Summary:

Marcus is still being watched closely by Elyria and her father, a new challenging approach, although Kaltharis is still a little bit doubtful about the competence of the Imperial Captain.

At first, the divide between Thalindra and the human appeared to grow, but they managed to reach a compromise after Marcus got his face smashed in the fists of the Archon of the Obsidian Fang. Now that their focus is back into countering the Dark Kin plots both Farseer and Captain will do everything they can to save their group from the clutches of the despicable Drukhari.


Shadows of the Dark City 13

Rain pelted his face and bald head relentlessly, each drop sharp and cold, as if a thousand needles were piercing his skin. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him across the tiled roof, his nimble body weaving through the spirals and ridges of the old structure. The sound of heavily armored footsteps echoed just behind him, urging him forward with no choice but to give everything he had to escape.

Years of mental and physical training, strict discipline, and isolation from the outside world had led to this moment. He had delayed this act for as long as his mother was alive, but now that she was gone, Marcus felt he had no other choice.

"By the Emperor, get back here before I make you regret it!"

The furious voice of one of his pursuers rang out from mere meters behind him. He couldn't afford to slow down. The long rope he had stolen from one of the bells nights earlier, coupled with the improvised hook he had crafted from a bent chandelier, dangled at his side, ready for use. As he reached the edge of the roof, the line between success and failure grew razor-thin.

In front of him stretched a steep slope of slick, rain-soaked tiles leading to a sheer drop. Falling would mean certain death. Marcus hesitated for only a split second—any longer, and they would close in on him. If they captured him, he would be dragged back to that accursed place.

He cast a glance downward, swallowing hard. He might have been only twelve years old, but he wasn't naive. One mistake in his plan, and it would all be over.

Before he could make his leap, a familiar voice cut through the roar of the rain and thunder.

"Marcus, don't do this... your mother wouldn't want you to. You'll die!"

He turned to look at her—one of the few people he would actually miss in this place. Her dark brown eyes locked onto his, her scarred face tense with desperation. Her usual stoic posture faltered, breaking under the weight of her emotions as she reached out to him. She stood on the edge, pleading silently for him to stop.

He managed a small, bittersweet smile before speaking. "Don't worry, Irina... Have faith in me."

Those were his final words to her before he threw himself toward the lower roof. Her white and black hair whipped wildly in the storm, the last thing he saw as she lunged to grab him—just as he plummeted toward his destiny.

He woke abruptly, sitting up as he did so. His brow was drenched in cold sweat, his heart racing as his mind slowly registered that he was no longer dreaming. Looking around, he noticed that his squad was still fast asleep. Kais was awake, sitting cross-legged on the ground, engaged in conversation with both Arandur and Thalindra. The Guardsman couldn't make out their words, but the moment his eyes landed on them, the Farseer was the first to notice.

Her intense gaze locked onto him, as if she could read him like an open book. He felt exposed, almost naked in a way. For a brief moment, he wondered if she was delving into his mind to uncover his thoughts. But to his surprise, Thalindra didn't comment on the nightmare he had just endured or the thoughts swirling in his head. Instead, she simply offered a small smile and a nod before returning to her conversation with the Fire Warrior.

Strange; Marcus had expected her to approach him, to probe into the nature of his dreams and the turmoil within his mind. Yet contrary to his expectations, she left him alone. The Guardsman felt a mix of relief and confusion. He was glad not to have to fend off her probing questions or dance around his inner demons, but it was unlike her—or at least unlike the impression he had formed of her so far.

There was little use in dwelling on his thoughts, so he got up, dusted himself off, and moved toward the feeding tubes that had been placed in the corner. He had no idea when they had been delivered, but the loud growl from his stomach silenced any reservations or questions he might have had. He tore off the cap and began eating the gruel inside.

He hated it—far more than corpse starch—but food was food. In the Astra Militarum, one had to make do with what was given, no matter how horrible, tasteless, or repulsive it might be.

To be fair, there were few moments in his life when he had enjoyed a proper meal. His early years held little luxury, though he fondly remembered the commune feasts where he had once indulged in juicy meat and other rare delicacies. That kind of food had become a distant memory since he set off on his own to carve out his place in service to the Emperor.

The streets, where he had spent much of his time before joining the Astra Militarum, were even worse. There, he ate whatever scraps were left behind by Cadia's defense forces or anything else he could scavenge. It had been a far more desperate and hellish existence than the rations issued to Guardsmen. Even so, the trenches had hardly brought much improvement, and they had become his home.

In the end, as he struggled to swallow the thick, tasteless paste, Marcus smiled. Some of the fonder memories of his time with his comrades surfaced. While he dreaded the losses that followed every bond he had forged, he felt a quiet gratitude for having known them.

The galaxy was an unforgiving and cruel place, yet he had met incredible people—even, to his shock, some generous Xenos. Not everything was doom and gloom, after all, although it was hard to hold onto such positivity while trapped in the literal hell that was Commorragh.

This small joy was fleeting, but it was enough to make him release a sigh of relief. The people who stood with him now were enough to give him hope. He had faith in them, in their shared determination to escape this torment.

