Summary:
A gap is formed between both of our protagonists as each on their stubborn ways refuse to give up on their point. This risks the new and fragile alliance they had built to face the cruelties of the Dark City, now the fate of their group relies on their ability to reconcile their differences and come to a compromise.
Elyria moves into the shadows to start the new phase of her plan, to finally put down the torn on her side that is Marcus, will the "Merry Band" succeed in this new endeavor or will they fail to the machinations of the Succubus?
Shadows of the Dark City 12
All of them remained silent as they observed their new quarters, Elyria's lackey standing in the middle of the room. Her face was contorted into a bored expression, as though she dreaded being there as much as they dreaded her presence.
"So here's the thing," she began, her voice dripping with disdain. "Since all of you survived enough fights to gain some value on the betting boards, you've earned an upgrade in your living conditions."
The Wych gestured around the room, their eyes wandering, as they took in their new environment. The cell was far bigger than the last one, offering enough space to walk around. In addition, small, tattered rugs made from some unknown leather served as improvised beds.
The walls were a dull, almost grey purple, completely devoid of vibrancy while the floor remained the same dreadful, cold metal they had come to despise. Many nights had been spent shivering and bundling together to stave off the punishing chill of the arena's under levels.
Another thing they noticed was a simple bucket in the corner, which puzzled them. Vespera, noticing their confusion, rolled her eyes before explaining the new features and rules of their upgraded "home."
"Alright, listen up. I'll only say this once, so pay attention!"
Thalindra made sure to broadcast a translation of Vespera's words to ensure everyone understood Drukhari's instructions.
"Those folded skins are your beds. Use them however you want, but don't think you'll get new ones. You've got one, so treat it well or deal with it. The bucket is for your necessities. A slave will come by at the start of each solar cycle to empty it. And don't even think about doing anything on the ground, or we'll seal your urethra with molten steel."
The group remained silent, enduring the grim explanation.
"This isn't the big leagues yet," Vespera continued, her voice laced with mockery, "but if you keep performing, you'll earn further rewards. Still, remember this—whether you fail or win, we win. You're all puppets in this show, and your suffering is our entertainment."
Her expression turned darker as she concluded. "Don't let these little 'gifts' fool you. We won't stop until you've endured the most excruciating and suffocating pain."
Vespera then turned to the humans, her gaze scanning the diverse group. After a moment of scrutiny, she sighed and scratched her head.
"Which one of you Mon-Keigh is Marcus?"
Thalindra felt a cold grip at her core as the question registered. Why would the Dark Kin be seeking him specifically?
The Captain stepped forward, his expression calm but resolute, his eyes locking onto the Wych's. "That would be me," he said.
"Good. You're coming with me. Someone wants to speak with you."
Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away gracefully. Marcus followed without hesitation, flanked by two Incubi who ensured no disruptions would occur during their journey.
Thalindra watched as Marcus disappeared from view, a gnawing unease settling over her. The group remained tense and silent. Despite her attempts, the Farseer could glean little from Vespera's mind—she herself seemed unclear on the nature of her orders. It was nearly impossible to form a solid conclusion about what was happening.
The worst part was the lingering tension from her earlier confrontation with Marcus. Days had passed since their "talk," if it could even be called that, and neither of them had made a move to reconcile. Her pride held her back, even though her intentions were pure. All she wanted was to help him. But shame also played its part; her lack of tact had driven him away, leaving her to dwell on her mistake. And now, with him being taken away to face an unknown fate, the weight of her inaction felt unbearable.
To her surprise, it was Ellias who approached her, his face grim with concern. She already knew the question he was about to ask.
"What happened to him? Where are they taking Marcus?"
For the first time in a long while, she didn't have an answer. All she could do was hope that whatever awaited him, would be quick and not enough to break him.
"I don't know," she admitted softly, her voice passive and uncertain. Her gaze remained fixed on the spot where Marcus had disappeared, the source of both her frustration and her hope.
The journey was quiet and uneventful. At some point, they blindfolded him, roughly guiding him toward a craft of some sort. Despite the dreadful and cold atmosphere, Marcus maintained his composure.
Shortly after leaving the cells, he felt an overwhelming foreboding sensation, as if something were slowly draining his essence. It was a familiar feeling—one he had experienced the first time he set foot on this Emperor-forsaken place. He deduced they had taken him outside again. Inside the vehicle, each violent turn jerked him from side to side, causing his body and head to slam painfully against the metal interior. Someone in front of him laughed cruelly as the vehicle continued its erratic course.
Marcus did not show weakness. He uttered no groans, no signs of discomfort, remembering the Seer's advice: never show vulnerability the sadistic Xenos could exploit. His silence was his defiance, denying them the satisfaction of seeing him falter.
When the vehicle finally stopped, they roughly pulled him out, causing him to fall to his hands and knees. The sudden assault stunned him, but he had no time to react before being dragged by two figures. They hauled him across an unfamiliar terrain, his knees scraping against the ground, the journey feeling like an eternity. When they reached their destination, they shoved him face-first onto the rough, cold floor. This time, he couldn't help but release a groan, their treatment grating on his nerves more than the physical pain.
