Inside the Webway.
The Asurmen scion's skimmer sailed silently into a private dock, then vanished.
Not long after—
A Raider vessel followed the same route.
"…Was there just a skimmer that passed by?"
Valek squinted at the distance, half-suspecting his eyes had tricked him.
His exhaustion had evaporated—he now stood rejuvenated, younger and sharper than before.
Such was the racial advantage of the Dark Eldar: once they fed on enough soul-energy, their bodies repaired, their vitality surged.
Having realized this, the Archon soon guided his Raider into a designated Webway route, bound for the estate of his superior.
The craft slowed into the private harbor of High Archon Smith. Valek's eyes flickered with a trace of reverence.
That black spire of Lord Smith's tower dwarfed his own holdings, a titanic obsidian blade stabbing the void itself.
It was a declaration of dominion.
As ever, Lord Smith convened a council in the grand hall of his fortress.
Archons from the lesser ranks gathered to confer with him on how to suppress the chaos stirred up by the Asurmen heir.
The hall embodied Commorragh's cruel opulence.
Its ceiling soared dizzyingly high, constructed from black crystal inlaid with bone—faint wails of trapped souls echoed within.
Valek admired the décor with new interest.
Once, he had no mood for such details, but now his spirit was lightened, his senses sharpened by the purity of the souls he had consumed.
Above all, he was alive—his lifespan extended. That was true beauty.
Straightening, he moved to his appointed place.
This time he refrained from loudly proclaiming loyalty to the Supreme Overlord, nor did he surrender the "gift" given by the Asurmen scion.
Surely the others had received similar offerings yesterday.
And as Valek, slow though he once was, grasped this hidden truth, he felt a subtle connection when his gaze met that of other Archons.
Clearly—they were all "his kind."
They, too, understood. Their looks toward him warmed with unspoken fellowship.
"Valek, your recent tasks have gone well."
High Archon Smith's tone, once dismissive, now carried a note of approval.
"You have contributed to the Kabal of the Black Heart. I am pleased."
He turned to the others.
"We all serve the Supreme Overlord, do we not? Therefore we must obey his orders, that he remain secure…"
Nods and thin smiles spread among the assembled.
Valek understood the hidden message.
They need not openly betray the Overlord—but neither need they toil with earnest loyalty.
Orders above; counter-measures below. Stability, on the surface.
And when needed, they would even fan the flames—undermining crackdowns, feeding the chaos, pulling more into their hidden cause.
The more who joined, the safer they were. And the greater the strength of the Asurmen heir.
For in the end, their goal was obvious: dethrone that decrepit tyrant Vect!
Valek believed this current ran not only in Emberscar Harbor, but throughout all Commorragh—others like Smith and himself stirring quietly.
Too long had they endured Vect's yoke. They longed for a worthier master.
No matter what, they would help the Asurmen heir triumph.
Valek resolved that, once back at Emberscar, he would keep up the pretense of Vect's hunt orders—but only thunder without rain.
Let the faith in the Asurmen scion spread.
And so it did, across much of Commorragh.
Purge orders continued outwardly, yet the heir's influence grew, gnawing at the Supreme Overlord's authority.
Many sensed it. Many joined.
After the council, Smith hosted a private banquet.
Like the others, Valek offered flattery, small gifts, and seized chances to draw closer to his superior—eager to climb further.
Deals, alliances, murders—such things were sealed in offhand conversation.
When the banquet dispersed, Valek and the others departed for their territories.
In the corridors beyond, High Archon Smith still strode with imperious calm.
His Lhamean consorts trailed, heads bowed, their silken robes whispering like shadows yet making no sound—none dared disturb their master.
All knew his cruelty, the subtlety of his killings.
Even Vect had praised his ingenuity, adopting tortures Smith had invented.
Soon, at his signal, the consorts withdrew.
Alone, his stride grew lighter, his face betrayed a flicker of obsequiousness.
He descended to the lower levels of his estate—to his private chamber, to pay homage to a higher presence.
He, too, sought advancement.
At the chamber door, he rapped lightly.
A calm, commanding voice answered: "Enter."
Drawing breath, he entered with practiced grace, bowing in Eldar noble form.
"Honored Asurmen Lord, High Archon Smith welcomes your presence."
This was his first audience, though the scion had long moved in secret.
Why betray Vect? Because the heir offered too much.
Even as a High Archon, the soul tithe pressed him to breaking—especially now, with the Overlord's hunger insatiable.
But this heir demanded no tax—and had already bestowed pure souls in abundance. Who could refuse?
The Asurmen scion's voice was warm, approving:
"You have served the Redemption Zone well. I am pleased."
Smith bowed lower still before daring to raise his gaze.
At last he beheld the figure—seated casually upon a throne, radiating nobility even at rest.
"…Weaker than I imagined."
Smith's eyes glinted with calculation. His pulse quickened.
No guards. No warriors. Only this frail body—even Incubi could slay him.
If he seized or slew this figure, delivered him to Vect… the reward could be unimaginable.
Perhaps even elevation into the Supreme Overlord's inner circle: one man beneath, all others beneath him.
But the thought died swiftly.
For he discerned the truth: this was not the heir's flesh, but a simulacrum—a Bloodbride's crafted proxy.
So that was why it seemed so fragile.
Far from insulted, Smith was relieved.
Cunning. Careful. Like Vect himself—yet with hidden depth.
Good. It meant the heir would not be easily destroyed.
If he had risked his true body here, then the worth of allegiance would be doubtful.
Eden closed the comm-link, studying the High Archon.
"Smith, you seem troubled."
"Yes, my lord, I do have doubts."
The Archon laid them bare.
"Your plan is to topple the Supreme Overlord within three months, and spread the word?"
"Correct."
"And what are our odds?"
Eden raised three fingers.