Faith—a word he knew intimately. Yet, in recent years, it had felt hollow. Marcus was no heretic or unbeliever, but his faith in the Emperor and the Creed had been difficult to reconcile with the horrors he had witnessed. And now, with Thalindra, Arandur, and Kais in the picture, it had grown even more complicated.

The thought brought a small, humorless chuckle to his lips, one tinged with shame and irony. 'My mother would kick my ass if she ever dreamed I'd stooped so low as to consort with Xenos,' he thought, a bittersweet mixture of sorrow and humor coloring his reflection.

He rarely thought of his mother. Most of his memories of her were muddled, blurred by time and the unrelenting trauma of his life. He couldn't even picture her face anymore; she had become one of the countless, faceless masks floating in the rivers of blood that haunted his mind.

Dreaming about that day after so many years, especially now, felt strange. But at this point, what didn't?

He was a captured Imperial Captain, accompanied by a Tau Fire Warrior, a sharp-tongued Dire Avenger, and a kind Farseer. Nothing about their unlikely group—aside from his own crew—was conventional.

Marcus was so lost in thought that he didn't notice Jax sitting beside him.

"Nightmare?" she asked.

He didn't lie. Looking at the Private, he saw the quiet care in her remaining eye, a care she reserved for those closest to her. He nodded, confirming her suspicion.

"Yeah, me too," she admitted, turning her gaze away. Her voice carried a deep weariness.

"I dreamed about the day they took us... when they took my fingers and my eye."

Marcus took a closer look at her and realized she was searching for support, someone to hear her out. Over the years, he had become accustomed to his men confiding in him, sharing their most guarded emotions and secrets. He knew how to respond in moments like this.

So he said nothing, offering only his silent presence. He let her speak freely, uninterrupted, as she poured her heart out.

"I know what they're doing to us is meant to make us feel scared and powerless," she said, her voice trembling. "And, by the Emperor, I should feel that way—after all, they took what made me good at what I do, without hesitation, with all the cruelty they could muster."

Janessa sighed loudly, her mouth quivering with barely controlled rage as tears welled in her eye.

"But no..."

Her voice was now filled with a fiery hate that Marcus hadn't seen in her before. Her entire body shook, brimming with the intensity of her wrath.

"...All I feel since they did this to me is anger. I want to make them pay. I want to show them who the true weaklings are. I want them to see who's the prey and who's the predator. Above all, I want to get out of this place—not just to survive, but to stick it to them, to shove it in their faces."

Her words made him raise his eyebrows in surprise. The Private's determination was unshakable. Even after all she had endured, her response wasn't to cower but to channel her trauma into fuel for the fight ahead.

"And I want you to know, Captain, that with you at the helm, we'll manage to do that. Not because of some prophecy from that witch, but because, not once since I joined your team, have you failed us—or me."

"Thanks Private," was all he could manage, a proud smile spreading across his face as her anger softened into a small smile of appreciation.

"You're welcome, Sir!" Jax replied, saluting him with enthusiasm. Their conversation stirred Darius and Ellias, who were now approaching them, rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

"So, now that you're awake, what do you guys think of playing a game to pass the time?" Jax suggested.

"Yup, since we don't have jack shit else to do," grumbled Ellias, scratching his back as he settled close to his teammates.

"I'm afraid that's correct..." Darius added, his tone reflecting his shared frustration. Boredom was yet another layer of their torment. Being trapped in a cell with nothing to do had a way of gnawing at their sanity.

By the Emperor's grace, they were at least confined together. Marcus didn't want to imagine what it would have been like to be locked alone in a dark, cold cell with nothing to occupy his mind. He was certain he'd be irreversibly mad by the end of the week if these Xenos frakkers had done that.

"Well then, let's get started, everyone! It's been a while since I've done anything other than loathe this hellhole," Marcus jested, his tone light as they prepared to draw lots and begin a popular Astra Militarum game.


Elyria was back in her spire, her shoulders stiff with the tension of preparations for the next fight. Her mind had a clear layout for the scenario and a way to make it tense and suspenseful. But for the moment, she lacked any real opponents or challengers to pit against the so-called "Merry Band." What good was an intricately designed stage if there were no actors to play their parts?

She exhaled a puff of purple smoke, the sweet, intoxicating aroma of "Amorre Delight" lingering in the air. The pipe, a polished ebony artifact, was filled with the expensive drug—a concoction obtained through one of her many unsavory contacts. Her arms rested on the railing of her balcony as she gazed down at the lower denizens of the city. From this height, their heads appeared like tiny insects scurrying about. Commerce thrived below, a chaotic mix of different individuals and factions, a common sight during this particular cycle.

After a while, Elyria decided she had indulged in her reprieve long enough. Surrounded by exotic and poisonous plants adorning her well-curated balcony, she snuffed out the pipe and made her way indoors. A relaxing bath and some rest awaited her—or so she thought.

As she reached for the balcony door, something caught her attention, something she hadn't noticed at first. Her body tensed immediately, instinct shifting her into a combat-ready stance. In the shadowed corner of the poorly lit external area stood a human. But not just any human—this one wore ceramite cyan armor emblazoned with a hydra insignia at its center. A scaly cape obscured most of his form, leaving only the cold, reflective glare of his helmet visible.

