Summary:
The hour of truth gets near, as the next battle approaches. The players position themselves on the board to move their pieces, destiny itself is letting the game be sorted out. Our heroes are in the dark to their own fortune, as Thalindra isn't able to peer at the treads of fate.
Marcus and the Farseer finally have found understanding, and are in the first steps to develop their bond. But will the Dark City allow such bond to form? Who is the champion of Vyle who is to fight in the Arena? Who is Culsan and why he wants the Captain?
Plot thickens as the fight approaches.
Shadows of the Dark City 15
Thalindra remained beside the Captain, both enveloped in a comfortable silence. Neither dared to speak, unwilling to disturb the rare moment of peace. It was a welcome contrast to the tense quiet that had lingered between them after their last argument. The stillness was eventually interrupted when the Captain let out a soft yawn, covering his mouth with his hand.
"Well, it was certainly good having this talk with you, Farseer Thalindra, but I need to catch some sleep now," he said, his tone betraying a hint of weariness.
Thalindra nodded and rose gracefully from the ground, her voice calm and measured. "Understood. Then I'll leave you to your devices. Have a good rest, Captain Marcus."
He nodded in return, slipping his book back into his pocket before settling onto the rough, leathery bedroll. Thalindra stepped away, returning to sit beside Arandur, who lay on the ground with his back to her. She seated herself in a lotus position, deciding to meditate. Perhaps later she could once again attempt to peer into the threads of fate, preparing herself for whatever challenges awaited them next.
The Captain's breathing grew slow and even, signaling that sleep was beginning to claim him. Thalindra watched his eyes flutter shut, though her attention was soon drawn to the Dire Avenger beside her. Arandur's tone was controlled as he spoke in Eldari, but his aura betrayed his anger.
"Don't you think you're being too kind to that Mon-keigh?"
Thalindra suppressed a surge of annoyance, wary of waking the human who was nearly asleep. She replied directly into Arandur's mind, her mental voice calm but tinged with quiet frustration.
'He is not fully asleep yet. If you wish to discuss something, refrain from using your mouth.'
Arandur turned sharply to face her, his eyes narrowing, his expression a mixture of scrutiny and disgust.
'And what if he isn't? Are you going to coddle him like a youngling too? I understand the necessity of allying with them and cooperating to survive the horrors of this accursed city. But what I don't understand is why you are so accommodating, so tolerant—too tolerant—with these humans.' His thoughts carried a simmering anger, and though they were unspoken, his emotions were more palpable than if they had been spoken aloud.
Thalindra held back her irritation, striving to respond civilly even as his words needled at her patience.
'Arandur, we've discussed this before. Destiny has placed him on our path. It is up to us to play our roles accordingly. I know you dislike them, and I don't fault you for that. But regardless of your feelings, they are our way out of here.'
'Yes, you've said that before, and I understood. What I'm questioning is the way you treat them, especially their leader. If you were merely being civil, I'd accept it without issue. But this goes beyond civility. You treat them like some lost, beaten animal in need of care—or worse...' His thoughts grew sharper, filled with disdain for the implication. 'And may Asuryan prove me wrong—but you treat them as if they were kin.'
The venom in his final thought struck a nerve. For the first time since entering the city, Thalindra felt the natural arrogance and pride of her kind wear on her, chafing against that of her own by the thinly-veiled insult.
Thalindra's response began with a controlled and suave tone, but it quickly gave way to her pride and simmering anger.
'Why would I treat them any differently than I treat you? Why would I not take care of those who are stuck in the same situation as I am? Why would I remain only "civil" if I seek their trust? Arandur, son of Orathon and Andar, have you not noticed the situation we are in? Your mind is as sharp as your blade, so I ask in the name of all the grains in the sands of time—why can't you grasp the infernal position we are in?'
Her words carried an edge, frustration woven into every syllable. Thalindra was weary of these arguments, especially with Arandur, who was no fool and should have known better by now.
Arandur paused, her words sinking in as his anger gave way to weariness and concern.
'I fear for you, dear friend. We have pursued the same purpose for centuries now—you, me, and Kaelaith—standing back-to-back against the enemies of our home. You have always been focused, undeterred, letting nothing hinder your mission. I have seen you kill countless beings, especially humans. You never hesitated to cut down a Mon-keigh with the slash of a blade or obliterate their heads with your might. That is who you are—the person I have always respected and admired. But I am not blind. Since that day, on that planet...'
'Stop.' Thalindra whispered into his mind, her eyes closing as she took a measured breath. Her distress was evident, yet Arandur pressed on, compelled to voice his thoughts.
'We need to talk about this. It's no secret that this has been affecting you for a long time. Back at the Craftworld, many doubted your ability to lead a Warhost. They even suggested sending an Autarch to accompany you. But Eldrad vouched for you, and you pressed on. Yet I know you, Thalindra. Whatever you are doing now, this isn't you.'
'Arandur, please, let's not talk about this. Not now.'
'We must.' His mental voice was firm, laced with a deep concern. 'I worry that my friend has lost her way—that she is being held back by the past. I may not fully understand what you are feeling, thanks to my Warmask, but I know enough to see that this is unnecessary. The Mon-keigh, at best, are tools to get us out of here. Once their purpose is fulfilled, we can let them go—or dispose of them. At worst, they're a liability to be weeded out. You understand this. These were your exact words during the culling of Lannevar when you ordered us to dispose of the remaining humans—males, females, even their young...'