A cold, calculating voice broke the silence from somewhere in front of him.
"Leave us. I can handle him."
Without a word, his captors departed, their movements soundless. The vibrations of their footsteps faded, leaving Marcus alone with whoever had spoken.
"Marcus, isn't it? You can take the blindfold off."
He hesitated, but ultimately complied, afraid of what he might see. When he removed the dark cloth, the sight that greeted him left him stunned, disgusted, and perplexed.
The room was massive, its ceiling soaring like that of an Ecclesiarchy cathedral. Dark columns adorned with skulls of various species—human, Ork, and others unrecognizable—lined the walls. Trophies of all sorts were displayed as if the room were a hunter's gallery of horrors. Severed heads, body parts, and grotesque oddities were arranged with meticulous care, leaving space for future additions.
At the far end of the room, a grand painting dominated the north wall. Behind an imposing obsidian table with a marble throne sat the grotesque artwork. Nearly as large as the wall itself, it depicted an ethereal, beautiful Eldar-like figure standing triumphantly over another being with grayish skin and cadaveric yet eerily striking features. The defeated figure had one pitch-black eye and another completely white, its long mane of white hair cascading down its head.
The standing figure held a spear pointed at the other's heart, her expression one of contempt and resolve. The other bore a look of somber acceptance. The painting seemed to ripple, as if alive, with colors and details that Marcus struggled to comprehend.
As his gaze lingered, he noticed more strange elements—shifting details and hues beyond human perception. The longer he stared, the more his mind felt strained, teetering on the edge of understanding something he could not fathom. Before he could sink deeper into its uncanny allure, a male Drukhari stepped in front of him, blocking his view.
"Well, we don't want you going mad just yet, do we? Take a seat, Captain Marcus. There is much to discuss."
Marcus recognized him immediately—the same man who had lingered around Elyria on the ship, the one who had ordered unspeakable acts against Janessa. Rage simmered beneath the Captain's calm exterior as he frowned, his eyes narrowing with contained wrath. Still, he followed the Drukhari's instruction, cautiously moving to sit at the table where his captor now lounged.
"My name is Kaltharis Vex, Archon of the mighty Obsidian Fang," the Drukhari announced, his tone dripping with cold authority. "The one who formerly held your life…"
Kaltharis gestured with his hand, the unnatural movement of his fingers momentarily distracting Marcus. It was clear though that he wished he presented himself next.
"Captain Marcus of the 88th Cadian Defense Regiment," Marcus declared, his voice firm and formal. "Responsible for guarding Sector MI-B4 and its dependencies, located on the northern continent of the plains of Arina." His military training took over, ensuring his presentation was impeccable. But once the formalities were complete, Marcus avoided glancing at the cursed painting behind Kaltharis.
"So, do you know why I called you here?"
Marcus shook his head, unwilling to speak more than necessary to the vile Archon.
Kaltharis hummed, pouring himself a drink before settling it loudly on the stone table.
"I want to know if you were responsible for cutting short my raid on that accursed planet. And I want to know exactly what you did to counter my offensive."
The Captain considered lying, but he suspected the Archon's piercing gaze saw through deceit. Marcus wasn't certain if Kaltharis could read minds like Arandur and Thalindra, but he wasn't willing to risk it. Instead, he opted for a half-truth.
"Being an officer, I certainly contributed to plans for combatting incoming threats. However, battle plans go through a chain of command. My strategies were reviewed, adapted, and executed by the planetary command. In that sense, yes, I played a role, but I wasn't alone in planning the defense against your forces."
Kaltharis stood, his armored fingers scratching the table's surface as he slowly circled it, finally stopping directly in front of Marcus.
"Is that so?"
Kaltharis's tone remained neutral, but his eyes betrayed him. They promised pain if Marcus answered incorrectly. The Captain suspected the Archon had already seen through his white lie. However, backing down now would accomplish nothing.
"Yes."
Before he could process what was happening, Kaltharis's clawed gauntlets wrapped around his neck, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. The cold, sharp metal bit into his skin as the pressure on his windpipe robbed him of breath.
Marcus gasped loudly, struggling for air, his lungs burning as the oxygen drained from his body. Then, just as suddenly, Kaltharis released him. He crumpled to the floor in a heap, his knees slamming against the cold ground as he coughed violently, his chest heaving. His head pounded from the lack of air, his body trembling as it recovered.
"Liar..."
The word hissed through clenched teeth as Kaltharis grabbed Marcus by the hair, forcing his face up. His icy blue eyes bore into the Captain's, piercing as if to strip away every layer of resistance.
"Do you think you can fool me?" Kaltharis sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "How foolish must you be to believe you can trick me? Your people had no idea we were on that planet until someone sent a desperate signal to your high command. Even then, none of you pathetic creatures had a clue what you were dealing with."
Marcus's eyes widened in shock. How could the Archon know that? Noticing his stunned expression, Kaltharis let out a cold, mocking laugh.
"We were on your comms," he explained, his tone as if speaking to a slow-witted child. "Our first strike was to secure your long-range communication devices. We listened to every panicked word exchanged between you and your so-called command. Every move, every strategy—you were an open book to us."