She hissed loudly, drawing her daggers with fluid precision, her movements graceful and lethal. She stood poised to kill the intruder who dared to violate her sanctuary. The Space Marine, however, raised his hand in a gesture of peace. His voice, calm and emotionless, resonated through the air.

"I came here to bargain, not fight."

Her pause was brief, fleeting as a blink, before she rushed forward, blades flashing. Her strikes were precise, swift, and relentless, each one a calculated effort to eliminate the trespasser. Yet, to her frustration, the Astartes managed to evade her attacks with surprising skill. He was clumsier than she, lacking her poise and the deadly grace of a seasoned Wych, but his reflexes were quick. He dodged her blows with uncanny precision.

"Strange way of 'bargaining,' may I say," she hissed venomously as she attacked, "breaking into the spire of the one you wish to strike a deal with!"

Her voice dripped with scorn, but the Marine remained silent, focused entirely on avoiding her strikes.

Elyria pressed on, growing weary of the game. It was time to use her secret weapon. They didn't call her the Queen of the Thrice Blade for nothing. With a sudden, deceptive movement, she caught the Mon-Keigh off guard. Her hair, fine and delicate in appearance, lashed out like a whip. The strands, deceptively sharp and strong, struck the intruder's chest. To her satisfaction, they gouged deep scratches into the surface of his ceramite armor. It almost penetrated.

Almost.

However, this did not faze the Space Marine. He spoke in his stoic and emotionless voice.

"I came for someone—a human among your posse."

His words did not stop her. Elyria launched a swift kick toward his face, only for him to catch her foot effortlessly with his right arm. He could have crushed it, but he chose not to. Instead, he released her, causing her to almost lose her balance. Yet her agility and nimbleness allowed her to recover quickly, regaining her stance with practiced ease.

"What do you mean by that? And who?" she demanded, her voice sharp and commanding.

The Astartes reached into one of his pouches with his left hand. Elyria immediately fell back into her combat posture, prepared to strike again. But what he pulled out surprised her—a piece of dried human skin, used as a parchment, sealed with a plain, unmarked wax seal.

Without a word, he handed it to her and waited. Elyria's eyes narrowed as she began reading the contents. Each word stoked her anger at first, but by the end, her expression shifted to one of keen interest.

"I see... So, you want his life," she said, her tone cold and calculating.

He gave a curt nod, a simple and direct answer to her statement.

"Why didn't you just come to me at the spire of the Cult of Strife? And why approach me here, in my private chambers?"

Her tone was sharp, her words carrying the weight of her authority. It was clear she was not in the mood for games. If Elyria didn't like his answer, he would face the wrath of a Succubus of the Cult of Strife.

"How would your lackeys react to someone of my lineage treading on their domain?" he asked calmly. "Or, better yet, would you even hear me out if I approached your Cult's front door?"

He had a point, she begrudgingly admitted to herself. She knew full well what her underlings would have done—torn him to shreds and displayed his remains on the arena walls. And that was if she felt merciful. If not, he would have been sent to Vyle for experimentation, enduring an agonizing fate in the Dark City.

Sighing loudly, Elyria pinched the bridge of her nose. This Mon-Keigh had managed to pique her curiosity, and for that, she would indulge him—for now.

"Fine," she said with clear annoyance. "State your proposition, but do so quickly. I'm not wasting all my precious downtime entertaining your filthy presence."

The Astartes did not flinch at her insult. Instead, he delivered his message with the same unyielding tone.

"He has been marked by my contractors. He will either join us or be terminated. This choice was meant to be his, but since his life is now in your hands, the decision falls to you. It doesn't matter how you resolve this—only that it is done."

Elyria considered the situation for a moment. She could easily kill this fool and be done with it. But now, the Succubus realized exactly who—or better yet, what—she had been speaking to this whole time.

She was no expert on human factions, but his demeanor, vocabulary, and the hydra emblem on his chest finally revealed the truth. This was an Alpha Legionnaire—one of the most elusive and secretive of the Astartes. The question that remained was why one of them would be here, discussing such matters with her.

"First of all," she said, her tone sharp, "I don't make deals with those whose names I don't know. And second, why would I consider giving you one of my property, let alone killing it?"

Her words were met with silence. His green lenses stared back at her, unblinking and inscrutable. Moments stretched into an oppressive pause before he finally spoke. His tone was controlled, as though carefully concealing his true thoughts.

"My name is Culsan, Headhunter Prime for the mighty Alpha Legion. And you should consider my offer because, at the end of the day, we will have what we want. Your say in the matter is irrelevant. However, agreeing to deal with me gives you some agency in this process. No one gets hurt, and we don't cause you trouble."

His words were both intriguing and bold. The way Culsan phrased his response implied that there were more of him nearby—perhaps even within her domain. Engaging them in battle would be a challenge, and Elyria admitted that such a distraction might be welcome in her current state of ennui.

But then, an idea struck her—a brilliant solution that could solve another problem she had been grappling with.

"You said it doesn't matter how the mission is accomplished," she said slowly, her lips curling into a mischievous grin. "Only that it gets done."

He nodded, his posture rigid as he waited for her to elaborate.

"What do you say to us playing a little game? Make this more entertaining for both of us. You get what you want, and I get what I want..."

His head tilted slightly at her suggestion, the faintest hint of confusion slipping into his otherwise impenetrable demeanor. "And what would that be?"