He faltered, unable to finish as Thalindra's gaze turned toward him. Her aquamarine eyes crackled with energy, her face contorted into a heavy frown. Never before had Arandur seen such an expression directed at him, and it was clear his words had struck a nerve.
'LET. GO.' The command rang out in his mind, emotionless and cold, delivered with the precision of a battle order. It was enough to silence him instantly. Arandur turned his back to her once again, facing the wall in quiet submission.
Thalindra said nothing more, settling into her meditation with her eyes open and her frown unmoving. The tension in the air was palpable, and the unspoken truth between them was clear—this matter was no longer open for discussion. It was also painfully evident that Thalindra, the "Shadow of Ulthwe," was not the same person Arandur had once known.
A familiar smell reached his nostrils as he slowly fluttered his eyes open. The scene before him was completely black as if he were immersed in utter darkness. The only thing he could perceive, apart from the very familiar fragrance, was the beating of his own heart—slow and methodical.
He had no idea where he was or what kind of situation he had found himself in. Marcus struggled even to grasp who he was at that moment; everything felt surreal and outlandish, despite there being nothing to see.
The smell, now growing stronger, was that of wet dirt—the same smell freshly dug trenches carried on the battlefield. The memories and thoughts these sensations unearthed overwhelmed him. If he had been confused before, now he felt utterly lost amid the myriad of sensations, as well as the strange absence of them.
Then, right in front of him, a silhouette appeared. Its shape was familiar yet obscured by the surrounding darkness. The smell was stronger now, and Marcus squinted in an effort to discern who or what was moving slowly toward him.
Even though there was no discernible light, the figure's features began to reveal themselves. Though still dazed and struggling to reorder his thoughts, he instantly recognized the face.
"Captain!?"
It was all he could utter as his eyes widened at the sight of the man standing before him. It was Captain Mannie Maximus Welles—his long dead surrogate father—staring right back at him.
The captain's face was serious, his purple gaze unwavering, and his bald head adorned with a pristine Imperial officer's hat. His hands clasped behind his back, Welles's posture remained as familiar as ever.
"What are you doing staring at me like that!? You have a job to do, remember? You need to help Ramirez and Octavius take those boxes to the guns right now!"
The moment Marcus blinked, he found himself back in the all-too-familiar trenches. Sweet, sweet home, he thought for a moment. The air was damp, and the stench of dirt, blood, and decay assaulted his nostrils. It was an all-too-familiar sensation for the Guardsman who had spent so much of his life on the front lines alongside his brothers and sisters.
The trench system was one he knew well. It was home—where he had first served, earned his first kills and scars, and once dreaded being in. Now, strangely, it felt like the only place he belonged.
The trench walls were constructed of a complex mixture of cement and hardened alloys, though he did not know exactly what materials they contained. Around the different segments of the position were large artillery pieces, groups of Guardsmen loading shell into them or adjusting their sights and elevation.
There were nests for heavy bolters and meltaguns near the main bunker, where officers gathered to receive and relay orders. An improvised landing zone lay nearby for supply or troop drops.
Then it hit him. Though the place itself was familiar, something was off. The sky was an unnatural color—a sickly pink streaked with yellow rays that moved unpredictably across the strange firmament.
He had no time to dwell on this as a compulsion took hold of him. He found himself grabbing a box and running toward the nearest artillery piece right behind his two former comrades.
Ramirez, a scrawny yet tall young man with a dark complexion, was not as Marcus remembered him. He appeared mangled and torn to pieces, yet he moved as if uninjured, carrying the boxes as though he still had his left arm. The sight was both surreal and grisly.
Octavius, the blond, muscular two-meter giant of their squad, was no better. A gaping hole pierced straight through his head, but, like Ramirez, this didn't seem to faze him. He hefted two heavy ammunition boxes and led the way toward the artillery piece.
Both men chatted as they walked, but their voices were strange, speaking in a language Marcus didn't understand. The sounds were muddled, and distorted, as if he were suffering from severe tinnitus. A low, persistent hum echoed in his ears, drowning out the world around him.
Then it hit him. As they got closer to the cannon, the scene around them became increasingly surreal. Familiar faces surrounded him, but each was more distorted than the last. Some had their faces completely crushed, others were riddled with holes from enemy fire, and the most grotesque sight of all was a disembodied leg walking around as if it were just another normal day of service.
His heartbeat grew louder and stronger, echoing in his ears, while the persistent hum escalated to an almost deafening roar. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the grotesque figures of those he had once known and fought with. Now, their broken bodies moved with an eerie semblance of life, as if some greater force was toying with him—taunting him by throwing his deepest guilt right in his face: that of surviving.
Then it worsened. As he looked at the cannon before him, the carved words etched into its surface sent a chill through him. He knew those words well, having heard them repeated throughout his upbringing:
"Multi hostes suos perdere volunt. Quod si verum esset, se ipsos perdere maxime cogeretur."
