The observation deck of the Sweet Liberty was a place no psychic sense could touch.
That was deliberate.
The flagship's core superstructure—keel, ribs, and inner sanctum—was fully encased in Blackstone, a lattice grown and bonded at the molecular level. Not layered. Not plated. Integrated. A psychic dead zone so absolute that even daemons slid off it like rain from glass. No whispers from the Warp. No echoes. No gods listening in.
Here, Franklin Valorian was supposed to be alone.
The chamber stretched for half a kilometer, its vast transparent wall opening onto the Webway—an impossible cathedral of folded dimensions and crystallized intent. Corridors of thought intersected at angles that made the eye ache, reality bending around alien logic.
Franklin wasn't looking at it.
He was looking at his reflection.
The observation wall doubled as a mirror when internal lighting dimmed. Fifteen feet of transhuman perfection stared back at him—broad shoulders, battle-hardened posture, brown hair disordered by hours of command tension. The face the soldiery joked resembled some ancient Terran ideal of masculine certainty.
A face that looked unshakeable.
Franklin felt anything but.
"You made the right call," he said quietly.
His voice sounded small in the vastness.
"Denzel will hold. Armstrong will break them. Henry knows what's coming. Mendelev won't miss a variable. Ezra and Jaxsen will keep the knives pointed outward."
The reflection said nothing.
Of course it didn't.
Franklin exhaled slowly. The exhaustion was bone-deep now—not physical fatigue, but the weight of consequence. Fifty thousand worlds. Billions of lives. Every order a gamble with stakes measured in extinction events.
"They'll be fine," he said again, softer.
Except yourself.
The thought surfaced unbidden.
He crushed it instantly.
Self-doubt was a luxury for men without command. Hesitation killed faster than any enemy. Better a decisive error than paralysis disguised as wisdom.
Franklin stepped closer to the wall.
The reflection lagged.
Just a fraction. A heartbeat late.
Franklin froze.
He stood utterly still, every combat instinct screaming—not danger, but wrongness. Physics didn't do that. Light didn't hesitate. Reflections didn't think.
Nothing moved.
"Stress," Franklin said aloud. "Neural overload. Command fatigue."
He accepted the explanation not because it was convincing—but because it was useful.
He stepped back.
Perfect synchronization.
Relief began to loosen the knot in his chest.
Then the reflection smiled.
Franklin did not.
The smile was brief. Controlled. Familiar in shape—and utterly alien in intent.
"What the hell…" he breathed.
He placed his palm against the transparent wall. Cold. Solid. Real. His reflection mirrored the gesture exactly.
Except the eyes.
They were deeper.
Not darker—deeper, as if something vast looked out through them. Something accustomed to being seen. Worshipped.
Franklin rubbed his eyes hard.
When he looked again, everything was normal.
"You need sleep," he muttered. "Actual sleep."
"Valorian…"
The word bypassed sound entirely.
Franklin spun, hand instinctively reaching for a weapon he wasn't carrying.
The deck was empty.
Blackstone walls. Silent air. The Webway beyond.
No Warp bleed. No psychic interference.
That was impossible.
"Psychic residue," he said, but the excuse tasted stale. "The Webway's saturated—"
He turned back.
The reflection stood differently.
Weight centered. Shoulders squared. Spine straight.
At parade rest.
Franklin was not.
"Alright," he said slowly. "Whatever you are—illusion, echo, stress fracture in my mind—I'm not indulging this."
The reflection did not move.
It watched him.
"They call your name."
Franklin stiffened.
That voice was not the whisper from before.
That voice was familiar.
"Khaine," Franklin said flatly. "If you're here, show yourself."
Silence.
The reflection returned to perfect synchronization.
Franklin inhaled. Exhaled.
Fine.
He turned to leave.
Three steps.
"Liberator."
He stopped.
"President."
The titles struck with weight.
"Save us."
"No," Franklin snapped, spinning back. "Absolutely not. I don't answer prayers. I don't accept worship. I'm not a god."
The reflection tilted its head.
Franklin had not moved.
The glass rippled—not like liquid, but like causality reconsidering itself.
The figure in the reflection changed.
The armor was no longer ceramite or artificer plate. It was Drukhari in silhouette—sleek, predatory, cruelly elegant. Barbed lines traced power rather than protection. Chains hung loose, ornamental, unbroken.
In one gauntleted hand, the figure held a mask.
