My guess is that it will end just like any other priceless artifacts that Cain obtained already:
- Inquisition Rosette - forgotten in his desk
- Drukhari Soul-devoring dagger - forgotten in his desk
At least for me it looks like Shadowlight will soon join them.

The Liberator's Desktop Paperweight Collection is sort of like Christmas gifts from relatives: you don't really like them but you can't just get rid of them without causing enough hurt feelings that the easiest thing to do is just keep them for when they unexpectedly drop by and asked if you like their present.

(Cain also secretly thinks to himself that maybe if he keeps all the really weird warpy junk in his office then on the day the Imperium inevitably reconquers Slawkenberg it'll all be in one, easy-to-find location for responsible authorities to snap up in one operation, instead of having horrific artifacts spread around to empower and rally local chaos cults.)

The collection:

1. Inquisition Rosette:
2. Soul-devouring dagger: (sometimes you need a letter opener that goes really hard.)
3. Shadowlight: (eh, why not? The cursed soul devouring dagger seems to like it.)
4. Wraithbone Phoenix: (what's another cursed object at this point)
5. Ebon Chalice: (he's just holding on to it: some sisters will come looking for it eventually)
6. Ansible STC (gift from tessellon kappa)
7. Anthenean Scroll (gift from Jafar)
8. Fleshlight (gift from Emeli)
9. Skull of Commander Checkov (Gift from General Mahlone as 'the first skull for your skull throne)

But here's a little fanfic of the crown jewel of Cain's collection:

—-

Inquisitor Valenzath hissed as he glared around the ceremonial office of the so-called Liberator.

The man was, once again, making a mockery of the imperium.

Artifacts of great potency and power- any one of which could could have triggered a war to to end a dozen worlds- jumbled without care. They all had sarcastic little notes with such 'helpful' advice as 'do not touch unless you want your brain to melt or, perhaps melt the brain of everyone else' or 'will eat your soul.' Inquisitor Valenzeth was trained in the art of interrogation. He knew precisely what explaining the horrible fate one was out to dole out would do to a prisoner. The fact that the warmaster had such obvious props explained his toys made Valenzath wonder how many prisoners had been tied into chairs and met their ends after the warmaster sated his sadism and fed his hungry gods and ravening ambition on their fear.

And he was obviously continuing his mind games. The invasion- in fact, the whole campaign - had been far too easy.

His expert eye noticed the gap in the jumble. He noticed the space, the focal point, the place where the man called The Warmaster of Chaos had sat, enthroned in the center of his power, and clearly toyed with his most potent relic.

He shuddered to think what monsterous artifact had once lurked in that empty space, to have been taken while the riches worth whole hive worlds were carelessly left to their fates. The 'Liberator' with all the arrogance and cruelty so characteristic of his heretical kind, was taunting him. Taunting him with knowledge and ignorance: knowledge that something far, far worse had been hoarded in this vault of heresy, and ignorance of the nature of the threat it was his holy duty to hunt and purge with fire and flame.

The whole pace was an obvious trap, and one he had no choice but to fall into. He ordered his acolytes to use the utmost caution, consistent with speed, to transport it all to his waiting ship. He prepared himself for the inevitable counterattack, and prepared to sell his life dearly in the faint hope that, just this once, the Liberator had made a mistake.

He wondered if the liberator would stroll through a door, or jump from the ceiling, or some other such theatrical gesture of a great felid toying with a helpless rat. He wondered what little note would be dangling from the artifact, and if he could manage to stab the man before the smirking Liberator got done reading it. So many heretics couldn't resist a monologue, but the notes were quite short. Cain was not one to blather or indulge in lengthy repartee when his propaganda could do so much with one, pithy quip.

The inquisitor waited, his mind a pictcast filled with a galaxy of chaos-tainted horrors, and he cursed Cain for suspending him in the uncertainty of not knowing which one to expect.

—

As I lead the refugee convoy through the warp from Slawkenberg to Adumbria, I wished the imperium the joy of all their the horrifically dangerous trash they'd left carelessly around for my band of lunatics to collect. Maybe the imperium would keep better track of their crap this time.

I clutched the only thing of value from my office that I'd grabbed in the pullout.

The only safe thing in the office: my entirely unmagical, uncursed, unblessed inert little Snowglobe made as an art project in 6th grade by one Zeraya Cain. I shook it, staring at the little flakes go whirling by, watched the paper butterfly inside, frozen forever in time, along with the elegant gothic hand lettered inscription that said: 'I love you, Dad.'