His heartbeat thundered in his chest, and his breaths came in rapid, shallow gasps. Panic seized him as the world around him blurred. Then, he felt a hand rest firmly on his shoulder. Turning quickly, he found Welles standing there—the only figure not marred by war and violence.
"Remember what I told you? Don't allow yourself to feel fear. It won't help you, you know? Be fearless in the face of your enemies. If you must die, do so with spite and fury in your eyes—not pitiful cowardice."
Those words struck a chord deep within him. But they weren't Welles' words. They had been spoken by someone else entirely.
For a fleeting moment, Welles' form shifted, his features replaced by another figure. It happened in the blink of an eye, but Marcus could never forget the unmistakable azure eyes and ivory hair of the woman who appeared for that brief instant. Her face remained blurred, yet he knew exactly who she was.
"Mother?"
The moment passed, and the figure before him reverted to his former Captain. Welles raised his left eyebrow, then placed a hand on Marcus's shoulder. But when he spoke, it wasn't Welles's voice. It was the voice of a woman.
"Wake up."
Marcus furrowed his brow in confusion, the scene becoming more surreal by the second. His Captain—the man who had taught him everything about survival, who embodied leadership and unyielding strength—was now speaking with the voice of Jax, of all people.
"WAKE UP!"
Marcus's mouth opened wide as a scream tore from him. He was suddenly yanked back to reality, his breaths coming in deep, ragged gasps, like a man who had been underwater for far too long.
He flailed his arms wildly, startled out of sleep, letting out a primal scream of rage and fear. His frantic movements continued for several moments before he gradually realized where he was—back in their cell, in that cursed city.
His men stood frozen, staring at him in stunned silence, like deer caught in headlights. Among them, the Private seemed torn between bursting into laughter or remaining shocked by the officer's dramatic reaction.
Time stretched awkwardly until Marcus sighed heavily, using his knuckles to rub away the remnants of sleep.
"Shit. By the Emperor's holy name, can an officer get some damn sleep around here?"
Ellias, Darius, and Janessa exchanged glances. The temptation to laugh at their captain's exaggerated response passed quickly, though the Private took the lead in explaining the situation.
"You were sweating like crazy. Your forehead was burning up like you had a fever, your breathing was ragged, and you kept mumbling words in a dialect we couldn't fully understand."
Marcus froze. He had a good idea of what he might have been muttering, especially since they had identified it as a dialect. That narrowed the possibilities. If it had been mere nonsense, they would have remarked on that. Recognizing it as familiar yet incomprehensible suggested he had been speaking High Gothic.
"Did it sound something like this: 'Multi hostes suos perdere volunt. Quod si verum esset, se ipsos perdere maxime cogeretur'?"
"Yup, it was something like that," Janessa replied carelessly. Ellias nodded in agreement, clearly uninterested in dissecting the finer points of linguistics, particularly from someone in the throes of a fever dream.
"Well, Captain, breakfast is here. If you don't mind, I'd like to get some. Friggin' starving."
"No problem. Go."
Ellias grinned and moved away, heading to sit beside the Tau Fire Warrior, who was already eating the so-called "rations" provided by the Drukhari. Janessa lingered, her gaze filled with worry and concern.
"Sir, is everything alright?"
"Yes. Don't worry about me. Go have your breakfast. I just need a moment to get my bearings before joining you all."
She nodded before heading to sit with Ellias. She struggled to open the cap of her ration tube with one hand and asked the Corporal for help, prompting him to oblige with a chuckle.
That left Marcus and Darius alone. The combat medic stood nearby, staring at him with a serious expression, his eyes a mixture of doubt and suspicion.
"Can I talk with you for a second?"
Darius's tone was serious, leaving no doubt that he meant business.
"Of course, Darius."
"Good, but not here. Let's go to one of the corners where we can talk more privately."
"Lead the way then."
The two Imperials walked side by side to the far left corner of the cell, away from prying ears. Once Darius was certain that no one was close enough to overhear, he checked his surroundings one last time before speaking.
"What you just said is High Gothic. How do you know that dialect?"
Marcus shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't fond of opening up about his personal life, let alone his past. But now the cat was out of the bag.
"Let me answer your question with another question… how do you know High Gothic?"
Darius raised an eyebrow, his expression clearly implying the question was a foolish one.
"I'm the son of a Hospitaller, did you forget? She taught me."
Of course. It had been a stupid question. Everyone in their group knew Darius's mother was a member of the Sororitas. Marcus could only grumble under his breath, blaming his recently awakened mind for the careless response.
"Sir," Darius pressed, his tone insistent, "Let me ask you again… how do you know High Gothic? And why did you recite that particular scripture directly from Discourses on the Faith?"
"Er... I don't know. I must've heard it somewhere, but I blurted it out?"
Marcus's tone was unsure, his words unconvincing. Darius raised his eyebrows again, this time in barely contained annoyance.
"Unless you were part of a militant branch of the Ecclesiarchy or an Inquisitor, it's highly unlikely you just heard this somewhere. That particular verse serves to remind us that the greatest enemies we face aren't external, but internal—our selfish drives. The Sacred Church typically uses a more watered-down version of it in Common Gothic. It's very unlikely you simply 'heard' this in passing and then remembered every word flawlessly."
