"Hiss~"
Eden stared at the rift in the veil and the roaring tide of daemons spilling from it, and his mind went blank.
Sure enough, you can't just go around quoting that damned Big Blue Bird's words.
He finally managed to act cool for once, only for everything to backfire spectacularly.
According to the snitch inside the cabal, the Prince of Pleasure — Slaanesh — did indeed have designs to invade Commorragh, but not this fast, right?
Yet this rift in the veil was opening with overwhelming violence.
With the handful of men he brought along, plus the Harlequins of the Masque, there was almost no chance of holding them back.
Even retreat would likely prove impossible.
"Behold, this is destiny's cruel jest! Dance, dancers! We walk toward the inevitable end!"
Even the Great Harlequin was unprepared for this. The situation had deteriorated too far for retreat.
He flipped a wand into the ground, which unfurled into the banner of his Masque—the Midnight Sorrow.
At once, the Harlequins gathered.
The Solitaire stood at the front, sword poised against the daemons; the Troupers with their blades stood ready behind; and the Death Jesters raised their heavy weapons at the rear.
Their tension was palpable — they were preparing to fight with everything they had.
The rift expanded, and a discordant music poured forth, rattling souls and spirits.
It was a symphony of ecstasy, agony, and endless screams.
The daemon legions of the Prince of Pleasure were here!
Legions of Daemonettes and Fiends of Slaanesh swarmed forward from the edges of the tear.
Twisting forms of loathing, they slashed with venom-blades, crab-claws, and writhing pink tentacles, lunging toward any living prey.
Vmmm—
The Solitaire unleashed a shimmering barrier of force to block the warp energies, and then the Harlequins leapt into motion, impossibly fast.
Their costumes projected holo-fields, scattering prismatic afterimages across the battlefield.
Many daemons struck only illusions, only to be cut down in the next instant.
Even in battle, the Harlequins moved like dancers on stage — elegant, balletic, lethal.
But the strain was immense. Already, several Harlequins had fallen under the swarming claws of the daemons.
The Great Harlequin's brow furrowed.
He knew this was only the scattered vanguard — the true enemy had yet to emerge.
"My lord Asurmen's heir, what are we to do?"
Fok arrived with his Kabalite warriors, forming a defensive ring against the oncoming tide.
His body was trembling — fear had nearly overcome him.
The pink mists thickened. From the veil's rupture, a hideous aura pressed through, shapes looming into focus.
This scale of rift was beyond any random warp-storm disaster.
It was a full-scale daemon incursion.
And worse — these were troops of the Dark Prince, She Who Thirsts herself.
The Aeldari's most dreaded foe. No one knew what form the Prince would take to devour them.
Such an army descending upon any district of Commorragh meant nothing short of utter catastrophe.
Eden sighed.
"Well, what else can we do? We fight alongside the Masque.
This is the Webway's ruins. We can't outrun daemons here. If we concentrate our strength, maybe we live."
He recalled the self-destructive forbidden artifact he had drawn earlier, and instead drew his dark-matter sidearm.
It baffled him — why would daemons mount such a massive invasion of a barren, lifeless Webway ruin?
It made no sense.
Were they here sightseeing?
Regardless, the invasion was real, and he had to respond.
He couldn't let this clone body, nor the Kabalite warriors bound to him by permanent soul-contracts and crushing debts, be wasted.
And besides — the Harlequins were useful allies here. The enemy of his enemy was his friend.
Even if they were insufferably smug.
But before he could act, the rift above them tore open wider, yawning directly over his head.
The most dangerous breach was right in his face.
"…What the hell? You targeting me now?!"
Eden ground his teeth. Was there a Slaaneshi spy among his men? Or some kind of warp lock onto him?
"Damn it — curse that blue bird bastard!"
Of course Tzeentch had his claws in this mess. Who would believe otherwise?
Eden swore he'd pay the Architect of Fate back — with interest.
The hellish symphony rose to a fever pitch, heralding the arrival of something terrible.
The daemon vanguard howled in rapture, heralding their mistress's champion — the Tormentbringer!
"Oh no… the flames of Chaos… echoes of torment itself…"
The Great Harlequin and his players blanched. They looked toward the rift ahead of the so-called Heir of Asurmen.
Fear glimmered in their eyes.
For this was one of She Who Thirsts' most favored champions — a mighty Keeper of Secrets, exalted among daemons.
So exquisite, so cruel, a daemon so beautiful and perfect it was terror itself made flesh.
The Tormentbringer.