Her smirk deepened, her violet eyes gleaming with malice and amusement as if savoring the taste of her own scheme.

"A show you won't forget," she purred, her voice dripping with wicked delight.


Smog was all she could see, shrouding the countless threads around her. Each one was cloaked in a thick white mist that completely obscured the details of the paths ahead and their many branches.

This was a common challenge for those who walked her path. Traveling through the tapestry of possibilities was a precarious endeavor, and sometimes, like the turbulent currents of a storm-tossed sea, the threads of fate refused to reveal what lay beyond.

Thalindra felt a wave of frustration. She had hoped to gain a clearer understanding of what their enemies were planning. The inability to discern fate's movements was a significant hindrance to their strategy.

Determined to share this latest complication with Marcus, Thalindra prepared to break the news.

However, as she opened her eyes, she was startled to see Kais standing silently before her, patiently waiting for her return from the tapestry's depths.

Arandur spoke before she had a chance to greet the Tau.

"He has been here for a while now, patiently waiting for you to return from your journey."

Kais, seated in a lotus position, bowed deeply. His gesture was one of respect, though it was clear he could not understand the Eldari words spoken by Arandur.

"He wants you to teach him the language of humans," the Dire Avenger explained.

It was a simple request, yet Thalindra knew it would not be easy to fulfill. She could not use the usual method of mind transference on Kais. His essence did not exist in the Warp; attempting such a process could either kill him outright or accomplish nothing at all.

"I would be glad to," Thalindra replied, her voice calm and measured. She spoke directly to the Fire Warrior in his language, her pronunciation flawless, as though it were her native tongue.

"But you must understand that this is a complicated matter."

Kais tilted his head slightly, his curiosity apparent. "And why would that be, Lady Thalindra?"

"I would usually employ a method called 'knowledge transfer,' allowing me to gradually impart the inner workings of the human language to you. However, due to the nature of your kind's essence, this could not only be dangerous but might also prove ineffective," Thalindra explained.

Kais's face scrunched up in thought as he considered her words. After a brief pause, he spoke again with a respectful tone.

"Then could you teach me the traditional way?"

This made the Farseer pause. In theory, she could, but while Thalindra did not doubt the Mon-keigh's intellectual capacity, the Aeldari way of learning was vastly different, not just in methodology but also in the structure of language itself. The Aeldari lexicon was complex, nuanced, and unlike most other languages she had encountered.

However, Kais's respectful request and his demeanor convinced her to try. She knew she would first need to adapt her teaching methods to suit him. In a way, it was an intriguing challenge—a chance to understand how more primitive beings acquired knowledge.

"Very well," she said. "But you must understand that I am not accustomed to teaching your kind. As I will be patient with you, I ask that you be patient with me."

Kais bowed deeply once more, his acknowledgment graceful and sincere.

"Do not worry, Lady Thalindra. I shall be as patient as a seed that waits through the cold, cruel winter for the warmth of spring."

"Then I will do my best to teach you the language of humans," she replied with a small smile.

Arandur, standing nearby, turned toward her with a knowing smirk.

Speaking in their mother tongue, he remarked, "All I can say is that he is far more polite than the humans we've dealt with before."

Thalindra playfully swatted at him before turning her attention back to her new student. With a steady breath, she prepared to begin the lesson.


Vyle worked diligently at one of his terminals. It had been cycles since he managed to acquire and fully map out the genetic makeup of that Mon-Keigh Captain. As he had previously surmised, apart from the Cadian A1 gene—which rendered this particular strain of human more resistant to the corrupting influences of the Warp—the subject was an otherwise unremarkable human.

It was fascinating, however, that such a subpar creature had managed to endure against insurmountable odds for so long. Certain aspects of his DNA stood out, though these traits appeared to be more influenced by environmental factors during his formative years than by his inherited genetic material.

The Captain exhibited a higher pain tolerance than the average human. His muscles were well-developed, with a healthy composition for someone leading such a grueling lifestyle. His cognitive functions were sharp, and his literacy was notably advanced. These characteristics set him apart from the typical Guardsmen who were often brought to Vyle's domain—many of whom struggled with reading if they were literate at all. Such deficiencies in understanding their own language underscored, in Vyle's mind, just how primitive and backward humans truly were.

The genetic information revealed much about the man, as it did for any biological life form. Vyle absorbed the data with keen interest, analyzing it as though reading a particularly engrossing book. He meticulously cataloged any findings of relevance to his ongoing research, each discovery adding to his growing repository of knowledge.

His focus, however, was interrupted by the faint sensation of a familiar presence entering his domain. Though she fancied herself stealthy, no one could move unnoticed within his spire. The Haemonculus waited, his expression unreadable, as he turned his gaze toward the door.

Minutes later, the so-called "intruder" attempted to silently open the door. Her efforts were immediately thwarted when she was met with Vyle's cold, knowing stare, his eyebrow arched in bemusement.

"Took you long enough..." he remarked, his tone laced with a mixture of amusement and disdain.

Elyria groaned in frustration at being caught red-handed sneaking around the Haemonculus's domain.

"Of all those whose shadows I walk in, only you can detect me so easily. Sometimes I wonder how you manage it..."