Khaine's mask.
Not worn.
Held.
As if deciding whether it was necessary.
The eyes—Franklin's eyes—were vast now. Deep with belief pressed into them by millions who had never seen this face but had screamed its name into the void.
The reflection spoke.
Not aloud.
"We could have ended this."
Franklin swallowed. "Ended what?"
"Commorragh. The Krorks. Every threat that forces you to pretend restraint is virtue."
"That restraint is why humanity survives."
"No. Humanity survives because we are effective."
The reflection stepped forward without crossing the distance.
Space bent.
"You counted them."
Franklin's jaw tightened.
"Seven Million, four hundred and twelve hundred thousand. You knew them."
"I honor the fallen."
"You felt them pray."
"I don't hear prayers."
The reflection smiled—slow, patient.
"You hear them every time steel fails."
Franklin's fists clenched. "Get out of my head."
"I have never been anywhere else."
"What are you?"
The figure regarded him calmly.
"I am the part of you that does not lie."
"That's rich."
"You are Liberty," it continued. "I am Chains. Necessary ones."
"I refuse divinity."
"And that," the Dark Eagle said softly, "is why I exist."
The voices rose—not loud, not overwhelming—but undeniable.
Valorian…Liberator…President…
Franklin closed his eyes.
"No."
"Not yet," the figure agreed. "But belief accumulates whether you consent or not."
When Franklin opened his eyes, the reflection was normal again.
Just him.
Brown eyes. Tired expression. A man pretending not to hear the universe calling his name.
He stood alone in the Blackstone silence, heart pounding, jaw set, will ironclad.
"I am not a god," he said.
The silence did not argue.
The silence lingered longer than it should have.
Franklin Valorian remained where he stood, eyes still on the observation wall, remembering the way the reflection had looked back. Not the armor. Not the eyes. The certainty.
He exhaled once.
Then gestured.
The air folded.
Anaris came to him like a thought recalled too sharply—space bending as the blade tore free from wherever it had been resting. The reforged Crone Sword struck his palm hilt-first with perfect alignment, its weight settling into his grip as if it had never left.
The presence followed.
Heat. Pressure. The familiar sensation of violence given form.
"Khaine," Franklin said, without preamble. "Explain."
For the first time since Franklin had known him, Khaine did not answer immediately.
That alone was wrong.
The god manifested not in fire or spectacle, but as density—a presence coiled around Anaris, the blade's edge glowing faintly as if resisting being drawn fully into reality. When Khaine finally spoke, the voice carried none of its usual iron certainty.
"I did not see it," Khaine said.
Franklin frowned. "You usually do."
"Yes."A pause."Which is why this concerns me."
Franklin tightened his grip on the sword. "You were silent. That thing spoke. It wore my face."
"I know."
"You know now," Franklin corrected. "But you weren't there."
Khaine's presence shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. A god adjusting footing.
"I lost contact with your soul, Franklin."
The words landed heavier than any threat.
Franklin went still. "That's not possible."
"It should not be," Khaine agreed. "Your soul has always been… adjacent to mine. Bound, not consumed. Like my state within Anaris. Carried, but distinct."
"Then what changed?"
Khaine did not answer at once.
When he did, the certainty was gone—replaced by something colder.
"I felt interference."
Franklin's jaw set. "Chaos."
"No."
"Cegorach."
"No."
"The Warp."
"No."
Khaine's voice lowered.
"Something internal."
Franklin's breath slowed. Carefully. Controlled.
"That thing wasn't Warp-born," Franklin said. "The Blackstone should've—"
"It did," Khaine interrupted. "Perfectly."
Franklin looked down at Anaris, at the faintly pulsing blade. "Then explain how a psychic manifestation occurred inside a null-encased sanctum."
Khaine's presence tightened.
"Because it did not enter."
Franklin looked up.
"It was already there," Khaine continued. "As I am. As Anaris is. Not external. Not invasive."
"A state," Franklin said quietly.
"Yes."
Silence followed.
Then Franklin spoke, slower now. "You're saying it didn't bypass the Blackstone."
"I am saying," Khaine replied, "that Blackstone does not negate what is self-originating."
Franklin's expression hardened. "So my soul—"
"—is no longer singular," Khaine finished.
That was worse than any accusation.
Franklin took a step back, the enormity of it settling in. "You're telling me something split off. That I fractured."
"No," Khaine said immediately. "You did not break."