She bore three pairs of alabaster-scarred limbs and four long, gleaming swords.
She delighted in butchering Aeldari. Her favorite delicacy was Harlequins themselves — cracking open their skulls, drinking their screaming souls as one might savor escargot.
Craftworld, Exodite, Dark Eldar — all feared her name.
Among Harlequins, she was terror incarnate.
Even the Great Harlequin of the Midnight Sorrow had once nearly perished by her hand, left broken and scarred.
And now her aura was even stronger.
It could only mean one thing — this was to be a dreadful finale.
"She Who Thirsts may consume our souls, but not our will…"
The Great Harlequin grew solemn. He crossed his legs and bowed deeply to his players.
"The Laughing God's blade does not tremble with fear. It only grows sharper in the dance of vengeance.
Let us give them a grand final performance!"
The troupe's postures grew tragic, radiant with resolve.
They were ready to die — to bring down as many daemons as possible, and dedicate their deaths as a final act against the Tormentbringer.
"…Wait. The enemy's that strong?!"
Eden realized what the Harlequins were doing. They looked ready to throw their lives away.
This was one of the highest-ranked Greater Daemons of Slaanesh — even a Primarch would struggle.
His clone body? Likely gone in a single strike.
And worst of all — the rift's core was right in his face. She had already marked him.
The infernal music reached its crescendo. Countless souls screamed.
The Tormentbringer appeared.
"Hissss!"
Her immense, flawless face pushed through the rift, exhaling a breath that shook all present.
Terror and confusion gripped everyone.
The more powerful a Keeper of Secrets, the more beautiful and alluring they became — rivaling any duchess in the galaxy.
Some even inspired love as much as fear.
Eden felt the weight of her gaze — vile and intoxicating.
Her very head was larger than his body.
"…What the hell IS that?!"
The colossal visage thrust itself forward, releasing a cloud of narcotic musk.
He nearly flinched from sheer trypophobia terror.
Biu!
Instinctively, Eden fired his dark-matter pistol. The blast detonated across her face, blooming in an explosive flare.
But when the light faded, she stood unharmed.
"Damn…"
Half her face was blackened. Her fury rose like a storm.
The air itself froze as even the Harlequins held their breath.
But before she could scream her wrath—
"What the hell are you staring at? Get lost!"
Eden's voice thundered out, laced with absolute, imperious command.
It was not a plea — it was an order.
Like a ruler chastising a vassal.
The Tormentbringer froze, then grew even more enraged.
She thrust a claw forward, intent on tearing him apart, torturing his soul in endless agony.
But then—
She saw his face.
And halted.
Her savage eyes softened.
"Rrrhhhhh… AWOOO!!"
She howled once — and withdrew.
In disbelief, Harlequins and Kabalites alike watched.
The dreaded Greater Daemon, scourge of Aeldari souls, pulled back without striking.
She recalled her troops with her, who fled into the rift without a trace.
Then, delicately, she reached out with a claw… and sealed the rift shut behind her.
As if she had never been there at all.
The Harlequins and warriors stood stunned, their very reality shaken.
...
In the Warp
The daemonic legions of Slaanesh retreated swiftly from the Webway ruins.
Now, the Tormentbringer — the newly exalted sixth Keeper of Secrets, Balur — seethed with wrath.
In her rage, she flayed the hapless herald who had guided her astray, stripping flesh and nerves, stringing him across a living harp of barbed sinew.
To suffer eternally, and play a symphony of screams.
The heralds' howls of agony echoed on and on, and the entire daemon host fell deathly silent.
No one dared provoke the cruel Tormentbringer at a time like this.
Her cruelty wasn't reserved for the Aeldari; she treated her fellow daemons just the same.
The tortures she had devised were so exquisite that even the Prince of Pleasure praised them—eager to one day inflict them upon the Savior.
Having punished the offender, the Tormentbringer ascended her magnificent war-carriage veiled in pink gauze and rimmed all over with blades.
"Uuu… I offended that great being…"
Balur —Greater Daemon, that conniving little Tzeentch-bait of a "daemon girl"—flopped face-down onto a decadent divan studded with Aeldari skin. (It was the old daemon spy of Eden.)
She sniffled softly.
Her barbed tail scraped a mag-steel pillar, leaving deep furrows as she sulked.
She was angry and wounded in equal measure—little pearls of tears pattering down.
It was the first time anyone had yelled at her like that—scolded so fiercely—
and it had to be by that great Four-Armed Savior.
So terribly unfair!