Her words brought a smirk to the prideful Fleshcrafter, who promptly turned back to his terminal, clearly unwilling to waste time locking eyes with the Wych.

"You think you want to know," he replied, his tone dripping with condescension, "but in truth, you don't. Even if you truly wished for me to divulge my 'secrets,' I would simply refrain. After all, an artist doesn't share their techniques so freely."

Elyria hummed thoughtfully as she sauntered around his workstation, her eyes glinting with mischievous intent. Whatever scheme the young Succubus was hatching, it would undoubtedly be as devious as it was self-serving.

"Ask away," the Haemonculus sighed, his voice tinged with resignation.

"I've dealt with you enough to recognize when you're up to no good."

"Oh, you actually pay attention to me? I'm flattered!" Elyria quipped, her tone mockingly sweet, her lips curled into a Cheshire-like grin.

And there it was—her dreadful sense of humor, which he had no patience for.

"Look," he said, his voice now edged with irritation, "if you came here just to pester me, I suggest you turn around and return to your Cult. I'm in the middle of something and not in the mood for your antics.

Elyria idly toyed with a bundle of cables, feigning disinterest in his words. But as she turned back to face him, her grin widened, her excitement unmistakable.

"Oh, but I have a proposition for you," she said, her voice brimming with intrigue. "One I think you'll find very appealing."

He raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued despite himself. Resting a hand under his chin, he asked, "And what might that be?"

The Succubus perched atop a counter cluttered with tools, her voice rising with anticipation as she replied, "A challenger has come to me. He wants to face my gladiators. I can tell you, he's quite a remarkable opponent. While the current setup is sufficient for my plans, I want something more... something spectacular—a three-way."

This made him raise his eyebrows in confusion, but she had still managed to pique his interest.

"Okay, and what of it?" he asked.

"I need one of your subjects for my show," she replied. "The ones you keep under lock and key—the kind that gives even full-blooded Eladrith Ynneas nightmares."

"And why, exactly, would I give you one of those particular specimens?" the old Drukhari responded, his tone dripping with skepticism. He couldn't fathom why Elyria would request such a thing from him.

"The challenger is a member of the Alpha Legion," she explained, her voice tinged with excitement. "He managed to sneak into my domain without anyone noticing. For a Mon-Keigh to pull that off is remarkable, to say the least. And then there's the puny human you've been keeping an eye on. Imagine the entertainment of watching two unique humans going at it, and then boom! We throw a ravenous beast into the mix and watch these primitives push themselves beyond their limits!"

The Fleshcrafter fell silent, placing a hand under his chin as he considered her proposal. He wasn't interested in the spectacle for its entertainment value, but rather as a potential field test for the Captain he had been studying.

Vyle wouldn't lie—the idea had merit. However, giving up one of the prized specimens from his private collection was akin to handing over a rare and cherished possession to be torn apart for some inferior beast's amusement.

"While your proposal isn't bad," he finally said, "it still lacks something of interest to me."

Elyria groaned in frustration at his dismissive response. He smirked inwardly, relishing her irritation. She wanted this badly, and that gave the Haemonculus the upper hand in their negotiation.

"Let's make this more interesting for me," he suggested.

She perked up at that, her eyes widening slightly in surprise. Despite her annoyance, there was a glint of tactical deviousness in her gaze. She wasn't out of the game yet and seemed eager to see what his next move would be.

"First," he began, "I want my own private lounge in your arena. Somewhere I can watch your barbaric little display in peace, without any of those insufferable Archons or your troupe of flatterers."

A flicker of annoyance crossed her face, but she didn't voice any objections. He knew from experience that while she disliked his first demand, she wasn't outright opposed to it. Encouraged, he continued.

"Second, I want half of the revenue generated by this spectacle."

Her eyes narrowed at this, a clear sign that his request was grinding her nerves. Still, she hadn't outright refused, which meant she was still playing along.

"Third and final demand," he said, leaning forward slightly. "If you agree to my terms, the deal is closed, and you can count on me to provide a worthy opponent for your show."

A tense silence followed, her heart beating slightly faster as she awaited his final stipulation. Like a player revealing their hand in a high-stakes card game, Vyle presented his terms, ready to see if she would raise the stakes or walk away in defeat.

"You won't know who I choose," he declared, his tone firm. "You'll have to trust my judgment and my word. If you can't do that, I suggest you find someone else to suit your needs."

Elyria's eyes narrowed, her predatory gaze locked on Vyle like a hunter sizing up prey that dared to grow bold. The silence between them was taut as a drawn bowstring, and for a moment, it seemed as if she might spring to strike him down for his audacity, which in truth he was looking forward to. Then, with the subtle grace of a blade slipping between ribs, she responded, her voice as smooth and venomous as poisoned wine.

"You dare to demand privacy in my arena, Vyle? A place where I, and only I, reign supreme? Perhaps you mistake my stage for a den of skulking Archons whose cowardice stinks up their precious lounges. Very well, take your shadows, Haemonculus. Bask in your little corner where no one can bother your delicate sensibilities. But remember, you will watch under my roof, and every moment you spend there, you owe to me."

Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass, though it carried no warmth—only the cold satisfaction of a cat playing with its food.