Darius sighed, closing his eyes briefly as if to compose himself. When he opened them, his doubt and curiosity had given way to determination. He fixed Marcus with an unyielding stare.
"Someone taught you High Gothic. Someone exposed you to the Discourses. Very few average Imperials would have access to both, unless…"
Darius paused, his words hanging heavily in the air. Then, with measured precision, he launched the inevitable question.
"By any chance, was your mother a…"
The lounge was completely silent as Elyria sat on the throne, gazing down at the arena being organized and prepared according to her precise instructions.
In her hand, she held a cup containing an expensive local brew of Eldari wine. She gently swirled the glass, causing the scarlet liquid inside to move in smooth, hypnotic waves.
The Succubus's mind was a storm of thoughts, most revolving around the deal she had recently struck with the Haemonculus and Culsan, the Alpha Legionnaire who had invaded her spire without warning.
Too many variables and events had transpired leading up to this moment, any of which could interfere with her plan to lull the Captain and his party into a false sense of security and grandeur that was utterly undeserved. Vyle, the reclusive Haemonculus, rarely involved himself in matters beyond his domain and craft. His obsessive focus on fleshcrafting and the domination of biology in all its forms kept him confined to his laboratory in that dreadful abomination he ironically referred to as his haven.
Now, however, his sudden interest in the arena and the secrecy surrounding his chosen fighter made Elyria question the deal they had made. In hindsight, while she was confident that whatever Acharon had selected to perform in her arena would provide a spectacular balance to counter Culsan, she could not ignore the obvious signs that the Haemonculus might be scheming something.
She took another sip of her drink, allowing the fruity, sour taste to fill her mouth and tantalize her senses. The aroma, befitting such a fine vintage, lingered as she let out a quiet sigh and returned to her musings.
Then there was Culsan, the Alpha Legionnaire who had come seeking the Captain. His motives remained unclear, but his purpose was evidently strong enough to lead him into the Dark City, either to capture or kill his target. Elyria was no expert on Space Marines, though she knew enough to understand their value and to assess the formidable battle prowess they brought to her arena.
One thing was certain: his Legion was affiliated with Chaos. That meant the "Powers That Be," or someone tied to them, had turned their attention to the Mon-Keigh.
And he wasn't the only one, she thought as she took another sip and glanced toward the recently constructed private lounge for Vyle. The Haemonculus was currently standing there, his giddiness palpable as he gazed down at the fighting pits.
Even the old and temperamental Haemonculus had taken an interest in the Captain—enough to almost come to blows with her over him. Elyria knew that fleshcrafters were a mysterious and unpredictable lot, but compared to most denizens of the Dark City, they possessed a keener understanding of reality itself. Many of them were as ancient as the time of the Fall, if not older, having lived through the era of the great Eldar Empire before She Who Thirsts was birthed by their people's boundless hubris.
However, even in this twisted game, she was orchestrating, the Succubus had already won. The life of that Captain and his ragtag group was meaningless in the grand scheme of things. His potential offered a fleeting opportunity for profit, especially when factoring in the previous variables. But in the vastness of the galaxy, there would always be another Marcus—another misguided soul full of potential—or even another Farseer, as dreadful and pitiful as that particular witch.
Whether she lost this little game mattered not. The fight would still take place in her arena, and it would soon be her spoils, the profits the same. Should she feel particularly spiteful, she could always renege on the deal and seize Vyle's share for herself, consequences be damned.
The mere thought of the ancient Drukhari's reaction brought a sly smile to her lips. Elyria knew she was in control. None of the other players truly held any stakes in this—they would play their parts in the way she allowed. The moment she tired of their schemes, she would end the game without a second thought.
Soon, another spectacle would begin, and the Succubus already had her pieces perfectly positioned on the board. One way or another, the outcome would align with her designs, just as she had promised them all.
"I made my move. Now I wait for yours..."
She whispered the words to no one in particular before tilting her head back and finishing the contents of the cup in her hands.
Culsan sat on the ground, sharpening his monomolecular blade. The room around him vibrated with the distant roar of the cheering crowd above. Vespera, one of Elyria's lackeys, escorted him to this chamber, ostensibly to prepare for the "spectacle"—or whatever these depraved, filthy Xenos called their grotesque blood sport.
From the moment he set foot in this structure, it was clear the Drukhari would do everything in their power to make his brief presence here a living hell. At the reception area, the walls and ceiling were adorned with a grotesque assortment of humans and Xenos, sewn together in some perverse display. Their quiet, ragged moans and groans, though faint, reached his sensitive and trained ears as if they were mere inches away, whispering desperate pleas for mercy and release from their torment.
For most, such a sight could easily shatter the spirit, whether faithful or not. But for Culsan, this was merely business. His gaze did not linger, and their cries fell on deaf ears. He waited patiently for what he considered a petite Drukhari female to arrive, who presented herself with a practiced air of grace, though her wary posture betrayed her readiness to fight should he give her any excuse.
But Culsan had no intention of giving her one. His mind was set firmly on his objective. As long as the Xenos upheld their end of the trade, they would not taste his steel or fire—though their sheer degeneracy and depravity sorely tested his resolve at every turn.