She couldn't help remembering her days as a janitor: when the great Four-Armed Savior came by to inspect, he'd even praised her and awarded a "Model Worker" medal, stamped with a stylised conniver's claw.
His very words: "This little is not bad—looks neat and works carefully. She deserves better treatment!"
In the Savior's domain, effort always brings reward.
Even a mere janitor gets recognition—and extra meat rations.
Thinking of all that, Banienii only felt more wronged.
She hadn't meant to offend him; it was an honest mistake.
The Dark Eldar were one of She Who Thirsts' sources of power—no room for failure.
Now that this people sought to slip the Prince's leash, Banienii had accepted her patron's command to lead a mobile host to probe Commorragh for an opportunity—
to destroy a mysterious device that might diminish that power.
But the great Four-Armed Savior was also active in the city.
So as not to disrupt his arrangements, Banienii had been… well, slacking—refusing to invade the Dark City itself.
This little Webway-ruin incursion? She'd merely noticed a band of Harlequins and came to punch her card, snack on a few souls, and leave—
just enough "results" to avoid being accused of shirking.
Who could have known that even the Savior's avatar would be there—and that she'd roar at him the moment she appeared!
Then he scolded her—hard.
She slunk away, head down and whimpering.
…?!
Suddenly, Banienii's sobbing cut off with a snorty bubble.
Her eyes lit up, and a happy smile bloomed.
"Th—the great Four-Armed Savior… is contacting me!"
Banienii quivered with excitement.
The Savior was assigning a new task—and praising her recent efforts, too.
Becoming the Prince of Pleasure's favorite isn't easy, after all.
"HISSS!"
At once, the Tormentbringer loosed Slaaneshi hisses unique to her kind.
A thousand scourges cracked across the daemon-beasts drawing her chariot; they spasmed in exquisite pain.
In a heartbeat the massed host halted, hushed and waiting.
Banienii gave new orders: the legion would redeploy to a Webway node housing a Dark Eldar biological research complex.
They would breach the veil there and assault the district fortified by the Supreme Overlord—
seizing the enemy's experimental work.
Of course, that was only the cover story.
The real reason: she would obey the Four-Armed Savior—
drawing enemy fire so that the White Scars Primarch and the Custodes could punch through to the deepest vault of that hive-sprawl laboratory and locate the gestation cradles holding those mighty clones.
To hell's carnival music, the daemon tide surged toward the new gate.
All at once, strange ripples rolled across the distant Immaterium; vast silhouettes took shape.
Banienii turned and realized Slaanesh was recalling other Greater Daemons.
One towering shadow radiated a terror beyond the rest.
That was… Shalaxi Helbane.
Shalaxi—wrought personally by the Dark Prince and cloaked in a mantle that can channel tendrils of rapture— a being made to smash other Greater Daemons and the galaxy's mightiest foes.
That Scourge of Hell had defeated countless famed champions, including Skarbrand, Khorne's most infamous Bloodthirster.
In the battle of Es'glas, she fought five at once—
Lelith Hesperax, a Phoenix Lord, the Harlequins' exalted avatar, and Yvraine with the Ynnari among them— and only when the Yncarne, Avatar of Ynnead, was summoned did Shalaxi's avatar withdraw.
Shalaxi Helbane is widely reckoned the Slaaneshi champion most likely to defeat Ka'Bandha, the Exalted Bloodthirster—
and claim the title of mightiest Greater Daemon in the Warp.
Now… she had returned.
The Scourge would lead her Slaaneshi host upon Commorragh, to bathe it in blood and bliss.
Banienii stared at that looming shadow and felt a twinge of concern.
This might… interfere with the Four-Armed Savior's plan.
A short time earlier, back at the Webway ruins—
"As expected… I still need more moles inside the Warp."
After browbeating his conniving little snitch Banienii into retreat, Eden felt unexpectedly sentimental.
He hadn't checked in for years, and that once-invisible janitor had done well—
even made a name for herself.
He was… oddly proud.
"Lord Asurmen's Heir is truly mighty—he even drove off that terrifying Tormentbringer!"
Fok and the Kabalites gazed at Eden with even deeper reverence.
The Great Harlequin and his Players were still shaken; the Heir of Asurmen seemed more unfathomable than ever.
"Followers of Cegorach, do you have any intelligence left that's worth my time?"
Eden stood before the Great Harlequin, ever so slightly looking down.
The Great Harlequin hesitated, uncertain how to answer. The Heir of Asurmen was mysterious beyond measure, and clearly better informed—
and far stronger.