"As for your second request..." Her voice dipped, laced with restrained fury. "You presume to reach into my coffers, claiming half of my spoils? Bold, even for you. But fine, if you are so desperate for payment to fund whatever twisted abomination you plan to birth next, you shall have it. But every drop of blood spilled, every scream that echoes in that arena, you will know it is bought and paid for by my generosity. Do not forget that the arena is my domain."

She leaned forward, her tone dropping into a chilling, conspiratorial whisper. "And your final demand... Trust?" Elyria chuckled, the sound dry and devoid of humor. "Trust, Vyle, is a currency spent only by the naive and the dying. But..." She paused, her eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "I will humor your theatrics. I accept your terms, but know this: If your chosen champion fails to deliver on the promise of true entertainment—if they do not bleed and die gloriously, as my audience demands—then the next spectacle will not feature your creation but you, screaming for mercy you will never receive."

Vyle's lips curled into a thin, knowing smile, his voice a silken drawl dripping with mockery and unshakable confidence.

"Ah, dear Elyria, how delightfully predictable. You wield threats like a child clutching a favorite toy, convinced it holds power over those who see it for what it truly is: a comfort, a crutch. But scream for mercy? Me?" He chuckled, a rasping, unsettling sound that seemed to echo from the hollow depths of his soul. "Mercy is such a pedestrian concept, one I outgrew when I first peeled the flesh from my own hands to better sculpt perfection."

He took a languid step closer, his gaze piercing yet unreadable, like fathomless cyan pools. "Trust, you say, is a currency for the naive and the dying. How charmingly poetic. Yet here you are, willing to invest in my little gambit. Does that make you naive, Elyria, or are you closer to the latter than you'd care to admit? Hmm?"

He tilted his head ever so slightly, the motion serpentine and unnervingly calm. "Rest assured, oh glorious Succubus of the grand arena, my champion will not disappoint. But should the unlikely happen..." He grinned, baring far too many teeth. "Well, let us say the spectacle of my suffering might yet outshine even your finest performance. Though, if it comes to that, I suspect your audience will be begging for an encore long before I'm done."

He stepped back, his posture loose and un-threatened, his hands spreading wide in a gesture of mock surrender. "But we both know it won't come to that, don't we? After all, I've never been one to play a losing hand. Now, shall we call this business settled?"

Her violet eyes held that predatory glint, but now another emotion flickered within them: determination. Determination to see this through to the end. To make it worth her while to play into his game. To deliver a spectacle that would leave the masses in awe and further her own designs.

Letting the "Merry Band" face Culsan alone might have risked her original plan to lull them into a false sense of security. But adding a third combatant to the mix, one who could balance the fight and elevate the stakes, was the perfect way to ensure a balanced and unforgettable show. It served her goals: captivating the audience and advancing her plans.

"It is settled," she declared, her voice unwavering. "May the Muses curse your wretched body if you fail in our compromise. May the blood that is spilled honor our names and houses, and may Khaine himself witness my wrath if you disappoint me, Fleshcrafter."

And just as suddenly as she had appeared, Elyria vanished like the wind, leaving Vyle behind, elated and basking in his triumph.

The truth was, his two earlier propositions had been a ruse, a test to see how far she would go before calling it quits and leaving the proverbial table. Yet she had kept agreeing, step by step, which allowed him to save his true demand for last—the one that mattered most: keeping his champion's identity a secret.

He would deliver exactly what she had asked for—a worthy spectacle—but not without a touch of spite. Vyle intended to ensure that this arrangement served as a subtle lesson to Elyria: not to toy with him so carelessly as she did in his lair some cycles ago, and a reminder of what she had rejected when dismissing his original offer involving the Mon-Keigh.


Janessa had won another round of "What Can I Spy from My Scope," for what seemed to be the hundredth time. Everyone, including Marcus, was done with the game, but no one was more vocal about their frustration than Ellias.

"For the Almighty Throne, can we switch games already? I'm not losing another time to you, Private!"

"Indeed," added another voice. "It was entertaining when you won for the thirtieth time, but now... this has become just as boring as doing nothing."

Marcus sighed in resignation, giving a side glance to Janessa.

"Agreed. Janessa, this is starting to suck big time."

Janessa stuck out her tongue, a glint of mischief and joy in her eyes after countless victories in the game.

"You're all just bad at this—admit it! I even went easy on you guys these last rounds, and you still got it wrong."

"Maybe it's because we're already tired of losing for the hundredth time!" Ellias shot back. "And you're only enjoying this because you're kicking our asses. If it were the other way around, I guarantee that smirk on your face would vanish the instant you lost!"

Janessa crossed her arms, her eyebrows raising in skeptical judgment.

"Then choose the game, and let me beat your ass at that one too, you big crybaby."

Ellias turned to retort, but their exchange was cut short when they all felt the unmistakable presence of Thalindra.

The Seer stood at a respectful distance from the group, close enough to command their attention but not intrude. In a calm and sober tone, the Eldar addressed them.

"With your permission, may I borrow Marcus for a moment?"

They all stood in silence, unsure how to respond. Seeing their lack of reaction and wanting to avoid prolonging the awkwardness, Marcus got up and answered her in his best polite voice.

"Of course. Right behind you."

Thalindra gave a simple smile and turned, waiting for him to follow. Marcus cast one last glance at his team, adopting a mocking tone as he addressed them before departing.