Another pause.
"You condensed."
Franklin laughed once—sharp, humorless. "That's not better."
"It is unprecedented."
That stopped him.
"You're guessing," Franklin said.
"Yes."
A god admitted it.
Khaine's presence was tense now, coiled like a blade half-drawn.
"In all my existence," Khaine said, "I have never been severed from a champion's soul without betrayal, death, or external annihilation. This was none of those."
"Then what was it?"
Khaine considered.
"The mirror was not the manifestation," he said finally. "It was the warning."
Franklin's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
"When gods coalesce," Khaine said, "there is turbulence. Echoes. Distortions. Reflections that move wrong. It is the soul… testing its boundaries."
Franklin remembered the smile.
The armor.
The mask of Khaine held, not worn.
"And the loss of contact?" Franklin asked.
Khaine's voice dropped.
"That was the first indication that your godsoul no longer requires my proximity to stabilize."
Franklin closed his eyes briefly.
"How close," he asked, "is it?"
Khaine did not hesitate.
"Very."
Franklin opened his eyes. "Define 'very.'"
"If it had spoken your name aloud," Khaine said, "instead of finishing your thoughts—"
He stopped.
Franklin waited.
"It would have named itself."
The observation deck felt smaller.
"So the reflection—"
"—was the precursor," Khaine confirmed. "The moment before coalescence. The godsoul pressing against the limits of its containment."
Franklin looked down at Anaris again.
"You're inside me," he said. "And yet it slipped past you."
"Yes."
"And you didn't even notice until after."
"Yes."
Franklin's voice was steady. Too steady. "That doesn't bother you?"
Khaine was silent for a long moment.
Then, honestly:
"It does."
Franklin nodded once. "Good. Then we're aligned."
Khaine regarded him.
"You intend to resist."
"I intend to remain myself."
"That may no longer be synonymous."
Franklin met the god's gaze without flinching.
"Then I'll redefine the terms."
Khaine said nothing more.
But as Anaris dimmed and the god's presence withdrew, Franklin was left with an understanding that chilled him deeper than fear:
The Dark Eagle had not appeared despite the Blackstone.
It had appeared because there was no door left to close.
And somewhere inside his own soul, something ancient, patient, and newly aware was waiting for the moment Franklin Valorian finally ran out of arguments.
-----------------------
The boarding ramp of the Sweet Liberty descended without sound.
That alone unsettled most visitors.
No hydraulic whine.No ritualized thunder.No performative grandeur.
Just perfect, frictionless motion—ten thousand kilometers of warship politely making space for one woman.
Lady Aurelia Malys stepped onto the ramp as if she were arriving late to a court that already belonged to her.
Her armor was sculpted cruelty—Drukhari design sharpened into elegance, barbed in places meant to suggest restraint rather than require it. Midnight lacquer traced with venomous filigree caught the lumen-light and drank it in. Her helm was absent, of course. Malys never concealed her face when there was an audience.
And there was always an audience.
Franklin Valorian waited at the base of the ramp, hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed in the way only a Primarch's could be—utterly at ease because nothing present could meaningfully threaten him.
He smiled when he saw her.
Not the grin he wore for his sons.Not the smirk he used in council.
A measured smile. Diplomatic. Intentional.
"Lady Malys," he said evenly. "Welcome aboard Sweet Liberty."
She paused half a step from him.
Violet eyes swept the hangar bay—the immaculate formations, the warcraft hanging in ordered silence, the cathedral immensity of steel and blackstone engineered into obedience rather than awe.
For a heartbeat, her lips curved—not impressed.
Then she looked back at him.
"Oh," Malys sighed softly, almost sadly. "Lady Malys."
She tilted her head, studying him like a curiosity that had failed to misbehave.
"So formal," she went on, voice silked with amusement. "After everything. After Commorragh burned. After alliances sealed in blood and fire." A delicate shrug. "I had hoped for Aurelia."
Her eyes glittered.
"But perhaps I arrived too early. Or perhaps," she added sweetly, "you are still pretending this is not personal."
Franklin met her gaze without flinching.
"Formality," he replied calmly, "is how I tell the truth in public."
A beat.
"And how I remind myself," he continued, "that this alliance exists because it must—not because I enjoy it."
A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
"That privilege," he added, "is earned."
Malys' disappointment vanished—revealed for what it was.
A performance.
She smiled, slow and delighted.