The Captain's shock quickly gave way to fury. Everything began to make sense. The Drukhari had been two steps ahead the entire time. Their first attack was not merely for slaughter but for intelligence. It explained why the unit had been attacked before help could arrive, and why their timing was impeccable.
And yet, he realized, it could have been far worse. By sheer chance—or perhaps the Emperor's grace—he had seen the silhouette of a Drukhari craft in the sky that fateful day. That moment of serendipity had saved Arina. But as much as he wanted to believe it was divine intervention, he knew better. Chance had shaped the battlefield that day, as it so often did.
His thoughts were interrupted by the increasing pressure on his scalp. Kaltharis's gauntleted hand tightened, claws digging deeper into his skin, sending fresh waves of pain coursing through his body.
"Now answer me truthfully, vermin," Kaltharis commanded, his voice icy. "Were you in command of your unit? Were there any other officers on the field who could have devised this strategy?"
"No," Marcus ground out through clenched teeth. He despised playing the Archon's game, but the Drukhari's knowledge left him with no choice.
His answer did not appease Kaltharis. The claws dug deeper, blood trickling down Marcus's temple.
"So it was you who devised the folly that ruined my strategy?"
"Yes," Marcus replied, his voice firm despite the pain.
Kaltharis released him suddenly, letting him collapse to the floor. Retreating to his chair, the Archon fixed his gaze on Marcus, who knelt on the ground, his breathing ragged but controlled.
"It was you who warned your command of suspicious movements, wasn't it?"
Marcus nodded, his eyes locked on Kaltharis's piercing blue ones. Despite his fury at being forced into submission, he refused to look away.
"Good," Kaltharis purred, his voice laced with menace. "Now, let's get to the good stuff. How did you spot us? I am certain we secured everyone at the previous site. There were no survivors, informants, and no scouts behind your lines. So tell me, Captain—how?"
Looking at the ground, Marcus paused, considering how to answer. The truth was hard to believe, even for him. A stroke of luck had brought them all to this exact moment.
"I had trouble sleeping two days before the attack. Took a little stroll to clear my mind. The front was quiet... too quiet. Then, I took a quick look at the storm coming toward us, as it usually did that time of year. And that's when I saw something..."
Kaltharis remained silent, his piercing gaze fixed on Marcus, giving him the space to recount what had transpired on that fateful night.
The cold wind had bitten Marcus's face as he stepped out of his makeshift quarters. As usual, he had been plagued by nightmares, but they no longer bothered him much. What unsettled him that night was the absolute silence surrounding the camp. He had grown accustomed to the distant sounds of gunfire and artillery. But now, aside from the wind whistling through the trenches, there was nothing. For others, it might have been a rare reprieve.
For Marcus, it was a harbinger of danger. It reminded him of a forest falling silent when a predator lurks. An active battlefield bereft of the cacophony of war was not normal. It meant something was coming. Something they weren't ready for.
Marcus had waited, his eyes fixed on the enemy lines far away. His unit had held their position for months, successfully keeping the rebels at bay. The campaign had not been ideal, but a stalemate was better than ceding ground. As he scanned the distant horizon, he raised his binoculars to search for movement.
The rebel trenches appeared ordinary—lights here and there, the occasional silhouette of a head moving along the upper levels. Nothing seemed amiss. Yet the stillness was unnerving. Both sides had engaged each other consistently since his arrival, never allowing the other a moment's peace. The sudden quiet felt unnatural.
It was this paranoia, Marcus thought, that had kept him alive so long.
He exhaled heavily and lowered the binoculars. There was nothing to see, no hint of danger. Frustration mingled with unease as he turned back toward his quarters. A few precious hours of sleep before the battles resumed would have to be enough.
But then he remembered the weather charts. A storm was forecast to arrive in the coming days, possibly sooner. Marcus raised his binoculars again, this time scanning the clouds for signs of an early tempest. The occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the dark cumulonimbus formations on the horizon. Just as expected, the storm was approaching faster than predicted. Satisfied, he prepared to turn in for the night.
That's when he saw it.
A particularly bright flash of lightning lit up the sky, and for the briefest of moments, a massive black shape appeared among the clouds. Marcus froze, his mind struggling to process what he had just seen. He blinked, wondering if it had been a trick of his weary mind—a figment conjured by his survival instincts to keep him alert. But his gaze remained fixed on the spot, his heart racing as adrenaline surged through his veins.
Seconds felt like minutes as he waited, his breath quickening with mounting anxiety. The rational part of his mind told him to let it go and return to his quarters, but something—instinct, perhaps—urged him to keep watching.
Just as he was about to give up, he turned to glance back one last time.
Another lightning bolt cracked through the sky, and there it was again. The black shape moved slightly to the left, its size and motion unmistakable. Even at a distance, it was clear: this was no natural phenomenon. It was some kind of vehicle. A plane? A ship? Whatever it was, it was massive—large enough to be visible from his position without binoculars.
And then it was gone.
The storm clouds obscured it once more, and the brief flashes of light from the heavens weren't enough to locate it again. But Marcus no longer needed to. He was certain of what he had seen. The rebels didn't possess aerial units of that scale, and nothing about the craft fit the patterns of anything Imperial forces would use.