"Behave now, children. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

With that, he followed the Seer in silence to the side of the cell that she and Arandur occupied. With their new, larger confinement area, they had been able to establish some boundaries and limits, creating a semblance of separation within the space.

She sat down near Arandur, who remained seated with his arms crossed, a serious expression on his face that betrayed no particular emotion. Marcus took one last look behind him to see his men clumsily pretending not to eavesdrop on the conversation.

"Okay, what's the nature of this meeting? And why aren't my men allowed to hear whatever it is you have to say, Farseer Thalindra?"

Though his words were direct, his tone and posture were calm. It was clear the question came more from genuine curiosity than suspicion of the Eldar standing before him.

"To share with you some bad news," Thalindra replied, her voice measured. "And the reason I'm breaking this to you is that I wish for you to divulge the nature of this conversation to them. They would be far more comfortable hearing it from you than from me."

Her reasoning was sound. A familiar face was always better suited to deliver bad news than someone they neither trusted nor particularly liked. Marcus understood this well. He was not oblivious—he knew his men were no fans of either Thalindra or Arandur—but they trusted him. His word carried weight, and they would listen.

"Alright then, let's hear it. What's happening?"

Both Arandur and Thalindra exchanged glances before the Farseer began to explain.

"We have a problem related to my ability to peer at the threads of fate."

"Problem? What problem?" Marcus asked, leaning forward slightly.

Thalindra paused, clearly considering how to articulate her thoughts in terms the human before her could grasp.

"Every Farseer has the ability to look into the future, as you are aware. This is a skill common among those who tread my path. However..." She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "This is not always the case. To peer at the threads of fate is akin to gazing upon a vast and intricate tapestry, where countless threads interweave. Like the sea, this tapestry is in constant motion—shifting, changing, sometimes calm, but at other times unpredictable, violent, and tempestuous. When it is in such a state, it becomes impossible to read with any precision."

Her explanation painted a vivid picture, though Marcus still found it difficult to fully imagine such a scenario. Nonetheless, Thalindra had done well in providing a general understanding of the issue.

"So, if you can't see the future, we're essentially in the dark on this one," Marcus summarized his brow furrowing. "That's bad news, no question. I've come to rely on your ability quite a bit. Losing that advantage will make things... troublesome."

"Indeed," Arandur interjected, his tone sharp and matter-of-fact. "What concerns me most is that if Thalindra cannot peer into the future before the next fight, we will be left relying solely on your plan."

Though the Dire Avenger maintained his familiar air of arrogance, there was an undertone of frustration in his words. His remark gave Marcus pause.

Since they had begun cooperating, most of Marcus's strategies had been built around Thalindra's visions. Her foresight had provided them with a critical edge, enabling them to counter Elyria's traps and schemes effectively.

The last fight was a perfect example—without Thalindra's intervention, they would have been blindsided entirely, their deaths almost guaranteed. Knowing now that her power wasn't infallible complicated matters significantly.

Their previous victories had depended on a mix of strategy and luck, but it seemed their luck had just run out.

"I see... So let's hope she manages before the moment arrives. And if it does, Thalindra said to trust me, so let's go with that."

Arandur grumbled something in their melodic language. Marcus was certain it wasn't flattering, but he let it slide. Instead, he turned his attention to the Farseer, who was watching him intently.

"I trust your judgment, Captain, as you have trusted mine," Thalindra said, her tone calm but firm. "However, be aware that the Dark Kin will try every method they can to break us. While we are ignorant of what exactly they will attempt this time, expecting the worst is always the sensible approach when dealing with them."

"Agreed," Marcus replied, his voice steady. "So let's go back to basics. We stick together and wait to see what they throw at us. Once we know what we're dealing with, we adjust course to handle the threats. I know making a plan on the fly is far from ideal, but since we're stuck down here with no way of predicting what's coming, that'll have to be our approach."

It all came down to their ability to adapt quickly to whatever threat the enemy presented. Their group, though a patchwork of strangers from different species, held undeniable advantages. Having two Eldar on their side meant they had elite fighters with centuries of experience. Kais, with his exceptional skill as a long-range operator and lightning-fast reflexes, was another invaluable asset.

Despite the odds, Marcus was confident in their combined strength. They had endured losses, most painfully Arina, but what remained of their team was determined and resourceful.

One thing was certain: they would fight with everything they had. And by the Emperor, they would emerge triumphant—or his name wasn't Marcus Hale.


Ellyn walked through the crowded street, in her body a long cape made from human skin to blend in better in the crowds of Drukhari walking around, behind her was her retinue using similar disguises but meters away from her as she easily zig-zagged around the many passersby.

Her destiny was a discreet alley, one of the most important places for people like her. "Rivers of Blood", was the name of a tavern, used by many outsiders of the Dark City as a meeting ground of some sort.

Ahead, the Rivers of Blood pulsed with life. Its jagged, obsidian façade loomed like a hungry beast, the faint hum of music and distant screams seeping through its sealed doors. The sign, an intricate mesh of crimson veins sculpted to appear like flowing blood, shimmered menacingly, daring any outsider to enter.