"At present, thirty percent. The rest depends on how Vect answers."
Smith frowned, pondering, then pressed further:
"Then why are we releasing souls across Commorragh?"
According to the plan, Redemption operatives would scatter vast caches of soul-elixirs in every core district—free for any citizen or Kabalite to take.
To Smith, the thought was agony.
He added cautiously:
"I believe none would dare keep them. Even if they picked them up, fear of the Supreme Overlord would force them to surrender."
"That is precisely what I hope for," Eden replied.
"In that case—our odds rise to sixty percent."
Smith's eyes widened. "Why?"
"Tell me, why would anyone surrender souls so easily grasped?"
"…Because of fear."
"What lies within that fear?"
Smith's eyes widened as realization struck.
"…Rage. Rage toward the Supreme Overlord."
Eden regarded the High Archon with growing satisfaction.
"Correct. I will draw forth the fury of all Commorragh—and drown that old wretch Vect beneath it."
Smith's expression filled with expectation.
"My lord Asurmen, I believe we can win."
"Of course," Eden replied bluntly.
"Whoever triumphs—you serve, do you not?"
Smith bowed deeply.
"You are wisdom incarnate. I will not disturb your rest further. Allow me to take my leave."
The Archon departed, his doubts dispelled, his heart content.
Eden watched him go with little concern. There were already hundreds of such High Archons temporarily pledged to him, holding sway over vast tracts of Commorragh.
For now, they controlled less than one-fifth of the Kabal's might.
But more would see the truth, and more would rally.
Eden's gaze burned.
"Vect—I have struck the key blow. Now let us see how you respond."
His borrowed flesh rippled and collapsed into flowing blood—vanishing as though he had never been there.
...
Central District of Commorragh.
Within the Supreme Overlord's palace chamber, Vect rose from his bed of flayed skin, face dark, striding out.
Behind him, broken consorts lay scattered, their eyes holding bitter reproach.
In the corridor, robed in black, he was met by a High Archon reeking of blood.
"My lord," the Archon reported, "the Black Throne is complete. The biological trials enter their final phase. According to the Haemonculi masters, more souls are needed."
Vect's face was unreadable.
"Then raise the tithe. Increase collection. Stability of the experiment must be assured."
"At the current rate, many Archons are already discontent. If we continue to levy more—"
The Archon faltered as Vect's gaze hardened, cutting him off.
"I will execute your order. The captured souls of the Asurmen heir's followers will also fill the gap."
The Overlord's will was law. Defiance meant death.
Vect gave no further word, merely a lifted hand, and the Archon melted back into shadow.
"Do the citizens of Commorragh not understand? All that I do—I do for them."
He sighed, expression heavy with a strange grief.
"Only a few more souls, a little more suffering, a few more deaths. Endure, and stability will return."
Yet bitterness gnawed him. Those wretches not only failed to support him—they followed the Asurmen heir in rebellion.
Truly pitiful.
BOOM—BOOM—BOOM!
Suddenly, the thunder of lance fire.
The palace's defense grid activated instantly, a bastion capable of repelling heavy armor assaults.
Reports came swiftly: a Mandrake strike-team, infiltrating to attempt assassination.
"How laughable," Vect sneered.
"The Asurmen heir dares insult me with this?"
Even a dozen Mandrake cadres would break upon his defenses.
And even if they destroyed this vessel—he was immortal!
Hands clasped behind his back, Vect strode onto his balcony to observe, intent on showing the futility of this assault.
But what he saw turned his face green.
The heir's "attack" pierced his defenses—not with weapons, but with mockery.
In the palace square below, Mandrakes deployed a device, planting it upon the stones.
With a whir, it launched a metallic sphere skyward.
A shield shimmered, holding back fire long enough for the orb to split—and unfold a titanic banner.
All of Commorragh beheld it:
The Asurmen heir, muscular and smirking, arm around one of Vect's consorts—Lady Beda—who wore a radiant smile of bliss.
And behind them?
Vect himself, painted white-faced, with a red clown nose and tangled green hair—eyes brimming with tears.
A pitiful jester.
Beneath, bold script blared as booming loudspeakers shook the air with pounding rhythm:
"CUCKED! CUCKED! The Supreme Overlord is CUCKED!
It's over! His consort has fled to the Asurmen heir! He cannot satisfy—neither body nor soul!"
Across any race that bred, such impotence was the blackest disgrace.
The equivalent of an Ork that could not fight—mocked as a sniveling grotsnik.
"Now… destroy it."
Vect's face burned, shifting from green to scarlet.
Such brazen humiliation!
He held his posture as best he could, commanding the banner destroyed at once.
This was his worst fear realized—propaganda undermining his aura.
Should his subjects see too much of such mockery, fear and reverence would wither.
Then he was finished.
Kabalite guards fired, annihilating the device.
Vect exhaled in relief—then froze, trembling as realization dawned.
"…Damn…"
For new speakers already thundered from further off, new banners unfurling upon the spires beyond the defenses.
Once more, the heir's mocking face, the clownish Vect—this time magnified across Commorragh's skyline.
And that was but the beginning.
These were not isolated devices. Eden had seeded them across the core districts—banners, flyers, bedtime stories, even satirical grot-comics.
The whole Webway would know it:
Vect was wearing a Green Clown Hat.
...
In the shadowed chamber, High Archons nearby drew sharp breaths.
Honor—face—was everything in this world.
The Dark Gods fought for prestige.
Primarchs waged rivalries over repute.
Even titans of Chaos could be undone by mockery.
And for Vect—once a slave, ruling only through terror and his crafted dignity—this was devastation.
This was not mere insult.
This was the ultimate humiliation.
The Archons' gazes shifted.
Toward their Supreme Overlord.
Toward a clown.
(End of Chapter)
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