"Ah," she purred. "Then I suppose I shall have to be… exceptional."
She took another step forward, close enough now that the hangar's auto-sensors politely recalibrated for proximity. Close enough that several members of the honor detail—veterans all—felt their attention slip for just a heartbeat.
Too beautiful.Too poised.Too wrong.
Hands snapped back to weapons. Discipline reasserted itself like a slammed door.
Malys noticed.
Of course she did.
Her eyes flicked, cataloging reactions with predatory delight. A slow, satisfied breath escaped her, and she drifted closer to Franklin's side, fingers ghosting toward his arm as if by accident.
"Oh my," she murmured, loud enough for the nearest crew to hear. "Your little soldiers… they are very attentive, insects"
Franklin didn't move. Didn't look at the crew.
"They're professionals," he said calmly. "And they are not insects."
She glanced up at him, brows lifting in mock surprise. "Did I say insects?" A pause. A beat. "Ah. Forgive me. Old habits."
Her hand settled more firmly against his arm now, possessive, performative. Several crew members visibly stiffened.
Malys leaned in, voice lowering.
"You should discipline them less harshly, Franklin," she said softly. "It is not their fault. Even suns attract moths."
He finally looked down at her.
"Stop doing that."
She laughed—a low, musical sound that echoed far too comfortably through the hangar.
"But I am doing nothing," she protested, utterly unconvincing. "I am merely existing."
"That's the thing," Franklin replied. "You weaponize 'existing.' Be more low-key."
"Low-key?" She tasted the words, amused. "On this ship? Mon cher, subtlety died screaming somewhere around deck… what is it… three thousand?"
He snorted despite himself and turned, gesturing toward the inner corridors. "Walk with me."
They moved.
The ramp sealed behind them, and the interior of Sweet Liberty unfolded—vast corridors layered with matte-black blackstone panels, glowing seams of restrained energy, hard angles softened by impossible precision. The ship didn't feel ancient or baroque like most Imperial vessels.
It felt intentional.
As they passed, crew snapped to attention, eyes forward—except when they didn't. When reflex overrode training for half a second and gazes slid, unbidden, toward Malys.
Each time, they caught themselves.
Each time, Malys noticed.
She smirked.
"This ship," she said, strolling with infuriating leisure. "It watches, does it not?"
"Yes."
"Listens?"
"Yes."
"And yet," she added lightly, "it does not leer."
Franklin gave her a sideways look. "You're disappointed."
"A little." She sighed theatrically. "Your vessel has better manners than most of my Archons."
They passed a tactical alcove—holo-displays humming quietly, battles mapped in shifting layers of abstraction. Malys slowed, eyes flicking toward a console, interest sharpening.
"Oho. This interface—"
Franklin's hand closed around her waist instantly and firmly, lifting her a bit and, redirecting her forward without breaking stride.
"No."
She laughed again, this time softer, breath warm against his neck.
"Oh my," she said, mock scandalized. "Not here, Mon Amor. We are in public."
"That's exactly why," he replied flatly. "Keep walking."
Her smile turned wicked. "You wound me. I was only curious."
"You're Drukhari. 'Curious' usually ends with someone missing a soul."
"Ah," she said thoughtfully. "You do know us."
They walked in silence for several steps.
Then Malys spoke again, tone lighter—but sharper beneath.
"You keep your people close," she observed. "Defend them. Correct me when I insult them." A glance up at him. "That is not how rulers survive where I come from."
Franklin shrugged. "Good thing I don't rule where you come from."
"Yet," she said sweetly.
He stopped.
The corridor seemed to hold its breath.
Franklin turned to face her fully now, towering, presence settling like gravity.
"The alliance stands," he said evenly. "As long as you keep your word. Commorragh becomes yours—Empress, uncontested. I will burn whatever stands in your way."
Her eyes glittered. "And if I fail you?"
"Then this ends," he said simply. "Cleanly."
She studied him for a long moment. No mockery. No smile.
Then—slow applause.
"Magnifique," Malys said. "So very honest. I almost miss the lies."
Almost.
She slipped her arm through his again as if nothing had happened.
"Come," she added lightly. "Show me more of your impossible ship, Président Éternel."
Franklin sighed. "You're enjoying this."
"Immensely," she replied. "You are the only man in this galaxy who can touch me like that and mean 'security risk' instead of 'desire'."
He arched a brow. "You sound offended."