Which meant the Masque had neither decisive intelligence nor decisive force to offer.
They had… no trump card.
"Ah-hah… our steps are fated to cross—"
He tried his best stage-smile after a stretch of silence, the menace of earlier quite gone.
He got no further—Eden's death-stare cut him off.
The Great Harlequin fell instantly quiet, dropping the coy dramatics and cryptic hints.
His tone grew more normal—though still rhyming in Aeldari despite himself:
"We can cooperate. We share a common foe."
"Obviously, you have very little value to me as you are," Eden said, shaking his head at the troupe. "You call yourselves the blades of vengeance, yet you skulk from She Who Thirsts' blows. You can't even handle one of her Greater Daemons.
I find that… pitiable."
A sting of resentment pricked the Great Harlequin and his Players—but there was no refuting it.
Their showing had been poor.
"My allies are all who will resist She Who Thirsts and the Ruinous Powers," Eden declared, brooking no dissent. "But you will follow my command—and keep out of my plans."
"That is imposs—"
He stiffened mid-refusal, received some unseen message… and then nodded.
"By Cegorach's oracle, the Masques will heed your direction—for now."
Eeden understood at once.
The prospect of a wholesale Slaaneshi invasion of the Webway had scared the Laughing God badly—
as it should.
Slaanesh slew the Aeldari gods at birth and keeps the Goddess of Life, Isha, in torment.
Cegorach only survived by fleeing into the Webway and striking from its shadows.
If even the Webway fell, there'd be nowhere left to hide—
and She Who Thirsts would catch him at last.
No wonder he was desperate to make the Harlequins agree.
He had likely glimpsed a prophecy—
that Eden held a real chance to resist the Dark Prince.
"I am curious—how do you know all this?" the Great Harlequin asked, now that their pact was set.
"Just some tricks of reading fate," Eden said lightly.
Pretending came as naturally as breathing now.
The Players bowed in respect—
for to know fate was the province of gods.
In truth, Eden relied on memories of a former life, braided with a vast intelligence network, psychology, and a Mechanicus omnisiah-grade machine-cogitator—
mapping possibilities until the most probable answer emerged.
Science-prophecy, one might say.
Especially with the Warp—
enough moles, and you know the gods' moves early.
It's hardly different from prophecy. Many famed seers burned out half their souls to glean less than Eden got from a single psychic "phone call" with a schemer-mole—
with remote micromanagement included.
"Lord Asurmen's Heir—tell me, what do we do now?" the Great Harlequin asked, already adjusting to his new role.
"There is one thing…"
Eden's eyes brightened. "The Redemption Satellite Sector is preparing a grand festival—and we're short on performance troupes.
I'm inviting every Masque to tour there. Think you can give me… a twenty-percent discount?"
"???"
The Great Harlequin blinked.
The Heir of Asurmen really was treating the Harlequins like a hired performance company?
But by Cegorach's oracle, unless their survival was at stake, he had to obey.
Of course, Eden's invitation wasn't just to add spectacle to the festivities.
He meant to station that combat power on site—just in case.
He had already made his move against Asdrubael Vect.
Knowing the Overlord, he would channel Slaaneshi pressure while pulling old tricks—
diverting disaster eastward and siccing daemons on Eden's Webway holdings.
The Redemption Satellite Sector was a thorn in Slaanesh's side, too.
Not as vital as Commorragh, perhaps—but if there was an opening, the Prince would not pass it up.
And the other Ruinous Powers would surely dip their claws in.
Especially the Big Blue Bird—chaos' consummate meddler.
A bad feeling stirred in Eden's gut.
For all he knew, that wily old bastard had already steered daemons toward the Redemption Sector.
If a big enough rip appeared, the hosts of hell would scent blood like sharks and swarm.
He pinged his brother, the Khan, to push the "Stand the Emperor Project" at full speed—
then set off for the Redemption Satellite Sector with the Great Harlequin and company, summoning more Masques en route.
Elsewhere in the galaxy, Yvraine learned of the Dark Eldar's peril and led the Ynnari into the Webway.
In the Immaterium, Slaanesh's upheaval drew the eyes of the other Chaos Gods—
a chain reaction was underway.
A message reached the palace of the Exalted Bloodthirster—
and the blood-red terror's eyes snapped open, gleaming with hunger.
[Get +20 Extra Chapters On — P@tr3on "Zaelum"]
[Every 500 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter Drop]
[Thanks for Reading!]