This wasn't a coincidence. It was deliberate. A predator in the skies.
"Then I alerted command about what I had witnessed. If it had been any non-initiated officer relaying it, they would probably have dismissed it as paranoia—an active mind cracking under the strain of a stressful situation. But since it was me, they took measures... though, in the end, those measures amounted to basically nothing. You got to us first, before reinforcements could arrive."
Kaltharis remained still, squinting as his piercing blue eyes bore into Marcus's. It was as though he was trying to peer into his very soul. The silence stretched on, heavy and unnerving, before the Archon finally sighed deeply.
"If I weren't so adept at reading your kind, I'd believe you were lying to me. Chance is seldom a good excuse for anything—least of all ruining my carefully laid plans. But I can see you are telling the truth."
Rising from his seat, Kaltharis began circling the table again, his movements measured and deliberate. He stopped directly in front of Marcus, his imposing frame casting a shadow that loomed over him as he posed his next question.
"Now, what exactly did you do? When I launched my assault, my distraction worked flawlessly. But as soon as my infantry charged your lines, chaos erupted. I have a theory about what you did, but I want to hear it from you. I want to see if my guess was correct."
Marcus took a moment to gather his thoughts, replaying the events of that day in his mind. He recalled every order he had given, every calculated step he had taken to prepare for that encounter. Finally, he began to speak.
"You had the aerial advantage. That alone gave you almost limitless ways to strike our position. Paratroopers, bombing runs—just two of the many strategies you could have employed. And we lacked the weaponry to counter it. No anti-air defenses, nothing that could realistically bring a ship of that size down."
He paused, taking a breath before continuing.
"I had to secure the ground. Delay you long enough to understand what you were capable of. The ultimate goal was to retreat underground, denying you the advantage of the skies."
Kaltharis's impatience was evident. His fingers tapped rhythmically against his forearm, his arms crossed as he stared Marcus down.
"So why not do that immediately?" the Archon snapped, his annoyance bleeding into his tone.
"Information," Marcus replied firmly. "I needed to know your intentions—what you were after, and what you were capable of. If you were there to kill us outright and I sent everyone straight to the bunkers, and you had a weapon capable of breaching our position, it would've been a swift and total massacre. But if you were there for another purpose, like capturing resources—which the rebels have been desperate for throughout the campaign—you'd hesitate to use heavy weaponry. I needed to force your hand, to make you reveal your goals before committing to the retreat."
That brought a small chuckle from Marcus as he finally caught the irony in his own rationale—something he hadn't realized until now.
Kaltharis's expression darkened at the sound. His eyes, now alight with murderous intent, fixed on Marcus, and his voice turned cold and emotionless as he closed the distance between them. He loomed over Marcus, his gaze conveying nothing but disdain, as if the man before him were no more than an insect.
"What is so funny, Mon-Keigh?" he demanded.
"My second supposition... it was right in a way," Marcus began, his tone calm despite the danger. "Although I believed I was dealing with rebels—or heretics aiding them."
"And what is so funny about that?" Kaltharis asked, his voice sharp and cutting.
"First, that it turned out to be xenos. And second, that you were there to pillage and sack, as I suspected... I just didn't know you were also after the people. Which sounds despe—"
Marcus never finished the sentence. Kaltharis's hand shot out, grasping him by the throat and lifting him off the ground in one swift motion. The Archon's blue eyes seemed to glow with an unnatural light, and his scowl deepened, twisted with fury. Marcus's words had struck a nerve, and Kaltharis was far from amused by his "jest."
The pressure on Marcus's windpipe grew unbearable. He tasted blood in his mouth, and his vision began to blur. It became clear that if this continued, he would either pass out or die under the relentless grip of the Drukhari.
"Desperate?" Kaltharis spat, his voice dripping with venom. "How quaint that a worm like you dares to grasp the concept of power. Do you think this is desperation, Mon-Keigh? No. This is artistry. Each life I claim, each bauble I take—it's all a brushstroke in the tapestry of my magnificence. *You* however… you're not even a pigment. You are the dirt beneath my brush. Amusing for a moment, then discarded. Now, shall we test the limits of your humor, or would you prefer to scream first?"
The words had barely left Kaltharis's lips when he hurled Marcus to the ground with a single motion. The impact was brutal; Marcus's back slammed against the hard surface, sending a jolt of pain through his entire body. A groan escaped his lips before he could stop it, the pain too overwhelming to suppress.
But there was no time to recover. Before Marcus could catch his breath, Kaltharis's armored fingers gripped the collar of his shirt, yanking him upright just enough to deliver a punishing blow with his free hand. The strike landed with devastating force, snapping Marcus's head to the side and leaving him momentarily stunned.
The force of the punch sent several of Marcus's teeth flying, blood flooding his mouth. Yet again, he had no time to dwell on the pain as another blow landed squarely in the middle of his face, breaking his nose. Punch after punch followed in rapid succession, each strike delivered with brutality and speed far beyond what his mind could process. It wasn't long before his vision began to fade, the sound of fists connecting with flesh the last thing he heard as his body went limp in Kaltharis's grasp.