"Amused," she corrected. "And intrigued."
They resumed walking, Sweet Liberty unfolding endlessly ahead of them.
They resumed their walk.
Malys spoke as if nothing of consequence had occurred—voice light, conversational, almost lazy. She outlined futures the way others discussed weather.
"…the Kabal of the Shattered Claw will not survive the season," she was saying. "They backed the wrong Archon and were foolish enough to make it public. I will have them skewered along the spine of the Spire—slowly. Symbolism matters."
Franklin nodded faintly.
"And Vect," she continued, lips curving with quiet relish. "Ah, Vect. I have dreamed of that moment since before your ships cast shadows over Commorragh. I will flay him alive, Franklin. Not out of cruelty—though that will be unavoidable—but because the city must watch him reduced to what he always was."
A pause. A smile.
"An idea past its expiration."
Franklin heard her.
He also heard—
Save us.
The word threaded through the air like static, too soft to be sound, too insistent to be ignored.
Great President…
He didn't slow. Didn't stiffen. His stride remained measured, his expression composed. Years of discipline folded inward, suppressing the intrusion with practiced efficiency.
Guide us.
The corridor did not echo. The ship did not react.
But Franklin felt it all the same—the pressure behind the sternum, the subtle tug at attention. The way the words did not arrive from outside, but rose unbidden, like breath remembered after drowning.
Victory.
He shook his head once, barely perceptible.
Focus.
Malys' voice continued, velvet and venom, describing punishments that would make lesser tyrants blanch. It should have commanded his full attention.
It did not.
Please.
That one was closer.
Franklin exhaled slowly through his nose and willed the noise down. He had done this before. He would do it again. He would not—
Malys stopped walking.
Franklin took one more step before realizing she hadn't followed.
Her fingers pressed lightly—firmly—against the center of his chest.
He looked down.
She was closer now. Far too close for propriety. Far too intimate for an alliance. Violet eyes searched his face with predatory acuity—not flirtatious, not mocking.
Assessing.
"You drift," she said quietly.
"I'm listening," Franklin replied automatically.
"No," she said. "You are enduring."
Before he could respond, she rose onto the tips of her boots, one hand sliding up to his jaw. Her touch was cool, deliberate, and utterly without hesitation. She turned his face toward hers with gentle insistence.
"Eyes and ears to me, amor," Malys murmured.
The corridor vanished.
For a heartbeat—just one—Franklin Valorian had nothing ready. No prepared reply. No political deflection. No wry remark queued behind the teeth.
The voices recoiled, not silenced, but pushed back—like a crowd recognizing a sharper predator had entered the space.
He swallowed once.
Then, quietly:
"…Go on," he said.
A pause.
Then, softer—unintentionally so:
"Aurelia."
Something flickered across her expression.
Not triumph.
Interest.
She smiled, slow and satisfied, lowering herself back onto her heels but not releasing him immediately.
"There," she said. "Much better."
Her thumb traced his jaw once, almost thoughtful, before withdrawing. She turned and resumed walking as if nothing had happened.
"As I was saying," Malys continued lightly, "once Vect is removed, Commorragh will require… restructuring. Pain is efficient, but fear must be directed. I intend to make the city orderly."
Franklin followed.
The prayers remained—muffled now, distant, pressed down beneath layers of will and denial.
-------------------
Sweet Liberty did not descend.
It revealed itself.
The vessel's ventral sanctum—known amongst the Crew as the Belly—unsealed in absolute silence. No alarms. No ceremonial vox-horns. No ritualized theatrics beloved by the Imperium. The architecture simply parted, panels sliding away with mathematical grace, unveiling a cathedral of voidglass and blackstone that looked downward.
Downward—into Commorragh.
The Dark City stretched beneath them in impossible layers, a nightmare metropolis folded in on itself like a wound that refused to heal. Spires clawed upward only to curve back inward. Light came from no single source, refracted through crystalline arteries and soul-reactors buried deep within the Webway's bones. Entire districts shifted as they watched—streets reorienting, towers sliding like predatory organisms rearranging themselves for the kill.
Commorragh was not a city.
It was an ecosystem of cruelty.
And it was moving.
Sweet Liberty hung above it like a verdict waiting to be read.
At the heart of the chamber, Lady Aurelia Malys walked.
She did not hurry.
She catwalked.