Walking through the maze of black, spiked corridors, he noted the structure's deceptive design. At first glance, it appeared chaotic, but the subtle arrangement of the corridors suggested a deliberate pattern. It reminded him of a spiral, though not quite. Culsan had long been aware that the Dark City defied the principles of Euclidean geometry that underpinned conventional engineering and architecture. Commorragh itself was like this arena—completely disorienting in its layout but underpinned by a maddeningly subtle logic.
Of all the places he had ventured to in his service, this one was by far the most abhorrent. If given the choice, he would never return here. His first week navigating the twisted labyrinths of Commorragh with the foul guide he had hired had been nearly unbearable. The oppressive atmosphere and alien geometries gave him such piercing headaches that he had almost fallen prey to one of the many traps laid by the denizens of this vile realm.
Only through sheer willpower had he adapted, forcing his mind to dissociate from his surroundings and focus on his mission. That mission—his reason for being here—came sharply back into focus. The bounty.
Marcus Hale. Captain, 88th Regiment Imperial Guard. Cadian. Wretched planet in his opinion, a reflection on the Imperium it tried vainly to preserve: constantly threatened, barely surviving, and turned unrecognizable by war. This time, however, his superiors had explicitly ordered him to capture the man alive. The reasons for this directive were beyond Culsan's understanding, and frankly, he did not care. Questions were for others.
He did what was necessary for the betterment of mankind, no matter the means required to achieve it.
The Alpha Legionnaire was not an ideologue; Machiavellian in both practice and philosophy. He understood that his ultimate goal—however distant—was in his eyes the best outcome for humanity in this cold, uncaring galaxy. Yet the means to achieve that end did not matter. Whether cruel or merciful, horrific or benevolent, he was willing to go to any lengths to ensure success.
For this reason, he was not bound by honor. Culsan was a masterful liar and manipulator, skilled enough to convince even a Succubus—a creature renowned for its cunning—that more of his brothers were lurking nearby, ready to strike. This was far from the first time he had employed deception and trickery. Many victories, along with the skulls of his enemies, had been claimed through his machinations alone, a testament to his ingenuity and ruthlessness.
It was precisely this reputation that made him the ideal choice for his current mission. He had ventured alone into the lair of these foul Xenos, deep within one of the most perilous places in the galaxy. Armed with his trusted Stalker Bolter, his blade, and his trump card—the Scales of Aranthur—he was ready to face the challenge.
The Scales of Aranthur were an ancient relic, a cape crafted from an unknown material interwoven with what was believed to be the scales of a Plumed Serpent. According to legend, this mythical creature could render itself completely invisible, perceivable only by those who knew of its existence—an exceedingly rare few who had lived to tell the tale.
Did Culsan believe the tale recounted by the Inquisitor who had been transporting the artifact to Trahaxas, a fortress world for safeguarding dangerous or daemonic relics? In truth, not entirely. But he did not dismiss it either. As an Astartes, he had witnessed too many bizarre phenomena to outright deny such possibilities. Regardless of the legend's veracity, one aspect of the story resonated with him.
Culsan would become like the Plumed Serpent, striking when it was far too late for his targets to react. His presence would remain unknowable until the moment he made his move. Only those he intended to eliminate would become aware of him—and by then, it would already be too late. Of this, he was certain.
And so he prepared. The next hour would be the moment he struck. Marcus would either leave with him willingly, or his severed head would hang from Culsan's belt, his body vaporized to ensure the Xenos could never attempt to resurrect him.
Vyle gazed down at the pits below, his mouth frozen in a manic grin. It had been a long time since he had left his realm to mingle with the masses and their uncouth antics—perhaps six thousand years, give or take. But this moment made the break worthwhile, a rare exception to his long streak of avoiding the shallow displays of might among his kin.
To the Haemonculus, those gathered in the arena were no more than overgrown children, posturing and preening in pathetic attempts to emulate adults. Thousands sat in their seats, eagerly awaiting the carnage that would soon unfold. They were there only for the blood spilled upon the ground, desperate for their scraps of suffering so their ridiculous and frivolous lives could continue.
Children. Foolish ones at that, he thought with disdain, refusing even to glance at the raucous crowds. His focus remained solely on the fighting stage, already prepared to receive its combatants.
They did not grasp the true significance of what was about to transpire. This was no mere spectacle to sate the shallow desires of the masses. It was something far more profound. Vyle saw it as the purest form of nature's design, a brutal competition where only the fittest would emerge victorious.
The fight would pit Marcus and his unlikely troupe—a collection of diverse specimens who had somehow managed to make it this far under the leadership of an anomalous human—against Vyle's prized "little trophy."
This was an evolution in action, a contest of steel and fire to reveal the true apex predator. His challenger was indeed a formidable predator, one capable of shaming many others. Yet, Vyle also knew what Marcus truly was. The Imperial Captain's seemingly frail appearance and unassuming demeanor were but a guise, concealing a far more dangerous essence.
From the moment of his birth, Marcus had been crafted by fate to wield his "fangs" and "claws" against the world, carving out his place among the predators.
Vyle's peers would no doubt dismiss his musings as absurd. That was one of the many reasons he kept such thoughts to himself. He saw no need to voice his disdain for their vain pursuits of hedonism and fleeting power. Vyle had already experienced all the pleasures Commorragh had to offer. He had sampled every drug, taken countless subjects to his bed, and perfected innumerable methods of inflicting pain. The ancient Drukhari had long since exhausted the banal thrills of the city.