Everything came rushing back in an instant when a searing pain ignited in his neck. His senses slowly returned, his eyes focusing on the bloodied visage of Kaltharis, who loomed over him.
The Archon withdrew, creating some distance between them. In his hand, he held what appeared to be a syringe, examining Marcus with a cold and calculating gaze.
"Just so you know," Kaltharis said with a chilling calm, "I went easy on you. That was just a short demonstration of what could happen if you decide to jest with me again."
Marcus's face throbbed with pain, every bone feeling as though it had been crushed under immense pressure. His cheeks and brow were swollen, but to his astonishment, the swelling began to recede rapidly, almost unnaturally.
Kaltharis held up the object in his hand.
"This is a regenerative concoction we use on slaves," he explained, his tone devoid of empathy. "It allows us to rough them up as needed without risking permanent damage. Though I'm afraid your teeth are completely gone."
Instinctively, Marcus ran his tongue along his gums. The damage was severe; five teeth were missing. However, he realized with a small measure of relief that none of them were from the front. It was a hollow victory, but he clung to it nonetheless.
Kaltharis's voice cut through his thoughts. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Why was it that after my distraction, when my warriors rushed in, half of them were either blown up or caught in your poorly constructed traps?"
Still struggling to steady his breath, Marcus fought to compose himself despite the sharp pain in his broken nose. Through clenched teeth, he forced out his response.
"I had to ensure a way..." He coughed, clearing his throat. "To delay your advance enough for our retreat. Also, to deny you the advantage of aerial insertion. If the positions were rigged, it wouldn't matter where you sent your men—they would be caught in our traps, thinning your numbers to even the playing field."
Kaltharis tapped his fingers against his chin, his expression thoughtful. When he finally spoke, his tone was impassive, yet his words carried an air of condescension.
"You're aware that this strategy is a double-edged sword, correct? And that it's incredibly dangerous? If it had hindered your men more than mine, it would've been one of the most idiotic plans imaginable."
Marcus nodded reluctantly, fully aware of the risks he had taken. At the time, with limited resources and no proper tools, it had been the best option he could devise. His priority had been to counter the overwhelming advantage Kaltharis's forces held.
"I knew," Marcus admitted, his voice steady despite the lingering pain. "But given the time and circumstances, it was the only plan I could think of. My focus was on preventing your ship from annihilating us. The prospect of a simultaneous aerial and ground assault was less than ideal, especially when we had no effective means of taking your craft down."
Once again, silence settled between them. The Archon stood there, lost in thought, before finally taking a cloth and beginning to wipe Marcus's blood from his armor and hands.
"Look," Kaltharis began, his tone blunt, "your plan was garbage. But at least it was unconventional enough to catch me by surprise. And, by the Muses, you were lucky it worked the way it did because otherwise, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
Still meticulously cleaning himself, he continued his voice calm but laced with disdain.
"This talk has not proven your worth. For the moment, your so-called victory against me could be chalked up to nothing more than luck. So, I'm looking forward to seeing how you fare in the arena. That will better determine your capabilities. I'll be watching you, Captain Marcus. We'll see if you're all bark or if there's a true predator's ferocity within you."
With a flick of his wrist, Kaltharis tossed the bloodied cloth into Marcus's face, his expression remaining cold and unreadable as he watched Marcus pick it up to clean himself.
"Until then, Mon-Keigh," the Archon said dismissively. "Now go on your merry way. I've wasted enough time chatting with you."
Kaltharis waved him off, an irritated flick of his hand signaling the end of the interaction. Marcus rose unsteadily to his feet, his body aching, and made his way out of the Archon's study. At the door, the Incubi and the Wych Vespera awaited him, their expressions impassive and unreadable.
Before being blindfolded once again, Marcus turned back for a final look. He met the Archon's gaze—those cold, shining blue eyes locked onto him with the intense focus of a predator. The door closed, cutting off that piercing stare, and Marcus felt himself dragged away, plunged once more into darkness.
'Well, that was certainly something,' Kaltharis thought as he was finally left to his own devices—assuming he didn't account for his ever-creeping daughter, who had been lurking in the corner the entire time.
"So, what do you think, Father?"
"Hmmm... to be honest? I expected more."
In the blink of an eye, Elyria was perched on his desk, her arms resting on its surface as her piercing violet eyes locked onto him. Her raised eyebrows betrayed her curiosity.
"How come, Father?"
The Archon sighed loudly before addressing the conclusions he had drawn from the earlier conversation.
"He isn't as bright as I thought he would be. First, there's his plan—you heard him explain it. Second, while his reasoning had merit, there were countless more efficient ways he could have dealt with my strategy. Yet he chose that plan!"
Elyria shrugged, a playful, mocking glint in her eyes.
"Yet he bested you with that exact same plan..."
Her father's gaze turned sharp, irritation clear in his expression.
"Shut up, Elyria. Any plan that relies on 'chance' as its main factor can surprise the opponent, yes, but it can also fail catastrophically. There's a reason Orks win battles; they operate on the same principle. And, sorry to tell you, but the Greenskins are far from the brightest of the bunch."
