a very long time.

"Duke Reinhart, as the most qualified here and the greatest of equals, I ask you to ascend to the rank of King." Reinhart nodded and stood before switching seats, so he was at the head of the table. That was the only difference, the seats themselves were identical. Feeling wrung out from what he'd just endured, Manric took his seat at the table. "Will you consent to swearing fealty, or must I invoke the Rite a second time?"

"What do you take me for, a fool?" Reinhart's reply was curt, as was his way. Then he frowned. "Our course is obvious, but I would like more details, things that aren't filtered through senility. Give us a full report of your experiences." Ah, yes, of course. Manric took a deep breath and then began detailing precisely what had happened and everything he had seen. As he did, though, his heart ached.

His father might never forgive him for this, but it had been the right thing to do.