This, however, was different. This was pure. This was worth watching. For the first time in a long while, he felt ecstatic to be part of such an event. It was not out of cheap bloodlust but rather to witness whether his assumptions would prove true. In his mind, a victor had already been declared. Now, it was time to see if his old age had dulled his sharp mind in predicting the course of nature.
"Let's see the wonders you can perform, Marcus Hale. Bare your fangs, show your claws..."
Acharon stood frozen like a statue, his body still and composed as his eyes meticulously scanned the entry points. He waited patiently for the moment the announcer would proclaim the beginning of the long-awaited display.
The preparation room was deathly quiet as Humans, Eldar, and Tau waited with apprehension for the upcoming battle. Jax was fashioning herself an eye patch from a torn piece of Ellias's sleeve. The Corporal was throwing a pebble against the metal wall, his eyes focused and stoic, but his right leg bounced up and down, betraying the anxiety and inner storm brewing within him. Darius knelt in fervent prayer, a broken rosary in his hands, his eyes tightly closed. It had been some time since Marcus had seen him so devoted in his prayers, but he knew this was the first fight where they would go in completely blind, without any advantage to exploit.
The Xenos in the group were also trying to busy themselves, seeking to escape the dread quickly settling in. Kais fiddled with the black beads always attached to his strange mechanized belt, his eyes closed as he mumbled softly in his alien tongue. Arandur, for reasons unknown, stood with his back turned to the group, even to Thalindra. The Dire Avenger remained silent, his head facing the wall. Marcus didn't understand why but preferred not to pry, especially with this particular Eldar who was not fond of him. Then there was Thalindra, floating in a lotus position, her eyes closed and shifting sporadically, her head occasionally jerking as though afflicted by momentary spasms.
She had informed them earlier that she would attempt to read the future and see what lay ahead for their group. So far, however, she had not returned from her meditative state. Marcus, positioned in a corner with his back to the wall, stared straight ahead, his purple eyes distant as his thoughts raced.
They had no intel on what they were about to face, and knowing their enemy, he was certain it would be worse than storming an enemy trench or navigating a minefield. Thalindra's earlier warnings about the nature of the Drukhari echoed in his mind. They wouldn't just try to win; they would exploit weaknesses, seeking to inflict as much suffering as possible.
His options for an approach were limited. Charging in recklessly was out of the question, especially after experiencing the obstacle course. Everything with the Drukhari revolved around treachery. A conservative approach seemed best: observe the terrain, advance cautiously, and find a vantage point before committing.
Yet, that same obstacle course weighed heavily on his mind. Being slow or overly cautious in that instance would have led to their deaths. If this was something similar, he and the others would need to adapt and think fast.
Thalindra's body finally settled gently to the ground. The Farseer opened her aquamarine eyes, disappointment etched across her face. Marcus was the first to approach.
"So, did you see anything?" he asked.
The Eldar shook her head slowly, a clear indication that she had not.
"The currents are too unstable. The lines are vibrating. I couldn't ascertain our fate with precision," she replied, her voice tinged with frustration.
"Shit..." the Officer mumbled, placing a hand under his chin. Before this news, he had held onto a faint hope for some information—any clue about what they were up against. Now, that hope was crushed. They were entirely on their own, blind in the dark, with their chances of survival drastically reduced.
Still, they had Thalindra, who had repeatedly proven herself far more capable than any of them, wielding her powers and martial prowess to face multiple foes. That was a source of some comfort in this moment of uncertainty, though relying solely on her to secure victory would be reckless.
Suddenly, the room vibrated and shifted. The all-too-familiar arsenal materialized at the center of the chamber. This time, however, it was different. On the stands was an array of weapons he instantly recognized, along with full sets of standard Cadian armor.
Unlike before, where weapons had been haphazardly scattered, these stands were meticulously organized into clearly defined sections and subsections.
The human section was divided into four subsections: Light Weapons, Heavy Weapons, Blades, and Explosives. It was an overwhelming buffet of destruction and firepower—a dream for any Guardsman on the battlefield. And here it was, improbably present in the underbelly of Commorragh.
Each weapon, blade, and explosive appeared brand new, as though freshly delivered from an Imperial armory. Some of the blades even gleamed as if they had been polished moments before being placed on the stands.
Marcus had to hold his chin to avoid letting his jaw drop at the sight. Yet, his gaze also turned toward the other sections, noting that similar attention had been given to Kais and the Eldar. Their sections contained a mix of their usual gear alongside unfamiliar Drukhari weaponry and armor.
Then, the voice of Elyria echoed through the walls, her words reverberating unnaturally as though the very room spoke for her.
"Ahem... I hope you all enjoyed my little gifts for you. But there's one more! Instead of a few moments, I'll give you a generous fifteen minutes to prepare. Choose the right tools for this fight and use them well—I want to give my audience a spectacle. So DON'T. DISAPPOINT. ME. That being said, good luck, meat!"
With that, the disembodied voice vanished, leaving them alone with their "gifts."