Kaltharis pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice heavy with exasperation.
"Dear daughter, 'chance' is no substitute for intelligence and a well-constructed plan. What happened in Arina doesn't convince me of his capabilities."
Elyria tilted her head slightly, her expression contemplative.
"Agreed. But still, it worked in the end. You failed to account for it, and let's be honest—he had solid reasoning behind his plan. Most Mon-Keigh wouldn't have been able to devise something like that in such a short time, let alone something that worked so well."
Kaltharis hummed thoughtfully, his annoyance giving way to reflection.
"Yes, he was perceptive when devising the plan—I'll give him that. However, it doesn't change the fact that it was risky. The chances of failure far outweighed the chances of success. Once again, it was a plan rooted in chance, not sound probabilities."
Elyria paused, her gaze shifting toward the trophies adorning the wall. For a moment, she seemed lost in thought before finally speaking.
"You're right, but also wrong, Father."
Kaltharis raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued as he stood from his chair to join her at the wall of trophies.
"Oh? How so?" he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
"You're right in saying that, in the end, he lost. His plan succeeded in saving others but not himself. So, yes, in many ways, his outcome was a failure. But I wouldn't be so sure about the nature of his plan. Sometimes, in the heat of battle, when blades clash and blood is spilled, dwelling too long on a procedure or sticking rigidly to a pre-conceived plan can limit you. In the end, it might even cost you victory."
He hummed at his daughter's reply. It was a good point, but still...
"Good observation, but planning is always better than simply winging it. Plans within plans, remember? There's a reason Vect is the Overlord of Commorragh, and it lies in his intellect and methods."
Elyria rolled her eyes in annoyance, crossing her arms with a huff.
"Look, I know you worked for the Dark Lord, but could you stop gobbling his balls for a second? And yes, I remember. Since I was born, you've repeated that same dreadful saying."
The Archon scoffed in protest, her theatrics grating on his nerves, especially after the draining exchange he'd just endured with the Mon-Keigh.
"You either learn from the failings or conquests of others, or you risk repeating their mistakes—or worse, lacking the right action for a particular situation."
"Oh, please. This talk is starting to bore me. As if I haven't heard it a thousand times over the past five centuries."
Kaltharis threw his hands in the air, exasperation overtaking him.
"Bah! You're too much like your mother for your own good sometimes! Now, if you're satisfied with my interrogation of your slave, be on your merry way. I've got more pressing matters to attend to."
Elyria laughed as she sauntered toward the door, her casual demeanor a stark contrast to her father's growing frustration.
"Well, until next time. I've got to organize the next event anyway."
Kaltharis remained silent, sinking back into his chair as he waited for his daughter to leave his study. He had a meeting to prepare for—a new shipment of Red Mist had arrived, and he intended to secure a lucrative deal for several crates. Yet, before he could fully focus on the matter, Elyria's words lingered in his mind.
Though he still disagreed in some respects, he couldn't deny a sense of pride in her perceptive mind—a trait she had inherited from her mother.
Remembering her even for an instant brought a despicable cold grip on his gut, a feeling which he scorned with all his being and wished to purge from his soul, love was enough of a weakness, he would not let this another fester on his black cold heart.
Thalindra finished meditating, her eyes opening as she glanced around the room to see if Marcus had returned. A dreadful feeling churned in the pit of her stomach. The Seer could not deny her worry, though she wished she could, given their circumstances. Even after their argument, she couldn't shake the concern gnawing at her.
That stubborn man was their key to escaping this nightmare, but she knew that wasn't the only reason for her unease. Despite their brief time together, Marcus had proven himself to be a competent and focused leader, someone she could rely on. Yet, his refusal to let her help him more effectively was an ongoing frustration, a result of his obstinate independence.
The Eldar sighed, her mind replaying their quarrel. Her pride had stopped her from conceding that she might have been too intrusive, and this only pushed him further away. Still, her rational side nagged at her, urging her to accept the truth: they were both right and wrong in their own ways. He had the right to his privacy, to shield his thoughts and feelings, while she, as both a Seer and now a healer, had a duty to tend to the wounded and those in need—a description that fit Marcus perfectly.
Minutes passed, the low whispers of the other humans in the cell the only sound filling the still air. Kais lay on his "bed," his body shifting slightly as he rested. And Arandur... Well, he was staring at her intently. She knew all too well why his gaze remained fixed on her.
"If you were a Farseer, you could set me on fire with the intensity of that look you're giving me," she remarked, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
Arandur chuckled softly at her quip but quickly returned to a more serious demeanor.
"Thalindra, what will we do if he's been killed?"
The question sent a cold shiver through her, a wave of dread so deep it seemed to settle in her bones.
"I... I don't know," she admitted, her voice quieter than she intended. "I would try to peer at the threads of fate, to find another way. But I fear it would prove fruitless."
The Dire Avenger sighed, burying his face in his hands.
"I just hope, by Asuryan's grace, that this Mon-Keigh is alive. Otherwise... we may soon join him—or face something far worse."
A chill traveled through her body, but Thalindra made sure not to show her despair to Arandur at the possibility he had raised.