Ellyn's gait was calm yet purposeful. She walked with the kind of confidence that matched the city's venomous elegance, though her hand instinctively rested on the hilt of a concealed blade beneath her cloak. Her eyes, sharp and luminous like twin stars, scanned her surroundings with care. Every step she took was calculated, and each movement was carefully measured to avoid suspicion. Her bodyguards were not far behind, trailing in calculated intervals. Their disguises were impeccable—members of this den of debauchery, their armor lacquered in muted, shadowy tones, and their expressions as indifferent as the countless other denizens who prowled Commorragh's streets. The distance between them was strategic; close enough to intervene should things go awry but far enough to dissuade onlookers from connecting them to her. The bodyguards exchanged occasional glances, always ensuring their mistress was within sight.

As Ellyn reached the entrance, a pair of twisted, hulking figures barred the way—members of the bar's "security." Their faces, obscured by grotesque helmets, turned toward her. One tilted its head, scrutinizing her briefly before stepping aside and granting her entry. She exhaled quietly, her steps unhalting as she crossed the threshold into the bar.

Inside, the building was a maelstrom of color and chaos. The air was heavy with a sickly-sweet aroma, a mix of narcotics and the coppery tang of fresh blood. The walls, designed to mimic flowing veins, pulsed rhythmically, casting the room in a blood-red glow. Patrons lounged in shadowy alcoves, some deep in conversation, others lost in hedonistic revelry. Overhead, slender dancers twisted and spun on translucent wires, their movements mesmerizing and predatory.

Ellyn's sharp gaze cut through the haze as she moved through the throng, her stride unbroken. Her destination was clear: a booth near the back of the establishment, where a lone figure awaited her. Their silhouette was obscured by the dim lighting, but their posture was unmistakably poised and expectant.

Her bodyguards fanned out subtly, finding vantage points within the bar. Though their disguises held, their eyes never left her. They were ready, their hands resting near weapons beneath their cloaks, prepared to strike at the first sign of danger.

Ellyn finally reached the booth, her voice steady and cold as she greeted the figure waiting for her. "I trust you haven't wasted my time."

The figure leaned forward, a slow smile spreading across their face, revealing sharpened teeth glinting in the dim light. "That, dear Corsair, depends entirely on what you've brought to the table."

Throwing a brown bag she had taken from under her cloak, the figure caught it effortlessly.

"The usual. If you don't believe me, you can check the merchandise."

With a quick movement, the stranger opened the sack, taking a brief look inside before dipping a finger into the red powder it contained. Bringing it to its lips, the being moaned in pleasure as the drug's effects took hold. Moments passed as it became utterly lost in the intoxicating bliss.

"This is pure red sugar, no doubt about that," it finally said, its voice betraying satisfaction.

"Since you're satisfied, it's time for you to give me what I want," the cloaked figure responded, her tone sharp and purposeful.

"And what would that be?" asked the stranger, its voice revealing a raspy, feminine tone.

"Arella, I need information about someone who has been captured. I have the identification of the Kabal, the name of its liege, and the details of the aforementioned captive."

"Well, let's start with the person you're searching for. What's this poor, miserable bastard's name?"

"Thalindra Starweaver, the Shadow of Ulthwe."


So we all know what time it is right now, aren't we? Is time for me to thank you all for coming this far into Shadows, I appreciate each and every one of you who has kept up with this little project of mine. I hope that I manage to keep the quality and make an entertaining story for you all!

Also one of the most important parts of this is my shoutouts to two brothers of mine who have been helping me a lot throughout this path...yeah, I think everyone can guess by now who I'm speaking of right? BillyFish1409 - The brilliant writer of Rangers, who has been helping me a lot with editing and reviewing this story, also giving some nice ideas for the plot along the way; Boyo99 - The guy who inspired me to get back into writing, and just like Billy has been a solid friend and brother, helping me into reviewing and giving good advice on various key aspects of the story, this guy also has a very good story that if you guys haven't read please do the name is: The Fate and Destiny. So check both of these guys' work is fantastical I guarantee you all!

Now to reply to some of the Reviews left by dear readers:

expert93 - Thx for the comment expert! Is always good seeing you around here giving your opinion about the characters and the setting of the story. And Is cool learning that about you, if Kaltharis was not a Drukhari I believe you two would get along pretty well since the Archon is obsessed with strategy and learning new approaches to everything. He is a tactician first and foremost, so he thinks things thrice over before actually doing something, the thing is that he thinks so fast that it appears instant ;).

Mark - Hello there! Is nice meeting you and I'm happy to see a new face coming here, hope that the story manages to hook you enough so we can have more discussions of the upcoming events that I'm preparing for you all. Now I'm happy you liked Marcus and his squad, I'll admit at first I was insecure about making him the way he is, but after so many people said they liked it I think I did right writing him like that. And about the Drukhari like I said previously in some of my other replies, in this story, I want to make the Drukhari as horrifying as they are made out to be by the lore, that is why the first tag is Horror, this story is a romance but still the things that will happen are supposed to horrify and disgust the readers, cause the Drukhari are like that, they are not hot goth mommy/daddy who likes to occasionally whip you, nah...nothing against the people who see them like that, but I like to write them as genuine menaces to everyone around them.

That being said...Hope to see you all in the next one! Until then good holidays and may God bless you all!