"Okay, I really don't understand what just happened," Marcus began, his tone measured but wary. "But choose wisely, all of you, and make sure to inspect your gear before donning it. This could all be a trick, for all we know."
He moved to the stand, selecting the weapon he was most familiar with: the standard Imperial Lasgun. As a sidearm, he chose a Laspistol. For good measure, he opted for a two-handed Chainsword, strapping it to his back. Discarding his torn and damaged armor, he replaced it with the fresh Cadian set, taking time to verify the straps and overall integrity to ensure there were no hidden faults.
Marcus then inspected his weapons. He tested the responsiveness of the triggers, checked the battery connections, ensured they were ready to receive energy from the battery packs, and adjusted the sights. The routine was second nature to him, a series of well-practiced steps honed by countless battles.
His fellow humans followed suit, going through similar procedures while selecting their equipment. Jax chose a Lasgun with a sniper scope as well as a Laspistol. Darius opted for a standard Lasgun and a plasma pistol as his sidearm. Ellias, on the other hand, went for heavier gear. He selected a storm Bolter, a supply of ammunition, and a belt of krak grenades.
Each of them worked with a sense of urgency, knowing that every choice and every second spent could mean the difference between survival and death.
Kais was quick to prepare, selecting his usual pulse carbine with an extended barrel. He paused briefly to give Marcus a thumbs-up.
"Ready," he said in rough Low Gothic, which caught the Captain off guard. Marcus hesitated for a moment, thinking, Did he speak our language this entire time? Shaking off his confusion, he returned the gesture and then turned his attention toward their Eldar companions.
To his surprise, both Thalindra and Arandur opted for their usual gear, standing silently and waiting for the battle. Marcus glanced at the array of weapons and armor available to them, baffled by their conservative choice. Though he didn't recognize half of the equipment on display, he was certain it was beyond lethal. Moreover, their damaged armor and clothing could easily have been replaced with the pristine, albeit spiked, armor pieces available.
Curiosity got the better of him, and he approached the Eldar, asking with genuine interest, "So, why didn't you guys pick one of those? They look mean—just what we need to beat them."
Arandur turned sharply, his expression filled with anger. He seemed ready to say something but stopped himself, closing his mouth and turning away to stare at the wall once again.
Instead, it was Thalindra who answered. "Any Asuryani knows not to employ tactics or don gear of the Dark Kin."
Marcus frowned, puzzled. What was the issue with using gear that appeared both deadly and well-crafted? Could it be corrupted like heretical weaponry?
"Okay, but why?" he pressed.
Thalindra hesitated for a moment, struggling to find the right words. With a heavy sigh, she began to explain. "The weapons and tools of the Drukhari are not merely instruments of war—they are reflections of their depravity. To wield such devices is to invite their darkness into your soul.
"They revel in agony, feeding upon the suffering of others to stave off their own doom. Their weapons are crafted with this purpose in mind—designed to cause pain, torment, and despair. To use them is to risk becoming entangled in their vile nature, for their creations bear the taint of their cruelty."
"So, it's similar to the weapons used by heretics?" Marcus asked, trying to make sense of her reasoning.
She paused briefly, considering his question. "In a way, yes. Tools carry the essence of their makers. To wield a weapon born of malice and bloodshed is to invite its corruption into one's spirit. Even the shadows of our enemies could subtly twist our thoughts, and thus, we must refrain from using them."
Marcus nodded, now understanding the logic behind their choice. "Then all that's left is for us to discuss a strategy."
All present turned toward the Captain as he gathered them to share his plan, hoping it would bring them back in one piece.
Arella had used her sources to obtain information about Kaltharis, the Archon of the Obsidian Fang, but most of them had returned empty-handed. Left with no other choice, she decided to rely on her most significant contact within the Dark City.
Rhias Grem had once been part of a Kabal: The Poisoned Tongue. He had once worked within the inner circle of Lady Malys, and because of this, the former Kabalite possessed knowledge of many of the major players in the Dark City, even those who operated under the radar. Now he made his living as a nomadic information broker, traveling through the labyrinthine realms of Commorragh and selling his insights into the city's inner workings. Few knew how to find him, but that was because they didn't understand the truth.
The Dark City was a sprawling, intricate maze of interwoven realms and dimensions, stitched together in ways that defied logic and comprehension. Those who navigated its corridors knew to avoid certain areas—places too distant from the influence of Asdrubael Vect. Such locations were rife with dangers: demons, wandering horrors, or, worst of all, Mandrakes.
While it pained the Drukhari to admit it, Asdrubael Vect was a necessary evil. He maintained a fragile semblance of order amidst their chaos. Without his dominion, the many realms and dwellings would descend into complete anarchy, resembling the desolate place Arella found herself in now.
Dyz was known as a border realm, a place of transition between two areas. The problem was that it was only accessible in a specific way—usually by traveling to the lower levels of Òrdough and entering a completely black door with a green polished handle. Places like this one were hard to find and enter if you weren't aware of them. Additionally, the existence of many similar doors made it easy for those searching to end up in a completely different place, which made it difficult for Vect's lackeys to keep tabs on it.
Arella wandered through the realm. The skies above glowed with a sickly green hue, while the terrain below was rough and uneven, composed of endless dunes of charcoal-black sand. The only illumination came from eerie greenish rays of light drifting high above, casting a dim, unnatural glow over the desolate expanse.