Each step was deliberate, heel to toe, hips rolling with theatrical precision as if the floor itself were a stage constructed solely for her arrival. The voidglass beneath her boots was transparent, showing the Dark City rushing past below—districts collapsing inward, traffic spiraling, spires drifting like sharks sensing blood.
Her armor caught the shifting light and bent it around her form. Midnight lacquer, venom-filigrée, blades disguised as ornamentation. The Drukhari aesthetic perfected not for war, but for attention. Wind—not atmospheric, but generated by the ship's gravitic flows—played through her hair, lifting it like a living banner.
She spread her arms wide.
"Oh, Commorragh," Malys laughed, voice ringing through the chamber, amplified not by vox but by design. "The Dark City. The Jewel of the Drukhari!"
She spun once, slowly, savoring the sight.
"How beautiful you are."
Behind her, Franklin advanced in silence.
Where Malys was motion, Franklin was gravity.
White and gold robe caught no excess light, its lines austere, Terran in origin, brutally honest in form. No barbs. No excess. Power without ornamentation. Draped from his shoulders, snapping softly in the artificial wind, was an ancient banner—faded stars and stripes of blue, red, and white.
A relic of Old Terra.
A symbol no Drukhari recognized, and yet somehow understood.
He walked with his hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed, gaze forward—not on the city, not on Malys, but on the space beyond her. As if he were already looking past the moment, past the violence, past the screams yet to come.
He did not smile.
He did not frown.
He waited.
Malys reached the center dais precisely as Sweet Liberty completed its translation into full sky dominance over Commorragh.
The timing was not coincidence.
It was choreography.
Across the Dark City, alarms began to shriek.
Webway traffic spasmed into chaos. Kabal fleets scrambled from their moorings, vessels colliding in their haste to flee or form defensive screens. Archon-spires sealed, then unsealed, then sealed again as overlapping command hierarchies screamed contradictory orders into the void.
And then—
Every hololith in Commorragh went dark.
For one perfect second, the city was blind.
Then the image returned.
Not fractured.
Not distorted.
Unified.
Every projection node, every pleasure-den, every torture amphitheater, every Archon's throne room—each displayed the same vision.
Lady Aurelia Malys.
Standing at the heart of a god-ship.
The Dark City beneath her feet.
Franklin Valorian behind her, half-shadowed, half-illuminated—an eagle-shaped silhouette of white and gold, wings implied rather than shown.
The Dark Eagle.
Malys leaned forward slightly, hands clasped behind her back now, posture mockingly regal.
"Commorragh," she said, voice silken and absolute. "Bow. Or die."
She smiled.
"You have one choice."
Her eyes glittered with delight as panic rippled visibly through the city below—crowds scattering, arenas erupting into riots, lesser kabals tearing at one another in the streets as the implication sank in.
"Your Empress," Malys continued, savoring the word, "demands it."
Behind her, Franklin did not move.
But the presence—that presence—was unmistakable.
Drukhari citizens screamed.
Not merely in fear of Malys.
But in recognition.
The Dark Eagle had returned.
The one who burned Commorragh once.
The one whose shadow meant extinction without negotiation.
Across the city, Archons snapped into motion—too late.
Interception fleets surged upward, elegant Drukhari warcraft slicing through the void with predatory grace. Dozens. Then hundreds. A desperate, furious response.
Sweet Liberty did not maneuver.
It did not acknowledge them.
It fired.
There was no warning flash.
No targeting lock.
No escalation.
Space folded inward as gravitic annihilators spoke, crushing entire squadrons into singularities that collapsed a heartbeat later. Lances of impossible energy carved through the rest, each shot precise, indifferent, terminal.
Drukhari ships detonated like ornaments crushed beneath a boot.
The survivors fled.
The message was received.
On the hololiths, Malys threw her head back and laughed.
Not cruelly.
Joyfully.
A laugh that echoed through the Dark City like a death knell wrapped in velvet.
Franklin stood behind her, silhouetted against the impossible glow of Commorragh, the ancient Terran flag snapping softly at his back.
A god refused.
A god born anyway.
And as the laughter rang out and the city trembled beneath their feet, something deep within him—unseen, unacknowledged—stirred.
A/N: Happy New Year! A bit late but yeah, my Starlink Data has just refreshed and China just banned it from being used because it "Bypasses" their Great Firewall.
A/N: How was everyone's new year? New Year's resolutions anyone? Or is it same old you from last year?