"Indeed," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. "But we need to have hope. There is nothing else we can hold on to right now aside from that."
Arandur hesitated, the pause in his words betraying his uncertainty, but he spoke nonetheless.
"Well... there is you."
Her eyebrows raised in confusion at his statement.
"What do you mean by that?" she asked.
"Could you not try to peer at the threads right now and confirm if he is well—or at least alive?"
He had a good point. Her worry had clouded her thoughts, making her forget that she could do exactly that. It was unusual for her, especially as a Farseer, whose primary role was to peer into the strands of fate. Whether it was her recent change in path or the overwhelming emotions she felt, something had diverted her enough to ignore the most obvious course of action.
"You're right... I could do that," she admitted, a note of realization in her voice.
Her response made Arandur raise his eyebrows in confusion. She knew why. No Farseer, least of all one like her, would normally forget such a fundamental aspect of their path.
She settled into a lotus position on the ground, preparing to conjure the runes of The Lost Ones and Fate to discern Marcus's precise or general location and determine whether he was alive—or if his soul had already departed from his body. Yet, before she could complete the process, her sensitive ears picked up the distinct sound of four sets of footsteps. One was far heavier than the others.
This could only mean one thing: Marcus was back.
No sooner had the noises reached her ears than Arandur was at the cell gate, straining to visually confirm their suspicions. Thalindra sighed in relief as her senses picked up his aura—it was unmistakably the human Captain walking toward them through the dim corridor.
Unable to suppress her own anticipation, she rose from the ground and joined Arandur at the gate. The other humans, too, had noticed the approaching sounds and came to join them. Even Kais had awoken, now standing beside Darius. They all waited with bated breaths as the footsteps grew louder, and closer, until finally, after what felt like an eternity, Marcus appeared.
The sight of him sent a wave of alarm rippling through the group. His face was smeared with dried blood, and his nose was bent at an unnatural angle. His bloodshot eyes carried a haunted look, and Thalindra could feel the pain radiating from deep within his core. The moment their eyes met, she caught a glimpse of what had happened—fleeting images of violence, struggle, and anguish flashing in her mind like distant echoes of his ordeal.
The fool had jested with an Archon. In retaliation, he had been beaten to a bloody pulp, brought to death's door, and dragged back thanks to one of the bastardized medicines crafted by the Haemonculi. The worst part was knowing that the punishment had been light by Commorrite standards. She knew things could have gone much worse. Marcus had been lucky not to be turned into a Wrack—or worse, a piece of grotesque furniture.
She wanted to chastise him, to call him an idiot for trying such a thing with a Drukhari, let alone an Archon—beings renowned for their vanity and cruelty. Yet, the moment the cell doors opened, and he stepped inside as his squadmates rushed to ascertain his well-being, she found she couldn't.
His soul burned brightly, radiating defiance, anger, and pain, but also something more profound: relief. Relief that he was alive to be reunited with his comrades once more, to find comfort in knowing they were safe.
Marcus's eyes traveled over each of them, taking in their expressions, his battered face lighting up slightly despite the ordeal. When his gaze landed on her, Thalindra felt her own relief swell. He was bruised and broken, but alive—and that was what mattered.
A simple smile escaped her lips as he looked at her. His soul flared again if only for a moment, revealing his feelings of admiration and, surprisingly, genuine happiness. It was fleeting; soon, his soul settled back into its usual guarded state.
But what surprised her most wasn't this brief glimpse into his emotions. It was the small smile he gave her, accompanied by a wink. She understood its meaning instantly, her Farseer abilities cutting through any ambiguity. He wanted to assure her that he was fine—an attempt to comfort her, just as he was doing with his comrades.
The gall of this fool—going out of his way to get hurt like that and brushing it off as if it were nothing, comforting them instead of allowing himself to be comforted. He was an idiot, a complete and utter idiot, who had zero regard for his own well-being yet cared far too much about others. If she couldn't see the truth within his essence, she might have believed him to be suicidal. But she knew better.
Marcus viewed himself as a living shield for those under his command. He sought to spare them from suffering in any way he could, even when it was unavoidable—like seeing their leader bloodied and broken. Their worry was entirely understandable. Even though they likely had no idea that he had come perilously close to having his skull crushed by Kaltharis, they could sense how close he had been to death. The Archon had shown restraint, but only just.
Darius made him sit and began examining his nose, his hands moving quickly to assess the damage. Thalindra knew from his thoughts that it was shattered in several places—an injury that would normally require surgery, something they were incapable of providing in their current situation.
Seeing the human combat doctor struggling to find a solution, she sighed and stepped forward toward the group.
"Your nasal bone is broken in at least two different places," Darius said as he continued delicately examining Marcus's nose, trying to gauge the full extent of the damage to his face. Marcus let out a small, hearty laugh but quickly shifted to a painful groan as the movement jostled the damaged muscles and cartilage.
"Well, at least it's not as bad as when he finished," Marcus replied, his tone laced with dark humor. "My face was a mess of blood and swollen skin—could barely see anything beyond my balloon face. Luckily, that bastard gave me something that helped reduce it and heal most of the injuries. But bones? Yeah, those don't heal that fast, even with whatever he injected me with."