The wind howled in her ears as she walked, her trusted splinter rifle gripped firmly in her hands. It felt like an eternity before she finally arrived at her destination—a single hatch on the ground, its door made of black, hardened alloys.
Arella knocked on it rhythmically. The pattern was the password necessary to enter his domain. The door opened soundlessly, giving way to the deep, dark space below. Without hesitation, the Drukhari mercenary stepped inside, allowing her eyes to adjust to the absence of light.
Her eyes, far more advanced than those of lesser races, allowed her to easily navigate the corridor to a chamber. A single illuminated rune on the wall lit up the otherwise dark space, and on the other side of the chamber, a small opening let in enough light to dance across the room.
"Ah, Arella, what brings you here to my humble abode?"
"Information about a particular individual of interest."
Rhias hummed as he appeared from the wall on the left side. This did not shock the mercenary, who knew well that the place was a set of smoke and mirrors designed to fool anyone who dared enter without the blessing of its owner.
Speaking of which, the former Kabalite stood there. His entire body was hidden beneath long, flowing robes, and his head was covered by a silky cowl. His face was concealed by an ivory mask that bore a striking resemblance to those worn by the Harlequins, though the grin was absent, replaced by a faint, single line.
His rough voice broke the silence again.
"Which Kabal? Which lineage? Nobility? Allegiances?"
She was quick to respond.
"Obsidian Fang, Vex, not known, but the possibility of being related to Vect in some way."
He paused, letting the information settle in before asking his final question.
"Name?"
"Kaltharis Vex."
She answered in a single breath. Rhias hummed thoughtfully before turning away from her once more and entering the wall. The hole closed behind him the moment he passed through.
Moments passed before he returned, holding a parchment made of human skin, rolled up with a red, meaty ribbon. He extended the small scroll toward her, but before she could take it, the informant pulled it back.
"No. As you well know, before you can peer at the information I present, it is necessary that your dues be paid."
This was the most dreadful part of the transaction. Rhias was a good broker, but that meant his services were expensive, and often, they demanded payment with dire consequences.
"Sigh... name your price."
After a long pause, the other Drukhari seemed to contemplate her words before answering.
"A question and something important to be named in due time."
This was the riskiest kind of deal, as Rhias could wait for the perfect opportunity to ask for his due. However, she had her reputation as a mercenary to maintain, so Arella would indulge him.
"I accept your terms."
"Good, now to the question..."
Another pause followed as the info broker let the words roll from his mouth.
"Who wants to know?"
Not having room to back down, she answered.
"Ellyn, the Corsair Queen of the Star Reavers."
As soon as the words left her mouth, it was time to finish the transaction. Rhias took a sharp blade and requested her forearm. He waited patiently for her to roll up the sleeves of her undersuit. The moment she did, he swiftly skinned the upper layer of her dermis, making sure not to damage any nerves but ensuring she felt pain. For her, though, it was like a walk in the park, a known procedure when dealing with this particular info broker.
"Good, now to finish my receipt—write what you said on this slab of skin."
Just as he ordered, Arella quickly used the same blade to carve his question and her answer. With that, the proceedings were done, and Rhias handed her the parchment made of human leather, containing the information she sought.
"With this, we depart ways, but the second part of your due will come at the right time. So until then, enjoy the fruits of our transaction."
She nodded, putting her undersuit back in place. Now, it was damp with the blood from her exposed muscle, but the mercenary didn't show any reaction to it. To be fair, if Rhias had not hidden himself beneath that mask, she would not have been opposed to practically jumping on him, as his "procedure" certainly made her hot and bothered.
However, not dwelling on her desires after having her forearm's skin removed, she turned and left, ready to analyze the intel before taking any further action.
So here we are back again! I've returned from my vacation refreshed and filled with ideas for this story, I hope you guys missed me as much as missed you, I was dying to keep writing this and advance the plot.
That being said once again as usual let's thank BillyFish1409 for reviewing and editing this story, check his work out if you haven't already (his story is incredible go check it out). And Boyo99 has been supporting me on this journey alongside Billy, and his story had inspired me heavily to write this, so yeah just like with BillyFish, check his work out, you won't regret it.
Now to the reviews left in the previous chapter:
expert93 - Yup indeed it is. I aim to build their bond even further, they have many differences due to their heritage, but they also have many things in common, and this is what helps them connect, breaking the divide of species. Also as always thx for supporting me, and reading my work hope I keep entertaining you;
StrikerKostek01 - Hey Striker, ChristianPrimarch here! Hope you're having a good day. Regarding your comment, you are indeed correct: the Nephalim would generally be treated as second-class citizens or even outright dismissed as Mon-keigh, despite their Eldar blood. This treatment can vary between factions, but keep in mind that Nephalim are an exceptionally rare sight. Many Eldar and humans who know of their existence regard them as legends or distasteful jokes. The reason for this is the sheer mystery of their existence—genetically, Eldar and humans are entirely different. In the extremely rare cases where Nephalim are born, their treatment depends greatly on the identities of their parents and the factions involved.
That being said hope to see you guys in the next one! TheChristianPrimarch is out!