Darius continued his meticulous inspection, his sharp eyes scanning Marcus's face for further signs of injury. His gaze eventually landed on his mouth, where he noticed the missing teeth.
"By the Throne, they got your teeth as well!" Darius exclaimed, his concern evident. He moved to open Marcus's mouth for a closer look, but Marcus pushed him away, swatting at the persistent hands still reaching for his jaw.
"It's fine," Marcus said firmly. "I've been lucky to have all of them this long, considering all the fighting and messes I've been through. This was bound to happen sooner or later, so don't worry about it."
Darius hesitated his instincts as a medic battling with Marcus's dismissive attitude. He was reluctant to leave the broken and wheezing nose unattended, but before he could argue further, a familiar tall figure stepped forward. Her piercing aquamarine eyes locked onto Marcus with a mixture of focus and calm.
"I can help you with that," Thalindra said, her voice soft but steady. The anger and frustration from their earlier argument were gone, replaced by her familiar gentle care.
For a moment, Marcus considered holding onto his grudge and refusing her aid, but after being beaten half to death by Kaltharis, he felt as though a few screws had been knocked back into place. With a small, tired smile, he nodded.
Thalindra knelt gracefully, lowering herself to his eye level. Her gaze swept over him with practiced precision, her expression composed but thoughtful. Once she was satisfied with her assessment, she turned to Darius, her tone suddenly imbued with firm determination.
"Could you help me here?" she asked.
Darius froze for a moment, caught off guard by the unexpected request. Shaking himself out of his confusion, he stepped closer to stand beside her, facing Marcus.
"What do you need my help for?" he asked, his voice tinged with bewilderment. -
"Hold his nose in the correct position, as if your hands were a makeshift splint. I'll do the rest," Thalindra instructed calmly.
Darius obeyed without question, carefully positioning Marcus's nose as directed. Thalindra extended her hands, a green aura enveloping them as she brought them close to Marcus's face. Closing her eyes, she allowed her psychic powers to flow, guiding them to mend the injury.
The pain subsided almost instantly, replaced by a cool, soothing sensation, like ice gently pressing against his skin. The refreshing energy radiating from her hands relaxed him, but soon another feeling emerged—an odd itching sensation spreading across his nose. It began at the upper bridge, moved to the lower parts, and soon enveloped his entire nose.
Before Marcus could voice his curiosity, Thalindra's calm voice answered the question forming in his mind.
"I'm mending your bones. The itching is a normal part of the process. Don't worry—just bear with it."
Marcus offered no reply, choosing instead to remain still and let her work. The sensation was irritating, but it was far from unbearable. Moments stretched on as the three of them waited in focused silence, while the others observed from a distance, their gazes fixed on the glowing green light illuminating the Captain's face.
Finally, Thalindra spoke, her voice light with satisfaction. "…And done."
"Thanks," Marcus said, his voice filled with gratitude and genuine happiness at no longer having his nose crooked to the side—a small victory amidst their dire circumstances.
Thalindra smiled, her aquamarine eyes squinting slightly in a rare display of warmth.
"You're welcome," she replied gently. But without lingering, she straightened to her full height, her imposing frame casting a shadow as she turned to retreat to the other side of their newly enlarged cell.
"Wait..."
Marcus's voice stopped her mid-step. He glanced at the ground, visibly embarrassed. Apologies were not something he offered often, but after his earlier behavior, it felt necessary.
"Sorry, Thalindra," he muttered, his tone sincere.
She stood frozen, her back still turned to him. For a moment, her posture seemed off, and as she turned to face him, her expression was equally enigmatic. Her lips parted, as though she were about to say something, but then closed again. Her piercing gaze lingered on him as though she were wrestling with her own thoughts.
The Farseer finally took a deep breath, closing her eyes as she composed herself with slow, deliberate breaths. At last, she spoke, though the words left her lips reluctantly.
"I... I'm sor...ry as well," she stammered.
Her tone was tightly controlled, her words slipping through clenched teeth. A faint flush colored her pale cheeks, an amusing sight for the Guardsman. Marcus found himself biting back a smirk, which only made her discomfort worse.
Without another word, Thalindra spun on her heel and swiftly crossed the cell, her movements so quick it was as though she had disappeared in a blink. She positioned herself in the farthest corner, resolutely avoiding their gaze.
Arandur, frowning, muttered something in their melodic Eldar tongue, likely chastising her.
For the first time in what felt like ages, Marcus couldn't suppress a genuine laugh. His amusement was purely at the sight of the normally composed and regal Farseer flustered beyond words, her awkward attempts at apology giving him a moment of levity in the midst of the living hell they were in.
So here we are once again! Hope you all liked this chapter, things surely are escalating, so lets see on the next ones what will happen to our protagonists.
Once again let's give some love to BillyFish1409 a brilliant writer and friend who has edited and reviewed this story, as well as Boyo99 another friend who has been the one helping me gather the courage and inspiration to write this.
With that being said, I want to thank you all for sticking with me for so long, and I hope that whatever I'll bring on the next ones will entertain you all.
PS: Rangers is back, baby. Stay tuned to see the newest chapters coming every Tuesday!
